Shades Of Submission: Fifty By Fifty Part 47

"So," said Charlie, a big grin suddenly plastered over that boyish face. "You busy this afternoon, Trude?"

"I am, and you know I am."

"We could be at my place in ten."

There is no 'us'.

I reached across the table and put my hand on his. "Sorry, Charlie," I told him, "but what happened... well, as you so aptly put it a minute ago, s.h.i.t happens. We're over, babe. You know that as well as I do."

He did his best not to look like an abandoned puppy, he really did. He was just a bit c.r.a.p at it.

"Are you saying it was s.h.i.t?" he finally asked.

Trying to joke that was good.

"I'm saying it happened, and it probably shouldn't have happened, but I don't regret it. But it isn't going to happen again."

Just then, the door went. I looked round, and it was Julie, looking pointedly at my hand on Charlie's.

"Trudy," she said, coming over and leaning down to kiss me on the cheek. "How grand to see you." She turned to Charlie and went on, "And you are"

"Just leaving," Charlie said, standing, grinning. "No, no, please. I really was leaving. Work to do, and all that. You know."

When he'd gone, Julie sat opposite me. "So, holding hands in Grey's? Thank G.o.d you've found someone and I don't have to worry about you dying a miserable old spinster."

I laughed, shaking my head. "He's my ex," I said. "From a long, long time ago. There's nothing there. You're still going to have to worry about me, I'm afraid."

Julie was a publisher's dream. Photogenic, for starters, with her straight, ash-blonde hair, wide blue eyes and, not to put too fine a point on it, naturally pouting lips. A brilliant writer, too, and she talked as well as she wrote. Julie was a natural for TV chat shows. And over the last year or so she'd become a good friend, too.

"So, to business," she said. "Are you going to do the book?"

"Yes, we're going to do the book."

And that was it: business done, all of it a foregone conclusion. We could work out the details later.

"So... your man?"

"He's not my man. We lived together. Split up a year ago. He's an old friend of Ethan's. I ran into him again at the wedding."

That got her sidetracked. "Ah," she said. "The wedding. I'd forgotten. So how was it, then? Tell me all about it..."

And so I did, although I was selective. I told her about the awful drive to get there, about the quaint little chapel in the middle of nowhere, the grand family mansion, the Rembrandt hanging over the stairs. I skipped over the steamy, needy ex-s.e.x in the churchyard; that would only complicate things.

"So this Will, you say? What does he do, then?"

"What, apart from turn up at his sister's wedding looking like he's been sleeping rough and then keep slipping away to talk on his cell phone, you mean? I don't know. He said he'd been in Algeria, some kind of negotiations. Wheeling and dealing. Power-broking. I don't know."

"Hmm," said Julie. "Some kind of upper-cla.s.s fixer, do you think? Old power, new power. Do you think there might be a story in that somewhere?"

"What, you mean the kind of story that might interest a long-established and much-respected publisher of memoirs?"

As soon as Julie mentioned it, I saw that this was exactly the kind of thing we would do at Ellison and Coles: in Will Bentinck-Stanley there was a story just waiting to be written. "English tradition and politics," I said. "A human story with a backdrop of global and social change. h.e.l.l, you've even got me writing the cover blurb already! Maybe I need to take him for lunch to talk about it."

"Okay," said Julie. "Now you've got me pitching a book I'm not even going to write. I should get a commission for this kind of thing. Consultancy fees. Do you really think there's something in it, or is it just a flimsy excuse to go after this Will character?"

I opened my mouth. I hadn't even thought of it like that. I wasn't really serious about the book, was I? And even if I was, I certainly wasn't doing this so that I could pursue Will.

And yes, again, perhaps I was protesting too much.

So what does a man like Willem Bentinck-Stanley do in this situation, when he's pursuing a woman who, in turn, wants to talk to him about an idea for a book that she just can't shake off? If he could somehow read my mind and learn that I wanted to contact him to talk about the book but didn't have any contact details for him that would be great.

So what does a man like Will do in that situation?

Not a lot, as it turned out.

Not enough, at any rate.

Coffee with Julie became a long c.o.c.ktails-accompanied lunch, as I'd always known it would. I'd learnt early on that it was wise to book out the whole day for any meeting with Julie. She was my project, my first big success with Ellison and Coles, and one of the key reasons I'd been asked to switch from temp to permanent when the company was taken over. I'd spotted her ma.n.u.script in the slush pile, I'd worked closely with Julie on editing the book, and its publication had marked our departure from dry, literary and political memoirs to stories with a more human touch. In the acquisitions meeting I'd described it as not so much dumbing down as smarting up, and that had become something of a commissioning mantra for the imprint over the last year.

Back in the office, late afternoon, those narrow stairs lined with shelves full of first editions had seemed much steeper, more uneven, than ever before. At my desk, I sat back, catching my breath, and then almost immediately Ellie was tapping on my half-open door.

"Hnh?"

"Hey, Tee. These came for you. Flowers."

I loved that about Ellie. Standing there in my doorway with a way over-the-top bunch of red roses resting in the crook of her arm and she still felt the need to say it out loud. The number of times she'd tapped at that door, poked her head around and said, "Only me: Ellie."

"Aw, thanks, Ellie. Were they delivered to the office for me?" She smiled and nodded, completely missing the joke. Such a sweetie.

"You want some water?"

"For the flowers, or me?" I asked.

"Both."

She dropped the bouquet on my desk and skipped out of the room.

A card. I fumbled with it, but it was in a little parchment envelope tied to the wrapping. I pulled harder and it came away.

So what does a guy like Bentinck-Stanley do to woo a girl? Lunch, expensive flowers... what next?

The card...

hey babes

this evening?

C.

A noise at the door I looked up, and Ellie was back with a vase and a pint gla.s.s of water. She always looked after me when I came back from a meeting with Julie. Did I mention that she was a real sweetie?

"Nice flowers?" she asked.

She knew they were nice flowers. She was just waiting for me to tell her what the card said.

I just nodded, and said, "Lovely," and laughed at her disappointed look when she realized I wasn't going to tell her any more.

Charlie, G.o.d d.a.m.n it.

There is no 'us', Charlie.

I checked my email, but there was nothing that couldn't wait until morning.

I drank my water, my eyes drawn back to the roses. They really were good ones, the petals heavy like velvet; not a single flaw. Why hadn't Charlie been like this before? Way back then... well, if there had been flowers they would have been from the Tesco Metro on the way back home. After-thought flowers. Limp carnations worth all of the 3.99 he'd paid for them.

'This evening'.

Where had this new Charlie come from? This persistent, lavish, G.o.d-d.a.m.ned sensitive Charlie?

Was it really that it had taken him a year to work out that he'd missed out on a good thing? A year to finally grow up?

Or was this just Charlie in smooth operator mode, Charlie making a little bit of an effort so he could get me into bed. Again.

Regret isn't a healthy thing, but when you've succ.u.mbed to ex-s.e.x with a man you'd last seen ducking an ash tray it was probably going to be an inevitable thing to feel.

Regret and the aftermath of c.o.c.ktails with Julie. That was my afternoon.

Regret and G.o.d-d.a.m.ned c.o.c.ktail burn-out.

A text message came through from Julie: Lovely, lovely lunch. Thanks, hun. So are you going to do anything with that Will of yours, are you? ;) xx Will? How did she know about Will? Then I remembered. I'd been discreet; I hadn't told her too much. Not that there was really anything to tell: he'd tried to jump my bones, he'd apologized and bought me lunch. Nothing more. Nada.

Not even any flowers.

The book! Ah yes, we'd been talking about a book. New power and a family with ancient traditions, the power and influence of the English aristocracy in a brave new world. And not to forget the human angle that I was so good at: the hot young eligible heir and his jet-setting lifestyle.

Tipsy as I was, the professional part of my brain still managed to kick in. I knew a good idea when I saw one.

We'd need a writer, obviously. That would always be one of the basics.

I doubted that Will had either the talent or the inclination to spend the time required to write a book. There was a chance that Julie could be persuaded, a natural career move from memoir to biography, and I knew she'd do an excellent job. Even as I thought through the idea, the names of three more writers came to me, all with t.i.tles on our list and likely to be interested in a project like this.

If I really was serious, then the obvious next move was to find out more and gauge his willingness. For all I knew his 'negotiations' in Algeria might just have been over the price of a rug or a holiday apartment. Charlie had hinted that Will had what he called an 'interesting' lifestyle, but I didn't really have anything substantial to go on. If Will turned out to be no more than a young heir trying to find ways to spend his family money then the project would be dead in the water.

A little research was in order, so I killed my screensaver and typed Will's name into Google.

I found Lord (William) George Frederick Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck, a nineteenth century Conservative politician, and buddy of Benjamin Disraeli.

I found William Cavendish-Bentinck, seventh Duke of Portland; I found a bunch of profiles on LinkedIn and Facebook. Lots of racehorse references, too, which confused me at first, but apparently Cavendish-Scott-Bentinck had been an enthusiast and owner. I found lots of noise.

But Will Bentinck-Stanley himself? Nothing on Twitter or Facebook. A few news stories where he was mentioned in pa.s.sing: parties and functions he'd attended, more gossip column than international affairs. So far he was fitting the profile of a spoilt rich kid trying to spend the family fortune rather than the international fixer Julie had suggested he might be.

For a public man from a rich family, he was very private. Did that support his claims to be wheeling and dealing on an international scale, or contradict them?

I probably should have left for home then. I wasn't going to achieve anything sitting in my office with my head spinning from lunch with Julie.

That was when I formulated one of my valuable rules for life: never, unless you really can't avoid it, take a romantic phone call from an ex, particularly if you've somehow fallen into sleeping with said ex again, and even more particularly if you're a little tipsy and starting to obsess over another man entirely. It could be snappier, I know, but I would argue quite strongly that as rules for life go, it is a good one to follow.

The phone rang. Ellie. "You've got a phone call, Tee. Gave his name as Charlie. Would you like me to (a) put him through, (b) tell him you're too drunk to talk right now, or (c) tell him you're in the same meeting you were in when he called an hour ago? Oh, and I might have forgotten to tell you about that first call. My bad. Please don't fire me."

Charlie. He knew Will. They'd been buddies at college. He'd be able to tell me more.

I know. I really should have gone for options (b) or (c).

"Put him through, Ellie. Thanks."

"Hey, Trude," he said. "Nice lunch? I was thinking maybe Alessandro's tonight? You fancy that? Yes, I know there's not an us, babe. But, that aside, what do you reckon? Eh, Trude?"

I should have just let him down gently. Or even not so gently. As long as I'd managed not to mention Will I would have been okay. What I shouldn't have said is, "Hey, Charlie. No, really, you have to stop this. I told you it's not going to happen. Even if you buy me all the roses in..." Where do they have lots of roses? "Anyway. Julie and I. We got talking about a book. Maybe a book with Will? You know? Eleanor's brother Will? Could be interesting. That's what we were thinking. Only I've been sitting here and searching and I realized I don't have any way to contact him. D'you, Charlie? D'you have his cell? Charlie?"

The silence was what gave it away. The long silence was what made me realize that I probably shouldn't be slapping Charlie down in almost the same sentence as telling him I've been Googling his old buddy who he really doesn't like much any more and did he, by any chance, have said old acquaintance's phone number?

If I'd followed that valuable rule of life I'd have been okay, but at this point the rule was only vaguely taking shape in my head.

"As a matter of fact I do, but the last thing on my mind is that I would choose to give it to you. Will's a bad lot, Trude. You'd be well advised to steer clear of him. Really you would."

There was a tightness to his voice, which I knew was a sign of real anger in Charlie. If I could see him he'd look as if he were about to pop, all that anger bottled up inside him.

Clearly I hadn't been wrong when I'd detected the bad chemistry between them at the wedding.

"You really don't like him, do you?"

Note to self: thinking out loud under these circ.u.mstances is invariably a bad thing, too.

"It's not a question of 'like'," he said, his voice still tightly controlled. "It's a question of character judgment. I've known Will for years. I know he's trouble. He's ruthless, dangerous. I learned that the hard way, and I don't want you to."