Chapter 50

The next twelve hours were a blur. When he had finished telling Max the whole story, Ray huddled up on Florence's sofa and watched ever news bulletin on every channel. The nation was gripped by the tragedy – and timing – of Bryan Kutsenov's shocking death. TV journalists broadcast live from the bridge over the M1 above the scene of the accident. By midday on Monday, the motorway embankment had disappeared beneath a sea of flowers. Photographs of Bryan flapped in the warm breeze. People who had driven for miles to lay cellophane-wrapped bouquets shed tears and hugged each other and told reporters with microphones that it was so sad, so unfair, such a terrible, terrible waste.

The driver of the lorry, it was rapidly established, had suffered a heart attack and died seconds before the crash. No one, not even a driver of Bryan Kutsenov's calibre, could have escaped the impact of a twenty-ton artic veering abruptly across three lanes and on to the southbound carriageway. Bryan had been killed instantly and his car crushed beyond recognition.

It was like reliving his parents' death all over again. Except that all their accident had merited was a couple of paragraphs in the local paper. Nothing like this media circus.

As he gazed at the TV, Ray marvelled at the great outpouring of clichés. Bryan Kutsenov's friends and family, naturally, were devastated. The whole country, intoned the especially cliché-prone newsreader on the lunchtime news, was devastated. Most of all, though, he gravely informed a nation in mourning, Bryan's girlfriend was . . . utterly devastated.

'We cross now, live, to the scene of yesterday's tragic accident,' the news reader announced. 'Where Daisy Schofield, actress girlfriend of Bryan Kutsenov, has arrived to lay a wreath. Dermot, over to you.'

'Well, Michael, as you can see, Daisy Schofield is having to be helped out of her limousine. She's clearly distraught . . . clutching a magnificent wreath of pale-yellow lilies . . . a fragile figure dressed all in black. I must say, Michael, your heart goes out to her at this dreadful, dreadful time.'

'Shall I turn it off?' Max said anxiously.

Ray shook his head. He wanted to see it all. Everything.

'. . . Barely able to stand, she is supported on either side by professional minders. Daisy, Daisy, we have a live link to the studio, I wonder if you feel up to saying a few words.' The on-the-spot reporter shoved a microphone under Daisy's nose. 'Maybe you could tell us how you're feeling right now.'

As asinine questions went, this one pretty much took the biscuit.

Ray wondered how the man would react if Daisy whipped off her sunglasses, flashed him a big smile and said, 'Oh, not too bad, quite chirpy actually – and black does suit me, don't you think?'

Anyhow, that wasn't going to happen. The state of Daisy's eyes behind the opaque dark glasses was anybody's guess, but her mouth trembled with grief. Clutching the yellow lilies to her chest, she turned to the reporter and whispered brokenly, 'I loved him so much, and he loved me. We were going to be married . . . he asked me on Friday night to marry him . . . We were so happy . . . Oh, this is like some terrible nightmare.' Daisy's voice rose to an anguished wail. 'I can't believe he's gone. My life is over, over!' Shaking her head in desperation, she went on, 'I feel so guilty, because he was hurrying back to London to see me. Oh God, I can't bear it!' Sinking to her knees, Daisy buried her face in the lilies and broke down completely, heaving great gut-wrenching sobs and pounding the round with her clenched fists.

Cringing at the spectacle, itching to turn it off, Max indignantly said, 'She's lying, it's all an act. Bryan was coming back to see you.'

'He might not have been.' Ray kept his gaze fixed on the screen. 'He might not be lying. Maybe Bryan was only stringing me along, pretending to have finished with her.'

'But you heard her on the phone,' Max protested. 'You told me she was yelling at him on the extension, calling him a bastard.'

'Someone was calling him a bastard. It could have been anyone, screaming at the top of their voice like that.' Ray didn't know what to believe any more. He watched Daisy Schofiled, on the TV, being helped to her feet. One of the burly minders had passed her a lace handkerchief and Daisy was dabbing under her dark glasses, muttering feverishly, 'He was mine, all mine.'

Max's head jerked up. He'd definitely heard that line before. What's more, the voice was the same too.

'She rang here! On Saturday afternoon. I thought it was someone warning me to keep away from Takao!'

'Warn you? Why would anyone do that?' Despite everything, Ray was momentarily diverted. 'You're oregnant.'

'I know.' Max felt incredibly stupid. 'It just didn't occur to me that they may have been trying to scare off the wrong person.'

'So for now, we leave Daisy Schofield to grieve in peace at the scene of her fiancé's tragic demise. This is Dermot Hegarty, handing back to you, Michael, in the studio.'

'Dermot, thank you.'

'Yes, Dermot. Thank you,' Ray said, switching off the TV at last.

'So he did finish with Daisy.' As Max consoled him with a hug, the phone began to ring.

'It's me.' Bruce sounded aggrieved. 'I can't run this bloody shop single-handed, you know. Promise me you'll be back tomorrow.'

Max hesitated. Ray, who could hear every boomed-out word, said, 'It's okay, tell him you'll be in.'

'What about you?' Max looked worried.

'Oh, I'll manage. I'll be into work myself.'

'God, are you sure?'

Ray shrugged.

'Sitting here like a zombie isn't doing me any favours. I'd rather be busy. And Takao's short-staffed this week, with Corinne away.'

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On his way back from a meeting at Broadcasting House that afternoon, Kai slipped into a newsagents to pick up a copy of the Evening Standard. The tiny cramped shop smelled of patchouli oil, and the plump, middle-aged Asian woman behind the counter was sitting on a stool watching a portable television. When she saw Kai, she wiped her eyes with the edge of her emerald green sari.

'Oh dear, look at me, what must you think? It's so sad though, isn't it, such a lovely young boy . . . There now, what can I do for you, sir?'

The TV, perched precariously on top of a pile of People's Friends, was reshowing Sunday's pre-race interview between Bryan Kutsenov and the excitable racing commentator. Bryan was leaning back in his chair, smiling and utterly relaxed, answering questions about his preparations for the upcoming race. When he unfastened the collar of his denim shirt and began to play, apparently absent-mindedly, with the choker around his neck, Kai leaned across to take a closer look. He hadn't seen this interview before, but he recognised the object attached to the leather choker. It was Ray's – Kai had spotted it when he was filming in Ray's room.

Listening intently, he heard the interviewer say, '. . . Daisy Schofield, am I right?'

'Actually, no, but I do have a message for the lovely person in my life.' Pausing and smiling his famous lazy smile, Bryan quiet deliberately showed off the copper pig to the camera, turning it this way and that to catch the studio lights. 'And that is, when you meet the right person, you know it. That's what happened to me and I –'

The interviewer charged in at that moment to close the interview. Bryan, cut off in crucial mid-sentence, grinned and rolled his eyes with good natured resignation.

The clip ended equally abruptly and the Indian lady blew her nose noisily into a pink tissue.

'I'm sorry. I'm not usually like this. But can you imagine how his poor girlfriend must feel? I saw her on the TV earlier, oh, in a terrible state. They were going to get married, you know.' She riffled through one of that morning's papers and pushed it across the counter, showing Kai a recent picture of Bryan and Daisy together at some polo match. 'Isn't it just the saddest thing in the world?'

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It felt strange being back at work, realising that the rest of the world was carrying on more or less as if nothing had happened. Ray, having explained everything to Takao and Bev the night before, was aware that Takao had warned the rest of the staff to be gentle with him, even though they weren't entirely sure why they were having to be gentle. In the mean time Ray kept himself as busy as possible, making coffee and running errands, shampooing heads and sweeping up.

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'Excuse me, is Ray here?'

Bev was surreptitiously reading an article in Cosmo about liposuctioning fat out of your thighs and injecting it into your lips – heavens, surely not all of it – when she realised she was being spoken to. Guilty at being caught out, she shovelled the magazine under the desk and gave the man asking the question her most intimidating stare. Solidly built, in his late twenties, with uncombed red hair and a less than groomed appearance . . . oh yes, he fitted the bill all right.

'Ray who?'

He shot her a weary look.

'Please, I know he works here. I need to see him, okay?'

Bev bristled at his arrogant manner. Takao had warned her just this morning to be on her guard against doorstep journalists. If anyone came round asking questions about Ray, he had instructed, Bev was to say nothing and get rid of them, smartish.

No problem. Getting rid of men smartish was a speciality of Bev's. Sadly, even when she didn't want them to go.

'Ray isn't here.' As she spoke, Bev moved around slightly to block the man's view of the salon.

To her fury, he reached across the counter, gripped her by the elbows and moved her firmly back again.

'Yes he is. Over there. See?' He pointed out Ray, emerging from the back room with a mountain of towels.

'He doesn't want to see you,' Bev replied firmly. Typical, this had to happen just when Takao had popped out for ten minutes.

'You think I'm a journalist, don't you? I'm not a journalist.'

This, of course, was exactly the kind of thing a journalist would say.

'Please,' said the journalist.

In return, Bev gave him one of her best frost glares – the one that went so well with her frosted-beige lipstick.

'Oh . . . no.'

He began to lose patience.

'Jesus, who do you think you are?'

'Me?' said Bev. 'I'm the person telling you that if you know what's good for you, you'll get out of here before I –'

'AAARGHH!'

A shrill scream from the back of the salon made everyone jump and stopped Bev in her tracks. All eyes swivelled in the direction of the screamer – a salon regular, the pamered young wife of a newspaper baron.

'I don't believe it! I said a quarter of an inch above my eyebrows and you've taken off at least half an inch! What are you, a complete IMBECILE?'

The woman was one of Corinne's clients. With Corinne away, Lucy was cutting her hair for the first time. As Lucy reddened, the woman drummed her high heels against the black marble floor and shrieked, 'You've wrecked it, you've totally wrecked my hair . . . you do realise I'll have to cancel my holiday now, I can't be seen out with a fringe like this. Jesus, you've ruined my life – hey, you!' She jabbed a finger in Ray's direction. 'Get my bag, this minute.'

Ray, who had been cutting up squares of foil, obediently hastened to the desk and located the bag – Hermes, naturally. Returning and handing it over to the woman, who immediately yanked out a bottle of Valium, tipped half a dozen tablets into her hand and downed them in one, he said, 'Your hair's great, it suits you like that. Makes you look younger.'

'Oh, don't give me that! How gullible do you think Ii am? Look at it, look at it, she's wrecked my fringe!'

'I'm not just saying it to make you feel better. It's the truth,' said Ray.

'Oh well, if it's the truth you're so keen on , you won't mind me telling you that you're not looking so hot yourself. Face like a wet weekend, that's what you've got,' jeered the blonde. 'Not exactly the cheeriest little soul in Santa's grotto, are you? Christ, I've seen happier-looking bloodhounds. What happened – boyfriend dump you, did he? Can't say I'm surprised.'

The whole salon held its breath. There was the kind of appalled silence that might follow someone accidentally breaking wind in front of the Queen. Everyone waited for Ray's reaction and wondered what form it would take. Would he scream back at the woman, perhaps? Burst into tears and run out of the shop? Or – hopefully – pin her back in her chair, grab the nearest pair of scissors and reduce her whole head to stubble?

The journalist, granite-jawed with outrage, made a move towards them. It was Bev's turn to put out an arm and hiss, 'Don't you dare.'

Ray, to everyone's astonishment, simply rested a hand on the woman's shoulder and gave it a sympathetic squeeze. The woman promptly burst into noisy tears and buried her face in Ray's front.

'What's really the matter?' said Ray.

'Oh God, everything!' the woman sobbed. 'The children's nanny handed in her notice this morning . . . my teeth need rebleaching and my dentist's gone off to bloody Florida for a month . . . my cellulite's back . . . my whole life's falling to pieces.'

'Come on, it isn't really.' Ray's tone was gentle. 'You'll get through this, you know you will. Shall I find you a cab?'

The woman nodded like a small child.

'Sorry I shouted.'

'Doesn't matter. But I meant it when I said your fringe looks fine.'

Disentangling himself from the woman's arms clamped around his waist. Ray signalled across the salon at Bev to flag down the first available cab.

'Thanks.' The woman sniffed dolefully. 'And I meant it when I said you looked miserable. You'v ealways been so cheerful before.'

'We do our best.' Ray helped her get her jacket on.

'What happened then? Did your boyfriend dump you?'

Behind the desk, Bev flinched.

Ray hesitated, then nodded.

'Something like that.'

Takao returned as Ray was helping her into a waiting cab.

'He's a good boy, this one. You look after him,' the woman told Takao.

Mystified, he said, 'Are you sure you've got the right person here?'

Back in the salon, Bev gave Ray a hug.

'That spoilt, selfish bitch – you should have shoved a water nozzle down her throat and drowned her! I don't know how you manage to stay so calm.'

Ray knew, but it was too hard to try and explain. Bev would only think he was weird if he told her that, basically, he couldn't be bothered to lose his temper, he had enough to be upset about already. A handful of insults flung by a grown woman in the grip of a toddlerish tantrum were nothing in comparison with the misery he was already carrying like a ton weight around his neck.

Besides, in a funny kind of way, it was almost a comfort to know that – for whatever reason – other people were miserable too.

Even if in this case it had less to do with grief and rather more to do with off-white teeth and cellulite.

'What did she say?' Takao demanded. 'Something about you and Bryan?'

'Sshhh.' Bev gave him a are-you-mad? look and rolled her eyes expressively in the direction of the intruder she hadn't yet managed to get rid of. 'He's a reporter.'

'I'm not,' the intruder repeated wearily. 'Ray, will you please this stroppy woman that I am not a reporter.'

Ray looked up, noticing him for the first time. Oh, the relief . . .

'Tala.'

Bev's head jerked from one to another. Tala? Who was Tala? And how dare he come into a top Knightsbridge hair salon wearing truly horrible corduroy trousers, a sweater with holes in both elbows and muddy brogues?

Glancing at his watch, Ray said, 'Takao, okay if I take my lunch break now?'

Takao had already recognised Tala from the swimming pool incident at Tabitha Lester's house. He nodded, then, to maintain some semblance of normality, added, 'Be back by one.'

'Who is he?' demanded Bev as the door swung shut behind them. As far as she was concerned, the man was rude, scruffy and ignorant, and she couldn't imagine for the life of her how Ray knew him.

'Bryan Kutsenov's best friend.' Takao's tone was laconic. 'He head-butts watermelons in his spare time.'

With a dismissive sniff, Bev retorted, 'Why am I not surprised?'