‘You look like the sort of person who wouldn’t have vinaigrette,’ she said.
We decided to watch The Hotel on telly – one of those documentaries where people act like they’re not aware they’re being filmed, when in fact they’re completely aware but pretending, and the programme’s main aim is the Ring of Truth, as if you’re peeping in unseen. Fixed-rig cameras is how they’re made. Rigged and a fix, I call it. I love those shows. I love watching people without having to spend any time with them.
Angel and I had a recliner chair each, the sofa being too uncomfortable to spend an evening on. I keep it because it was Nanny Fielding’s. I have always had two recliners; I bought them as a pair from DFS. Don’t ask me why – I think it seemed too sad to buy one. But there’s never been anyone to sit in the second one. Talk about hopeful purchase.
In The Hotel, you are shown round the penthouse floor of the Carlton Mayfair, ‘London’s most exclusive establishment’, according to the breathy voiceover. The penthouse floor has three marble bathrooms, including a ‘rainforest showering experience’ which plays the sounds of tropical birds and other wildlife while dappling you in a moving light show so you think you’re in a glade. The penthouse floor has two grand living rooms, each with about six sofas; a cinema; a catering kitchen, should the restaurant not suit, and a treatment room for on-site massages and facials. The penthouse floor is home to Donald Trump when he visits, and the Sultan of Brunei. The King of Saudi Arabia books it for the entire month of August and installs his family, flying over his fleet of cars, which they park all over Knightsbridge and get parking tickets they’ll never pay. They spend the month shopping at Harrods.
Angel and I were watching all this, the smears of ketchup hardening on our discarded plates, our feet up as if our legs were paralysed – which they were, I suppose. There is little in modern life more paralysing than the recliner chair.
‘Been there,’ she said, nodding at the telly.
‘Yeah, right,’ I said. ‘Me too. Stay there all the time.’
‘No, really, I have.’
I looked at her. ‘You what?’
‘I can prove it,’ she said, pushing down with her ankles (you have to use some force, as if the recliner is unwilling to give you up) so that her chair moved into the upright mode. She left the room and came back with a bag full of Carlton Mayfair toiletries. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash. Even a pack of cotton pads and buds, which you’re not supposed to put into your ears. I find it almost impossible not to put them in my ears.
‘How come you’ve been to the Carlton Mayfair?’ I said.
‘On business,’ she said simply.
‘Right, yeah, business. What business would that be? Cleaning the rainforest experience?’
‘No!’ she scoffed, but she’d gone back to watching the telly and when I tried to ask another question, she shushed me.
Couple of days later, Angel went out – for longer this time than just to Sainsbury’s, which is about a hundred yards away – and I was relieved to have the place to myself without her loitering at the windows or jumping out of her skin every time I made a noise.
I’m not sure I’m built to live with anyone. It annoyed me when she was in the bathroom or in the kitchen making herself a cup of tea. The squeaky noise she made when she opened the door to the box room annoyed me, even though it was my door – my squeak. It annoyed me that she was hardly ever out, that she liked Laughing Cow cheese. It annoyed me that I couldn’t trump openly or walk from the bathroom in my pants. Sometimes the sound of her breathing was more than I could stand.
Anyway, I used the opportunity of her being out to go through her stuff.
Lots of things about this girl didn’t add up. Firstly, her holdall was Chanel – with the linked ring symbol. Now, I know a knock-off when I see one, I used to sell enough of them on the market, and this holdall, which was leather, with some animal-hide areas, like a furry cow’s back, was no knock-off.
Second, she had all these creams – Clarins, Crème de la Mer, Kérastase shampoo. Posh bottles and lotions. How did she afford them? So while she was out, I took the opportunity to have a try – washed my hair with the Kérastase, tried the Crème de la Mer. I didn’t use the Carlton Mayfair stuff because the size of the bottles would have made it obvious.
Third thing, I was patting through the pockets of her coat and I found there was something – the shape of a lighter but smaller – sewn into the lining at the hem. I felt around it and it was a neat rectangle. I pushed my fingers around the seam but there was no way in. Perhaps it was just a weight, to keep the fabric hanging nicely. But I doubted it.
Fourth thing (come to think of it, there was precious little about this girl that did add up): she had what can only be described as a stalker’s dossier. It was a brown folder, the type that’s open on two edges, and slipped inside were all these newspaper clippings, lots of them from the FT and the City pages of other papers. Pictures of Chinese blokes circled, names in the text highlighted. Printouts from the Forbes China Rich List.
‘I just can’t believe it,’ Ellie Bradshaw is saying.
They are in interview room one, Harriet and Davy across the table from Ellie, who is shaking her head, hair swaying. She’s got nice hair – hasn’t got Manon’s ringlets. Instead it is wavy, to her shoulders, in a sort of honey shade. And it looks almost impossibly soft, like advert hair. Davy thinks it probably smells nice, of chamomile or lemon.
‘So you were where, between 4 p.m. and 5 p.m. last night?’ he asks.
‘Me? I was home with Solly, my son.’
She’s slim too, lovely dark eyes. Yes, Ellie is attractive; he can’t deny that. Strange to be sitting in an interview room with her because she is so like Manon – the very same voice and mannerisms. Yet at the same time, not similar at all. Like the same pudding in a different flavour – you can enjoy the orange, but find the mint tastes a bit like washing-up liquid.
‘Jon-Oliver was coming to see us – well, coming to see Solly. That’ll be why he was in Huntingdon. He was due to come over today. I guess he was booked into the George Hotel last night. It’s only, I dunno, the fifth or sixth time he’s seen our son.’
He frowns. ‘Can you think of a reason why he walked in the opposite direction to the George, along the Brampton Road towards the hospital?’
Ellie is thinking. Davy can’t take his eyes off her. Maybe she’d be worried about the age gap – Davy being ten years younger – but if it was good enough for Susan Sarandon …
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I mean, he knows where I work. Knew, I mean. Maybe he was coming to see me?’
‘Did he know someone called Judith Cole?’ Davy asks. ‘Ever mention that name?’
Ellie turns down the corners of her mouth. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells, but Jon-Oliver knew a lot of women.’
‘What about this person?’ Harriet asks, placing a four-by-six photograph on the table in front of Ellie. The picture is of a blonde woman, tanned and manicured. Sunglasses on her head. The sort of person who might frequent Cannes or appear in Hello!
Ellie leans forward to look at the photo without picking it up. ‘No,’ she says.
‘The photo was found on Jon-Oliver’s body,’ Harriet adds.
‘Well it’s probably his current girlfriend then,’ says Ellie simply. ‘She looks like his type.’
‘His type?’ says Harriet.