The Make

‘Don’t your brother-in-law own the place?’

‘That’s the one. I’ll just say the word, he’ll fix you up,’ said George; but he wasn’t too sure about that, not really, because Lorcan was looking ready to rip someone’s head off these days and beat them with the soggy end. He didn’t like all these sickies George had been taking, but what could George do? Most of the escort work was evenings, and most of the casino work was evenings too. He’d give up the casino work soon, they were earning enough not to bother, but meanwhile he didn’t want to twist Lorcan’s tail too much.

‘You’ve been so damned good to me, George,’ said Alfie. ‘Thanks.’

‘Hey, what are friends for? Come in to work with me tomorrow night, we’ll see if there’s anything going.’ George smiled and stood up. ‘Now get back to sleep, okay? And no more bad dreams.’

Chapter 38

Jackie had cancelled her last booking with Harry in a terse email.

‘You’ve pissed off the cougar,’ George said, making tut-tut noises with his tongue.

Harry knew he had. And finally he caved in. He phoned her. She sounded cold, distant. Harry hated that. The truth was, he hated being at odds with Jackie; he loved seeing her, and what the hell, it wouldn’t hurt him just this once to meet up with her daughter like she wanted, bend the truth a little (okay – a lot) and have a pleasant evening with the pair of them.

How could that hurt anyone?

All right, he’d have to lie through his teeth – and Harry had always been relentlessly truthful, ever since he could crawl; he was nothing like George with his well-meaning but shockingly flexible half-truths and tall tales – but what the hell? And she was so pleased he relented. They were friends again.

‘You’ll love Emma,’ she promised.

‘Yeah, yeah,’ smiled Harry.

‘And she’ll love you.’

And she might have done, if fate hadn’t stuck two fingers up at the whole arrangement and cocked it up for good.

He was at her Notting Hill address, as promised, at eight o’clock that Friday. For tonight he was going to be the Harry all her friends and associates had heard about – Harry the architect who passed clients on to Jackie the interior designer, Harry who dressed a bit arty-farty because that’s what architects did, right? He’d read up on architecture over the course of the last month or so, determined to get the tone just right. He felt by now he could almost design a fucking building if called upon to do so. He’d dressed nicely, appropriately: a good-quality blue shirt under a tweedy jacket, black cords and Converse trainers. He’d slung a blue-knitted scarf around his neck. He looked the part. And he could see from Jackie’s expression when she opened the door to him that she was pleased he’d made a real effort to complete the deception.

‘Don’t you look great,’ he said truthfully. She was dressed up in a shell-pink dress that flattered her pale colouring. Big silver bangles decorated each well-toned arm.

‘Come in,’ she smiled, and suddenly Harry felt nerves take hold. He still felt uncomfortable with this. Blurring the lines between work and play. But she took his scarf and jacket, and led the way into her big, beautiful drawing room with its roaring open fire and huge Knoll sofas placed on either side of it.

There was a dark-haired girl with a heart-shaped face sitting on one of the couches, a half-full wineglass in her hand. When she saw her mother come in with Harry, she stood up, smiling.

He felt his heart physically lurch in his chest.

‘This is Emma,’ said Jackie proudly. ‘Emma, this is Harry.’

‘Hi,’ said Emma. She had a friendly, open expression.

She extended a hand. Harry shook it. He wanted to kiss it, stupidly enough, but that would have been just too naff for words. His heart was running around, doing cartwheels. His stomach was clenched hard, as if he’d just suffered a near-terminal blow. Jesus, she was lovely. Stunning.

‘Hi,’ he said, finding his voice with an effort. Her eyes were pale denim-blue, like her mother’s. They were kind too, like Jackie’s. ‘How are you?’

‘Fine. Jet-lagged.’

‘Hong Kong,’ he said. ‘Wow.’

‘It’s great. So beautiful.’

Like you, he thought.

‘Must be. Never been.’ Never been anywhere, Harry added silently to himself, and after the crashing sensation of instantaneous love came a devastating realization: she was out of his league. It was impossible.

They all sat down. Jackie poured him a glass of wine and he swigged it quickly, trying to steady himself.

Don’t be stupid, he warned himself. Love at first sight? What a joke.

And yet, he felt it.

He knew it was ridiculous, but there it was.

They chatted. She told him all about her life in Hong Kong, working in the PR department of a big banking conglomerate in the Jardin, and enquired about his and Jackie’s work connections. Hating to lie, Harry was still pretty good at it. He expanded at length about the projects they’d undertaken together. He was feeling worse and worse about the true story of his life. A dole-drawing loser, on the make. Taking advantage of lonely women. That was the real Harry Doyle.

‘I’ve booked a table at Nobu,’ said Jackie, glancing at her watch. ‘We’ll go out and get a cab, shall we?’

They were in the hall putting on their coats when the doorbell rang. Jackie wondered: ‘Now who could that be . . .?’ as she opened the door.

The woman called Camilla from Covent Garden was standing there, hard-eyed and dark-haired. She had a clutch of fabrics in her hand.

‘Jack darling, I was passing so I thought I’d drop in these samples for the bedrooms . . . oh, hello Emma! I had no idea you were home.’

‘Just got back,’ said Emma.

‘Oh, and Harry’s here. Hello again, dear.’

‘Hi,’ said Harry, feeling something coming, some stirring of trouble deep in his gut.

‘Jack tells me you and Harry were at uni together,’ said Camilla.

There was a thick, resounding silence. You could almost cut it, it was so profound. Harry saw Emma look with a frown of puzzlement at her mother, then her eyes skipped to Harry. Camilla was looking at all three of them expectantly.

Then Emma, bless her, said: ‘Yes, that’s right. We were, weren’t we, Harry?’

She was smiling into his eyes, but he knew he was caught out. There was a glimmer of amusement in her expression, but there was also a heavy, irritated dash of what the fuck is going on?

‘Yeah, just catching up,’ he mumbled, feeling bad.

‘Well . . . I can see you’re going out, so I won’t hold you up,’ said Camilla. ‘Night, all.’

She handed Jackie the samples and turned and went off down the steps. Jackie closed the door slowly, her smile fading.

Silence fell in the hall again.

‘Right,’ said Emma, and she looked angry now. ‘Who’s going to tell me what the hell’s happening here?’

Jackie and Harry exchanged a glance.

‘Well?’ demanded Emma.

It was Jackie who bit the bullet and told her.

‘You hired a male escort?’ raged Emma. ‘You hired a man half your age?’