I looked at my Tinker Bell watch. Ten-thirty. No time for chat.
“Peter was quite the swashbuckling hero. I’m sure he’ll be eager to tell everybody the story.”
Meggy gave a throaty laugh. “That won’t be easy since he’s sunning himself on the Croatian Riviera, ain’t he?
I didn’t get the joke. “No. Peter’s right here—or he was last night…”
Meggy’s feet dangled in her sturdy shoes. “He ain’t here now. Rushed to the airport at seven this morning. Him and Ratko. Vera said they’re off to Pula.”
My head pounded. “Peter and Ratko went to…Pula? Is that in Croatia? Why would they go there?” This didn’t make sense. Peter had all those plans for my book publicity this week. The girl must be confused.
“Dunno, but they were out the door when I came in for my shift. Peter said him and Ratko had important business.” She snorted. “Business with some tart, like as not.”
Humiliation and anger constricted my throat as I stared at the Tinker Bell wings pointing to the time. I had to get my things out of the office. Where I was to take them, I didn’t know.
I didn’t know anything except that Peter Sherwood had abandoned me.
I looked hard at Meggy, half hoping she was making some sort of joke.
“Peter and Ratko—when will they be back?” I tried not to sound hysterical as I set down my tea and worked at stilling my shaky hands.
Meggy shrugged. I could make out a large purplish bruise under her make-up.
“They don’t tell me nothing. No more than he do at home. I’m a mushroom, me: kept in the dark and covered in shite. This lot don’t even pay us half the time. Me friend Jilly’s looking for a new job in Lincoln.” She glanced out the window, where a car was coming up the drive. “That’ll be her now. Oh, no…” Her expression changed as she jumped down from her perch. “It’s Mr. Weems. I’d best be back to work by the time he gets his cuppa.” She grabbed my arm and whispered, “Between you and me, the whole lot of ’em are barking. Everyone but the Professor. He’s a gent.”
I rushed back to the office and managed to stuff the rest of my things into my battered Vuitton cases before Vera Winchester appeared, wearing a tight smile, followed by a bird-like man in thick glasses who looked as if he might burst into tears any minute. Could this tiny person possibly be the man who wrote under the name Rodd Whippington?
“Bugger. We can’t print books without paper,” the little man announced. He walked right past me and set a steaming tea mug on the desk. “We’ve hundreds of pre-orders for my new book. And I need to talk to Mowbray about the cover. Where is he?”
Only now did he notice me and my luggage.
“What in blazes are you doing in my office, girl? It’s after ten in the morning. Don’t you have a home?”
I wanted to say: no, I was homeless—and penniless as well, since I hadn’t been given my promised room or my advance. But I kept a polite silence.
“Henry, this is our new author from America,” Mrs. Winchester said, her voice pitched a bit too high.
For a moment, Henry Weems’ eyes looked as if they might start a fire through the coke-bottle glasses as he stared, first at me, then my Vuitton luggage.
“I thought Peter’s bloody Yanks had gone back where they came from.”
I mustered up enough of my Manners Doctor persona to will myself to smile.
“I’m Camilla Randall, Mr. Weems.” I reached for his hand. “I wrote
Good Manners for Bad Times
. I’m sorry I’ve inconvenienced you, staying in the office like this. There seems to have been some miscommunication with Mr. Sherwood.”
Mr. Weems continued to stare at my offending suitcases as this information made its way to his brain. Finally he looked back up at me.
“Oh. That’s all right then. I thought you were another of Peter’s tarts.” He dismissed me with a wave. “Pradeep won’t be in until afternoon. He wants a bit of editing on your book—correcting the American spelling and references to customs that are different here. Otherwise, everything will remain the same. We want it ready to launch by September or October at the latest…”
“October?” My head roared. “Peter said we’d launch in two weeks…”
Mr. Weems sighed and pressed his forehead as if his head hurt.
“I suppose he proposed marriage to you, too? And promised you a country house with a gardener and a chef? The man will say anything to pull a bird. Now please, I’ve got a business to run, and a partner who’s swanned off to Serbo-bloody-Croatia.”
He rummaged through the things on Peter’s desk, pushing a huge pile of manuscript envelopes aside. He looked at the return address on one with a scornful snort.
“More Yanks. Why can’t he get us some Brits? Somebody who can promote sales amongst his sisters and his cousins and his aunts? I haven’t time to read this rubbish. None of us has.” He gave the pile another shove, and the envelopes slid onto the floor.
I stooped to gather them, trying to keep my anger and hurt under control. I had to make this man accept me, or I was going to be chucked out onto the streets of Swynsby.
“Peter—that is, Mr. Sherwood—offered me a job reading the unsolicited manuscripts. Would you like me to get started reading these?”
Mr. Weems gave me a look of equal parts scorn and pity.
“I don’t care. Do whatever you like. Major Oak is Peter’s brainchild. If he wants to pay you, it will have to come from his own pocket. We can’t pay the staff we have as it is.” He handed me another pile. “No wonder he’s gone for a beach holiday.” He pounced on the copy of
Damsels in the Dungeon
and gave it an incendiary stare. “Bugger!” he shouted. “Bugger all. It’s identical. It’s the same cover he put on Dirk Scabbard’s
The Naked Nanny
, except for the stockings.” His upper lip quivered. “Where is Mowbray? He’s bloody useless…”
I clutched the manuscripts. I figured I might as well read through a few. They’d provide me with something to do while I waited for Peter.
The creep. At least Jonathan had bothered to think up excuses for going off on his escapades. I shouldered my purse, grabbed my laptop and pushed my stacked suitcases in front of me with a kick. But when I opened the door, Tom Mowbray blocked my way. He looked even angrier than his boss. He was flanked by Davey and Liam, ready to protect their mate.
Henry waved them away. “Just him,” he said, pulling Tom inside. “You two might try doing some work.” He gave the door a slam.
“Bloody hell.” Liam shook his scarlet head at the closed door. “Looks as if Henry needs a holiday too.” He eyed my burden. “Duchess, can you use a bit of help?”
Davey grabbed both of my suitcases with surprising strength as Liam took my laptop and the manuscripts. We marched out into the noisy factory, where Meggy and two other young women, wearing noise-muffling head gear, operated a guillotine-like device and another that smelled of burning glue.
“Where to, Duchess?” I could barely hear Davey over the roar.
I sighed. “The Merry Miller, I suppose.”
Davey’s eyebrows shot upwards as he put down the suitcases.
“Not wise. Brenda won’t take another Yank for a good long while. What about the White Stag Inn? It’s pricey, but…” he scanned my Vuitton luggage.
“Um, how much is it? I have…” I pulled out my wallet and counted the money I had left. “Twelve pounds and, um, three of these silvery ones.” I held out the coins.
“Your American credit cards are good here,” Liam said.
I took a breath, then blurted the truth. “I don’t actually, um, have any credit cards. I had to shred them…I’m in a program for debt consolidation.”
Slowly I realized everyone was staring. Meggy had shut down her machine and taken off her headphones.
Liam let out a loud guffaw. “You’re skint? Peter told us your mum’s a Countess and you’re married to a telly presenter.”
“My mother died without a penny,” I said, fighting the catch in my throat. It felt so strange to be telling the truth at last. “There’s no money. Not anywhere. Her last husband stole everything she had. And my ex claims to be as destitute as I am since his drinking got him fired. He used to have millions, and I suspect he still does, but my lawyer couldn’t find anything and then I couldn’t pay the lawyer...oh, it’s all so tedious.”
For the first time Davey looked at me without the dark hostility. He peered at the coins and let out a big laugh.
“You hang onto that, Duchess. We’ll sort you a place to stay.” He looked at Liam, “What about Ratko’s hole?”
Meggy shook her head wildly, but Liam nodded. “Why not? Ratko’s buggered off to his motherland. Who knows when he’ll be back, if at all?”
I didn’t like the sound of this.
“Onward to the hole. Otherwise known as the dungeon,” said Liam. “It’s quite nice, really. Ratko’s not a slob like the rest of us, and Davey’s wired it with a broadband hook-up. ”
“The dungeon it is,” said Davey.
Liam and Davey led me through the factory, past the bathrooms, up some steps and down a corridor where doors opened to small offices with views of the river.
“Those are my digs,” Davey said as we passed a room stuffed with stereo equipment and computer parts. On the floor was a mattress covered with an old sleeping bag. The walls were lined with crates of old music albums. “If you’re into classic rock, I’ve got the best collection of vinyl in town. Come for a listen sometime.”
We approached another door, but Davey closed it quickly.
“You don’t want to look, Duchess. That’s the toxic waste site Liam calls home.”
Liam shrugged. “Got all me music gear in there. I wanted to leave it in my girlfriend’s flat, but I’ve got an ASBO. They wouldn’t let me in.”
“An ASBO?” I had been learning to understand their accents and strange slang, but this was unfathomable.
Liam laughed. “An anti-social behavior order. A kind of restraining order. I got drunk and busted up the place a few times.”
“ASBOs are a matter of pride in some circles,” said Davey.
Liam grinned and nodded. “But I’ve only got the one. Mowbray’s got several. His fists have a way of pounding holes in walls when he’s had a few. And we don’t want to talk about Ratko and his knife…”
“I’m quite outclassed,” said Davey. “Not an ASBO to my name.”
Liam laughed. “Yeah, but you’ve been inside. That trumps an ASBO any time.”
Davey gave a half-smile. “Did some time for selling cannabis when I was a child.”
Sociopaths, drunks and drug dealers. I was living with a bunch of criminals. I tried to keep my smile in place as Davey led me through cobwebby rooms filled with junked sewing machines and ancient wooden looms. He opened a door that revealed stairs that descended into darkness.
“Come on,” he said, leading the way. “This is the old coal cellar. Ratko says it’s the only place he feels safe. He still has flashbacks from the war.”
As we descended, I had that White Rabbit feeling again. I seemed to be falling further and further into an insane land impervious to the laws of logic or reason.
But I was amazed when Davey opened a door and flipped the light switch. It was a pleasant, modern room—windowless, but freshened by an air vent in the ceiling and fitted with simple furniture and carpets in a vaguely Asian theme—the look was sort of Zen Hobbit. There was a white laminate desk, a futon similar to Peter’s, and best of all—an inviting easy chair with a reading lamp above it.
“There’s a heater if you get chilly,” said Davey. “Quite cozy. I can hook up your computer if you like.” He reached for my laptop and began to fiddle with wires that hung from the low ceiling.
Liam found clean sheets in a bamboo pattern and helped me make up the futon as a bed while Davey set up my computer. Liam assured me that if I signed a contract with Peter, Henry would have to honor it, and that the Professor loved a book that required so little editing.
I almost forgot my distress at Peter’s abandonment until the two men went back upstairs and left me in the hole, alone.
Then the tears came like a tsunami—not so much tears of grief as of rage: at Peter, and Henry, and Silas; at my ex-husband, my impecunious mother—and every cruel twist of fate that had left me here alone in this dismal hole on the other side of the planet from everything comfortable and sane.
I cried into Ratko’s pillow until the beige and white bamboo sprigs were soggy. Thank goodness I hadn’t put on any make-up. Ratko might knife me to avenge the wrong to his bed linens when he came back.
Or maybe he wouldn’t come back. Maybe I was alone here with Liam and Davey and Tom. Who weren’t that bad, when I thought about it. Rough but kind. And Vera was lovely. Even Henry might be all right when he got over his anger at Peter.
I looked at my flamingo pink laptop, now hooked up to the company broadband.
Internet access. I could write Plant. Connect with the real world. I sat in the desk chair and booted up the computer. My iGoogle home page looked like a long lost friend. Had it only been four days since I left Plant and Silas at the San Francisco airport?