Lady of the Shades Read Online Free PDF

doesn’t give many interviews, but Joe pulled a
few strings.
    ‘Of course,’ I tell him. ‘Unless you’d rather I wait until you’re back?’
    ‘No need to do that,’ he says, but he sounds pleased that I offered. ‘What about tonight? Will you go to the party?’
    ‘I’ll probably give it a miss. I don’t know any of your friends.’
    ‘So introduce yourself to them.’
    ‘Maybe. I’ll see how I feel. I might just pop out for dinner and a walk instead.’
    ‘Don’t be a miserable old sod,’ Joe growls. ‘Go!’ He hangs up on me.
    I sit on the edge of the bed rubbing the smooth half of my face, considering the night ahead. Missing the party doesn’t concern me, but I liked the idea of sailing along the Thames in the
dark. I decide to go. Even if I don’t mingle, I can have a few drinks, sit on deck, enjoy the fresh air and the sights. I might pick up some ideas.
    I finish shaving. Slap on aftershave and deodorant. I sit half-naked by the TV for an hour, flicking through the channels. Then I dress and head out.
    I avoid the grander hotels when I travel, but I don’t like roughing it either. The Royal Munster is typical of my hotel of choice, old and faded, situated close to Earls Court, anonymous
among the scores of other hotels in the area. Dusty doormen and bellboys, family-friendly, favoured by tourists rather than business executives.
    The doorman is a white-haired guy in his sixties who tips his hat to customers and addresses them with exaggerated formality. I’ve told him to call me Ed, but he only nods and smiles, then
hits me with a hearty ‘Mr Sieveking, sir!’ His name’s Fred, but he prefers Mr Lloyd.
    ‘Nice night to be heading out, Mr Sieveking,’ he wheezes, hailing a cab.
    ‘Care to join me, Mr Lloyd?’
    He chuckles. ‘I would if I was off duty. I’d take you to see people you could use in your books. I know a man in the Queen’s Guard who puts mustard on everything he eats. And
there’s a . . . ’
    He rattles on for a few minutes, but I make no move to halt him. I like listening to Fred. He’s one of the world’s great liars, full of outrageous stories.
    He pauses to catch his breath and I make my excuses. ‘Have to be loving and leaving you, Mr Lloyd,’ I say, slipping him a tip.
    ‘Maybe I’ll catch you on the way back,’ he says.
    ‘Only if you’re a late bird,’ I laugh.
    The taxi driver heads for the Chelsea Embankment when I tell him where I’m going, then it’s a quick journey parallel to the river and we’re at the Victoria Embankment about ten
minutes later. I stroll down the gangplank to the deck, where a pretty stewardess in a revealing naval uniform welcomes the guests. She asks for my name, checks her list, hands me a whistle, a
paper hat and party poppers. She says I can have my picture taken with her kissing my cheek, for a reasonable rate. I refuse politely. I’m a camera-shy guy. I prefer not to be photographed
even when giving interviews, which annoys reporters. My agent often argues with me about it, but I don’t want shots of me to be freely circulated.
    The meal doesn’t start for another hour, so I make my way to the bar and order a beer. I don’t want to drink too much, not on a boat, or I’ll be throwing up all night. Alcohol
and boats don’t mix. I learnt that lesson the hard way on a cruise of the African coast many years ago.
    I’m surrounded by young party animals, all of whom seem to be in select groups. A couple of teenagers waylay me and ask who I am, what I do, how I know the birthday girl. I explain my
connection to Joe, but they don’t know him. My job description draws more of a response.
    ‘A writer!’ they hoot, impressed. One says, ‘I always wanted to be a writer. Do you make much money?’
    I spend a quarter of an hour trying to convince them that my books don’t sell by the millions. They don’t accept it. They insist that I must be fabulously well-to-do, on a par with
Stephen King, even though