‘Book him,’ I said, to Shirley. Then Amber paid the bill.
‘I think this is very empowering,’ she said afterwards, as we walked down the stairs.
‘I just hope it’s all worth it,’ I said. After all, it was going to be incredibly expensive. The hire of the two men was £400, and we had to pay their expenses on top. Even their cabs home. With the tickets for the ball selling at £100 each, Amber’s total bill was going to be over nine hundred pounds.
‘I don’t mind the cost, Mint,’ she said. ‘Anyway,’ she added with a smile, ‘I’ve got a feeling it’s going to be money well spent.’
I certainly hope she’s right, I thought as I sat in the office two days later, editing a feature on the Child Support Agency. I considered Amber’s strategy risky and misguided, but she was not to be deterred. Once she decides on a course of action, that’s it. She’s just like Dom in that way. I sat, hunched over my tape recorder, spooling my material back and forth. By now I’d been editing for three hours without a break and my headphones were giving me hell. So I stopped to rub my ears and uncrick my neck and, as I straightened up, I glanced into the car park. And I saw an old Ford Escort pull up in the space now designated exclusively for Melinda’s Porsche. Out got Deirdre – she was collecting Wesley – and there was nothing odd about this. Deirdre often fetches Wesley. Except that today she looked
different.
Her straggly brown hair had been cut into a glossy bob which swung about her flamboyantly bejewelled ears. She was wearing a short, chic suit, rather than her usual cheap separates, and for the first time, I could see her legs. And I realised that she had very good legs, and they were encased in glossy tights. And on her feet were heels, rather than her normal, dreary, flat lace-ups. She looked transformed. Her face was nicely made-up, she was clutching a smart matching bag, and as she bounced into Reception, she glowed as if lit by an inner flame. And I thought, I know why she looks like this. Her fertility treatment has worked. She’s pregnant. And now she’s happy. That’s why she’s taking more care of herself. So this morning, when I was chatting to Wesley about a piece I was doing for his programme, I casually tried to find out.
‘I, er, saw Deirdre in the car park last night. She looks so well.’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘She looks great.’
‘She really seems to be …’ How could I put this politely? ‘ …making the most of herself.’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘She’s so attractive, Wesley.’
‘Yes,’ he said wonderingly. ‘She’s really smartened up recently. Even her underwear. She used to be perfectly happy
with Marks and Spencer’s cotton knickers, and now she keeps buying all this, you know, sexy stuff.’
‘Sexy stuff?’
‘Yeah, lingerie. I keep finding little bags of it. She can’t seem to get enough. She’s asked me to get her some for Christmas. What’s it called? Oh yeah, La Perla. Still,’ he added with a shrug, ‘as long as she’s happy.’
‘She certainly looks it,’ I said. In fact, Deirdre had never looked happier.
‘Let’s hear the news,’ said Wesley. He turned on the speaker, and there was Barry, pissed as a newt, as usual.
‘ …company cars …air-strikes …United Nations …Blair …and some news just in,’ he added, audibly rustling his script. ‘It’s been reported at Westminster that the Minister for Family Values has resigned. Rumours have been circulating all day that Michael Hunt would quit, after it was revealed that his Commons secretary is expecting his child.’
‘I feel really nervous,’ said Amber as we got ready for the Anti-Slavery International ball the following Saturday.
‘Well, at least you look fantastic,’ I said. And it was true. In fact, she looked traffic-stoppingly beautiful. She was wearing a new ballgown from Thomasz Starzewski. It was in pale green satin with a bottle-green velvet bodice, and she had accessorised it with Granny’s diamond earrings. I settled for a black velvet dress, size ten, ballerina-length, which I dressed up with a silver devoré shawl. To my surprise, I found myself feeling quite excited, though I wished that it was Joe who was going to partner me. But there’d been no contact at all. I resolved to send him a friendly Christmas card, in the hope that he’d start to soften. His coldness was getting me down. But as we set off in the cab for the Savoy I felt my mood begin to lift. It was an adventure, after all, though I thought Amber was mad to expose herself to the possibility of being rejected by Charlie again.
‘Well, if that happens, it’s my funeral,’ she said, with a shrug
of her lovely powdered bare shoulders. ‘But at least then I’ll
know.
’
When we arrived at the hotel, our walkers were already there, waiting, by the reception. They seemed genial, polite and friendly, and they both looked good in their DJs. As we walked downstairs to the Champagne Reception in the Lincoln Room I felt my spirits lift.
‘A writer, eh?’ said Laurie to Amber. ‘So you’re one of these Ladies who Launch.’ She gave him a weak, disinterested smile, but I thought he was quite amusing. Perhaps the evening wouldn’t be too bad. It might even be fun. The room was packed, making it hard to spot Charlie amongst the throng.
‘– fabulous dress, Cressida.’
‘– the merger’s been sheer bloody hell.’
‘– more champers, Peregrine?’
‘– the Red Cross Ball was fab.’
‘– where are you going for Christmas?’
‘–
super
stuff in the tombola.’
‘– LADIES AND GENTLEMEN – DINNER IS SERVED!’
The gilded, mirrored Lancaster Room looked lovely. Silver cutlery gleamed on damask cloths, flowers bedecked every table. Candles flickered romantically in the half-light, and expensive scents perfumed the air. So far our walkers had impressed us with their attentiveness and finesse. I was confident that, were I a smoker, Hugo would light my cigarette for me, and that if a bread roll were to fly my way he would gallantly intercept it. As for Amber, she was already bickering with Laurie as though he were one of her oldest friends.
‘You put your knife in your mouth and you’re in big trouble,’ I heard her hiss as the starter arrived.
‘Is it OK if I lick my plate?’ he shot back with a smile, as he poured her a glass of Chablis. She gave him an evil look. Then she removed a pair of tiny, mother-of-pearl opera glasses from her evening bag and began to survey the huge room. Where was Charlie? I glanced at the souvenir programme. There was his father, Lord Edworthy, in the list of the Charity’s
board of governors. But no sign of Charlie himself. We were on a mixed table with an assortment of other ‘odd’ couples. There was a thin, bald, bespectacled man in his mid fifties who said he was the City Editor of a broadsheet. I looked at his ratty, calculating face and felt sorry for his partner, a rather large brunette called Cindy. Next to them was a couple in their mid forties, who said they dealt in antique silver. And opposite us was a retired industrialist, who I thought I vaguely recognised. He was accompanied by a blonde less than half his age and about twice his height. We all began to make polite small talk as we tucked into our vegetable terrine.
‘So, how do you two know each other?’ Mrs Antique Dealer asked Amber and Laurie. Ah. Oh dear. We’d all forgotten to do what clients and walkers should: concoct a convincing little story.
‘Amber and I were at school together,’ said Laurie, with a smile.
‘Where was that?’ the woman persisted, and I hoped that Amber would have the presence of mind not to say ‘Cheltenham Ladies College’. But Laurie had got there first.
‘Stowe,’ he said. Amber’s eyes opened just a little wider than normal.
‘Yes, we were in the same A-level physics set,’ said Laurie, warming to his theme. ‘Amber got a C,’ he confided. ‘You didn’t work hard enough, did you, darling?’
‘Er …no, um, I suppose I didn’t,’ she replied with careful brightness.
‘She was awfully naughty at school, weren’t you, poppet?’
‘Ha ha ha!’
‘But I got an A,’ he said.
‘Oh, congratulations!’ said the woman. ‘I was always useless at Science.’
Amber’s face was reddening with her burgeoning wrath. She’d have Laurie’s bollocks for breakfast. I couldn’t bear to watch. In any case, Hugo was chatting to me now.
‘So, do tell me about your work,’ he said with studied politeness. ‘Working in radio must be absolutely fascinating.’
‘Oh, it is. Most of the time,’ I said. ‘It has its ups and downs, though,’ I added ruefully. ‘What do you do?’
‘Well, I was an estate agent, but I had to retire early on account of my poor health.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said.
‘Yes, it was awful.’
‘Oh, bad luck.’ Whatever it was, I didn’t want to know.
‘You see, it all started with a bout of what I thought was indigestion,’ he explained, as the waiters cleared away our first course. ‘I had a lot of discomfort here –’ he tapped his sternum.
‘Really?’ I thought he was going to talk about art.
‘And my doctor insisted it was indigestion, but I was convinced it was an ulcer.’
‘Isn’t that easy to find out?’ I asked as the grilled chicken breast stuffed with pistachio mousse arrived.
‘Yes, but my symptoms were quite complex …’
‘Well …’
‘And then I began to have …’ he lowered his voice ‘ …terrible wind.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Yes, it was appalling. Beans?’
‘Er, no thanks.’
‘And I thought maybe I had bowel problems.’
‘I see.’
‘I mean, I was spending a
long
time in the loo …’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes. I was in there for hours.’
‘How fascinating.’
‘I was convinced I had trouble with my colon.’
‘What
lovely
flowers!’ I exclaimed. And they were. On each table was an informal, Christmassy arrangement of yew, variegated holly and white anemones, loosely tied with a red tartan ribbon – just the kind of thing that Helen might have done.
‘Anyway, so I went back to the doc and
insisted
on a scan …’
God, this man was
awful.
And to think he was being charged out at two hundred quid a go! I’d get Amber to insist on a refund. But then, to my joy, Hugo began chatting to Cindy
and established that she was a GP. Now he was boring her instead of me, which gave me an opportunity to scan the room for Charlie, of whom there was still no sign. What a waste of a grand if he wasn’t even here! I glanced at Amber, she was evidently trying to extricate herself from Laurie, but with limited success.
‘I don’t want to talk to you all evening,’ I heard her say. ‘I’ve got to find someone.’
‘That’s fine,’ he said, soothingly, as she picked up her opera glasses again. ‘And if you see someone you fancy just go straight ahead,’ he said. ‘Tell you what, we’ll have an arrangement. If you’re having a nice time being chatted up, you just pull on your left ear, like this, to indicate that you’re fine.’ She lowered her glasses and stared at him. ‘BUT,’ he went on with mock earnestness, ‘if you get stuck with a bore, just touch the end of your nose, like this –’ he touched her nose – ‘and I’ll come running over and rescue you.’
‘Thanks,’ said Amber uncertainly. Her sharp tongue seemed to have deserted her. She was clearly slightly unnerved. Oh God, this really wasn’t going well.
‘Coooeeeeeeee!’ I heard someone call. ‘Cooooeeeeee! Minteeeeeeee!’ Christ, it was Mum!
‘Hello, darling!’ she said. ‘I’m helping out with the raffle. Are you and your friends going to buy a few tickets – I’m sure you are, it’s such a good cause. Would you like some?’ she asked the hideous City Editor. ‘They’re only ten pounds each and we’ve got some
lovely
prizes!’ He shook his shiny head.
‘Oh, go on, Niall,’ said Cindy. But he refused. He’d obviously calculated that the odds were a little long.
‘I’ll have some,’ I said, with crisp crossness. I hate it when people are mean. ‘I’ll have ten,’ I said. ‘Oh, Mummy, this is Hugo; Hugo, er …’
‘Smith.’
‘Hello, Auntie Dympna!’ said Amber. ‘Didn’t realise you’d be here.’
‘Hello, Amber darling,’ Mummy began, then she looked at the retired industrialist, and froze.
‘Ivo!’ she exclaimed. He was trying to hide behind his menu. ‘Ivo – how
lovely
to see you. And WHAT a surprise! Now, I’m sure
you
want to buy
lots
of raffle tickets for your young, er, friend here, don’t you?’
‘Oh …er.’
‘Oh, I’m
sure
you do, Ivo,’ Mummy persisted. ‘It’s an excellent cause. All those poor little children forced to make bricks and carpets.’
‘Well, er, I’m really not …’
‘And often working in the most hazardous conditions.’
‘Harrumph!’
‘And how’s Fiona, Ivo? Haven’t seen her for weeks. I must give her a ring. Tell you what – I’ll give her a ring tomorrow.’
‘Well, er …’
‘Why don’t you buy a strip of ten, Ivo? I’m sure your young, er, lady friend, here would think that awfully generous of you …’
‘Oh, I would! Ya!’ squealed the girl.
‘Or, even better – twenty!’
‘Oh, ya! Ya!’ squeaked the girl, clapping her hands like a performing seal.
‘Yes, yes, of course,’ Ivo grunted as he opened his dinner jacket and reached for his wallet.
‘That’s
so
nice of you, Ivo!’ said Mum as she relieved him of four fifty-pound notes. ‘I knew I could rely on you …Good luck, dear!’ she whispered to the girl with a facetious smile. And then she was gone.
By now, pudding had arrived, and been eaten, and we were on to coffee and petit fours. And there was still no sign of Charlie, and the MC was announcing the start of the charity auction. On a podium at the front of the ballroom, illuminated by a spotlight was the auctioneer, Nick Walker. According to the souvenir programme, he was a furniture specialist from Christies.
‘And our first lot is this magnificent Panama hat from Ecuador,’ he began, as a hush descended. ‘This one is of the finest quality, and will have taken around three months to weave
by hand. You may be interested to know, ladies and gentlemen, that Panama hats are so called because Teddy Roosevelt wore one when viewing construction of the Panama Canal.’
Amber leant over to me and hissed: ‘Any sign of Charlie?’
‘No. I don’t think he’s here.’