We move to a corner room of the newtique, which is either so expensive or so cheap that nobody’s in there. We’re out of the canapé firing line, so nobody’s going to interrupt. Charli fiddles with one of the expensive bags, sips her drink through a straw (corner of the mouth, no lipstick loss). Outside the context of the party, she looks exhausted suddenly.
Em prompts her. ‘Sorry, love, you go on. You were away. Anywhere nice?’
‘Dubai,’ says Charli. I’m avoiding everyone’s gaze, but I see Em glance at me.
‘Wasn’t Davy meant to be there? They said on the news he had a ticket.’
‘That’s right,’ Charli says, after a pause. ‘But he was already late to meet me. I flew back as soon as I heard. Bunny put me on her plane. You know Bunny Winthrop?’
Em nods. ‘Only socially.’ Winthrop is the owner of the Frame Magazine Group. Even I’ve heard of her; it’s the kind of publication my more fashionable interlopees tend to have lying around. All the mags have about 350 pages, consisting of three features (a deep-dive on Bronzers of Tomorrow, a new Fijian resort you haven’t heard of yet, and something about a posh woman rewilding her estate). To bulk it out there are some horoscopes, a sex column, and the rest is ads.
‘Why was he coming out?’
‘We were on the brink of … of reconciling, to tell you the truth. It’s been years in the making. We kept the Ealing place and we were always close, because of our daughter, but this time it felt better. And now this …’
I feel a pang for Charli Harcourt. Her husband was clearly involved in something or other, and she may have no taste in holiday destinations, but she didn’t deserve this.
‘How terrible. Have the police been to see you?’ Charli nods. ‘Do they have any … leads?’
Another pause. It feels like Charli’s being quite careful in what she admits. ‘They wouldn’t tell me. I did ask. A few people were spotted near the house, but they’re still investigating.’
That’s good. Em keeps talking. ‘That’s terrible. Is your daughter all right?’
‘Oh, she will be.’ Charli seems a bit more preoccupied with her own mental state than her daughter’s. ‘It’s not like it wasn’t a shock for me too. And I see a lot more of Lulu than he ever did. He was useless at keeping up with her life.’
‘Are there financial implications?’ That’s a bit on the nose,but I’ve found that when asked a blunt question, more often than not people are so surprised that they answer.
‘Are you a journalist or something?’ Charli’s eyes are narrow now. Dammit, Em, you shouldn’t have pushed her.
‘Of course I’m a journalist,’ Em says. ‘A travel journalist.’ Again, she’s steering in the direction of the skid. She is, in that moment, extremely attractive. ‘But I wouldn’t write about this. I am discreet, you know.’
‘Well, it’s none of your fucking business what the financial implications are,’ Charli snaps. Ah. But after a few seconds – I’ve seen this happen so many times – it’s as if she’s been thinking about it so much she’s relieved to be asked. ‘Our daughter will be fine. She’s in his will. At least she’ll be all right.’
So no more maintenance for meis her implication. And her life is clearly expensive. I bet she wishes she’d personally escorted him to Dubai now.
‘I’m so, so sorry. When I lost my husband—’ Em begins.
Charli interrupts. ‘He died?’
‘Kitesurfing accident in Tanzania. Big gust, sharp rocks … it was terrible.’ I think Em’s pushing it here, but I’m in no position to say anything. It seems to work on Charli.
‘Howawful.’
‘The hotel was negligent, but the authorities hushed it up. And I let them do it. Don’t let anyone keep you quiet. In fact …’ Em wavers for a second. ‘Look, I dare say you’ve already thought of this, but if you want someone to look into it further … my sister investigates this kind of thing. Discreetly.’
Charli looks dubious. ‘Won’t the police be enough?’
‘Well, yes and no.’ Em scribbles a phone number on a bit of card. ‘I mean, you hear so much about them screwing up investigations and taking backhanders and copping off with mob leaders. Sometimes you want peace of mind, you know? It’s kind of like going private. Here’s me, if you want to get in touch. My sister’s agency is female-led. None of that willy-waving copper stuff.’ This is catnip for Charli, I can tell, because her face has assumed the expression that the wealthy always get when they’ve just heard about an exclusive new service they can get in on. She reaches out and takes the card Em proffers.
‘Excuse me?’ One of the Amazons running the party is leaning round into our corner. ‘Guggy’s about to speak. Would you care for a top-up?
Twenty-seven minutes later – Guggy had one or two people to thank – we slip out into the street and round the corner. Elle and Jonny are waiting for us in a cab. Jonny is halfway down one of the Yorkshire puddings from the posh place opposite the newtique (whipped feta and oregano). We fill them in; Elle gets out her index cards and starts writing.
‘Jonny, can you check her claim about the flight?’ asks Em. ‘This Bunny Winthrop thing?’
‘Most private planes have trackers, so I can see if it took off. Although you’d have to be very stupid to claim it had when it hadn’t.’
‘Yeah.’
