Busy Woman Seeks Wife (32 page)

T
he bright lights of the airport came into view. Even in the short space of the journey, Frankie was now Melik’s new best friend.
He’d had chapter and verse on his entire family and Frankie had invited Melik to stay in London with him sometime next year.
They began warm farewells as Melik screeched up to the setting-down area and Frankie was about to slam the car door, his arms
full of bags, when Melik suddenly slapped his forehead.

“Frankee, we have a problem. Where’s your customs clearance?”

Frankie faltered. “My what?”

“Well, when we send products out of the country they have to be cleared for export…”

“Oh bugger. What am I going to do?” He could just hide them in his bag, but that scene from
Midnight Express
came into his mind once again. They’d find it and he’d be facedown on the tarmac, guns trained on him, and what would Alex
do then?

Melik shook his head. “There is one thing you could do, but it wasn’t my idea, okay?” He smiled toothily.

A
lex managed exactly thirty-five minutes of sleep. She didn’t leave the Brixton club until after two a.m. and was back, standing
in the same spot, four hours later, the only difference being clean knickers and the company T-shirt. The time in between
had involved ticking off lists, pacing, drinking coffee and worrying. Worrying about people turning up, worrying about models
letting her down, worrying about food being hopeless/late/inedible. She worried about power failures, stylists making a hash
of it, speakers blowing and seeing Todd now that she’d made love with Frankie. Had they made love? Is that what you call a
moment of madness, even if it had been, well… electrifying?

And she worried about Frankie. She worried about Frankie failing entirely. Somehow she knew he would do what he could—Ella
had been insistent about that—but what if everything else conspired against him? She went online to check the Heathrow arrivals
and then realized she actually had no idea where he had flown from and back to. It could be Inverness for all she knew.

The number of people bombarding her with questions kept her rooted to the spot, and she peered over their heads to see if
she could see Todd arriving. He’d texted to say he was on his way from the airport and was due any time. She wanted to see
his face to be sure he didn’t suspect anything. When he scooped her up in his arms it would wipe the slate clean. It would
be as if sex with Frankie hadn’t even happened. Wouldn’t it?

“So, it’s your big moment?” Alex started as Peter nudged her elbow painfully. “Hear it’s going to be the food-free breakfast.
Innovative idea, Alex! That’ll impress the hacks!”

But before she could answer he had sped away towards the flurry of activity by the door and the arrival of the enormous figure
of American football hero Malcolm Sanferino: one of the biggest names the company sponsored and Peter’s pet project. He had
to dip his head as he came through the door, but when he stood to his full six foot nine again he was head and shoulders above
his sunglassed and menacing entourage. His black face had a broad smile and, before he could really take in the room and certainly
before Alex could move towards him, Peter was on him like a bluebottle, with Gavin not far behind. Alex watched as they both
fawned and scraped, necks craned up at the athlete who simply smiled back benignly. As they fussed over him and moved him
towards his dressing room, a familiar perfume filled Alex’s nostrils. Donatella, resplendent today in gold lamé and Burberry,
was beside her.

“Donatella, do you have the exact running time for Bettina?”

She tapped her teeth with her perfectly sharpened pencil and consulted her schedule. “Yes, but I need her here. What time
is she due?”

“Seven-thirty. She wouldn’t come any earlier. She said it was the earliest she had got up. Ever.”

“And her clothes? They’re out back in her dressing room?”

Alex looked about her, hoping Frankie would swing through the doors any minute. “Er, not exactly.” She leaned in closer. “In
fact, to be honest they aren’t here at all yet.”

Donatella went white under her tan foundation. “You
are
kidding?”

“Oh trust me, they are on their way with our special courier, but they have had to be done so exclusively for her that there’s
been a delay.” At that moment and like an angel of salvation, Camilla came towards her, her eyes bright, holding in her arms
a pile of the new range for the dancers, all bagged up. She looked fresh and pretty. How did she manage it?

“Morning!” Camilla smiled brightly. “I’m just checking off the clothes against my list. Donatella, do you want to come with
me? We can go through it all together? Alex, I’ve put gummi bears in Bettina’s dressing room and some of that special water
she likes. That should keep her happy for a while at least!”

Through the swelling melee of company press people, who had flown in from all points of the compass, Alex finally saw Todd’s
head. He was taller than most and he scanned the enormous room to find her. He had a frown of irritation on his face, and
from nowhere she felt a sudden urge to turn away from him. Where had that come from? She didn’t have time to think about it,
but pushed aside a strong feeling of disquiet. Instead, she put up her hand and waved. His face changed to recognition when
he saw her and he made his way purposefully towards her.

“Hi there,” he said as he reached her, slightly out of breath. “Goddamn taxi couldn’t find the place, and there were holdups
at the airport. Now, is Sanferino here yet? And I’ve got
Vanity Fair
wanting to do a British hip-hop piece. You have lined me up a spokesperson, haven’t you?” He cast about him to assess the
situation.

“And hello to you too!” She could hear the forced cheer in her voice. “Don’t I even get a kiss?”

He looked at her as if he had only just remembered who she was. “I don’t think that would be very professional, do you?”

“Oh, right. No. Perhaps not.” Feeling stupid, she looked down at her papers and told him what time his interviews were scheduled,
and he walked off briskly towards one of the people putting out press packs near the door.

“Alex?” Someone else came into her eye line now. “Gordino? She here yet?” It was the makeup girl. “I need her soon. Where
is she?” Alex looked at her watch. Shit. Nearly eight o’clock. Less than an hour before the doors opened. She gasped. “I had
no idea it was that late.” She pulled out her phone and pressed redial on the driver’s number. Unobtainable.

“Where do you want the juices?” A short man in a logoed T-shirt that read the organic smoothie company was standing in front
of her now holding a heavy box.

“Juices?”

“Yuppo. Juices. I’ve had an order from…” He balanced the box on his knee and looked askew at his delivery sheet. “Saffron,
I think it says. Three hundred and fifty bottles of our very best smoothies. Ordered last night. Where d’ya want them, this
is kinda heavy?”

Alex’s face lit up. God bless her. One thing had arrived at least. “Yup, over there.”

“Gotcha.”

Alex’s mobile then buzzed. “Alex, it’s me.” Saff sounded so breathless Alex could barely hear her. Had something gone wrong?
“We’re just coming down Acre Lane. Can you make sure there is someone at the door to help us unload?”

“Will do! Are you okay?”

“Bit tired but fine. See you in a sec.” And she hung up.

Alex collared one of the events team who was sound-checking the music system to stand and wait by the door and, as she went
to show him where, a large and flash-looking limousine pulled up. Relief flooded through Alex and she opened the rear door.
But what stepped out was not the long lean supermodel she had been expecting. It was a long white-trousered leg closely followed
by the pink-caftaned body of the Bean.

“Good morning, daarling,” she said expansively and opened her arms as if she were stepping onto the red carpet at an awards
ceremony.

“But where’s Bettina gone, for goodness’ sake?”

“I’m here. Stop your fretting!” She popped her head out, her long brunet hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I haven’t had
a minute of sleep, but…” A broad grin swept over her face. “I’ve had sooo much fun.” Before she could elaborate, Donatella
tottered out of the main doors and scooped her up with a broad arm, ushering her into the building and away from the crowd
of onlookers, who were beginning to gather behind the security barricades.

Alex turned to her mother. “What the hell have you been doing all night?” she asked, not sure whether to be cross or relieved.

“Oh, I can hardly begin to remember.” Her mother had a rather self-satisfied look in her eye. “We had a cocktail at the Ritz.
Do you know, Alphonso
still
works there and was thrilled to see me. They served us on the house, of course. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever paid for
a drink at the Ritz.” She started to walk in through the doors as if invited and Alex hurried after her. “Then we did the
French in Soho—or was that next? Anyway, I found the most charming cabbie—right about my age, late fifties, and a great fan
apparently—and, bless him, he took us on a tour of the places I’d filmed with Terence and Alan. That Bettina girl was enchanted.
Completely mad apparently about all that Quant stuff. Made her scream with laughter when I told her we wore paper dresses!
Well, after that, let me think, we stopped by at the National to say hello to some friends—they gave her a super tour backstage
and we joined in the after-show party, and then New Covent Garden… some lovely man showered us with lilies—they’re in
the car—followed by a splendid breakfast at Smithfield. Gosh, for a little thing, she can pack away bacon and eggs. Are we
late? Only we thought we might be, but the driver didn’t turn up until seven forty-five. I did ask him but he said he’d had
a call changing the pickup time.” The Bean turned to Alex. “I did think that was a bit odd, dear. Do you think it’s that saboteur
again? How exciting!”

The Bean entered the huge hall and took in the stage, now festooned with suspended logos, the company motto (adjusted to Live
for Your Life, not Play for Your Life) writ large and, against the back wall, a giant screen showing a visual montage of great
sporting moments intertwined with hip-hop and R&B videos, the singers gyrating provocatively. The crew were practicing training
lasers on the ceiling. All it needed now was people.

“Alex, a moment?” Todd was by her side before she could respond to her mother’s monologue. “Hello, Mother dear,” he said.
“I just need to speak to your daughter.” Taking Alex by the elbow, he steered her away, though not before she spotted the
outraged look on her mother’s face. “Mother dear” would not have gone down well. “Alex, I’m not happy with the short time
you’ve given me for
The New York Times.
They have been on the phone—”

“Alex.” Ella’s voice came from behind her. “Can you just pop this in your ear?”

“Oh, Ella, I’ve got too much to sort out…”

“Just do it, Alex?”

Grudgingly Alex took the little earpiece and slipped it into her ear, where it hummed quietly. “Now, Todd, I’ve given you
what I can. I promise, you have more interviews lined up than anyone else. Is there any sign of Saff?”

“Saff? Your friend? That little thing? Why on earth would she be here? First your mother, now Saff. Is this some kind of family
get-together?” His voice sounded sneering and spoiled.

“Yup, Todd,” she said, looking directly at him. “It’s looking very much that way. They’re here to help me.” Turning on her
heel, she went towards the door. It was now thronged with people all holding clipboards and talking into walkie-talkies. Alex
glanced at her watch: 8:50 and still no food and no Frankie. This was a nightmare, especially as she could see Gavin out of
the corner of her eye. He was clearly getting an update from Camilla, who was looking at her watch anxiously, then putting
her hands to her mouth with an expression of deep concern. Behind him Ella was hovering, virtually jumping from one foot to
another, and she was holding something in her hand and trying to get his attention. What on earth was wrong with the girl?

Then at that moment the group at the door parted like the Red Sea and they all looked up, startled by the vision that came
between them. Framed in the doorway was Frankie, but the only thing recognizable about him was his red face. The rest of him
looked as if it had been inflated like a balloon. On his legs, just peeping out beneath the enormous Sanferino-size livid
yellow American football shirt emblazoned with the company logo, was a pair of long baseball shorts that came halfway down
his calves, and on his face was an expression of excruciating pain.