Valentine Present and Other Diabolical Liberties (9 page)

     
‘I didn’t know there were goldfish in the Thames,’ I say stupidly.

     
‘Mind you,’ he adds ignoring me. ‘The fish is usually wrapped up in an article of clothing of the person who has been hit or w-w-w-w- …
’

     
‘Wiped out,’ offers Fiona.

     
‘Washed up,’ I mutter.

     
‘Whacked,’ finishes Alistair.

     
‘Christ,’ I mumble.

     
‘Shall I order the pizza now?’ he asks. ‘Fi, do you want anchovies?’

God, I think I’m going to be sick. My mobile rings and I grab it, stupidly thinking it might be Julian which is unlikely of course unless he has an underwater phone.

      ‘Ello ‘arriet, did you get our little gift. Thoughtful don’t yer think? Babyface wrapped it nicely. We wanted to congratulate yer.’

I fall onto the couch and mouth
Jack
to Fiona.

     
‘Congratulate me?’ I say. ‘Most people send cards and flowers not bleeding dead goldfish.’

Congratulate me on what? Christ, I haven’t gone and won the bleeding lottery have I?

      ‘I saw
The Times
announcement of your little engagement to that nice rich snobby bastard, ‘amilton Lancaster. You’ve got taste, I’ll give yer that.’

What bleeding announcement? Oh no, what if Celia Blakely sees it, or my boss at the laundrette? Or shit, even worse my mum. Calm down Harriet, what the hell would Celia Blakely be doing with a paper like that unless it has her fish and chips wrapped in it, and the only page of a paper my boss reads is the back page.

      ‘Thought yer might need a little reminder that you and Julian still owe us some dosh, ‘specially now you’re in with that nice rich family. Don’t want yer forgetting us do we?’

Hang on a minute.

      ‘What about your code of honour, what the bleeding hell happened to that?’ I say, opening my mouth before engaging my brain.

Alistair winces and shakes his head.

      ‘What code of bleeding ‘onour? This ain’t the bleeding
Godfather
you know.’

Huh, try telling everyone else that.

      ‘But …’

     
‘‘eard from Julian ‘ave yer?’

     
‘No,’ I say hoarsely while thinking this is a good sign if he’s asking me if I’ve heard from Julian.

     
‘You taking over that Colonel Gaddafi are yer?’

What has Colonel Ga
ddafi got to do with anything? I suppose that’s in
The Godfather
too.

     
‘Colonel Gaddafi?’ I mouth to Fiona and Alistair.

They both give me a puzzled look and Fiona shrugs.

      ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I say shakily.

     
‘Now, there’s me thinking you’s a London girl. Colonel Gaddafi, café, get it? Now Julian and I had a little arrangement. I was giving ‘im a little security. You know what yobs are these days. Need a bleedin’ good ‘iding some of ‘em. I said as much to Julian. “They’ll turn your place over” I said to ‘im. So we agreed I’d look after that side of things, save ‘im the worry. Know what I mean?’

     
‘But …’ I begin.

     
‘A monkey a month we agreed, in cash. Now, of course ole Julian is well overdue and you ‘aving this posh boyfriend and keeping the café open, well I thought to meself who’s going to protect it for yer while Julian’s away. You don’t want that little place burning to the ground now do yer?’

Great, no one is going to invest in an
arsoned restaurant are they? God,
I’ll
have to rob a bank at this rate.

     
‘But …’ I say again.

     
‘Of course I could ask your poncy future in-laws if …’

     
‘No,’ I scream.

Oh God, this is getting direr by the second.

      ‘So, ‘ow ‘bout we say you leave it downstairs with that nice landlord of yours and Babyface Jack can collect it tomorrow. A monkey remember, don’t you go messin’ me around.’

     
‘No,’ I cry again before I can stop myself.

I don’t want Sid getting pulled into this. There is a heavy silence.

      ‘That’s a shame. I was looking forward to popping round, you know, ‘aving a cuppa with that nice wife of ‘is and those two little nippers. I love kids. I’ve got two of me own. Little buggers they are though. I’ve got no control over them … Well, you know what I’m sayin.’

Oh my God. Julian’s investor is bound to pull out if there is any trouble at the restaurant and we’ll never get out of this mess.

      ‘No, I understand exactly what you’re saying. I can get you the monkey, every month. But I’ll, I’ll, I’ll …’

Spit it out Harriet for Christ’s sake. You’re sounding more like Alistair by the minute. Fiona is staring at me wide
-eyed.

     
‘I’ll deliver it to
you
,’ I say quickly.

Have I gone insane? There is silence and I try not to breathe too hard. Don’t let them know you’re scared, that’s the trick. What the hell am I talking about?

      ‘Okay, I’ll contact you with a meeting place and ‘arriet …’ he says pausing menacingly.

     
‘Yes,’ I say breathlessly.

     
‘You’d better answer the phone or Julian suffers.’

Oh,
don’t worry, Julian will suffer at some point and hopefully at my hands.

     
‘I will, I promise I will. I’ll give you a monkey every month, but …’

Before I can finish the phone goes dead. This is terrible. It’s just getting worse and worse. I was beginning to think that maybe, just maybe I could back out of this whole thing with Hamilton Lancaster.
I’d even begun to stupidly think that perhaps I could appeal to his compassionate side and ask him to help me. Now I am completely buggered. The last thing I want to do is involve him and his family. The best thing to do is pay Jack Diamond the hundred or is it five hundred? How the hell am I supposed to know how much a monkey is? I’ll have to bloody Google it. What if they want the pay-off at the weekend when I am in bleeding Scotland?

     
‘Well?’ Fi asks.

I fall onto the couch.

      ‘I’ve got to deliver a pay-off. They want a monkey every month or they’ll do something awful to the restaurant and something even worse to Julian if they find him,’ I say, sounding like Bonnie out of
Bonnie and Clyde
.

Fiona looks horrified.

      ‘Every month?’ she echoes. ‘But where will you get one from and what are they going to do to the little thing. Oh God, they’re monsters, first your goldfish and now
a monkey.’

Alistair sighs. God help Julian when he does get home. I’ll give him monkey all right.

     
The Lancaster family helicopter makes its turbulent descent into the grounds of the Glenwood estate and I feel like I could throw up at any minute. It’s not the bumpy ride that is making me want to gag. I love a good fairground ride, in fact, the scarier the better. It’s more that I am shit-scared about what I’ve let myself in for. I keep telling myself it’s only a weekend but we all know how long some weekends can be don’t we? Still, once it’s over and I’ve done my bit, I can get back to my life, thirty thousand pounds better off. I need to ask Hamilton about
The Times
announcement. I mean, what if my parents see it? I suppose on reflection that’s highly unlikely. I can’t imagine
Mum walking back from the local Tesco with
The Times
under her arm somehow.
Take a Break
maybe but that’s about as highbrow as Mum gets and
Dad never reads a newspaper. He prefers News 24 and I don’t think I’m going to make it onto there somehow, unless of course Julian’s dismembered body is found propping up a flyover somewhere in London or hanging from a meat hook in someone’s freezer. Then they might just flash up a picture of yours truly. I can see the headlines now.

Promising young entrepreneur found buried in cement after girlfriend refused to pay East End gangland leaders.

Oh God, don’t think about that Harriet. Just study your nice little blue folder and get through the weekend with flying colours, take the money and run. Hamilton sent me a fifteen-page folder with all the details of how we supposedly met, how I started my business, my favourite ice cream, favourite colour and how I like my coffee. I’m surprised it didn’t include my inside leg measurement and bra size. Mind you, even I’m not sure what that is anymore since Marcus stuffed me full of silicone enhancers. How women with big breasts cope I shall never know.

I feel like
an actor in
Green Card.
What if I mess it up, come to think of it, what if Hamilton messes it up? And I can’t begin to tell you the things I read about him. How the other half live, I tell you. He wears only designer underpants it seems, and only briefs. Like I really want to know that. It’s not like I’ll be popping out to buy
some over the weekend is it? I doubt he would be happy with Primark’s three pairs for two pounds fifty. He has everything ironed, and I mean everything, from his designer pants to his Marc Jacob socks. I never knew Marc Jacob made socks. He’s an expert skier and accomplished horseman as I am too apparently, a horsewoman that is. Seriously, the closest I have come to a horse is when I ate one in a Findus lasagne. Hamilton was an expert rower at Eton and I, hold your breath, was a champion cyclist at school but after the horrific accident (too awful to talk about) I had to give it up. Thank God for that. I only wear Clinique as my skin is sensitive. My cheap Aldi moisturiser was removed from my handbag by Marcus with such precision you would have thought it was a bomb rather than a
jar of face cream. It was replaced with numerous jars and bottles of Clinique products which I have to say I am very much enjoying. Oh well, if I bugger it up then I bugger it up. It’s not like I’m going to see these people again is it? I can’t see them popping round to Marlborough Mansions for a cuppa or dropping their washing off at the laundrette. No, there is very little chance our paths will cross again. They can go off with their jolly hockey sticks and I’ll return to my life of drudgery. I just don’t want to be made a fool of, that’s all. And what if I have to get up all close and personal with Hamilton? No, my relationship with Hamilton will be one of those cold distant types. I’ll have to be one of those cool detached type of chicks. In fact they all look like that, these posh birds don’t they? I mean just look at Posh Becks, she always looks cold and hard. Mind you, she’s from Essex isn’t she? I can’t do any worse than her
can I? I realise part of my nausea is down to hunger and I fish out the pack of Jaffa Cakes I had sneaked into my Burberry. Well, there is no way I can get through this without a chocolate fix. I find my mind wander to Brice Edmunds. If only
he
had asked me to be his soon-to-be fiancée for a weekend, now that would have been a pleasure. I sigh and look down as Glenwood Manor comes into view. It’s huge. Hamilton never said it was a Scottish Downton Abbey. I hope I look okay, I feel like bloody Jacqueline Onassis in my tight-fitting pink suit and pearls. I only need a little pillbox hat and I could easily be mistaken for her. I pop another two Jaffa Cakes into my mouth and gasp when I see there is a welcoming party at the side of the heliport. There’s seven of them. Not seven welcoming parties, obviously, even I know I’m not that grand. Seven people and bloody hell, two of them are wearing kilts, and one is my soon-to-be pretend fiancé and presumably the other is his father. I hope they’re not true Scotsmen. One gust of wind and I would not only see Hamilton’s rope and tackle in all its glory but his father’s too. It would be far too traumatic an experience. This does not bode well. Even my mum would not be impressed with me dating a man in a skirt. I grab the sides of my seat as the helicopter wobbles as it comes into land and the remaining Jaffa Cakes tumble into my lap. Piss it. The sky is full of threatening rain and the helicopter lurches to the side as a rumble of thunder breaks over the noise of the engine. Christ, talk about the trumpets hailing the arrival of the she-devil. As we go lower and the enormity of the estate becomes apparent, I can practically smell the sweetness of money in the air.

I scramble frantically in my handbag for a tissue to wipe my hands and to check my reflection only to find the sodding clip is stuck. I fiddle desperately with it and my heart pounds with panic.
What’s wrong with the bloody thing? It opened fine a few seconds ago.

     
‘Come on, open bugger you,’ I groan, and like magic it does. I spot my phone and see that little red cross in the corner. You know the cross I mean, the one where usually three lovely bars of signal flash at you. One bar would have been awkward but no bars at all is fatal. Buckery fuck, what if the Jacks phone about the meeting? Surely people with bleeding
huge estates have mobiles and
phone signal by which to use them? The vibrating of the helicopter comes to a stop and there is silence. The waiting party look like they are lined up waiting to be shot. The door slides open and a frowning Hamilton leans in.

     
‘Are you coming out?’ he hisses.

     
‘What the hell were you thinking of taking out an ad in
The Times
announcing
our engagement. Why didn’t you just shout it from the rooftops?’

     
‘Sorry. My mother’s idea, she gets carried away.
Are you coming out?’

I smile, grab my new cashmere shawl and nonchalantly brush Jaffa Cake from my skirt. He offers his hand and I reluctantly place my sticky one in his, and feel my right false boob slip. Christ alive, whatever next.

      ‘Don’t you have phone signal here?’ I whisper.

     
‘Phone signal?’ he repeats, looking at me blankly.

Christ, don’t tell me he can’t speak English now he’s in Scotland? I hope they don’t speak bleeding Gaelic or something. I’ve got enough problems trying to talk in my new posh accent without an added language on top.

      ‘My mobile doesn’t work,’ I say, cautiously stepping from the helicopter.

     
‘You won’t get anything here unless you’re with Vodafone.’

He might have told me that before I left. What the hell am I supposed to do now? A few drops of rain splatter onto my new suit and I shiver.

      ‘Harriet,’ gushes a woman who is hurrying towards me. ‘I hope your flight wasn’t too arduous. How are your feet, not too swollen I hope?’

She makes it sound like I’ve flown from Australia rather than London. Everyone looks down at my feet
, which are squashed into the Jimmy Choos that Marcus was insistent I wear.

     
‘You’ve got chocolate all over your face,’ whispers Hamilton harshly, handing me a tissue.

A sudden gust of wind lifts up his kilt and I get a quick gander of his designer underpants. Thank God that’s all I get a gander of. I dab delicately at my mouth and thank the
gods that all eyes are on my feet, and take the opportunity to yank up my right falsie, pinching my own nipple as I do so. Honestly, I should get danger money for doing this. Hamilton leans forward and kisses me softly on the lips. It’s not too bad actually. The breath could have been a bit fresher, but overall it’s bearable. I rather thought it would be like kissing Hannibal Lecter but it wasn’t that bad at all. Not that I know what it’s like to kiss Hannibal Lecter of course.

     
‘I’m Lady Melanie Lancaster, Hamilton’s mother,’ says the gushing woman, hugging me and drowning me in perfume. ‘And this is my husband Sir Sebastian Lancaster.’

She pulls an older version of Hamilton towards me. He is the other one wearing a kilt and has a tartan crav
at held together with a diamond-encrusted tiepin.
Before I can stop the bugger he hugs me and pierces my left silicone breast. There is a little pop and I feel my boob deflate and I begin leaking. Christ, all I need is another hug and I’ll be spraying everywhere like a cat on heat. This is unbearably embarrassing, not to mention sticky.

     
‘Ooh, I’m a little chilly,’ I lie, wrapping the cashmere shawl around me.

     
‘Harriet, shall we introduce you to the household staff?’ smiles Hamilton.

Oh yes please, anything to put off the moment I have to pretend to be an aristocrat’s girlfriend
.

     
‘Hello,’ I say, looking at the four people lined up. I don’t have a clue what you say to household staff. I’ve never met household staff in my life, not unless you count my mum who used to be a cleaner, but that’s sort of different isn’t it?

     
‘This is Cedric, he’s head butler, and basically Cedric is the man. Isn’t that right Cedric?’ laughs Hamilton while giving him a slap on the back
.

Oh good, he isn’t likely to hug me, so hopefully the leakage will stay under control.

      ‘Yes sir,’ responds a dour-faced Cedric. His greying hair is swept back making him look a bit like Trevor Eve and his dark brown eyes study me intently.

     
‘Good afternoon madam.’

I nod.

      ‘Good afternoon Cedric, it’s nice to meet you,’ I say while my breast shrinks by the second and I get stickier and stickier.

     
‘And this is Emily. She’s the under maid.’

A young woman in a starched white apron nods at me. She pushes back loose strands of hair which have escaped her neat bun and steps
forward.

     
‘Miss Harriet,’ she says with a little curtsy.

My God, people really do live like this. It’s surreal.

      ‘Hello Emily, nice to meet you too,’ I respond, focusing hard on my speech.

     
‘Emily will be your ladies maid while you’re here,’ adds Lady Lancaster, ‘We couldn’t cope without a ladies maid could we Harriet?’

Speak for yourself I’m sure.

      ‘Any dress malfunctions just go to Emily, she’s very capable.’

I hope that includes tit malfunctions.

      ‘This is Mrs Randall, our cook.’

A stiff-
necked woman steps forward and gives a small nod, before saying,

     
‘Good afternoon madam. I hope you have a pleasant stay.’

     
‘And finally, this is Gregory, my valet.’

Gregory gives a weak smile.

      ‘Then of course there is Pa’s secretary and Lionel …’

     
‘Yes, well let’s not bombard her with too much information. The poor girl looks shattered. A hot bath is what’s needed no doubt. Let’s get you to the house,’ interrupts Sir Sebastian. Well, he seems quite nice even if he did puncture my tit.

It is a short walk to the manor house. I spot the tennis court and the outdoor swimming pool which is covered with tarpaulin. I’m ushered into the entrance hall of the manor, which is twice the size of my flat, complete with crystal chandelier, bronze statues of Greek
gods and a marble staircase, and at the top sitting in a wheelchair, there she is.

     
‘So, she’s arrived,’ she calls in a clipped clear voice.

     
‘Grandmother,’ whispers Hamilton.

Wonderful.
I am about to meet the grandmother while I have one deflated breast, Jaffa Cake stuck to my skirt, sweaty palms and apparently, two swollen feet. However, she shows no sign of leaving the wheelchair for the stairlift.

     
‘Freshen up and do whatever it is you
businesswomen do and I’ll meet you at dinner. Lionel, let’s finish our game of gin rummy, and you’d better not beat me again you bugger.’

I stare bemused as a well-dressed man wheels her away from the stairs. I turn to Hamilton.

      ‘But …’