Find The Lady: A 47th Shopping Precinct Mystery Episode 3

By Stevie Smith

By Stevie Psmith

He was already seated in the foyer of the Mayflower Hotel when, with the knife-edge creases in my best, freshly ironed slacks lending me an aura of prosperity, I hoped, I emerged from its revolving door.  Andy rose at once and we shook hands.  Motioning to a discreetly hovering waiter, he asked:  "Old Fashioneds are your poison, aren't they?" 

I smiled and nodded, wondering as I did so just how much homework had already been done on other proclivities of mine.  I didn't have long to wait to find out.  Without further ceremony, Andy extracted a slim cardboard file from a fat leather case at the side of his chair, placing it on the low table between us.

"Some background reading for you," he said, "if you're interested in a year's work, that is.  Minimum, a year - from today."

I felt my eyebrows ascending.  I imagined that Andy could easily have discovered my income lately was not what it once had been.  In the tightly-knit world of Brighton freelances, bad news travels fast.

Indicating the file's pink cover, I asked:  "May I?"

"Why not leave it for later?" countered Andy.  "I can fill you in on the big picture now.  The stuff in there is just detail."

He dropped a £10 note on the waiter's tray as my drink appeared.  Sipping it, I reflected that it was the first for a good while to register as incoming, rather than joining the long list of those sometimes grudgingly accepted by my cleaning lady in lieu of immediate payment of her monthly fee.

She it was who had first raised doubts in my mind about the intentions, if not the probity, of my interlocutor.

"What's the story, Andy?" I ventured.

He settled back.  "You say 'story'.  That's interesting."

"Andy," I said, "I write for a living."

"So I hear," responded the other.  "Public relations, eh?  Handouts, reports, that sort of thing?"

"That's about it," I assented, glumly. 

I was reminded that my last job had yielded too few column inches in the trade press to satisfy the client.  Since then my skills, such as they were, had been honed on direct mailshot letters seeking new work and funded from a rapidly shrinking amount in the account I'd set aside for business development.  As my stamp bill threatened to exhaust the petty cash reserves, I told myself my phone's near constant silence was a great aid to concentration. 

"Maybe you've been working too hard.  Perhaps getting out of the office a little more would make a nice change," suggested my old childhood friend.  "As I told you on the phone yesterday, your reputation as a nature lover precedes you."

I said nothing and, after a pause, Andy decided to put his cards on the table.  For the next twenty minutes, he outlined what he called his "vision", taking care to ensure that it was presented as one in which I, potentially, played a full part.

PR was, he asserted, meant to be fun.  The social side of it had been eluding me for too long.  Forget the hours of slaving over a hot keyboard - that was penny ante stuff.  In London and in life he, 'Fast' Andy, had learned that it was people who mattered and it was, for him, not only a privilege, but a real pleasure, to be able to give them what they wanted.

And what was that? he asked rhetorically.  Why, what if not homes of which they could be proud?  "Homes they can raise their kids in, secure in the knowledge that they're giving their families a safe environment in which to grow and develop," he enthused.

"The company I represent knows people these days won't settle for less than the best.  And to help us give them that, it's accepted my recommendation that you are taken on as public relations executive for the next stage of our local building project," continued Andy, his drink still untouched and unnoticed on the table he now tapped for emphasis.

"In short, we've got a great story to tell and, if you're agreeable, we want you to tell it for us."

He picked up the folder and handed it to me.  "Take this and run an eye over it," he said.  "Everything you need to know is in there, along with your copy of a year's contract.  I'm staying here for two more days - so, take your time and, when you're ready, let's talk again."

The speech, it appeared, was over, and I was dismissed.  Getting quickly to his feet, Andy extended a hand as I struggled to regain the perpendicular, having found myself sprawling further back in my chair as his sales pitch crashed about me like breakers on the beach.

He picked up his briefcase and, with a smile, made for a lift on the far side of the foyer.  No sooner had he disappeared from sight, than the waiter returned with a polite enquiry as to whether I would care for anything else. 

Other than a few words with him about his prospects and family life, I could think of nothing, so powerful an impression had my old friend's pep talk left on me.  But an air of professional efficiency as he collected my empty glass restrained me, and, with a mumbled "No thanks", I made off to do battle with the revolving door from the lobby.

Deciding to walk back to the office, I noticed as I did so how very many mothers with pushchairs were to be seen on the seafront.  Andy's emphatic statement came back to me:  "This will be a community for the future - a future you can make a reality."

Despite the fact that there had been no reminiscing, no exchange of pleasantries as to our mutual friends from the old days, I felt myself suffused with a warm glow as I neared the office on Hove's Lower East Side.

The folder tucked under my arm was the key to future happiness other than my own, it seemed.  As I placed it on my desk blotter, I felt a twinge of guilt at my earlier suspicions.  Preparing to read, I mentally cocked a snook at my cleaning lady, while I imagined the pleasure of offering her a double 'on the house'.

The good times were, not before time, about to roll - as, I determined, she would be among the first to find out.

(to be continued)