Busy Woman Seeks Wife (29 page)

“You are joking, of course?” He started speaking just outside his office door, loud enough to have everyone sitting bolt upright.
It was obvious whom his question was aimed at, but Alex still looked away, hoping to God it was meant for someone else. She
just hoped too that he’d have the grace to take her somewhere private when he fired her. “I mean,” he continued at the same
volume, “we are only talking the hottest model around. We have only briefed every publication from the Chipping Sodbury parish
magazine upwards that she will be at the launch, and we can’t even get her the bloody hotel room she wants. What does it take,
Alex, to get things right?”

“Oh, Gavin, you can’t blame this one on Alex. It was probably down to me.” Alex looked up, startled at Camilla’s voice. “I
probably didn’t hear what she said about the penthouse but she has been rushed off her feet with Italy and all that.”

“How could I forget? Wasn’t it the wrong airport that time?” Gavin turned to Alex, the hostility obvious in his face. “Camilla
shouldn’t take the rap for this—it’s up to you, Alex, as the one in charge, to double-check these things. So are we going
to get out of
this
one?”

“Yes, I think so.” Alex pulled herself up tall. This was her last shot at self-preservation. “I’ve found her somewhere even
better, she will be here and the press will love her. I’ve already had loads of interest and secured an exclusive for Wednesday’s
Mail
.”

“And?” he asked, not about to let her get away with anything.

“Well, I’ll lay on entertainment for her obviously.” Alex made a mental note to sort that. “And best of all, she’ll be thrilled
with what she’s wearing. It’s being altered just for her and it’s due to arrive any minute—I’ll show you as soon as it gets
here.”

Someone must have been watching over her because Gavin’s mobile went before he could respond and he went back to his office,
waving her away and chatting animatedly, hand to his ear. Alex breathed out.

“Cam, can you please call the couriers and check the stuff
is
on its way—and Sanferino’s too, of course? It should have been here by now.”

“Sure thing.” Camilla picked up her phone.

Alex slumped down in her seat, feeling achy, almost as if she had the flu. Frankie sauntered slowly over to her desk.

“Things looking pear-shaped?” he asked quietly. She could smell his skin. She looked down.

“Big-time. Any ideas?” she muttered.

“Not really. Peter’s holed up in the meeting room on a conference call. Or at least that’s what he said. If it’s him, he’s
playing things very close.”

Alex fiddled with the seam of her trousers. “Then it must be me and I must be crap.”

“Sorry to interrupt.” Camilla came over apologetically. “Er, Alex, the couriers say delivery is due on the twenty-first.”

“Twenty-first? That’s… Thursday. What?” She bolted out of her chair. “That’s no bloody good. Have you looked out the
order? I did it online. There must be a confirmation.” This
had
to be a mistake. It could be sorted.

There was a pause as Camilla leaned over her desk, her hand on her computer mouse, searching her e-mail in-box. “Here we are.
Yup, hang on, confirmation. Oh. Oh dear.” She clicked off the screen and came over to Alex. “Er,” she said quietly. “It clearly
says the twenty-first in response to your e-mail. Do you remember doing that?”

Later Alex would describe feeling as if all the blood had run out of her body. She could feel goosebumps on her arms, and
suddenly she was finding it hard to breathe. “It can’t be,” she whispered. “It can’t. I
know
I told them the eighteenth.”

Camilla took her arm. “Oh, Alex, are you all right? Is there anything I can do?”

“Shoot me?” She slumped into her chair and started to look back through her own e-mails but there were so many. So much communication,
so many messages about the launch. It would take her ages to find the confirmation.

“Sorry to interrupt,” Frankie muttered. “But where exactly is this apparel?”

“In a factory in Istanbul,” Camilla replied. “Oh dear.” She too sat down hard on the corner of Alex’s desk.

“What time do you need it by?” Frankie persisted. Alex wished he would be quiet so she could think. She rubbed her temples,
where her head pounded. The whole room seemed to have receded, full of tiny people going about their normal day, oblivious
to the fact that her world had just collapsed.

“First thing tomorrow morning at the latest, ready for Gordino to put it on when she arrives in Brixton, but it will take
ages to clear customs.” Alex could hear her own voice sound monotonous. “It’s pointless. Oh fuck.”

Frankie crouched down beside her. “Are you sure?” he asked quietly.

Alex ignored him. She was thinking fast. How long did they have? Was it… could she? “Something like this happened once
before,” she said slowly. “Not to me, but I remember there was a delay with some zippers. They all had to be changed, and
we sent someone over to pick the garments up personally.”

“Oh, Alex, there’s no time!” Camilla gasped.

“I’ll go.”

Alex looked at the expression of determination on Frankie’s face. “Where?” she asked.

“Istanbul, of course. It’ll be like
Midnight Express.
”

In contrast to her desperate mood, Alex found herself smiling. “Oh, Frankie, don’t be daft. You can’t possibly!”

“Alex is right.” Camilla stood up. “It’s madness, and besides if anyone should go it should be me. I work for the company
and, do you know, I think I might even have my passport in my bag.” She began to rummage. “I needed it to pick up a letter
from the post office the other day.”

“No, I can do it. I’ll go.” Frankie moved to get his things, prepared to leave already. “You’re too important to things here,
Cam. You can’t be spared. I’m the obvious choice. If I get on a flight this afternoon, I can be there for this evening and
back at the latest first thing tomorrow. Okay, Alex?”

“But—”

Frankie put his hand on Alex’s arm and looked hard at her. “Trust me, Alex. For once?” And he turned to Camilla. “Let’s keep
this from Gavin, hey? Let’s do Alex a favor? Now give me the details, will you, Camilla, and can you let them know I’m on
my way?”

F
rankie did up his seat belt. He was breathless from the dash back to the flat for his passport, the race to Heathrow, the
haste to buy some currency and the run across the concourse to the plane, which now started its whiny roar as it began to
move. He smiled thinly at the large woman sitting next to him and attempted to squeeze farther against the wall of the cabin.

“On holiday, are you?” the woman asked comfortably. “We’re meeting up with some friends and going sailing for a week. Turkey’s
wonderful. Have you been there before?”

Since she didn’t really seem to need any answers to her many questions, Frankie allowed the one-way flow of conversation to
give him the space to ask himself what the hell he was doing here. He hated flying, he hated being too hot, he hated not knowing
what was expected of him and he hated unexpected changes to his routine. All in all, he couldn’t have dreamed up a worse undertaking.
And for what? But he knew the answer already. Alex.

Something, he wasn’t even sure what yet, had made him as certain as he could possibly be that he had to do this for this tall,
complicated woman with the endless brown legs. And he knew he was the only person who could do it for her. So much depended
now on the garments being there safely and on time for Gordino and, unqualified though he felt, he knew that no one else could
be trusted to do what was right for Alex and her launch.

Dinner came and went, and he ignored it, willing the plane to go faster. The woman sitting next to him had a little nap, her
mouth falling open to allow the sound of soft snoring to escape. Frankie looked out the window at the light beginning to fade,
the clouds framing the sunset like a proscenium arch. When they started their descent, Frankie was almost on his feet before
the tires touched the runway, and he barged people out of the way to be off the plane first and through customs and arrivals,
with his virtually empty gym bag in his hand.

Frankie’s only images of the Istanbul airport had been indelibly marked into his memory from watching
Midnight Express
but now it looked Westernized—cool, shiny and marbley. He could have been anywhere. Bolting out the sliding doors into the
warm evening air, he jumped into the first available taxi and showed the driver the address for the warehouse, urging him
to hurry. They swung into the traffic, and Frankie realized he was leaning forward impatiently. His driver, when he wasn’t
turning around to converse with Frankie in fragmented English with a strong American accent, swerved wildly from lane to lane,
sounding his horn constantly. The string of worry beads hanging from the mirror swung like a pendulum ticking away the seconds,
and Frankie held on tight. How had he managed to find the only psychopathic driver in the whole of Istanbul? He glanced around,
terrified, at the other cars and vans. Which one were they going to collide with? Because it was only a matter of time, that
much was obvious. But, he noticed in horror, the other cars were being driven in exactly the same way. They were all covered
in dust, all dented, and all hurtling along at breakneck speed.

It was quite dark by the time the taxi driver deposited him in a wide street with tall buildings on one side, a park on the
other. The trip had taken only ten or fifteen minutes and Frankie handed over a muddle of coins and a couple of notes before
the driver waved a cheery, “See ya around, pal,” and screeched off into the darkness.

Frankie was alone. He compared the address that Camilla had printed out for him with the number above the large wooden gateway.
So far, so good. But why was the whole building in darkness? Frankie glanced at his watch. Almost eight o’clock, British time.
He’d been on the plane for nearly four hours, but it was around two hours later here—closer to ten. Of course the place would
be locked up! Why hadn’t he thought of this? He studied Alex’s scribbled sheet of phone contacts she’d pressed into his hand
with an awkward “Thanks” before he left the office, then pulled his phone from his pocket and started dialing. He was beginning
to panic by the time the third number he tried was finally answered with a gruff “ ’Alo!”

“Hello? Do you speak English?”

“Yes, of course I speak English. Who is this?”

Frankie sighed with relief. “Right. You don’t know me, but I’ve got a problem…”

Twenty minutes later, a battered Peugeot braked abruptly at the other end of the now totally deserted street and a short,
compact man got out, looking around. He returned Frankie’s questioning stare, pointed at him and gestured incomprehension,
then waved his hand up and down, palm downward. Frankie walked cautiously towards him.

“Frankeee?” he called. “Is this you? What are you doing down there? The warehouse is here. Come.” Relieved, Frankie hurried
to meet him. “I’m Melik,” he said abruptly, clasping Frankie’s hand. “This is very strange! Why did you not call me to say
that you were coming?”

Frankie sighed in exasperation. “I thought someone had. Well, let me explain…” As he told him what had happened, Melik’s
face first cleared, then fell.

“So no problem with the special apparel. That is good. But this is not regular. I don’t understand this, why you are coming
in the night? We can always deliver when you ask us. This should not be necessary.”

“I’m afraid you may have been given the wrong information,” Frankie explained diplomatically. “But the problem is, the launch
is tomorrow morning. If I can’t get back in time with the clothes, it’s going to be a disaster.”

Melik thought for a moment, then raised his head sharply and clicked his tongue. “No! There will be no disaster. I have met
Alex Hill. She has been here to visit our operation and she knows she can rely on me.”

The stocky man led the way to a modern building on the corner and took a large bunch of keys from his pocket. After a complicated
series of operations, he swung open a door and darted in to switch off the alarm. As he did so, a loud swooping wail rose
into the air around them. Frankie looked around in fright as the amplified sound came at them from all directions. Melik smiled.
“It is the call to prayer. Welcome to Istanbul, Frankie!”

The building must have been air-conditioned all day, because it was still cool inside and stepping in from the heat of the
street was a blessed relief. Frankie followed Melik through a series of darkened offices into a huge, high-ceilinged hangar
of a building that hadn’t been visible from the street. Metal racks stretched in every direction, stacked with boxes, and
meter after meter of neatly hung garments covered with clear plastic lined the walls. Melik walked over to a computer terminal
and booted it up. “You are new to the company,” he stated, rather than asked.

“Is it that obvious?” Frankie asked. Melik just smiled pityingly and turned back to the computer. He searched the screen,
nodded and walked off into the semi-gloom.