Persuading Annie Page 3

  Annie nodded to the clock over Cass’s head.

  ‘I didn’t realise the time – I’ve got to go.’ She gulped down the last of her café latte.

  ‘Jesus, Annie, you nearly gave me a bloody heart attack. Let’s go then.’

  Annie stared wild-eyed at her friend. ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t bring the car – I can’t give you a lift, I’m late—’

  ‘When did I ever not bring the car? I came out of the womb in a four-wheel drive. I don’t need a lift, thanks very much. For goodness’ sake calm down, I’m sure whoever you’re meeting will wait …’

  ‘Can you pay the bill?’

  Annie slapped down a fiver on the round table between them.

  ‘I know it’s Hampstead darling, but one café latte still doesn’t cost a fiver.’

  Annie was already out of the door.

  ‘Pay me back later!’ she called out.

  Cass watched Annie hurl herself out of the café, knocking into a couple of tourists as she did so. What was it this time, she wondered. Had Edward Goddard finally asked her out? Was she signing up another impoverished artist for her father’s company to sponsor? Or was she on one of her curious nights away when no one could contact her or find out where she’d been?

  Cass caught the waiter’s eye and asked for the bill.

  Meanwhile Annie raced down Hampstead’s Haverstock Hill.

  Jesus – how did she do this every time? Every bloody time she was late. She bumped into some dithering window-shopper on the pavement in front of her and called out a hasty apology as she raced across the zebra crossing, causing a car to emergency brake.

  With her flowing hair, billowing knapsack and furious speed, Annie was an intriguing sight as she swore furiously at herself all the way towards her car.

  Like every driver on the road, getting behind the wheel did nothing to calm Annie’s nerves. Quite the opposite in fact. No one had a right to be on her road – didn’t they know she had somewhere important to be? She almost suffered turbulence turning a corner too sharply and ‘amber-gambled’ the lights so frantically, that when a siren went off in the distance she thought it was for her. As soon as the police car sped past her, her foot hit the accelerator.

  ‘Get out of my road!’ she yelled at a Sunday driver who, complete with peaked cap, trusty Thermos and worried wife, was driving at twenty miles an hour down the middle of the road in front of her. ‘Why don’t you just walk – you’d get there quicker and kill less people,’ she yelled.

  Eventually, after zigzagging behind him for quarter of a mile, she risked life and limb and overtook. Ennobled by her speed, the Sunday driver found a courage he’d forgotten he had and sped up to a record-breaking thirty-five miles an hour, causing Annie to swerve at the last minute in front of him, her heart in her mouth. ‘Why do you think bus passes are free for you?’ she yelled into her rear-view mirror, before spotting a bus pulling out in front of her. She slammed on the brakes.

  Just as she zipped out of a turning, a boy who couldn’t have been more than seventeen almost careered into the side of her car. They both emergency braked and stared in shock and fear at each other, the blood draining out of their faces. Bloody kids! Death Wish, some of them.

  As she reached the road where she needed to be, she found a parking space, zoomed into it, nudged the car behind her, cursed loudly, grabbed her bag, slammed her car door shut, locked it and rushed to the front door.

  She turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open and felt almost instantly calmed by the atmosphere.

  She walked into the front room. Joy was already there.

  ‘Hi,’ breathed Annie. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Depressed. Life is a black void of meaningless pain, thanks. You?’

  ‘I nearly killed four people on the way here.’

  ‘Why is your life so much more interesting than mine?’

  ‘Just lucky I guess.’

  ‘Ready?’

  ‘As ready as I’ll ever be.’

  They went inside to the little room, sat down on the big chairs, both sighed heavily and turned their phones on.

  Annie’s phone rang first. She waited for three rings, picked it up and spoke softly and warmly.

  ‘Hello, Samaritans,’ she said. ‘Can I help?’

  44a Haverstock Gardens, Hampstead Village, 10 am

  ‘Did you know,’ called out Victoria to her husband, from behind her glossy magazine, ‘that men who make love frequently are half as likely to die prematurely than men who hardly do it?’

  Victoria’s husband, Charles, swore at himself in the mirror and then re-did his tie.

  The air around him chilled suddenly.

  ‘Hmmm?’ he said quickly.

  Victoria spoke slowly and clearly, her vowels clipped so that Charles knew she was displeased at having to repeat herself.

  ‘I said, did you know that men who make love frequently are less likely to die prematurely than men who don’t?’

  ‘That so?’ he said, wandering into his walk-in wardrobe.

  ‘By my reckoning,’ said Victoria, half to herself, half to the wardrobe, ‘you should be dead in a week.’

  Charles came out of the wardrobe holding his golfing shoes, his jowls trembling with anticipation, his small eyes blinking. ‘If I don’t get a birdy today,’ he grinned, ‘I’ll eat my Niblick.’

  Victoria stared at him. ‘I’ll get the camera ready, dear,’ she said.

  ‘Right you are.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Tee off in half an hour.’

  And he was gone.

  Before the loneliness gripped her, she phoned home.

  ‘Hhhrngh?’ croaked the voice of Katherine.

  ‘Katie darling, it’s me.’

  ‘How are you, popsie?’ Katherine’s voice sounded as rough as a cat’s tongue.

  ‘Awful. I think I’ve got chronic fatigue syndrome. Could hardly lift my feet during my pedicure today.’

  ‘Popsie,’ consoled Katherine. ‘I’ve just been sick three times before breakfast.’

  Victoria tutted. ‘Not bulimia again? Weren’t you seeing someone for that?’

  ‘No, sweetpea,’ said Katherine, piqued. ‘Sick before breakfast. Bulimia would have been sick after breakfast, wouldn’t it? The clues are in the words, darling. No, I have a hangover because I had such a good time last night. And then I vomited three times spectacularly, once over the chaise, once in the shower and once over Consuela.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Katie, must you give me the gruesome details? I’m ill remember,’ Victoria sighed.

  ‘Of course. How’s Charles?’

  ‘Golfing, how do you think?’

  Both women grimaced. Such an embarrassment, so middle class.

  ‘Isn’t he going to this wretched meeting at Daddy’s this afternoon?’

  ‘What meeting?’

  ‘You know, the one where Susannah tells us off and we all ignore her.’

  Victoria gasped with shock. ‘I completely forgot. I’ll call Charles on his mobile. He can live without golf for one day.’

  ‘Aren’t you going too, pumpkin?’

  Victoria sighed.

  ‘I would if I were up to it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you all about it at the spa.’

  ‘Is Little Orphan Annie going to the meeting?’

  ‘Probably. If she isn’t out selling The Big Issue.’

  They both laughed weakly.

  ‘Oh, how I wish I had her energy,’ said Victoria, and they both wheezed with lazily escalating laughter at the sudden image of Victoria wearing fingerless gloves and a duffel coat.

  ‘That’s right darling,’ said Katherine, ‘laugh through the pain.’

  They wheezed again.

  ‘See you later darling. Give Daddy my love.’

  ‘Ciaou.’

  The Ridings, Hampstead Heath, 10.10 am

  Katherine Markham, eldest of the Markham daughters, pressed the off button of her phone and threw it down on to her silk sheets.

  Fractio
nally slowly she inched her fragile body up into a sitting position and looked at herself in the vast mirror facing the bed.

  Eyeliner smudged down her face, eyes dull and lifeless, blonde hair like a bird’s nest, arms bony and limp, chest concave, expression vacant.

  She lit up her first cigarette of the day and smiled at her reflection through the early morning haze.

  I’ve still got it, she thought exultantly. I could be a bloody model.

  3

  GEORGE MARKHAM’S VALET had a face so bland that George frequently forgot what the man looked like while still actually looking at him.

  Mind you, George would have forgotten his own name, were it not for the fact that he reminded himself of it every morning, by glancing at the framed newspaper article that had been in his dressing room for nearly a decade. (The date had been smoothly guillotined away.) There it was in big bold letters: George Markham, fiftieth richest man in the country (‘and it’s no small country,’ he would point out to his valet every morning) whose extraordinary good looks, fine business acumen and wealth has made his three beautiful daughters the most eligible women in the United Kingdom. Katherine, 20, Victoria, 18 and Annie, 16, are a credit to him.

  Every morning, while George’s valet brushed down his master’s suit, George re-read those hallowed words, sometimes to himself, sometimes out loud. And then his thoughts would turn to the man at his feet, polishing his shoes. Poor fellow, thought George, scrutinising the man’s features as if for the first time. Face like a spade.

  Nothing was more offensive to George than bad looks in a person. It was downright rude, as far as he was concerned. He had told his assistant on more than one occasion about his own excellent plastic surgeon, but to no avail. He had explained patiently that he wouldn’t even have to pay up front. George would simply take it out of his monthly wages, with a very competitive interest rate. But every morning, there the man stood to greet him, with his uniformly unimpressive features, eyes the colour of duckweed. It was most provoking.

  George Markham, a man of small mind and large opinions, sighed deeply. For a desperately needed early morning pick-me-up, he looked at himself in the mirror. It never failed to satisfy. Fifty-odd years on this earth had not diminished the joy he found in looking at his own features. In fact, if anything, they had served only to deepen the love he had for them.

  Looking at his reflection was George’s favourite hobby: it didn’t stretch his attention span and it confirmed his long-held belief that the aesthetic was superior to the functional. It was his face that had got him almost everything in this world.

  He smiled warmly at himself in the mirror. The ink-black of his pupils visibly swelled, reducing the liquid brown irises to a crescent-fine outline. His heart – such as it was – expanded. What style, what balance, what symmetry! He allowed himself one last wide smile – didn’t want to give himself lines – before adopting his usual serene expression.

  Once ready for work, George padded through his apartment. He opened his front door and breathed in the heady scent of jasmine before crunching down the gravel drive to where his limousine waited for him at the kerb. Excellent exercise, walking. George insisted on it every morning if the weather was fine. One last deep breath and then into the car, which, alligator-like, darted silently away from the kerb and sped off. Twenty cocooned minutes later, George was at his London office in Mayfair.

  The glass door of Markhams’ PR breathed open for George and he strode through the front office, nodding curtly at the blonde heads of his young staff, to the lift. Large gilt-framed posters of successful clients from the company’s heyday bordered the office: a phenomenally popular novelty game that had lost its novelty within months, one of the first-ever whitening toothpastes, a Radio 1 disc jockey.

  Inside the moving mirrored coffin, George brushed the top button with his index finger and, while gliding up to his penthouse office, glanced at his reflection to check that his tie and teeth were straight. They always were.

  The door slid silently open.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Markham,’ greeted his secretary, Shirley, smiling warmly. ‘Your coffee’s on the table.’

  ‘Ah well then,’ he greeted her back. ‘All’s right with the world.’

  Shirley smiled, turned and walked as coquettishly as possible out of the room, which was not easy considering she was wearing a pleated A-line skirt and had size eighteen arthritic hips.

  George eyed Shirley’s retreating figure, as he did every morning. Marvellous secretary, he thought. Marvellous. Made coffee that woke you up faster than a pretty gal touching your personals.

  George took his coffee, as usual, standing at his full-length window, overlooking London’s hallowed streets. But today he was unable to prevent a few rather unsightly frown lines to pucker his perfectly proportioned brow.

  He had a meeting at 11am with his solicitor, Mr Cavendish, and even George knew things were going to get ugly. Which meant that his finance director – and trusted friend – Susannah Brooke should be here any minute. He glanced down at his Patek Philippe watch and noted the elegance of the long outstretched hand lying upwards like the neck of a dying swan. Extraordinarily beautiful. He looked up and breathed in deeply. Ah, life was good.

  He looked down again to see what time it was.

  His eldest daughter, Katherine, should make it in time for the meeting, though she’d been partying till late the night before. Took after her father, that one, he reflected proudly. Might even have got herself into a glossy again, he thought with a triumphant glow. He hoped to God that this time she’d remembered to stay sober till after the photographer had gone.

  There was a gentle knock at the door.

  ‘Mrs Brooke to see you.’

  Ah, Susannah! He turned to greet his old friend.

  ‘George,’ greeted Susannah warmly, walking towards him.

  ‘My dear,’ greeted George, allowing her to kiss him on both cheeks. They sat down, feeling safe in the knowledge that they entirely concurred with each other on every matter.

  Today, however, was a difficult day for Susannah Brooke.

  It had to be a day of action, something she knew George never liked taking, and it would take all her powers of patience, mental agility and rhetoric for it to go the right way.

  ‘How are you, George?’ she asked gently.

  ‘Fine, my dear,’ he answered, in a deep, mellow voice that had melted many a young girl’s heart, reserve and body. ‘I think today’s going to go rather well.’

  ‘You do?’ she asked, encouraged by the mischievous twinkle in his chestnut eyes.

  ‘I do,’ he said firmly.

  ‘You know why?’

  ‘No. Do tell.’

  ‘What colour is this tie?’

  Susannah studied the tie.

  ‘Brown?’

  George shook his head with a smug smile.

  ‘Not just any brown. Chocolate Brown. Melted Bournville Chocolate Brown. Exactly the same colour as my eyes. And I didn’t even tell my man. It was just lucky fluke.’ He touched his aquiline nose with his elegant forefinger, as if to prove his point. ‘Always a good sign.’

  Susannah managed a smile.

  * * * * *

  Susannah had worked for Markhams’ PR for well over three decades, since its heyday. And she had been a friend to the Markhams for almost as long, having met George’s late wife, Caroline Markham, when both of them were nothing more than pretty young, single things in their first secretarial jobs, all those years ago.

  Caroline had been lovely. Modest, beautiful, kind and intelligent – but shrewd as well, enough to know that she should demonstrate all three former qualities before the latter two. And together, she and Susannah had done very well for themselves. In fact, Caroline had excelled in the limited field open to her – for her class, era and gender. She had married her boss. Not just any boss, but chairman of the PR conglomerate Markhams’ PR, millionaire George Markham.

  Caroline was so universally loved that no
t a soul begrudged her her good fortune in making such a wonderful match. And of everyone, Susannah was the most delighted for her dearest friend, a generous reaction made easier by the fact that she had followed her only six weeks later, by marrying another wealthy man.

  The two young girls’ friendship had continued to blossom once they were both wealthy wives. But there the similarities in their lives ended. Susannah’s husband had treated her spectacularly. He realised that he had married a clever woman, financed his wife through accountancy school, provided her with a beautiful daughter, watched her become more and more influential at Markhams’ PR, and then died, leaving her more money than she and her child could ever spend, in a new life of uncompromising fulfilment. It was more than many women could have dreamt of.

  Meanwhile, a different story was unfolding for Caroline Markham. The truth of it was that she had been very unhappily married. After all, it would have been too much for George Markham to have cast his eye over his typing pool, spotted the prettiest blonde, made her his bride and realised her worth too. And sure enough, after Caroline’s Happily Ever After ending came the shapeless, shameless sequel of real life, with no plot, little humour and a far less likeable hero.

  Caroline had floated down the aisle to marry a startlingly handsome, intelligent, acerbic young magnate. Yet before their third anniversary she had finally admitted to herself the horrible truth. She was married to an irascible twat.

  She slowly discovered that her husband was not, as all the lowly typists had assumed, the ‘brains’ behind his international company. Far from it. He had simply had enough money to buy it, and ever since, his minions had had to work their fingers to the bone, untying the knots he regularly tied.

  As for his acerbic wit, which Caroline had mistaken for a sharp mind, it was nothing more than a piercing cruelty he chose not to curb. He was in fact a vain, rude egotist, who had wanted a trophy blonde for a wife and it had been her luck to have been in the wrong place when he was ready to take the plunge. By the time she had fully confronted the horror of her situation she was already pregnant with her second daughter, Victoria. Two years later, Annie had been born into a loveless sham of a marriage in a last-ditch attempt by her parents to beget themselves a son.