Pretty Little Packages Read online

  ‘She’s as dangerous as him,’ the scarred chin added, as if Joe hadn’t spoken.

  ‘I heard that,’ Len agreed. ‘Rumour has it she killed several men on the job in the East, just for their passports.’

  They all laughed and the conversation changed as Cordelia slipped onto Joe’s lap and put her arms round his neck. She had obviously been at the Pimm’s jug herself. Joe could smell the fruit on her sweetly scented breath. He felt his colour rising again and an overwhelming urge to hug her. Len appeared not to notice his daughter’s behaviour.

  ‘That agent of yours,’ Len said. ‘Adele is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When’s she going to be parting with some more money then?’

  ‘It takes a while to earn out an advance as big as that one,’ Joe said. ‘And we’ve had all the serialisation money from the newspapers. There may not be any more money for a year or more. There may not be any more at all if we don’t sell enough copies.’

  ‘What about film rights?’ another man asked. ‘Old Len’s life would make a great movie.’

  ‘That would be good,’ Joe agreed, aware of uncomfortable stirrings in his lap where Cordelia was squirming around.

  ‘Shouldn’t she get off her arse and do some selling?’ Len enquired without a smile. ‘Isn’t that what we pay her a percentage for?’

  ‘I’m sure she’s doing all she can,’ Joe said weakly. ‘She’s a very good agent.’

  Len looked unconvinced as he picked stubborn chunks of meat from between his teeth.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The next morning Joe had no post at all and a wave of depression threatened to sink him. How was he ever going to get his life restarted if no new work came in? Sitting in bed he read through the letter from the mysterious Doris again. He had thought about her proposition a great deal on the way back from Len’s the night before and he was beginning to like the idea. He still couldn’t tell if the girl had enough of a story to make a book, but the only way to find out would be to meet her. It might never earn him a penny, but at least it was a possibility.

  The address at the top of the notepaper which Doris had used to write to him said Eaton Square. He knew the square because he had been there to visit an aunt of Fliss’ soon after they arrived in London. The aunt had been crumblingly old and the house had been dark and damp, but very grand. The aunt had died shortly afterwards and he and Fliss had spotted the house, newly done up, being advertised in Country Life for four million pounds, leasehold.

  These places, he knew, were serious pieces of real estate. Len had also regaled him with tales of the Belgravia area from when he was an energetic young cat burglar, jumping from roof to roof in his pursuit of ladies’ jewels and portable pictures and silver. Len had become quite misty-eyed as he remembered the days when even the thieves saw themselves as ‘gentlemen’.

  As Joe made his way down the hallway of the flat the door to his landlord’s room opened, letting out a cloud of stale cigarette smoke. Angus poked his thin, once beautiful head out, and coughed.

  ‘Morning Joseph,’ he boomed in a voice that many years before had been trained to reach the back stalls and balconies of any theatre. ‘Don’t forget. Today is rent day.’

  ‘I’m just on my way to the bank now,’ Joe lied. ‘Unless you’d prefer a cheque…’

  ‘No, no,’ the old actor waved the offer aside as if he was being magnanimous. ‘Cash will be fine.’

  ‘I’ll see you later then,’ Joe said, quickly letting himself out before Angus could ask him if he had any work on. When he returned that evening he would pretend to have forgotten to go to the bank and would write a cheque anyway. That would take a day or two to clear, in which time he would hopefully have managed to raise some money from somewhere.

  He didn’t want to lose his room. He doubted if he would be able to find anything else as central which he could even hope to afford. The thought of moving out from the centre of London filled him with horror. If he was in the suburbs he would be stranded without a car, and there was no way he could afford to equip himself with one of those. He couldn’t understand how he had fallen so easily into his own special sort of poverty trap – a man of his age and experience. Just a year earlier it had all seemed to be going so well.

  To save the tube fare he walked from Earls Court across Chelsea to Sloane Square. It was a hot day and by the time he arrived at the towering Eaton Square front door he felt uncomfortably sweaty and crumpled. If the notepaper had had a phone number on it he would have called first.

  On the way over he had been planning what he would say. He would pretend that he had met the girl somewhere, walking in Hyde Park maybe, and was calling as a potential suitor. He would ask for her to be allowed out for a coffee with him. If her employers were above board they couldn’t complain about that. If they raised objections and he could get close enough to the girl, he would slip her a note of his telephone number and address so that she could contact him direct. His heartbeat quickened as he approached the immaculately scrubbed front steps. He was always uncomfortable perpetrating even the smallest deception.

  The door opened to his ring, revealing a cool, tranquil interior of high ceilings and polished floors, guarded by a butler in shirtsleeves and apron.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ Joe said, horribly aware of just how unpressed his clothes were. ‘I’m trying to find Doris.’

  The man’s face remained impassive. ‘If you would like to come in and wait, I will fetch Mrs Montgomery. What name shall I say?’

  ‘Weston,’ he plucked a name from the air. ‘John Weston.’ Joe stepped into the hall. As the butler shut the heavy front door the last sounds of the outside world were abruptly cut off and the steady tick of a nearby grandfather clock took over. Two small children appeared on the stairs, their attention attracted by the bell. They sat down on the steps to watch him, like the first members of an audience settling down for a show, full of anticipation for whatever entertainment might be to come.

  Their mother emerged from downstairs. Joe assumed it was the kitchen area, as it had been in Fliss’ aunt’s house. Mrs Montgomery was the type of Englishwoman he had grown accustomed to during the last twelve years. Most of Fliss’ school-friends had had the same air of easy superiority about them. They had always made him feel that they were charmed to meet an American, but thought Fliss terribly brave to have married a writer with no private income.

  ‘Mr Weston is it?’ she asked with a practised smile which suggested she was reserving judgement as to whether she was pleased to meet him.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘I’m sorry to come unannounced. I was looking for Doris.’

  ‘Doris?’ She shook his hand and gave him a puzzled look. A young woman who appeared to be a nanny had joined the children on the staircase. Although she didn’t sit down with her charges, she seemed to be listening to the conversation in the hall. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anyone of that name.’

  ‘She’s a Filipino,’ Joe said. ‘She told me she was working at this address.’

  ‘I’m afraid she made a mistake,’ Mrs Montgomery gave a pleasant little laugh. ‘She must have got the wrong number or the wrong street name. It often happens. People come here when they actually want Eaton Row or Eaton Terrace.’

  For a second Joe thought of getting out the headed writing paper to show her that he had the right address, but thought better of it. She didn’t look like the sort of woman who would take kindly to the idea of some strange girl using her personal notepaper. He guessed the girl must have stolen it from somewhere, or else the letter was a hoax. Either way he didn’t want to cause the Montgomery family any unnecessary worry. He felt like an intruder in their calm, orderly lives.

  He wasn’t terribly surprised. So many potential stories turned out to be wild-goose chases. He had learnt long ago that it was better to cut your losses quickly rather than wasting time following up dud leads. He would give this one up and try to think of something else to work on
.

  ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘She must have got it wrong. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.’

  ‘That’s quite all right.’ She moved him towards the door. ‘I’m sorry you have been disappointed. Was she very pretty?’

  ‘Pretty?’ Joe decided still to go along with the idea that he had a personal interest in the girl. It was the easiest way out. ‘Yes, she was. Never mind.’ He put on what he hoped looked like a brave smile as she ushered him out into the street and the locks on the door snapped shut behind him.

  Realising that he was feeling thirsty, he wished he had asked for a glass of water to save himself the price of a drink. It was too late to go back now. He sauntered to the end of the road, wondering where the nearest place would be where he could get a Coke, when a girl ran out of the side street and collided into him.

  Once he had recovered from the surprise he recognised her as the nanny he had seen on the stairs with the children. She must have left the house by a back entrance and run round to catch him. When she spoke she had a heavy Scandinavian accent.

  ‘I am sorry,’ she said, stepping back and catching her breath. She had a wide, honest face with the palest of blue eyes. He noticed that she had strong, capable hands, almost like a man’s. ‘This Doris. I know her.’

  ‘You know her?’ Joe was startled. He had been quite ready to believe the highly respectable-looking Mrs Montgomery.

  ‘Yes. I cannot talk now. I must get back before she sees I am away from the children. If you want I can meet you tonight at eight o’clock, when the children are in bed. Yes? You would like that?’

  ‘Yes, of course. Where would you like to meet?’

  She looked confused for a moment, unable to think of a suitable meeting place in a city which was not her own. ‘You know Sloane Square?’ she said, eventually, obviously keen to make the arrangement and get away. Joe nodded. ‘I will meet you in the middle of the square, under the trees. There are benches. At eight o’clock. I may be delayed a few minutes, not many. Don’t come to the house asking for me. I will come.’

  With that she turned and ran back down the side street. He saw her take the first turning back round to the house. He liked the idea of having a mysterious rendezvous with a strange girl. He wished he had fancied her.

  The phone started to ring the moment Joe opened the front door of the flat. Anxious not to bring Angus out of his room any sooner than was necessary, he snatched up the receiver to silence it.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ chirped the voice at the other end.

  ‘Hey, Big Man, how are you?’ His heart jumped at the sound of his son’s voice and then sank as he thought of the days that had passed since he last saw him.

  ‘I’m okay,’ the boy replied, his words tumbling over one another in their hurry to get out. ‘We’re in London and Mum’s going to some boring dinner party tonight and she’s going to be out till late and she wants you to have me.’ He heard Fliss shouting some correction in the background. ‘And I really want to come, because the babysitter is going to be really boring.’ There was another shout from Fliss. ‘And I want to see you. I’ve got this great new game. It’s brilliant! Mum wants to talk to you.’

  Joe heard Fliss say, ‘For God’s sake, Hugo,’ in the background. And then she was on the line. ‘I did not say that. He said he really wanted to see you tonight and I told him to ring you and see what you were doing.’

  ‘Right, okay.’ Joe didn’t want to say that he had just made a date to meet a blonde Scandinavian nanny. He never wanted to miss any time that he was offered with Hugo, in case it wasn’t offered again. ‘That would be great. What time can he come?’

  ‘He can come over after lunch, and then we’ll pick him up tomorrow, on our way to the country.’

  ‘Sure.’ How he hated it when she referred to herself and the polo player as ‘we’. ‘Whatever.’

  ‘Okay. See you in a couple of hours.’ The phone went dead in his hand.

  ‘Did you manage to get to the bank, my dear?’ Angus’ voice boomed out behind him, making him jump. Angus must just have washed his long hair and it flopped over his eyes. He tossed his head back to clear his vision.

  ‘Ah, Angus,’ Joe gave a laugh which he knew must sound nervous. ‘I’m sorry. Something came up and put it right out of my mind. I’ll write you a cheque, now.’ He pulled a cheque-book out of his pocket and scribbled a cheque under Angus’ watchful eyes. ‘There you go.’ He handed it across casually and went to sort his room out before Hugo arrived.

  ‘Joe,’ Angus’ voice rolled down the corridor behind him, bouncing mellifluously off the aged, stained paintwork on the walls. ‘You’ve forgotten to sign it.’

  ‘Have I?’ Joe opened his eyes wide in mock horror at such an oversight. ‘I’m sorry, Angus. I have a lot on my mind.’ He made his way back, taking his pen out and signing with a flourish.

  ‘Joe,’ Angus’ tone changed to an almost fatherly level. ‘If you are short of money at any time you just have to tell me.’ He put his hand on Joe’s shoulder and squeezed. A mixture of tobacco smoke, stale shirts and aftershave assailed Joe’s nostrils. ‘I’m sure there would always be some way round the problem.’

  ‘Thanks Angus.’ Joe decided to pretend he had missed the innuendo in his landlord’s suggestion. ‘You’re a pal.’

  He gave Angus a manly slap on the back and hurried back to his room, leaving the old actor pushing his hair out of his eyes and studying the cheque carefully.

  Joe was still vacuuming up the last shreds of evidence of his biscuit-eating bachelor habits, when there was a tap on his bedroom door and Fliss poked her head in. He had intended to keep her at the front door, but he must have missed the doorbell because of the Hoover and someone else had let her in. He felt himself blushing at the modesty of his accommodation. He was worried she wouldn’t think it appropriate for Hugo to spend too much time there. Her face didn’t seem to register either approval or disapproval. In fact, she didn’t show any interest in the surroundings at all.

  He was surprised by how blonde her hair had become since he last saw her. He guessed that it was the polo player’s influence. It also looked as if she had been under the sunlamp.

  Hugo hurtled into the room past his mother and threw his arms around Joe’s waist, knocking the wind out of him with the strength of his hug. Joe, taken by surprise, found himself propelled backwards onto the bed by the force of his son’s affection. The Hoover gave an excited scream as it escaped from his grip. Fliss switched it off at the wall.

  Joe struggled to his feet, embarrassed to have been toppled off balance so easily. He was worried Hugo might feel uncomfortable at the accident. The boy appeared unbothered and continued to jump around the room like an excited puppy, while Fliss and Joe made polite conversation about the contents of their son’s overnight bag.

  ‘I got your note yesterday,’ Joe said. ‘It’ll take me a little while to get the money together.’ He couldn’t bring himself to say that he did not think it was remotely fair that she should suddenly spring private school fees on him when they had never discussed it before.

  ‘Okay.’ She smiled forgivingly. ‘He doesn’t go back for a few days. I just thought I should send it through to you as soon as possible. The letter had been at the house in London for a week or two but we’ve been away.’

  A few minutes later she was gone and Joe and Hugo were left alone.

  ‘We’ve got an important assignment tonight,’ Joe said, conspiratorially.

  ‘What do you mean?’ The boy’s blue eyes lit up.

  ‘We have to meet a mysterious blonde foreign lady in a public place. She has information for a story I might be writing.’

  ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ The expression on Hugo’s face suggested that he hoped the answer to this would be negative.

  ‘No,’ Joe laughed.

  ‘Is she a spy?’

  ‘Who knows. We’ll have to find out.’

  ‘Cool!’

  At eight o�
�clock Joe was sitting on a bench in the middle of Sloane Square. The traffic roared around him as people headed out for dinner or home from late working habits. Hugo had jumped on the next bench and was standing holding out his arms like a tightrope walker.

  Joe’s attention was divided between watching his son’s antics and waiting for the nanny to appear from the far end of the square. He didn’t see the old man until he had sat down beside him with a thump which made the seat jolt beneath him.

  Joe’s new neighbour leant close to his face, emitting a cloud of Special Brew through his grimy beard. ‘They’re all bloody bastards!’ he confided.

  ‘Are they?’ Joe was anxious not to create a scene in front of Hugo. His priority was to get rid of the man before he could frighten his son. He was also anxious that if the nanny saw him talking to someone else she might lose her nerve and go home.

  ‘They’re all bloody bastards,’ the man repeated. As Joe stared into his face he realised that beneath the grime the tramp was probably not much older than him. For a split second he wondered if this man had been leading a perfectly normal life just a few years before and had been dealt one cruel blow by life, which had brought him down to living on the street. Perhaps he had lost his job, or his wife had walked out on him.

  ‘Who are?’ Joe asked.

  ‘All of them,’ the tramp said firmly. ‘Is this your laddie?’ He pointed at Hugo, who, realising something more interesting was afoot, had given up the tightrope act and climbed across on to the bench with his father.

  ‘Yeah,’ Joe said. ‘My name’s Joe. This is Hugo.’

  The tramp shook their hands solemnly. His grip was uncomfortably strong. ‘Your father is a gentleman,’ he told Hugo. Hugo laughed. The tramp held up a blackened finger to silence him. ‘There’s not many of the bastards will give me the time of day any more.’ He leant in close to Joe’s face again. ‘Could you spare me the price of a newspaper, do you suppose?’

  ‘Sure,’ Joe reached into his pocket and handed over a fifty pence coin. The old man stood up unsteadily and saluted. Joe could see the nanny crossing the road from the corner of Sloane Street. ‘You’ll have to excuse us. We’re meeting someone. Nice to meet you.’ He grabbed Hugo’s hand and walked briskly to the curb to intercept the girl as she made her way through the traffic. ‘Hello,’ he said when she reached them. ‘You made it.’