A Lizard In My Luggage (28 page)

  'Oh for heavens sake! It's always there. Wait a minute, I think Catalina may have moved it to the key rack last week. It's on a string.'

  'What is string?'

  I try out my faltering Mallorcan, 'Er...
un tros de cordill?
'

  '
Molt bé. Gracies
. I see you soon.
Fins a reveure!
'

  Rachel is quizzical. 'Who was that?'

  'Franco's owner. Looking for the key to his cage.'

  She nods sagely and like a wise goddess Minerva, questions me no further.

'He's a bit of an old woman, guv, isn't he? ' Greedy George is slurping on a large mug of cappuccino and fiddling with a stack of sketches piled neatly in front of him. I presume they are some of the initial designs for Havana's first leather jewellery range.

  'Michael Roselock was born an old woman, but he's a first rate jewellery designer', I say defensively.

  'Yeh, well we'll find out today, won't we? Shame you've missed the meetings so far, could have done with you around.'

  'Why?' I ask sceptically.

  'We needed someone to pour the tea.' He wheezes with laughter. 'Seriously guv, I like him but I wish he wouldn't bore me to death about his company going down. I don't give a sod about any of that.'

  'It's good to know you still have a heart. Anyway, what have you discussed so far?'

  He's biting at a muffin now and scrutinising one of his sketches. 'You inspired us, actually.'

  'I'm sure.'

  'Don't be like that. Michael and I were talking about what sort of stuff we could do together and hit on a nature range, sand and sea, and all that malarkey.'

  'Can I see some designs before Michael arrives?'

  He slides some loose sheets of heavy coloured pencil drawings towards me along the table. On each page are hippy chic looking leather pendants, rings and bracelets with shells and feathers and tiny fossils inlaid.

  'Where does Michael fit in?'

  'He's making them up, isn't he?'

  'But where will you get hold of the materials?'

  'That's a doddle. A bloke I know in the Maldives is getting me a job lot of shells and some great clobber from an Incan burial site in Peru.'

  Alarm bells are ringing. 'What sort of clobber?'

  'I dunno. Antique beads and bits of old cloth and stuff.'

  'Is all of this legal?'

  'Who cares?'

  'I hope he's not going to desecrate ancient tombs.'

  'Lighten up! They've all snuffed it so what do they care? You worried that the ghosts will come and haunt us?'

  'I'm more worried about the authorities, actually.'

  'All it takes are a few backhanders, guv. You don't know my mate.'

  'No, fortunately I don't.'

  Richard, the showroom manager trips up the stairs and pops his head anxiously round the door. 'Mr Roselock's here, George. Shall I take his coat?'

  'Depends how much you think it's worth.' He sniggers as Richard shakes his head impatiently and then skips down the stairs.

  'Something wrong with that geezer,' he opines.

  There's a laboured tread on the landing and in walks Michael Roselock dressed in a grey pinstripe suit and a red tie dotted with blue elephant motifs. He seems apprehensive and jittery.

  'Old Bill after you?' greets George.

  'Sorry, what do you mean?' Michael's eyes open wide in panic.

  'Only a joke, mate. Take a pew. Well we're graced with guv's presence today. The marriage broker.'

  Michael gives a relieved smile and comes over and kisses me on the cheek.

  'Steady on,' yells George. 'You'll have the staff talking.'

  I'm glad he's in merry humour since Michael is obviously nervous in his presence.

  'I've mocked up a few pieces for you to look at, George,' he stammers.

  'You know, combining leather and the other materials we discussed.' Michael's voice is thin and scratchy.

  George listens in silence and spreads Michael's samples out on the table. They look stunning. After a few minutes contemplation, he nods appreciatively.

  'Good stuff, Michael. This range is going to be a winner. Feel it in me water.'

  Michael's jaw muscle relaxes and his eyes sparkle with pride. He's like a child in class who's just won a house point. We sit for an hour in deep discussion over mugs of coffee. I'm feeling exhilarated that George and Michael seem to have hit it off and have together mocked up such an exquisite range.

  'How's Prudence?' George blurts out in a rush.

  'Oh tip-top,' replies Michael a tad awkwardly.

  'Good girl she is,' says George with a knowing wink. 'worth hanging on to, eh?'

  I squirm,

  'Quite,' says Michael, pink cheeked and in some confusion.

  Before I leave, I hand a small parcel of Serrano ham to George. He sniffs deeply on it and gives me a bear hug. 'You finally remembered. Better be the real McCoy, guv!'

  He's still chortling as Michael and I leave the showroom and head for Piccadilly on foot. We both have meetings in different parts of town. He is wearing a heavy brown tweed coat whose collar he pulls up against the bitter wind.

  'Must be a bit warmer where you are,' he mumbles into the fabric.

  'But it's getting colder, if that makes you feel any better.'

  He gives a little chuckle

  'How are things?'

  'Oh, it's been tough as you know but Prudence and I feel we're getting there'. He manages a lukewarm smile.

  'Now the showroom's gone, where are you working from?'

  'Sevenoaks. I'm using the stables at the house and Prudence has kindly agreed to commute there from Monday to Thursday. We've got some good private commissions. It'll just take a little time to readjust.'

  I touch his arm. 'See it as a new beginning, Michael. You'll never look back.'

  As a novice commuter, I've had to embrace change and to accept the new challenges that life, with a glint in its eye, has hurled at me. But that's all part of the fun of it, isn't it?

  'And what are you doing for Christmas?' I ask.

  He is coy. 'Oh, Prudence and I will probably spend it quietly together in Sevenoaks. Neither of us has much family.'

  He hails a cab, courteously opening the door and ushering me inside. He goes to close it but then reaches in and gently pats my sleeve.

  'I appreciate what you've done for me with George. It's been a lifesaver. Bless you.' He averts his gaze, slams the door after him and drifts up Piccadilly without looking back.

Dresden Watts and I are sitting opposite each other at a table in Le Caprice, sipping glasses of Chablis and munching on French bread. There's a sudden commotion as Greedy George blunders in through the swivel doors of the restaurant, holding a fat cigar in one hand and an umbrella in the other which he quickly offloads on to an attendant. The Bolivian manager, Jesus, greets him warmly and shows him to our table.

  'Always feel safe in the hands of Jesus.' He winks at us and plonks himself down in the vacant chair.

  'Bet you miss all this, don't you, guv?' He gives me a smug grin.

  'Miss what exactly?'

  'You know, classy places where you can hang out and eat proper grub.' Dresden has a playful grin on his lips but remains silent, observing us both as if we're a pair of fencing partners.

  'We do have restaurants in Mallorca, George.'

  He puffs on his cigar and gives a scornful laugh. 'Oh come on guv, they're hardly Gordon Blue are they?'

  Dresden makes as if to correct him and then stops, realising in the nick of time that this is one of George's deliberate malapropisms.

  'You're probably right,' I say breezily, 'God knows why the likes of the King of Spain, Michael Douglas and Claudia Schiffer keep coming back. Maybe they stock up on M&S beforehand?'

  He shakes with laughter and squeezes my arm.

  'Actually, guv, it's done you the world of good moving to Mallorca. You're much more laid-back and hippy chic. Must be all the drugs out there.'

  Dresden titters politely then points a finger at George. 'You may mock but what she has found is balance and perspective. Isn't that what we all crave?'

  'Oh Gawd!' groans George, 'Give him a drink. He's going all cosmic on us.'

  Dresden sighs and places his glass with precision directly in front of him.

  'Now you two, there is a serious reason why I've invited you both here.'

  George and I exchange puzzled looks.

  'You're getting married?' quips George.

  'I think not,' says Dresden with a frown, flicking a stray black lacquered tendril from his forehead. 'To be brief, I was interviewing the chairman of an American furniture company for
The Times
when he by chance mentioned Havana Leather and an interest in opening a branch or franchise in the States.'

  George splutters and grabs at a glass of wine, just poured for him by a tactful waiter. 'Is that so?'

  'The chairman suggested I sound you out discreetly when I told him we were friends.'

  'Does he know we're meeting here?'

  Dresden fidgets with his gold cravat. 'Naturally, since he's footing the bill for dinner.'

  'So what's the deal?'

  'I don't know. Just that he wants to set up a meeting urgently. He's a cool, immensely wealthy player and the company's products are very chic.'

  George runs his fingers through his greying locks. 'I've been thinking about expanding. Just think guv, you could help set up the American operation with me.'

  'Fantastic!' I enthuse. Secretly I'm feeling uneasy. If this latest trip to London has taught me anything, it's that I am becoming increasingly disenchanted with the London scene and keen to explore new business possibilities in Mallorca. Flitting back and forth to the States with Greedy George in the future is not in my game plan. Dresden wafts a menu in the air. 'Shall we order?'

  George pulls his menu towards him with gusto. 'Imagine. Havana Leather New York. It's got a nice ring to it.'

  'It has,' says Dresden. 'It has indeed.'

The office is buzzing as I creep in. Throwing my old mac quickly over a chair in the reception area, I dart into Rachel's office before any of my employees has the chance to pounce on me. Rachel has the phone plugged to her ear as always and is chatting away to some journalist contact. She beckons me to sit down in front of her. I look out of her window and into the cold grey sky, wondering how she puts up with this depressing scene every day.

  'So, what's new?' She slams down the phone and gives me one of her radiant smiles. Always a tonic.

  'Do you know, just now my taxi driver didn't charge me.'

  'You're joking?'

  'No, honestly. We had a long chat about the London Marathon and when he heard I was taking part, he wouldn't take a penny. Told me to use it as sponsorship money.'

  'Wow. What a nice guy.'

  'Well, you know my penchant for London taxi drivers?'

  It's a strange thing but ever since I've been living in Mallorca, one of my most favourite indulgences back in London has been taking a taxi. What I once took for granted, I now cherish, sharing many an animated conversation with the drivers on subjects ranging from politics, house prices to marathon training and how to move abroad. I've recently discovered that many drivers have run marathons themselves and a large percentage already own property in Spain. In the past, like most Londoners, I used to sit sullenly in the back seat of the cab, monosyllabic and stressed, cursing the traffic and irritable if a driver attempted to make conversation. I've discovered that some of the most charming people can transform into monsters on entering a taxi. It's almost as if the internal glass divider serves more as class divider, permitting them to act in a surly, rude and thoroughly obnoxious manner.

  Rachel throws me an invitation card.

  'It's the Harpers & Queen event tonight. You haven't forgotten?'

  'No', I say self-righteously. 'I haven't.'

  I pull open my voluminous bag to reach for my diary and a large knobbly object wrapped in toilet paper rolls out on to the floor.

  'Urgh!' shrieks Rachel. 'What on earth's that?'

  I haven't the faintest clue. Pulling back the paper, I examine it carefully and then as nonchalantly as possible, throw it into her wastepaper basket.

  'It's just an old ham bone,' I say casually. 'One I meant to give to Franco. You remember the call I got at the Ritz from my neighbour Rafael? Franco's his dog. Heaven only knows how long it's been lurking in there.'

  Rachel observes me for a second and laughs aloud, her shoulders shaking with the effort.

  'You're a nightmare!' she says and then pulling a jacket from her chair, clips over to the door in her shiny black stilettos. 'Come on, let's get a coffee while I'm still sane.'