The Company of Fellows (34 page)

Rosie opened
the door and stood in front of him, and, he couldn’t help thinking,
in front of half of north Oxford, with absolutely nothing on. What
he was feeling now was definitely the result of more than
caffeine.

“
Hey Tommy,”
she said, looking him over. “I don’t know whether I should say you
look fantastic or you look like shit.”

“
Well I know
which I’d say to you.”

Rosie smiled.
“Are you coming in, or do you want my neighbours to have a longer
look?”

She leaned
back on the sofa, arms stretched out sideways. “So what have you
got planned?” she said.

“
Hmm.” He
couldn’t pull his eyes away from her.

“
Tommy, I get
the feeling you’re eyeing me up like I’m a room you’re trying to
design. It’s not flattering, you know.”

“
I could come
up with a hundred clichés, you know. About spending my life with
beauty, about the things I’ve seen on seven continents. I could
compare them all with you, but I won’t. Let me just put it on
record that you’re breathtaking. Now, let’s put you an outfit
together.”

“
So you’re
taking me out?”

“
Yes, I am.
Where to start?” He stood in front of her and took one of her
hands, pulling her to her feet. “At the top,” he said, running his
fingers through her hair, cupping his hand around her cheek and
kissing her lips, “working down.” His fingers followed his eyes
down the contours of her pale brown skin. “Or at the bottom,” the
pads of his fingers on the inside of her calf, “working up?”
pulling them slowly up, barely making contact with her
skin.

“
God,
Tommy.”

“
Let’s start,”
he paused, words hanging, “in the middle.”

Rosie closed
her eyes, and he felt the sudden breath against him.

“
Black leather
skirt. I’m making an assumption you have one, don’t shoot me if
your wardrobe’s full of Laura Ashley prints.”

“
Let’s go and
see.” She led him into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. “Look
what we’ve got here.” She took out two black leather skirts and
held them up for him to choose.

“
That one, I
think.” He pointed to the shorter. Rosie opened her chest of
drawers to offer him a choice of underwear. “Only what I tell you.
And not yet,” he said.

“
You know what
Emily said to me last week?”

“
What did she
say?”

“
She said you
she thought you were dangerous. She didn’t mention you were a kinky
fuck.”

Tommy smiled.
“Want to go for pizza instead?” he asked.

“
Fuck,
no.”

“
Good. Bright
red bra, black string top, leather jacket. Definitely the belt you
had on the other day. I’m guessing you’ve got a choker and cuffs to
match.”

He laid her
outfit on the bed. “Now, let me get this on you.” He sat on the bed
and picked up the skirt. “Come here.” He held the band of leather
between his knees. She stepped toward him and he could see her skin
beginning to glisten. “Now, get in.”

She lifted one
leg inside, then the other, feeling his breath on her as he pushed
her skirt up over her thighs. He stood up, turned her round, pulled
her arms up over her head, and tugged her top down to her shoulders
so she couldn’t move her arms. Hands firm on her skin, running over
her stomach, up the small of her back, snapping the clasp of the
strapless bra and grabbing her top, lowering it over her
torso.

As he finished
zipping the second boot up to her knee they heard the low purr
outside. “Time to go.”

Tommy led her
out onto the Banbury Road and opened the Jaguar door.

“
Good evening,
Dr West.”

“
Good evening,
Simon,” Tommy said, fastening himself in. “Simon, this is Rosie Lu.
Rosie, this is Simon Maddox.”

“
Pleased to
meet you, Miss Lu.”

“
Hi Simon.” He
smiled back at her just long enough to be polite before he raised
the dark glass.

Tommy watched
Rosie’s eyes following the glass up, and opened the coolbox. He
took out the small tin, with its unmistakable blue label, opened it
and took out a scoop of beluga on his finger to offer
her.

“
Whoa, Tommy.
Where the hell are we going?”

“
Welcome to my
other world, Rosie. Simon works for a client of mine, Farlow
Bateson.”

“
Farlow
Bateson the record producer?”

“
He’s not
actually as American as his name suggests.” Tommy grinned. “I’m
surprised you’ve heard of him,” he lied. “Not many of my
acquaintances know him from Adam Ant.” Bateson was about Tommy’s
age. Almost every hard core metal and thrash act in the south of
England knocked at his door. Tommy had seen about 30 CDs on
Bateson’s Arterial label in Rosie’s collection.

“
You’re full
of surprises, aren’t you, Tommy? How long will it be before I
always know what’s coming?”

“
I don’t know,
but I hope you stick around to find out.”

“
So do I”, she
said. “So why are we going to Farlow Bateson’s”

“
To hear a
band, of course. A new band holed up for a few days recording their
first album. They’re giving a private show for friends and
colleagues. And for some reason I get to be in the position of
being paid the best part of half a million pounds and being
included on the guest list.”

“
So I’ll get
to see some of your work?”

“
Only if you
get to the bedrooms.”

“
Half a
million pounds for bedrooms?”

“
He has bands
round all the time. Bands like bedrooms.” Tommy smiled and took a
mouthful of beluga, feeling the salt exploding on the sides of his
mouth. He put another scoop on his finger for Rosie and felt her
tongue curl around his finger as she ripped it away
voraciously.

Caviar. That
was it. That was what Becky had said.
Shaw’s parties.
The eulogy had
mentioned Shaw’s parties. Parties with little caviar spoons
sculpted from ice. He saw the table in his head. The water glass,
the glass that had been poisoned. There had been cold condensation.
But the ice pick wasn’t out and it was a hot day. Shaw didn’t have
an ice tray. But he sometimes had caviar served in ice spoons that
he ordered in. The poison was in the ice spoons. Shaw ate his
caviar like Rosie, voraciously. He’d swallowed the poison when he
ate the caviar and the saltiness disguised any taste. He’d let the
spoon dissolve in his water. That’s how the poison got in the
water.

____

53

Over the
Thames via Remenham Bridge in the opulent heart of Henley, past the
world famous Leander Rowing Club, the main road snaked steeply
upwards. The casual traveller would barely realise that there was a
village here, not the hyper-exclusive village of Remenham, but the
even more exclusive Remenham Hill, a series of disjointed mansions
fed by tiny secret driveways that wound into the woods and
undulating greenery. Houses here overlooked the vast Thames
floodplain, stared down on their poorer neighbours in Henley who
only qualified as super-rich. Tommy had seven clients
here.

A tiny wooden
plaque by a farm track proclaimed shyly in faded writing, “Shiraz
House, Arterial Records”. Tommy knew that the name derived from the
Australian grape rather than the ancient town in Iran. It was half
a mile before there was any sign of life, a similar sleek black
X-type coming in the opposite direction. Eventually Simon pulled up
on the vast gravel drive alongside the Bentley Continentals, the
Ferrari 430s and the Hummers. He opened the doors, Rosie first, and
then Tommy. Tommy palmed Simon a little box containing his wife’s
favourite Spanish saffron.

“
It’s not too
late to go if you don’t fancy it.” Tommy kissed her
lightly.

“
Are you
kidding?”

The vast oak
doors opened as they walked up, and Tommy led her into the vast
marble hallway. From the wrought iron balustrades on the double
staircase to the old portraits that followed you around the room
everything was pure Gothic kitsch. Tommy felt as though they were
entering a set from the Masque of the Red Death.

“
Dr West.”
They were ushered in by a man in black cashmere.

“
Steve.” Steve
was the butler, who doubled as security. He didn’t exactly look
like Jeeves.

They were
swooped on by waitresses in leather basques and fishnets proffering
canapés and champagne. Tommy took an oyster and waved away the
champagne. Underneath the excitement he was still
exhausted.

“
Where is
everyone?” Rosie asked. The only people milling in the hall were
staff.

“
In the
conservatory. Follow me.”

It felt more
like walking through a shopping mall dressed for Christmas than a
house, but eventually they emerged into a vast room draped on every
wall with black velvet.

“
Here’s
everyone.” Tommy smiled as he watched Rosie’s face take the scene
in. At one end of the room was a tiny stage packed to the ceiling
on either side with speakers. The rest of the room was a shimmering
sea of glistening black leather. At least 300 people were grinding
against one another to move enough to breathe, occasionally
pretending they could hear enough to have a conversation but mostly
keeping interaction to bear hugs and hand clasps, air kissing,
hands on shoulders, and hands roaming with a little less
discipline. The noise from the whoops of greeting and shouts of
recognition was deafening and it took them a minute or so to
realise that there wasn’t actually any music playing
yet.

“
Mind your
feet.” Tommy shouted into her ear.

She looked
quizzically.

“
Broken
champagne glasses. That’s why you’re wearing those boots. Well,
it’s one reason, anyway,” he said, sliding his hand inside the soft
leather.

He took her
hand and snaked around the wall towards the stage, away from the
primary crush zone in the doorway. Perfect timing. The noise died
down as a microphone squeaked and the huge figure of Farlow Bateson
took the stage. Powerlifting was an interest he and Tommy shared.
In the New Year Tommy would be working on Bateson’s new basement
gym, converting a wine cellar. He didn’t know whether to be pleased
or disappointed.

Bateson’s
white polo shirt, moulded by his vast shoulders, fluoresced in
black light. “Thanks for coming and spending some more of my
money.” He laughed. His teeth shone like his shirt. “The least you
can do is have a listen to a new band who are here recording their
first album. I know you’ll do what you can for them – or you won’t
be coming back here again.” He laughed again. He really wasn’t as
tacky as his name and his act. Well, not once he got into the gym.
That’s when you got to see the real intensity of a person, Tommy
thought, the real focus they could fetch up. In Bateson’s case the
focus was enough to corner a whole section of a cut-throat
business. “The band’s from Newcastle.” Bateson paused. “under-Lyme.
They’re called Pathology of Hate, and they’ve just finished their
first album
The Streets are
Loaded
.” He welcomed them on stage with a
back-slap for each. Guests a mix of polite, pissed, and stoned
whoops.

Tommy had
eased the two of them into the perfect pitch, just far enough back
to be out of the direct line of fire from the amps but with a clear
view of the stage; just enough wall to lean back against to avoid
being felt up, but right on the suburbs of the moshpit.

The band
looked like they were still in their teens, he thought, with their
slender boyish bodies and clean-shaven faces. On closer inspection
he could see that the singer was a girl. It was a cool androgynous
look that reminded him a bit of Placebo, and various other guitar
groups from the turn of the Millennium, but they hardly looked
hard-core in their jeans, black T-shirts, and McFly moptop
haircuts. The singer wrapped one of her legs around the mike stand
as though it were a pipecleaner.

The room went
black and a gipsy fiddle held a single note for close on thirty
seconds. A single light shone on the singer’s face and she let out
a vast, deep modulated muezzin cry. Then the whole stage was bathed
in light, two bass guitars burst through the sub-woofers sending a
shockwave through the room. The singer spun herself free of the
stand like a top and in one movement leapt into the audience,
landed with boots firmly planted on the shoulders of a pair of
security guards at the front of the crowd who had clearly been
primed for the stunt, and started coughing spite and bile into the
audience. Tommy guessed it would have to be classified as North
African metal. It was a cheap cash-in on anti-government, anti-war
feeling, full of soundbites that would look great on the
merchandising but sometimes if the sound is right even the cynics
don’t care too much about the sentiment. And the sound was very
much right. Tommy looked at the crowd punching the air with their
fists and heads, and he looked to the corner of the stage behind
the speakers that were struggling under the noise to stay stable on
the stage blocks. Farlow was standing looking out at the reaction
with his thick arms folded. He was smiled to himself for a minute
or so and, satisfied that the excitement was building not
subsiding, peeled away back into the house.