Chapter Nineteen
Dixie
Talk about work–life balance, Dixie thought, as she strode through the cavernous expanse of Grand Central Station searching for the understated entrance. Peter kept an office in the MetLife Building and visiting him there was one of her favourite day trips. An escalator that might have led to a mezzanine of Payless shoe stores and Kinko print shops instead led to lifts that whisked occupants high up to an office that could have doubled as a viewing platform for Manhattan. The family office, shared with a number of high-net-worths, had vistas north and south from the forty-ninth floor. The MetLife Building, in what seemed to Dixie a miracle of engineering, straddled Park Avenue, the vanishing point views were north towards Central Park and south to the empty shadows of the World Trade Center.
Dixie exited the lift and looked north towards Central Park and her new ‘home’ and wondered at the good fortune that had led her to seat 10D on Flight BA05 LHR-JFK and seated her next to the love bomb that was Freddie Eastman. Less than four months and she’d been lifted from transatlantic Tinder legend and part-time good-time girl to a lovestruck, marginally obsessed and always excited 39-year-old teenager living with the man of her dreams in a condo with views of Central Park. She loved London and she missed her friends, but this… this… She turned south, looking down over the serried rows of yellow cabs. It was 3 p.m., they were all heading back to base for change of shift. They made movies about things like this and she was Meg Ryan: a hotter, ginger Meg Ryan who had orgasms whenever she wanted and always found the man of her dreams.
‘Ah, there you are, Dixie! Come in, come in. Tatjana, bring us some tea. Fresh tea.’
Peter’s voice boomed, tinged with a hint of his Ukrainian origins. He was a bear of a man; well over six feet. A beard framed his face forming a single mass with his hair, which was mildly receding. Thick bushy eyebrows and hands the size of baseball mitts completed his look. He waddled (or swaggered depending on how you viewed him) to his desk. ‘Seat. Seat.’
Peter dropped into a swivel chair that rocked and he fell backwards jovially, his hands on his widely spread thighs. Against her will, Dixie could see his swollen bollocks neatly separated by the gusset of his suit trousers. As for the slab of meat slung to the left, Dixie steadfastly held his stare as he adjusted himself.
‘What can we talk about today? Are all my properties still standing? What is with your face? You look different… Have you had more of that microdermabrasion!? Or is there more to the story? Is my favourite independent woman falling into the trap of love? Is she no longer independent? Is she “in love”? Ah, I see, I am right. She is in love with Freddie Eastman. I see the flush of love in her face. Or did Dixie run up forty-nine floors!? No, I did not think so. Love is dangerous. It makes fools of us all and no one trusts a fool.’
Dixie knew better than to rise to his provocations. Eventually he would grow tired of entertaining himself. He would settle and they could get down to business. Besides, she needed a favour and for that she needed to make him feel like he ruled the world. It was the only condition in which he found himself incapable of saying no.
Tatjana appeared and placed a tray with a samovar and ornate, gold-rimmed porcelain cups on a trolley beside the desk.
‘Shall I pour?’ she asked.
‘Tomorrow is a very special day for us all, no? Tomorrow we meet the man who has stolen your heart. I am so happy for you. Is he very handsome in a kind of English movie-star way? Who is that man? Tom Fiddlestick. Tall and pale, like all the English since Henry the eight.’ He boomed a laugh at his humour and Dixie smiled indulgently. ‘I want to thank you for the invitation. I do want to see this wonderful estate. The Hamptons are always splendid, but The Chateau? Super mega-splendour. Mr Eastman must know some very special people. I will get to know Mr Frederick, I think, and we will be firm friends. Am I right?’
Dixie waited to be sure he’d finished.
‘It’s going to be amazing. The owner is an investor in Freddie’s business, so it’s to celebrate the tenth anniversary of the business and Freddie’s birthday.’
He rearranged the slab of meat in his pants and grinned at her. He was sweating from the exertion of his monologue.
‘You will come to the party, Peter, won’t you?’
‘Of course, Dixie, how could I say no to you. I am intrigued?’
‘You’ll be taking the big chopper?’
He smiled and cocked his head, waiting for what she knew he must be following: a request.
‘Would you mind awfully if I joined you?’
He laughed and slapped his thigh. ‘Of course not, my sweet thing. But won’t you be travelling with Prince Charming?’
‘Freddie’s already there with his family, preparing.’
‘Then of course. To arrive with a beautiful woman. This will make the journey worthwhile.’
‘How about three beautiful women?’
‘Three beautiful women! Three is my lucky number! Who are these beautiful women?’
‘You remember Ana and Stella?’
‘Ana is the tiny brunette and Stella the fierce blonde!’
‘Ana and Stella are my best friends. You’ll have us all to yourself.’
‘Until I have to hand you over to Freddie Eastman.’
‘You know you’ll love the attention, Peter.’
He laughed. ‘You know me so well. What would I do without you? I would be lost. We’ll meet at the helipad at 5 p.m., this is OK? We will arrive as the party starts. Like movie stars, proper ones. Am I right? I am right.’
Chapter Twenty
Ana
Indian Airlines Flight 977 from Bombay via London to Newark lacked a little of the glamour that a Premium Economy flight to New York conjured. The champagne wasn’t champagne, it was warm Prosecco in a plastic egg cup. Ana’s had a dark hair in it, but she didn’t tell Stella, wanting to hold onto the glamour of their journey.
‘To us. To all of us. To what goes on tour stays on tour. And to Dixie’s love interest, the gorgeous and fabulous Freddie.’
‘And to the utter bitch who, in spite of twenty-five years of sleeping her way around the globe on a cocktail of Class A drugs and top-shelf liquor is now in love with a handsome millionaire. It’s Cinderella on drugs.’
‘Bottoms up!’
Ana nearly gagged on the hot and acidic concoction. They were trying to maintain their spirits but it was tough. Travelling on Dixie’s air miles, they’d had to check in together and Stella had arrived late with an enormous bag, way too big for carry-on. They’d had to join a queue of Indian families. It was forty-five minutes before they’d reached the counter. Stella’s bag, the size of a Smart car, had failed to meet the weight restriction and the check-in staff had insisted she remove something. Ana had stood aside with an impatient grimace as a flustered Stella had fussed and faffed and eventually removed a pair of knee-high leather boots and an overflowing make-up bag. She found room for the make-up in her shoulder bag and swapped her Converse for the boots.
At security they had been held up again when Stella had failed to remove all liquids over 100 ml and not followed instructions to use a clear plastic bag. In the end Stella had thrown the entire make-up bag into the rubbish bin and informed security that she was heading to New York for a fresh start and was delighted to be free of the dated cosmetics she’d garnered as a leading light in the London beauty industry. The gaggle of families watched her performance as if she were a reality star on day release.