Edgar frowned.
‘You know, at receptions and that.’
‘Well. .’
‘It could be part of a celebration of the new wave of British cuisine,’ continued Shakermaker, slipping into marketeering mode. ‘You know that we already export to more than twenty countries.’
‘It’s an idea,’ Edgar agreed. ‘I will talk to the Cabinet Secretary about it.’ It would give Sir Gavin O’Dowd something to do.
‘Cool.’ Winking at the journalist, Shakermaker gave Edgar a hearty slap on the back. Christ, thought the PM sourly, I’m being set up by a bloody cheese maker.
‘It’s a bit early for that, isn’t it?’
‘We’re stuck in the middle of a muddy field, waiting for a KT-fucking-Tunstall concert.’ Sonia Claesens defiantly downed the rest of her large glass of Pinot Auxerrois and signalled for the bartender to pour her another. ‘It’s time to either get pissed or throw yourself under a tractor.’
Seymour Rowntree tried to recall who KT Tunstall was but couldn’t quite manage to place her.
‘Or maybe walk straight into a combine harvester.’
Seymour realized that he was getting seriously bored with this cougar thing. The fact that his girlfriend here was only two-and-a-half years younger than his mother didn’t bother him; after all, Sonia was a good-looking woman, she had cash, and she got invited to cool parties every night of the week. But she could also be bloody hard work. And her moods recently had become terrible. Maybe it was time to go back to his Spaces and Objects course at Central St Martin’s and start fucking some girls his own age, or thereabouts.
‘Folk rock is such shit.’
‘Stop winding yourself up.’ Seymour looked around nervously. Fortunately there was no one around to listen to her ranting. ‘We didn’t have to come here.’
‘That bastard flunky of Edgar Carlton’s can’t tell me what to do,’ Sonia hissed. ‘He can’t tell me what to do and where to go. What next? House arrest? Fucking politicians, we own them. We fucking own them. And the moment there’s any turbulence, they think they can just run off and pretend they’ve got some fucking principles.’ The bartender placed a fresh glass of wine on the bar. Sonia fished a fifty-pound note out of her purse and slapped it down. ‘Just leave the bottle. Thanks.’ Dropping the purse into her Chloe Marcie python tote, she took out a packet of Regal King Size and a lighter.
The bartender shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, but you can’t smoke in here.’
‘What do you mean, I can’t smoke in here?’ Sonia squawked. ‘We’re in a fucking tent! I haven’t seen this much fresh air since my bloody Duke of Edinburgh course.’
‘Sonia. .’ Seymour placed a hand on her arm and she shook it off. This damn toyboy was becoming more hassle than he was worth. He might be hung like a donkey but he had the brain of one as well.
‘Just fuck off.’ Lifting her glass, she tilted back her throat and downed the contents in one, before storming towards the exit.
* * *
Liam Shakermaker squinted at Edgar from behind his Tom Ford aviator sunglasses. ‘You know, I never realized just how interesting cheese could be. I can honestly say that it gives me as much pleasure as cocaine did twenty years ago.’
Edgar simply had no idea how to respond to that. A female TV presenter wandered past and he tried, unsuccessfully, to catch her eye. Taking matters into his own hands, he pulled out his phone. ‘Excuse me for a second.’ Looking for a quiet corner of the field, he scrolled through his contacts. But who to call? He was the Prime Minister, therefore other people usually called him. Finding Yulissa’s number on the screen, he hit the call button, staring with resigned dismay at the mud on his Loake tan brogues as he listened to the ringtone.
‘Edgar.’
‘What?’ Turning to face his wife, he quickly ended the call. ‘Yes?’
Anastasia had one of those stock ‘cross looks’ on her face. ‘Why are you hiding over here?’
‘I wanted to. . er. . check out some of the gardening workshops.’ He gestured lamely at a handwritten sign that read: Success with seeds and cuttings.
Anastasia ignored this blatant lie. ‘The children want you to take them to Charlie amp; Lola Live!’
‘Why can’t Pammi do it?’ he whined. ‘Isn’t that what we bloody pay her for?’ The thought of having to sit through a stage version of some kiddies’ cartoon made his heart sink to a new low.
‘Because,’ said Anastasia firmly, ‘lovely though she is, the children have already spent all week with the au pair. At the weekend, believe it or not, they would like to spend some quality time with their father.’
‘I seriously doubt that,’ Edgar grumbled.
‘Anyway, if they spend any more time with that girl than they do already, they’re going to sound as if they come from Sydney!’
‘Well, whose fault is that? You’re the one who hired a bloody Australian nanny off Skype!’ He shook his head at the folly of it all. It had taken the Daily Mirror about ten seconds to find Pammi Kewell on Facebook — complete with pictures of her smoking the biggest spliff you had ever seen in your life. His wife might have laughed it off, but it was another PR disaster he could have done without.
‘For God’s sake,’ Anastasia nagged, ‘pull yourself together. We both agreed she was the best one for the job.’
Edgar grunted non-committally. He had been secretly hoping for some blonde East European hard body, a cross between Mary Poppins and a Moscow call girl, but the au pair agency had singularly failed to deliver on that one. Taking a deep breath, he told himself that there really was no point in going over this same old argument for the umpteenth time. He was just about to cave in and head off dutifully to see Charlie amp; Lola, when he caught sight of Sonia Claesens steaming out of the Wonderful Wessex Wine tent on the far side of the field, with her callow boyfriend trailing after her. Spotting her quarry, Sonia made a beeline towards the Carltons, a look of grim determination on her face.
‘Oh, no.’ Edgar was about to turn and run when he felt a firm hand on his shoulder.
‘I’m very sorry, Mrs Carlton,’ said Trevor Miller, bowing ever so lightly, ‘but I need to get you and your husband out of here right now.’
The Prime Minister’s wife contemplated Miller as she might inspect some cow shit on her shoe. The man had cuts and bruises all over his face, looking like he’d recently been in a fight. ‘What happened to you?’ she asked.
‘We need to go,’ Miller repeated.
‘But I wanted to see KT Tunstall,’ Edgar objected.
‘Sorry, sir,’ said Miller, already pushing him towards a waiting Range Rover. ‘Maybe next time.’
‘I was wondering when you were likely to turn up.’ Sitting in a largely empty Starbucks situated a block from the Fulham police station, Sergeant Fiona Singleton cradled her grande cafe mocha carefully, as she settled back into her seat.
‘It’s been on my “to do” list for a while,’ Carlyle admitted apologetically, ‘but stuff keeps getting in the way.’
‘I know what you mean.’ She nodded sympathetically. ‘And anyway, it’s not as if Rosanna Snowdon is really your problem, is it?’ A thin, thoughtful woman with a rather unflattering pageboy haircut, it was over a year since Carlyle had last seen her. Although she had to be a good fifteen years younger than the inspector, it crossed his mind that she seemed to have aged considerably during that time. The ring on her wedding finger suggested that she’d got married as well. Maybe the two things were not unconnected.
‘No,’ Carlyle shrugged, ‘but you know how. .’
Singleton understood. That didn’t mean, however, that she had much time to help him out. She glanced at her watch. ‘I can’t hang around, I’m afraid. Got a case meeting about a bunch of car thieves who have been relieving the locals of their Chelsea tractors at an alarming rate.’