Chapter 48

Nick looked up as Rennie appeared in the kitchen doorway. ‘Hi. Can I help you?’

Friendly and without a flicker of recognition.

‘I’m Rennie Todd,’ said Rennie, causing the thin redhead currently washing up at the sink to whip round and stare at him, open-mouthed in disbelief.

Nick’s expression changed, grew less friendly. ‘Carmen’s brother-in-law. The big rock star.’

‘Oh God, you’re Rennie Todd,’ gasped the skinny redhead. ‘From Red Lizard.’

‘I am,’ Rennie agreed.

‘Pat, just get on with the washing-up.’ Nick’s tone was curt. ‘We’re going through to the office.’

‘Oh, but—’

‘And we don’t want to be disturbed.’

Once they were inside the office, Rennie said, ‘This won’t take long.’

Nick scowled. ‘It certainly won’t if you’ve come here to try and persuade me to change my mind. I suppose Carmen sent you, she’s—’

‘Yes, she sent me. And no, I haven’t come here to try and change your mind. Far from it,’ Rennie went on evenly. Deeply tempting though it was to tell Nick he’d made the biggest mistake of his life, he didn’t want him thinking it through, realising that he might be right and promptly having a change of heart. The last thing he needed was Nick embarking on a campaign to win Carmen back. Wanker. Aloud he said, ‘Anyway, never mind about that. Carmen’s fine. Very well indeed. She asked me to come here because she has something for one of your clients.’

Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Who?’

‘Harry. Carmen said he usually comes in around now for his lunch.’

‘What’s she got for him?’

Ignoring the question, Rennie said, ‘Is he here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. I’ll go and have a word with him.’

‘I’ll come with you, point him out.’

‘No need.’ Rennie, who remembered only too well what Harry looked like, said, ‘I can manage.’

Harry was sitting in the tartan armchair at the far end of the room, away from the blaring television and a spirited debate about Premier Division football clubs. As before, he was buried in a book. When Rennie sat down beside him, he glanced up and - unlike Nick - recognised him.

But not in an overwhelmed, Pat-in-the-kitchen type of way.

‘Hello,’ said Harry.

‘Hi. Rennie Todd.’ As Rennie shook his hand, he saw that the book Harry had been reading was a yellowed, battered copy of Roget’s Thesaurus. ‘I’m a friend of Carmen’s.’

Harry nodded slowly. ‘She’s a good girl. Everyone liked Carmen. Not working here any more, I understand. We’ll miss her.’

‘There’s something she’d like you to have.’ Rennie took a labelled key from the pocket of his leather jacket. ‘She took a six-month lease on a flat in Battersea, but she won’t be using it now. So it’s yours if you want it. Otherwise it’ll be standing empty.’

Harry’s hand began to tremble as he took the key and looked at the address on the label. ‘Why me?’

‘Why anyone? Carmen thought you’d appreciate the peace and quiet. There’s a word processor in the flat,’ said Rennie, ‘in case you feel like making a start on another book. You never know, things might turn out differently this time. No pressures. It’s a decent little place. Furnished. Had a burst pipe recently, but everything’s been dried out now and redecorated. ’

There were tears in Harry’s eyes. Aware that he and Rennie were being watched by everyone else in the room, he wiped his face with his sleeve.

‘Tell her thank you. You don’t know what this means to me.’ Harry shook his hand. ‘This is incredible.’

‘No problem. Look, I’m going to go now.’ Before he attracted too much more attention, Rennie rose to his feet. ‘Good luck with the writing.’

Harry sat there for several seconds after Rennie had left, silently gazing at the key.

Nick came over and said, ‘What was that all about, then?’

‘Carmen’s given me a flat for six months.’ Harry’s voice quivered with emotion. ‘And a word processor. So that I can start writing again.’

Nick frowned. How on earth had Carmen found out about Harry’s brief encounter with the world of publishing?

One thing was for sure, she certainly hadn’t heard it from him.

 

‘Crikey, it’s Janice,’ said Zac, startled and double-checking his watch. ‘Hello, my darling, bit early for you, isn’t it? I thought you didn’t get out of bed before midday - whoaaah, whatever happened to you?’

Equally shocked, Nancy stared as Janice Hazzard removed her dark glasses to reveal dramatically blackened eyes and a bruised and swollen cheekbone. Only Doreen, unperturbed, leapt up from her basket and trotted across the shop to greet one of her favourite customers.

‘You see, this is what’s so heavenly about dogs,’ Janice exclaimed, scooping Doreen up into her arms and letting the little dog lick her face. ‘You can look a complete gargoyle and they still love you.’

‘She loves you because you always give her chocolate buttons.’ Bemused by Janice’s chirpy manner, Zac peered more closely at her face. ‘Did you have your eyes done? I can’t see any stitches.’

‘My darling, I was attacked! Mugged!’ Janice tut-tutted. ‘Honestly, you can tell you don’t read the papers.’

‘When? What happened? My God, sit down! Nancy, get her a coffee, run upstairs and get the brandy, the good stuff.’

‘Will you stop fussing about me? I’m fine.’ Janice flapped her bejewelled hands, wafting clouds of Eau Dynamisante. ‘Calm down, for heaven’s sake. I’m a tough old bird. Bloody hell, compared with all the crap I’ve had to put up with in my life from men, this was nothing.’

‘You could have been killed,’ Zac shouted, far more shaken than Janice.

‘But I wasn’t. What’s more, I won.’ Sitting down and crossing her legs, she looked triumphant. ‘This huge bloke jumped me as I was heading up our front path, tried to grab my bag. Your bag,’ she added, patting the turquoise and apricot suede and velvet shoulder bag on her lap. ‘Well, what a cheek, I wasn’t going to let him take that, was I? So we had a little wrestle.’

‘Are you mad?’ Zac bellowed in disbelief. ‘You’re lucky he didn’t have a knife!’

‘I love my bag. He wasn’t having it,’ Janice repeated. ‘So anyway, that was when he punched me in the face, expecting me to go down like a skittle. Except what with all the practice I’ve had, getting battered by men, I didn’t. And that was when I whacked him with my bag.’

‘That bag?’ Nancy said doubtfully. Suede? Velvet? Lined with silk?

‘Ah, but what he didn’t know was what I had in it.’ Janice triumphantly recrossed her legs. ‘Malcolm’s always said I carry around everything bar the kitchen sink. That’s why I like a bag that’s nice and roomy.’

Zac said, ‘What did you have in it?’

‘Well, make-up case, obviously. Phone. Purse. Keys. Cigs, heavy lighter, A-Z - you know, all the usual stuff. Then, happily, I happened to have nicked a really big glass ashtray from the restaurant my agent had taken me to at lunchtime.’

‘That’s a lot.’ Zac nodded.

‘Spare pair of shoes. Manolos, of course.’

‘Ouch,’ said Zac.

‘And an alarm clock and a jar of olives,’ Janice said happily. ‘Oh, and a travel iron.’

‘Jesus. So is he dead?’

‘No, but he’s completely ruined my lovely bay tree. Went flying backwards and squashed it flat. And he smashed the pot. Oh, thank you, darling.’ Accepting a cup of coffee from Nancy, Janice went on, ‘Anyway, I’d been yelling blue murder and my neighbours all came out to see what was going on. They sat on him until the police arrived. And that was it, he was arrested and carted off.’ She rummaged busily in her bag, producing a newspaper. ‘And I’m a heroine!’

‘You’ve always been my heroine,’ said Zac.

‘That’s not all. Lots of lovely publicity for you too, darling.’ Smugly, Janice turned to page five.

Nancy and Zac gazed at the headline - Wallop! Brave Janice beats mugger - above a photograph of Janice and her black eyes, beaming triumphantly and brandishing her bag. To be honest, the bag had come out of it better than Janice. It was photogenic, the star of the show.

‘Here we go, in the third column,’ Janice pointed to the relevant paragraph. ‘“It’s a Zac Parris bag, my pride and joy,” said feisty Janice. “I wasn’t going to let some big sweaty oik take it. Now I love it even more - from now on, a Zac Parris bag shall always be my weapon of choice.”’

There was another photo showing the bag in close-up, and a further quote from Janice saying, ‘Zac’s wonderful bags are like me - they might look like a soft touch, but they certainly pack a punch!’

‘You’re a star.’ Zac was delighted. ‘This is fantastic. I owe you one - oh, you bad girl!’

Tired of waiting for her chocolate buttons, Doreen had leapt back onto Janice’s lap, attempted to climb inside her bag, lost her balance and spilled coffee all over the newspaper spread out on the desk.

‘I was going to frame that page,’ Zac complained.

‘Darling, I’ve got fifty more copies in the car. Anyway, it’s not just that newspaper.’ Janice preened. ‘I’m in practically all of them, even the Telegraph. And I’m on Richard and Judy at five o’clock.’

‘This is getting surreal.’ Nancy, clearing away the uppermost coffee-stained pages, stopped and stared.

‘I know! This week Richard and Judy, next week Parkinson! I mean, this could give my career just the boost it needs!’

‘Actually, I meant this.’ Nancy was gazing in disbelief at uncovered, un-coffee-stained page 26, part of the paper’s fashion section. ‘That’s my . . . that’s my bag.’

It was, there was no doubt about it. Under the heading Must-Have Bag of the Season was a photograph of her very own bag. ‘Zac Parris, London’s best-kept secret . . .’ Nancy read aloud ‘. . . this fabulous custom-made bag sells for £299 and you get to choose your own colours. Just call 0207 blah blah or visit the website . . .’

‘Copycats,’ exclaimed Janice. ‘But I was on page five, so I was first.’

‘How did this happen?’ Zac was bemused.

‘I don’t know, but this is the paper Tabitha works for.’ Nancy took out her mobile, into which Tabitha’s number was programmed.

Zac frowned. ‘I thought you said she was a financial journalist. ’

‘I did. But Tabitha was the one who took that photo of my bag. When we were doing our make-up in the loos at the Tipsy Prawn, she pulled out a digital camera and . . . hi, it’s me.’

‘Hi, you.’ Tabitha sounded as if she was grinning from ear to ear. ‘I wondered how long it would take to hear from you this morning.’

‘So it was you. You told the fashion editor at your paper about Zac’s bag.’

‘OK. Guilty confession time,’ said Tabitha. ‘I’m the fashion editor.’

Nancy inwardly digested this information. It was like Princess Anne admitting that she’d whipped off her kit and posed for Playboy.

The silence lengthened. Finally Tabitha said gaily, ‘Poor you, plunged into shock. I know. Hardly the usual kind, am I? The thing is, you don’t have to be a great artist to appreciate great art. Some people can’t sing to save their lives but they still enjoy listening to music. And just because I don’t choose to dress like a fashion victim doesn’t mean I can’t put together decent outfits for other people and write convincingly about next season’s pin-striped bikinis.’

Dumbstruck, Nancy said, ‘But . . . but you said you were a financial journalist.’

‘Well, wouldn’t you? It’s embarrassing, doing this job! I mean, God, it’s not as if a piece about padded shoulders is ever going to change the world. As soon as anyone finds out what I really do, they think I’m a complete airhead,’ Tabitha protested, ‘and I’m really not. I’ve got a first-class degree in economics, for crying out loud. I always wanted to work in financial journalism, but the paper offered me a start in this department and I just, well, kind of got stuck here.’

‘Right,’ Nancy said faintly. She looked down at the fashion editor’s by-line. ‘Who’s Kate Harris?’

Except, of course, it was all coming back to her now. Tabitha’s surname was Harris.

‘Kate’s my middle name. I was saving Tabitha for when I got a proper job in finance. Look, I’m sorry I fibbed to you, but I was desperate to impress Connor. I mean, fashion editors can be downright weird - lots of people think we’re all barking mad - and I didn’t want to put him off.’

Doing her best to sound concerned rather than hopeful, Nancy said, ‘Do you think it would?’

‘Oh, he knows now. I told him last night,’ Tabitha rattled on happily. ‘Now that he knows me, he’s absolutely fine about it. Thank God!’

‘Well, um . . . good.’ Nancy tried hard to quash the twinge of disappointment. Ashamed of herself, she said hurriedly, ‘What made you choose Zac’s bag?’

‘It’s a great bag! Everyone in the office loves it! Besides, it’s my way of thanking you.’

‘For what?’ said Nancy, although she’d already guessed.

‘You introduced me to Connor. I owe you,’ Tabitha exclaimed. ‘Crikey, you did me a huge favour! I thought it would be nice to do one in return.’ Cheerfully she went on, ‘After this, Zac’s bound to give you a bonus!’

The phone on the desk began to ring. Zac, snatching it up, said, ‘Hello, Zac Parris. Yes, it is. Oh, right. Great!’ Waggling his eyebrows excitedly at Nancy and Janice, he listened some more and said, ‘How many? Hang on, let me just grab a pen . . .’