The Go-To Girl Read online

  * * *

  ‘Come in, come in,’ Charles says, flinging open his door. ‘So lovely to see you.’

  He’s beaming from ear to ear. I wait for a compliment, but none comes, which is a bit disappointing, considering how long I spent on this look. First I washed my hair and Frizz Ease’d it and then blew-dry it to within an inch of its life (what did we all do before Frizz Ease?). Janet helped me with my make-up; she used my neutrals, but she made my eyes really pop. I suppose it does distract from my nose a tiny bit and, more to the point, it at least makes me look put together, sort of elegant. My dress is my nice navy shift with pearls I wore to the dinner at Vanna’s, the first time we met. Janet shakes her head over it.

  ‘Makes your arse look huge,’ she says, flatteringly. ‘Which it isn’t. And shows off your stomach,’ she adds, grabbing a good three inches of love handle to illustrate her point. ‘Meanwhile it flattens your tits and covers your legs.’

  ‘So what?’ I demand.

  ‘You should show them off,’ Janet says, her beautiful, olive-skinned face serious. ‘And you’ve got no waist in that dress.’

  ‘I’ve got no waist anyway.’

  ‘We could create one,’ Janet says judiciously.

  ‘Who are you, God?’ I scoff. ‘Look, this is my body. Best thing for it is to wear something conservative.’

  ‘Dowdy.’

  ‘Classic,’ I insist.

  ‘Boring.’

  ‘Neutral?’

  ‘Vile,’ Janet says pityingly. ‘Anna, I am a fashion expert, you know. You’re not doing yourself any favours. I’m taking you to Harvey Nicks this Friday to get you some nice clothes, tart you up a bit for the dance.’

  ‘I can’t be tarted up,’ I say. ‘I’m about as tarty as Ann Widdecombe.’

  ‘Everybody can be improved,’ says Janet. ‘I’d love to get my hands on the Queen,’ she adds, musingly. ‘She’s got great potential.’

  I blink. ‘You’re mental.’

  ‘Just say yes,’ Janet pleads. I look at ray watch; I don’t have time for this.

  ‘Fine, whatever. Just pass me my shoes.’

  ‘If I must,’ Janet sniffs, handing over my flat Hobbs pair with the white stitching, which I thought was a great match for navy and pearls. ‘They make me want to puke.’

  Thus encouraged I set off for Eaton Square in a taxi, even though it was twelve quid. I can’t take another tube ride, not tonight. Plus, I’m trying not to be intimidated by the fabled flat. It’s only a bloody flat at the end of the day, and so what if he’s got loads of money? I’ve got a raise. I’m making thirty grand now.

  And so here I am. The building is gorgeous. No porter or common lobby with glossy black leather sofas and grass growing in square white pots, none of the new London, Met Bar-style wealth on display. No, the building is old, with the paint slightly peeling, flagstones in the lobby, wide proportions, and one of those old, very attractive and very terrifying elevators where you have to slide the iron cage shut after yourself before the damn thing will work.

  To me it says rich more than any piece of abstract sculpture or haughty doorman. And not just rich, but mega-rich. Old, old money that doesn’t need to shout about it.

  No wonder Charles has been plagued by gold-diggers. I feel for him. Lots of men in his position wouldn’t object. They’d just pick the sexiest chick and bed down with her, and trade her in ten years later for the next model.

  ‘So this is home,’ I say, stepping inside.

  ‘Yes.’ He looks around, half embarrassed, half proud. It’s pretty much what I’d expected, but that doesn’t stop it being insanely gorgeous: red damask wallpaper, prints of hunting scenes and Victorian cartoons, the odd oil here and there, some antiques crammed onto his shelves in a haphazard manner. A working fireplace with ashes and a brass guard. A mantelpiece crammed with stiff, creamy white invitations, most of them bearing crests. Books lining the walls, leather-bound and dusty looking. Sisal matting on the floor, the occasional threadbare Persian rug, deep, worn burgundy leather armchairs with little brass studs around their edges. Everything is upper class, lived in, valuable. The sole modern touches are the electronics. He has a huge flat-screen TV and a sexy-looking ultra-slim laptop on his desk, which is strewn with bits of paper, covered in red ink and underlining. With a pang I recognize it. It’s part of his novel.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s so messy,’ he says. ‘The char doesn’t come till tomorrow.’

  ‘You should see my room,’ I lie. I’d hate him to see my room. I am trying to bolster all my socialist, liberal feelings and tell myself that Charles represents the enemy. He’s a parasite feeding off the backs of the workers and come the revolution he’ll be first against the wall. So why should I care that I camp out in a room the size of a large closet, in a flat above a shop?

  Only I do care and I don’t resent Charles. He can’t help being rich. Or having a gorgeous flat and ancestors with good taste. I wonder what it would be like to live somewhere like this, all the time.

  ‘So this is where you work?’ I say, and immediately wish I hadn’t. What is wrong with me today?

  ‘Yes, on my book.’ He looks over at me. ‘Any word on that yet?’

  ‘I’m still reading it. I got a bit distracted by the Mother of the Bride thing, and I want to give it all the consideration it’s due. It’s very complex,’ I say, truthfully enough. I was confused after two paragraphs.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ says Charles, stoically. ‘It is complex, multi-layered. I can see you need time to fully appreciate it.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agree, smiling weakly. ‘Time. Anyway, it’s a lovely flat.’

  Charles eyes me nervously. ‘I do have a guest room,’ he says. ‘If you want to stay over?’

  ‘Absolutely not. I hardly know you. I’m not about to move in,’ I say indignantly, and then feel bad, because I know that soon I’ll have to dump him. I ought to have done it before now, really. I don’t fancy him, even though I like him now. I might tell myself that I’m going out with the poor sod to give him a chance, but in reality I just like how he treats me, that he tries to make me feel good about myself. I’ve had a bad day and I know that Charles will say nice hings over dinner, lie manfully, and call me pretty. He’d kiss my hand if I let him.

  It’s emotional dressing-up. I’m trying on Charles for a pretend relationship, the same way I might try on a tutu and pretend to be a ballerina, back when I was a little girl and thought of myself as feminine and fluffy like everyone else. Dating Charles, you can imagine exactly what ordinary girls get. Flowers, dinner, compliments, doors held open for them. I’ve even fantasized about bumping into someone from the office while at dinner with him. Sharon or Mike Watson or John …

  It’d never happen though. Sharon and John can’t afford the kinds of places Charles takes me. Frankly, I doubt Mike can either. But they all saw the roses.

  I wouldn’t mind if Charles did that again, with the flowers. Or maybe some chocolates or something. He could call me, too. Claire would put it through and then she’d tell everybody. She’s as good as a full page ad in the Standard.

  Stop that, I tell myself with a guilty start.

  ‘Sorry,’ Charles says meekly. ‘I’m so used to girls wanting that.’

  ‘Not me,’ I say breezily. ‘I’m a career girl.’

  ‘I know,’ he says admiringly. ‘I think it’s wonderful. Getting promoted and everything,’ and I feel even worse. I mustn’t use him, like all the other girls. Even if they were using him for money and I’m using him for compliments, it’s really the same thing, isn’t it? I should say something, Let him know it’s not going to work.

  ‘I’ve been boasting about you to all my friends,’ he says. ‘They can’t wait to meet you.’

  I start. ‘Meet me? I thought it was just us for dinner.’

  ‘Oh, it is,’ he says. ‘I mean at Chester House, this weekend.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I say. ‘Right.’

  Well, I’m stuck now. I can’t break up with him. Not
if he’s been telling all his friends. I look at him and feel a pang of protectiveness. I’d never expose Charles to some of the pain I’ve been through.

  ‘I’m looking forward to meeting them this weekend,’ I tell him.

  ‘Are you?’ His face lights up. ‘That’s marvellous. ‘I know you’ll love them.’

  I don’t think I’m going to love some clone of Rupert’s called Binky or Crispin, but I nod and smile as though it was the best thing in the world and I’m looking forward to it as much as two weeks’ free holiday in Mustique.

  Charles smiles up at me. I smile back. It’s so nice to see him happy. It’s like watering a plant. I always think that the plant looks instantly better if you give it water when it’s dying and dried-out. I like making him happy, it’s the least I can do for all the trouble he takes for me.

  ‘Where are we going to dinner?’ I ask.

  ‘Well, here,’ he says.

  ‘Here?’ I glance around the flat. ‘You cooked something?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ he admits. ‘Bit of a dunce in the old egg-boiling department.’

  My eyes narrow. ‘You aren’t expecting me to cook, are you?’ My idea of cuisine is a Marmite sandwich, and besides, I am definitely not the Oxo Mum type. I hope Charles hasn’t got some idea that, not being sexy, I’m going to come into his life and mother him.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ he hastens to reassure me. ‘I called the caterers. I thought it’d be more romantic to eat here. More intimate.’

  I smile but my skin’s crawling. I do hope he doesn’t mean intimate in the Eli Roth sense. I look around, trying to guess where the bedroom is. I’m just not ready to have sex with Charles and I don’t know if I ever will be. Sex isn’t something I enjoy; with Brian I had to get absolutely hammered and then would lie back, faking it desperately in the hope he’d hurry up and finish and I could get into the shower. It was boring, it was uncomfortable – trying to turn my head away from his breath whilst pretending to be in the throes of passion was tricky – and it felt a bit dirty, it felt wrong. Seeing what happened with Brian, I know why.

  I don’t know if I can face going through all that with Charles.

  ‘Got anything to drink?’

  ‘Of course,’ he says, beaming, springing to his feet in his haste to be of service. ‘Sherry? G and T? Wine? Scotch? Irish?’

  Of course, Charles is a much nicer person. ‘Gin and tonic would be lovely, thanks,’ I say. Charles leaps into action, hurrying to the kitchen (Smeg appliances and Sub-Zero freezer meets terracotta tiles and ancient wooden counter top) and returning with a beautiful Waterford crystal tumbler filled with ice, slices of lime and a subtly fizzing drink. I take a good hit and immediately start to relax. It’s been a long day, and the alcohol unknots my muscles like a massage on the back of the shoulders. That, plus I realize I won’t actually have to endure another restaurant, won’t have to see the sidelong glances and hear the hushed voices of people laughing at us. What was it Sharon said? Little and Large? Me with my flats and my please ignore clothes, Charles with his dandified suits, neatly trimmed goatee and stacked heels.

  Maybe the flat is better after all. I refuse to think about what happens after dinner. I take another big slug of G&T.

  ‘You’ve finished, let me get you another,’ he says.

  I shake my head. ‘Don’t want to get too tipsy before we start eating.’

  ‘No,’ he says, admiringly. ‘Very proper. Shall we go in?’

  He’s so formal. I wonder if my dress is smart enough. Charles might be one of those weird Old Etonians who still insist on dressing for dinner, for all I know.

  ‘Where’s the butler? No “Dinner is served”?’

  ‘I don’t have one,’ Charles responds, crestfallen. ‘I can get one if you want.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I was joking,’ I say, aghast. ‘Nobody has servants these days.’

  He looks a bit sheepish.

  ‘You have servants?’

  ‘Just a couple,’ he admits. ‘At Chester House. But you know, it’s a bare bones staff,’ he excuses himself. ‘Just a butler and a couple of maids. And a gardener. And a cook.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s all right then,’ I say.

  ‘And my valet,’ he admits.

  ‘Charles, that must cost you a fortune.’

  ‘It’s a necessity when you live out of town,’ he says.

  No it isn’t. ‘Sure, I understand.’

  ‘No, look, Anna,’ he says, reading my expression and pleading his case. ‘Don’t think I’m just some rich egomaniac with servants.’

  That’s pretty much exactly what I was thinking, so I start guiltily. ‘Hey, it’s a free country, right? You can do what you like with your money.’

  ‘They all worked for my father,’ he says. ‘Except the valet. But he found it hard to get other work and my butler recommended him. And the other staff are too old to just send them packing.’

  I soften. ‘So you continue to employ the old family retainers?’

  ‘Pretty much,’ Charles agrees. I like him for it, I like him immensely. I chide myself for being so bloody judgemental.

  ‘What was the valet doing before?’

  ‘Fifteen to twenty for GBH at Strangeways,’ Charles says. ‘Couldn’t get a job after that. But Wilkins knew him, and he’s an absolute genius at picking out ties.’

  I laugh. ‘You know what, Charles, I really like you.’

  He glows. ‘I like you, too.’ He gestures to the dining room. ‘Shall we?’

  * * *

  Fortified by my gin and tonic and Charles’s dodgy valet, I manage to sit down in his dining room without feeling overwhelmed. I give myself a gold star for that, because, if anything, it’s even lovelier than the rest of the place: oak panel walls, a gorgeous table to match, and chairs with his family crest carved on the back of each one. They’re a little narrow, probably because they’re obviously hundreds of years old. The china is plain white with silver piping round the edges, the cutlery is silver and antique, and there are some beautiful yellow and white roses arranged in low silver bowls dotted around the room. Candles everywhere, and a magnum of champagne chilling in an ice bucket. Krug. Very nice.

  ‘I hope you like it,’ Charles says, nervously.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ I say, smiling to reassure him.

  ‘I thought we could start with caviar. Do you like caviar?’ he asks, anxiously, ‘Some people hate it.’

  ‘I’ve never tried it, but I’m sure it’s delicious.’

  ‘And then there’s roast guineafowl with stuffing and roast baby parsnips.’

  Bloody hell, that sounds delicious. My mouth is watering in a very unladylike manner.

  ‘And there’s green tea sorbet, and then pudding is a bitter chocolate tart with ginger ice cream, and there’s some petits-fours with coffee, or you could have cheese and fruit, I had them make up a plate in case you aren’t the pudding type.’

  I look ruefully down at my ample tummy. ‘I am,’ I inform him solemnly, ‘the pudding type.’

  ‘Champagne, and there’s a very nice brandy afterwards, or you could have port. I have some other digestifs…’

  ‘Charles,’ I say, smiling with genuine warmth, ‘this is absolutely brilliant, honestly. I think it’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me.’ And I kiss him on the cheek.

  ‘Well,’ he says, blushing scarlet. ‘Well.’

  He’s absolutely at a loss for words, so I jump in. ‘Let’s sit down and eat,’ I suggest. ‘I really want to try some caviar.’

  He offers me his arm. He actually offers me his arm, but I know how to rise to the moment. I take it, just like Elizabeth Bennett in Pride and Prejudice or any of the leading ladies in those old Sunday afternoon shows, and let him escort me the two feet into the dining room, where he sits at the head of the table and I sit in the chair to his right. I think briefly of Lily and Janet and their strings of glamorous escorts, the tribute life usually pays to beautiful women. Is this what it’s like for th
em all the time, is this what good-looking girls expect on dates? Men who can’t do enough for them, boyfriends desperately eager to please?

  It has never happened to me before and I don’t know how to handle it. Ever since the St John’s dance, during the rare times in my life when I’ve actually been attached to a man, I’ve been the keener person, I’ve been the one who needed the approval. I see the same look in Charles’s eyes that I’ve seen in my own.

  And it gives me an incredible feeling of power, because I can put things right for him the way they weren’t put right for me. I can make Charles feel good. I can compliment him, say nice things about him to all his friends, accept what he offers me with enthusiasm. I can protect him from all the snubs and bitter insults and jokes that were levied at me.

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve never had any caviar,’ Charles says, heaping a little bone spoon with the glistening black pearls and handing it to me. ‘You could put lemon juice on them or mix them up with chopped egg but I think the first time you taste them you have to do it straight.’

  I try them. They look slimy but they’re actually delicious. I tell him so.

  ‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Charles says. ‘Champagne?’ he asks, expertly popping the cork. I pass over the cut-glass flute by my plate.

  ‘Why the hell not,’ I say.

  I have a damn good time. Can’t actually remember the last time I had a better one. The food is insanely delicious; at first I am ginger with every bite, wondering what it all cost, and then I relax (could also be the bubbly), and just enjoy it. Enjoy being pampered. Charles isn’t the world’s wittiest conversationalist but he’s not absolutely terrible, either. He talks a good deal about Vanna and Rupert because I know them, to make me feel comfortable, and he asks loads of questions about my work, about the script, about Kitty and Eli and my job, and about Mark. He’s either genuinely interested or a very good actor.