‘And you want me to do it? Sorry, Roger. Maureen Rothschild is one of the last people I want to see.’
‘I understand,’ Hogarth said after a pause. ‘I thought you probably wouldn’t, but I had to try. Someone of your standing would have more chance of getting the point across.’
Nina tried to hold in her bitterness. ‘My standing’s not very high with anyone right now.’
‘Don’t underestimate yourself, Nina.’ This time, the chiding was more pointed. ‘One setback doesn’t end a career. I’ve had more than a few myself.’
‘Not on my scale, though.’
‘Oh, well,’ sighed Hogarth, accepting defeat, ‘we’ll just have to pray this whole affair doesn’t turn into a disaster.’
‘Let’s hope. Get well soon, Roger.’
‘Thank you. And I’m sure things will get better for you too.’
She said goodbye, then hung up, blowing out a glum breath. The coffee had gone cold, but she was now even less enthusiastic about leaving the apartment than before.
True to his word, Grant Thorn really did present Eddie with five hundred dollars in exchange for a carton of juice. By the time he arrived at the Upper West Side apartment, both ‘chicks’ had gone, though either one had forgotten to retrieve her hot pink thong from Grant’s lounge or the actor had a fetish he would prefer the tabloids didn’t discover.
Whichever was the case, neither was Eddie’s concern: his job was only to keep Grant from physical harm. After he and Nina had been fired from the IHA, he had called upon his extensive list of contacts from both his military career as a member of Britain’s elite Special Air Service and his subsequent work as a freelance bodyguard and troubleshooter to find new work. His reluctance to spend any length of time away from his new wife had limited his options, but eventually a friend had put him in contact with a man called Charlie Brooks, who ran a ‘personal protection agency’ for New York’s wealthy and famous. The assignments meant unpredictable hours, but they at least paid enough - just - for Eddie to support himself and Nina.
Even if certain economies had been necessary.
Eddie suspected he would hear about the largest of them yet again when he got home, but for now his mind was on the job. Grant had just spent more on an Italian suit than Eddie used to earn in a month at the IHA, and the shopping expedition was far from over.
‘Okay, that’s my outfit for the mayor’s event tonight,’ said the actor, checking his reflection in a mirror and making a millimetric adjustment to his gelled hair before heading for the exit. Eddie opened the door for him, then smoothly moved past to check Fifth Avenue for potential trouble. No crazed fans or irate movie critics awaited them. ‘So next, let’s see . . . Harmann’s.’
‘Not your usual style,’ Eddie remarked. Though every bit as far out of his price range as the store they had just left, he knew that the tailor’s suits were considerably more conservative.
‘I need something formal for tomorrow, dude,’ Grant explained. ‘It’s not every day I meet a religious leader.’
Eddie raised an eyebrow; nothing he had seen suggested his charge was the remotest bit spiritual. ‘Didn’t know the Pope was in town.’
‘It’s not the Pope, dude. Better than that! It’s my man, Osir!’
‘Who?’
‘Khalid Osir! You know, the Osirian Temple?’
‘You mean that cult?’
For the first time since Eddie had met him, Grant sounded offended. ‘Dude, it’s not a cult! It’s a real religion, changed my life. You want to stay young for ever? They can help you do it.’ He raised both hands to his tanned, blandly handsome face. ‘I’m twenty-nine, right? But I haven’t aged a day since I was twenty-seven . What more proof do you need, man?’
‘Guess you’re right,’ said Eddie, straight-faced. Grant seemed mollified. ‘So, this . . . religion. Expensive, is it?’
‘No, no! It’s not like some con job. You can donate whatever you like. And it’s up to you if you want to buy their stuff.’
‘Stuff?’
‘You know, the stuff that tells you how to follow the path to eternal life. Books, DVDs, diet supplements, bottles of genuine Egyptian sand, these awesome little pyramid dealies that energise the air in a room . . .’
‘Got you,’ Eddie said, his suspicions about the cult’s priorities confirmed.
‘I’m going to a meeting tomorrow - got a personal VIP invite. Short notice, but no way was I going to miss it. Actually getting to meet Osir, it’s like - like when an ordinary person meets me. Or Jesus! It’ll be so cool.’
‘Speaking of ordinary people . . .’ said Eddie, suppressing his sarcasm as he spotted three wealthy-looking young women reacting with squeals of delight at the sight of the movie star. He moved in front of Grant to intercept them.
‘I think I can handle this, dude,’ Grant said, grinning. Eddie moved aside, but still kept a close watch as they clattered over on their Jimmy Choos. ‘Hi, ladies! How are you?’
One woman seemed on the verge of hyperventilating, fanning herself with a small Gucci bag as the other two bombarded Grant with praise for his most recent movie - more specifically, the scene where he had worn nothing but a pair of Speedos. ‘Can we get a picture?’ one asked, digging an expensive phone from her handbag.
‘Sure thing,’ said Grant. ‘Dude, can you do the honours?’ Eddie took the phone and snapped a couple of photos as the trio crowded round the actor. They seemed thrilled with the results, thanking Grant before leaving, already forwarding the pictures to everyone in their address books.
The star watched them go, nodding approvingly as he checked them out. ‘Damn. I shoulda got their numbers, see if they wanted to go clubbing—’
‘Hey!’ someone said. They both turned to see two men, one a beefy gel-haired twenty-something in a polo shirt with a popped collar, the other, smaller and nerdier, lurking behind him. ‘You’re Grant Thorn, right?’
Eddie knew what was about to happen purely from the bigger man’s sneering smirk: his client was about to be insulted. The guy intended to impress his friend and provide them both with a boastful bar-room story for years to come. He moved forward as Grant answered. ‘Yeah?’
‘You suck, man.’ The smirk widened. ‘You really fucking suck. That last movie of yours, Nitrous? What a piece of shit. I watched a pirate download and I still wanted a refund.’ Grant’s expression was frozen in a clenched fake smile. ‘And I’ll tell you something else,’ said the man, pleased to have provoked him. He raised a hand to jab Grant’s chest.
Eddie stepped in. ‘Put the hand down, mate,’ he said in a calm but cold voice.
Polo-shirt was about to jab Eddie instead, but his finger stopped short under the Englishman’s intimidating stare. ‘What, you going to give me trouble?’ he said.
‘Only if you want it.’
Uncertainty crossed the young man’s face, and he stepped back, his friend retreating with him. ‘Whoa, big man, hiding behind a bodyguard,’ he called as they walked away. ‘You still suck, Thorn!’
‘Fag!’ added his friend, though not very loudly.
Eddie kept watching until they were a safe distance from his client, then turned to Grant. ‘You want their numbers?’
Grant shook his head, rattled. ‘Huh. Some people. No respect. Thanks, man.’
‘It’s what I do, Mr Thorn,’ said Eddie, shrugging.
‘Right.’ They set off again. ‘Course, I coulda handled him.’ Eddie made a faintly dismissive noise. ‘No, dude, seriously! Before I started shooting Gale Force, I went on a training course - like action movie school? A whole week of learning how to shoot guns and drive fast and do Krav Maga fighting. Pretty awesome.’