Meanwhile Gardens (29 page)

“Who? Nicky?”

Jake nodded.

“She’s been off men for a bit.” As soon as Ollie said that he realised it might give the wrong impression. “I don’t mean she’s into women or anything – at least not that I know of – ” he added hastily. “Why?”

Jake ignored the question, sat back in his seat and gave a satisfied sigh, “I love this.”

Ollie listened as crashing guitars kicked into the start of Learn To Fly by the Foofighters. “Mmmmm. I love it too.” He was buzzing lightly now. Jake had been right. The Kensal Green batch had all the sparkle of a champagne cocktail. They were soon singing along to the song’s chorus before the heavily vibrating van got Ollie’s attention. He looked at the speedometer to find he was doing 85mph. “That song always gets me going. It’s great to run to,” Ollie smiled.

“It’s great to wake up to.”

Ollie eased off the volume, and the accelerator, until they were doing a quieter, more legal 70mph. It wouldn’t do to get stopped, not with a tin full of grass and the van smelling like a gathering of Rastafarians had taken up residence.

“You know I saw them in concert years ago.”

“Nicky and I saw them at the Astoria.”

“Upstairs or downstairs?”

“Downstairs.”

“Left or right side?”

“If you were facing the stage it would be on the left. We were next to the speaker stack, although I think the fact that Matt Dillon was in the vicinity – ”

“With Brad Pitt?”

“Yeah,” Ollie laughed, “ – was the deciding factor in Nicky’s choice of location.”

“I was in the same place! It was so great wasn’t it?”

“It was so great I bought the T-shirt
and
the poster. I felt like I was twelve years old.”

Jake chuckled at the image before asking, “Can I be dj?”

“You’re in charge,” said Ollie. He looked at the fields
speeding by. “You know if I won the lottery I’d have that song on permanent loop in my Jag. As soon as I opened the door – bam! there it would be.”

“Yeah,” Jake said dreamily. “If I won the lottery I’d have the gasometers opposite me painted acid yellow and Trellick Tower painted turquoise.”

“The day the world turned day-glo?”

“You bet.”

“There’s a gasometer on the way to Brighton that’s painted bright blue,” Ollie said, remembering with a pang of sadness the many journeys he had made to the south coast with James.

“I’d vote for a council with such an enlightened policy wouldn’t you?”

“Are you eligible to vote?”

“Not at the cemetery where would they send the forms?”

Ollie smiled, enjoying the grass, enjoying the drive, the music and Jake’s company.

And so the miles went by, tunes were played and replayed, the friendship strengthened, joints rolled, crisps, chocolate and fruit pastilles eaten. It was only when they stopped at a petrol station outside Doncaster that the reason for their journey was rammed home to them.

When Ollie finished walking Hum he returned to the van to find Jake, his arms filled with crisps and other goodies.

“Despite the current mode of transport I didn’t really see you as ‘white van man’,” Ollie joked seeing a copy of the Sun under Jake’s arm.

“I thought you should see this,” Jake unfurled the tabloid newspaper. On the front was Nicky’s black and white picture of Rion under the headline.

“Top Supermodel Missing!”

Rion woke to the sound of metal upon metal. With the heater switched off it was cold in the vault, but the chill was preferable to the stuffy, gas-fired fumes of before.

She yawned, stretched and looked at her watch. Although she had only been asleep for little more than an hour it felt like days. Sleep had turned into something of a pastime here. With nothing to read, and precious few people to talk to, there was little else to do.

Through the heavy door, open ajar, she could see shadows dancing in the gloom accompanied by the occasional grunt of exertion.

“Gorby said it’ll make her more valuable.”

From his voice Rion could tell it was the twin she had named Senior. So she
was
being held for ransom!

“But won’t it make it more dangerous?” Beck, the junior of the twins, asked.

The shadows came closer together. Another clash of metal brought a grunt before they danced apart. It seemed to Rion the twins were involved in a fencing match. She remembered the curious long swords she had seen in the barge. Rion looked over to the door where they were normally kept but the weapons weren’t in place. The twins must be fencing enthusiasts or something peculiar.

In this Rion was not far wrong.

“Why should it?” Senior asked.

Rion could see the outlines of the Rosleagh boxes through the fine mesh. She felt comforted by their presence, and oddly grateful, it was like they were watching over her in a benign and loving way.

Rion looked around the vaulted cell to see if anything had changed since she’d been asleep. The guttering candle had
been replaced by a tall, cleaner burning one, the Countess’ chair still faced her family, a Sainsburys bag lay crumpled on the floor beside it. Rion didn’t know they had Sainsburys in Ireland but didn’t think too much about it. Her attention went back to the newspaper on the chair. She could see it was the Sun, if only she could see the date.

Rion’s scream brought the twins rushing in. They found her one hand over her mouth, the other pointing at the newspaper on the other side of the bars.

“Is the fire on?” she desperately wondered if the leaky heater was again affecting her vision, but Rion could see the gas bars were unlit.

Her voice caught in her throat as she looked at the tabloid’s front page. There was no mistake – well there
had
to be some mistake she thought, what else would explain her face on the front of Britain’s biggest selling tabloid?

“Didn’t know you were a supermodel,” Beck’s voice contained a hint of admiration and more than a hint of jealousy.

Rion didn’t know either. “I – er – ,” she began. She had to play this cool she realised. This meant that speaking, at least at this stage, was inadvisable. Abandoning any attempt at putting her thoughts into words Rion simply gestured through the bars for the newssheet to be passed to her.

The photographer used her sweetest of phone voices, “Justin it’s Nicky.” She thought about adding ‘again’, but decided that might sound facetious. She wanted to stay on his good side. At least at this stage.

“She’s gone home,” Lady Peter’s personal assistant replied.

“Did you give her my messages?”

“Of course,” Justin didn’t bother to hide his irritation.

“Give me her number Justin. It’s important.”

The PA’s sigh was clearly audible down the phone.

Nicky paused for a second. Although she felt ridiculous saying the next part Nicky thought she should give it a try, “Angie would
want
you to give it to me.” Isn’t that how you do it – plant a hypnotic suggestion in their mind, give it added emphasis and let them obey you?

“Do you want the obvious answer to that?”

Nicky realised her suggestion hadn’t been hypnotic enough. Before she could repeat it Justin continued in his brusque fashion that bordered on unpleasantness.

“Lady Peters has had a very busy day. I know she and Sir Edwin have things to discuss. I’ll tell her you phoned. Again.”

“She would
want
– ” Nicky began.

“I can’t give you her home number. She left strict instructions not to be called.”

“But – ”

“But nothing.”

“Well fu – ” Nicky caught sight of Auntie Gem covering her ears. Thinking of an inoffensive expletive all she could come up with was, “Go boil your head!” which she shouted into the mouthpiece.

Auntie Em pulled the phone from her and placed it on the handset. “You don’t want to say anything you might regret,” she advised.

“Don’t worry. He’d already put the phone down.”

“Try Johnson again,” Auntie Em suggested.

The lifestyle enhancer, incommunicado all day, answered after the first ring.

“Sweetie it’s Nicky.”

The silence was broken by what sounded like a muffled sob.

“Johnson?”

“It’s too terrible isn’t it?”

“About Rion?”

“I blame myself of course.”

Typical, Nicky thought, make it about you. Much as she loved Johnson he never missed a chance of moving centre stage. She didn’t encourage him by asking him exactly why he was to blame.

“Do you think she’s been white-slaved?”

The question threw Nicky slightly.

“I – ”

“Or starring in a blue movie?” Johnson continued, his voice beginning to rise in hysteria. “I’ve been reading all these dreadful, dreadful stories about ketamine – ”

“Johnson I need Angie’s number.”

“ – being slipped in drinks and the girls unknowingly finding themselves in a porn film – ”

“I need Angie’s number Johnson.”

“ – or waking up to find themselves being gangraped – ”

“Johnson – ”

“ – or worse!”

Nicky couldn’t – and certainly didn’t want to – imagine anything worse. She sighed heavily. “We’re all upset about Rion but there’s a good chance nothing untoward has happened to her.”

“After nearly a week?”

“Ollie and Jake have gone to Bridlington to see if she’s gone home and – ”

“That’s the last place she’d go!”

“And the first place to look.”

“Maybe at this very moment she’s lying in a ditch or – ” Johnson’s voice trembled with emotion as his mind raced through all the macabre possibilities that Nicky was simply unwilling to hear.

“Johnson I need Angie’s number urgently. It’s about Rion.”

Realising Nicky was reluctant to listen to his paranoia Johnson reeled off the Holland Park number. “Don’t tell her I gave it to you.”

Nicky put down the phone to find Aunties Gem and Em looking at her from the sofa.

“What did he say?” asked Gem.

Unwilling to give them a glimpse into Johnson’s fevered and, hopefully, unfounded imaginings, Nicky simply said, “I have the number.”

The editor of Glamourista switched on the fire in the panelled library. Her husband sat in his favourite armchair engrossed in the Sun. He had read and re-read the lead article on the missing young girl – a stroke of genius bumping Peters & Peters from the front page. Edwin folded his hands behind his head, leaned back and smiled, impressed once more by his wife’s PR skills.

Angie refilled the Baccarat tumbler with Laphroaig and handed it to her husband. “Well?” she inquired.

“The only thing I’m not too keen on is the ‘beleaguered husband’ bit.”

Angie rolled her eyes. “Really Edwin,” she said, unable to hide her exasperation. “With Peters & Peters under fire from consumers and ministers alike, the value of the company in freefall and a PR blunder of such enormity it’ll need a mountain of sandbags to shore up, I think beleaguered is the kindest description they could use.”

“Just joking! It’s a great – ”

“After all they could have used ‘useless’.”

Edwin looked hurt, “Steady...”

“‘In the shit’ would fit,” Angie continued.

“It’s nice to see your poetry skills haven’t left you,” her husband sniped.

“Or even ‘totally fucked’!!”

“They would never say that! It’s a family newspaper.”

“As the half-naked girl on page three proves,” Angie retorted.

Edwin couldn’t figure out how they had started bitching when all he had wanted was to thank his wife for taking the focus off him.

The ringing phone stopped their bickering turning into something nastier.

“Is Conchita in?” Edwin looked anxiously at his wife.

“I told her to take the night off.”

“Answerphone on?”

Angie shook her head. “It’s probably for me anyway,” she said as she picked up the phone.

“Angie?”

The editor immediately knew who it was.

“Nicky. Sorry I haven’t been able to call – things have been so hectic.”

“Some days are like that.”

“If only they were just days sweetie.” There was a pause before Angie purred, “Where did you get my number?”

“You gave it to me at Wanda’s – remember?” Nicky lied, remembering the editor’s merry state after several glasses of Krug too many.