actual danger to me. Why else the shiver up my spine, why else was I calling up Cynara, the least likely of all allies, looking to her for help?
2
The Caprice in St James turned out to be Cynara’s local. (Ted used to go to The Tavern in Shepherd Market for beer and pork belly.) She arrived ten minutes late, wearing a reddish gold faux -leather dress which matched the colour of her hair. I couldn’t decide on the make. Jason Wu? True, I once spent a month as an intern at Vogue Italia but new couturiers spring up like wildfire in a drought and one has better things to do than try and keep up. I had decided not to compete, in any case: what was the point? Cynara outclassed and outranked me so totally that the best I could do was look anonymous. I wore a five-year-old M&S sensible spotted blue-and-white dress, and no doubt looked like one of those PR people, or even a dresser, who’s got into the shot by accident, whose job is to be a foil to the glamorous while looking mildly pleasant and supportive.
Cynara ordered fish and chips for both of us, which she said were the best in London. I was grateful. My instinct when worried is to eat everything in sight, and I was indeed nervous.
Over our vodka martinis I said I had a few things I needed to get clear in my head: I was sorry I had dragged her out on such short notice.
‘Robbie texted me,’ Cynara said, ‘to say if you were in touch I should take you to the Caprice for lunch, but on no account to say too much. I texted back nobody tells me what to do and I’d say whatever I fucking felt like. These boys think they can get away with murder. We girls must stick together, don’t you think?’
I couldn’t reply: I was spluttering and choking. I had no idea Robbie was in touch with Cynara – I had thought she was safely in the past: but apparently not. Waiters hovered around and looked concerned, if only because I was with Cynara and she was obviously someone of consequence. She looked at me with kindly concern. Waiters brought me water while others slapped my back. I recovered. She leaned forward and dabbed tears from my cheeks.
‘Poor darling,’ she said. ‘You are such an innocent. Robbie keeps in touch with me. He has to; I know where the bodies are buried. Don’t worry so: we were only ever bed buddies. And nothing sexual at all any more, darling, it’s just work, though he is quite a dish and I’m sometimes tempted. But I was fond of Ted and I owe you something, we all do, so I’m here. But I have to get back to the gallery by two-fifteen. Someone’s bringing in a fake Picasso, so I’ll make this fast. You know Robbie’s with the NSA?’
‘The NSA’ I asked. ‘What does that stand for?’ It was dawning on me that she was on drugs – why else was she so bright, glittery and fast?
‘You’re kidding me. The National Security Agency,’ she said and looked at me with pity. ‘Portal Inc are best buddies with the NSA though rumour has it ADA’s involved.’
‘ADA?’
‘Search engine. Oh, forget it! An actual physical cable running through from the Bay Area to the new US embassy.’
I was mystified.
‘But I thought everything these days was wireless.’
‘Cable’s unhackable,’ Cynara said, ‘or so they hope.’
‘It’s all beyond me,’ I said, all innocence. The dumb one Robbie went and married. ‘Anyway Robbie works for Portal Inc as a scientist not some kind of spy.’
‘A neuroscientist,’ she corrected. ‘Neuro-schmeuro and now well into psycho-pharms. It’s where the funding is. Doxies, all that.’
‘Doxies?’ But Cynara did not elaborate. She was talking fast. It struck me she was as nervous as I was. She kept looking past my shoulder, but perhaps only to see which celebrity had just walked in.
‘Robbie serves strange new masters, Phyllis. Portal Inc poached him from Pfizer in the first place. Easy-peasy, no-one earns much anymore in pure neuro. Scientists follow the money. Who doesn’t? Say Portal Inc and you