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It was strange to reconcile the toady countenance he now had with the handsome young man he had been when she married him. On really bad days he looked like a bilberry, all swollen and purply. He would be easy to draw in a life class, just a series of massive circles. His attractiveness in every way had disappeared in direct proportion to his wealth. Peculiar how some women out there were prepared to allow such an abundance of flesh to land on them in the bedroom in return for a few baubles. At least she had had an excuse: youth, silliness and lack of ambition. Other men had been available, but she felt she had been unduly influenced by the approbation of her father. Yes, she’d blame it on him.
The leaves on the lime and plane trees lining the roads were barely moving in the sultry weather. Miranda felt hot and leaden as she walked back to the house empty-handed, debating what to eat so that she didn’t look too bloated later. At least it was the sort of day when she didn’t want to eat chocolate – it melted so quickly it reminded her of poo.
Earlier that day, a little orange Volkswagen camper van made its way towards Cirencester, Alex was feeling clammy. His father had insisted he go to see him that morning on a matter of some importance, and Alex assumed it was about his mother, who was periodically threatening to end it all.
He drove up to the gates and got out to tap in the day’s code on the pad. It was his favourite time of year for the garden in front of the house. It was vast, but sectioned off into smaller areas, including a walled garden where hollyhocks and ornamental thistles poked above lamb’s ears and lady’s mantle. By summer, it would be a riot of colour, but now everything was quietly budding.
Belinda, the housekeeper, let him in and he made his way to his father’s study where the wood-panelled walls gave the ticking of the eighteenth-century clock a pleasant bok sound. A tall, slim man with close-cropped silver hair and tanned skin was standing by the window pouring two glasses of sparkling water. One already rested on a filigree coaster on the walnut side table.
‘Hi, Dad,’ said Alex, sinking into the red leather chair and accepting a glass. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve bought a small island off the coast of Spain,’ his father said, ‘to build a luxury hotel, a spa and a golf course – yes, I do know how you feel about golf courses, before you give me a lecture – and I happen to know that a number of people are going to be very unhappy about that. No, not the golf course,’ he added, as Alex opened his mouth to speak, ‘about me owning the island. Right now, it’s used as a very handy stopping-off point for drug-runners getting their stuff from Africa to Europe. I intend to stop that, obviously. I’ve been told they could make things nasty for us because we’re talking about a lot of money. I myself am hiring a couple of personal bodyguards, possibly for the next couple of years, and putting in a little more security here at the house.’
‘And you think I could be at risk too?’ Alex asked bluntly.
‘In a nutshell, yes. Let’s face it, you’re hardly difficult to track down in that orange van of yours. And not difficult to, say, kidnap. As my only son, you would be the perfect way for them to get at me and persuade me to allow them to continue. I don’t want that to happen. In fact, I won’t allow it to happen.’
‘I can see that you might not like it, Dad, but why not let them carry on with it, and get the police involved?’
David Miller took a sip of his water. ‘I have it on good authority that the police may be taking backhanders. As for letting them get on with it, you know I can’t. Can you imagine the headlines if an island I own is used for drug-running?’
Alex grinned. ‘Yes. Right. But won’t they find somewhere else if you make it uncomfortable for them?’
‘No. I think they’d try to make it uncomfortable for us by maybe shooting anybody who saw what they were doing. An innocent builder, for example.’
‘What do you want me to do?’
‘I need you to take a lot more care than you do now.’
‘All right, I will,’ Alex said.
‘What will you do?’
‘Take more care,’ Alex said jauntily, raising his eyebrows.
‘As in?’
‘Why don’t you just tell me what you want me to do, Dad, like you always do?’
‘I’d like you to employ a bodyguard.’ The clock ticked, and the leather chair creaked as he leant forward. ‘I know you’d hate it. I know it’s not your …’ he paused ‘… style. But it’s not for ever. I’ve never asked you to change your way of life, have I?’ Alex acknowledged that. ‘Even though I do think it’s about time you started thinking about laying down foundations for the future.’
Alex nodded. ‘Yes, I know you do, Dad. And actually,’ he said, ‘I was going to wait and tell you this in a few months’ time, but I may as well tell you now. Today I signed on the dotted line for my range of organic freeze-dried soups to go into Waitrose. For a not insubstantial amount of money.’
David let out a crack of laughter. ‘Bloody well done, Alex. Congratulations. I know how much that means to you.’ He got up from his chair and came round the desk to give his son a handshake and a clap on the back. ‘Do you want a celebratory drink?’
‘No, thanks. A little early for me. But now you come to mention it, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.’
David picked up the phone. ‘Belinda, a cup of tea for Alex, please, and a glass of champagne for me. Thanks.’ The sun was shining between the slats in the blinds and he walked over to alter the angle. ‘To get back to the security issue, what do you want to do? Obviously, since it’s entirely my, er, fault, if you like, that the situation has arisen, I’m willing to put it through the company.’ He raised a hand to Alex’s instant objection. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have used the word “willing”. It should go through the company, since otherwise I could be facing all sorts of problems if you were to get kidnapped. Including raising the ten quid needed to free you.’
Alex smiled wryly. ‘I don’t know, Dad. It just seems a little over the top. You’ve done deals before where dodgy people have been involved.’
‘That’s the point. I’m not doing a deal with these “dodgy people”, as you describe them. I want them off the island.’
‘I still don’t understand why they won’t go and find another island. Yours can’t be the only one, surely.’
‘It’s the most useful. Not many others are virtually uninhabited. Point is, I’ve taken advice, and the advice is, we need professional protection.’
‘Is it worth the deal?’ Alex wrinkled his nose.
‘It most assuredly is. And before you ask, I’m doing as much as I can to make it ecologically aware. Solar panels on the roof, et cetera. However, it’s going to be a five- or six-star hotel, and I refuse to have the sort of ecological bathrooms where you throw earth into the lavatory and occasionally lob in a hundredweight of worms. So don’t even ask it of me.’
‘How long would we have to have these bodyguards?’ Alex asked, emphasising the final word.
‘Until the hotel is finished and at least in its first working year.’
‘Which would be about how long?’
‘Three years, to be on the safe side.’
‘Three years?’ Alex was aghast. ‘Three years of having someone—’
‘Or two,’ interjected David.
‘Of having someone,’ Alex reiterated, ‘following me around everywhere. For God’s sake, Dad. Talk about overkill.’
‘Alex, you are my heir. And they know that. Please don’t make me have to have you followed.’
Belinda knocked and came in with a pot of tea and a crystal glass of champagne. ‘It’s ethically sourced organic Assam tea,’ she said to Alex, who was now pacing the room. ‘Shall I pour?’
‘No, thanks, let it mash. How are the kids?’
‘Great,’ said Belinda, her bosom almost visibly swelling with pride. ‘One’s taking GCSEs, the other’s trying to decide whether to go in the army or do plumbing. I’d prefer him not to go into the army, what with Afghanistan and everything, but he’s got friends who love it.’
‘Yes, I can see that plumbing would be the marginally less dangerous option. Although I tell you what, there are some people whose pipes I would not like to riddle,’ he said, with a grimace.
‘Anything else I can get you?’ asked the housekeeper, addressing David.
‘A new van for my son, if you could. It’s making the front of the house look scruffy.’
Belinda looked affectionately at Alex and left the room.
‘I think she’s got the hots for you, Dad,’ Alex said, pouring the tea through the strainer into the bone china cup.
‘Hardly surprising,’ was David’s riposte. He was well used to his son’s ribbing. Belinda looked like a friendly dumpling. ‘Anyway. What’s it to be?’ he asked.
‘Let’s compromise. I’ll allow you to employ one minder. But can I have a right of veto? I don’t want one who looks like a bloody great big gorilla with balloons under his arms. And if he’s got to be around me all the time, I’d like him to have a reasonable personality.’
‘Or her,’ added David.
‘Or her,’ said Alex, perking up. ‘You know, that would actually be quite cool. Halle Berry in Die Another Day. Angelina Jolie in that shit film Lara Croft: Tomb Raider. Nice. Hey, I’m coming round to this idea.’
‘I think the likelihood of that is going to be about zero. But if you’d prefer a woman, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll send them round to the van, shall I?’
‘Ha-ha. The house will be finished in a week or so. Send them there or the flat in London. Is there going to be a code? Three short knocks, followed by a long one, a finger of banana slid through the letterbox and a cough?’
‘I can see this is going to be an endless source of amusement. I’ll let you have a list and you can make your own arrangements.’
Alex drove back to his house in the pretty village of Shillingford and had a quick chat with the decorators before going to London and getting ready for his dinner date. He chose a pair of Alexander McQueen trousers and a Paul Smith shirt. He slipped on a pair of tan boots he’d had made for him, and tied his dreadlocks back. He had shaved that morning and was sporting a rakish five o’clock shadow. With a cursory glance in the mirror, he left with a confident air.
There was a distinct lack of confidence going on with Miranda. She was having a crisis. Every item of clothing she tried on looked atrocious. She had decided that her body looked like an old potato. Her hair was a mess. She could only see wrinkles and could have sworn her skin was starting to ruche in places.
She was almost tempted to phone Alex and tell him she’d got flu. Or the plague. Boils. Frogs. Anything. She looked at her watch. How could it be that she was running out of time? She’d been getting ready since three.
The mobile rang. Lucy again. She pressed reject call. A text pinged. Alex, saying he was on his way and was really looking forward to dinner. He’d also given her the postcode in case she didn’t know where it was. As if. His text spurred her on. She decided to follow the tenets she had lived by since she was a teenager. One: if in doubt, get them out. Two: high heels good, higher heels better.
The woman who hailed the taxi on the main road in Notting Hill looked flushed but beautiful. She had tied her hair back loosely with a clip, and was wearing slim black trousers, towering stilettos, a stunning blue shimmering shirt unbuttoned dangerously low, and diamond drop earrings – a twentieth anniversary gift from Nigel when he was feeling guilty about the affair with his secretary.
Fashionably late, she arrived at Zuma and was directed to a table where Alex was perusing the wine list. He stood up and kissed her on one cheek, setting off a chain reaction through her sensory zones and making the hairs on the back of her neck tingle. It had been an age since anything this exciting had happened to her follicles.
She smiled flirtily. ‘Sorry I’m late. Have you been waiting long?’
‘Hmm,’ he said. ‘The temptation to say “all of my life” is quite strong.’
‘But luckily you resisted it because it was far too corny,’ she responded.
‘Exactly. I arrived about ten minutes ago, to make sure our table was okay.’
‘What would you have done if it wasn’t?’ she asked, opening the menu without looking at it.
‘Asked to be shown another, of course.’
‘Naturally,’ she said, ‘since you’re obviously a frequent customer.’
His bright green eyes crinkled attractively. ‘I can see I’m going to have to disabuse you of the notion that I live in a swamp, make my own clothes out of spinach and grow fungus under my fingernails.’
‘A fungi to be with,’ she quipped.
‘Well, I do hope so. Before we get into the story of my life and you tell me how you came to be so gorgeous, shall we order some wine?’
‘Thank you. Yes. White okay?’ He had called her gorgeous! She felt like a teenager.
Alex addressed himself to the wine list, giving Miranda time to study him more fully. The sage green shirt with small cream stars had a couple of buttons undone and highlighted his smooth brown skin. He was wearing stone-coloured trousers, and she could see a booted foot coming out from under the table.
As if he could feel her scrutiny, he glanced up and caught her eye. ‘All satisfactory, madam?’ he asked.
She blushed to the roots of her hair.
He smiled. ‘Hey, don’t think I haven’t been doing the same. You look beautiful. That blue shirt makes your eyes look the colour of cornflowers.’
Miranda was feeling too hot to make any intelligible response. He turned to the more innocuous subject of wine. ‘How do you feel about a sauvignon? Or a pinot grigio? Or chardonnay?’
‘Chardonnay, but not too oaky. If you fancy that?’ She was all of a dither, and her voice had gone up a notch. Calm yourself, she said slowly, in her head. You’re forty-three years old, for heaven’s sake.
He waved at the waiter and ordered a bottle of chenin blanc before opening the menu.
‘How do you square all this with your eco-credentials?’ queried Miranda, gesturing to the selection.
‘I do what I can where I can. And I ask before I decide. You don’t have to wear a hair shirt to want to do the decent thing by the planet. I do think we should eat a lot less meat, but I also accept that we wouldn’t have the meadows we do if there weren’t sheep roaming the hillsides chomping up the grass and leaving handy droppings for the plants. Has that helped you make any decisions on what you want to eat?’
‘A small pile of seaweed and an organic carrot?’ she suggested.
He grinned at her. ‘Honestly. I’m an eco-fan, not an eco-bore – I hope. And please, please, order what you want. My father is an out-and-out protein scoffer. He would eat a whole cow every day, hoofs cut off, arse wiped and on the plate – except that his doctor would have a go at him. My mother thinks food is only safe to eat if it’s covered with plastic. As I said, I do my best, but I accept that the world changes slowly.’
Miranda was quiet as she ran through the menu. She wasn’t going to risk it.
‘You ready?’
‘Yes, I think I am.’
His mouth twitched as she ordered a selection of vegetable dishes. He ordered some dishes that she hadn’t seen, explaining afterwards that he was a friend of the chef and had phoned ahead.
The restaurant was packed, with a hubbub coming from the bar area to the right of the entrance. Their table was one of the more discreet ones, but it still felt buzzy.
‘Where do your parents live, then?’ Miranda asked, after the waiter had left. He raised his eyebrows. ‘You said your dad eats cows and your mum eats plastic. Earlier,’ she explained.
‘Oh, yes, I did. Dad lives in Gloucestershire. Mum currently lives in Hampshire. The Isle of Wight. Just getting divorced for the second time and presumably working on a third husband.’
‘Not very good at being on her own, then?’
‘No. Although she does prefer the company of adults. She wasn’t around that much when I was growing up.’
‘Where was she?’
‘Charity stuff, I suppose,’ Alex said smoothly, not revealing that he had had a nanny for most of his childhood. ‘And then she divorced my father when I was ten and married a man who was an idiot. Luckily, I get on well with Dad most of the time, and he got custody of me.’
‘Only child?’ empathised Miranda.
He nodded. ‘You too?’
‘I spent my childhood wishing I was creative enough to have an imaginary friend.’
He laughed. ‘I spent my childhood roaming round the est–countryside,’ he stumbled slightly, ‘un-damming streams, saving chicks that had fallen out of the nest, foraging for mushrooms.’
‘How idyllic. And did you always have hair like that?’ she asked.
‘It was an act of rebellion when I was about twenty-five. It’s quite fun creating dreadlocks. You have to put special wax in your hair and eventually it does it itself. I’m considering chopping them off.’
‘That would be a shame if you have to put so much effort into it. It must be like a big, comfy pillow when you sleep on it. And if you cut it off, you might end up on litter-picking duties instead of being given the big, butch equipment.’
