THREE

RAINING CATS AND DOGS

Sunday 11 p.m., Mayfair

The taxi cuts a gash through two lanes of stationary vehicles waiting at the lights, and then turns into a dark, stubby little side street which leads directly onto a small square. A less enlightened or kindly passerby might consider it more of a parking bay flanked by a few grand terraces and an underground car park, but Audley Square it is. The rain continues to blubber inconsolably beyond my window as the car draws to a halt by the pavement, shivering involuntarily, perhaps with the chill. I stare beyond the blurred window at the tall redbrick building which now serves as my home from home when I'm back in London. A minute's sprint away is The Dorchester, rising like a decorous wedding cake, its lights twinkling in the leaden sky, and the posturing Hilton with its shiny windows and black beetle limos outside. For all its charm, my club could do with a generous lick of paint and modernising and so, like a dowdy cousin, hangs back from its more glitzy relatives along Park Lane. Its quaint and cosy aspect attracts scores of female members brought up on a diet of Mallory Towers, whose most cherished childhood memories include winceyette pyjamas, pillow fights, and a time when lemon sherbet was presented in small twists of white paper – I am one of those girls. The rain is bucketing down and I briefly contemplate how wet I'm going to get dashing to the front door without an umbrella, and with a truculent case in tow. Very, that's how. The driver grins at me in the mirror.

  'Forgotten your brolly?'

  'Well, it is May.'

  'Makes no difference, love.'

  He's right about that. The weather in Britain is impossible to predict any more so why don't I remember to pack an umbrella? Because I'm a dolt. Simple as that. I thrust the taxi receipt in my pocket and wheel my case out onto the wet pavement. In a blink I'm at the front door, but still manage to get soaked. The night porter, Noel, lets me in and tuts loudly.

  'No coat?'

  'Well, it is May.'

  'What?' he exclaims.

  Oh, let's not go there again, I sigh to myself. After signing in, I spend the next few minutes warming my toes by the hearth in the lobby. There's no fire in the grate but, bizarrely, it feels comforting just sitting in front of it. Noel is from Sri Lanka, and together we are trying to help raise funds for an orphanage in Colombo. In fact, it's entirely his fault that I shall be running the New York marathon. I bid him goodnight and squeeze into the tiny lift which might usefully double as a metal coffin. In my room, with its floral eiderdown, flannelette sheets and feather pillows, I am whisked back to childhood holidays in Wales staying in my grandfather's cottage in a remote village.

  A year ago when Alan and I had taken the decision to sell our flat in Pimlico, we knew that I would still need a pied-à-terre for my work trips back to London. Friends helpfully offered rooms but, not wanting to become the proverbial bad penny, I decided to hunt out an inexpensive refuge of my own. By sheer luck I discovered my club, an extraordinary oasis from the ravages of London life, and home to an irresistible cocktail of colourful, eccentric and quixotic members. The deciding factor for joining was the dark and musty oak-panelled library with its faux bookcase behind which lay a secret chamber. For that alone I would have signed up. True, the bathrooms were mostly shared, at times the water ran cold, and in the bedrooms the drawers and windows jammed, but for all that it represented one of London's hidden jewels, a national treasure to be lovingly preserved.

  I slowly unpack my case and with effort get ready for bed. Before setting the alarm I take a cursory glance at my loyal and tatty old leather diary. Since moving to Mallorca, I have stubbornly resisted embracing the new age of electronic gadgets and that includes fruit-branded diaries. My gun-toting client, Manuel Ramirez of H Hotels, has warned me about the perils of such toys. Apparently, last month while washing his socks in the bath of a plush Parisian hotel, his BlackBerry® fell from his jacket pocket into the bath water and that was the end of it. Of course, had he used the hotel's laundry service, the BlackBerry® might have remained intact and his socks in better condition, but that's neither here nor there.

  I turn the page and groan. In the morning I have an early breakfast meeting with the owner of Miller Magic Interiors in New York. Anyone with the name Daniella Popescu-Miller, spells trouble. And then at six-thirty, joy of joys, I'm due to see my old adversary, Greedy George, to discuss the delights of cat suits and dog collars. It's nearly midnight and I'm too exhausted to read the blur of other appointments, so I switch out the light. In my mind's eye I can see Alan and Ollie asleep in their beds. The cats will be prowling in the orchard in search of mice and rats, and my beloved frogs will be crooning in the pond.

Monday 7.15 a.m., the club, Audley Square

Someone's knocking on the bedroom door. I squint at my watch in the gloom. The overhanging light bulb has blown and I'm dressing by the sickly light of the bedside lamp. The chintzy curtains are drawn back, but it might as well still be night. Rain pounds the window and the sun continues to slumber beneath a soft quilt of slate cloud. Having risen at six o'clock, I managed to run around the quagmire of Hyde Park for the best part of an hour before returning, sodden, to the club for a quick shower. Now I'm attempting to dress and slap on some make-up before my first meeting of the day.

  'Coo-eee!!'

  I open the door.

  Bernadette is gawping at me from the other side. 'What kept you?' she asks with her Irish lilt.

  'Ah, Bernadette! I'm in a bit of a hurry. Is everything OK?'

  This bustling, singing, duster-wielding ball of Irish fun, who relishes tuna sandwiches before the sun is up and whose auburn hair is always immaculately set come rain or shine, is the club's esteemed housekeeper. She is cherished by the members and feared by those who attempt clandestine midnight feasts. She can sniff a chocolate wrapper ten feet away and her ability to detect biscuit crumbs in the bed is uncanny. It doesn't matter whether you're a baroness, an honourable, a lady, an MP or a commoner: as far as Bernadette is concerned everyone's guilty until proven innocent. We are all at her mercy and the promise of some much coveted shortcake biscuits left on the tea tray in our rooms is enough to have us playing to her tune.

  'Always in a rush you are,' she scoffs. 'God, look at you. Like a whippet, poor creature, no flesh on you. Nice to see you back. Did you notice the shortcake I put on your tray last night?'

  'You're an angel.'

  'Go on, get dressed, before you upset the other old ladies.'

  I stand by the door, wet hair clinging to my face as Bernadette bustles down the corridor rowdily singing an Irish ballad as she goes.

8 a.m., Piccadilly

Standing on Piccadilly, I survey the vast grey frontage of The Wolseley on the opposite side of the street. Drizzling rain blurs this snapshot of Venetian styled elegance, as I peep out from the rim of my dripping umbrella. Strictly speaking, I can't claim ownership, given that it's on loan from my club. In front of me, long, metallic tentacles of traffic extend slowly east and west, their progress impeded by the rain and sluggish traffic lights. I weave between cars and hop onto the pavement, entering the chic, grand cafe through one of the arched portals. It's eight in the morning and already a dull hubbub of noise rises like smoke to the very top of the domed ceiling. At the front desk a woman whips the wet umbrella from my hand and leads me into the main restaurant and through the maze of occupied tables. At a discreet corner table, tucked away beneath one of the marble pillars, sits Rachel. She's already scribbling furiously in a voluminous notepad, her honey brown hair scooped up into an efficient French pleat. She gives me a winning smile.

  'Excellent. You're early.' She leans forward and pecks me on the cheek then orders herself another cappuccino and a Darjeeling tea for me.

  'I like the suit.'

  She brushes the fine wool sleeve of her jacket. 'You know my penchant for red. It gives me confidence.'

  'You don't need it. Tall people never do.'

  'I'm not so sure.' She slams her notebook shut and leans towards me confidentially. 'Now, did you have a chance to read up on Daniella?'

  'Yep, I googled her. She's definitely one for the nutter file.'

  Her clear blue eyes lock onto me. 'I don't care if she's a psychopath as long as we win the account. She's got a $100 million dollar turnover and is the toast of New York.'

  'Did she tell you that?'

  'No,' she says impatiently. 'I've only spoken with her personal assistant, Mary Anne Bright. She says Daniella is a phenomenon.'

  'That's what's worrying me. She'll have an ego to match.'

  'Here, look at her catalogue. It just arrived yesterday. The products are amazing. She's got two stores in Manhattan selling her accessories and the interior design business is run from Trump Tower.'

  I flick through the thick, glossy pages of alabaster candelabras, scented candles and silver and porcelain ornaments. In fairness, it's quite tasteful, if a little predictable. Rachel gives a hiss.

  'Damn. She's already here.'

  Our breakfast appointment is effortlessly skimming the black and white marble floor in killer kittens.

  Rachel sounds breathless. 'I recognise her from the biog snaps. Listen, let me handle negotiations, while you schmooze her.'

  It's too late to respond because Rachel has leapt to her feet with hand thrust forward. I rise to face the phenomenon for myself. Oozing Coco Chanel and draped from head to foot in mink, the goddess of design extends a perfectly manicured, bony hand. On the middle finger sits a colossal diamond and on the wrist a gold charm bracelet of small diamond trinkets which glint under the light of the chandelier. Her face is masked by owl-like Gucci shades which hover above towering cheek bones and glossy lips pumped to perfection. Her hair, a rainbow of gold, cinnamon and amber tones, is coiffed into a lacquered spire vaguely reminiscent of Mr Whippy ice cream. A waiter stands spellbound, unsure whether this fusion of Cruella De Vil and Narnia's Snow Queen is the living thing. She lowers her glasses and beckons to him with a nail as sharp as a razor shell. 'Can we order? My time is limited.'

  Tremulously, he hands her the menu.

  'May I take your coat?' his voice is faint.

  She strokes the silky brown fur of the lapel. 'I don't think so, do you?'

  Rachel avoids my eyes and enthusiastically grips Daniella's hand.

  'It's wonderful to meet you at last, Miss Popescu-Miller.'

  She removes her glasses altogether, revealing a pair of hypnotic jade irises. 'Oh please, darling, call me Dannie.'

  After enthusiastic introductions we take our seats. Dannie casts her mink onto an abandoned chair where it flops, defeated, in a heap. She gives a cursory glance at the menu handed to her by our waiter.

  'Just some granola, summer fruits and an Evian for me,' she drawls.

  Rachel and I order brioche and toast. She winces. 'Watch the wheat, girls. So destructive to the digestive system.'

  An ungainly woman in a pale-blue trouser suit is waving from the entrance. Who's this? Dannie gives a terse nod.

  'Here's my assistant, Mary Anne. Her surname's Bright, which is kind of ironic.'

  We titter politely.

  'Sorry I'm late,' puffs the unfortunate Mary Anne. 'Have you ordered me something?'

  'Well, let me see,' says Dannie, theatrically studying the menu again. 'There don't appear to be any troughs of mayonnaise on here.'

  'Oh, she's always such a meanie,' screeches her assistant in paroxysms of hollow laughter, whipping the menu from Dannie's bejewelled hands. 'I'm a bit of a food addict, you see.'

  The waiter approaches her.

  'Ah, now these Cumberland sausage sandwiches, are they good?'

  'They're very tasty, madam – made in Cumberland in England.'

  'How nice. Well, I'll have a small one of those and a latte. Oh, and maybe a chocolate brioche. Thank you so much.' She hands him the menu.

  Dannie flashes her a menacing smile. 'Nothing else, dear heart?'

  Rachel comes to the rescue. 'Given that you're short on time, Dannie, is there anything specific in our proposal you'd like clarified?'

  She smiles seductively. 'It's perfect, girls. Mary Anne and I feel you have just the expertise we're after and my old friend Bryan Patterson says he loves working with you guys. That's all I needed to know.'

  Although Bryan still uses our services to promote his fragrance emporium in the UK, his star is waning with the press since he switched his business to pyramid-selling.

  'We have another client in New York now,' I hear myself saying. 'His name's George Myers. Do you know of him?'

  She bites her lip for a second and then her eyes brighten. 'The English leather man who's just opened on Fifth?'

  'The same.'

  'My God, why didn't you say? I met him at the Forbes party only last week. He's a scream.'

  I force a smile. 'He certainly is. I've worked with him for years.'

  'Yes,' says Rachel, now on a roll, 'They're very close. In fact, you'll be visiting him in New York in a few months time, won't you?'

  'Actually, not until November when I do the marathon.' I glare at her.

  Dannie gives a little scrunch of her nose. 'How marvellous, darling. Are you running for charity?'

  'An orphanage.'

  'Oh we must sponsor you, mustn't we, Mary Anne? Just think what a fun time we'll all have when you come over.'

  Indeed. I can hardly contain myself. The waiter returns and we commence our breakfast. While Rachel and I attack our brioche and toast with gusto, Dannie sits toying with her granola and fruit, only taking tiny spoonfuls in between hefty sips of mineral water.

  'So girls, what do you really think of my products?'

  'Very stylish,' says Rachel, her teacup poised mid-air.

  'Your catalogue's really polished,' I add, 'although it would be great to see some actual products.'

  Dannie drums the table with her fingers.

  'We'll get a box of samples sent over to you. Anything else?'

  'Your existing press material would be helpful,' says Rachel.

  Dannie turns to her assistant. 'Can I leave all that with you?'

  Mary Anne, cheeks bulging, nods enthusiastically but says nothing.

  Another sip of water and Dannie drops the spoon back into her bowl, the contents barely touched, and dabs the sides of her mouth with her napkin.

  Mary Anne continues to gobble her food hungrily and then sits back, replete, watching Rachel and I finish the last of our toast. Her mousy hair falls forward as she bends to see her watch.

  'OK guys, shall we sign the contract tomorrow afternoon at the hotel so that we can get motoring on the PR programme?'`

  Rachel and I nod in agreement.

  'How about four o'clock at The Berkeley?'

  'Fine by us,' I hear myself say.

  'Wonderful,' smiles Dannie. 'It's been a pleasure meeting you both.'

  'Likewise,' Rachel chips in.

  Breakfast is over. Dannie sweeps up the voluminous pelt and swings it over her shoulder so that its hem almost kisses the floor. Lumbering behind her like a clumsy bridesmaid, Mary Anne fretfully attempts to hoist it up as if it were a gossamer train. Rachel and I watch them depart. I narrow my eyes at her.

  'Trust me. We're in for a rocky ride.'

12.15 p.m., Starbucks, Marylebone High Street

Ed, my hypochondriac friend with a penchant for Internet babes – girls he can date online – jazz and all things calorific, is meeting me for a quick lunch at Starbucks. This suits him perfectly because the Marylebone branch is situated just a few doors from the BBC building in which he works as a producer. Moving to an area renowned for its private medical practitioners has been, literally, a lifesaver for Ed. The fact is that the common cold, sore throats, coughs, wheezes and sneezes, bugs, bruises and burns, lesions and abrasions, rashes, infections and viruses of a contagious nature persistently plague Ed in a manner rarely experienced by the rest of humankind. In the course of one week, Ed can have experienced anything from suspected heart failure, beriberi, thrombosis, Lassa fever and hepatitis, to malaria, pneumonia and salmonella. One night he called in panic to report a stiffening of the joints and asked shakily whether rigor mortis could be setting in. I explained that one normally had to have died first but that he shouldn't rule it out. Rather like a disgruntled vampire, Ed pounds the streets of Marylebone in search of new blood; a physician who will take him seriously. Within the labyrinthine streets of Wigmore, Wimpole, Harley and Devonshire he has visited every mews, close, place, square and street – both upper and lower – and is on first-name terms with most of the resident medical fraternity. Despite numerous examinations, indulgent diagnoses and panaceas, his symptoms, puzzlingly, persist. Consequently, Ed feels justified in mistrusting medical evaluation, illustrating the point with an anecdote about a Swiss respiratory specialist who once branded him a hypochondriac.

  'A what?' Ed had exclaimed in outrage.

  'Do I have to spell it out, young man?'

  'You most certainly do.'

  'H-Y-P-O-C-H-O-N-D-R-I-A-C.'

  Ed had left the surgery in a state of apoplexy and indignation, deciding from that day forth to equip himself with his own trusty medical emergency kit (known as MEK) wherever he went. It has never left his side since.

  Reaching Starbucks some time before Ed and I are due to meet, I decide to have a leisurely espresso. It's still raining and clusters of grey thunder clouds, like aimless teenagers, hang sulkily above the London skyline. At the counter, the man ahead of me is gesticulating animatedly to a barista. She looks mystified, as do the rest of the counter staff.

  'Anyone here speak Italian?' she asks no one in particular.

  'Español!' the man says in a wounded voice.

  Without thinking, I greet him warmly in Spanish. He looks relieved, saying that he wants to eat something freshly prepared, not pre-packed. I explain that it's not that kind of cafe. With some distaste he settles for a cellophane wrapped tuna sandwich and a coffee and follows me to my table.

  'Can you help me?' he asks plaintively, settling his tray down and opening a map. I offer him a seat.

  'I'm looking for Buckingham Palace.'

  He takes off his wet jacket, revealing a T-shirt emblazoned with a Catalan logo.

  'Where are you from?'

  He shrugs. 'Mallorca. Have you been there?'

  Have I been there? When I mention that I live in Sóller, he is palpitating with excitement.

  'But you must know my mother?' he yelps, giving me detailed directions of how to reach her finca, a death rattle away from the town's cemetery. I nod uncertainly but promise to keep a beady eye out for her when next strolling around the graves. Jordi, for that is his name, tells me that he is having five days sightseeing in London, staying at a small hotel in Pimlico, before heading off for Paris. His travel agent in Alcúdia, on the north side of Mallorca, had fixed up the trip and aside from a few language hurdles he insists there have been no problems.

  'What do you think of London?' I ask.

  'It's wonderful,' he replies, 'but Mallorca is the most beautiful place in the world, as you will know.'

  I find it endearing that Mallorcans on the move demonstrate such loyalty and fervour for their island. By contrast, ask a Briton holidaying in Mallorca for his thoughts on the UK, and a stream of invective will be unleashed on subjects ranging from the cost of living and crime to education and the weather.

  Some time later, Ed crashes through the front doors, gripping his MEK in one hand and his dripping telescopic umbrella in the other. Then, with head tilted, he begins sniffing the air like a wary deer, scrutinising each table from behind large brown frames until his eyes rest on mine. He waves enthusiastically with his umbrella before depositing it in a small bin at the entrance. Jordi rises from his chair and kisses me on both cheeks.

  'It's been good to meet a British Mallorquina in London. Thanks for your company. Hasta luego.'

  He saunters off while Ed follows his departure with some curiosity. As soon as Jordi has left the cafe, Ed makes his way over to my table.

  'Who on earth was that chap?'

  'A Mallorcan I just met.'

  'But you looked like bosom pals.'

  'We are now. I'm going to meet his mother.'

  'You never change.'

  He shakes his head sorrowfully and offers to buy me a sandwich, returning some minutes later with a mound of food and chocolate cake.

  'It's been so long, Scatters. I wish you came back more often. Don't you miss running the firm?'

  'Nope. It suits me perfectly and Rachel loves being the boss.'

  'That girl will be running the country one day,' he says grumpily.

  'We live in hope.'

  I ask him about his latest romantic disaster.

  'Splitting up with Julia has been painful not least because she could get me any medication on the market,' he says mournfully. 'She gave me some beta blockers for my last birthday, which was thoughtful.'

  It must have been a blow to lose Julia. A nurse doesn't fall into a hypochondriac's lap every day, not even a tipsy one.

  'Can't you make it up with her?'

  He chokes on a breadcrumb. 'Good God, no! Too late for that. She's got another bloke, a saxophonist from Muswell Hill.'

  'You'll find someone else.'

  He takes a deep breath. 'Actually, I've met a New Yorker called Charlene.'

  'Met? Where?'

  He frowns and says nothing.

  'Oh, not another Internet babe?'

  'This one is different. She's normal.'

  'How do you know?'

  He whips out a photo. 'Isn't she great?'

  In fairness, she has a nice smile and a full set of teeth.

  'Hmm. What does she do?'

  'She works in the travel industry and can get me cheap flights to New York.'

  'But you won't fly.'

  'I visited you,' he huffs.

  'Only because Julia gave you Valium and forced you on the plane.'

  'Well, it's early days.'

  He gulps at his coffee and looks lovingly at his chocolate cake.

  'So, what's Alan up to?'

  'Our friend Pep has just bought a holiday flat in the port which he's going to rent and has asked Alan to manage the bookings. No doubt it will end in tears.'

  'Why Alan?' Ed anxiously stuffs a piece of cake in his mouth.

  'He trusts him and besides, Pep says he's got other fish to fry. Actually, I'd rather not know about his other ventures. It's safer.'

  Ed swallows hard. 'He's always sounded like a shady chap to me. Do watch Alan.'

  I laugh. 'Pep's far less dodgy than Greedy George.'

  'Any news on that front?'

  'He's just over from the Big Apple so we're meeting up later. He's now designing leather wear for cats.'

  His large eyes freeze. 'You are joking?'

  'Sadly not.'

  'I'm highly allergic to cats.'

  'Lucky he's not employing you then.'

  He guffaws. 'Odd you and I both having a connection in New York now.'

  I groan. 'Actually, Rachel's about to take on another New York client. A loopy interior designer we met this morning.'

  His face brightens. 'Just think, we could all meet up in Manhattan. Wouldn't that be a hoot?'

3 p.m., the office, Berkeley Street

Rachel is weaving a pen through her locks and leaning back in a black leather office chair, heels skimming the edge of the desk. A half-eaten sandwich sits on a plate next to a long abandoned mug of tea. She greets me with a weary expression as I pop my head round the door.

  'I might as well give up trying to have any lunch. The phones never stop.'

  'You should get out of the office more.'

  'Easier said than done.'

  I pull out a chair and survey her as she grabs at the ringing phone like a snappy croc. 'Who? Tell them I'm in a meeting.'

  I wait till she drops the phone back on its cradle and her legs to the floor. She sits upright.

  'So, what's up?'

  'I've just had an intriguing call.'

  'Mmm?'

  'Do you remember John Harris, the lawyer we met at that Asprey's party in Bond Street last year?'

  'No.'

  'He had red socks.'

  Rachel fixes me with impatient eyes. 'I try to avoid men with red socks.'

  'OK, well this chap just called to see whether we'd like to pitch for an amazing project.'

  'Which is?'

  'The definitive book of the Crown jewels. A prestigious tome that's taken more than forty years to research and write.'

  'Blimey.'

  'We'd have to do market research, and handle the media and launch party at the Tower of London. It would be incredible.'

  A smile plays on her lips as she fiddles with a biro on the desk. 'Well, well, it seems that the old PR glint is back in your eye.'

  'Not at all, I just love books.'

  'Give me a break. You like to win, simple as that. It's just the old killer instinct coming back.'

  I ignore her. 'It's being produced by The Stationery Office and will set the punter back a thousand quid.'

  Alarm is stamped on her face. 'Are you deranged? Who the hell is going to cough up that sort of dosh for a book?'

  'You'd be amazed. Anyway, this isn't just any book. It will be a one off.'

  'So do we have to pitch?'

  'Apparently. Mr Red Socks is coming back to me with a brief tomorrow.'

  Rachel nods slowly. 'Let's just hope he delivers and you'll have your chance to be sent to the Tower.'

6.30 p.m., Soho Hotel, the West End

Greedy George and I have agreed to meet at the Soho Hotel, one of the new breed of chic boutique hotels sprouting up all over London. I enter the lobby and am momentarily distracted by a gigantic bronze cat guarding the entrance. At least George will feel at home. As I clip-clop across the oak floorboards I see him ensconced in an armchair by an elegant French fireplace, reading a magazine. He looks up and gives me a smirk.

  'Not wearing your beach bum wear then?'

  'Not today.'

  He heaves himself off the chair and gives me a bear hug.

  'Fancy a drink?'

  'What do you think?'

  We cross the lobby into the spacious restaurant at the side of which a vast pewter bar yawns across one wall. Running behind it, a long, wild mural in bright colours depicts some kind of frantic traffic scene. George squints at it.

  'They erected that in memory of the multi-storey car park that used to be here.'

  The barman smiles and nods. 'He's right, you know. So what can I get you?'

  We order glasses of champagne and sit on one of the velvety sofas. George beams and gives me a hearty slap on the thigh.

  'Well then, how's tricks?'

  'Good, especially now I'm not back here so much.'

  'Come on guv, you love the buzz. Imagine being stuck in Mallorca all the time. You'd be bored stiff.'

  'Maybe.'

  'As sure as huevos are huevos,' he says idiotically. 'Anyway, you're over that flying phobia nonsense, aren't you?'

  'Just about.'

  'Course you are. Now, more importantly, did you get my stuff in the post?'

  'If you mean the cat fetishist range, then yes.'

  'And?' He rubs his big paws together and eyes me keenly.

  'To be frank, squeezing into the cat suit was a bit of a challenge, but the cape just about fitted.'

  'Ha ha. Very funny, guv. Glad all that cava hasn't addled your brain.'

  'So what's with the cats and how's New York?'

  He takes a slurp of champagne. 'It's been surreal. You wouldn't believe some of the people I've met.'

  'Met or upset?'

  He gives me a shove. 'Both, now you come to mention it. There are a load of arseholes, but some good eggs too. Anyway, a few months back I banged into this hot chick at one of Bryan's cocktail do's and she asked me if I did bondage gear for dogs. Got me thinking.'

  'I'm sure. How is Bryan?'

  'Same old woofter. Tootsie, his rabbit, is still going strong. Daft bugger asked me to design it a leather jacket, can you believe?'

I sip my champagne and stretch back on the sofa, wondering how I've managed to keep sane all these years.

  George is still chortling. 'That's when the pet gear idea came to me. I mean, everyone's soppy as hell about cats and dogs in Manhattan. I'm starting production next week.'

  He rustles in a bag at his side. 'I've brought you some dog wear samples.'

  'You're all heart.'

  He spills the contents of the bag out onto the small square table and ferrets through it.

  'Ah, here we go. This is the dog's bollocks. A croc collar inlaid with emeralds. I'll retail that at around three thousand dollars.'

  'You're kidding?'

  'Course not. This stuff will walk out the door.'

  'I suppose you'll have a fashion preview for the press? Some little pooches and Persians mincing up a catwalk?'

  He ignores the irony in my voice. 'Not a bad idea, guv. I like that.'

  'So how soon would we be able to launch this pet wear range?'

  'I'm aiming for November to catch pre-Christmas sales.'

  'Perfect. That gives us bags of lead-in time.'

  He orders more champagne and for the next few hours we set about a marketing strategy for his new range. The PR team he has hired in Manhattan are predictably 'awestruck' at his brilliance, but given that they're being paid $20,000 a month, they jolly well ought to be.

  I scan my watch and realise that I have to leave. James and Sophie, some old friends of ours, have invited me to a dinner party at their home in Pimlico. Greedy George is off to the launch of a new jewellery store on Bond Street and promises to email me product information and images soon.

  'The sky's the limit, guv,' he yells coarsely as he strides through the lobby, stopping to stroke the bronze cat on the way out. 'I'll be the cat's whiskers of Manhattan, just wait and see.'

  And with that, he disappears into the night.