Heaven Sent, page 5
Fortunately Guy didn’t wait for her to answer. ‘Oh no, stupid of me. You must be the new – ah! Brilliant! There he is!’ Guy suddenly spotted the rat over Clemmie’s shoulder and made strange cooing noises. ‘Thank God – I thought he’d got out of the house again. Come on baby.’
The rat, whiskers quivering, tail erect and twitching in delight, scampered across the office and stood on his hind legs again, his tiny paws scraping at Guy Devlin’s jeans, leaping up and down in excitement.
Still cooing, Guy scooped him up, and the rat draped himself round Guy’s shoulders, staring triumphantly at Clemmie from beady bright eyes deep-set in a creamy face with a dark-fur bandit’s mask.
‘This is Suggs,’ Guy Devlin said, tickling the dark brown animal under the chin. ‘Suggs, this is Clemmie. Sadly, I don’t think Clemmie likes you.’
‘Not true – he startled me, that’s all. Actually,’ Clemmie bridled, ‘I love all animals. Even rats.’
‘Rats! Rats?’ Guy and Suggs looked askance. ‘Suggs isn’t a rat! He doesn’t even look like a rat! He’s not a rodent. He’s a mustelid.’
‘A what?’
‘Mustelid. The same family as otters and raccoons. Suggs is a ferret. A polecat-class ferret. A domesticated house ferret. A much-adored ferret. A cherished ferret. Say sorry to him.’
‘Sorry, Suggs,’ Clemmie laughed. Even to her it didn’t sound like her normal laugh but hey, what was normal in this situation? ‘And is he an extra in the films?’
Suggs bridled slightly.
‘Now you’ve lost me.’ Guy’s brow furrowed. ‘Films?’
Just as Clemmie was about to burst into her tirade about the exploitation of women and being duped into being here at all, and why did someone with a superbly successful firework display business need to be involved with blue movies, YaYa – minus the fur coat and the boots but plus a pink cashmere cardigan and a pair of ridiculously high-heeled pink shoes – shimmied back into the room.
‘Ah, lovely. You’ve all met,’ she gushed, batting the eyelashes that were on a par with Guy’s. ‘That’ll save me doing the honours. So, Clemmie, are you happy to be The Gunpowder Plot’s new assistant?’
Now it really had turned into Alice in Wonderland – or was it Through the Looking Glass? Whichever, Clemmie thought, none of this made any sense at all. She really had to be dreaming.
‘Clemmie looks pretty baffled,’ Guy said kindly. ‘And I’m guessing,’ he grinned at YaYa, ‘that you’ve carried the cloak and dagger bit just a touch too far. As usual. You haven’t told her anything at all about us or this job, have you?’
YaYa chuckled, lighting another long cigarette. ‘I might have kept a few of the more pertinent details secret – you know what you’re like about privacy.’
Guy indicated one of the chairs, while Suggs snuffled happily in his hair. ‘Clemmie – I’m so sorry. Please sit down. Shall we start from the beginning?’
‘It might help,’ Clemmie said as they all sat down and Suggs curled on Guy’s lap, hardly daring to allow herself to believe that she might, might, just have walked into a job at The Gunpowder Plot – and suppressing the shudder which rose at the thought how easily she could have walked out of it. ‘But first, please assure me that it’s nothing to do with the porn industry?’
Guy and YaYa laughed a lot. Suggs wrinkled his nose in disdain.
Talking together, like some sort of manic double act, Guy and YaYa eventually managed to convince Clemmie that yes, they really did need a temporary secretarial assistant at The Gunpowder Plot; the cameras and camcorders and videos were all for things like research, planning and filming displays, checking on the musical choreography, seeing how different colours worked together, and that the advert’s careful wording, the anonymity of the trading estate unit, and YaYa’s initial secrecy had been because they always had to be careful about rival companies planting moles. They had just been badly let down by the last temporary PA who had lasted a week, after YaYa had discovered him going through the company accounts on behalf of a competitor.
Clemmie, truly in seventh heaven, sat and listened, tried not to drool over Guy who simply grew more gorgeous with every second, and just about managed not to leap up and punch the air and tear round the office with her jacket over her head screaming YESSSSSS!
‘ …so,’ Guy finished. ‘That’s about it. If you still want to work in this madhouse, I’ll take you through the basics of what we do and what your duties will involve. OK?’
‘OK,’ Clemmie attempted to sound nonchalant. ‘That all sounds wonderful. And I do apologise for thinking—’
‘My fault,’ YaYa giggled throatily, leaning across Guy and idly stroking Suggs’ tail. ‘I do tend to be a bit, well, protective.’
Ping! Clemmie had another tumble-lock moment.
Oh, sod it! YaYa was not only an employee, but obviously Guy’s Significant Other. Of course, she’d said ‘we live here’ earlier, hadn’t she? And popped upstairs to change her coat and boots? YaYa must have ousted the Mrs Peel-type Avengers woman who had been glued to his side on May Day. Which meant that Guy had a penchant for extremely glam – dare she say, a tad obvious – women, but if YaYa had moved in, then the relationship must be serious.
Bugger. Clemmie’s heart plummeted. So much for telling Phoebe that fated destiny would bring her and Guy together. Obviously no one had pointed out to damn fated destiny that a live-in lover was a bit of a stumbling block to any embryo relationship.
And could she bear to work alongside Guy every day, knowing that she could look but never, ever touch?
She was aware of Suggs surveying her with a knowing expression in the sharp brown eyes. Was he reading her mind? Surely ferrets weren’t psychic, were they? She stared back at him. He winked, wrinkled his nose again and carefully slid to the floor, heading for the door.
‘Suggs wants lunch,’ Guy said. ‘Which isn’t a bad idea. Shall we get the rest of the tour out of the way first?’
As they filed out of the office, and Clemmie pinched herself very hard to prove that she wasn’t dreaming, YaYa touched her arm. ‘Clemmie, love, sorry if you got the wrong end of the stick earlier. Everything’s clear now, I hope?’
‘Oh, yes, crystal,’ Clemmie said breezily. ‘I just got a little bit confused. No, this is exactly the sort of job I’ve always dreamed about.’ She thought it was politic to not mention that for the last five months she’d also dreamed about its owner and YaYa’s lover with an even deeper and more intimate intensity.
Suggs peeled off towards the kitchen as Guy opened a side door leading from the hall, and led the way out of the house through the chilly mist, across a courtyard and into the first of the outbuildings.
‘This bit is my library.’ Guy looked at Clemmie over his shoulder. ‘I reckon I’ve got a copy of every history of fireworks book ever written since – well – since books were written.’
Excitedly, Clemmie skimmed the titles crammed onto the floor to ceiling shelves. Some of the books graced her own bookcase in Bill and Molly’s shed. Others were titles she’d borrowed from the library and some were so obscure that even internet searches had proved futile. Guy’s collection was absolutely wonderful. If she got any free moments she’d have to sneak across here and catch up on her reading.
‘Don’t look at me, love.’ YaYa dismissed the bookshelves. ‘If it ain’t a Mills and Boon I don’t want to know. This is all double Dutch to me.’
Clemmie laughed, still hungrily devouring the library. ‘It’s more ancient Chinese I’d guess, as they discovered and used fireworks first, didn’t they? Oh, wow! You’ve got a copy of Allbard’s Magikal Medieval Alchemy! I didn’t think anyone could get hold of that. Isn’t that the one with ancient pyro recipes that link compounds with magical spells that no one has ever managed to master?’
Guy frowned. ‘Yes – not that I’ve ever understood enough of it to try any of them. It’s just one of those titles that every pyrotechnician covets. But how do you know about it?’
‘Oh – it was something we did at school,’ Clemmie improvised wildly, convinced that if she now mentioned the depth of her lifelong obsession with fireworks they’d suspect she was another mole and she’d be straight out on her ear.
‘Um … in English. We had to choose a subject and try to find out about all the books ever written on it. I was never great at the arts but I liked science lessons, so I picked fireworks because I’ve always loved them.’ She stopped. Would Guy believe that? Did it sound truly feeble?
‘How enlightened of you – and your school.’ Guy’s expression was slightly quizzical. ‘And what a wonderfully retentive memory you have. Do you remember any of these other titles?’
‘Oh, well, yes – I’ve always thought that Berkstein Hillyard’s version of historical European fireworks was the best. Really concise. Doesn’t he credit Marco Polo with bringing gunpowder into Europe sometime in the thirteenth century? And you’ve got a copy of The Elizabethan Firemasters, too! I was always bored by Shakespeare, but dead impressed that he featured fireworks in his plays – oh, and finding out that Queen Elizabeth the First actually employed a Firemaster! And James the Second knighted his and—’
‘You know an awful lot about the history of fireworks,’ Guy interrupted, still frowning. ‘Even given your enthusiasm for your school topic, which must have been at least ten years ago. Is there something I should know?’
‘Apart from the fact that she’s as sad as you are?’ YaYa interrupted, chuckling throatily. ‘Back off, Guy. Don’t be so paranoid. The poor girl’s only trying to impress you. And if you’re not impressed, then I sure as shit am. Well done, love.’
Blushing, realising that she’d allowed her enthusiasm to run away with her and that if she wasn’t careful she’d blow this job before she even started, Clemmie pulled a face. ‘Sorry – YaYa’s right. I was showing off a bit. I do tend to store up trivia and unleash it at inappropriate moments. I’ve lost several jobs by pretending to know more than I do.’
Fortunately Guy seemed to accept this explanation as he’d moved away from the marvellous library and ducked through an adjoining archway.
He grinned at her. ‘As fireworks is a marriage of art and science, this is our technical room. No doubt you’ll have loads of interesting snippets of retained information about this too?’
‘Ooh.’ Clemmie gratefully grasped at the straw he threw her and gazed around at the banks of screens, mixing decks, keyboards and high-tech paraphernalia. ‘Nope. Nothing at all. Although it looks like a recording studio. Or, at least, what I imagine a recording studio looks like. Is it?’
‘Almost right.’ Guy flicked a few switches. ‘It’s where we – that’s me the amateur, plus the really talented techno boffins I employ – choreograph the computerised displays. All the music is listed here and when we select a piece it runs through here, see, then it shows up on these screens, with split-second accurate timings, and we can co-ordinate the fireworks accordingly. So, if say we were going to have a purely aerial display lasting five minutes themed to something – for example the Northern Lights – we’d select the right category, there,’ he scrolled through dozens of titles, ‘and we could try Berwald’s Fourth Symphony which lasts for five minutes and twenty-four seconds – et voilà!’
The music soared and whirled around them, and as Guy moved the desktop sliders, tiny coloured columns danced on the screen. Clemmie, fighting the urge to hurl herself into his arms, focused her attention on the music instead and imagined the spectacular firework display which would accompany it.
Guy switched off Berwald and ran through the list again. ‘Or we could marry Sibelius’s Karelia Suite – four minutes – with three minutes of Grieg’s Holberg Suite – and blend them together like this …’ Again, the music played, and the screens danced. He turned and smiled at Clemmie. ‘Is this making sense?’
She really, really wished he wouldn’t smile at her like that. It was such a kissable smile. And a girl was only human. With a huge effort, she reined in her rampant thoughts and nodded. ‘And when you go to displays, all this information, the music and the exact timings of the fireworks, and the order of the firing, is saved and stored on a sort of massive computer which you take with you? And you set the fireworks up in order, with delayed action fuses, and fire them by remote control to the timings dictated by the computer? And then if all goes according to plan – the music plays and the fireworks – um – fire, and it all meshes spectacularly together.’
‘Bloody hell.’ Guy peered suspiciously at her over the top of the bank of screens. ‘That’s it exactly. Sorry if I’m being a bit paranoid here, but I’m beginning to smell a bit of a rat. Come on, Clemmie. Time to be honest, I think. How on earth do you know all this stuff?’
Chapter Five
‘Oh, it’s just things I’ve picked up. Like I said, I’ve got a stupid retentive memory for scientific bits and pieces – and I’ve always loved fireworks as I told you.’ Clemmie kept smiling. Oops. Now he’d really think she was some sort of snooper at worst or an anorak at best and chuck her out before she’d even started.
She pulled what she hoped was a keen-amateur expression and launched into nerd-mode. ‘To be honest, I watch ever such a lot of the pyro programmes on the Discovery Channel and I’ve always been fascinated by display fireworks, how they function, what makes them work the way they do, that sort of thing. So, as you can imagine, being here is bliss for me.’
‘Cool,’ YaYa sighed in Clemmie’s ear. ‘He might look pissed off, but secretly he’ll adore you for knowing all the techno gumph, love. You’ll be a whiz on the phones when people ring up and ask awkward questions.’
‘I think,’ Guy said slowly, ‘that if Clemmie’s telling the truth then she was heaven-sent. And that if she’s a bit of a closet firework-fancier and a fact-gatherer and nothing more sinister, then clearly we were made for each other.’
Oooh … Clemmie thought, if only you knew. At least he seemed to have been fooled by the firework-fan gushing. She smiled brightly. ‘Seems so, doesn’t it? What a lucky coincidence me answering your ad.’
Guy nodded. ‘Wasn’t it? So, do you want to have a go at some mixing – just for fun? Say we’re doing a display for Valentine’s Day. Ten minutes of starburst pyrotechnic hearts and flowers, mostly reds and pinks with some silver and gold – I’ll have already taken care of that side of things. What music would you choose from the play list? It’s made a bit easier because we’ve arranged them in the most popular categories for specific displays.’
Clemmie moved closer beside him, hoping that he wouldn’t hear her heart thundering or notice that her hands were shaking, and skimmed through the titles listed under ‘Romance’. Classical music wasn’t her forte, but at least some of the titles were reasonably familiar.
She took a deep breath. ‘Definitely Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet – three minutes and twenty-one seconds … and let’s see – ah yes – Mozart, Marriage of Figaro, just under three minutes – which leaves … three and a bit minutes which means we’ve just got time for – Elgar’s Salut D’Amour?’
‘The lady’s a star!’ YaYa clapped her hands. ‘C’mon Guy, you’ve got to admit that’s pretty bloody impressive.’
Guy nodded, grinning. ‘Not my first choice – but yes, it would work really well. You’re quite sure you haven’t been sent to suss us out by one of our rivals?’
‘Of course she hasn’t.’YaYa laughed throatily. ‘She didn’t even know who we were or what we did when she replied to the advert, did she? Anyway, crack on, because I’m starving. Suggs isn’t the only one who wants lunch – and I’ve got work to do this afternoon, remember?’
‘How could I forget.’ Guy switched off the computers and screens. ‘Right, the next shed is where we store the fireworks: so absolutely no smoking.’
YaYa pulled a yeah-yeah-OK face. ‘We’re not stupid. Anyway Clemmie only smokes when she’s drunk. She told me so at the interview.’
‘That must have been a pretty in-depth interview.’ Guy looked at Clemmie in surprise. ‘How many other secrets did she drag out of you?’
‘Only that one. And that just slipped out because I was nervous.’
‘Actually,’ YaYa chuckled, ‘didn’t you also tell me that you were conceived in the grounds of Blenheim Palace?’
‘Really?’ Guy tried not to laugh. ‘That was very daring of Clemmie’s parents.’
‘Not true!’ Clemmie blushed. ‘I didn’t say anything of the sort! I was not conceived there! Mum and Dad got engaged there, that’s all.’
‘Oh, yes.’ YaYa chuckled again. ‘I knew it was something like that. Sorry, love. So it was just the smoking-when-bladdered thing you confessed to, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes, but I don’t often get drunk, so I don’t really smoke at all, and—’
‘It’s OK,’ Guy cut in. ‘YaYa’s great at wind-ups, and I never trust anyone who says they’re whiter than white. I like people who admit they’re human. And we’ve all got our little vices. Including me, believe it or not.’
YaYa snorted.
‘I really didn’t mean to say anything about the smoking to YaYa,’ Clemmie said, anxious that Guy shouldn’t think she was a habitual binge drinker with a fag hanging out of her mouth as she lay in the gutter clutching her seventy-eighth alcopop with her skirt round her neck every weekend. ‘I’m usually far more discreet about my personal life.’
‘Discreet?’ Guy headed across another chilly courtyard, towards a chunky building constructed of breeze blocks. ‘Well, that’s a plus in this set-up. YaYa wouldn’t recognise discreet if it introduced itself and was wearing a name badge. Indiscretion is her stock-in-trade. Right – back to business. The storage sheds are our highest security area; but as you’ll never need to come in here without me being there, don’t let it worry you.’
Clemmie, trying to keep up with Guy’s long strides, shivered as the cold mist swept up from the river. A grey, winding ribbon, it disappeared round the side of the outbuildings and disappeared over the unseen weir with an echoing roar.
