One Way or Another(62)

He turned onto the motorway, heading back to Brixton and home; anxious suddenly for the simple reality of his own place, maybe for a pint in the pub with the lads to take his uneasy mind off Ahmet Ghulbian and Marshmallows. He decided against the Sheraton chairs. He would not even tell Ghulbian about them, would tell Martha they were fake after all. Marshmallows did not deserve the supreme quality, the craftsman detailing, the care and love that had gone into making them. He’d get Ghulbian some tricky Italian pieces with a little more flash, a touch more arresting, more of a talking point. After all, not too many would recognize an original Sheraton chair when they saw it, would they now?

His phone rang just as he was changing lanes. He moved into the slower lane before glancing down, saw it was Martha calling him back. He pressed Answer, twitched his earpiece into place, said “Hi.”

“Morrie, I’ve got to have those chairs” was her opening line. It made him laugh.

“What are you, a mind reader?”

“No, just anxious. I already sent Ahmet the pics, told him how great they are, you can’t tell me now they are not available, I’ll never be able to explain it away. I mean, Morrie, this man is like the Bank of England, he’ll pay whatever it costs, just make it right for him.”

“Fuck him,” Morrie said. And he meant it.

Martha’s shocked gasp rattled in his ear. “Why? What’s up with Ahmet?”

The answer to all Morrie’s uneasiness about Ahmet came suddenly into his head. “I don’t like the way he looks at Lucy,” he said, recalling the man’s eyes fixed on the seventeen-year-old; hot eyes, a predator’s eyes.

Martha was silent for a minute, then she said, “Morrie, I know exactly what you mean, and I feel the same way. But we have to work with this man, he’s planning the party on his yacht for next week, and the grand ball when the house is finished, hopefully three weeks from now. How can I tell him to f*ck off? I promised him.”

Morrie sighed too. “I know. And I have your plans for the yacht party, I love them, and also for the house. Two parties in three weeks, Martha, that makes it tough on you.”

“Remember, I have my new assistant, Lucy, to help. She’s actually getting her act together, beginning to come out of the stupor which, I have to tell you, was certainly not about Ahmet, who she calls a boring old man, but a pizza delivery guy, blond, blue eyed, and Oxford bound. I’m hoping the least it will do is give her enough spirit to go to college, learn something instead of lounging in that scruffy flat of hers.”

“She’s lazy, then?”

“Not lazy, exactly; more unmotivated, though now she tells me Ahmet has given her a script of some movie he wants her to star in. And trust me, Morrie, she believes him.”

“Jesus. It’s time she grew up, got a bit more worldly wise, I mean at seventeen these days, Martha, girls are on the ball, know how to handle themselves and men. Lucy’s not daft, she’s just delusional.”

“Please tell her that, why don’t you. I’d appreciate the input. Meanwhile, how’s the lovely Marshmallows?”

“As lovely as can be expected. In truth though, Martha, it is getting better, you’ve worked quite a miracle on it, brought light into those somber rooms, though I’m still reluctant about the Sheraton walnut dining chairs.”

“Me too. Now I think about it, I don’t believe Ahmet deserves them, and anyhow he’s much more the glossy, custom-Italian type. In fact, I’m heading out right now to that Italian decorator showroom and I’ll bet I find exactly what I want.”

“Or hopefully what you think he will want.”

“You got it.” Martha sounded happier now that it was resolved and she could get back to the parties. “See you on the yacht, Morrie, in a few days’ time,” she said as she rang off.

You bet she would, thought Morrie, if he could get his act together and chase up every supplier, every worker, the caterer, the electrician, the rental supplier of cushy cream sofas and chairs, all the workmen involved. It was, he decided, sighing again, though more happily this time, a hard life being a designer, decorator, dog’s-body to the rich man who paid you well for it.

It was then he remembered he’d left his design portfolio on the stairs at Marshmallows, the same stairs he had never so far been allowed up, and neither had Martha or even little Lucy. Nobody was to be, in fact, until they had finished downstairs. That was what that witch Mehitabel had told them.

Morrie agonized for a minute but knew he had no choice but to go back and get it.

He swung off the motorway at the next exit, made a turn and got back on in the other direction. It was another half hour before he pulled again into the stunted-treed-driveway of Marshmallows.

Evening darkened the sky and the white birds hulked over their nests, silent for once. There was not a single sound to be heard, other than Morrie’s own feet on the gravel as he strode toward the steps, then lifted the iron dragon’s head that acted as a door knocker. It was heavy and, even from where he was standing, he could hear the sound booming through the house. He waited a minute but there was no answer. He took a step back, glanced at the house, there was no light in any window. Could no one be working there? Was no one looking after this large property, filled with valuables? There had at least to be a guard.

He lifted the heavy knocker again, rapped it this time, then again, harder; stood, hands in pockets, waiting for someone to answer. No one did. Shit. He was stuck. He had to have that folder, all his notes, all his contacts were in it; he could not work tomorrow without it. He grabbed the door handle and gave it a vicious twist. To his astonishment it turned easily.