I much preferred assuming it was a political rival. Maybe an attack from a foreign power trying todestabilise British democracy. Yeah, the Russians. Must be the Russians.
The road lay out ahead of me and I drove on. Eventually, the gnawing in my stomach got too much, and I stopped at a service centre to grab a greasy McDonald’s. Maybe I’d even manage to eat some of it before I got back to the car and had to give the rest to Kenny. As I returned, paper bags in hand, I heard a howling. Oh, no. A woman passing by my car turned to her companion and tutted. “Imagine leaving that poor animal in a car. Probably been in there for hours.”
“He’s been in there twelve minutes!” I muttered angrily as I sped up to a run.
“You are such a shit,” I snapped at Kenny as I opened the door, and the howling ceased immediately. “Fucking drama queen.”
He gave me a look. “Yes, I got you a burger too.” I pulled out a Big Mac and watched in disgust as he ate it in three bites, but somehow managed to make a mess all over the car.
I sighed. “Right, everyone ready? Let’s go. Aunty Vee is waiting.”
Forty minutes later, I crept into the grounds of the racecourse in deepest, darkest suburban Surrey, where Verity and her husband’s country folly was located. The house they had bought was in the middle of the track. It had been owned by a stable manager or something before falling into rack and ruin decades earlier.
They had found it at an auction and, after years of jumping through endless bureaucratic hoops, had their plans approved for purchase and remodelling. All they had to do was run an equine-related business on its vast grounds.
It shouldn’t be too difficult. Verity’s husband Gravz grew up on a farm in South Africa and had spent most of his youth bow-legged from riding horses … and whatever else people did in South Africa on farms. I don’t know, hunt hyenas.
I drove around the grounds and found the entrance to their personal driveway. The house sat off to the side of the track in a copse of trees. It was dark by the time I made my way up to the buildings. The lights of the giant home were all on, and in the doorway was the diminutive shape of Verity waiting for me.
Kenny jumped out and made his way around the house, sniffing enthusiastically. “God, you really have turned into some sort of gay Dr Dolittle,” Verity joked as I approached, holding the cats’ carry case.
“We can put them in the adventure room,” Vee said and swept inside.
“Adventure room?” I asked. “If there’s a sex swing in there …”
Verity rolled her eyes and opened the door off the foyer to a tiled room with plain white walls. It was a vast space with nothing in it except a cardboard box with some old paint sheets around it.
“What in serial killer hell is this?”
“This,” she said, “is what happens when childless people buy a six-bedroom house. What the hell am I supposed to put in here? Honestly, I’m asking. I haven’t got a clue what to use it for. I could rent it out to a family of four, I suppose. Anyway, dump the moggies in here. They’ll be safe. There are the sheets for them to curl up in.”
I did that. Eisenhower and Roosevelt both growled and prowled at their new abode as Verity went out to the car and collected the rest of their stuff for me. “Oh, shut up,” I told them.
Verity arrived back and upturned the box with their toys and treats onto the floor with little care. “There. They’re sorted. Right, time for wine.”
I followed her out into the kitchen, which was bigger than my house and full of space-age cabinetry and appliances that one had to rub in odd places to open them. “If you need to open the fridge, be warned, it’s as awkward as a teenage boy trying to find a clitoris. The memories it brings back,” she said as she deposited a bottle of Pinot Grigio in front of us.
I fidgeted nervously.
She softened as she looked at me. “Babes, I saw. How are you? Apart from more than a tad manic.”
“Oh, you know. It’s currently the most read story onBBC News,The Guardian, and number one trending on Twitter. So, I’ve been better.” At my feet, Kenny whined from his new spot on the kitchen rug.
“That rug was expensive,” Verity told him in case he got ideas. She turned back to me. “Listen, I think your friend Nigella had the best idea. No statements, we keep our noses clean. I’ll reach out to a couple of PR friends I have in the morning to get some proper advice.”
I nodded and got out my phone. Her own pinged on the counter. “I sent you Nigella’s number, you two can see if we can co-ordinate anything. I’ve texted her to tell her to expect your call in the morning.”
She nodded. “Good thinking.” She took a long sip of her wine. “I’ll stay here tonight and drive back in the morning.”
I sighed and put my head in my hands. “God’s sake, I can’t believe this is my life.” Up until a couple of days ago, things had been going swimmingly. And now …
“Christ, the memes on Twitter,” Verity said, looking at her phone. “Some of them are ingenious.” She cackled away at them with, frankly, no regard for my feelings, then gave me a look. “On the bright side, I must say, Tarquin actually got better looking with age. He’s packed on the muscle as he’s got older.”
I glared at her. “What?” she said. “I’m only human.”
Unfortunately, I agreed. “And who knew Guy Frobisher was putting away some serious heat in the underwear department?” I said. I had come this close to being able to take a stab at that. It was very unlikely our date would go ahead. Even Guy’s ‘never good timing’ rule couldn’t compete with this.
Verity nodded. “Right, let’s finish these and try and get a proper night’s sleep. I’m going to leave early to try and do some damage control with Donal and Ffion—”
