‘I know.’ Cara does not, it has to be said, look happy about this state of affairs.
‘It’s a bit sudden, isn’t it?’ My Tetley’s is realigning my equilibrium considerably quicker than four hours of power meditation would, I can tell you. ‘I’ve never even heard you mention him.’
‘I’ve worked with him for yonks,’ Cara says. ‘But you know how it is, you’re so busy looking for something you never see it right in front of you. He sits on the next desk to me. Right by my relationship corner.’
I sometimes forget that Cara believes the universe is responsible for everything. ‘Do you think he feels the same?’
‘I don’t know,’ she answers with a depressed little tut. ‘He asked me out to lunch and all that, but it was only at the local pub. And he doesn’t seem over-keen.’
‘Give him a chance.’
‘I want a boyfriend, Emily.’ Cara pouts determinedly. ‘Now.’
‘How can you say that when you’ve just seen the tawdry results of what boyfriends can achieve when they set their minds to it?’
Cara looks as if she’s about to cry. ‘I don’t want to be alone any more.’
I move round next to her and give her a hug. ‘You won’t be alone,’ I say soothingly, ‘because I’m never going to venture out of this front door ever again.’
This threat fails to make an impression on her. Cara is preoccupied with the new love of her life. ‘What can I do to make him fall in love with me?’
‘I’m sure you can think of something,’ I say lightly. ‘Perhaps you could make an effigy of him and sleep with it up your nightie and shower it with kisses every morning.’
Cara giggles reluctantly. ‘It might work.’
‘There must be some sort of incantation you can chant, or potion you could rustle up or spell you can concoct to blat him with? You’re a mistress of the mysterious.’ And down-right wacky.
Cara’s ears prick up like a Jack Russell’s. ‘I am,’ she says firmly and a serious wriggle of a frown crosses her brow. ‘I think that might just be a very good idea, Emily Miller.’
‘If it is, it’ll be the first one I’ve had in a long time.’
Cara slugs down her tea and I’m sure that I see her suppress a shudder. ‘I’m going to go and get my charm books and give this some thought,’ she announces and heads purposefully towards the door.
I gaze once more at the photograph of an unkempt moi gracing the front of the Hampstead Observer and shout after my friend as she takes the stairs two at a time, ‘While you’re at it, find one that will make my Headmaster go blind so he doesn’t see this wretched picture!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Declan sat at his desk and viewed Emily’s bottom in the Saucy Santa outfit. Jaysus, she was a fine-looking woman. Why on earth had he been stupid enough to let her go? Joni Mitchell had been right all along – you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone.
His hand hovered over the keyboard. With only one second’s hesitation and one press of a delete key, Emily’s scantily clad photo was eradicated from cyberspace. Gone. As if it had never been there. Almost as easily as he’d managed to wipe out the five years of their relationship in one fell swoop.
Perhaps now that he’d done as she’d asked and consigned the offending photograph to the recycle bin of the festive season, he could set about the very onerous task of winning her back. It was a shame, Declan thought, because it had been a very nice, if revealing, picture.
He eyed the portfolio of beaming, bare-breasted lovelies that he’d acquired from Sebastian Atherton at an inflated fee and tried to select one to replace her. He doubted it would be as easy in real life. His eyes fell on a pert brunette. She would do. He pulled the photograph out of the file and studied it. That sounded a lot more callous than he felt. He was actually getting terrible pangs about exploiting women’s bodies in this way even though they probably got paid handsomely for it. Strangely, he hadn’t felt a similar stirring of guilt about doing the same thing to Emily. Yes, he had, but he’d just ignored it in the pursuit of brash commerce and the reducing of his debts.
Sebastian Atherton had been fully brief – or debriefed – as to Declan’s requirements, and was going to produce a series of suitable images for the new erotic website. If he kept convincing himself it was all being done in the best possible taste then he could allow himself to feel less like a porn king. Declan took the photograph of ‘Kimberly, Surrey’ over to Alan who was making good progress on www.cheekybits.com. ‘Here you go, mate. Emily’s replacement.’
Alan pursed his lips in approval. ‘Nice.’
‘Better than a Santa with HO-HO-HO on her bum?’ Declan asked.
Alan nodded. ‘Better in that she’s not likely to come after your bollocks for publishing it.’
‘True,’ Declan agreed.
Alan leaned back on his chair and contemplated Kimberly. ‘Are you making headway with the finances?’
‘Not so’s you’d notice,’ Declan said.
‘This will help,’ he said, jiggling the photograph. ‘Keep at it,’
‘Yeah,’ Declan said. ‘I will.’ He patted Alan’s shoulder. ‘I’m turning it in for the night. See you tomorrow.’
Declan headed out through the frosted-glass doors of the building. By rights he should be looking round for some sort of seedy lock-up in Streatham, but he wanted to hang on to his prestigious suite of offices until his luck well and truly ran out. He still hoped to give the impression of a successful young entrepreneur – even though he was flat on his arse.
Declan flicked the remote control key fob at the BMW. This would have to go. It wasn’t top of the range and it had a few miles on the clock, but it was definitely on the list of ‘expendable items’. He inhaled the aroma of the pleasingly expensive leather interior as he swung his legs inside. He’d never imagined himself as a Ford Ka man. Ever since he developed an interest in all things material, somewhere around puberty, he knew he was born to drive BMWs. But it would have to be replaced by something more sensible, much more affordable and infinitely more boring.
This is what Emily’s failure to temporarily lend him her bum had reduced him to – Ford Ka Man. Declan listened to the purr of the engine as he fired the Beamer and sighed longingly as he turned it out of the car park.
He really didn’t want to do what he was about to do. It seemed to be happening a lot these days, and there was no one else to blame but himself. In the boot were two large suitcases of clothes. One of his and one of Emily’s. The rest of their stuff was in U-STORE, an extortionately priced airless tin box in Swiss Cottage. There were times when he seriously questioned his choice of career. If he’d embraced photography or general storage, he’d have been bobbing about on a floating gin-palace in Cannes by now. Instead he’d had to give the keys of the house back to the building society this morning. He and Emily were now officially repossessed. They would both have a black mark against their credit ratings in the future and they still owed, among other things, mortgage arrears for the best part of nine months. The money for that had also been side-lined to prop up his ailing dot.coms. If Emily still had some top left to blow, she’d have blown it.
He swung out of the offices and inched his way into Camden High Street, joining the stream of traffic clogging the road, all eager to escape the centre of London. All eager to escape the office so that they could get home early and watch more television before they had to turn round and do the same journey the next day. The shops selling cheap leather and avant garde, metal-studded clothing were shutting up for the night. Tourists were more scarce at this time of the year. Though the mounting piles of rubbish at the side of the road, the peeling fly posters and the choke of car fumes made Declan wonder why people wanted to come here at all.
Having endured the worst of the rush-hour traffic, thirty minutes later he pulled into one of the wide sweeping streets which bordered Hampstead Heath. Negotiating gilt-tipped gates, he stopped in the carriage driveway of a darkened house. He turned off
the engine and stared at the front door. This was Adrian and Amanda’s house and a very fine residence it was, too. Adrian had made his money in computers when computers were the thing to make money in and he’d invested it wisely in property and shares that hadn’t plummeted and had generally been a very lucky bastard. And Declan hated him almost as much as he admired him.
Adrian and Amanda were currently in the Amazon, canoeing up rivers and chasing pretty birdies in an effort to escape the rat race. Their words, not Declan’s. This was going to be followed by a jaunt to the Galapagos and a few weeks sunbathing in Cancun. They were going to be away for three months and this was where Declan was going to live while they were gone. It was just a shame he hadn’t told them.
Declan got out of the car and went round to the boot where he removed the suitcases and the crowbar he’d brought for the job in hand. Adrian and Amanda’s house had a very sophisticated alarm system. It kept a seven-day log of all entries and exits to the house; you could, if the fancy took you, isolate particular zones, set pet alleys, contact the local police and fire stations directly. It could probably even rustle up a decent omelette if required. And Adrian and Amanda had been foolish enough to write down the code for it last year when they had escaped to the peace and quiet of the Seychelles and had called upon Emily to water their hanging baskets and plants on her way home from work. The number had stayed pinned to their cork noticeboard in the kitchen ever since. Among other things, Emily was desperately well organised. Declan looked at the piece of paper and committed the number to memory. He only hoped to God that it was so bloody sophisticated that Adrian hadn’t managed to work out how to change the code number for it in the intervening period.
Declan tiptoed up to the front door and squeezed himself inside the ornate brick arch that formed a nice secluded porch. Checking that he wasn’t being watched, which was highly unlikely in the middle of London where no one gave a toss about their neighbours, he eased the crowbar into a hairline crack in the door near the lock. Declan leaned heavily against it and the door groaned in protest. He leaned some more. The door gave way and, as he was catapulted inside, the alarm started to clang. Loudly. The alarm box must be by the door. They always were. It was. Declan leapt on it and punched in the code. The clanging stopped dead. You could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Declan breathed a huge sigh of relief and smiled to himself.
This was a particularly nice house. A little grand, but tasteful. And ‘tasteful’ was becoming Declan’s new watchword. It would suit his purposes just fine. He walked back to the front door and collected his suitcases, whistling contentedly as he did so. He was sure Emily had told him that Adrian and Amanda had a hot tub in the conservatory. Perhaps his luck was starting to change.
Chapter Twenty-Three
It takes me longer to drive to work from Cara’s house and, if I was feeling particularly masochistic, I could go straight past my old house. Instead, I take a longer route and the queuing-in-traffic option. In Hampstead High Street, I crane my neck to look at property prices in the plethora of estate agents’ windows. The price tags round here are truly frightening and I wonder, for the millionth time, how much we’ll get for our home. Whatever it is, it won’t be enough.
I jam my poor little Peugeot into gear and it strains up the hill towards school. I can’t face going into work, nor can I face ringing up and telling them that I’m ill again. It’s easier to just go in, I guess.
The school I work at is fabulous. And comes at a fabulous price to all those parents who register the spermatozoa who will one day people its classrooms. It’s a very posh school and our pupils are mainly drafted in from the ranks of minor and major celebrities who grace this area. Probably because they’re the only ones remotely able to afford the fees. Calling the daily attendance register is fun too, as they’ve all got fanciful names like Moonbeam and Sky Pixie. And that’s just the boys. You’ll not find anything as boring as a David or a Paul in this place. But, other than that, I doubt anything much has changed since I was at school. Nothing much ever does. Except that all the parents are divorced these days, meaning that you have to send two end of term reports to two different addresses. Not that the kids seem to suffer too much. Teenagers of any generation or social stratum are still too self-obsessed to worry over-much about their parents’ marital wranglings, even if they do feature in the pages of Hello! magazine. The only detrimental thing I see is that most fathers at the annual Parents’ Evening, rock star or not, look like spare parts and never have a clue what their sons or daughters are up to. Most only come as a token effort as, even in these enlightened days, it tends to be their name on the fee cheque at the start of each term. Not that the kids appreciate the effort, thought and expense that has gone into their education – even if it is to make up for familial shortcomings elsewhere. They are just as unruly as the lot I used to teach at the inner London comprehensive before this. Except this lot are unruly, rich and confident with it, which is a rather deadly combination.
I teach English to teenagers. Doesn’t that make you envious? We are currently studying Hamlet, Lord of the Flies and the poems of Keats – and they’re finding it all less than enthralling. Even though Mr Keats used to live just down the road. In my day we also studied Hamlet, Lord of the Flies and the poems of Keats and, despite going on to do an English degree, I also found it less than enthralling. But I do rather like the fact that I can now tell people that I live just down the road from Keats. Then again, if your dad is on Top of the Pops every week or Never Mind the Buzzcocks it must be doubly difficult to be impressed by dead poets.
I was rather more enthralled by Christopher Ashton than Keats in my day, I seem to remember. He didn’t write anything but, for a fifteen-year-old, had a great collection of Depêche Mode records. At my school the choice of progression involved studying Maths, French or English at University, polytechnic for those with aspirations of brains, and a job in a bank for those who were planning to be pregnant at the age of twenty-one. I was crap at Maths and any European language except my own and so opted for English. Now I love it all. I wish I had the time now that I had then to sit and spend the afternoon at leisure with Shakespeare. That’s why I adore my job so much. Even if it doesn’t entertain the children, it keeps me happy. And I have found that the size of the term fees doesn’t necessarily relate to the amount of enjoyment per pupil to be educated. It is still a purely arbitrary process.
The school is housed in an old Edwardian manor, shrouded in ivy and steeped in history. I love the majestic feeling I get every morning as I swing through the barricade of wrought-iron gates and crunch up the gravel drive, which probably carries too many weeds these days. Unfortunately, I don’t feel it this morning, since, because of the traffic, I’m late. The manor house now bears the air of faded elegance. The finely proportioned rooms have been chopped up to form small, high-ceilinged classrooms, a distinctly 1970s science block has been tacked thoughtlessly on one side, and the vast expanse of worn tarmac playground isn’t so much used for play as for lounging against its moss-encrusted walls looking cool.
I have my own parking space, suitably labelled and, sad as it may seem, that little recognition normally gives me a thrill. Today, it fails to work its magic.
As I walk up the entrance steps I can hear the strains of ‘Jerusalem’ coming from the hall and realise that because of the traffic, I’ve missed the opportunity for a quick cuppa in the staffroom and will have to go straight into Assembly. That’s no bad thing. Although I’ll spend the first part of the morning tea-less, it also means that I shall avoid being quizzed about my unauthorised absence over the last few days. I don’t have many friends in the staffroom, but I do have a lot of very nosy colleagues. I’ll have to make up an excuse that doesn’t involve the Internet and my life crashing round my ears.
I tiptoe towards the hall, my kitten heels clacking on the slate floor. I’ll just sneak in the back and no one will be any the wiser. Creaking the door open carefully, I sidle in. All the other teacher
s’ heads swivel to look at me and I’m sure I hear someone gasp. I look down at my suit, making sure I’d remembered to wear one.
Now all the children turn to look at me and there is a definite hiatus in ‘Jerusalem’ – just after ‘And did the countenance divine . . .’ and before ‘Shine forth upon our clouded hills’. It is a silent hiccup. The children turn back, facing towards the front of the hall where they should be, but there is a lot of nudging and giggling going on as they struggle through the bit about satanic mills and chariots of fire before the last strains descend into total disarray.
On the stage the Headmaster is looking very dark and brooding. More in a Hannibal Lecter way, mind, than in Mr Darcy mode, it has to be said. I hope Cara has more success with her spell to make the lovely Adam fall in love with her, because it is clear from the reaction of everyone in this room that they are all avid readers of the Hampstead Observer.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chris and Adam were sitting in a battered red pool car outside Declan O’Donnell’s offices in Camden. Waiting. For what, neither of them was sure, but they were doing it anyway.
They were parked on a double yellow line and hoping not to get a ticket from a jobsworth traffic warden. Adam huffed. ‘What a bloody waste of time,’ he complained. ‘I hate doing this.’
To relieve the boredom, he was playing with his camera, a whizzy new digital Nikon D1 that he’d bought with his last flush of camera allowance from work. He’d also treated himself to a wide range of lenses for purely professional purposes and now he was zooming in and out on the front door of Mr O’Donnell’s offices for no particular reason other than he could.