‘How are the twins?’ I say, trying to move her onto less dramatic topics as the woman next to us is staring. We speak about children for a good ten minutes. I explain how Nelly is getting on with her exam practice (not well) and how Nathan is teaching me how to speak worm (apparently worms only use vowel sounds and the letter ‘w’). Cait explains that living with her mum is difficult, as her mum thinks she spoils the girls, but she’s quickly back on her favourite topic – London’s underground crime bosses and Matthew Hollis.
We share a millionaire’s shortbread (shouldn’t have bothered) and part company. I watch Cait pull her scarf over her mouth and slip into the stream of pedestrians. With the potential divorce ahead, I need to be rid of Hollis or I won’t even get the house from Stephen. I think that framing Cait is the best way forward, as she’s going to be in prison anyway, and her electronic tag will now have recorded her presence both at Hollis’s flat and his shooting club. Also, her DNA and fingerprints are all over his car.
As I’m finishing my coffee, I have a call from an unfamiliar number. I imagine it’s the estate agent again, as I’ve transferred Lawrence’s fifty thousand to secure Hampstead. I know it’s crazy, given what Stephen has been doing, but I’m pushing ahead with my plan on all fronts, regardless.
It’s a female voice, but it’s not Esmae’s. The woman tells me that she’s the receptionist at the Harley Street Health Centre, and she’s called to arrange a conversation with the doctor, as the results from my fertility tests have arrived, which seems a little bit bloody late.
I ask for the results, and she says the doctor wants to speak to me. I tell her I’d prefer not to, as I don’t have much time. She says it’s protocol. I tell her that women have been denied unmediated access to information about their own health for centuries, and she repeats the whole conversation from the top until I am browbeaten into accepting a telephone appointment.
About dinner time, with no word about Stephen’s partner nomination, I call Josh Krill. I’ve been trying to get in touch with Josh for days, but he’s not been answering my calls.
‘Why the fuck are you calling me?’ he says, charming as ever.
‘I wonder if I could get an update on our agreement,’ I say.
‘My wife’s listening,’ he whispers.
‘I’ll be discreet,’ I say. ‘Now, tell me, is Stephen Rook in line to be made partner?’
‘I recommended him, all right, which made me look like a prick. What more do you want from me?’
‘I want more than a recommendation. I want certainty.’
‘He’s third rate, at best. He’s nowhere near the cut. How could I make him a partner?’
‘You have influence. You manage to silence anyone you abuse. You work it out, or I’m going public with my story. My contact is keen to speak her truth.’
‘I’ve done what I said I’d do,’ he sneers. ‘Can’t do more than that unless you offer a little sweetener, if you know what I mean.’
‘As kind as your offer is, I believe I have enough leverage. Your career is worth millions, so I think you’re getting quite enough. You have one week, or this goes public.’
Chapter66Georgie
Sunday, 19 January
Highgate is halfway between Muswell Hill and Hampstead in terms of both geography and prestige. The fact that Georgie lives there is annoying. She went to Downe House, was brought up in the Cotswolds, had several horses and can ski. Unusually for a woman, she inherited the title of baronetess when her father died, as the title had a special provision that enabled succession through the female line.
She is also the anchor to the past that Madeleine and perhaps Stephen seem to yearn for. I email her, pretending to be a client for her PR firm, and ask to meet at the media-friendly Dean Street Townhouse in Soho, just across from the walk-in STD clinic. I stand under the gaudy awning of a gentleman’s strip club and watch her arrive.
I leave it a few minutes, then enter. Georgie sees me approaching, and I spot the bristling of her shoulders as I take my seat.
‘What a coincidence,’ I say, and hold out my hand.
‘Sorry, I can’t speak now, I’m waiting for a client,’ she says, and I can see she’s made an effort with her outfit to look a little bit hip, which she isn’t.
‘I’m the client,’ I say. ‘I need some PR advice about how todestroy a rival without ruining my reputation. Do you have any experience in that field?’
‘I don’t want to speak to you,’ she says, shrinking from me.
‘Then at least listen.’ I sit, remove my coat and notice some of Nathan’s breakfast on my blouse and sigh to myself. I did want to make a powerful impression, and soggy Weetabix slightly undermines it.
I turn to the waitress, who has the insouciance of a model.
‘How may I help?’ she manages to squeeze reluctantly from her lips.
I hold her gaze for a second to reset the relationship, then smile. ‘I’ll have a decaf skinny latte, and my dear friend here will have the same, is that right, Georgie?’
Georgie smiles politely. I know she’d hate a scene in front of her kind of people. Me, I have no kind of people, which renders me quite dangerous.
