By the time they reached Heathrow Lysander had managed to lose the Tiffany pen and most of Martha’s ten thousand dollars, but he had enough left to buy a slab of Toblerone for Jack the dog, Fracas for Dolly and a bottle of whisky for Ferdie, his flatmate.
Before landing, the blonde across the gangway vanished into the lavatory for ages and emerged looking even more stunning — obviously tarting herself up for someone meeting her. Then, as she passed, Lysander’s pleasure turned to pain. For a second he couldn’t locate it. Then he recognized her scent: Diorissimo. His mother had never worn anything else.
When he’d first gone away to prep school he was so distraught she had drenched a handkerchief with it to comfort him at night. Now he leant back in his seat trying to handle the appalling feeling of desolation. Instinctively on landing he would have nipped into a telephone box to reassure her he was safe.
‘I’m only happy when all my children are back in England,’ she used to say, but he’d always known that his return made her happiest of all.
The post-champagne downer, plus a dank, dark, cold January evening did nothing to improve his spirits. As he slid through customs out into the airport, there was a firework display of camera bulbs exploding and cries of: ‘That’s him’, ‘Over here, Sandy’.
Fortunately Lysander was fitter than any of the paparazzi. Escaping them was a doddle compared to shaking off Elmer’s guard-dogs.
‘Can you drive like hell to Fountain Street in Fulham,’ he gasped to a taxi driver, ‘and can I possibly borrow your Evening Standard?’
Only when he’d finished the racing pages did Lysander turn to the front of the paper to find another vast picture of himself and the headline: MYSTERY STREAKER A BRIT. SENATE CALL FOR PUBLIC INQUIRY.
Digesting the details, Lysander had to leave the back-seat light on all the way into London.
‘You better charge me extra for electricity,’ he said, handing back the Standard.
‘Worf it for a fantastic bird like that,’ said the driver, as the taxi jolted over discarded vegetables littering the North End Road.
Thank Christ Dolly was still in Paris. London was at its most tatty. Most of the shops had sales on, the bitter east wind was rattling frozen litter along pavements and gutters.
‘Fink we’ve lost them,’ said the driver as he turned into Fountain Street.
5
Fountain Street was a charming Victorian terrace lined with cherry trees. Number 10 had been taken by Ferdie for a low rent because it was on the market and would sell better if lived in. Ferdie had repainted the bottle-green door and tied back the red rose which swarmed up the pink-washed front of the house. Ignoring the empty dustbins by the gate and the frantic waving of the two gays opposite, Lysander let himself in. Among the leaflets for decorators, window cleaners and minicabs was a postcard from Dolly saying she missed him and would be home tomorrow. There was also a mountain of brown envelopes which he didn’t open. Thank goodness he was starting his new job with Ballensteins in March. His father had fiddled it for him as a quid pro quo for taking Rodney Ballenstein’s son into his smart public school. The good-luck cards from all Lysander’s old office cronies were still up in the drawing room.
The house looked awfully tidy — and it wasn’t even the Filipino cleaner’s day. Lysander switched on the simulated log fire which sent shadows flickering over the dark red wallpaper. In the fridge next door he found Bio Yoghurt and pink grapefruit juice (Ferdie must be on one of his endless diets), ham, Scotch eggs and a bottle of Moët.
He’d just helped himself to most of the ham and the last of Ferdie’s whisky when a white envelope thudded through the letter-box. Addressed to him it was marked: URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL.
‘Dear Hawkley,’ read Lysander with a giggle, again it took him several seconds to take in the fact that Ballensteins was an old-established firm who prided themselves on their utter discretion. In view of Lysander’s recent very unfortunate publicity, the job was no longer open.
The truth was that Rodney Ballenstein was not only a business friend of Elmer’s but also had a new bimbo wife, whom he didn’t entirely trust, and an equally glamorous PA on whom he had long-range designs. There was no way Rodney was going to have Lysander lounging round his office causing havoc.
‘Fucking hell!’ Lysander screwed up the letter and threw it on the gas logs.
At that moment the front door opened, there was a frantic scampering of paws and Jack the Jack Russell hurtled in like a bullet, yapping and jumping with all four feet off the ground, to greet his master.
Jack was followed by Ferdie bringing in the emptied dustbins.
‘Hi,’ he said, chucking the Evening Standard on the hall table, ‘I was expecting you.’
Ferdinand Fitzgerald was a fixer, as fly and commercially orientated as Lysander was ingenuous and unmaterialistic. A schoolfriend of Lysander’s, he was also an estate agent who, despite the recession, was doing very well. In addition to selling houses, he charged for dinner parties and for friends to stay the night in Fountain Street and let out properties on his firm’s books by the afternoon for chums visiting London to bonk in. Ferdie’s Achilles’ heel was Lysander, whom he adored and had protected both from the bullying and the advances of older boys at school and beyond and whom he let get away with murder.
Very plump with a double chin and pink cheeks hiding an excellent bone structure, Ferdie looked like a clean-shaven Laughing Cavalier who’d slicked back his hair in an attempt to pass as a Roundhead. Cheerfulness, however, kept breaking in. He and Lysander were known to their friends as Mr Fixit and Mr Fucksit.
Today as he hung up his long navy-blue coat in the hall, the Roundhead mood predominated, particularly when Lysander, who always poured out everything at once, immediately told him he had lost both the Palm Beach and the Ballenstein jobs.
‘Pretty stinking, getting fired before I’ve even got there,’ grumbled Lysander, feeding Scotch eggs to a slavering Jack.
‘You should have signed the contract before you left,’ reproved Ferdie. ‘It’s still on the kitchen table.’
‘There must be some party to go to,’ said Lysander, ‘I feel very depressed. How am I going to support Jack and the horses?’
As Ferdie read the Ballenstein letter looking for loopholes, Lysander opened the bottle of champagne from the fridge and threw the cork on to the floor. Ferdie picked it up.
‘You live in a cork-lined room, Lysander. Sadly you lack Proust’s application. This house has been tidy since you’ve been away. Annunciata took two days to muck out your room. No self-respecting pig would have dossed down in it. And you’ll have to sleep on the sofa tonight. I’ve rented it to Matt Gibson and that’s his Moët and his Scotch eggs you’re feeding to that seriously spoilt dog. Look at the way he’s scratched every door. And that is disgusting.’ Ferdie removed two strips of ham fat from the gas logs with a shudder. ‘How many times do I have to tell you? This is not a real fire.’
‘Don’t you want to hear about Palm Beach?’
‘Not particularly. I’ve read most of it in the Standard. Look, we’ve got to talk about dosh.’
‘I’ve just got in.’ Lysander was now feeding Jack Toblerone and trying to read Ferdie’s Evening Standard, which was a later edition, upside down.
‘EastEnders is on in a minute.’ He got up to turn on the television. ‘Then let’s go clubbing later, Ferd. My overdraft’s so big I might as well make it bigger. I must just check my horoscope,’ he added, switching over to Ceefax and Patric Walker.