‘Maybe you could give us a hand,’ said Carlyle hopefully.
‘Ha.’ Alice laughed. ‘No way.’
‘I’ll pay you.’
‘Sorry, I’m going round to Martha’s house tomorrow night. We’re revising for a history exam.’
‘Oh.’ Martha Railton was one of Alice’s schoolfriends. Her father was an entrepreneur of some description and the family lived in a massive pile in Bloomsbury. She was also Alice’s get out of jail free card – a 24/7 excuse for getting out of unwanted Carlyle family activities.
‘That’s great,’ said Helen, filling the kettle and fishing a box of white tea from a cupboard behind Carlyle’s head. ‘Anyway, I’m sure that your father and I will be able to manage.’ She gave Carlyle a gentle poke in the ribs. ‘Just make sure that you’re home at a reasonable time.’
TWENTY-TWO
Taking a deep breath, Melville Farasin took a step forward and hesitantly offered the envelope to his boss.
‘What’s this?’ Elma Reyes asked, making no effort to take it from him.
Melville could feel his pulse throbbing in his neck and his heart was racing faster than he had ever felt it before. His mum would be mad as hell when she heard what he’d gone and done, but he was sure that she would be all right when he explained it to her and told her of the job waiting for him at Tesco. She wouldn’t be too impressed about him stacking supermarket shelves, but at least it was a start. If he stuck with it, there would be other opportunities down the line.
Elma, however, was another matter altogether. Only God Himself could explain things to her. Melville looked down at the letter in his shaking hand. It was too late to back down now. Take it, he silently urged his boss. Just take it. Bracing himself for the inevitable volley of abuse, he did a little jig from foot to foot. All he could hope for was to get through this conversation without wetting himself.
In no mood for any nonsense, Elma glanced at Michelangelo Federici. Not knowing what Meville wanted, the lawyer just shrugged, so turning back to her assistant, she said curtly, ‘Spit it out, boy.’
‘It’s my letter of . . . resignation.’ As the words settled, Melville was relieved not to feel a damp warmth spreading across his crotch. ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t want to work for the Christian Salvation Centre no more.’
‘What?’ Grabbing the letter from the boy’s hand, Elma tore it into little pieces, tossing them up in the air. Once they had fluttered to the floor, she pointed to the door. ‘Get outta here, you ungrateful little creature. Your resignation is refused.’
‘But-’
‘But nothin’,’ Elma snorted.
‘Elma . . .’ Federici said, trying not to laugh.
Keeping her gaze firmly on her underling, Elma waved away the interruption. ‘Wait till I speak to your mother about this.’ When Melville hesitated, she grabbed his shoulder and pushed him towards the door. ‘Get back to work. Go.’
Reluctantly, the boy did as he was told.
‘My, my,’ Federici chuckled as Melville disappeared and the door clicked shut behind him. ‘You really do have a way with the staff.’
Elma shot him a dirty look. ‘Great help you are.’
‘Elma,’ the lawyer pouted, ‘I didn’t come here to do your HR.’ Dressed in Boss Jeans and a lime-green Fred Perry polo shirt under a Paul Smith pinstripe jacket, Federici settled back into Elma’s chair. From behind her desk, at the Salvation Centre’s Global HQ, he had a fine view of the number 96 bus stop across the road. Two teenage schoolgirls were sitting in their uniforms, backpacks at their feet, scoffing packets of crisps while they waited for their bus. Federici glanced at his watch. You two should be in class, he thought, rather than bunking off.
‘That boy simply doesn’t know what he’s sayin’,’ Elma scoffed. ‘He’s a bit simple in the head.’
Seems okay to me, Federici thought. Just a bit quiet. And not that daft. I wouldn’t want to be your gofer either.
‘His mother’ll have to sort him out – again.’ Elma stepped around the desk and shooed the lawyer out of her chair. ‘The things I have to put up with! It’s not like Melville could get a job with anyone else.’
‘No.’ Federici retreated to a ratty sofa – a gift from a recently deceased parishioner – that took up most of the far wall.
Elma slipped on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses and leaned across the desk. ‘So, Mr Lawyer, to what do I owe this three hundred and fifty pounds an hour pleasure? Why are you here?’
Positioning himself directly beneath a poster of a white cloud in a blue sky bearing the legend He is watching over you, Federici smiled. ‘We need to talk about Taimur . . . and also about Jerome Mears.’
‘Jerome?’ Elma frowned. ‘What about him? Isn’t he safely back in the Bible Belt by now – with all the true believers? Home territory, where all the easy money is.’
‘He’s back in Texas. But he’s not happy.’
‘Awww.’ Sitting back in her chair, Elma wiped a fake tear from her eye. ‘And why would that be? Were the hookers in King’s Cross not to his liking?’
‘His complaint is rather more specific than that. I got an email from him last night. He’s threatening to sue you.’
‘Sue me?’ Elma spluttered, bouncing up and down on her chair. ‘Sue me for what?’
Sitting forward on the sofa, Federici placed his hands on his knees. ‘He is claiming breach of contract.’
Taking off her glasses, Elma chucked them onto the desk. ‘For Christ’s sake, Mikey,’ she complained, pinching the bridge of her nose, ‘I paid the smug bastard, didn’t I?’
Federici held up his hands in supplication. ‘Yes, yes, you did. But he is claiming that you failed to deliver the agreed audience for his sermon to the Miracle and Healing Conference.’
Don’t I know it, Elma thought.
Federici pulled a piece of paper from his jacket pocket, unfolded it and squinted at his scribbled notes. ‘Mears says that both in terms of numbers and quality, the turnout was, quote-unquote, “substantially below the level which had been agreed, in order to allow for the Mears Ministry to participate”.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
Federici looked up from his notes. ‘It means that performing to a handful of folk in a hotel in North London could be deemed to be damaging to the Ministry brand.’
‘I thought that we had hundreds there,’ Elma objected, somewhat optimistically.
‘The Reverend Mears claims that he counted no more than eighty-seven what he calls “bona fide participants”. He also claims that the lack of a decent crowd seriously undermined sales of the pay-per-view event on his website.’
Elma felt that her head was about to explode. ‘What pay-per-view event?’
Federici shrugged. ‘Apparently, he decided to charge people in the States to watch his sermon from King’s Cross, both live and on a catch-up basis.’
‘Hell!’ Elma thundered. ‘But it was my conference.’
‘There was nothing to stop him doing that,’ Federici told her. ‘It simply wasn’t covered in the contract.’
Elma’s eyes narrowed. ‘Wasn’t the contract your responsibility?’
Federici smiled. Elma was right, this had been an oversight on his part but, having anticipated the question, he smoothly delivered his pat answer. ‘Yes, of course. But it was a standard agreement that allowed both sides to exploit new media rights as they saw fit.’
So that crook Jerome was going to diddle me out of my share of the revenues, Elma thought sourly. And now that his plan has backfired, he wants to sue me. She shot the lawyer one of her famous fire and brimstone looks. ‘Tell him to go fuck himself.’
Federici raised an eyebrow. ‘I could do that.’