Christmas on Primrose Hill (13 page)

Dan laughed harder. ‘Tell you what – we’ll give you a head start. You can layer up with some of my clothes.’

‘I’ll look
ridiculous
in your clothes. You’re a foot taller than me.’

‘Don’t worry, it’s not like you’re going to be in them for long,’ he laughed, getting up and disappearing into the private alcove area at the back of the boat.

‘I’m not doing it!’ she called after him, but he couldn’t hear her above the sound of wardrobe doors clattering open and closed, and Primal Scream’s banging bass beat.

Chapter Eight

The custard creams were out again, Mike pacing the conference room with a fervour approaching frenzy as he clicked the remote from one chart to the next, all of them showing the dramatic surge in donations and website traffic.

Nettie kept her eyes, as ever, on the rapidly staling biscuits, wishing someone would open the window. The room was airless and stuffy, dark pools of sweat were beginning to stain Mike’s cream shirt, and the plastic Christmas tree in the corner was doing nothing to put her in the festive spirit. In fact, even the impressive number at which her fundraising pot now stood – £64,000 and rapidly rising – couldn’t lift her mood.

She was having a bad day, even though professionally her career was at an all-time high and personally she was still alive, which was really saying something given that she had survived the risk of hypothermia on Monday, the terror of #whaleing off the Shard yesterday, and the indignity of #planking on top of a red postbox in the middle of Belgrave Square this morning. Ordinarily she would have been able to pull off the pose in a moment, but being dressed in the giant bunny costume had meant she’d had to balance her convex stomach on the postbox’s equally convex top. It had been like stacking onions and she had been sure that a concussion, if not an arrest from one of the many foreign embassy guards, was going to be the most likely conclusion of that gag.

‘White Tiger are all over this like a rash,’ Mike was saying. ‘It syncs with their brand image perfectly, and they’re already even talking about carrying the Blue Bunny through on their advertising.’

‘That makes no sense,’ Caro said, twiddling her biro between her fingers. ‘We’ve said this before. Why would a company called White Tiger advertise with a blue bunny?’

‘Because the public has clearly
engaged
with the bunny, Caro,’ Mike said testily. ‘It doesn’t have to be literal. And they’re the client – let’s not forget that. If they’re happy, we’re happy.’

Nettie wasn’t anywhere near as happy as she should have been. While the Internet was hailing Blue Bunny Girl as a new cult trend and she was the new golden girl of the office, there had been no further contact from Jamie Westlake since his donation on Monday – not a smiley face or wink, even; seemingly balancing bunnies on postboxes just weren’t funny to him – and she felt disproportionately despondent to have lost the attention of this person she had never met. She was sure Jules was now borderline OCD, checking almost hourly that the number of people Jamie followed remained at eighteen, and Nettie had a dread in the pit of her stomach that to engage him once again, Jules was going to have her do something out there, something crazy, stupid, nuts.

Mike scratched his ear, irritated to have been knocked off his stride. ‘Where was I?’

‘Advertising,’ Daisy said, without looking up from her doodles on the sketchpad.

‘Right. Which is incredible news. We are influencing company image, which goes far, far beyond our normal scope and really says something about the success of this campaign.’ He pulled both hands into fists and jabbed them in the air. ‘So we need to keep it up, people. Donations to the charity – your pot, Nettie – are increasing by a hundred and seventy-four per cent day on day, and we’re fully expecting that to triple by the week’s end.’ He rubbed his hands together, clearly sensing another promotion in the air. ‘So where are we with tomorrow’s fun and games?’

‘I reckon “hashtag unicorning” would be funny,’ Daisy said.

‘And what’s that?’ Nettie asked warily but resignedly.

‘You just wear a unicorn’s head in a random place,’ Daisy shrugged.

Nettie sighed. The things that people did for kicks! ‘Well, given that I’m already dressed as a bunny, a unicorn’s head might possibly be overkill?’

‘Oh yeah, good point.’

‘What about “hashtag sandbagging”?’ Caro offered up.

‘Never heard of it.’

‘You have to put your arms and feet up on something like, say, a bench and let your middle sag down like a sandbag. Like planking but . . . saggy.’

‘I’m not sure I’d be able to keep myself up on anything. That costume’s heavy.’

‘Right.’ Caro slumped in her chair.

‘Cat-breading’s hilarious, but I don’t see how we could make it work for you,’ Jules said. ‘Your head’s too big in the bunny head.’

‘What even is that? Did you say “cat-breading”?’

‘Yeah. You punch a hole in a slice of bread and then put it round a cat’s head like a frame. It is bloody funny.’

‘Bloody funny,’ Caro echoed with a chuckle, nodding along.

‘What a shame it is that my head’s too big for that to work,’ Nettie said lightly, earning herself a swipe on the arm from Jules.

‘How about a photo bomb? That could be good if we get it to coincide with something high profile,’ Daisy said, straightening up. ‘Are there any big parties, any premieres happening this week?’

‘Ooh, that’s good, Daisy. I like it,’ Mike said.

‘Hang on a minute, hang on a minute,’ Caro said with quiet excitement as she tapped on her iPad. ‘If I’m right, then I think . . .’

Nettie mentally assumed the brace position.

‘Yes, bingo! The new Bond’s out. It’s the world premiere in Leicester Square tomorrow night.’

Everyone’s eyes brightened as they swivelled over to Nettie.

‘Oh yes,’ Jules grinned. ‘This is going to be brilliant!’

Getting in wasn’t a problem. There wasn’t a list in London Daisy couldn’t get past, thanks to her five-foot-long legs and an expensive education in Bucks that meant she had a network of influential contacts she leveraged for everything from finding a plumber to borrowing a friend’s father’s car in the South of France during Cannes week.

In this instance, she had gone to university with the girlfriend of the brother of the girl, Mimsy, who now worked in the marketing division for Eon Productions (the company that made the Bond films), and in return for getting her and the girls in to the premiere, Daisy had promised to get her VIP Veranda tickets for La Folie Douce in Val d’Isère in March. Jules called it ‘silver-spoon swapsies’.

They had deliberately arrived early. Not early enough to beat the eight-deep crowd of fans standing behind the barricades who had been camping out since the day before last, but early enough that the paparazzi were still checking their equipment as Nettie, Jules, Daisy and Caro quickly marched down the red carpet and into the foyer of the Odeon cinema, where last-minute tweaks were still being made in readiness for the stars’ arrival. It had been agreed – by a vote of their four to his one – that Mike shouldn’t attend. His presence, as a lone middle-aged male in a group of young, attractive twenty-something women, they had argued, would only bring attention to them all, and that was the last thing Nettie needed. The bigger her following was becoming, the more she wanted to hide. Accordingly, she was dressed like a shadow in black leggings, a black skinny jumper and ballet pumps, while the rest of the girls were dressed up to the nines. Daisy, who looked like a Bond Girl in a strapless silver lamé dress, had tried cheering her up by saying that she looked like Audrey Hepburn, but Nettie knew Ms Hepburn had never worried about wobbly bits or VPL or blue-tinged feet on a perishing December night.

Inside the cinema, anticipation put a crackle in the air, everyone’s eyes fixed to the huge glass doors as the clamour of the crowds grew.

Nettie stood by the far wall with a deepening depression (having been asked on more than one occasion where the toilets were) looking back at the scene outside. An enormous Christmas tree twinkled in the dusk in the middle of the square, outshone by the bright lights of the premiere parties. Teenage girls in furry-lined parkas and beanies were stamping their feet and blowing on their fingers, pressing against the red corded ropes and gathered in small groups, laughing with high-pitched voices and pink cheeks, their excitement visibly growing as the minutes ticked past. The photographers had arranged themselves in an orderly bank just outside the doors, allowing them to get plenty of shots of the stars stopping to chat, sign autographs and take selfies with the fans, before pausing for the clean ‘static’ shots just in front of them. Someone was hoovering the carpet so that not a footprint or a leaf marred the scarlet perfection.

Nettie couldn’t take her eyes off the security teams, who were already in place too, tank-sized chests puffed as they checked their relays. She swallowed nervously. Little did they know what they were going to be contending with tonight.
Her.

Jules came back with the drinks. ‘Here. Down that. You look like you could do with it.’

‘What is it?’

‘Vodka tonic. We need something fast-acting to get you to loosen up.’

‘Right.’ Nettie took a large gulp. It burned her throat and made her eyes water. ‘Wow, that’s strong. Blimey, that actually gave me a flashback to uni!’ She wiped her eyes. ‘Where are the others?’

‘Caro’s double-checking the car’s parked round the corner. Daisy’s at the back door with a face like thunder. She’s having to chat up the porter while she waits for the courier to deliver the suit.’

‘Uh-huh.’ Nettie couldn’t muster any sympathy. It was herself she felt most sorry for tonight. She bit her lip, looking back out into the square again, her eyes on the faces in the crowd. ‘Hey, do you think we’ll get to see Judi Dench?’

‘Hon, we’re not going to see anyone. You’ve got to pick a target, do what you gotta do and get out of there. No time to schmooze or hobnob with the stars tonight, I’m afraid. Besides, her character died in the last one,’ Jules added, putting down her sequinned Anya Hindmarch clutch to fiddle with the skirt of her black dress, which was fractionally too tight and looked all the better for it. Jules had an athletic, naturally slim figure but with a hint of ripeness on the breasts, thighs and arms that always managed to make her clothes looks a size too small. Men loved it.

Caro came back to them, her beloved phone clutched to her chest like it was a baby bird. ‘Right. The driver’s round the corner and good to go. Oh, is that for me?’ she asked, picking up Jules’s untouched drink and despatching the vodka tonic like it was a shot, smacking her lips together afterwards.

Jules tutted like a weary headmistress and without a word wandered back to the bar to get another drink.

‘You look fed up,’ Caro said, taking in Nettie’s muted mood.

‘I feel like Cinders in her “before” outfit,’ Nettie grumbled. ‘People keep thinking I’m staff. I’ve been asked where the loos are five times already.’

Caro chuckled. ‘Little do they know you’re the star of tonight’s show.’

Nettie huffed, nervous and wanting it to be over and done with. ‘Green really suits you,’ she said, envying the sight of Caro in her narrow emerald satin tux and wishing that, just for once, she got to wore something beautiful.

‘Huh.’ Caro just shrugged and tucked her long, straight hair behind her ears. She never seemed particularly bothered by what she wore, but her skinny frame – which had seen her badly teased at school – looked sensational in clothes and she was able to make an ultra-narrow trouser suit look as relaxed as pyjamas. The trousers stopped an inch above her ankles, but rather than wearing vertiginous heels, she had pulled on a pair of black mannish brogues – ‘Perfect for running in,’ she’d explained earlier, frantically chewing on her gum, which hadn’t done anything to soothe Nettie’s nerves.

The foyer was filling up, mainly with the behind-the-scenes people who were the unsung heroes of the project – the lighting director, post-production editors, sound crew and wardrobe team – as well as the producers and executives who made it all happen. There wasn’t a single face Nettie recognized and she felt sick at the thought of what she had to do with the ones she would.

‘Jules doesn’t think we’ll get to see Judi Dench. I just love her face. Don’t you love her face?’

Caro stopped chewing. ‘Huh? She’s old.’

Nettie brought her hands up to her face and waggled her fingers. ‘Twinkly eyes.’

‘What you talking about?’ Jules asked, rejoining the conversation, drink clutched firmly in her hand this time.

‘Judi Dench,’ Caro muttered, scanning the room for celebrities.

‘She’s got such lovely eyes. I really hope we see her,’ Nettie said, wiggling her fingers again.

‘I told you, her character died in the last one. She won’t be here.’

Nettie felt nerves grip her again, giving her stomach a squeeze that made her close her eyes. She wasn’t cut out for this kind of adventure. Jules, Caro, Daisy – they were all, in their different ways, ballsy and gutsy and feisty; they could do this kind of tomfoolery in their sleep. But Nettie? She was a home bird who thought living the good life was a bubble bath and a miniature bottle of fizz sucked through a straw with the latest issue of
Grazia
magazine.

‘Well, will we get to see any of the film? We could sneak in afterwards,’ she said hopefully.

‘Oh really? You think we’ll be able to pull that off?’ Caro asked sceptically. ‘Listen, a clean getaway is all we ask for.’ Her phone buzzed in her hand and she looked down at it with a wry smile. ‘Oh – it looks like the eagle has landed,’ she said. ‘Come on. It’s this way.’

The girls followed her as she pushed through a door that had a yellow ‘Authorized personnel only’ sign on it and trooped down a corridor with strip lighting and concrete floors. Nettie began to feel sick.

A glare of light and a sudden drop in temperature indicated a door at the end was open, and they headed straight for it. But as they passed a sign for the ladies’, they heard a loud hiss.

‘Psst. In here.’