Chapter 47
JAMIE ’ S FLAT WAS AT the top of an old wharf building overlooking the Thames where the reception desk was staffed by an elderly man called Steve. That’s how Maggie knew she could get in.
Steve had seen Maggie come and go from Jamie’s apartment hundreds of times over the years, and in various states, from sober to extremely drunk, but he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her look as exhausted as she did now, trudging into the building, a bag slung over her shoulder, a picture of quiet weariness.
‘Evening’, darlin’. You all right?’
‘Hiya, Steve. Kind of. Can I have the key? Jamie’s away, I know, but I’ve lost my phone and need somewhere for the night.’
‘’Course you can. Give me a jiffy, it’ll be here somewhere. You need an early night from the look of things. Not that you look bad, I mean. You always look luvverly. But been a long day, has it?’
‘You could say that.’ Maggie managed a weary smile across the desk as Steve held the key out over the desk. ‘Thanks. I’m going to head upstai—’
‘When’s ’e back?’
‘Jamie? Tomorrow.’
‘And how was France? The thing I always say about France is it would be luvverly if it wasn’t full of French people.’
‘It was nice. Mostly. But listen I’m shattered so I’m goi—’
‘Can’t trust people who eat snails, in my book.’
‘No, maybe not,’ she murmured, before turning from the desk and heading towards the lift. If she had to stand here for the next half an hour and discuss the finer points of French cuisine with Steve she would fling herself into the river. ‘Thank you,’ she said over her shoulder, holding the key in the air.
She let herself in, dropped her bag, and went to stand at one of the huge windows that overlooked the river swirling beneath. Her marriage was over. She repeated the sentence to herself to gauge her reaction but it was quite hard to decipher what was sadness and what was simply tiredness.
Jamie’s kitchen was stacked with bottles of Champagne, wine, Japanese whiskies and Mexican tequilas, sent to him as thank you presents by the restaurants and chefs he worked for, so Maggie fixed herself a glass of vodka, over ice, and drained it in one, before pouring herself another and moving to the sofa.
She plugged her phone into a socket beside it, turned it on and texted Jamie.
Hiya. I’m sending this from your flat. Steve let me in. Got home, it’s over. Opened a bottle of vodka. Hope you don’t mind. Xxxxx
Then she scanned her WhatsApps with a faint flicker of hope that she might see something from a random number, before reminding herself that Gray didn’t have her number. And what was she expecting him to say?
Jamie called back immediately.
‘Hey.’
‘Babe! You OK?’
She swallowed another mouthful of vodka, already feeling the heat of it seep under her skin. ‘Mmm, yes, no I am. A bit dazed.’
‘I’m sure.’
She sighed and leant back against the sofa. ‘We’re done, Jamie. We’re just … done.’
‘Did you tell him that you and Gr—’
‘No! ’Course not. We talked, briefly, and I left.’
‘And you’re … definitely OK?’ Jamie asked hopefully.
‘I think so. Although …’ Maggie stopped when she felt her throat thicken.
‘Mags?’
‘No, no, I’m fine. I’m just tired, and leaving the hotel and everything with Gray … It’s just a lot. I am fine about Mungo, I think, but I guess it also means, like, what now?’ She sniffed and wiped her face with her knuckles.
‘Now you have everything! You have a new start. That’s exciting . And terrifying, I get it. But now you can think about what you really want, which I don’t think that tosser’s let you think about for ages, years, really.’
She laughed softly. ‘Jamie …’
‘Sorry, but you know I’m right. Listen, when I get back tomorrow, let’s go out for dinner somewhere fabulous and make a plan. I’ve been thinking about it already. With all that loot from the sale, you could find a properly decent site, your own place again. Deptford, I was thinking; that’s where the kids are going. Josh Clarke’s about to open another Italian that way and you can get old wharf sites for not very much. I know someone, I’ll give him a bell when I get ba—’
‘Maybe. Can we chat about it tomorrow? I’m not sure I have the brain space for anything else today.’
‘Yeah. Sorry, babe. You chill. Have a bath. Help yourself to anything.’
‘I will, and thanks again. Any news from there? All fine with the hotel?’
‘Yeah, yeah, all good. Claude came up to help Audrey collect her boxes, and she went off sobbing. But other than that, no drama. And you’re OK?’
‘Mmhmm.’
‘OK, love you. Get an early night and see you tomorrow when we’ll plot world domination. You’re good at this shit, I’m good at this shit. Us together, being good at this shit.’
‘Deal, see you tomorrow,’ she said, smiling down the phone.
She hung up, opened her emails and sent a short one to Georges, telling him that she’d returned to London but she’d ring him in the morning. Then she clicked on another email from a name she vaguely recognized: Humphrey Bancroft. That was it, she remembered. It was Lord Bancroft, who’d taken away a couple of books after his stay at the hotel.
I’ve spoken to someone I trust and I would like to speak to you at whatever time is convenient, he’d written. Do give me a ring on the number below.
Suddenly exhausted by admin, and unwilling to think about Le Figuier or anything to do with it, Maggie dropped her phone to the floor.
Lying down on the sofa, she reached for one of the four remote controls on the coffee table to turn on Jamie’s vast flat screen. He liked lying on the sofa in his tracksuit on the weekends, hungover, doing emails while something celebrity-based played as background noise.
That’s why the television was set to E!
She stared at the screen while a blonde presenter with suspiciously pillowy lips talked about the break-up of two singers she hadn’t heard of.
‘But while it may be splitsville for them, we also have some better news coming up, right, Kayce?’
She stabbed at the remote control to try and change the channel, but it stubbornly remained on E!, and the screen cut in two to show another blonde lady with a forehead as smooth as a bowl of custard.
‘Sure do, Sammy. Hi, everyone, I’m coming to you from Bel Air,’ said the second presenter, talking into her microphone, ‘and I’m standing here outside the gates of Gray Hudson and Holly Hernandez’s home, where he’s just arrived, the first public sighting of him in weeks.’
Maggie sat up.
‘Kayce, do we know if they’re both in there?’
The second presenter shook her head, blonde curls bouncing around her shoulders. ‘We don’t know for sure. All we do know is that Gray was driven in about half an hour ago. Obviously, in the past few weeks, there’s been a tonne of speculation about their marriage, but yesterday Holly revealed that they’re expecting their first baby, so it looks like Hollywood’s hottest couple have kissed and made up.’
‘Kayce, can we talk about the Paris in Spring scandal for a second? Do we know where Gray’s been hiding out? Because there’ve been all sorts of rumours, and as you said this is the first public sighting in weeks.’
‘Sure thing, Sammy. So, as our viewers may know, last month the internet blew up when Gray Hudson was kicked off set in France for reportedly assaulting his co-star, Dwayne L Davis, and then disappeared for several weeks, and what followed were rumours about his drinking and his mental health.’
‘Right, but then today he flies back to his wife? So, what’s going on there?’
The second presenter laughed. ‘Who knows, Sammy. But we all love a happy ending, right?’
Maggie reached for the other remote controls and stabbed at every button until the television went black. Then she tugged a blanket off the back of the sofa, lay down, pulled her legs into her chest and, within minutes, was asleep.