The Queen's Margarine (21 page)

Slowly, almost guiltily, she let herself relax; saw, through
half-closed
eyelids, bars of dappled moonlight silvering the nursery curtains; shadows of the cot-bars flickering on the wall.

Yes, she was there again, serene again, in her smocked
nightgown
and soft shawl; no sound except her father's heartbeat, slowing the wild tempo of the world. Her adult burdens had faded with the light. Death and grief were meaningless, and Graham
was dissolving to a mere shadow of a shadow. Both he and Jake were only possibilities in a distant, far-off future – a future unimaginable and of no interest to an infant. There were only two people in existence now: her father and herself. Inverness and Kenya were no longer on the map. This modest, compact terraced house comprised her sole geography. Of
course
she couldn't sell it, or fly back up to Scotland. As a babe-in-arms, she didn't have the power; was too vulnerable, too small. She must stay here with her father, learning to crawl, to stand, to walk – him beside her always; his bent, braced knee the pillar to her universe.

The pair of them were quite alone, she sheltered by the bulwark of his body, and staring up intently at his face – a face young again, unlined again, fresh and firm and healthy again, and crinkling in his familiar smile as he whispered, ‘Prickly Pear!'

At last, she understood. However sharp the spines of the pear, he had always known – and was even now assuring her – that underneath was sweet and succulent fruit.

‘And this,' said Toby, opening the door with a flourish, ‘really is a view to die for.'

Lauren followed him into the spacious lounge, with its dark-oak polished floor, its twin white leather sofas, solid-marble
coffee-table
, edgy modern sculptures. Before admiring the view, she stopped and gazed around the room, wondering if this could actually be
her
– a failure and a nobody – viewing such a ritzy flat? The whole scenario didn't seem quite real, as if she were playing a part in some lavish Hollywood movie and, at any moment, the director would shout, ‘Cut!'

As she walked towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, she seemed to be level with the sky, about to burst through all that acreage of glass and go skedaddling across great banks of rolling clouds. And, however sullen those rain-swollen clouds might look, in no way could they dampen her elation.

Toby led her on to the balcony, with a grand gesture to the impressive panorama, began directing her attention to several landmarks. ‘I'm afraid it's a bit nippy today, but just imagine this in summer!'

Who cared about the cold? From this amazing altitude, she could see the broad curve of the river stretching out below, and a great swathe of London on the opposite bank, sweeping all the way from Westminster to Chelsea. If she took the flat, she could stand out here in every kind of weather, charting the river's
ever-changing
moods; the wind flirting with her hair, and gulls soaring in white flurries past her head. Looking down from such a height gave her a sense of near-omnipotence, as if
she
had built those bridges, laid out the embankment; even controlled the tides. She
had loved the Thames since childhood, when her three elder brothers had taken her canoeing, taught her how to beachcomb, how to catch an eel – brothers who disowned her now.

‘Cool,' she said, ‘having the Thames as your front garden!'

‘Yes, I understand from head office that you particularly want a river view.'

She nodded, unwilling to say more. It would sound pretty naff to start babbling about the symbolism of water – the renewal and regeneration that were part of her new start.

‘And as high up as possible.'

She mumbled her assent. Height, too, was symbolical. She had left behind her low life, her grotty basement slum, all those grubby, grim relationships with losers.

‘You can even entertain here. The balcony's quite big enough. And these chairs and table are solid oak, so they're completely weather-proof.'

As he spoke, a speedboat lasered across the water; two
drunken-looking
cormorants bobbing on its choppy, churning wake. She imagined her guests sitting in the stylish chairs, watching all the different craft: pleasure cruisers, sailing dinghies, the
harbour-master's
patrol boat in spanking black-and-white, great lazy, lumbering barges, towed by sturdy tugs.

‘But once you close the windows,' Toby told her, ‘you won't hear a sound, Miss Armitage. The entire flat's triple-glazed. And
air-conditioned
, of course.'

‘Do call me Lauren.' Only fair, when he had volunteered his Christian name the moment they'd first met. He seemed entirely different from the sharp-suited estate agents she had dealt with up to now. In fact, he struck her as eminently fanciable, in his black polo neck and tight black jeans, and, if she hadn't vowed to put an end to all one-off entanglements, she might have put a teasing hand on some part of his anatomy, or made sure their bodies touched when he was pointing out a feature of the flat. As it was, she was determined to be businesslike; act the part of a wealthy, well-established woman – however fraudulent it felt inside.

‘Right, let's go and see the bedroom now. I know you're going to love it.'

Yes, she loved it – and partly for its size. Just that one room was bigger than the whole of her previous flat and, instead of being a cluttered mess of jarring styles and colours, was furnished totally in white: elegant white counterpane on the imposing queen-sized bed; floor-length, white linen curtains; white, fluffy, deep-pile carpet; white marble bedside lamps; white ceramic vase holding tall, white, hothouse lilies, whose cloying, musky, insistent smell seemed to seep into her skin, as she were wearing some exotic scent herself. White was totally impractical, of course, but, as she stood amidst the subtle shades of pearl and snow and ivory, she felt herself being effortlessly released from the smut and grime that had characterized her life to date. This whole block was newly built and newly furnished, with no stains or smears from previous tenants to mar its white perfection – the ideal place for a rebirth.

Toby was pointing out the variety of lights: strip-lights in the wardrobes; concealed spotlights in the ceiling, fluorescent panels set into the dressing table, and a whole range of dimmer-switches by the bed.

‘And the bed itself is adjustable,' he said, pulling a lever to demonstrate. ‘It also has a built-in massage function. Just press this knob and …'

As the mechanism purred gently into action, she pictured herself reclining on the freshly laundered sheets, being sensuously kneaded and pummelled at the end of every high-achieving day. She added Toby to the picture – a Toby stripping off his clothes and stretching out beside her, doubling all the delicious titillation. ‘For Christ's sake!' she muttered to herself. ‘You've finished with those sordid one-night stands.' If she had a new relationship, it must be with someone worthy; different altogether from the pick-ups she'd made do with in the past.

As he showed her the en-suite bathroom, her inanely grinning face was reflected in the gleaming mirrored walls. Quickly she switched off the smile, tried to look nonchalant and blasé, as if the glamour of this flat was very much the norm for her, something she'd grown up with all her life.

‘I understand you're an author, Miss Armit— er, Lauren.'

She gave a self-deprecating shrug. It still felt bogus to call
herself an author, instead of a waitress or a barmaid, or, latterly, a nightclub hostess. Although, in fact, she was surprised that he didn't know her name, which had been splashed all over the papers when her book came out four months ago. The publishers classed it as a ‘misery memoir' – a term she disliked intensely. The word ‘misery' seemed too downbeat for all the drama and sensationalism she had revealed about her family: her father's racketeering, her mother's drink and drugs, her brothers' sexual advances to her when she was a kid of twelve or so. Such disclosures had caused a furore, and an uproar from the relatives, who had united in trying to rubbish her, claiming that the entire 300 pages was nothing but a pack of lies. Which had only increased the sales, of course, shot it to the bestseller list, and resulted in her present two-book contract, with an advance so high, she could afford to rent a flat like this and still have money over for new clothes and a car.

‘Yes, I'm working on a couple of things at the moment.' That was true, at least. Her new prestigious publishers had not only commissioned a second instalment of the memoir, to bring her story up to date, but also an erotic saga, drawing on her life again, but fictionalized this time. The second memoir was going at a cracking pace, as if all the scandal and hysteria, the fury and acclaim, had acted like a spur, goading her into still more revelations. ‘One's a sort of life story, which is already three-quarters done, and the other one's a novel, but that's only at the planning stage.'

‘Really? I'm an avid reader. You don't write thrillers, do you?'

‘No,' she laughed, distracted by the taps: slim silver dolphins, spouting jets of water as Toby turned them on. ‘The novel's more a family drama, but told from the viewpoint of a girl of
twenty-three
.' She had decided to make the protagonist exactly her own age, mainly because it was easier to write. She couldn't imagine being forty, with a bunch of grotty kids and nothing much to show for them but saggy breasts and stretch-marks. Worse still being sixty: a withered crone, with no more men or sex, no more hope of conquests.

‘She's never settled down, and had a really lousy childhood, living with these freakish parents and three brothers who
abused her. But then she meets an American guy and—' She shook her head, broke off. ‘Look, if I give away the plot, I won't be able to write it. And, anyway, the other book's more urgent, because they want to try to capitalize on the success of the first volume, so I'm working to a deadline. Which reminds me, Toby, I have to meet my agent in less than half-an-hour, so we ought to get a move on.' She liked trotting out that phrase ‘my agent'; relishing the kick it gave her.

‘How do you get an agent?' Toby asked, apparently more interested in the literary world than in completing the deal on the flat. ‘I was reading just the other day about some guy who'd made a million on a book deal, and I was rather tempted to have a bash myself. The problem is, I haven't a clue as to how to start.'

Lauren hesitated, having only a vague idea of how the system worked. In her particular case, her future agent, Hugo, had wandered into her nightclub, semi-drunk, and she'd encouraged him to buy champagne (as she did with all the guys – the most expensive brand, of course). Only when he spelled out what he did, did she tell him about the pile of scribbled pages stuffed in her bottom drawer – pure dynamite, she'd said. From that one evening, her life had taken off. She no longer earned her living chatting up the punters who came to Funky Joe's, but sitting at her new,
state-of
-the-art computer, when she wasn't hobnobbing with famous authors in Hugo's Chelsea pad.

‘Actually, it's difficult to find an agent who'll agree to take you on. In fact, it's as hard to get an agent as a publisher. You see, hordes of would-be writers are dying for a share of the action and sending in their stuff, but the great majority haven't got a chance in hell. Only a fraction of the manuscripts ever get read at all – the rest are sent straight back, or land up in the waste-bin.' Which made her own success all the more astounding. She had Lady Luck to thank for that and, of course, her monstrous family.

‘Well, you've obviously done well,' Toby remarked, a touch of envy in his voice, ‘But, look, I mustn't keep you if you're pushed for time. I'll just show you the kitchen, then I think we're done.'

The kitchen had the spotless, streamlined efficiency of an operating theatre, and the same battery of complicated machines. Not that she could cook, but it would be a definite advance to own so
many gleaming gadgets and a sleek, split-level oven, instead of the single basic gas ring she had made do with up till now.

‘What's this?' she asked, peering at a stainless-steel cabinet that resembled a large safe.

‘A rather snazzy drinks-cooler.' Toby returned to his role of lettings agent, as he explained the mysteries of the built-in
water-dispenser
and integral, high-speed ice-maker, the
temperature-control
system and—

‘Toby,' she interrupted, ‘I'm going to take the flat. I've made up my mind – this minute!' In fact, the drinks-cooler had clinched it. Such gloriously superfluous extras seemed even more desirable than the sumptuous pad itself. ‘It's far nicer than anything I've seen.'

‘Brilliant! I know you won't regret it. It's perfect for a writer – the whole ambience feels right.'

‘I'm afraid I haven't time to go through all the paperwork right now, but if you can hold it 'til tomorrow, I'll come in first thing and do the necessary.'

‘Great! I'll expect you in the morning.' He ushered her to the door, first presenting her with a large, laminated brochure, listing the selling-points and specifications of luxurious River Heights – the brochure itself as heavy as a hardback, and so glitzy in its general presentation, it did emphatic justice to its subject. ‘Just let me lock up, then I'll escort you down in the lift.'

As they descended thirty floors, she experienced a curious sensation: instead of going down, she was soaring up, up, up – up into the clouds again; up into the dizzy heights of her spectacular new life.

‘Quiet, please!' Hugo commanded, raising his voice above the buzz of conversation, so he could be heard by the whole gathering. ‘I want us all to raise our glasses to Lauren. She's already had a huge success with
Rock Bottom
and I predict an equal triumph for her next two books.'

‘To Lauren!' fifty voices echoed, followed by a cry of ‘Speech!'

For a moment, she stood dumb, unable to believe that this was really happening; that film producers, scriptwriters and the top brass at a top publishers could actually be her guests. When Hugo
first suggested the flat-warming, she had wondered who on earth to ask – certainly not the girls from Funky Joe's, who would only get rat-arsed, nor indeed her waitress friends, who would lower the tone (and might even nick the silver), nor Nathan, Greg or Brian, whom she'd buried in her unsavoury past and had no wish to resurrect – except in the pages of her second memoir. As for her family, forget it. Far from joining in the celebrations, or saying even a brief ‘Well done!', they simply shunned her as traitor and a slut.

‘Leave it to me,' Hugo had said. ‘We'll make the party a publicity exercise, invite the whole media pack, especially the gossip columnists and all the big guns in telly, and a few select but major players from the movie world. Though we won't bother with the snooty literary editors – they'll only damn the book with faint praise, or ignore it altogether.'

‘But what about the food and wine?' she'd asked, alarmed at the prospect of catering for big shots, who'd only turn up their disdainful noses if she laid on plonk and crisps.

‘Don't worry – we'll use a caterer. In fact, I know this marvellous woman who's an absolute whiz when it comes to upmarket nosh. Even her canapés are works of art. And she's pally with a guy who owns a couple of vineyards in the Dordogne. Just relax, my sweet, and let the pros get on with it. All you have to do is wear something svelte and slinky, and be sure to schmooze the guests.'