Free The High Flyer by Susan Howatch

heard Shana’s excuse for her uncharacteristic failure was that “Slaughter” Graham kept her lad on a tight leash, no doubt to satisfy a craving for sado-masochistic sex-games.
    However, these ladies’-loo vignettes took place during the second week of his assignment, and on the day that Sophie called me at work I was still savouring his first week as my pipe-dream incarnate.
    I had just finished attending to my broken nail when Tucker slipped back into my room.
    “Bad news, Ms. Graham.”
    “It’s the Lake Lady.”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    “She’s dead?”
    “No, departed.”
    I was outraged. “But that’s impossible! She was recommended by two clothes-horses in my building who do nothing but give dinner-parties!”
    “I gather the bank manager switched off the business’s life-support machine. I just spoke to the bailiff.”
    “Bloody hell, I don’t need this crisis!” I yelled, deciding it was time to do some therapeutic emoting. “For Christ’s sake, why didn’t the woman let me know she’d be off the map by Friday? This disaster can’t have happened overnight!”
    “It could be you were low on her list of priorities. She’s currently being reassembled in a South London clinic after overgrazing on Valium.”
    “Okay, that’s sad, I’ll stop wanting to kill her, but
what am I going to do
about my dinner-party
?”
    “May I make a suggestion?”
    “Yes, but make damn sure it’s brilliant.”
    “I know a cook, cordon bleu, freelance, clean, sober, respectable and reliable. She lives in Clerkenwell, she’s worked for the aristocracy in Belgravia, and she often does Barbican dinner-parties. Shall I call her?”
    “Okay, that
is
brilliant—but no, hold it, that type of wonder woman’s bound to be booked up for at least six months—”
    “Not on Friday nights, not for formal dinner-parties. That’s when she cooks dinner for her
cher ami
.”
    “You?”
    “I’m not that lucky. Shall I—”
    “Yes, for God’s sake eliminate the boyfriend and kidnap her.”
    An interval followed during which I drew pictures of vodka martinis on my scratchpad, overcame the urge to gnaw my mutilated fingernail and silently reviewed in my mind’s eye all the major chill-food lines in Marks and Spencer’s food department.
    The intercom buzzed.
    “Good news?”
    “The best. I’ve fixed it. She’s happy to help you out.”
    I sagged in my chair, wiped my memory of the chill-food cabinets and said: “Tucker, you should be garlanded with flowers and led through the cheering crowds of the City of London on an elephant. What’s this heroine’s name and where can I reach her?”
    “She’s on the line right now and her name’s Alice Fletcher. I’ll put her through.”
    I instantly resolved to offer him a permanent job at a salary he would be unable to refuse.
    IX
    Ms. Fletcher spoke courteously, displaying an effortless mastery of the accent which I called Home Counties and which she probably still called BBC, even though nowadays the BBC prided itself on flaunting regional dialects. She suggested that she call at my flat after work on the following day, Thursday, to inspect the kitchen and discuss the menu. She then said she would do all the shopping afterwards, but when I proved to be too much of a control-freak to let her shop alone she seemed delighted that I was willing to take an interest in the preparations.
    At five-thirty on the following evening after a diabolical day which included a fraught partners’ meeting, a furious clash with a snooty barrister over his “counsel’s opinion,” and a ferocious conference with a snotty client who refused to see the difference between tax avoidance and tax evasion, I arrived home to find Alice Fletcher waiting for me in the lobby of Harvey Tower. I eyed her warily but found nothing which set my teeth on edge. She was about my age, dark-eyed with a square, friendly face and brown hair tucked up in a French pleat. She was about twenty pounds overweight