Gun Street Girl Read online

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘So they say.’

  ‘Who says?’

  She winked. ‘All sorts. I get around and so does she. But I’m being naughty.’ She touched the lapel of my jacket. ‘Perhaps I’m jealous.’

  ‘What of?’

  ‘Of you with her.’

  I could feel myself starting to warm up. ‘Don’t wind me up, Fiona,’ I said. ‘I didn’t just pop out of an egg.’

  ‘I bet you didn’t. If I didn’t know better I’d say you were Old Bill.’

  Too close for comfort. Then, like the cavalry to the rescue, Catherine came out of the loo and made towards us, the barman brought our extra drinks, and Barrington headed our way. ‘Here we go,’ said Fiona. ‘Looks like I’m wanted. I’d better go and change. I’ll see you later.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it,’ I said.

  ‘Thanks for the drink.’

  ‘It was a pleasure.’

  She pulled a wry face and headed Barrington off at the pass and they went together to the back of the club.

  Catherine arrived as Fiona left. They didn’t acknowledge each other. I should have known from the start they weren’t soul mates. I took a hit off my new vodka. ‘Common little cow,’ said Catherine.

  ‘She seemed all right to me. Do you want a drink?’ I felt more like a cocktail waiter than a private detective.

  ‘Gin, please, large.’

  ‘You didn’t have to say,’ I muttered under my breath as I passed the order onto the barman.

  Then Elizabeth joined us. ‘Get me something, please,’ she instructed. See what I mean? ‘That guy is such a fuck-up, I can hardly believe he’s still in business.’

  ‘What’s the problem?’ I asked solicitously as I beckoned the barman over again and ordered another large gin and tonic.

  ‘Just the usual. Lack of communication. I should have kept a closer eye on Barrington. It’s my fault, I’ve let things slip. He’s snorting coke over in the Zanzibar with that little scrubber when he should have been here sorting out the guest list. And that’s another thing. The guest list. It’s just a load of Barrington’s broken-down old ligger mates. I told him I wanted A and B people who’d get this reception into the papers and get the magazine some good publicity, and he comes up with every loser in town. I just hope we get some good press people down here or he’s out.’

  Down or out, I thought, but said nothing.

  The barman brought the drinks and Elizabeth took a miserable sip of hers. ‘I wouldn’t mind, but Daddy so wanted this magazine to succeed.’

  Catherine touched her arm, ‘It will, you’ve done a wonderful job.’ I almost expected a “there, there” from the look on her face.

  ‘Are the drinks free?’ I asked.

  ‘All night,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘You’ll be all right then.’

  ‘Thanks Mr Sharman,’ she said, covering my hand with hers. ‘I wish it were that simple.’ There was so much touching going on I thought we might contact Sir Robert on the other side and ask him ourselves.

  The first of the guests started dribbling in around about then. I don’t know much about A and B people, although I guessed that I’d comfortably fit somewhere between X and Z. But this crew didn’t strike me as exactly the cream of the glitterati. The first few crept through the door clutching their free copies of the new magazine and looking about as happy as the Jackson Five getting ready to entertain a Ku Klux Klan convention. Catherine went back to the loo. Weak bladder? Maybe, maybe not.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Elizabeth, disturbing my reverie. ‘Where did he dig these turkeys up?’

  ‘Early days,’ I said. ‘Why don’t you circulate and give the hoi polloi the benefit of your charm and poise? Don’t worry, I won’t be far away. And listen, I’ve got to talk to you soon. Catherine’s been telling me some things.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘I can’t tell you now, later maybe.’

  ‘I won’t be through until after this is all over. How about tomorrow?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning, first thing?’

  ‘As first thing as I can.’

  ‘It’s important.’

  ‘All right, Mr Sharman, first thing tomorrow it is, I promise.’

  Catherine came out of the Ladies’. Elizabeth grabbed her and they were immediately pounced upon by a pair of Gerrard Street smoothies who looked like they were flogging a frozen prawn franchise. I hesitated, but Elizabeth shrugged and made a pushing motion with her hands so I left them to it.

  The place was filling up. The prospect of free food and drink was dragging the movers and shakers away from the TV and their usual haunts to check out the first edition of Cause Célèbre. A couple of chefs in tall hats were getting ready to dish out a sumptuous-looking buffet from a long table at the back of the restaurant and several waiters were working the crowd with trays of champagne in fluted glasses. It was all very smooth and sophisticated, but the whole set-up made me distinctly uncomfortable.

  I exchanged my empty vodka glass for a full one of champagne, wedged myself in a quiet corner, parked the glass on a ledge, lit a cigarette and gave the party my full attention. By then the room was about a quarter full. The air-conditioning was coping and after the heat outside the temperature was a pleasant seventy or so. A couple of guys had set up a mobile sound system in one corner and were playing a selection of forties and fifties bop and stroll records at a volume that got the music across without being intrusive. It was that kind of function.

  Barrington and Fiona were holding court at a table that had been set up at the main door and was piled high with copies of the magazine. Fiona had changed into an even more minute mini dress, if that was possible. This one was crimson red and slashed dramatically to the navel. I wondered if Brunel had a copyright on her underwear. It was an enticing thought.

  People were moving around as if dancing a complicated gavotte. Little groups formed and dissolved in front of my eyes; the champagne was making my head sweat. I listened a lot and said little. A few people gave me the once-over, a couple made noncommittal comments. I spoke when I was spoken to, but didn’t make much of an effort. It wasn’t difficult. The state of some of the characters I clocked could curdle your Piña Colada, and all they talked about was money, money, money.

  Like I said, I listened a lot and it didn’t take me long to work out the pecking order in the magazine publishing world. It appeared to be mostly run by women, and they soon separated into three distinct types. At the bottom were the younger women. Slabs of blonde hair, big bins, small breasts, mini skirts and dark tights. The middle echelon were dumpy Sloanes with voices that could rupture an eardrum at forty paces. They had the monopoly on bad legs, silk sweeps from Hermès, and Liberty print blouses so muddy I was looking for bullfrogs in their cleavages. And at the top were tall, skinny women with hair like glass fibre, power suits with shoulder pads and the kind of predatory look that made you think that if they gave you a blow job you might not get your dick back at the end of it. Their escorts were an eclectic mixture of Hooray Henrys, tattooed love boys and suburban social workers in Kicker boots. Nice people, one and all. They made me want to puke my bean sprout and sesame salad.

  After about an hour of moving around and earwigging I thought it was about time I found Catherine again. I made for the main bar, but got hung up outside, where a giggle of hairdressers had congregated. They were discussing scissors and gel and perm lotion and other important stuff. They were checking out hair styles and looking for thin patches in the passing bouffants. Suddenly a little spat seemed to flare up and one particular peacock, a dream in black satin and platform soles, broke away from the pack and headed towards me in an unsteady fashion. He gripped my arm with a surprisingly strong fist and gave me the full benefit of his baby blues. ‘Fancy a line, sweet?’

  I removed his hand and smoothed down the sleeve of my jacket. ‘A line of what?’ I asked innocently.

  He giggled and rubbed his face, smudging his eyeliner. ‘Don’t k
id a kidder,’ he whispered. ‘Let’s make a break for the Gents’.’

  ‘What about your pals?’

  He sniffed as if it hadn’t been just cocaine that had got up his nose. ‘Those bitches,’ he said, ‘can kiss my arse for a hit on my drugs. I’d rather share with a real man.’

  I felt complimented. ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Not right now. I’m looking for the young lady I came with.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, concealing a tiny burp with the back of his hand. ‘Do tell, who could that possibly be?’

  ‘Catherine Pike.’

  I thought he was going to have a fit. He danced from one foot to the other; then, all hard feelings forgotten, he dragged his chums over and after getting my name from me and making introductions all round, explained my situation to them.

  ‘So you’re the latest,’ said a tall boy with an Egyptian look and the unlikely name of Ivan. ‘I must say she’s going severely down market.’

  ‘She always did like a bit of rough,’ said my original acquaintance, whose name was Leee, with three vowels. He saw the look on my face. ‘Now don’t be offended. We’re only teasing and, speaking for myself, just a teensy weensy bit jealous. We’ve all been remarking on you since we came in, and dying for you to join us, and now we find you’re spoken for. And with Catherine of all people, and she never even told me.’

  ‘Why should she?’ I asked.

  ‘Who do you think is responsible for making the lovely Cathy’s coiffure the talk of the place?’ He pouted. ‘Every hair cries “Leee”. I’m her personal stylist. She doesn’t touch a shampoo bottle without first consulting me. And everybody knows what an intimate relationship a girl has with her hairdresser. So I insist you tell me everything about yourself, Nicholas. I spy an empty table over there, and I’m gasping for a Cuba Libra. Be a dear and get me one from the bar, and we can have a lovely chat.’

  We left the other hairdressers bitching about being excluded, and while Leee captured the table, I went to the bar and ordered a large rum and Coca-Cola and a vodka for myself. As I expected, Catherine was there, surrounded by a small fan club. She seemed to be in good hands so I left her to it. Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.

  When the drinks arrived I carried them back to the table and sat next to Leee. He tasted his drink and lit one of my cigarettes.

  ‘Right, Nicholas dear,’ he said. ‘Tell me all.’

  I decided to stick to the story I’d told Fiona. ‘There’s not much to tell,’ I said. ‘I’m doing some work on Sir Robert’s estate. Nothing special. Just collating a few papers. I’m staying at Curzon Street until I finish, and Miss Pike invited me to dinner and then on here. It’s not very interesting, I’m afraid.’ I smiled, and the smile was full of modesty and sincerity. I practise it every morning in the mirror when I’m shaving.

  ‘Catherine’s boy friends are always interesting,’ said Leee. ‘Such a fascinating assortment of types.’

  ‘Rough trade, I think you said.’

  ‘Oh, Nicholas, I told you I was only teasing, but I could tell you some tales.’

  ‘I’ll just bet you could.’

  ‘And perhaps I will.’ He grinned, and I knew he would spill the beans in his own time.

  ‘How long have you known her?’ I asked.

  ‘I met her the first day she was in London. She came in for a shampoo and set.’ He grinned again. ‘I styled her hair. We got talking. We’ve been talking ever since. I do her hair once or twice a week. She can afford it. Rich people talk to their hairdressers. I read between the lines. I listen between the words.’ He tapped his forehead. ‘You don’t have to be very suss to get the message.’

  ‘So tell me about her other men.’

  He took a long swallow of his drink, and spat ice back into the glass. ‘I swear you’re jealous, Nicholas,’ he said.

  ‘I’m just an employee of the family. I don’t sleep with her. Why should I be jealous?’ But I believe I was, just a bit.

  ‘But you’d like to,’ said Leee. ‘I know the symptoms. And I bet she’s already let you know she’s available.’

  I shrugged and he cracked up.

  ‘Beware, my dear,’ he said. ‘If Catherine was a narcotic, she’d be Class A under the Dangerous Drugs Act. Men tend to OD on her. I’ve seen them wandering, two steps behind her, glassy-eyed and confused. A little of her can go a long way, and she rarely gives only a little at a time, But I warn you, she tends to get bored and withhold privileges, so step carefully or it could end in tears.’

  ‘I’ll survive.’

  ‘You may or you may not, we shall see. There have been a lot who haven’t.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Nicholas, you’re sounding less and less like, what was it? A collator, and more like, well, I’m not sure what.’

  I’d have to watch that. ‘I’m just interested,’ I said. ‘So tell me.’

  ‘Very well, if you insist. There have been plenty. When I met her she knew no one in London. We came to be good friends. I took her round the hotspots.’ He laughed out loud at the word. ‘We did have some fun. All sorts of fun. We painted the town blood red, my dear Nicholas. The hets swarmed around her like the proverbial bees at the honey pot, and what a sweet little pot she’s got, or so I’ve been told.’ He flashed his eyes at me through the curls that tumbled around his forehead. ‘Of course I don’t know firsthand, but I did get some of her leftovers.’

  I glanced up and saw Catherine at the entrance to the bar looking around the room as if searching for someone, and I guessed it might be me.

  ‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’d like to talk some more sometime. Can I have your phone number?’

  ‘You rascal, you.’

  ‘Strictly business,’ I assured him.

  ‘I bet you say that to all the boys.’

  I gave him a sour look and he gave me his telephone number on the back of a card with the name of the salon where he worked on the front. ‘Call me any time,’ he said.

  I told him that I would, and excused myself and went to see Catherine. I guessed she’d soaked up another half-bottle of gin since I’d last seen her, but she seemed pretty fit under the circumstances. ‘I see you’ve met Leee,’ she said.

  ‘I could hardly miss him.’

  ‘Watch him, Nick, you’re just his type.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ve already gathered that.’

  She giggled and put her hand in front of her mouth to stifle it. ‘You are scoring tonight, aren’t you? That little tart Fiona what’s-her-name, Leee, and I’m left all alone to fend for myself.’

  ‘You seem to be doing all right.’

  ‘I always do. Now I must go to the loo. Will you excuse me?’

  ‘Of course.’ I said, and off she went.

  I lassoed a waiter and helped myself to another sherbet. I perched on the corner of a handy sofa and thought about all the bits of stories I’d heard that night. I squinted at my watch. It was midnight. Various Cinderellas were shedding their glass slippers and heading off to pastures new but there were still new people arriving and the party showed no signs of slowing down.

  Suddenly the crowd in front of me parted and Fiona tumbled through. ‘Budge up, Nick, and let me sit down, for Christ’s sake, my bloody feet are killing me.’

  I concurred with her request and she hitched herself up on the sofa next to me and eased her shoes off. ‘That feels good.’ She stretched her toes. ‘Hold on, I’ll be right back.’ She walked off barefooted and snagged two glasses of champagne from a waiter, then padded back and rejoined me on the sofa. I accepted one of the drinks from her.

  ‘Cheers,’ she said and knocked back a mouthful. ‘By fuck, I’m grafting tonight, thank God the other girl’s turned up and I can take a break.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  ‘Just the usual. Pushing the dumb product on people who only want to get pissed for free. Being nice to silly cunts who only want to look down the front of my dress, letting silly cunts have their picture taken with me, and fighting of
f their wandering hands.’

  ‘Not interested, huh?’

  ‘Fuck ’em. Like I told you, I’m famous – well, nearly. But I’m a pro now, and I mean pro model.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘Another rugged individualist, I like that.’

  ‘So do I,’ she said. ‘It feels so good. Got any fags?’

  I fished out a Silk Cut for each of us and she lit them with a Zippo lighter she rescued from the depths of her bag. The lighter was brass and was decorated with an SAS regimental badge in coloured enamel.

  ‘Is he your mate?’ she asked.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Leee, hairdresser to the stars. You two looked pretty tight.’

  ‘No,’ I replied.

  ‘You’re not gay, are you?’

  I knew the colour of the shirt had been a mistake. ‘Do I look gay?’

  ‘What does gay look like?’ she shot back. ‘You’d be amazed. Or would you?’

  ‘Probably,’ I said. ‘And no, I’m not gay. I just like talking to hairdressers.’

  She looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘You’re a funny cunt, Nick, but I quite like you. Do you fancy getting weird?’

  ‘How weird?’

  ‘Very weird.’

  ‘With what?’

  ‘Nepaleses temple balls.’

  I tapped the badge on the lighter. ‘Husband?’

  ‘No, dad and brother,’

  ‘Jesus Christ.’

  ‘Well, do you?’ she asked again.

  ‘Nothing I’d like more.’

  ‘Come on then.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We might have to get married.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ she said. ‘On a temporary basis, that is.’

  ‘But would you still respect me in the morning?’ I asked.

  She giggled. ‘Want to find out?’

  ‘Love to, but I think I’d better stay on the straight and narrow tonight. I’m out with the bosses. You know what I mean.’ I gave her one of those sincere and modest smiles I’d been practising.