Do Not Disturb (51 page)

“Oh, shut up,” said Sian, laughing and hitting him with a pillow. Paddy had an uncanny ability to see the funny side in almost any situation and to get others to do the same. Skinny as anything, with merry, dancing gray eyes and the same classically Irish coloring as she had—pale skin made even paler by his shock of black hair—he habitually looked as though he’d spent the previous night sleeping under a hedge. Not handsome, but definitely attractive in a roguish, new-romantic kind of way, he was as much her best friend as her lover. People often commented that they looked like brother and sister, which annoyed Paddy so much that Sian had never dared to tell him she sometimes felt that way, too.

Given that they were in the same profession, it was ironic that they hadn’t in fact met through work, but through Lola’s boyfriend, Marti. He and Paddy had been friends for years, since Paddy’s days as an intern at the
New York Post
. Marti brought him over to the girls’ flat one night for dinner, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Sian liked being part of a couple, if only to give her something to talk about with Lola, who’d been blissfully loved-up with Marti ever since the Burnstein wedding. The two of them had been clocking up the air miles flitting back and forth from New York to London to see each other, and they were still revoltingly besotted.

Last year, against Sian’s advice, they’d decided to go into business together, with the newly graduated Lola designing evening gowns and Marti selling them online, through one of his many successful Internet shopping sites.

Happily, Sian’s fears about the wisdom of mixing business with pleasure had proved groundless. Their love remained as strong as ever, and Marti was now in London almost full-time. Trading under the name of Marla Fashions (as in Marti and Lola—sick-making, right?), the fledgling venture was already having remarkable early success. Only last month a famous British soap actress had worn one of Lola’s designs to the National Television Awards, and since then orders had been up a staggering 300 percent.

Sian was happy for her. She deserved her success. But there were times when her own life—job, relationship, bank balance, you name it—looked pretty pathetic by comparison.

Today, squatting on her aching haunches next to the most irritating sex pest on Fleet Street, was definitely one of those times. Swatting away a mosquito, she shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. Her right leg was starting to get pins and needles from all the crouching.

“Pass me one of your boxes, would you?” she whispered to Keith. “If I don’t sit down soon I’m gonna fall down.” Silence.

“Keith?”

Looking over her shoulder, Sian saw to her horror that her so-called partner was sprinting away through the trees as fast as his pudgy little legs could carry him. Moments later she realized why. Two burly men in overalls materialized out of thin air, grabbed hold of her roughly, and pinned her arms behind her back.

“Let go of me!” she screamed, kicking her legs uselessly like a captured cartoon character as they frog-marched her to the front of the house.

“Get off! This is assault!”

“No it’s not, love,” said the larger of the men. “It’s a citizen’s arrest. You’re trespassing. And you’re caught. So be a good girl and sit quietly until the old bill gets here. All right?”

Two hours later, stuck in a cell in Swiss Cottage police station, Sian racked her brains trying to think whom else she could call.

Simon, her editor, who only hours ago had been plaguing her nonstop with phone calls, had mysteriously disappeared in her hour of need. Probably holed up with the paper’s lawyers somewhere figuring out how best to throw her to the wolves without getting his own hands dirty. Lola would have been her next call. She was a grand master at talking herself out of trouble. But unfortunately she was on vacation in Hawaii with Marti and totally incommunicado. Paddy was in Dubai.

She was rapidly running out of options.

“No one’s given me a lawyer, you know,” she shouted through the door to the duty sergeant. “I’m entitled to a lawyer. And a phone call. I know my rights. I’m an American citizen!” she added, more than a touch desperately.

“This is a north London nick, love, not
NYPD Blue
,” said the sergeant, brilliantly managing to roll his eyes without looking up from his
Sun
crossword. “The DI’ll get round to you as soon as he can. In the meantime, there’s a pay phone in the corner there, and a paper if you’re bored. You can ring whoever you like.”

Feeling slightly deflated—partly because she had no one to call, and partly because being arrested was a lot more dramatic on TV—Sian picked up the copy of the
Daily Express
lying on the Formica table in her cell and gave it a desultory glance. Murphy’s law decreed that the first thing she saw, slapped across the society pages, was a picture of Ben and Bianca.

It wasn’t the first time she’d seen them pictured together, of course. Being so showstoppingly stunning, Bianca was a natural favorite with the picture editors, and since becoming the new face of Marks & Spencer her profile in the UK had shot up even further. She and Ben were rapidly becoming an It-couple to rival Posh and Becks.

Sian wished she could just ignore them, but working for a tabloid made it doubly hard. It had been three years since she’d
last seen Ben in person. But she’d never forgotten the humiliation of that day, at his going-away party, when he’d walked out on her in front of all those people. Even now, thinking back to it made her flush with embarrassment.

Why did she even care anymore? All that stuff had happened eons ago, back in another life when she was a lowly maid from Butt-Fuck-Nowhere, New Jersey. Now she was a reporter for a national newspaper, living abroad, with a nice boyfriend and an awesome apartment. She’d moved on, hadn’t she? Who gave a shit what Ben self-righteous Slater did, or who he did it with?

“Know ’im, do you?”

The duty sergeant, who was actually a kind man, came in with a cup of tea he’d made for her. They certainly didn’t do
that
on
NYPD Blue
.

“Not really,” said Sian. “I used to. He’s a jerk,” she added, taking the tea gratefully.

“He’s a rich jerk though, isn’t he?” said the sergeant. Sian shrugged.

“Listen, love. A word to the wise,” he said. “If
I
had a rich mate like that, I’d get him on the blower, sharpish.”

“You want me to call Ben?” Sian translated. She was getting quite adroit at deciphering cockneyisms these days. “Why would I do that? I told you, he’s a jerk.”

They were alone in the cell, but the sergeant still looked around him and lowered his voice before he spoke again.

“The DI hasn’t been in to see you yet because he’s still interviewing Sir Jago,” he whispered. “If the shouting’s anything to go by, I’d say the old git wants to make an example of you and your paper. You ’eard from your editor yet?”

Sian shook her head nervously.

“No. I thought not,” said the sergeant. “They’re hanging you out to dry, love. You need a decent brief and you need him right now. The bloke they’re sending you from legal aid is a muppet. Couldn’t argue ’is way out of a paper bag.”

“But…but…you don’t understand,” stammered Sian. “I can’t call Ben. Certainly not to ask him for a favor. Uh-uh, no way. I’d rather die.”

The sergeant shrugged. “Up to you, love. Of course, I don’t know the bloke. But if it were me, I’d swallow my pride. I’d say you need all the help you can get.”

He returned to his desk, leaving Sian pacing the room, willing herself to think of someone, anyone else she knew in England who could help her. Surely somebody here owed her one? Or simply cared enough to get involved?

But try as she might, she couldn’t dredge up a name, and panic was starting to get the better of her. Sir Jago Wells was an important man. What if he pulled enough strings to have her sent to prison? Or deported? That would be even worse. The thought of going back to her old life in New Jersey filled her with dread. She couldn’t do it.

Her hand shook as she punched out the number for directory inquiries.

“London, please,” she told the operator. “It’s a company called Stellar, in the City, EC I think. Yeah. You can put me straight through.”

Honor watched as the last few passengers from the United LA flight straggled into the arrivals hall at JFK. Still no sign of Tina. Please, please let her not have missed the fucking plane. Not today.

But no. Miraculously, there she was, floating through the double doors in a flouncy gypsy skirt and waist-length beads like a top-heavy Joni Mitchell, flashing a two-fingered peace sign to the ubiquitous paparazzi.

“Hey.” Drifting over to Honor, she enveloped her in a photo-friendly hug. “Sorry it took so long. I had some trouble with one of the customs guys.”

“I’m not surprised,” said Honor, reeling from the overpowering smell of marijuana on her sister’s clothes and hair. “How’d you talk your way out of that one?”

Tina flashed her a wicked smile. “I didn’t need to talk.”

Honor felt almost relieved. Evidently her Mother Teresa of Topanga makeover didn’t run
that
deep.

“Thanks for coming,” she said, pulling out of the airport onto the expressway twenty minutes later, once the paps had finally let them leave, and swerving into the fast lane as soon as she got a chance. “I appreciate it.”

They were on their way back to Palmers. Honor had arranged a dinner with a possible investor tonight, an Australian hotelier called Baz Murray, who was looking to link his small chain with a high-visibility brand in the US. He’d specifically asked to meet both sisters together. Evidently the Australian public was a lot more relaxed about sex scandals than their American counterparts, and it was the Palmer family connection that really interested him. Honor had put a call in to Tina with low hopes, but to her simultaneous amazement, relief, and terror, Tina had agreed to fly in for the meeting.

Petra had done her best to sabotage things by throwing an impromptu celebrity birthday party at the Herrick tonight and inviting Murray along. How she knew he was in town was anybody’s guess, but as the woman had more spies in the hospitality industry than the CIA, it was more of an annoyance than a surprise. In any case, to Honor’s great delight, Baz had turned her down, earning himself untold brownie points in Honor’s book. As long as Tina didn’t say or do anything too outrageous over drinks, things were looking good. God knew they needed a cash injection, and fast.

“You are, er…you are gonna change before dinner, right?” Honor asked, glancing at Tina’s gaping peasant blouse disapprovingly.

“You should talk,” said Tina, shooting her a look that was more pissed than peace.

It was a fair point. Honor had been in such a rush this morning, she was still in her workout clothes: a pair of juicy velour sweatpants and a blue Nike tank top that clung to her small, sweaty frame so tightly that her nipples were clearly visible. Shit. What if they showed up in the pictures those photographers had just snapped at the airport? They were bound to, weren’t they, circled in the goddamn
National Enquirer
? That was all she needed.

“So,” said Tina, changing the subject. “I heard about Lucas coming back to East Hampton. What do you think? Is he serious?”

Honor bit her lip. How could Tina talk about Lucas’s plans as if they were nothing more than an interesting tidbit of local gossip? Had she forgotten that it was Lucas who’d tried to ruin them in the first place? And who’d damn near succeeded?

But she had to try to stay on her sister’s good side, at least until tomorrow. Of course, if it weren’t for Tina’s feckless spending, they wouldn’t need to suck up to an outside investor. But that was beside the point now.

“I doubt it,” she said, with admirable calm. “He’s probably just shooting his mouth off as usual. Trying to gain some publicity for Luxe Paris. But we’ll see.”

For the rest of the journey, she steered the conversation toward safer topics, where they were bound to agree, like Lise and what a bitch she was and their dreadful, money-grubbing cousin Jacob Foster. “Did you see that interview he did with
US Weekly
about me discovering Jesus?” ranted Tina indignantly. “As if my spirituality could be confined by one religion. And as if that freak show even knows me!”