Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin (38 page)

Oh, what a circus! Oh, what a show!

Mrs Buchanan frowned up at me. “What’s this got to do with anything?”

I opened the newspaper and tapped the large red box at the bottom of page three.

If you have ANY information on who Megan MacLeod’s secret lover is, we want to hear from you! Call our press desk on the number below. Confidentiality guaranteed.

She frowned. “What, do you know who he is?”

I mimed a goatee on my chin.

Mrs Buchanan grabbed the paper, rattling the front page open and staring hard at the pictures, then back up at my face.

“You mean…
you’re
Mister Ex?”

“I am an assassin,” I repeated, “and she was my target. Just like you once were.”

She slapped a hand across her mouth like a little girl being told the biggest secret in the world. Took years off her. “Oh my God. You set her up!”

“Bigtime.”

“Megan MacLeod! You set her up and you…” She stared at me, finally understanding. “Like you set me up.”

“Except she doesn’t deserve an apology,” I said, “and you do.”

I stepped closer to the desk. “Mrs Buchanan, like I said, I’m not your enemy. I know I ruined your marriage, and your career. I can’t change that, but I can make amends. I can offer you something nobody else has. Something unique.”

“Unique? Like what?”

“I want to write that novel I promised you.”

“Oh yes, well, we never get any
novels
sent to this publishing company, how unique!”

“Based on a true story,” I went on. “The truth behind Mister Ex.”

It dawned on her just what I was offering. Every journalist in the country would have sold their major intestine (which is a journo’s most vital organ) to find out who the man caught on camera with Megan MacLeod was. He was attached to the year’s biggest piece of celebrity news, and yet nobody knew a thing about him. And nobody ever would. Unless he sold his story.

“The story of… you?”

“The story of the relationship assassin,” I nodded. “I want to write my memoirs. And I want you to publish them for me.”

Mrs Buchanan looked into my eyes, unblinking, the way she used to back when I was making up my imaginary spy novel’s storyline on the spot. Like she was scanning for bullshit. Then suddenly, she laughed. And I do mean suddenly – there was no intervening moment between dead serious and guffawing laughter. I got a jolt of nostalgia then, at the familiar sound. Good old larger-than-life Mrs Buchanan. I grinned happily, and just for a second a touch of Mark Harris ghosted back, sparking between me and her. “An exclusive!” I yelped, flinging my arms wide. “Just for you!”

But it wasn’t for her. Not really. Deep inside, a sense of excitement like I’d never known made me want to do cartwheels around her office. Just the thought of writing something for real, not as part of a mission, but writing for the whole world… writing something for me!

And writing something that Dad would have loved to read.

Not a confession. Not for counselling either. Just… my story. You are what you do.

I watched her flip through the newspaper, taking in the images, the headlines, the complete speculation, the quotes attributed to nameless friends and spokespeople. No one knew a damn thing about what happened except Megan, and obviously nobody believed anything that cheating bitch said.

“The true story,” she mused, already writing the blurb on the back of the book, “of the Megan MacLeod scandal… as told by Mister Ex himself.”

“Do you think it might sell?” I asked, innocently.

Hooked. Visions of profits dancing in her head. She didn’t get where she was today by not having visions of profits dancing in her head. And in her eyes, the enemy standing on front of her had just become… an ally? A colleague? Something more?

“So when might we expect a first draft then? Or are you too busy breaking up some poor lass from her hubbie to write anything?”

That ache in my chest. “No, I’m… I’m between jobs at the moment.”

Mrs Buchanan rubbed her hands together, face flushed, creative juices like a hosepipe. “Right! Well, best get the ball rolling then, hadn’t we? We’ll need a contract signed up for starters. I don’t suppose you have an agent?”

I snapped my fingers and Barry stepped forward.

“Nice to meet you Mrs Buchanan,” he said as politely as his gravelly Belfast voice would allow. “Barry O’Nion’s the name.”

He had walked in with me, sitting patiently at the back of the room the whole time. Not talking, not harassing me, not blustering on like he used to, but waiting to be called when he was needed. He knew his place now. Ever since myself and Emma had stormed into his new office and told him a few home truths. Like the fact that he was our agent, not our boss. That he needed us a lot more than we needed him – especially now that Larry had transferred the money. Not to the Infidelity Ltd account but to a new one Emma and I had set up jointly. Mission accomplished, payment received and Larry was already out of the country, leaving behind the detective industry, his kids’ trust fund and his entire life.

Quarter of a million pounds would buy us as many Barrys as we needed. How d’you like them O’Nions?

And this time, Emma had told him,
we’ll
be writing the three-year business plan. Salary with a pension? Our arse.

“You just let me know what you need,” smiled Barry as professionally as he knew how, “and I’ll get it all sorted. I’ll be happy to negotiate all terms on behalf of my client. You can leave it with me.”

“Thank you, Barry.” I held out my hand. “Do we have a deal, Mrs Buchanan?”

She looked at my palm, then arched an eyebrow. “You never called me Bianca, did you? Not even when we were doing it.”

Barry looked out the window at the suddenly fascinating streets of Soho, flustered. I just smiled. “That’s the way you liked it, as I recall.”

“So I’ll be part of your memoirs then, will I?”

I hesitated, wondering how to respond. But if there’s one thing I know, it’s what my targets like. “Damn right you will. How could I leave
you
out?”

“Good. Always wanted my name in print.” Mrs Buchanan shook my hand. I rubbed my thumb very delicately over her knuckles – a tiny gesture, but she smiled in return. My apology accepted.

As I turned to leave the office, letting my publisher and my agent thrash out the details, she stopped me. “I don’t even know your name… I mean, your real name. What do I call you?”

“I am the assassin,” I told her. “Your friend.”

Saturday 18th December 2010. But in the ballroom of the Sheraton Park Lane Hotel, it was more than two hundred years ago.

“Dangerous Liaisons,” I murmured as I walked in (thinking how that would have made a great title for my memoirs, if only someone hadn’t already nicked it). The whole place had been transformed into an Elizabethan ball, a proper masquerade in the classic Venetian style. More than five hundred guests in a bewildering collection of towering wigs, painted faces and flowing ballgowns. Laughter, squeals, music, a charge of excitement in the air. It really was like walking onto the set of a movie like Dangerous Liaisons or Casanova. Christmas in the Eighteenth Century!

And of course, you can’t have a masquerade without masks.

This was the only dress code: that everyone’s face had to be concealed in some way. The average guest wore a modern cocktail skirt or tuxedo but hid their eyes behind a strapped-on mask, often with multi-coloured feathers sprouting from the top. Some wore full-face sculpted masks in a variety of styles, which completely hid the wearer. Those women who had shelled out on a proper Elizabethan outfit, complete with corset and flowing dress, carried their mask on the end of a long stick, holding it elegantly in front of their faces.

But everyone, absolutely everyone, was anonymous, even the press photographers. This was a fund-raising Christmas ball for one of the large children’s charities, with a lot of publicity. Tickets at £250 each and every tenth guest was a celebrity, which was a major part of the appeal. Who knew what famous faces were here? The person you were chatting to might turn out to be your favourite footballer or pop star or Big Brother housemate.

I strolled through the crowd, entranced by all the designs and colours. A couple chatting by the bar wore his ‘n’ hers masks: the lady’s pink with a crown of feathers, the gentleman’s bright blue with a single plume in the centre. Three girls, giggling loudly, all wore similar cat-shaped masks complete with whiskers and pointy ears. In fact there were several animal designs, including one extravagant older lady in a massive peacock creation, bright green eye-feathers sprouting above her head. One fat cat in a bow tie had a mask of gold on one side and black on the other, mouth curled up on the left and down on the right, comedy and tragedy. Two gay guys were Elizabethan fops: white makeup, red lipstick, beauty spots, white bouffant wigs with dangling curls, lots of red velvet – their deliberately shrieking laughter was infectious.

And tonight we’re gonna party like it’s 1799!

From what I could see, a number of people were being more outrageous than they’d normally dream of being, if they didn’t have anonymity to protect them. Complete strangers talking to each other, men and women flirting without giving a damn whether they might be snubbed. And the dancing! There was a ripple of laughter as the group of revellers I was walking through recognised the latest song at the same time I did.

“Ooh!” we all sang. “Rock me Amadeus!”

I grinned. I love the Eighties.

A waiter drifted past bearing a tray of champagne, and I plucked a glass off it. All of the hotel staff wore feathered black and white masks to match their outfits, strolling around like fluffy penguins. There were also professional entertainers, laid on by the charity to give the whole event some sparkle. These wore full-on Elizabethan finery, actual theatrical costumes with properly crafted wigs and ruffs. Their job was simply to chat to the guests in Olde English, and pretend to be whatever their character was – everything from kings to courtesans. Not just mask-wearers, but proper actors.

And that’s where I came in. Richard O’Sullivan was the name, acting was the game. A fake Equity card, some invented theatre references and a poster for my one-man show (knocked up in Photoshop by Barry’s computer-geek nephew) had secured my employment as one of the entertainers. Just the sort of actor we’re looking for, the charity had said. How d’you feel about spending a night mingling with the rich and famous, keeping them happy? Sure I can give that a try, I’d told them.

They took us down to Angels, the costumiers. Choose your character for the night! The range of options was impressive. There was a diamondic harlequin costume that made me consider going as a court jester – the fool, the trickster, the joker in the pack. Or maybe I could be the Scarlet Pimpernel, that damned elusive aristocrat who had fooled his peers into thinking he was harmless while, unknown to everyone, he went on secret missions. Or perhaps… yes, perhaps I should dress up as Giacomo Casanova himself, the great lover. The great heartbreaker.

But really, the decision had already been made for me. This wasn’t playtime. This was work.

“Sirrah, you are the most dashing rogue!” Heads turned as one of my fellow entertainers glided up to me, fanning herself. In a massive gold dress with enormous frills around the shoulders and huge orange wig, she looked like Queeny from Blackadder 2. Quite possibly it was the same costume.

“Pray tell us your name, mystery man!” she cried.

On cue, I threw back my black cloak, whipped out a pair of flintlock pistols, and shouted “I’m the dandy highwayman who you’re too scared to mention!”

Yes, it’s true – I went as Adam Ant.

Well, I didn’t have that stupid white stripe on my nose, do you blame me? But other than that, it was pretty much the same Dick Turpin highwayman costume. A heavy mask across my eyes and a black tricorn hat on my head. The brocaded gold waistcoat was half-open, for that deliberate glimpse of hairy chest beneath, along with a few gold chains. Two heavy brass-buckled belts plus a red scarf tied around my waist, with leather trousers (salvaged from John’s courier outfit) and a pair of calf-high buccaneer boots. The flintlock pistols were perfect replicas, smooth polished wood inlaid with metal, wonderfully heavy and real in my hands.

The burst of laughter and applause from the crowd made me smile. I
love
an audience.

“The highwayman!” squealed Queeny, fanning herself ever-faster. She gasped as I proceeded to rob her of her glass jewels, exactly as we had arranged. Then a farewell kiss that had her swooning dramatically, the delighted crowd catching her. I doffed my hat, bowing to them, the cloak billowing out behind me as I departed to the sound of cheers (and a shout of “Da diddly qua-qua!” from one wag).

All part of the show.

That’s how I spent the next half-hour: strutting though the masquerade like the most cocky bastard on earth. Occasionally I would do something highwayman-like, such as steal some bloke’s drink right out of his hand as I whooshed past, or slowly lift a lady’s handbag off her arm with a flintlock while shushing the people she was talking to. Back-breaking work. Phew.

And the women noticed. Funny how much attention I was getting, as a daring and dangerous villain… would the court jester outfit have caught so many eyes? A petite lady in her thirties stared at me as I passed. Behind her sunburst mask, golden spikes radiating out, I recognised the well-known features of a BBC newsreader. Her husband chose that moment to move away from her side, allowing me to step in closer. I tipped the brim of my tricorn hat up with the flintlock, giving her a cheeky wink. She smiled, flushed red, watching me pass by.

No big surprise really, if you’d read the magazine interview where she nominated Stand And Deliver as her all-time favourite song.