Page 34 of (Not) The One
‘You know Rufus will just eat you when you go.’
‘Nonsense. He doesn’t have enough teeth. What do you want, son?The Chaseis about to come on.’ My father, former brigadier general. A leader of men. A commander or the masses. A devotee of quiz shows and daytime TV.
‘I was just wondering—’
‘Ho, ho.’ He huffs out a laugh. ‘I haven’t heard that tone in a long time. What are you after, hmm?’
‘Just the usual. Money. Power. Domination of my corner of the Brit art world. Dominion over the next crop of wildly successful YBAs.’
‘What’s that?’ he asks a little louder. ‘Speak up, would you?’
‘Young British Artists,’ I repeat. ‘Power. Success. The usual.’
‘You don’t need my help for that, my boy,’ he answers quite cheerily. ‘And to think I was against you going into art.’
For fear I’d become effete, as I recall. But I won’t remind him.
‘What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins, but excels in winning with ease.’ He’s also a fan of quoting Sun Tzu andThe Art of War.‘That passage is you. And you get that from your mother, not me. An iron fist in a velvet glove, that woman.’ There’s a pause where he doesn’t need to say how much he misses her. We both do. ‘If she’d been in the Cabinet right now, there’d be none of this Brexit rubbish going on. She’d have ’em sorted. Pull them out of Parliament by the ear. Bloody politicians. What is it you wanted, anyway?’
Conversations with my father are often circuitous.
‘I noticed while you were away, Marjorie next door was on holiday.’
‘Away when?’
‘June, no, early July. When I looked after the mutt. Come on, it was only a few weeks ago.’
‘Ah, yes,’ he answers entirely innocently. ‘Yes, of course. She was on holiday, too. She mentioned it to me a while ago.’
‘Go anywhere nice, did she?’
‘No idea. Not a walking holiday in the Fells, I can tell you.’ I suppose I can’t see her donning walking boots and trudging around the Lake District with my father. ‘Probably Spain or somewhere sunny, I should imagine, but you’re not calling for holiday recommendations, are you?’
‘No. Another kind or recommendation. I saw she had someone living there to look after her cats.’
‘Bloody ugly things. They look like the last chickens left on the shelf in Waitrose. What do you want to know?’ he adds brusquely.
‘One of the staff needs the name of a reputable cat-sitter.’ One of the staff being me, though I’m quite keen for this particular cat-sitter to behave entirely disreputably. ‘I thought you could ask her for the name of the company for me. If you don’t mind.’
‘I’ll catch her in the morning. I’ll call you back tomorrow. My program is about to start.’
And with that, he hangs up.
I lean back in my chair as I contemplate my ridiculous plan. I wonder if I can call and book a sitter by name? Maybe I can persuade one of the gallery assistants to call to make the enquiry on my behalf. It might sound a little less suspect.
I must be mad. Even if I get that far, I can’t imagine the lovely Miranda would appreciate her services being reserved, only to turn up at the address to find it isn’t a cat or a dog looking forward to a little petting and a few strokes.
I wonder what the offence would read on any possible charge sheet. Soliciting or stalking? You know, once she’d called the police. I can almost see the headlines.
Belgravia Art Dealer Holds Young Girl Hostage.
Man Protests He Only Wanted A Belly Rub.
‘Fuck it,’ I mutter, pushing back from the desk. I need to ponder this some more.
9
Miranda
