It felt strange calling mum's phone, but Ray picked up straightaway. No doubt mum had the better phone, or there was still some credit on it, so he was now using it. I told him about the call from the police, and enquired how many people would be coming to the funeral.
"At least 50 I should think. She was popular on the estate, people are devastated about what happened. I asked the landlord of the Guy Earl of Warwick if we could have the wake there. He said it'd be fine, he'll even lay on sandwiches, if you want them that is."
"That sounds fine. I'll organise all the paperwork, and undertaker, and let you know when it is. Did you sort out the tenancy of the flat?"
"I did. I'm really grateful to you for that Elle, tenancies are like gold dust, and this is a great flat, one of the best," I cringed, "are you sure you don't want any of the furniture?"
"You keep it Ray, I haven't got room for it. Can you organise invites then? Once I set the date, and we keep it to fifty people only yeah? I don't want a huge bar bill."
"Make it a paid bar, otherwise they'll drink it dry," double cringe, "you know what the greedy bastards are like." I know what a greedy pig you'd be.
"Ok. I'll call you when I know more."
Back at the office, I briefed Lewis on my rather disastrous morning, and booked Friday afternoon off to travel to Woolwich to register mum's death, and visit the undertaker. I called the Co-op funeral service in Welling, and booked an appointment.
After making myself a coffee, I settled myself in my office, and began working my way through the dozens of emails that had arrived that morning, answering them methodically. I was pleased to see that the float had been publicised, and initial expressions of interest were being collected from institutional investors. I forwarded the email to Steve Robbins, to keep him in the loop, adding some notes of my own. With no work from Ivan, Paul's project in hand, and Mr Carey handling the work for Goldings, I found myself at a bit of a loose end. I decided to research the two authors that Justine was trying to poach.
Both appeared to have had very minor success with books on baking, and bread making. Neither seemed to be well marketed, or have a great web presence. I looked the first up on Amazon, and his ranking was 450000th in the list. Idly, I wondered how many books per week that equated to. I doubted if it was enough to justify a vast advance. Puzzled, I called Justine to ask why she felt these authors were so valuable. She explained that they had both written textbooks used in cookery schools, which were sold direct, and so had no bearing on their Amazon rankings. It still didn't ring quite right, but I accepted her explanation and informed her that I was meeting them both separately the following week. She authorised me to offer up to £75k each as a golden hello, should they agree to jump ship to Justine's company. Thankfully, neither writer had a literary agent to complicate matters, so I was fairly confident.#p#分页标题#e#
I wrapped up at five, and began to make my way back home, only to see the Mercedes waiting outside my flat. Roger hopped out, and informed me that Ivan had booked me an appointment at Harley Street at six. I gave me just enough time for a super quick shower and change. Within ten minutes, I was on my way.
"Why didn't you call and let me know about this?" I asked Ivan when he finally answered his phone.
"Mad busy day," he barked, "I'll be there as quick as I can," before ringing off. So.Bloody.Rude.
I was booked in to see a rather stern and disapproving looking lady doctor. She was one of those tall, willowy, rather sullen looking women, with thick glasses, and a superior air. She quizzed me on my general health, and medical history, before giving me a brief examination, and taking blood and urine tests. She peered over her glasses as she told me she would call me with the results on Thursday. Thanking her rather insincerely, I headed back to the car, where Roger informed me that I had been instructed to wait for Ivan.
"I think it would have been nice for Ivan to have asked me to wait himself, Roger. Now are you going to take me home, or should I call a taxi?" Roger looked a bit panicked, and held a finger up as he made a call. I tapped my foot impatiently.
"I'll take you home," said Roger, finally. "Mr Porenski is held up in West London, and sends his apologies. He will call you when he has seen his physician."
Back home, I poured myself a glass of wine, and heated up the slightly congealed lasagne. It tasted a bit past it's best, but I was hungry, so polished it off. I did a bit of housework and laundry, and waited.....and waited. By half nine, there was no sign of Ivan, so I gathered up my book, and got into bed.