Cooking the Books (15 page)

‘Crooked,’ I said to Daniel. ‘He’s a crooked man!’

To the amusement of onlookers, we started combing the base of the monument. I just caught a slip of parchment as it escaped and tried to flutter off to join all the rest of the rubbish blowing around the streets.

‘Aha!’ I declared. ‘And what do we have now?’

‘
Ride a cock horse
 . . .’ read Daniel. ‘Is Pockets being indelicate?’

‘No, I think it meant a male horse in less mealy-mouthed times. “Ride a cock horse to Banbury Cross, to see a fine lady upon a fine horse. Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, and she shall have music wherever she goes.” More or less.’

‘Interesting but not helpful,’ said Daniel. ‘Let’s go home and look it up. Also,’ he squeezed me closer to his side, ‘I think a little nap would calm the nerves.’

* * *

I could not agree more. Having been extensively snuggled, I woke late in the afternoon assuaged, warm, glowing and at peace. Until I started thinking again. Always a bummer, thinking. But I did have a sneaking feeling that I had seen a fine lady upon a fine horse. The idea itched at the edge of my memory and refused to swim into focus, so I ditched it for the present. Daniel was talking on his mobile and sounding soothing, as though he was speaking to a distressed person.

‘It will be all right,’ he said. ‘I’m on the trail. You just have to be patient for a little longer. Yes, I know how hard it is. Of course I know what it’s like waiting for a bomb to explode. I’m an Israeli. Don’t fret, Lena, I’m on the case.’

He switched off the phone. ‘That girl is in a bad way,’ he told me. ‘I’m concerned about her. But all I can do for her is to solve her problem and find those papers!’

‘I suppose—not that I am suggesting this for a moment, you understand—but I suppose you couldn’t just grab Pockets and shake it out of him?’

‘Torture is rejected by all civilised nations because it is inherently evil and—’ he raised a finger ‘—it doesn’t work. The tortured will tell you anything to stop the pain. Beria said, “Let me have a man for four days and I will have him confessing he’s the King of England.” True, but useless. Such confessions might not have anything to do with the truth.’

‘Witchcraft prosecutions,’ I agreed glumly.

‘Show trials,’ he capped. ‘Tempting though it is, I can’t mistreat Pockets. Life has mistreated him enough.’

‘Sorry, it was just an impulse,’ I said. ‘An unworthy impulse. I’m just cross because I can’t recall where the fine lady on a fine horse is.’

‘Let’s get dressed,’ he said. ‘Then we can walk along to Lorca and if it turns out to be a frost we can come home. It’s really not far. And I’ll be interested to see these people you are working with.’

‘Ethan invited you especially,’ I said, showing him the invitation with a scrawled note from Ethan in the corner.

‘Then we should at least buy him a drink,’ said Daniel.

I dressed in my going-out-in-summer gear: dark trousers, a decorated kurta with gorgeous blue braiding, and sandals. Then we descended to the atrium, where we met Therese, who had also been invited. She was wearing her trademark natural linen shift, heavily embroidered. Her hands were lavishly decorated with bandaids.

‘Beading?’ I asked. She laughed.

‘Good heavens no, dear, I didn’t prick myself that much when I was five. No, I was trying to assemble a flat-pack materials box. I was just about to ring down and ask you to lend me Jason when I remembered that he’s gone.’

‘Not forever,’ I said sharply. ‘He’s coming back.’

‘Is he?’ she asked. ‘I thought that the girls said . . .’

‘They didn’t know what they were talking about,’ I assured her.

‘That’s all right, then,’ she said sunnily. I followed her down the steps, hoping that it was indeed all right.

Lorca is one of the little eateries that practically comprise Calico Alley. I had a great admiration for the Spaniard after whom it was named and I hoped that the food would match his greatness; also, I hoped it would lift my mood. I don’t like myself when I’m grumpy.

The first people we saw outside the restaurant door were inauspicious. Three corporate types in the corporate equivalent of a tracksuit (grey marle with a logo on the breast). They were sip- ping fruit drinks and talking animatedly about a half-marathon. Not my kind of people. And what were they doing here? How- ever, the gush of scent—garlicky, winy, loaded with spices—was encouraging. We passed the corporate persons, two male and one female. I recognised one of them. Claire, the wafer-thin friend of poor Lena. She was bouncing gently in her Nikes and laughing up into the face of a large gentleman who would have been more comfortable in a suit. Claire was fitting in just fine, if these were her employers. The other gentleman was thin as a whip, with that underlying muscularity one sees in long-distance runners. His hair was cut brutally short, perhaps to reduce drag.

‘Ten k’s every day,’ he was declaring. ‘Rain or shine. Only way to stay fit.’

That Juvenal with his
mens sana in corpore sano
had a lot to answer for. Though he would have liked Lorca and, after I got inside past the aggressively healthy, I did, too. The menu was written on the wall. All over the walls, in fact. Someone thrust a plate of
patatas bravas
at me and shoved a glass of sangria into my hand. Now that was more like it. I munched a brave potato. They are rendered bold, I suppose, by the spicy tomato sauce. I looked around.

The TV crew was there. Ethan loomed over the crowd, talking earnestly to Tash. Ms Atkins was scolding Emily. Kylie and Goss were listening to the put-down, mouths agape. Sasha the producer was listening to the writers Kendall and Gordon as they gulped sangria and grazed on anything edible within easy reach. Spanish guitar music was playing. Yes, the Romans could have moved into Lorca without any problems, except trying to educate the locals on the value of the ablative absolute. The place was packed, with barely elbow room to reach for the plates of food scattered around liberally.

Daniel seized a plate of salt and pepper squid, which could only be more un-kosher if it was pork cooked in milk with bacon sprinkles. Therese partook also. I sipped the sangria. It was strong, spicy, and the maker had used good red wine instead of the usual dregs.

‘Scrummy,’ pronounced Kylie, materialising at my side. ‘Isn’t this fun? Everyone’s here.’

‘Oh, good,’ I replied. I was still angry with them.

‘Have some squid,’ said Daniel, swiftly interposing the platter between us.

‘Erk,’ commented Goss, and they drifted away, which was fine with me. I drifted also, towards Ethan, who had a magnetic attraction for all women. Before I got to him, however, I washed up against the corporate types again. A shove from someone pushed me so that I was nose-to-patrician-nose with the whippet.

‘Corinna.’ I offered my unoccupied hand. ‘I’m the baker.’

‘Tony.’ He barely touched my fingers. Aha. A fat-phobic. He thought size 20 might be catching. ‘I’m with Mason’s. We do your accounts.’

‘Not mine, theirs. I’m just a professional employeee. Like you. Are you going jogging after this?’

‘I run every night,’ he said proudly. The light of pure fanaticism gleamed in his dark brown eyes. ‘Low-fat, low-sugar diet with plenty of carbs.’

I had no idea what he was talking about. But he was an accountant. So was I. We should have something in common.

‘We have a corporate fitness plan,’ he went on. ‘Gym in the building. Employees have time to work out. Pays off in the long run,’ he added, revealing that he was indeed an accountant. ‘Less sick leave. We invest in our employees’ fitness.’

‘And how does that apply to those built like me?’ I asked waspishly. How would Lena feel in that environment? Like a couple of tonnes of elephant shit, if I was any judge. Tony looked uncomfortable.

‘We try to be inclusive,’ he muttered. ‘But some people refuse to enter into the spirit.’ He took another mouthful of his— alcohol-free I would bet—sangria. ‘Isn’t this a nice place?’

‘Yes.’ I gave up. At least he hadn’t offered me any dieting tips. Of course, if he had, I would have been required to take condign action. A Ms Atkins snub, perhaps, or forcible feeding of empan- adas. They were very good little pastry things, I noticed as I bit into one and Tony winced. I hoped that Bernie was taking notes. I looked for her. She was, indeed, taking notes. She was in close conversation with a handsome woman in an apron. Our hostess, I assumed. Good. Where was Daniel?

A server filled my sangria glass again. Peach chunks, yum. I dote on the way the fruit in sangria absorbs the brandy. I circulated a bit, moving closer to the tower of Ethan, and I found Daniel. He was talking to the other corporate trackie.

‘So you don’t like Lena?’ he asked bluntly.

The suit blinked. Plain speaking was not a notable part of accountancy. This one was older than Tony and fatter. A lot of good dinners had gone into constructing that waistline. I grabbed a plate of things on skewers and eavesdropped shamelessly. The older man groped for the food without noticing what his hand was doing. It’s a form of sleep-eating and not pretty to watch. It reminds me of guards I had bribed in other parts of the world. The money just appears in their hands. Then it disappears, as the chicken was now doing.

‘Perhaps she isn’t suited to our corporate model,’ he told Daniel through a mouthful. ‘She would be ideal for a small suburban firm. If at all. I’m afraid we’re going to have to let her go.’

‘Don’t have a size-twenty tracksuit, eh?’ asked Daniel.

‘Er, no. Look, this is our brochure. I’m sure you’ll find it impressive.’

He shoved it into Daniel’s hand and moved away.

‘So that was Mr Mason, Lena’s boss?’ I asked. ‘Have some of these kebab things.’

‘Poor Lena,’ said Daniel. ‘He was very uncomfortable, did you notice?’

‘I noticed. Did you tell him that you were working for Lena?’

‘I never tell people like them anything that I don’t have to tell them. Come on, let’s find Ethan.’

We located Ethan in the midst of a competing crowd. Everyone wanted his attention. I wondered what this would do to a young man’s ego, and decided that he would have to be a saint not to be monstrously puffed-up. He was awash in a sea of pretty girls. But he sighted Daniel and put aside the damsels.

‘Come outside,’ he said. ‘Can’t hear myself think in here.’

And with the force of a battleship, he ploughed his way towards the door, leaving pouting in his wake. Daniel grabbed an enormous platter of tapas and preceded him into the street. There he scored a little table and there was room for me, too.

However, before I could attain my goal, Ms Atkins summoned me and I went. She grabbed my arm—that arm was going to be bruised before this series was finished—and pulled me close to her. She was all bones: elbow and wrist and collarbones. She made me uncomfortable as she leant in close to whisper.

‘Is that hunk your boyfriend?’ she asked.

I admitted that that hunk was indeed Daniel, my beloved. Then Ms Atkins astonished me by saying quite politely, ‘Ask him to come and speak to me.’ To stagger me she added, ‘Please,’ a word which I would have sworn was not in her vocabulary.

She released me as I nodded and let me move away from her. What could the Superbitch want with my Daniel? But she had said please. Good manners should be rewarded.

I found Ethan and Daniel sitting on little chairs in the street, scoffing handfuls of olives and talking about camera angles—or so I gathered. I gave my beloved the message. He quirked an eyebrow.

‘Careful,’ warned Ethan. ‘She could swallow you without chewing.’

‘I believe you,’ replied Daniel, and plunged back into the throng. I could not hear, of course, and he was turned away so I could not read his lips. So I turned my attention to Ethan. He slouched in his chair, easy, grinning, posting pilchards between his lips. He was a very attractive sight. A cross between a Roman emperor and the Ghost of Christmas Past.

‘Daniel your bloke?’ he asked. I nodded and snitched one of his little fish. ‘He always did have good taste,’ said Ethan. ‘So, what do you think of the TV industry?’

‘Noisy,’ I said truthfully. ‘Emotional.’

‘Tense, isn’t it? Because we are all trying to make something out of pixels and words. Out of dust and ashes.’

‘
Pulvis et nihil
,’ I quoted, something which Professor Dion often says.

Ethan, to my surprise, nodded and amended the quote.

‘
Ex pulvere
,’ he said, ‘
et nihil laboramus
. And it’s a mighty labour and does tend to fray the temper. The trouble is, show- biz would be fine without the actors and the actors would be fine without showbiz. But without actors you have stop- animation, and as much as I admire Wallace and Gromit you can’t call it Art, and without TV who would remember the actors when they were offstage?’

‘I suppose that’s so,’ I said.

‘So we’re stuck with them and they’re stuck with us and neither of us is happy. What do you reckon Ms Superbitch wants with your Daniel?’

‘I don’t know. She’ll have to give him back, mind. Then we shall know. Have you worked with her before?’