A Lizard In My Luggage (27 page)

  'Well, the poor old sod needs some coppers, doesn't he?' He reddens at being caught out doing something magnanimous. He quickly changes tack. 'Is anything going on with him and that Prudence Braithwaite woman?'

  Rachel's head bobs up from her notebook in surprise. I am convinced that a romance is blossoming but have no intention of sharing my suspicions with George. 'I've no idea. They've worked together for years. I'd hardly say either of them are the romantic type.'

  'Hm, mark my words. There's life in the old dog yet and, as you say, he's been very chipper of late.'

  'Well, when we meet him tomorrow, you can ask him what's going on.' I reply.

  'Maybe I will.'

  Rachel eyes us impatiently. 'Sorry, but we must plough on with the product schedule for next year. Most glossies are working on their April editions already.'

  George yawns and sits down heavily. 'OK, OK. By the way how's that flashy client of yours in the States, the American geezer you told me about?'

  Rachel turns to us both. 'You mean Bryan Patterson? Funny you should ask because he rang me yesterday. He's in pretty bad shape.'

  George and I exchange looks.

  'What's up with him?' demands George.

  'It seems he's lost Tootsie.'

  Who the hell's Tootsie?' he yells.

  'His rabbit,' replies Rachel without a hint of irony.

As we scurry into a cab, I notice that Rachel is wearing her Santa outfit, a wonderfully cosy, red coat offset by white angora mittens and matching scarf. I wish I were wearing something as warm. By contrast I look like an understudy for Colombo in a scruffy old Burberry mac, which I bought second hand in Greenwich market, and a balding mohair scarf. The dark and murky sky resembles a witch's cauldron and I shiver with the cold.

  'You didn't tell me about Bryan Patterson's rabbit.'

  'I'm sorry, I thought you might have caught it on last night's news,' Rachel says, slipping me a sardonic smile.

  'I know it's just a rabbit but he is besotted with it.'

  'Yes, well he'll have to grow up. It's absurd the way he traipses to meetings with Tootsie under his arm. Apparently it disappeared from his Manhattan apartment in the early hours.'

  'Poor thing probably fell from a balcony. Are there any suspects?'

  We both explode with laughter.

  'Yes, well you're no better,' cuts in Rachel. 'I had to hide your
Ally McBeal
dancing baby in a cupboard the other day when a client came in.'

  Ah, the dancing baby. Bizarre though it is to have a vibrating, singing rubber baby on my desk, I still haven't found the heart to dispose of it. This hideous toy, which I actually queued to buy at Hamleys, has graced my desk for some years. At the touch of a button, the dancing baby blares out, 'Hooked On A Feeling' and struts its stuff, one arm extended stiffly in what could be mistaken for a left handed Hitlerite salute. It is hugely therapeutic after a phone call from a hysterical client and often has me bopping about the office much to the incredulity of my younger staff. Well, Batman has Robin, and I have my dancing baby.

  'By the way,' says Rachel, 'I've left three hundred Christmas cards for signing on your desk.'

  'Oh God, do I have to?'

  'Well,' she says guilelessly, 'you could always beg a favour of the dancing baby?'

I arrive at the Ritz grumbling at the ten pounds I have just had to fork out on the cab fare. Mind you, the canapés are invariably outstanding here so all is not lost. I enter the wide, gracious lobby which is already awash with guests and make my way to the restaurant where the reception is being held. At the elegant gilt doorway I flick my invitation at a glamorous young PR girl standing by a welcome desk and waltz inside. Delicate violin music wafts through the vast, airy room with its high ceilings, grand mirrors and candelabras. Rachel is already in the thick of the crowd talking to another guest. She beckons me over.

  'There you are! You remember Marie from the
Daily Mail
?'

  No, but I'll be toast if I don't feign recognition.

  'Yes, of course. Long time no see. When was it?'

  Marie is a canny Scot, lean and tall with auburn hair and a tattoo on her left shoulder. It looks like a lizard in the half-light or am I becoming delusional?

  'The last time we met,' she says archly, 'was when your client George Myers poured a glass of champers down me.'

  I see my life passing before my eyes. 'Are you sure? I don't seem to recall the incident…'

  She puts a calming hand on my shoulder. 'It was years ago when I was freelancing. You invited me to Hackney to do a feature on Havana Leather.'

  It must have been in my salad days.

  'I interviewed George and you had to leave for some function or other, so he gave me a lift into town.'

  The scene flashes in front of me. 'Yes, that's right, I remember now… you had blond hair then.'

  She nods.

  'Anyway we ended up going for a drink and George spilled a glass of champagne down my top.'

  'Deliberately?'

  'I was too drunk to remember!' she howls.

  Oh God. At least he didn't make a pass at her.

  'Actually, he made a pass at me.'

  Perhaps it's time to cut this conversation short. Rachel is scrunching up her face into an enforced picture of jollity and is already pulling on my sleeve.

  'So lovely to meet you, Marie, but we mustn't monopolise you all evening.'

  Rachel steers me hastily into the merry throng. 'What a nightmare. Do you think all that was true?'

  'Probably. Don't know what he saw in her, though.'

  We push through the crowds of happy imbibers, acknowledging fellow PR and journalist contacts. Waiters discreetly wander about, bearing large trays laden with an assortment of champagne cocktails. I swoop on one and grab us two glasses. 'Remind me why we're here.'

  Rachel tuts. 'Simon Drew thought it would be good for networking.'

  Networking. Now there's a London term I loathe. I can grasp the concept of networking when it comes to broadcasting, railways, electronics and computers but the social kind leaves me cold. We don't network in Mallorca, just collide with like-minded people by chance, not design. I wave at our host, Simon Drew, and blow him a kiss which he reciprocates over a canopy of talking heads. Simon Drew is the nouveau riche private owner of a chateau in Provence where he has his own wine and liqueur label. He also owns one of London's chicest party catering companies which I have used for many client functions over the years. His company is tonight's sponsor of the Women in Business Awards and in fairness he's pulled in the big fish. Every major journalist worth his or her salt is here, including, alas, a generous sprinkling of PR people and B&Bs, those obtuse skeletal PR women who wear their hair blond and their clothes black.

  'Darling!' a middle-aged B&B approaches like a guided missile, air kissing me from a foot away. She rests a critical eye on my turquoise jacket and flashes me a thin, red crocodile smile.

  'You look simply divine in bright colours. How are you coping with the heat in Spain?'

  No sooner has she posed the question than her gaze wavers, impatiently flitting over my shoulder in search of a UC, what we in the PR world refer to as a useful contact.

  'Oh, fine, Letitia, I just keep the shades on and sit in the freezer.'

  She's on auto response now. 'Marvellous! Can you get Botox out there?' She fidgets with her little Chanel handbag, desperate to curtail this conversation as quickly as possible.

  'I've heard that our local
ferreteria
, that's the ironmonger's, sells a fairly effective rat poison which might do the trick.'

  'Lovely!' That thin smile again, slicing through the white face powder like a streak of jam on a plate of tapioca. Distractedly she places a bony white hand on my arm then floats off in the direction of a potentially useful media contact across the room. Sad, lonely Letitia who's still playing the game long after her sell-by date.

  'I wish you wouldn't do that,' Rachel frowns.

  'Do what?'

  'Make fun of them. They can't help it.'

  'No one can help being dim, but she's ignorant. That's inexcusable.'

  There's a sound of applause and Simon, his face shiny with perspiration, lumbers up on to a small stage in the centre of the room wearing a black suit and purple tie. He takes the microphone, makes a poor joke and begins welcoming the guests.

  'Are they announcing the awards now?' I whisper urgently to Rachel.

  'No, not for half an hour. We'll creep out before they begin. No one will see us.'

  'Phew.'

  There's loud clapping and Simon Drew skips down the shallow steps of the stage and is engulfed by an adoring crowd of sycophants, most of whom, I imagine, are looking for a free stopover at his chateau in Provence.

  Rachel's mobile rings and she disappears outside to answer it. Suddenly I spy a long-standing journalist friend in the distance and swim towards her through the shoals of guests, my glass raised high. This is Frankie, a journalist of the old school who has edited the feature pages of three national newspapers in her time and who now chooses to freelance. She is always in demand and has to turn away work assignments. From my earliest days in the murky world of PR she gave me a helping hand and in return I gave her several exclusive stories. We've remained firm allies ever since. Tonight, she is wearing her trademark Dior glasses and glimpsing the awards programme with the air of a sceptical schoolmistress. I am surprised to see that her mop of thick, unruly brown hair has been cut into a short, svelte bob.

  'Frankie, thank God you're here.'

  She pulls me to the side of the room away from the hubbub. 'Who are all these people? Rent-a-mob?'

  'The usual hangers on and bimbettes. There are a few cerebral looking types in the corner though. Presumably they're here to pick up awards?'

  She smirks. 'Spot on. I've just been over to interview them for
The Telegraph
. They're four pretty impressive women. All in finance and technology and worth a mint.'

  'Where did we go wrong?'

  'We didn't,' she intones dryly. 'I omitted to say that they're all as boring as hell.'

  We share a snigger and are suddenly interrupted by a girl in a tight black cocktail dress and matching knee-high boots.

  'Excuse me, are you Frankie Symonds?'

  Frankie's eyes narrow slightly. 'Yes, and you are?'

  'Hi! I'm Minerva from Jade PR. I'm a great fan of your column.'

  Silly twit. Frankie doesn't write one. She stands close to Frankie in an effort to ice me out. I notice that her lips are coated in a thick puce gloss which matches her long talons. I look fleetingly at my bitten stubs and make a futile attempt to mask them with the champagne glass.

  Frankie eyes her wryly. 'A good name and are you both a goddess and very wise?'

  The girl's mouth drops at the corners. 'I'm sorry?'

  'Minerva, goddess of wisdom. Your namesake.'

  'Oh, really?' she tosses back her golden locks. 'Anyway, I just wanted to tell you a little bit about Jade PR. We've just won a major account and I wondered...'

  Frankie observes the girl over the top of her glasses. 'Look, dear, I'm rather busy now so why not drop me a line instead? Minerva from Jaded PR, right?'

  The girl's face twitches like a frightened rabbit as she fumbles in her handbag for a card which she thrusts in to Frankie's hand. A second later she hops off.

  'Ouch, that was cruel. Remember, the blond and blacks are a dying breed.'

  Frankie shakes her head in protest. 'Trust me, they're alive and well. Every day they bombard me with crap. Only today, one of them biked me a box of something grim called Hygiene Handies. The little PR was on the phone before I had time to lift the lid asking if
The Daily Telegraph
would be interested in running a story on lavatory hygiene.'

  'Oh dear.'

  'They simply don't have a clue.'

  A waiter flits by and I just manage to snatch a salmon canapé from his tray before it's attacked by a swarm of hungry gannets. I peep at my watch and realise that the awards are about to commence. Frankie opts to stay to the bitter end, but I scythe a path towards the exit and see Rachel's tall form heading there too. As I reach the door, Rachel squeezes my arm and giggles. 'Guess what? Bryan Patterson has just rung to say they've found Tootsie.'

  'You mean he'd organised a search party?'

  'Stop it! Apparently she fell down the waste disposal chute in his kitchen. God knows how.'

  'Well, we can all sleep easy now,' I quip.

  'Wait for this though,' she bubbles. 'Bryan's taking her for trauma counselling. Can you believe there's a rabbit therapist in New York?'

  My mobile begins trilling. A few heads turn round, irritated at the sound. Rachel and I dive through the double doors and out into the hotel's elegant lobby. A Spanish number appears on the screen.

  '
Hola!
Is Rafael. Sorry to disturb but I lose key to Franco's cage. I give you one too, long time ago. You remember? Where is key now?'

  The muffled sound of glasses clinking can be heard from behind closed doors as Simon Drew bellows from the stage. Rachel is walking towards me.

  'It's normally in the cutlery draw, Rafael. Can you ask Alan?'

  There's subdued applause from inside the room.

  'No, he look but he no find.'