Bunburry--Drop Dead, Gorgeous Page 4

  One day Oscar insisted that they go to the new exhibition at the Courtauld Gallery. As the taxi made its slow progress through the London traffic, Alfie said: “This isn’t the way to the Courtauld.”

  “Roadworks,” said Oscar blandly. “We’re having to take a circuitous route.”

  But their destination wasn’t the Courtauld.

  “No,” said Alfie as they stood on the pavement outside Oscar’s spa. “I’m not going in there.”

  “I’ve already booked you in,” said Oscar. “I’ll still have to pay if you’re a no-show. You wouldn’t want me to lose my money, would you?”

  Money was scarcely the issue. Oscar had once related an apocryphal story about the Greek oil tycoons Stavros Niarchos and Aristotle Onassis. They were passing a car showroom in Monte Carlo that displayed gold-plated Rolls-Royces. Onassis decided he wanted one. Niarchos decided he wanted one too and said he would pay for both.

  “I can’t let you do that,” Onassis protested.

  “But I must,” said Niarchos. “It’s only fair. You bought the coffees.”

  “That’s like us,” Oscar had said.

  Alfie grimaced. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll stick to buying the coffees.”

  Their close friendship was an unlikely one, born through a mutual interest in amateur dramatics. They had starred together in a production of Oscar Wilde’s The Importance of Being Earnest, and Alfie suspected that Oscar de Linnet imagined himself a reincarnation of the great writer.

  Oscar’s wealth was inherited. He had exquisite taste, which he indulged to the full without thinking about it. Alfie might now be a multi-millionaire, thanks to the sale of his start-up, but he had been brought up in Hackney by a single mother. He had taken to wearing handmade suits and shirts from Savile Row, and fine Italian leather shoes. He lived in a two-storey apartment in a block of luxury flats overlooking the Thames. But some things still seemed to him a wanton extravagance, and going to a spa was one of them.

  “Come along,” said Oscar. “You’ll be late for your appointment.”

  “Appointment for what?” asked Alfie uneasily. “I don’t want anything waxed.”

  “Oh, stop fretting.”

  Oscar frogmarched him to a suite of luxurious cubicles and made him change into a large towelling dressing gown and disposable slippers, Alfie protesting the whole time.

  “You’ve travelled all over the world, up for any new experience,” said Oscar. “And then you turn timid in London – can’t you just pretend you’re in Uzbekistan?”

  “Believe me, this is nothing like Uzbekistan,” Alfie muttered as he was dragged to a reception area where a muscular blond man was waiting.

  “Alfie, this is Ingvar,” he said. “Ingvar is Swedish. Ingvar, this is Alfie. Alfie is terrified.”

  Alfie laughed to show that this was a joke. Ingvar didn’t laugh. “Follow me, please,” he said, opening the door to a small room containing a large reclining chair.

  “It’s his first time,” Oscar called after them. “Be gentle.”

  Alfie laughed some more but Ingvar remained unamused.

  Oscar was sitting waiting in the reception area when Alfie emerged an hour later. “Well?”

  “Amazing,” croaked Alfie. “Incredible. I’m walking on air.”

  “So, you’ll be back?”

  “Just try to stop me.” Alfie sank into the jade velour armchair next to Oscar and closed his eyes. “First, I had to put my feet into a sort of mini-Jacuzzi,” he said, counting the stages on his fingers. “Then I had an exfoliating rub. Then he massaged my feet with clary sage essential oil before giving them a paraffin wax wrap. My feet have never felt so light. I feel as though I could sprint up Mount Everest.”

  “What colour did he paint your toe-nails?”

  Alfie’s eyes snapped open. “What?” He tugged off one of the disposable slippers to check and was relieved to find his toe-nails unaltered. “Funny.”

  “I knew you’d enjoy it,” said Oscar. “Feel free to thank me any time.”

  And so Alfie started booking himself in for regular pedicures, although he point-blank refused to consider any other treatments.

  It must be a year since his last pedicure. But Debbie presumably offered them. He must call in at the salon and ask.

  And then he jumped up with a smothered exclamation. He had been so distracted by the events of the morning that he had completely forgotten the fudge delivery.

  5. The Royal Blowtox Treatment

  Eve Mosby wafted into the salon half an hour late, leaving a trail of Chanel Number 5 in her wake. Perro, who had been slumbering beside the front door, scurried off to hide in the cupboard at the back. Debbie wasn’t sure whether he was running away from the perfume or from Mrs Mosby.

  Her client was wearing a short-skirted tweed suit. It was beige and hugged her figure. Lines of glitter ran through it.

  “What a gorgeous outfit,” breathed Debbie.

  “Chanel, of course,” said Mrs Mosby. “As Mademoiselle Coco said, dress shabbily and they remember the dress; dress impeccably and they remember the woman. Be very careful with it. I want it hung up properly, not crumpled up in a corner for that animal to slobber over.”

  “Don’t worry, Mrs Mosby –” Debbie began, but was interrupted.

  “I’m not worrying, I’m giving you instructions.”

  Debbie meekly accepted the rebuke. “Of course. And thank you for being the first client to have my new Royal Blowtox Treatment.”

  “The first client? I think that deserves something.”

  Debbie beamed.

  “Shall we say a fifteen per cent discount?” Mrs Mosby continued. “I’m not sure I like the idea of being a guinea-pig.”

  A fifteen per cent discount would completely wipe out the profit margin. But Debbie couldn’t afford to antagonise a regular client, especially one on whom she was depending for recommendations.

  Trying to remain chirpy, she said: “We’ll be happy to give you a discount. Now, everything’s ready for you, if you’d care to get changed. I’ll fetch your Kir Royale.”

  Eve Mosby stopped dead. “A Kir Royale? I can’t have that. I’ve told you, I can’t abide bubbles.”

  “No, of course not, I know that,” gabbled Debbie. “I said the wrong name. I’ve got a lovely chilled Chablis instead of Champagne.”

  “I don’t want it just now, I want to start with the massage,” said Eve as she swished through the curtains to the treatment room. “I hope you’ve remembered all my other intolerances.”

  How could she forget? Mrs Mosby was nothing but a walking intolerance, Debbie thought, and then scolded herself. She was launching her fabulous new flagship treatment, and everything was going to go perfectly. The scented pillar candles had been lit, and Liz’s CD was emitting a beautiful classical melody.

  Debbie changed the salon’s sign from Open to Closed and pulled down the blinds on the window and glass door.

  “The next four hours are for you alone, Mrs Mosby,” she called. “All you have to do is relax. Poppy’s on holiday, so there are no other clients. I’ve closed the door and I’m switching off my phone so there’s nothing to disturb you. Would you like to switch off your phone as well?”

  Mrs Mosby had a habit of fielding business calls at particularly crucial points during her treatments, and somehow it always ended up being Debbie’s fault.

  “I deliberately left it at home,” came Mrs Mosby’s voice. “I’m exhausted – I absolutely have to have some me time without being pestered every two minutes.”

  Debbie’s heart sank. Mrs Mosby was sure to miss some important call, and that would somehow turn out to be Debbie’s fault as well.

  “Is it all right if I come in now?” she called.

  “If it’s not too much trouble.” The voice dripped sarcasm.

  Even though she
knew Mrs Mosby wouldn’t be able to see her, Debbie knew it was only professional to switch on her best smile as she entered the treatment area. Mrs Mosby was lying face-down on the massage table, the pink bath sheet clutched decorously around her. She had placed her leather Chanel handbag, its shoulder strap embellished with a gold chain, on the chair, but she had simply left her clothes scattered on the ground. Debbie, her smile slightly dimmed, felt a pang of sympathy for Mrs Mosby’s housekeeper. She picked up the expensive suit and smoothed it down before putting it on one of her pink satin hangers, then arranged the rest of the clothes on the chair.

  Mrs Mosby had placed her glasses, also with the distinctive Chanel logo, right next to the massage oil. Did she do these things deliberately?

  “I’m going to move your lovely glasses to the shelf over here,” said Debbie. “I don’t want to get any oil on them.”

  “I don’t want you to get any oil on them either,” said Mrs Mosby. “They cost over five hundred pounds. Are you planning on starting this massage any time soon?”

  “Right away.”

  Debbie dipped her fingers in the massage oil and rubbed her hands briskly to ensure they were warm.

  “Now, I want you to take three deep breaths with me. Breathe in –”

  Most clients flopped into relaxation after this, but not Mrs Mosby.

  “What’s the latest Bunburry scuttlebutt?” she demanded as Debbie began to massage the top of her shoulders.

  Debbie enjoyed chatting to her clients and, if she was honest, loved hearing all the gossip. But she was always careful not to pass it on unless she could trust the recipient not to say where they had heard it.

  “Marge Redwood and Liz Hopkins are campaigning for a better local bus service,” she said.

  “That’s what passes for excitement here? Thank God I live in Cheltenham. They must have sad lives if that’s all they can find to occupy them.”

  Debbie liked Liz and Marge. “They have a very successful fudge-making business,” she said.

  “Goodness. I don’t know why you look to me for business tips when you could be drawing on their entrepreneurial expertise.”

  “They’re very clever ladies,” said Debbie, sweeping her hands down Mrs Mosby’s spine. “They’ve helped the police solve a lot of crimes. Along with Alfie McAlister.”

  “Alfie McAlister,” mused Mrs Mosby. “I know that name. How do I know it?”

  “He’s Gussie Lytton’s nephew – he inherited Windermere Cottage from her.”

  “I’m afraid I have absolutely no idea who Gussie Lytton is, and even less interest.”

  Debbie couldn’t let that pass. “Gussie was a wonderful lady. She did so much for this village, and Alfie’s just like her. Our library got closed ages ago, and he’s set up a community library, and bought all the books for it, really good ones, the sort you want to read. And he’s organised a volunteer rota, and if anyone can’t make it, he does their shift, even though he’s already got his own shifts to do. And he’s very good looking.”

  “It sounds as though you’re quite smitten by this Alfie. I hope you have better luck with him than you did with the last one.”

  “Sorry, Mrs Mosby?” Debbie faltered. She was sure she had never told Mrs Mosby about the dark-eyed Felipe, the love of her life until she discovered he was married.

  “I hear the last man you got close to was a corpse!” Mrs Mosby laughed.

  Debbie felt herself redden with anger at Mrs Mosby’s mean, tasteless remark, which wasn’t the least bit funny. Mario Bellini, the most beautiful man she had ever seen, who had come to Bunburry to set up an ice-cream parlour and ended up dead. And it was Debbie, or rather Perro, who had found the body. She still remembered her shock at realising that such a gorgeous man had gone for ever.

  She couldn’t think of any polite reply, but Mrs Mosby suddenly said: “Alfie McAlister … not the one who had that amazing start-up?”

  “Maybe,” said Debbie vaguely, covering Mrs Mosby’s back with the towel, and moving on to massage her legs. “I think he’s some sort of businessman.”

  “Some sort of businessman? He’s had the devil’s own luck – he must have made millions. You should definitely have a go at him. Unless he’s married, in which case still have a go, but be a bit more discreet.”

  Debbie was shocked by the suggestion. The minute she had discovered Felipe’s marital status, she had fled from Marbella back to Bunburry. She wouldn’t even consider making a move on someone who had a girlfriend.

  “He’s going out with Betty Thorndike,” she said, busying herself with easing the tightness in Mrs Mosby’s calf muscle.

  “That dreadful American who keeps banging on about global warming? If global warming was real, we wouldn’t have had a summer like the one just past, would we? She must think we’re stupid. Mr McAlister’s gone down in my estimation.”

  Debbie wasn’t sure that anybody ranked particularly highly in Mrs Mosby’s estimation.

  Her client dreamily stretched out her feet and wiggled her toes. “Of course, I have my darling Edward. He keeps me young.”

  Debbie knew what was expected of her. “Heavens, Mrs Mosby, you are young,” she said dutifully. “Edward’s a very lucky man.”

  “He is, isn’t he?” Mrs Mosby agreed. “Luckier than he knows – although I may have dropped one or two little hints. But he’s worth it. He’s been such a comfort to me since poor Robert died.”

  Debbie knew for a fact that Mrs Mosby’s darling Edward had been comforting her long before poor Robert died, but accepted that history had been rewritten after Mrs Mosby was widowed. You heard all sorts of things in a beauty salon where people were relaxed and half asleep.

  Mrs Mosby continued to talk about Edward in a way that Debbie didn’t want to hear, particularly given the lack of a boyfriend of her own. She zoned out, concentrating on delivering the new Royal Blowtox Treatment experience, getting Mrs Mosby to turn over onto her back, discreetly screened by the towel, occasionally murmuring something to give the impression that she was listening.

  And then she must have subconsciously registered that the subject had changed.

  “… impossible to keep your rent as it is,” Mrs Mosby was saying. “Robert was a complete softie, always making allowances, but there’s no room for sentiment in business. You’re always so keen to learn how to be a good businesswoman, and that’s definitely lesson one.”

  “My rent?” Debbie faltered. “But you said three months.” Three months during which she hoped the lucrative new treatment would have taken off.

  Mrs Mosby didn’t even open her eyes. “You’ll have the letter by the beginning of next week. I’m sorry, but there it is. I’m not a charity. And neither should you be. Toughen up, and charge properly for your services. Value yourself.”

  Debbie considered toughening up enough to refuse to give Mrs Mosby a fifteen per cent discount on this initial Royal Blowtox Treatment. But Mrs Mosby would only shout at her, or worse, laugh at her. No, that wasn’t the way to deal with her.

  Cleansing, steaming and exfoliating Mrs Mosby’s face led to a blessed silence. Then Debbie began to apply the facial mask, massaging as she went.

  “We have to leave this on for forty-five minutes, Mrs Mosby,” she said. “I’m going to bring your Kir Roy – Kir and some little nibbles. No bubbles, no nuts, no gluten, no dairy.”

  She went into the tiny kitchen area behind reception and poured the unroyal Kir into the crystal wine glass she had brought in specially. Nicholas’s petits fours were already arranged on her prettiest bone china plate.

  She set them down on a little folding table beside Mrs Mosby.

  “I’ll put an extra pillow at your back to prop you up a bit more, and there’s a straw for you to drink through. Just relax. I’ll be close by.”

  She wasn’t lying, exactly. She would be close by, just not in the salon as such.
Poor Perro had waited long enough hiding in the cupboard; he needed his walk. Treading softly, she went to pick him up so that Mrs Mosby wouldn’t be alerted by the sound of his claws on the floor. She moved soundlessly through the curtains to the reception area and carefully unlocked the door.

  She had never thought this way about one of her ladies before, but she decided that she really disliked Mrs Mosby.

  6. The Tea-room

  Alfie, carrying the box of fudge, pushed open the door to the tea-room with his shoulder. The place had been packed all summer, to the extent that he had sometimes been unable to get a seat for one of his favourite cream teas.

  Today it was empty, with nobody at the counter.

  “Hello, Nicholas - fudge delivery,” he called.

  But it wasn’t Nicholas who emerged from the kitchen. It was a middle-aged woman, her hair greying, her face drawn.

  “Hello,” she said, with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “It’s Nicholas’s day off. I’m Theresa.”

  Theresa. The woman Philip had told him about, whose husband had been killed in a car crash. The woman he had seen mourning at her husband’s grave.

  “Hello, I’m Alfie. I heard you were working here. Very pleased to meet you. Sorry I’m so late with the fudge.”

  “Don’t worry. As you can see, we haven’t exactly needed it.”

  She had a pleasant local accent, but she spoke quickly, almost nervously.

  “Let me carry the box to the kitchen for you,” Alfie said.

  He unpacked the gift bags of fudge, which would be sold at the counter, and the containers of individual squares to be dispensed to the tea-room’s patrons along with the tea and coffee.

  “Thanks.” Theresa’s smile seemed a little more relaxed.

  Alfie hesitated. Then he plunged ahead. “I was talking to Philip earlier this morning. He told me about your husband. I’m very sorry.” Before she could respond, he continued speaking – he didn’t want her to think he was just a village gossip. “I lost someone very close to me in similar circumstances.”