Viper's Nest (13 page)

The black limousine glided gracefully along the tarmac that led from the highway down to the ocean’s edge.

‘Where are we going, honey?’ Nancy leaned across the walnut table and gave Lucas’s hand a squeeze. ‘This is the right place, yeah? I’ve got my new Jimmy Choos on,
after all. I had to wait a whole three months for them to come in at Bloomingdale’s and I don’t want to wreck them the first time I take them out.’

Lucas rolled his eyes at his girlfriend. ‘Don’t worry, Nancy. Your Choos are safe with me,’ he said. ‘Two more minutes, tops. I promise you, this place is well worth the
journey. Pete the drummer went to the last pop-up this chef organised. He said it was the coolest night he had ever had in LA. And that’s saying something.’ He paused for effect then
turned to Cate, who was sitting next to him. ‘He sends his love to you, by the way.’

Cate felt herself going pink, remembering how Pete had teased her when she had travelled with Black Noir last Christmas, pretending to ask her on a date.

Nancy homed in on her embarrassment. ‘Speaking of boyfriends, Cate,’ she said, ‘that Ritchie seems like rather a catch. Nephew of Johnny James, no less. I should hang in there
if I were you.’

Cate’s mother’s eyebrows shot up and she stared at her daughter.

‘But,’ Nancy continued, warming to her theme, ‘your lovely Michel was utterly gorgeous and a real sweetheart. He played the saxophone like an angel. And he was French.
What’s not to like?
Très romantique
.’

‘Chip off the old block, darling, chip off the old block,’ said Cate’s mother, giving Cate an approving look. ‘I was exactly the same at your age.’

Cate pulled a face at them both and looked out of the window. In the glass reflection she saw Lucas wink at her and she grinned back, reluctantly at first and then with genuine warmth.

It’s only a bit of teasing, she thought. In truth, Cate had been terrified that Nancy and her mother wouldn’t get on. Both of them were extremely competitive around other –
particularly pretty – women. Yet they had bonded like sisters, chatting nonstop all the way from Santa Monica, comparing gossip on the wacky diets of various female celebrities, the latest
botox techniques and the coolest places to shop in LA.

Meanwhile, Cate was enthralled as Lucas told her about his Mexican documentary and the trip to Mexico City that had inspired it.

‘It was life-changing,’ Lucas said, ‘to see all those kids sleeping in sewers, out on the streets desperately trying to sell bits of thrown-away tat that they had picked out of
bins or from tips.’ He shook his head, his dark eyes sad. ‘Kids of seven or eight trying to look after toddlers. Fighting over filthy rags just so that they could lie down and get a few
hours’ sleep. It just beggars belief. Here in the twenty-first century, in a relatively wealthy country, just over the border from the richest state in America, kids are living like that. I
knew there and then I had to do anything I could to help them.’

‘What you’re doing is amazing,’ Cate said. ‘One concert from you and one fashion show from Nancy will raise more awareness and money than all the politicians in the world
put together.’

‘Thanks, Cate,’ said Lucas softly. ‘That means a lot.’

The car rounded a bend and suddenly Cate saw dozens of dancing, flickering lights up ahead. As her eyes adjusted, she saw there were fairy lights strung along the edge of a marina. Behind them,
the small bright lights from the masts of yachts rose and fell with the gentle ocean swell and, up ahead, Cate could see the outline of a large marquee, the front side lifted up to reveal candlelit
tables and chairs facing out towards the huge boats.

The limousine slid noiselessly to a halt just in front of the marquee and a uniformed waiter, with film-star looks, rushed to open the door. Cate got out on to a thick red carpet, where she
stood still for a few seconds, revelling in the feeling of the warm Pacific breeze caressing her face. She was joined by Lucas, then her mother, and the three of them stood there for a few seconds,
blinking as their eyes adjusted to the bright lights.

From the marquee Cate heard the clink of wine glasses, some jazz music playing softly, and people laughing. This was going to be an amazing evening, she thought happily to herself. Not bad for
only her second evening in LA!

Suddenly the maitre d’ was rushing towards them, his arms opened in welcome. ‘Mr Black, what an honour to see you. Thank you for coming.’ He shook Lucas’s outstretched
hand, then turned to Cate and her mother. ‘And your two beautiful companions.
Bonjour
, welcome, welcome. I hope you will stay for the dancing later?’

Behind him, a short man with slicked-back hair was advancing towards them with a purposeful look on his face.

‘My photographer.’ The maitre d’ gestured towards him apologetically. ‘If you would be so good as to have your photograph taken? Such wonderful publicity for my pop-up
restaurant would be immeasurable. I would be so grateful.’

Cate felt Lucas hesitating, then he smiled. ‘No problem, François. You know I think you are doing a fantastic thing. I love pop-ups. They give the unrecognised chefs a chance to
make a name for themselves without the cost of opening a restaurant.’

Lucas put his arms around the two women obligingly and the photographer clicked away on his camera whilst François beamed with pride. So this must be what it feels like to be famous,
thought Cate, grinning happily. What if the pictures somehow found their way to the UK, maybe even into the celebrity magazines her friends read with such devotion? That would be beyond
awesome.

The photographer was still clicking away when Cate heard François gasp. Nancy Kyle, her bright red lipstick newly applied, her huge green eyes accentuated by her kohl make-up, was out of
the car.

Without waiting for Lucas, she strode up the red carpet on impossibly high stilettos, her shapely hips swaying as if she were on a catwalk, her white jumpsuit shimmering under the coloured
lights, her impossibly tiny waist cinched in by a wide snakeskin-effect belt.

Instantly the cameraman forgot about Lucas, Cate and her mother and started taking pictures of a seemingly oblivious Nancy, who by now was making her entrance into the marquee.

Lucas grinned at Cate. ‘Oh, that poor Nancy, I do worry about her,’ he said sardonically, exaggerating his flat Northern vowels. ‘She is so shy and retiring.’ He took
Cate’s mother on one arm and offered the other to Cate. ‘Come on, guys, let’s go follow the star.’

By the time Cate had worked her way through the fourth course of the tasting menu, she was ready to call it a day. She had already eaten tiny, precise squares of venison saddle
perched on a risotto base, a triangle of salmon poached in a liquorice gel, jelly of quail presented in a silver egg cup, and she had even shut her eyes and tried a teaspoon of snail porridge.
Despite their small size, the portions had been surprisingly filling.

Cate looked around with interest. Some of the fellow diners looked very familiar indeed. Tucked away discreetly in the corner she saw a famous golfer, recently divorced after a scandalous
affair, topping up the champagne glass of a giggling peroxide blonde. On the table next to them, the man behind the biggest reality TV franchise in the world was locked in earnest conversation with
three men in grey suits and, on the other side of the marquee, a famously bad-tempered TV chef was clearly checking out the opposition.

Cate tried hard not to gape. For a pop-up restaurant, this place certainly brought out the stars.

Her mum caught her eye and gave her a wink. ‘Look behind you,’ she whispered. ‘Just come in.’

Cate turned in what she hoped was a casual movement and then nearly fell from her chair. On the very next table, Jake Breber, the boy pop wonder of the year, was playing on a tablet. His
unmistakable dark fringe was swept immaculately across his boyish face, his famous smile contorted into a grimace as he hit the controls in a frenzy. Next to him, almost dwarfing the diminutive
teenager, a huge man with cropped iron-grey hair scanned the room with a suspicious expression, his hand holding what looked like a tiny microphone. Jake Breber certainly wasn’t Cate’s
favourite singer. In fact, his lovelorn lyrics and sugary melodies made Cate want to throw her radio out of the window every time they were played. But she knew she was in the minority amongst her
friends.

Nancy put down her glass and nudged Lucas. ‘It’s that Jake Breber,’ she whispered so loudly that Cate cringed, certain that the boy wonder must have heard her. ‘You
should get him to play at your gig next week, Lucas,’ Nancy continued brightly. ‘Perhaps he could duet with you on your charity download. He’d get all the teenagers digging deep
to help your Mexican street kids.’

‘Nancy, Black Noir are bona fide musicians,’ he said patiently. ‘We are not a boy band. We’re properly trained musically, with years of hard slog on the tour circuit
behind us and fans who actually know something about our genre. If we go on stage with Jake, well, let’s just say that you and I might not be flying by private jet this time next year. So
let’s leave young Master Breber to the teenyboppers’ singalong, shall we?’

‘Harsh, Lucas,’ said Nancy. ‘You were young once.’

He raised his eyebrows at her.

They did like needling each other, Cate thought. Perhaps that was what they had in common. Apart from money and fame, sometimes she really couldn’t see what else kept them together.

‘I’m just off to the bathroom,’ said Cate. She picked up her bag and followed the signs to a series of plush portable loos located outside, close to the
boats. As she picked her way across the boardwalk, she heard the metal stays clanking against the steel masts – a sound that always reminded Cate of her time working on Nancy’s
yacht.

She headed back to the marquee and then stopped and looked towards the marina. She adored looking at yachts, fantasising about which one she would buy if she ever won the lottery or, more
likely, if Arthur became a nerdy billionaire. No, she couldn’t resist a quick sightseeing detour.

As Cate walked towards the boats, she heard the deep-throated rumble of a yacht coming into the marina. She peered through the gloom and saw it. It was around ten metres long and nosing gently
into a mooring on the pontoon directly in front.

Onboard, a crowd of young people were milling around, passing ropes, laughing and shouting good-natured instructions to one another. Their voices were carrying clearly over the water. The boat
safely moored, they piled out on to the pontoon, ten or so of them, the boys resplendent in black tie, the girls in cocktail dresses. They passed close by Cate in a waft of perfume and expensive
aftershave, looking as if they had stepped from a Ralph Lauren advertisement.

Not a bad way to spend a Saturday night, thought Cate. ‘Jump on a yacht and head off to a pop-up restaurant somewhere along the coast for dinner and dancing. Kids their age in England
would be probably falling out of pubs in the rain, jumping on to grubby buses or waiting ages for a grumpy taxi driver to deign to stop for them.

Cate was distracted from her thoughts by the sight of a man up ahead. He was carrying a thick package under his left arm and heading down to the boats. Even from that distance, there was
something about him – his height, the shape of his head – that looked familiar. Intrigued, she stepped down on to the wooden pontoon that edged the marina and began to walk slowly
towards him. It was darker down there, the overhead lights of the restaurant beginning to fade, the only illumination the mast lights far above her.

Then Cate saw the man’s pale face and icy blue eyes and instinctively she stepped back into the shadows. There, less than twenty metres away, was Novak, Johnny James’s head of
security. Wasn’t he meant to be in New York?

She shook her head. What Novak did in his time off was no business of hers. But as the tall man headed away from her she noticed he was limping badly, and as he passed a lit-up boat she saw that
his right arm was folded, useless, against his chest. Now Cate was intrigued. She wondered who or what had given Novak those injuries.

Almost without thinking, she was following him, slipping off her shoes and feeling the coolness of the wooden boards beneath her feet. Below her the water sucked and sighed, the boards vibrating
with her weight as she walked. She chose her route carefully, keeping close to the yachts, using their large frames as a cover as she kept a safe distance from her target.

It was just as well that she was being so cautious. Novak was clearly worried about being followed, turning suddenly every twenty metres or so, once or twice disappearing into the shadows only
to reappear after a short wait.

The longer Cate followed him, the more she was convinced that he was up to no good. She hesitated and pulled back into the shadows. Back at the restaurant they would soon be missing her, sending
her a text, then perhaps even coming out to look for her. She had to stall them. She texted her mother.

Back in five. Just chatting to someone.

Enough, she hoped, to buy her some time. She put the phone on to silent and carried on after him.

Novak reached a T-junction in the walkway and veered off to the left, heading out across the marina, to where the larger, deepwater boats were moored.

He was moving more slowly now, looking up at the side of the yachts, clearly hoping to see a name – and finally it seemed he had found the right boat. He gave a careful glance over both
shoulders before climbing on to the wooden gangplank at the rear of a black motor yacht that stood three storeys high, lights blazing in the dark.

Ming Yue
.
Registered Hong Kong.

The name was inscribed in gothic gold script on the side of the boat, just below a brass railing which glowed like a halo. The glass doors were not quite pulled shut and Cate could hear the
murmur of men’s voices. She looked at the short walkway that was hanging temptingly between the pontoon and the boat, and tiptoed quietly on to the outer deck. She stood there for a few
seconds, listening out for any signs that she had been heard, but the voices continued unabated.