Kissing Toads (52 page)

What the hell was the matter with me?

The next night, at yet another party (early evening drinks), I met a former Olympic runner turned commentator who was good-looking, probably about B+-list, and who asked me to dinner. I said yes. He ticked the right boxes. We went to Zilli's, and I saw a gossip columnist at another table checking us out, but decided that to give her a big smile would be a bit unsubtle. The guy talked about being an Olympic runner, and asked me about Scotland, where he had once run, and in due course, inevitably, he got on to the subject of HG. Was he still attractive, even though he was so old? Had he had cosmetic surgery? Was it true he had a small dick, didn't do cunnilingus, insisted on, like, you know, the total wax? Did I still have that? He'd always really fancied shaved pussy . . .

I'd had enough.

‘I'm really sorry to disappoint everybody,' I said, ‘but I
didn't
shag him. I didn't want to shag him, he didn't want to shag me. He's an okay guy, Basilisa Ramón is a poisonous cow – that's reason enough for the divorce. Since you're so interested, why don't you go for
her
? I'm sick sick SICK of people who want to get off with me because I'm part of a celebrity shag-chain. Enjoy your bloody dinner: I'm leaving!'

I got up, balled my napkin, hurled it to the ground and walked out. I didn't care how it looked, or what he thought, or what the gossip columnist thought. At that moment I knew I couldn't bear to go out with him – or anyone like him – for even five minutes, let alone long-term. I stood on the Soho street feeling rage streaming from every pore and realised I needed a bolt hole, somewhere I could sit quietly, sip a drink in peace and chill. From Zilli's there was an obvious option, and ten to one the ex-runner wasn't a member; he was too new on the scene.

I walked the twenty yards or so to the Groucho Club.

The Groucho is an institution. It's been around since the mid-eighties, which makes it practically antique, though not as antique as the Garrick, of course, and there are times when it's the coolest place in town, and times when the cool people go elsewhere, but the Groucho doesn't care. It just goes on being there, and eventually the cool people come back, or different people become cool and decide to hang there, because it's comfortable. Not jazzy, not trendy, just comfortable, and somehow there's nowhere else in town where you can feel so much at ease. It's an ideal place to take the tag-end of a tantrum and unwind.

Everyone goes to the Groucho, sooner or later.
Everyone
. Actors, writers, artists, journalists.

Journalists . . .

In reception I said that if anyone asked for me, I wasn't here. They smiled and said, ‘No problem.'

It was mid-evening; the downstairs bar was busy but not packed. And there he was, sitting on one of the high stools. Stocky shoulders, sandy hair. Harry. Unmistakably Harry. He was talking to some chap (thank God it wasn't a woman) and he had his back to me, but this time I was completely certain. I went to a space at the bar a couple of people along from him and waited to order. My bad temper had evaporated and my heart was beating so hard I was afraid I was visibly shaking. There's a mirror on the facing wall, ideal for making sure you look beautiful (the lighting's very sympathetic so you always do) and checking out anyone who comes in behind you. I could see Harry, intent on his conversation, but he didn't notice me.

Bugger.

The buzz of general chatter was too loud for him to hear my voice when I ordered and it looked like I could be standing there for ever, or at least until he needed to go to the loo. (He would have to walk past me for that.) I'm no good with suspense. Clutching my drink for protection, I walked over to him.

He's the butler, I told myself. The bloody butler. You can't have nerves with a
butler
 . . .

‘Harry,' I said.

He looked round. Smiled.

The way someone looks the first second they see you,
that's
when you know.

‘Delphi,' he said. ‘Delphi . . . This is Charles.' Charles and I duly acknowledged each other. ‘Are you busy? Meeting someone?'

‘No,' I said baldly. ‘I just walked out on a dinner date. I'm fed up of people asking me about shagging Hot God.'

‘I see. Did you get any dinner first? Good. Charles and I are nearly done and I haven't eaten either. Stay here, take the stool – I'll go fix up a table.' He went off to the brasserie while my heart-rate steadied and Charles, who suddenly seemed like the nicest person I'd ever met, talked about gardens – he'd just acquired one – and seemed to have no trouble not mentioning HG at all.

Then Harry came back, they finished their chat, which was journalistic in content, and we went in to dinner.

Just being next to him at the bar I was incredibly aware of him physically, as if he sparked off an electric charge all over my body. I decided he was much too relaxed. Something would have to be done about that. It was easier at the table because we were sitting opposite each other and I wasn't wondering every second which parts of my anatomy were touching – or nearly touching – which parts of his.

‘So,' he said, ‘what happened after I left?'

I told him. I told him about the ouija board and Morag's strange trance and how I worked out the whole truth about Elizabeth's murder and Alasdair coming back as his cousin, and then how we found the confession that confirmed it all. He was riveted and kept looking at me in a sort of warm, appreciative way which gave me a lovely glow inside. Then I told him about HG still sticking to the maze idea, and Crusty arriving with reinforcements, and how effortlessly my mother routed the opposition.

‘I'd like to meet her,' he said. ‘She sounds great.'

He'd like to meet my
mother
?? Does he know what he's saying?

‘She's still at Dunblair,' I said. ‘HG wanted more help with the garden, so she stayed on. I think she feels he needs watching, in case he suddenly decides to build a folly or something.'

Harry grinned. ‘Rock stars,' he said.

‘Yeah.' I found I'd picked up his grin.

‘What about you?' I went on. ‘You don't have a police bodyguard any more, I see.'

‘Not now Attila's dead. The group just fell apart without him. The other two are heading for long gaol terms, anyway. No, it's business as usual for me.'

‘More investigative stuff?'

‘Various projects. Nothing undercover, though.' He added: ‘You're a pretty good investigator yourself.'

‘If you need a partner . . . !'

‘The glamorous blonde sidekick who acts like a bimbo then shows me up at every turn?'

‘That's the idea,' I said.

Main courses arrived, causing a brief diversion. I wasn't at all hungry, and apart from picking up a chip in my fingers in case I required a weapon, I left most of mine.

‘New boyfriend?' Harry asked, with what I recognised as careful nonchalance.

‘Not yet,' I said. ‘I'm still reviewing the shortlist.' (In case he thought no one was interested in me.)

‘I was going to phone you,' he said, ‘but . . . er . . . the tabloids seemed to think you were pretty busy.'

So he made
me
do the work. I'd had to come into the Groucho to find him, even if it
was
by chance. Huh!

‘I always tell the tabloids what I'm up to,' I snapped.

‘We going to have a fight?' he said.

‘Probably!'

‘Then what?'

I shouldn't have let him meet my eyes. My stomach took a dive and the electric charge went straight to the X-spot. In a
restaurant
 . . .

‘Has there been anyone since me?' Harry asked.

‘No,' I conceded. Then I went on, ‘I was so traumatised by my experience with you, I've lost all interest in sex.' With anyone else.

‘Really?' He let the moment linger. ‘Maybe you need some therapy.'

I ignored that. ‘Have you . . . has there . . .'

‘No. No one since you. Lot of things to sort out.'

So he hadn't been pining for me. He just hadn't had
time
for anyone else.

‘I'm sure you'll manage to accommodate someone soon,' I said coldly.

‘You know, Dacres, you're dead sexy when you act snooty.'

‘
Don't
call me Dacres! Just because I called you – what the hell
is
your name, anyway? It
is
Harry, isn't it?'

He laughed. ‘Yeah,' he said. ‘Harry Slater.'

‘Slater? God, that's so . . .
plebeian
.'

‘That's me. One of the plebs.' I knew he was going to say it, and he did. ‘Rough trade.'

‘D'you think I haven't been through all that?' I said miserably. ‘Worrying that it's going to be the plumber next, or the dustman, or—'

‘How can you be such an idiot,' he said, ‘when you're so smart?'

‘I'm not—'

‘I want to fuck you. Now. Tonight. Every night. I want to fuck all the nonsense out of you. I want you in my bed, in my life. I want—'

‘Yes,' I whispered.

He said: ‘You're so not my type.'

‘Snap.'

‘I'm not going to do much for your image.'

Belatedly, I ate the chip. ‘I don't care. I'm bored of it, anyway. The whole celeb thing. Been there, done that.'

Harry said, ‘You won't get bored of me.'

‘I know.'

We paid the bill and said the meal had been wonderful, which was true, even though we'd scarcely eaten a thing. Then we went back to my place, because I didn't like to leave Fenny too long. In the taxi, we hardly talked at all. As soon as the front door was shut we were unbuttoning, unzipping, fumbling with each other's fastenings and our own, clumsy with haste and desperation. Fenny tried to join in but Harry shut him in the living room with most of our clothes and then we were doing it, he was inside me, fucking me and fucking me, and I remember thinking, in some still quiet corner of my mind, that I would be his slave for ever, just for this. For the feel of him, his strength and his maleness, his dick in my vitals . . .

I won't ever tell him, of course.

Anyway, he probably knows.

Several months went by. I collaborated, with Nigel of all people, on the book of the garden of the lost maze. Roo was so in demand she did something for the BBC, then in the New Year she and I are going to be working with Crusty on a series about designing eco-gardens for people who want to encourage wildlife, with locations all over Europe. She seems to be settled with Ash and very happy.

Alex and Brie got engaged – it was in all the papers – and he gave her the same ring he gave me. I was furious, since I chose it and he was getting the credit for my good taste. Harry laughed and laughed.

He says he wants to marry me when we have a weekend with nothing else to do, but he won't have any guests or presents or any of the kerfuffle, because he wants to be sure I'm doing it for him and not just for the wedding.

‘Can't I do it for both?' I say.

It's something we argue about when we run out of anything else.

HG's divorce went very smoothly after
her
lawyers met
his
lawyers and discovered how much dirt he had on her. Afterwards, Basilisa went to Hollywood and sank without trace.

Skinhead and Greaseball are in prison, where they are probably very happy. I know what it's like: I've seen
Porridge
. The lifestyle should suit them.

My father turned up a couple of times and I tried to be kind, in case I take after him, but Harry handled him brilliantly – friendly but firm – and since Dunblair my father is a little in awe of him. Anyhow, then he went back to the South of France and married a wealthy divorcee. She has three daughters.

I hear Cedric and Young Andrew are an item, and Jules and Sandy have two German shepherd puppies which are absolutely adorable. I'm sure Fenny will love them.

We're all going to Dunblair for Christmas.

I haven't been able to stay out of the papers as much as I expected, but it isn't my fault.

Hot God married my mother.