A Lizard In My Luggage (4 page)

  It's Rachel, my saviour from the office, wondering where I am.

  'No, I didn't miss the plane. Got in yesterday afternoon. I'll be there in five minutes. Can you hold the fort?'

  Rachel could hold off a whole army single-handedly. She's a no-nonsense cookie, a human battery, constantly charged and in control and always even-tempered. Maybe I used to be like that once.

  We've arrived. The cabbie gives me a wave and I scuttle down a cut-through into St James's and through the glass doors of Havana Leather to be greeted by camp Richard, the showroom sales manager. He's sporting tight yellow chinos and twirling towards me like a game show host with first question in hand. It turns out to be an order pad for coffee.

  'Ooh. Just made it by the skin of your teeth, lovie, and you've got spots of rain on that gorgeous suit! It'll dry, don't fret.'

  I won't.

  'Our George is upstairs with the lovely Rachel. Can I get you a cappuccino?'

  I nod, straighten my crumpled suit and walk up the marble staircase. To think that less than twenty-four hours ago I was sitting on my Mallorcan terrace watching the sun rise over the mountains.

  George Myers is a forty-five year old
enfant terrible
who runs a luxury leather company beloved by the nouveau riche, idle and star-struck. His client list reads like a FTSE 100 Top Luvvies and his new-found fame has won him a clique of shiny showbiz friends who share his table at The Ivy and enjoy his generous discounts at the shop. George has been a client for ten years and, despite my unwavering cynicism in his presence, he bears me a grudging respect. When I first knew him, he ran a small leather workshop in Hackney and together we built up the brand's reputation so that it became the darling of the media. To the press I portrayed George as a cheeky East End boy who done good, sent them wooing gifts throughout the year, and wined and dined the fashion and shopping editors until their every waking thought was of Havana Leather. We jointly went on an assault of the business editors, earnestly portraying George as the best of British, humble roots but with a talent to match the best designers in Europe. In truth, he was a brilliant craftsman, a visionary in design but also a selfish and ruthless bully. He enjoyed belittling staff, threatening small suppliers and reducing his young secretary to tears. An inveterate debunker, he relished needling the fragile egos of the insecure fashionista press as they embroidered their copy with ludicrous sprinklings of hyperbole and absurd product descriptions.

  'It's a WALLET, Amy!' he would blast good-naturedly over lunch with one of these thin, spectre-like scribes. 'What's a skinny-hipped, louche leather secret weapon when it's at home? Don't they teach you how to write plain English at journo school?'

  It was these frequent outbursts with the press that persuaded me never to let him loose on the media alone unless bound like a mummy and wearing a yashmak for good measure.

  Over the years George has become greedy. He enjoys success but, like an incurable alcoholic, he can't curb his principal vice. Spending money. Employees go without pay, invoices languish unpaid, but Greedy George continues to buy up half the goods in Bond Street, hangs out in the best dining emporiums and clubs, purchases the latest top-of-the-range four-wheel drive and every electronic gadget on the market. He has a three-storied house in South Kensington with olive green shutters and Tyrolean window boxes overflowing with lavender, which he shares with his agelastic and captious wife, Bianca, a waif-like Philippino housekeeper called Consuela and a West Highland terrier named Harris. George believes there is only room for one child in his household and he's already snaffled that role. His holidays are spent at his Tuscan villa or in luxury spas around the globe with his wife, where he convinces himself that his sumo-proportioned body is shrinking with every Ayurvedic massage. Inevitably, he returns fatter than ever.

  I walk into his Philippe Starck-inspired office with its glass walls and sleek leather furnishings. Greedy George is lolling in a deep maroon leather chair holding forth while Rachel sits spellbound opposite. She's faking it. His face breaks into a grin when he sees me.

  'Ah, guv! Thought you'd got on the wrong bus, or should I say plane?' Hoarse laughter.

  'Where are you up to?' I exchange a furtive wink with Rachel and pull out a chair by the enormous glass meeting table.

  'We're just discussing the forthcoming winter range. George has created a fascinating new product.'

  I eye her carefully. She looks away. George heaves himself up and wanders over to a cardboard box on the table. He fumbles inside with his pulpy hands and throws me a plastic bag with what looks like – please God, no – a leather lizard inside. I've seen enough of the real thing in the last few weeks in Mallorca to last me several lifetimes. 'It's a lizard.'

  'Don't miss a trick, do you, guv?'

  I hold it in my hand and peer into its face. It's about twelve inches long, olive green, and has black beaded eyes. The leather is soft and on the back I notice there are tiny perforations. Why? I grapple with its underbelly and spot a small Velcro strip which when ripped open reveals a netted cavity inside. I'm mystified. The neck, I notice, is hidden by what looks like a miniature collar but when squeezed it releases an internal spring and the head juts out and nods from left to right in a sinister way. I jump back.

  'Well it's certainly worthy of a Stephen King movie.'

  'Are you this rude to your other clients?'

  'No, you have exclusive rights.'

  George breaks into a chuckle. 'Since you're so bleeding thick, permit me to present my new masterpiece, The Lounge Lizard!'

  Rachel is driving the point of her pen into her palm in a desperate attempt to keep a straight face.

  'So, what does our lounge lizard do exactly?' I smile sweetly.

  'Don't take that patronising tone with me, guv,' he gurgles with mirth. 'This is the new Nodding Dog. Everyone used to have them in their cars, didn't they?'

  'No.'

  'Yeh, well, Snooty Pants, I wouldn't have expected you to have one, would I?' he scoffs. 'Anyway, this isn't just a novelty toy. It's an anti-stress air freshener for cars, desks, wherever you want to put it.'

  I feel inside the lizard's hollow stomach. 'Ah, I think I see. You put a potpourri sachet in here?'

  'Potpourri sachet?! How naff can you get? No, it's a silk and muslin pouch infused with Eastern calming oils.'

  'How long does it last?' I ask starchily.

  'I've had one on trial in my car for a month. Losing its whiff now so I reckon we could hit the punter for a three month supply and then clobber him for some other gear when he comes back for more refills.'

  I feel my lip curling at the edges. The world really has gone mad.

  'It's certainly a one-off, George.'

  'Come on, admit it, guv. I'm a genius?'

  'Possibly.'

  Greedy George frowns. 'Where's bloody Ricardo? He only had to fetch three cappuccinos, for crying out loud.' He pounces on the door and shouts down the stairs, 'Oi, Twinkle Toes! Get your arse up here with those coffees.'

  Soft footsteps follow and an aggrieved Richard arrives with steaming paper cups and a plate of croissants.

  'Now, where were we?' Greedy George grins, smearing a croissant with a thick layer of butter and jam.

And where did all the cabs go? It's bucketing with rain and I've just left Rachel's initialled umbrella at my last meeting place. It must have cost a fortune. Have I got time to go back for it? No. When am I going to get back to the office to clear all my e-mails? I look at my watch. I've a conference call at noon with my new American client, Bryan Patterson of the Aphrodite Corporation, and then, horror of horrors, a meeting with Prudence Braithwaite at Roselock Fine Jewellery. Despite the company's rocky state, she and the owner, Michael Roselock, struggle on like a pair of obstinate mules. Have I the strength? Now in desperate need of an umbrella. Where's a Boots when you need one?

I scramble from the tube and up drizzly Piccadilly on foot, all the while dodging the battery of black umbrellas wielded like lethal weapons by those charging towards me along the pavement. Bedraggled and breathless, I hurtle through the shiny revolving doors of the restaurant and up a flight of marble steps to the front desk. My hair's still dripping. I'm a mess and late. It's never good to keep a journalist waiting, even though I've known Dresden longer than Barbie's known Ken. A cloakroom attendant approaches me but seeing that I have neither raincoat nor umbrella scuttles away wordlessly. A tense young woman in a dark trouser suit looks up my reservation in a black desk diary, her long blonde tresses brushing the page, and with a red biro brusquely ticks off my name as if I'm a child arriving late for school. A queue has formed behind me and she's keen to move me on.

  'One of my colleagues will show you through,' she says curtly without bothering to look up from her desk. Stalking towards me is a supercilious young man in a slate grey suit with crimson lining who impatiently leads me through the tables. I notice he steals a cursory, critical glance at my rain-splattered clothes. The restaurant is already crowded, but there are lone diners, the seats next to them vacant, edgily skim-reading copies of the
Evening Standard
or sipping on water, hoping that they haven't been stood up. The place is noisy with chatter, and frenetic waiters, sleek in black attire, waft by, trays held aloft. This, at least, is a place of refuge without lounge lizards and lunatics on the menu although several can be seen slumped at the tables.

  'Darling!' drawls Dresden, leaping from his seat like a perky imp. 'Where have you been?' He air kisses my cheeks and then rolls his dark eyes at my dishevelled appearance. '
Quelle horreur
! No umbrella?'

  I sit down quickly, aware of the titters of other diners as they study my guest with fascination. Today, Dresden Watts is coiffed to perfection, his hair in a quiff and his body enveloped in tight black leather with a jabot at the neck and white ruffs masking his wrists. A staggeringly large emerald glints from the little finger of his right hand. He is a would-be London dandy, an impresario and dilettante extraordinaire. He is also Asian and devilishly handsome. Waggling a white napkin flamboyantly at a passing waiter, he orders two glasses of Krug. I'm relieved that this lunch is on Greedy George since Dresden and I are meeting for the sole purpose of discussing Havana Leather.

  'So, what's new, pussycat?' he purrs.

  I fumble in my bag and throw a leather lizard across the table. He flinches and pulls back as if about to be struck by a viper. 'What is that?'

  Ten minutes later Dresden is in full flow, mapping out a story he thinks will be great for the
Evening Standard
about designer leather toys for stressed executives.

  'Dear George is a genius,' he enthuses, dabbing at his mouth with the corners of his napkin. 'Just think, a luscious lizard that exudes the exotic fragrance of the East.'

  I observe him thoughtfully. A crazy image fills my head of a leather-clad Dresden enthroned on my Mallorcan porch, his perfectly groomed hands fondling a nodding lizard while the builders, torsos stripped bare and tools lying slack in their hands, stand entranced as they contemplate this hallowed symbol of London life. I'm jolted back to the table by the din of clattering plates and knives.

  'So,' says Dresden, 'when can I interview George?'

I'm opening my forty-ninth e-mail of the day. The office is hot and airless and beyond the double-glazed window I can hear the drone of London traffic. The telephone rings. It's Alan in enthusiastic mode.

  'It's scorching here,' he's saying. 'I've had to change my shirt twice today. Ollie's worn me out playing football all afternoon. How is it with you?'

  'Stuffy and sticky. Is Ollie OK?'

  'He's on great form. We're off to the beach for a quick swim and then a fish supper in the port.'

  I feel a twinge of envy. I'd much rather be joining them for dinner in the local port than eating a Tesco ready meal on my own in the flat.

  'Anything exciting to report?'

  'Well you'll never believe it but we've been invited to a refurbishment party at the Banca March. Can you imagine that happening in London?'

  I give a cynical grunt. 'I think not.'

  In truth, the local Banca March cannot be described as a bank in the current British sense. Although totally up to date with the latest technology it still possesses one key ingredient now sadly missing from our own financial emporiums – humanity. It may be that in the past British banks were the same, with cheerful and understanding managers and staff who could remember your name and treated you as a friend, but I've never known it in my time. In the mountains at our local branch it is like that. Ever since we moved to Mallorca and opened a bank account Tolo, the deputy manager, has been like a guardian angel, offering us advice in perfect English, accompanying us to the town's
notaría,
the notary's office, when we bought our
finca
, and turning a blind eye to the occasional blip in our account when builders' bills have, at times, overstretched our already strained finances. We know the names of all the staff, and pop by just for a chat when shopping in the town. I find it touching that we have been invited to this local celebration.

  Alan's full of the joys. 'The party's not actually until October. A little do from noon it says on the invitation.'

  'You will accept?'

  'Of course,' says Alan with vigour. 'Tolo would be hurt if we didn't go.'