G&T, and decided
not
to tell him the real reason she’d been pressed against the glass. Even though Sandy Plimpton and Rod Peacock had hired out the whole bar for Jeenie’s wake, the subsequent squeeze made it plausible Tess was only here for the oxygen.
When the door downstairs
had
finally opened, Tess had entered with the throng of mourners at her back. As they jostled to leave coats and drop names at reception, a bottleneck formed, shooting Tess like an exploding cork at the bar. Having picked up two large G&Ts, (one for each hand), she headed straight for this window. Overlooking the junction of Old Compton and Frith Street, it was the obvious vantage point. When the man in the baseball cap failed to reappear, Tess suppressed her sense of foreboding – and readjusted her sights. This was just a bad party, after all. Tess had surfaced at enough of these to know standard procedure, namely finish her gin, and wait for Miller to come pick her up.
She wouldn’t tell Selleck that, though. The officer looked the sort that thought
all
women needed rescuing – preferably by men with clean hair and under-arm spray. In honour of the ‘solemn’ occasion, he’d put on a dark suit, and run a bit of oil through his hair. He looked like a naff James Bond, Tess thought. Then he raised his glass, and nearly took his front teeth out, and she realized he might need saving as much as her. ‘What are
you
doing here?’ she asked.
“Working. Sensitive media situation like this, Boss needs a man on the ground.”
“More liaising?”
He nodded, then looked sharply over his shoulder, as if he’d been tasked to drink with the devil. And then some.
Though the walls of the Soho Club were oak-panelled, and encasing an elegant arrangement of leather sofas and low-set drinks tables, the vibe was hellish – and hot. Flames leapt in huge, onyx fireplaces; black candelabra coiled overhead, as if ready to spit. The only bright points in the gloom were the whites of frightened eyes, realized Tess. The celebrity crush was an ugly one.
Moving a fraction closer to the Detective Sergeant, she watched with him. Sweaty soap stars, tending to fat, rubbed up against artificially-bronzed TV presenters – men with veneered teeth, and women with hair weighing more than their bodies. Tess spotted a former Dr Who, looking alone and anguished by a pot-plant. At the bar, she watched a long-faded film star sporting for a fight. The sound of smug voices swelled–’bastard Ofcom’ – ‘bollocks ratings’–’I was sorry for her, obviously, but what could I say? There’ll be other pregnancies, love, but you’ll never get another shot at Celebrity Cook-Off.”
A howl of gleeful outrage went up – an ageing newsreader was squeezing the breast of a teenage pop-star. Across the room, a BBC boss forced a shriek of laughter from a middle-aged actress, trapped in a failing show. At the heart of it was Sandy Plimpton, her eyes bright, her chins pulsing. Squeezed into something expensive and black, she was receiving tribute from the same industry folk who’d blanked her so solicitously through the past year of
Stop the World’
s decline. Close by was Rod Peacock, holding court from a huge, leather armchair. Acolytes surrounded him – crouching producers, hidden ‘talent’ – and he rewarded them with sporadic roars of laughter, throwing back his head and shaking his sandy, corkscrew perm. The King of the Jungle was back, thought Tess, any sign of fear gone.
“I see Peacock’s recovered,” said Selleck.
So he’d noticed it too? Tess was so gratified, she gave a bit back. “Rod’s a businessman,” she explained. “In another life, he’d be selling cars. Tonight, he’s trafficking talent – trading dreams and youth for cash and a gold handcuffs deal. It requires equal parts ruthlessness and bonhomie, putting him somewhere between Noddy Holder and Scarface.”
“Go on.”
Encouraged by the officer’s interest, Tess went on to identify
not
to tell him the real reason she’d been pressed against the glass. Even though Sandy Plimpton and Rod Peacock had hired out the whole bar for Jeenie’s wake, the subsequent squeeze made it plausible Tess was only here for the oxygen.
When the door downstairs
had
finally opened, Tess had entered with the throng of mourners at her back. As they jostled to leave coats and drop names at reception, a bottleneck formed, shooting Tess like an exploding cork at the bar. Having picked up two large G&Ts, (one for each hand), she headed straight for this window. Overlooking the junction of Old Compton and Frith Street, it was the obvious vantage point. When the man in the baseball cap failed to reappear, Tess suppressed her sense of foreboding – and readjusted her sights. This was just a bad party, after all. Tess had surfaced at enough of these to know standard procedure, namely finish her gin, and wait for Miller to come pick her up.
She wouldn’t tell Selleck that, though. The officer looked the sort that thought
all
women needed rescuing – preferably by men with clean hair and under-arm spray. In honour of the ‘solemn’ occasion, he’d put on a dark suit, and run a bit of oil through his hair. He looked like a naff James Bond, Tess thought. Then he raised his glass, and nearly took his front teeth out, and she realized he might need saving as much as her. ‘What are
you
doing here?’ she asked.
“Working. Sensitive media situation like this, Boss needs a man on the ground.”
“More liaising?”
He nodded, then looked sharply over his shoulder, as if he’d been tasked to drink with the devil. And then some.
Though the walls of the Soho Club were oak-panelled, and encasing an elegant arrangement of leather sofas and low-set drinks tables, the vibe was hellish – and hot. Flames leapt in huge, onyx fireplaces; black candelabra coiled overhead, as if ready to spit. The only bright points in the gloom were the whites of frightened eyes, realized Tess. The celebrity crush was an ugly one.
Moving a fraction closer to the Detective Sergeant, she watched with him. Sweaty soap stars, tending to fat, rubbed up against artificially-bronzed TV presenters – men with veneered teeth, and women with hair weighing more than their bodies. Tess spotted a former Dr Who, looking alone and anguished by a pot-plant. At the bar, she watched a long-faded film star sporting for a fight. The sound of smug voices swelled–’bastard Ofcom’ – ‘bollocks ratings’–’I was sorry for her, obviously, but what could I say? There’ll be other pregnancies, love, but you’ll never get another shot at Celebrity Cook-Off.”
A howl of gleeful outrage went up – an ageing newsreader was squeezing the breast of a teenage pop-star. Across the room, a BBC boss forced a shriek of laughter from a middle-aged actress, trapped in a failing show. At the heart of it was Sandy Plimpton, her eyes bright, her chins pulsing. Squeezed into something expensive and black, she was receiving tribute from the same industry folk who’d blanked her so solicitously through the past year of
Stop the World’
s decline. Close by was Rod Peacock, holding court from a huge, leather armchair. Acolytes surrounded him – crouching producers, hidden ‘talent’ – and he rewarded them with sporadic roars of laughter, throwing back his head and shaking his sandy, corkscrew perm. The King of the Jungle was back, thought Tess, any sign of fear gone.
“I see Peacock’s recovered,” said Selleck.
So he’d noticed it too? Tess was so gratified, she gave a bit back. “Rod’s a businessman,” she explained. “In another life, he’d be selling cars. Tonight, he’s trafficking talent – trading dreams and youth for cash and a gold handcuffs deal. It requires equal parts ruthlessness and bonhomie, putting him somewhere between Noddy Holder and Scarface.”
“Go on.”
Encouraged by the officer’s interest, Tess went on to identify
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