Death by Indulgence Page 4
She pointed back out the way they had come and they meandered to the avenue before speaking again.
‘I take it you have a plan for me to become a member.’
The harsh laughter from Val answered that question. ‘Very amusing.’ She sighed. ‘Look, Ella, I know you’re not experienced enough for this but we’ve got no choice. I registered you with an agency that has been asked to send suitable candidates for interview at Buxham’s. Here’s your CV.’
7
Four weeks before Harry’s disappearance
Ella smoothed the material of her pencil skirt, pushing the hem to her knees. Interviews used to petrify her but, since starting with agency work and joining Val in her peculiar world, they had become like acts of a play. She took on the persona of the candidate they most wanted to hire and on this occasion she had excelled herself. Ella had been invited back to Buxham’s for a second interview.
‘How would you feel about taking on the front of house management in our restaurant? Teresa is going on maternity leave and we have been struggling to find the right cover. Your CV and your references are excellent and more importantly you have the personality and style we need.’
It was irrelevant to Ella that she wasn’t supposed to have been applying for a change of career and that Val had embellished quite a chunk of the employment history. When the offer was made Ella was flattered to have made such a positive impression, but within a matter of seconds the implications began to dawn.
‘What an unexpected offer.’ She smiled gamely. Beneath the neat suit and silky blouse her heart was hammering, pumping blood to her brain, which had put in an urgent request for supplies of oxygen to fuel the ideas department. She couldn’t turn down the opportunity, but she’d have to try to strike a compromise if she were to avoid taking on unsettling shift patterns.
‘That may depend on the package and the hours you expect me to work, but I’ll certainly consider your offer with all seriousness.’ She was stringing the interview panel along, winging it. The three managers looked to one another. The lady in the middle, whose name Ella had failed to register, took the lead.
‘We quite understand. Before you commit to any contract, we need to ensure you have read and absorbed all the information we sent to you about the club. You should have a good basic knowledge of how it functions, to ensure you are aware of our ethos and expected standards. As you realise, our market is highly specialised.’
There was an intonation to her voice. Playing with Ella. Piquing her interest.
Maybe I should have read the information more thoroughly. It sounds like I might have missed something, Ella thought.
‘We pay well for a forty-five hour week. You’ll work late afternoon and evenings with an option for overtime especially at busy times of the year - only three weeks to go until Christmas,’ she added with a chirpy inflection. ‘We can offer you live-in accommodation and with regular days off you’ll work five days out of seven. A three-month probationary period will apply during which either party can opt to withdraw from the contract with good reason. How does that sound to you?’
Ella was stunned. For a brief moment she believed she would have to decline on the basis that the hours would preclude her from undertaking such a role. Waitressing was what she had applied for, not a full-time management post, but the prospect of escape from the hellhole bedsit was most enticing and she felt her eagerness rise.
Talk slowly and don’t gabble. Breathe.
Ella sought her internally memorised music playlist and pulled Nimrod into her head to keep the scales of her emotions in balance. Big changes were risky. ‘That sounds very tempting, but perhaps I should take up your suggestion of a guided tour and full introduction to the club ethos, before I commit myself.’
‘Very wise. Let’s start with showing you the restaurant and kitchen. What did you think to the menu examples in your information pack?’
Ella couldn’t help but grin. It was the descriptions of delicious meals and tasty temptations that had sidetracked her from reading the rest of the details about Buxham’s club. Anywhere that made food sound that good was worth considering. When she thought she had been applying for a waitressing job she had dreamt about swiping tasty morsels each evening, stuffing them into her mouth and relishing the exquisite oral sensations.
The club’s rooms and corridors were sumptuously decorated, somehow summoning more thoughts of food. Warm browns and creams, or strawberry and green shades dominated the themes. The restaurant area was subtle in its design. Tables in booths, gentle lighting where it was needed and a spacious layout to respect privacy without the area being stark. As she gazed about her, Ella approved of the tasteful Christmas decorations that served to enhance the amber of the woodwork, gold brocade of the upholstery and well-chosen artwork.
She was admiring the unusual lighting on the walls when, without warning, she stumbled to a halt.
‘Oh God, that’s me!’ she exclaimed.
The words fell from her lips without bidding. There, hanging in front of her, was a charcoal life drawing, in a plain frame, mounted in burgundy to accentuate the lines of grey on a cream background.
Carla Lewis, the manageress escorting her, flashed a knowing look. ‘A local artist is a member here. He donated it only a few weeks ago. We recognised you at interview, even with your clothes on. I suppose it goes to show how honest you were on your application. You’ll be a real asset to Buxham’s. Don’t you think?’
8
The Search
Konrad felt a tugging deep in his chest as he saw his daughter, Eliza, enter the Italian restaurant, heading straight for him. She always knew precisely where she would find her father; in the corner tucked away from prying eyes and guarded by the owner, Franco, who was vigilant and protective of his regular customers, especially ones as famous and generous as Konrad Neale.
As he stood to greet her, Eliza wrapped her arms around him and they embraced with equal force, happy to be reunited. It was a welcome treat, as far as her father was concerned, that Eliza did not have her boyfriend in tow. Mason was a nice enough chap but his American drawl lent a certain disinterested and patronising note to conversations that Konrad found tiresome. In truth, he wished for someone more dynamic for his lively and intelligent daughter. Mason wasn’t up to the job. He could never reveal this to Eliza, nor the fact that he referred to boring Mason as soppy-bollocks, for if she ever found out he’d be ex-communicated and he couldn’t bear the thought of that.
‘You look more beautiful every time I see you,’ he said, holding his daughter at arm’s length and getting the measure of her smart outfit and neatly plaited hair. ‘The new job seems to be suiting you.’
Eliza effervesced with enthusiasm for her recent change of career. ‘I’m absolutely loving it. No regrets at all. None. Well, apart from not seeing you as often as I’d like.’ She wriggled out of her full-length coat. As if by magic Franco appeared to alleviate her of the burden of this and a couple of shopping bags which gave away the fact that she’d been spending her hard earned salary on books and clothes. When she sat opposite her father, she stared deep into his one working eye, examining every furrow on his scarred and pitted brow. ‘What’s up?’
Konrad shrugged. ‘Nothing.’
‘That’s what teenagers say when they’re trying to hide something. Please don’t pretend with me, I’m too familiar with your facial expressions to be fobbed off with childish denials.’
He threw his red paper serviette onto the table. ‘Bloody hell, Eliza. How do you do that?’
‘A gift I learnt from my amazing father who can read body language like no other human being, that’s how.’ She grinned, taking her serviette from the wineglass and copying her father by launching it onto the placemat in front of her. They both laughed.
Franco approached to take their order before beating a hasty retreat to the kitchen to shout the order to Lucio, the chef. The chatter from the kitchen was a cheerful and energetic chorus of Italian banter and s
hort bursts of song. The whole place had a charming, positive atmosphere, an escape for Konrad from the plastic world of media parasites that soured his enjoyment of life.
‘Well?’
Eliza was waiting for an explanation and Konrad was cornered. She was as determined to get to the truth as he would usually be when investigating a miscarriage of justice, or seeking out a story for his documentary series. His shoulders sagged as a long breath escaped from his nostrils. ‘I think they are about to pull The Truth Behind the Lies, so I could be an unemployed celebrity, doomed to star in dodgy adverts for mobility scooters or pantos at Christmas next year. My only other projects are participating in the celebrity Bake Off thing and a guest spot on Countdown. Penury and obscurity are calling my name and laughing at me.’
Eliza was quiet. Too quiet. She fiddled with the tablecloth and reached for a glass of water. Konrad twigged why without having to question his daughter in depth. ‘Your mother let slip then?’
‘Not exactly. I overheard a little bird on the house phone when I popped in to see Mum on Monday. D. L. C. was plotting your downfall.’
D. L. C. was an accepted abbreviation for Robin De La Croix, used by all who knew him apart from Konrad’s ex-wife, Delia. She hated the label.
‘Channel 7 are looking for a more dynamic and interactive documentary series, more …’ Eliza paused, looking down at her cutlery, ‘more … Louis Theroux.’
Konrad puffed. ‘God, I knew you were going to say that.’
‘They want ideas and they want them quickly, but I’m pretty certain the other executives are determined to keep you as the front man, so if you can generate ideas of your own you can have control over the creative side.’
‘Bloody marvellous. I’ve got approximately three hours to come up with a winning pitch. Couldn’t you have warned me a few days ago?’ The irritation in Konrad’s voice pricked icy holes in Eliza’s warmth towards her father.
‘I shouldn’t be telling you at all,’ she countered. ‘And shouting at me won’t help.’
‘Quite right. I’m sorry.’ He was. His features softened, and he hung his head like a child would in response to a well-deserved admonishment.
Eliza continued. ‘Anyway, I had to pretend I needed a wee so I could listen in on the upstairs extension. The upshot is that your big boss Dino Ledbetter remains a fan of yours, which without doubt irritates the hell out of D.L.C. And it goes without saying that mother is unimpressed by his loyalty to you. So, if you can keep the top man interested, then you can save your own skin.’
‘Who was he talking to, did you hear?’
‘D.L.C.? Some bloke by the name of Stuart.’
Konrad stared hard at his daughter. ‘I can’t quite believe you listened in to their conversation. I’m stunned at how downright devious you’ve become.’
‘Are you stunned?’
‘Not really…’ Konrad put down his knife. ‘Look, Eliza, thanks for going to all that trouble but please don’t do it again. I don’t want to drive a larger wedge between me and your mother than the giant sized one that already exists.’ He knew that his daughter’s motivation and determination were ingrained in her soul. She had his genetics, his sense of pride and he feared for her. However, he also respected her opinions.
‘Stop worrying about me or Mum and listen for a minute, Dad. Here’s my thinking. The Truth Behind the Lies could expand into underworlds. The lengths people go to hide the reality about their secret lives before they are exposed. Not just murderers, more than that. The bent copper, the fraudulent banker, the deceitful wife, the philandering husband; real cases, real lives.’
Konrad wore a strange far away expression. ‘Disappearing barristers.’
‘Pardon?’
9
Wednesday 6th December
Val was waiting for Ella in the café around the corner from Lensham Station. Lack of creative inventiveness had resulted in it being known simply as The Old Station Café. Impatiently Val repeatedly picked up her mobile phone, checking for messages, each time replacing it on the table next to her coffee cup. The endless Christmas carols, blaring out from a radio in the kitchen, increased in volume every time a member of staff launched themselves through the swing door carrying a tray. A brief smile changed the general direction of the wrinkles on Val’s face as Ella bounced through the café entrance sending a brass bell jingling above the closing door.
‘You could have called to put me out of my misery. Well? What happened? Are we on?’
Unwrapping her coat and shuffling herself free, Ella was beaming. ‘We are on. I got the senior hostess job, live in, plus a wage. I can take Gordon the goldfish with me and I recommended Ada for the job as a waitress. If she gets it, I’ll have her there to keep an eye on me. Oh, and there’s an extremely useful three-month probationary period. I’m hoping that will be long enough.’
‘I hear a ‘but’ coming.’
‘But… I need to pay rent on my bedsit if I take the live-in job, and it’s too far for me to travel if I don’t.’
‘I’ll cover that cost as your payment. Will that do you?’
With relief Ella sat back. ‘Yes. That’s great. I’ve told them I can start next week, but they suggested I might like to bring a friend for dinner this evening to get the feel of the place. Fancy a slap-up meal? You look like you could use it and it could be handy, being a Wednesday. There’s a fair probability our targets will show up.’
Val hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if that’s a wise move for either of us. You are already buzzing, which is a bad sign, and I don’t want to be seen by either of those conniving bastards. On the other hand... Give me the insider’s gen on the place. What are we dealing with?’
She waved to the waitress who took their order without cracking her make-up or achieving any degree of eye contact.
Ella found the scene amusing. ‘Enjoy your job, do you?’ she asked, dipping her head in an effort to force the waitress to meet her gaze.
The girl of indeterminate age, dark-rooted straggly platinum-coloured hair tied back in a loose bun, shrugged as she cleared away Val’s empties. ‘It’s aw’right. Want anyfing t’w’eat?’
‘No, thank you. We’re eating out later at Buxham’s. Do you know it?’
Finally, the waitress crossed the line from ignorance to vaguely sociable. She raised one heavily sculpted eyebrow and reluctantly looked at the faces of the two ladies sitting at the corner table. ‘I know of it. Private place for posh twats who can afford it.’ She scoured Val with her panda-black eyeliner eyes and gave a derisory snarl. ‘They won’t let you in looking like that.’
Ella swallowed hard and waited for the riposte from Val that arrived right on cue. ‘Is that right Miss Queen of the Undead? And since when did you become the judge and jury on dress etiquette for private clubs?’
The girl was unfazed. ‘I’m just sayin’ you should neaten up a bit, even diesel dykes should ’ave standards.’
As Val’s lower jaw headed for the table, the girl sauntered off in the direction of the service area where she slapped the paper order on the counter.
Ella, with eyes wide and an impish grin, held back, stifling the belly laugh that threatened to escape. She bit her lips together and opened her eyes wide.
Val blinked, leant forward and whispered, ‘That cheeky fuckin’ little madam thinks I’m scruffy.’
‘Well she does have a point, Val. A dear friend you may be, but if we’re heading out for dinner with the well-to-do, you’ll have to snazz up. Emo-waitress got the diesel dyke bit bang on.’
‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at; diesel dykes are usually fat so that counts me out these days. She obviously assumed we are a couple, just like they all do. Such a soddin’ shame you never fancied me.’
Ella reached across the table and patted her friend’s hand. ‘You’re my boss, a friend and that is all. Anything else would completely ruin our working relationship. Let’s have this and go shopping for a frilly frock… just kidding. Trouser suit?’
Despite how well Ella described the luxurious interior of Buxham’s restaurant and encouraged her friend to join her there for dinner, Val would not even consider a change of style. It would take more than that to ever persuade her to change from her usual black jeans, Doc Marten boots, roll-neck sweater and leather jacket.
‘Gender or sexuality are pretty much irrelevant from what I’ve gathered, but smart dress is required.’ Ella tapped her fingers on a large manila envelope that she had placed carefully on the table. She frowned. ‘I really should have done my bloody homework before agreeing to this. The general manager, Carla Lewis, was a funny sort, attractive but not. One of those people that, no matter how hard they try, they never look sexy. Do you ever watch re-runs of the Carry On films?’
Val nodded. ‘Yeah, ’course I do. Doesn’t everyone?’
‘Well Carla Lewis reminded me of Hattie Jacques. Welcoming, courteous and highly informative: the polar opposite to Emo-girl over there. She was easy enough to cope with, but the clientele have very particular requirements and I’m not confident I can manage to pull off what you’re asking me to do. Do you recall the sign outside the front of the club? “For the larger life…”, well that is what the club specialises in. Some parts of the country boast a local naturist club, some clubs are men only, and some are for liberated sexual beings. This one is for individuals who love big food and big flesh, if you get my drift. Carla used words like - gastronomic glorification, foodies, Rubenesque beauties, lovers of curves—’ Ella stopped.
Guilt waved hello to her from Val’s every pore.
‘You knew! That’s why you sent me. You used my big fat arse to—’
The volume and extent of Ella’s accusations were tempered by the return of the waitress who materialised carrying their drinks on a tray. On this occasion there was an exchange of glances between Emo-girl and Val who produced one of her infrequent grins. This blossomed into a wide stained-teeth leer when the waitress winked at her.