Chapter 8
Molly was bored. It was practically her motto now. Maybe she should have a coat of arms designed. The motto would be "Toujours ennuyé". She had a solitary event to look forward to: afternoon tea with Camilla. She'd called, or rather her assistant had called Anthea to arrange and they were going to Claridges. Just about the poshest hotel in London. Afternoon tea there was booked out months in advance but clearly Camilla was the kind of lady who made appointments in advance and then found a person to invite later. Either that or she had enough clout to bump someone else from the list. It was the first time Molly would have to be entirely Molly Pearson without backup. Anthea had insisted on a pincam and radio microphone – just in case.
Molly had by now worked extensively with Kate and her Chicago inflections were as good as they'd ever be.
As she dressed for the meeting, she began to wonder just how long this long con would be. They were two and a half weeks in . Sherlock had been vague, of course, on how they would attract the Monk's attention. Somewhere there would be a watcher, a listener, an envoy. But for now, there were tiny gourmet sandwiches to enjoy.
Claridges, also in Mayfair, was one of the finest London hotels. Known for its Art Deco glamour, people would pay anything up to £3000 a night to stay there. Afternoon tea had been a staple of their menu for over 150 years.
On arrival, Molly was ushered into the correct area. An elegantly dressed woman approached.
"Mrs Pearson, please come this way. Mrs Rawley has just arrived," she said.
Apparently, this hotel prided itself on recognising guests on sight, even those who had never darkened its door before!
Camilla Rawley was the picture of a lady who lunched. She wore a classic 2 piece Chanel suit, complemented with pearls and one of those handbags with a leather strip threaded through a chain. Molly Hooper wasn't mad about them but rich people always seemed to favour them. A pair of actual white gloves lay on the low table between them.
"My dear Mrs Pearson, how lovely to see you again!" she greeted. "Won't you sit down?"
Anthea had coached her to play effusive, American and thrilled to be there. This last Molly said aloud, adding;
"Please do call me Molly."
"Then you simply must call me Camilla."
Some polite chitchat ensued.
"The ball was a marvellous success. They raised £27000 for the charity."
"What was the charity? I never did hear," asked Molly.
"Oh one of the disabled children ones, I expect. It was their turn."
Molly couldn't hide her shock at this disregard.
"You are surprised at my comment. You see, we get a tax break if donations reach a certain amount per annum. It doesn't matter a damn which charity actually benefits. Anyway, I'm quite sure they all do some good," she sniffed.
Molly nodded and reached for the menu. British Molly Hooper knew well there would be no coffee on the menu, and indeed, beverage was the only choice to be made, as the rest of the menu was set, apart from dietary requirements. She felt Camilla's eyes watch her, and passed the test by not remarking on the lack of coffee.
"So tell me, my dear, how are you settling in to London?"
"Well, it's quite a change from Chicago."
"And what did you do there?"
"I am, I mean, I was an event planner."
"Oh I see. Would you have done anything I'd heard of?"
"I hope not. I specialise in a discreet service – my clients prefer to pretend they've done all the work themselves!"
"Well, I never! We must get you to work on some charity boards in that case. London could definitely do with a shake-up on the party scene. One gets so tired of the same old things. Unless of course, your husband would prefer you did not work….?"
"Harry doesn't mind, for now. Perhaps later, it might not be so convenient," said Molly.
Camilla was too well bred to inquire further but she appeared to comprehend the subtle message that children were in the offing. Many society matrons made a show of cutting back when they had a child, and then made a glittering re-emergence after a suitable period of time, once the child was handed off to nannies, and later, boarding school. It was a life that most normal people couldn't fathom. Molly's fake US background, which Camilla would certainly have checked, would fit a mould of stay at home mother who raised the kids and occasionally helped with the family business.
"Of course, your husband is very busy with his own work, so perhaps he won't mind you taking on a little charity work?" Camilla prodded.
"He sure is busy."
Camilla raised a polite eyebrow but again breeding stopped her from further questions. Molly was amazed at her discretion. Even she felt it was quite the opener.
"I am on the board of a fundraising committee for a charity which works with disadvantaged and previously wayward youths in the East End. Perhaps that would suit?" she said instead.
"It certainly would be an easy commute!"
"Oh dear, we never meet in the East End. No, no, it's all quite tasteful. We generally meet in Lady Hanover's house on Eaton Square."
"Of course, much easier for you all, no doubt."
A lull in the conversation was filled by the arrival of delicious looking sandwiches. Molly wanted to dive right in but waited to see how Camilla would approach the food.
"Well this looks excellent. Tuck in, my dear."
Camilla picked up one sandwich, put it on her plate, then after a decent pause, raised it to her lips, took a delicate bite and then put it down again.
Molly privately thought that each sandwich could be demolished in a single bite but she was quite wrong. Sandwiches were obviously meant to be consumed at a snail's pace.
"Will I see you at the opera this week, Molly?"
"The opera? No, I don't think so."
"But you simply must. It's Rigoletto. I hear it's divine."
"Harry's is working, and I prefer not to go alone."
"I quite understand. It is such a bore when one's husband is away a lot."
After a suitable amount of polite conversation, they finished their meal and said their goodbyes. When Molly gained the privacy of her car, she placed a call to Wendy. Tiny sandwiches might be delicious but they hadn't filled her at all, and Camilla had declined the scones and cake part of the tea, which was the best bloody bit!
By the time she got back home, Wendy had rustled up a burger and chips and Molly dived on it.
"Oh, this is the best burger I've ever had!" she exclaimed.
Wendy gave her a small, smug smile.
"Yes, the president used to like that feta cheese and caramelised onions one too."
"President? Which one?"
"Oh honey, I can't tell you that. He was a democrat though. Tell me about the lunch."
Molly proceeded to detail the lunch.
"I think you did well there. She was clearly sounding you out for bigger things. This fundraising committee will be a good entry into the wider circle. I do wish we knew why she'd chosen you though."
"What do you mean?"
"Camilla Rawley isn't the sort to wake up and decide to play fairy godmother without it being to her own advantage. I'll tell Anthea to do a deep search on her history. There'll be something in her taking you under her wing, I'm sure of it."
Molly shrugged and continued to inhale her burger.
A couple of days later, a large A4 envelope came to the penthouse, addressed to Mrs Molly Pearson. Inside was the latest edition of Private Eye, a satirical magazine. A post-it on the cover was marked "page 27, excellent work! SH"
Trouble in Paradise?!
Reclusive businessman, Harry Pearson, has recently brought back a beautiful American bride to our Thames shores. The new Mrs Pearson has been making a splash about town. Private Eye saw her lunch with society matron, Camilla Rawley (ex-wife of billionaire playboy Teddy Rawley) at Claridges. We do wonder at Pearson, a well-known workaholic, letting this pretty little thing out of his sight; she might just find someone else more to her liking!
A further note from Sherlock was beside this article.
"Perhaps we should make a joint appearance to keep the gossipmongers delighted. Dinner at the Ivy, tonight, 8 o'clock. Wear diamonds."
With all the shopping she'd been doing, Molly had just the right outfit. An emerald green halter-neck dress, ending at the knee, adorned with a large diamond bracelet, drop earrings and her monstrous loaner engagement ring. Her hair was arranged in a neat chignon to show off the earrings. As the evenings were now getting colder, she took the opportunity to wear her mink coat, another in the increasingly long list of things she'd never expected to wear, let alone own.
While Molly had been sitting at home, bored out of her tree, Sherlock had surprisingly been doing much the same. He'd decided that it was best to keep a slightly lower profile during this long con, in case people started to make a connection between him and his alter ego, Harry Pearson. He'd taken a couple of easy cases from Lestrade but otherwise it was all quiet. Naturally, he was monitoring Molly's progress and now it was time to step up the guilty workaholic act. Such a husband would feel obliged to take his lovely wife out as an apology for spending so much time away from her.
Molly was waiting in the lobby when Sherlock arrived in his chauffeur-driven car. He instructed the driver to wait and rushed inside. When he saw her, he hurried over and swept her into his arms.
"Darling, forgive me for being so absorbed with work!"
Before she had time to answer, Molly found herself the lucky recipient of a firm liplock, with only the security man for an audience. Starved of both attention and action, she went with it and snuggled in tight, however, Sherlock pulled away and took her hand.
"Come on, we don't want to keep the Ivy waiting."
Once they were in the car, he continued.
"I'm afraid we'll have to be quite lovey-dovey tonight, Molly. It fits the pattern of neglected wife that we're trying to build up. You're bored one minute, the next I'm lavishing attention on you, and then gone again. It's how we'll lure the Monk in."
Molly just nodded. She knew she shouldn't be so excited at the prospect of sanctioned touching…but damn, she was going to enjoy this.
The driver dropped them at the door of the Ivy and they were greeted by name and led to a central table in the restaurant. Molly knew there was private rooms here but the point was to be seen. At this table, they were practically the entertainment. Sherlock made a fuss of pulling out her chair, a move Molly had always felt was ridiculous. Once they were both seated and reviewing the menu, he took her hand, almost absently.
"If you don't mind, Molly, I'll do the ordering, make it look like I'm a bossy husband. Tell me what you want first though."
She was surprised at this level of consideration but kept it in as she replied.
"I'll have the lobster bisque to start and the lamb shanks."
"Good choice."
Sherlock signalled the waiter.
"Evening, we'll have the lobster bisque and the lamb shanks. Can you recommend a white to go with them?"
"Of course, sir, I'll ask the sommelier to choose something suitable."
"Great, and mate, there'll be a nice tip in it for you if you look after us. I want to spoil Mrs P here. Let's have some bellinis while we wait, yeah?"
The waiter nodded and moved off.
"The trick is confidence with these people. You show enough confidence and they forget the accent and the nouveau riche tang," he murmured, as he again picked up Molly's hand and kissed her wrist. She pulled away, trying her best to look bashful.
"Do try to relax," he said through a smile, "pretend I'm the man of your dreams."
Molly let out a shaky breath and turned it into a giggle. It was all a bit too close to home.
When their starters arrived, she was relieved to regain control both her hands so she could eat. However, she soon found a leg wedged between hers, not quite playing footsies, but making sure they maintained contact. It seemed a level too far considering the heavy damask tablecloth went almost to the ground.
"Tell me about some of your latest cases. Any good bodies?" she asked, starved of her normal life.
"None. I'm trying to be a bit more covert while this case is going on. Don't want any clever clogs putting two and two together."
"How are you getting on with John's wife?" she said, trying a different tack.
"I like her. She's smart and well able for John."
"And she doesn't mind her husband having a demanding best friend?"
"Who's that?" said Sherlock, without a hint of irony.
Molly rolled her eyes.
The food was divine, the wine superb, and the company not bad at all. If he hadn't kept switching between accents, Molly might have been lulled right into the fantasy of a great dinner date with Sherlock. For dessert, they ordered one slice of an excellent lemon meringue pie.
Molly took the first bite.
"Oh my good god, food heaven!"
Sherlock shrugged.
She took up her fork, broke off a piece and held it up to his lips.
"You must try it, darling," she said loudly in her own best accent. And that was it, suddenly they were feeding each other, while making sickeningly sweet comments. Molly actually saw people looking their way in that mildly appalled-cannot look away fashion.
"Harry, I think we're probably overstepping the mark. Shall we get the bill?"
"Good idea…we've given them all a good eyeful as it is."
Sherlock unnecessarily helped Molly into her coat, bestowing a kiss on the nape of her neck as he settled it on her shoulders. Their car was waiting outside. Molly wondered how he timed it so well. Was there a GPS sensor in her bag?
Once in the car, Sherlock gathered her in his arms for another really good snog. The rational part of her brain was diminished by the good food, wine and kissing but a small voice pointed out that here in the car, driven by one of Mycroft's people, there was really no need for the charade. By the time they reached Whitechapel, her hair was coming loose and Sherlock had 2 extra shirt buttons undone.
To her immense surprise, he got out of the car with her.
"What are you doing?"
"We've just spent the whole evening pretending we're a newly-wed couple crazy about each other. It would look tremendously odd if I dropped you off at our alleged joint home and left!"
"So you're staying the night?" confirmed Molly.
"Of course. Oh don't worry, there's more than one bedroom."
They ascended to the penthouse in silence, holding hands for the benefit, once again, of a security man.
Once inside the apartment, Molly was a bit at a loss for comment.
"Will we have a nightcap?"
"None for me, but go ahead. I've had more than enough with the wine. I think we did well tonight, Molly."
She nodded, slipping off her coat and leaving it on a chair.
"I see you're getting used to other people picking up for you?" quipped Sherlock.
"Learnt from the best," she retorted with a smile.
"Touché. Right, I'm off to bed. Good night."
Molly stood in the hallway. It was all a bit much to go from full on making-out (as she supposed Molly Pearson would call it) to barely a nod good night. She was more than a little aroused. However, bed seemed the best place for her, even if it was to be alone.
Going to bed when you were Molly Pearson took a good deal longer than Molly Hooper took, so half an hour later, she climbed into bed, wearing a black silky nightie, her face finally clear of all the slap. She lay in the centre of the very large bed thinking of a man who tonight was just a few metres away, and seemed more than a little interested in her. Did she dare go to him?
