Cloche and Dagger (6 page)

When I closed and locked the door behind them, I felt a moment’s panic that I now had to come up with a photographer by Friday, which was Lady Ellis’s preferred day to meet for the photo shoot. Like a wet dog, I shook it loose, refusing to let it dampen my evening. I turned and leaned my back up against the closed door, surveying the shop.

Okay, yeah, the panic had me by the throat and it was not letting go. In fact, it seemed to be squeezing my air passage tighter and tighter.

“Viv, when you get back, we are going to have a long chat,” I said. “It is completely unacceptable to leave me here alone with insufficient records.”

It felt as if the word “alone” echoed back at me from every corner of the room like ghostly specters swooping down on me. I realized I had never been in the shop, or the house for that matter, by myself. Last night I’d had jet lag and a couple of pints to knock me out, but now I just had worry.

Worry about Viv and where she was and why no one was as concerned as me, worry that Harrison knew more than he was telling and quite possibly had something to do with Viv’s disappearance. Worry that I now had to find and hire a photographer to take pictures of Lady Ellis modeling her hat. And lastly, worry that there was nothing decent to eat in the kitchen upstairs.

My stomach rumbled and it seemed to me that the last worry was now the most pressing. If I didn’t eat, then I would be too weak to solve any of the other issues.

Of course, another problem for me was that there weren’t any MoonPies in the UK. Yes, they did have Jaffa Cakes, a sponge cake with a burst of orange in the center and coated in dark chocolate, and I planned to stock up on those. But I really would have enjoyed a marshmallowy, gooey bite of decadence right now, or you know, a whole box of them.

I didn’t want to go upstairs to find the cupboards lacking, so I decided to go out and forage for my food elsewhere, and if someone else cooked it, all the better, as I am a chef of absolutely no skill. I can’t even boil water for tea. All right, I probably could, but I was resistant to learning.

Somewhere in my formative years, I noted a serious imbalance of the domestic arts in my family. When I was little, my mother stayed home with me. She said it was to nurture and raise me right but mostly I remember jumps off the roof with bedsheet parachutes being thwarted, so I always look at it as more of a quelling of my personality rather than a shaping of my good sense.

Anyway, with Mum home all day, it made sense that she cooked. My father worked as a chemist, so he came home from his laboratory every night to a home-cooked meal. When I got older and my mother started her career as a professor of literature at a nearby university, she worked a full day like Dad but then came home and still cooked.

My father didn’t know how to cook and had no interest in learning. On nights when my mother didn’t cook and had to work late, Dad and I had cereal for dinner. I think it was then that I realized that the division of labor was less than equal in my house, and I determined that the best way not to get stuck carrying the load was to make sure I didn’t know how.

My former boyfriend, the rat bastard, had found this to be a charming trait of mine. I’m sure it was because he never actually left his wife, like he said he did, and she probably did all of the cooking. Did I mention he’s a rat bastard?

Viv kept an umbrella stand by the back door and one glance out the window told me that the overcast day was going to prove to be a soggy evening. As I shut off the lights in the shop on my way to retrieve an umbrella, I stopped by the wardrobe and peered up at my friend the raven.

“Nice work today,” I said. “I’m going to the Tesco, do you want anything?”

He watched me but not even the tiniest caw passed his beak.

“Fine then, but I don’t want to hear that you’re hungry when I come back with yummy food and you have nothing to eat.”

Still, he maintained his wooden silence.

“I’m talking to a carved bird,” I said. “Viv, you’d better come back soon before I am full-on crackers.”

There was no reply, which was not a big surprise, which I took to mean that I wasn’t completely around the bend just yet.

I grabbed Viv’s umbrella. Naturally it was not a plain black affair, no, hers was orange with pink polka dots. I was going to feel like there was a strobe light on me as I made my way down Portobello Road. On the upside, it would be very difficult to misplace.

I locked the shop door and headed out. It was only a light drizzle, so I didn’t pop open my carnival tent to cover my head, but instead lifted my face up to feel the dampness bathe my skin. I felt as if I was still washing off the five thousand miles of travel, the day spent in the shop and my worries about so many things I couldn’t control.

As I walked down the familiar road, I noted the changes that had happened over the years. Mim’s Whims
had been in the same spot for over forty years. Newly widowed, Mim had come to Notting Hill mostly because after the upheaval it had suffered during the riots of the late 1950s and the scandal of the early ’60’s, she found it cheap to buy in, but also she was charmed by the area, which seemed to have resisted all attempts at gentrification over the years. Mim was a rebel and the area definitely spoke to her wild side.

Mim had scrapbooks stuffed with photos of the hats she’d made for various members of the royal family as well as those that were particular favorites of hers. I used to spend hours as a child poring over the old albums, asking her questions about the people and the events they attended. I found it fascinating.

I paused beside an old shop. Its awning was tattered and it desperately needed some paint. It looked tired, like an aging beauty queen who refused to stop wearing her tiara and sash. I tried to remember what business had once been here, but I couldn’t pull it out of my memory banks.

I saw a man inside the shop. He was moving around the empty space unpacking crates. Curiosity got the better of me and I pressed my face to the glass.

He bent over and used a crowbar to pry off the top of a flat wooden box. He moved the lid aside and removed a layer of packing material. Beneath it, I could make out a large, framed photograph. Was he opening a gallery?

He glanced up just then and saw me. Not knowing what else to do, I waved. He waved back.

Since I didn’t move away, and I’m not sure why I didn’t, he straightened up and crossed to the door. I heard the dead bolt click as he unlocked it. He pushed the door open and poked his head out.

“I’m sorry. I’m not open for business yet,” he said.

The streetlamp on the corner shone on his face. He was black with close-cropped dark hair. He was of medium height but had a solid build. He wore all black except for the wink of diamond studs, large ones, in his earlobes.

“No, I’m the one who is sorry,” I said. “I didn’t mean to disturb you, but I was curious to see what sort of shop you’re opening.”

“Well, if I ever get it going, it will be a photography studio,” he said.

“What a perfect location for it,” I said. “My cousin and I own the hat shop up the street.”

He looked me up and down as if considering me. I gave him my best wide-eyed ingénue expression.

“I’m Andre Eisel,” he said.

“Scarlett Parker,” I said.

We shook hands and I noted that his was warm whereas mine had grown cold from the chilly evening air.

“Would you like to see the inside?”

“I’d love to,” I said. I stepped forward before he could change his mind.

There are no such things as coincidences. I firmly believe this, and the fact that he was opening a studio just when I needed a photographer, well, I was not going to let the opportunity go by. Even if he wasn’t interested in taking Lady Ellis’s photograph, surely he would know someone who was.

The main room was stark with no furniture, just wooden flooring and white walls with large, framed photographs leaning up against the walls. They were mostly cityscapes from all around London. That was bad luck, but I was determined.

As he led me around the small space, telling me about his plans to sell his original works, teach classes and take professional jobs, I thought all might not be lost. A stack of portraits was against the back wall and I asked if I could look at them.

I don’t know a whole lot about photography, but the portraits had a quality to them, a certain angle or maybe it was the lighting that made me feel as if I was being let into the person’s innermost being.

“Wow, these are really good, Andre,” I said. “You have real talent.”

“Thanks,” he said. “With some of them I was just mucking around, but a few are keepers.”

“Are you looking for work in portraiture?” I asked.

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Not particularly, why?”

“I’m in dire need of a photographer this Friday; would you consider it?”

“What’s the job?” he asked.

“A portrait of Lady Ellis, wearing her new hat from my shop.”

“Earl Ellis’s wife? Lady Victoria Ellis?” he asked.

“Do you know them?” I asked.

“Of them,” he said.

He put his hand on the back of his neck and tipped his head in that direction while crossing his other arm over his middle. I’m no expert on body language, but it looked to me as if he was torn. I was curious about why, but I was more desperate for him to agree to take the job, so I let it go.

A rapping on the glass door brought our attention around. While I’d been inside, the drizzle had surged into a downpour and only now I noticed the steady beat of the rain against the glass windows.

Standing outside in a trench coat with his collar up stood a fair-haired man, holding a plastic bag full of takeout food.

He looked soaked to the skin and suddenly I was grateful to have brought Viv’s hideous umbrella.

“Oh, that’s my partner, Nick Carroll,” Andre said, and he hurried forward to open the door.

“Is he a photographer, too?” I asked.

“No, he’s a dentist,” Andre said. “And my life partner.”

“Oh.”

“What? Don’t I give off enough poof?”

“Well, honestly, no, you don’t,” I said.

Andre grinned. “That’s all right. Nick more than makes up for it.”

I had no idea what he was talking about until he opened the door and Nick came in.

“It’s bucketing out there and me without my brolly,” Nick said. He kissed Andre’s cheek. “Why did you let me go out without it, love? I’ll catch my death and then you’ll miss me.”

Andre grinned. “I would at that.”

“Who’s the ginger?” Nick asked. He handed the food to Andre and put his hands on his hips as he looked me over.

“Manners, please,” Andre said. “This is Scarlett Parker, a neighbor from down the street.”

“Scarlett?” Nick asked. “I like that.” He gave a little growl out of the corner out of his mouth. “It suits you.”

“Thanks,” I said. I couldn’t help smiling.

Nick shrugged off his coat and hung it on a rack by the door. He looked to be a bit older than Andre, with thinning blond hair and a pleasantly plump shape.

“Of course, you’ll join us for dinner,” Andre said.

“Oh, no, I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “I’ve taken so much of your time as it is. If you’ll just think about the job, I can pop back tomorrow to discuss it further if you’d like.”

“What a lot of tosh,” Nick interrupted me. “You can’t go out in that. You’ll drown before you get to the corner. Besides, I can never make up my mind when I order Thai food so I order too much and there is plenty. I hope you like it spicy.”

Then he winked at me and disappeared into the back room.

“See?” Andre asked. “He more than makes up for me.”

“Are you sure it’s no trouble?” I asked.

“Positive,” he said.

“All right then,” I said.

I hung my coat on the rack by the door and put my umbrella beside it. Then I helped Andre clear off the lone table in the back of the room, while Nick brought plates and flatware and, bless him, a bottle of wine and three glasses.

It was one of the best meals I’d had in a long time. Andre and Nick were both delightful storytellers and they shared with me how they’d met—the traditional way, drunk in a pub. They’d been together for five years and seemed to be looking forward to a long and happy life together.