Read Online Cat on a Hot Tiled Roof by Anna Nicholas - Free Book Online
Authors: Anna Nicholas
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worked with him for years.'
  'Yes,' says Rachel, now on a roll, 'They're very close. In fact, you'll be visiting him in New York in a few months time, won't you?'
  'Actually, not until November when I do the marathon.' I glare at her.
  Dannie gives a little scrunch of her nose. 'How marvellous, darling. Are you running for charity?'
  'An orphanage.'
  'Oh we must sponsor you, mustn't we, Mary Anne? Just think what a fun time we'll all have when you come over.'
  Indeed. I can hardly contain myself. The waiter returns and we commence our breakfast. While Rachel and I attack our brioche and toast with gusto, Dannie sits toying with her granola and fruit, only taking tiny spoonfuls in between hefty sips of mineral water.
  'So girls, what do you really think of my products?'
  'Very stylish,' says Rachel, her teacup poised mid-air.
  'Your catalogue's really polished,' I add, 'although it would be great to see some actual products.'
  Dannie drums the table with her fingers.
  'We'll get a box of samples sent over to you. Anything else?'
  'Your existing press material would be helpful,' says Rachel.
  Dannie turns to her assistant. 'Can I leave all that with you?'
  Mary Anne, cheeks bulging, nods enthusiastically but says nothing.
  Another sip of water and Dannie drops the spoon back into her bowl, the contents barely touched, and dabs the sides of her mouth with her napkin.
  Mary Anne continues to gobble her food hungrily and then sits back, replete, watching Rachel and I finish the last of our toast. Her mousy hair falls forward as she bends to see her watch.
  'OK guys, shall we sign the contract tomorrow afternoon at the hotel so that we can get motoring on the PR programme?'`
  Rachel and I nod in agreement.
  'How about four o'clock at The Berkeley?'
  'Fine by us,' I hear myself say.
  'Wonderful,' smiles Dannie. 'It's been a pleasure meeting you both.'
  'Likewise,' Rachel chips in.
  Breakfast is over. Dannie sweeps up the voluminous pelt and swings it over her shoulder so that its hem almost kisses the floor. Lumbering behind her like a clumsy bridesmaid, Mary Anne fretfully attempts to hoist it up as if it were a gossamer train. Rachel and I watch them depart. I narrow my eyes at her.
  'Trust me. We're in for a rocky ride.'
12.15 p.m., Starbucks, Marylebone High Street
Ed, my hypochondriac friend with a penchant for Internet babes â girls he can date online â jazz and all things calorific, is meeting me for a quick lunch at Starbucks. This suits him perfectly because the Marylebone branch is situated just a few doors from the BBC building in which he works as a producer. Moving to an area renowned for its private medical practitioners has been, literally, a lifesaver for Ed. The fact is that the common cold, sore throats, coughs, wheezes and sneezes, bugs, bruises and burns, lesions and abrasions, rashes, infections and viruses of a contagious nature persistently plague Ed in a manner rarely experienced by the rest of humankind. In the course of one week, Ed can have experienced anything from suspected heart failure, beriberi, thrombosis, Lassa fever and hepatitis, to malaria, pneumonia and salmonella. One night he called in panic to report a stiffening of the joints and asked shakily whether rigor mortis could be setting in. I explained that one normally had to have died first but that he shouldn't rule it out. Rather like a disgruntled vampire, Ed pounds the streets of Marylebone in search of new blood; a physician who will take him seriously. Within the labyrinthine streets of Wigmore, Wimpole, Harley and Devonshire he has visited every mews, close, place, square and street â both upper and lower â and is on first-name terms with most of the resident medical fraternity. Despite numerous examinations, indulgent diagnoses
  'Yes,' says Rachel, now on a roll, 'They're very close. In fact, you'll be visiting him in New York in a few months time, won't you?'
  'Actually, not until November when I do the marathon.' I glare at her.
  Dannie gives a little scrunch of her nose. 'How marvellous, darling. Are you running for charity?'
  'An orphanage.'
  'Oh we must sponsor you, mustn't we, Mary Anne? Just think what a fun time we'll all have when you come over.'
  Indeed. I can hardly contain myself. The waiter returns and we commence our breakfast. While Rachel and I attack our brioche and toast with gusto, Dannie sits toying with her granola and fruit, only taking tiny spoonfuls in between hefty sips of mineral water.
  'So girls, what do you really think of my products?'
  'Very stylish,' says Rachel, her teacup poised mid-air.
  'Your catalogue's really polished,' I add, 'although it would be great to see some actual products.'
  Dannie drums the table with her fingers.
  'We'll get a box of samples sent over to you. Anything else?'
  'Your existing press material would be helpful,' says Rachel.
  Dannie turns to her assistant. 'Can I leave all that with you?'
  Mary Anne, cheeks bulging, nods enthusiastically but says nothing.
  Another sip of water and Dannie drops the spoon back into her bowl, the contents barely touched, and dabs the sides of her mouth with her napkin.
  Mary Anne continues to gobble her food hungrily and then sits back, replete, watching Rachel and I finish the last of our toast. Her mousy hair falls forward as she bends to see her watch.
  'OK guys, shall we sign the contract tomorrow afternoon at the hotel so that we can get motoring on the PR programme?'`
  Rachel and I nod in agreement.
  'How about four o'clock at The Berkeley?'
  'Fine by us,' I hear myself say.
  'Wonderful,' smiles Dannie. 'It's been a pleasure meeting you both.'
  'Likewise,' Rachel chips in.
  Breakfast is over. Dannie sweeps up the voluminous pelt and swings it over her shoulder so that its hem almost kisses the floor. Lumbering behind her like a clumsy bridesmaid, Mary Anne fretfully attempts to hoist it up as if it were a gossamer train. Rachel and I watch them depart. I narrow my eyes at her.
  'Trust me. We're in for a rocky ride.'
12.15 p.m., Starbucks, Marylebone High Street
Ed, my hypochondriac friend with a penchant for Internet babes â girls he can date online â jazz and all things calorific, is meeting me for a quick lunch at Starbucks. This suits him perfectly because the Marylebone branch is situated just a few doors from the BBC building in which he works as a producer. Moving to an area renowned for its private medical practitioners has been, literally, a lifesaver for Ed. The fact is that the common cold, sore throats, coughs, wheezes and sneezes, bugs, bruises and burns, lesions and abrasions, rashes, infections and viruses of a contagious nature persistently plague Ed in a manner rarely experienced by the rest of humankind. In the course of one week, Ed can have experienced anything from suspected heart failure, beriberi, thrombosis, Lassa fever and hepatitis, to malaria, pneumonia and salmonella. One night he called in panic to report a stiffening of the joints and asked shakily whether rigor mortis could be setting in. I explained that one normally had to have died first but that he shouldn't rule it out. Rather like a disgruntled vampire, Ed pounds the streets of Marylebone in search of new blood; a physician who will take him seriously. Within the labyrinthine streets of Wigmore, Wimpole, Harley and Devonshire he has visited every mews, close, place, square and street â both upper and lower â and is on first-name terms with most of the resident medical fraternity. Despite numerous examinations, indulgent diagnoses
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