The Meal of Fortune: The Meal of Fortune, #1

By Philip Brady

Failing celebrity agent Dermot Jack thinks his luck might have turned when a mysterious Russian oligarch hires him to represent his pop star daughter. Anna Preston is just as happy to be handed the chance to resurrect her own stalled career. Little do they know that their paths are about to cross again after seventeen years, as they're thrown together in a desperate attempt to lure a notorious arms dealer into a highly unusual trap. Hard enough without having to deal with a lecherous celebrity chef or a diminutive mafia enforcer who definitely has his own agenda. Then there's the very impatient loan shark who 'just wants his money back'. And Anna's bosses, who aren't playing it entirely straight either. If Anna and Dermot are going to come out of this alive they'll both have to do things they'd never have thought possible.  But one thing's for sure. They're absolutely not about to fall in love again. That's never going to happen, OK?

• Language: English
• Publisher: 5W Press
• Release date: Sep 10, 2021
• ISBN: 9781916876927

Philip Brady

Phil lives in west London with his wife two children and some animals, which also like to call the house home. He is somewhat obsessed and bemused with the public and media’s fixation with celebrities. This forms the backdrop of his books, which also tend to feature spies, gangsters, hit men and TV chefs. His main rule in life is never to let tomato ketchup touch any food that is green.  This may not have any deep meaning, nor may it be the soundest of principles to live by – but it’s better than many he’s come across down the years.  Best not to go there though.

Book preview

Prologue

Sergei Symenov knew he had drunk more vodka than he should. But then everyone was so generous these days. First Grigor had bought the drinks, then Konstantin, Vassily and finally Grigor again. Everyone wanted to be Sergei’s friend, now that he was going to be famous again.

He reached out to steady himself against the wall as he started to climb the stairs of his apartment block. The handrail was long gone and the stench of piss and damp burned his nostrils.

Yes, piss. The whole place stank of it. Or was it boiled cabbage? Sergei had always struggled to tell the two apart. The smell seemed to ooze from the crumbling concrete walls of the place he’d been forced to call home for these past twenty years. But not for much longer. Soon Sergei would be tucked up in a modern apartment; one befitting a man of his newly restored status.

Befitting a true hero of Russia.

To think the bastards had believed they could take it all away from him. But then everything had gone to hell after the Communists lost power.

Inflation.

Poverty.

Bread queues.

Oligarchs, of course.

And then someone had decided that he couldn’t even keep his bear. Dancing bears were not appropriate in modern Russia, apparently. Animal rights or some such pious Western rot. Sergei had always looked after that bear, only beating it once a day and making sure its neck chain didn’t chafe too much.

But still they’d taken it off to some animal sanctuary; told Sergei he’d be welcome to visit any time he liked.

Huh! Sergei hadn’t liked.

That bear had made its choice and was dead to him now – although he knew for a fact it was still alive, as the animal people insisted on sending him a postcard each year on the beast’s birthday.

Sergei paused for breath halfway up the first flight of stairs. Normally the steps weren’t a problem, despite his seventy-two years. All that dancing had kept him in good shape. But tonight, with the vodka inside him, the climb was proving a little harder than usual.

The Singing Cossack, that’s what they called him now.

Pah! Ukrainian scum. But the Cossacks had the best dancing west of the Don River. Back in the day, the suddenly bearless Sergei had been forced to improvise. He’d worked hard on the Cossack moves, learning to fit them to the rhythm of his songs. Didn’t mean he had to like the filthy horse-molesters. Stalin had had the right idea there.

Sergei pushed himself off from the wall and started to climb again. He’d have a proper rest on the first-floor landing before tackling the last set of stairs to his apartment. But he stopped again as he heard a noise behind him. It would just be those kids, immigrant spawn from Chechnya or one those yak-infested hell-holes that Russia had once held down under its boot. Instead of staying home and enjoying their independence they were here, fornicating like rabbits and polluting the motherland’s great cities.

Sergei started up the stairs, more quickly than before. It wasn’t that he was scared of the kids. Always hanging round trying to look tough. Didn’t understand the meaning of the word. Putin should bring back the Gulags. Then they’d know.

But at least he wouldn’t have to put up with them for much longer. Twenty years he’d flogged his guts out, singing and dancing while the lazy son-of-a-bitch bear lounged around in its five-star animal hotel. They probably didn’t even whip it. How was it supposed to learn discipline?

Soon though, Sergei would show all Russia what he could do.

All Russia, Europe and beyond.

That idle, good-for-nothing bear too.

When the money came rolling in, he’d probably buy it back. Things weren’t as they’d been in the years after the Communists. Everything was for sale in Russia these days. He’d enjoy teaching the bear who was the boss once more.

Sergei heard the noise again as he reached the landing and decided against his planned rest. He’d made it to the sixth or seventh step when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

‘Let me go, Chechen filth.’ He spat the words as he turned.

The man on the step below was a little too old and well dressed to be one of the deadbeat kids. But he was happy enough to let go, just as soon as he’d yanked Sergei off his feet. And then the Singing Cossack was heading down the stairs he’d just put in such an effort to climb. Much faster than he’d come up and without the need to use his poor, tired feet either. His shoulders, elbows and hips did the job just as well, hitting every step on the way back to the landing. Sergei tried to stand as the man made his way slowly down towards him. Another sound came from below and he turned to see a second man approaching up the stairs. Sergei slumped back to the floor. He hadn’t fallen far and, although every part of his body seemed to hurt, he didn’t think anything was broken. Best to let them take what he had and be done with it. There’d be plenty of money coming his way soon.  He groped in his pocket and held his wallet up to the two men, who were standing over him now.

‘Take it. It’s all I have.’

The one who’d pushed him shook his head and stepped forward, stamping down hard on Sergei’s left ankle.

The Singing Cossack screamed in a key he’d never reached during his long singing career, as he felt the bones splinter.

Then the second man bent down and took hold of the shattered leg, almost gently at first.

‘Please, just take it.’ Sergei held up the wallet once more.

The man twisted the leg and Sergei screamed again as bone grated on bone.

He might have blacked out for a second or two, he wasn’t sure. The next thing he knew he was lying back with his eyes closed, as the pain washed over him. He heard the two men heading off down the stairs, speaking in a language he didn’t understand but recognised all the same.

Since when had those Chechen scum spoken English? And they hadn’t even taken his wallet.

Still, he was going to show them when he won the competition. 

The Chechens.

Everyone who’d laughed at him down the years.

And the bloody bear too.  Most of all the bear.

But as he started to drag himself up the stairs, Sergei realised that his dreams of ever getting out of this stinking hole had just been shattered along with the bones in his ankle. He wouldn’t be doing any dancing for a long time.

Part One

Rewind about three weeks...

Chapter 1

Every Thursday the music would start up in Dermot’s head, kicking in at the exact moment the car pulled up outside. And even before he got to the front door, he’d be dancing inside. The little girl would already be running up the path, one hand tucking a loose strand of long dark hair behind her ear, the other clutching her red bag, filled with a whole week’s worth of things she’d brought along to show him.

She’d always be laughing.

And the music in his head? Well, it could be anything. That summer’s big feel-good hit, or some long-forgotten guilty pleasure. The cheesier the better.

Every Thursday his daughter would sit up at the kitchen counter to do the homework her mother had seemingly saved up for her one night with Daddy. Still, a little help here and there and they soon had it done. Then it was time for the bag to reveal its contents. Sometimes one by one, more often all at the same time. Pictures she’d drawn, as well as other random, and often unidentifiable, works of art. Stickers (what was it with kids and stickers?) and various little bits and bobs she’d collected along the way. Dermot would laugh and smile while he made her beans on toast.

Always.

Because Thursday was Molly’s night and beans on toast was her absolute, number-one favourite.

At bedtime, ‘just one more story’ typically ended up being three or four as he eked out every last minute of their time together. Their record stood at eight. Or was it nine?

And all the time the dance would go on inside his head as the music kept playing. Shaking, twisting and jiving. A little breakdance even, or maybe his favourite – the disco strut.

As a younger man, he’d never kept the dancing in his head – or on the dance floor, for that matter. He’d danced in the street, in bars and restaurants, in the lobbies of many an overpriced hotel.

A few steps here, a spin or two there, maybe even a little whoop. It must have been really annoying for everyone else. But then it was amazing the allowances people made, when you were young and they wanted a piece of you.

As he’d got older Dermot had learned to keep it all inside. The music, the dancing and quite a few other things besides.

‘The train will soon be arriving in London King’s Cross.’

The announcement brought him back to the here and now. Outside the window, the green of the countryside had given way to the dirty greys and dull browns of London’s northern suburbs.

The daydream of those Thursday nights slipped away. Because there were no Thursdays anymore, not with his daughter 400-odd miles behind him, up the East Coast mainline.

But then, after the weekend he’d just spent with her and the smile on her face when he revealed his latest little plan. Well... The music had been playing in his head all the way back from Edinburgh.

And on the inside, he was dancing again.

*

Dermot stayed seated as the train groaned to a halt, happy to let the dance roll on in his head as the other passengers fought to be first off and gain a precious place or two in the taxi queue.

Let them, they were welcome.

There were a million and one things he needed to turn his attention to after the long weekend away. But nothing, and he meant nothing, was going to spoil his day. Only when the carriage was empty did he reach up and grab his case from the overhead rail. The reality check hit him as he headed for the door.

But no, he reminded himself... Nothing was going to ruin the day.

OK, yes, it wasn’t ideal that Dermot’s ex-wife had taken his daughter to live in Scotland. That was the guts of the reality check that has just come calling.

But it was just distance – miles that could be covered easily enough by a train ride or a flight. The important thing was to find a way to make it work.

And hope that things didn’t work out with the man who’d enticed Sarah away to the frozen north.

Wayne.

All too easy to think of the man as a wanker. But not today.  Even though Wanker Wayne had such a nice ring to it.

So what if the man was a Silicon Glen entrepreneur who’d made his first million at the age of about seventeen? That was no reason to be bitter. Nor the fact that he’d cashed it all in just before the crash to buy a castle, where he now turned his hand to making organic cheese.

Award-winning organic cheese too.

Wank–

No, no, no. Dermot wasn’t going to be that guy. He hopped down from the train and headed for the barrier with a skip in his step.

Of course, he should never have been on the train in the first place. But that was something else he wasn’t going to get worked up about.

It had all started with Sarah’s phone call the previous week. ‘Erm, you see the thing is ...’

That was the thing with his ex-wife. There was always some sort of ‘thing’. This time it was a work deadline. A client of her new online interior design business needed some urgent recommendations on soft furnishings apparently. So it would be ‘just impossible’ for her to bring Molly down to London for half-term.

As bloody discussed, agreed and promised.

Sarah was happy enough for him to come up to Scotland to see his daughter. Not to stay with them at Chateau Fromage, of course. But there was no reason why he couldn’t take Molly to Edinburgh for a couple of days.

It was a safe enough offer for his ex-wife to make. Dermot’s work and money worries had defined their marriage. Defined it and then destroyed it. The hours he’d put in and the increasingly poor return they had brought.

Sarah knew full well he wouldn’t be able to drop everything, even if he could afford the train fare and hotel.

Except that this time she’d be wrong.

‘Great, I’ll book the train tomorrow.’ He’d let the words out slowly, enjoying the anticipation of her response.

‘I mean ... Only if you’re sure.’

‘It’s fine.’

And it was. After weeks of delay, Marcus Diesel’s new contract was finally edging past the collection of pedants and timewasters that the TV production company liked to refer to as its legal department. Any further pointless questions the lawyers concocted could be answered just as easily by phone or email.

With no way to uninvite him, Sarah had dialled the breeziness back up. ‘In that case, Molly’s got a surprise. You’ll never guess.’

*

‘Daddy, Daddy!’ He’d barely been out of the hire car before Molly had come charging out of the mock Scottish castle she now called home.

On closer inspection, it didn’t look all that mock.

Sarah had stayed in the doorway, the scowl she saved exclusively for Dermot doing little to hide how good she was looking these days. Her blonde hair had been expensively cut into a shiny new bob and she had a glow about her. No doubt she’d put that down to the country air and not being married to Dermot.

Wayne, at least, had shown enough tact to stay well out of sight. Not that Dermot planned to let that count too heavily in his favour. The man was probably just too busy separating his curds from his whey in some converted feasting hall.

Molly wrapped her arms around him in one of those special hugs that promised to go on forever. Then she let go and looked up at him with her best Daddy’s-girl smile.

‘Wayne bought me a horse.’

Of course he had.

That would be the surprise Sarah had mentioned. And yes, she’d been right: he’d never have guessed.

Not so long ago, Dermot had bought his daughter ice creams when a treat was in order. Now another man was buying her recreational livestock.

Wayne’s ‘tact’ in making himself scarce was nothing more than good old-fashioned fear of a punch in the face.

‘He’s called Nugget. I get to ride him every day.’ Molly’s words tumbled out as if they were never going to stop. ‘And he’s got his own special part of the stable too. It’s bigger than your whole flat, Daddy.’

Great, cheers for that, Mol. Was it so wrong to wish a nasty hoof infection on the horse, or a fatal cheese-churning accident on the man who’d introduced the animal into his daughter’s life?

*

Two days in Edinburgh had done much to close the gap driven between Dermot and his daughter by the three long months of separation.

And the arrival of the horse.

Molly had chatted away about old times as they’d done the zoo, the castle, the shops, plenty of cafés and then the zoo again (zoos were a big thing for her). It was all his Thursday nights rolled into one. Nugget had barely got a look in after the first day.

But all too soon he’d found himself back at the castle. ‘Bye, darling. I’ll see you soon.’

‘Bye-bye, Daddy.’ She’d said it with a sad little smile.

‘And remember.’ Dermot had put a finger to his lips, wanting to be the one to break the news to Sarah.

I’ll take your bloody horse and raise you ...

In the face of such blatant equine bribery, he’d decided it was time to roll out the biggest of guns. They were currently trained on the walls of Wayne’s castle and ready to fire. The summer holidays would see his daughter’s first-ever trip to Disneyland.

Beat that.

Wanker.

*

Dermot dodged through the crowds on the station concourse, considering whether to battle his way home to Chiswick on the Tube or take the easy option of a taxi.

Ten minutes later, he was in a cab heading along Euston Road. With an hour of the working day left, he could put the time to good use and get on the phone to the production-company’s lawyers. There really was no reason why they should still be stalling on Marcus’s contract.

He pulled out his mobile, taking a moment to feel its comforting weight in his palm. For this was no ordinary phone. It was the lightsabre to his Luke Skywalker. In his hands it was a weapon of almost unimaginable might. All his power (well, his contacts) dwelled within the neat glass and plastic shell. With it, he could unleash ‘The Force’ and battle the legions of evil.

Talentless, wannabe celebs.

Ungrateful clients.

TV production companies and their obfuscating lawyers.

None would be able to stand against him, especially not on a day like today.

He was about to make the call when the Jedi weapon sprang into life in his hand, a name written large across the screen.

Marcus Diesel, the dark lord of TV cookery himself.

On most days, the prospect of speaking to his famous client made Dermot’s face hurt down one side. The rest of the time it made his whole face hurt. It wasn’t for nothing that the viewing public had voted Marcus Diesel TV’s most annoying man three years on the spin. And they didn’t have to speak to him on a daily basis.

‘Marcus, hi.’ Not even the chef could darken this day. Dermot thought once more about his daughter’s happy, smiling Disneyland face as he took the call.

‘Dermot, what the –’ Marcus launched into a tirade, largely made up of derivatives of the word f-word with a few other choice curses thrown in.

Thankfully, most of it was drowned out by the siren of a passing ambulance.

‘Come again?’

But all Dermot caught was a couple more curses and even the suspicion of the c-word as another ambulance roared by.

‘Marcus, I can’t hear –’

But the chef had already hung up, presumably happy that he’d done enough swearing to get his point across.

It had to be about the contract. Dermot let out a deep sigh as he scrolled through his phone until he found the number he needed.

A combination of poor mobile reception, more emergency vehicles and an overly stubborn receptionist at the production company meant the taxi was nearing Shepherd’s Bush before he finally got hold of the lawyer he needed. Then the signal went again and Dermot lost the call altogether. He looked at the lightsabre lying powerless in his hand and decided to give it up for the day.

Because nothing was going to ruin... Jesus, he was starting to bore himself with that shtick. So he picked up his phone again and scrolled through Twitter – you couldn’t do that on a lightsabre.

Fifteen minutes later, he was closing the front door of his flat behind him. He dumped his case in the narrow hallway and headed for the sitting room.

For five years the flat had been Dermot’s sanctuary, coming alive with the sound of Molly’s laughter every Thursday night and second weekend.

Now it just felt pokey and cramped, with its scratched dining table and grubby green sofas, all too big for the undersized sitting room. He tried not to think about the bastard horse lounging about in the comfort of its executive stable.

Without Molly’s regular visits to the flat, he’d decided to forgo the cost of a cleaner and it was starting to show.

And then there was the smell drifting in from the kitchen. It carried more than a suggestion that he’d forgotten to put the dishwasher on before heading to Scotland.

He really should get the cleaner back now that things were looking up again. Dermot took in the mess of papers and used coffee cups on his desk, thinking about fighting his way through the stale stench to tackle the dishwasher. But that could wait until tomorrow. The prospect of a pint, a pie and the friendly faces down at the Bull’s Head was always going to win that debate. His stomach was already grumbling as he headed back down the hall, pulled the front door open and...

Jesus.

... nearly shat himself at the sight of the stranger standing right there on his doorstep.

‘What the ...? What do you want?’ Dermot leaned against the wall, trying to get over the shock.

‘Ah, Mr Jack. Good evening. You are a very hard man to track down.’

Dermot’s visitor wore an expensive suit and a cheap haircut. The hair was thinning, blond and had been left long on top. It was what the less charitable might have described as a comb-over. At six-foot-four, his caller could perhaps have pulled it off. But at five-five or so, the little fella didn’t stand a chance.

‘I’ve been in Scotland.’ Why was Dermot even bothering to explain himself to this baldy short arse?

The man gave a slow nod, as if he was seeing straight through a blatant lie.

But Dermot had been in Scotland.

‘My name is Yegor Koslov.’

It was only then that Dermot really clocked the accent. Like the first baddie to die in a low-budget spy movie. He tensed, ready to slam the door. Best to play it safe with a real-life Russian gangster on his doorstep. The Russian bit he wasn’t totally sure of, although the name and the accent were pretty big clues.

But gangster?

You didn’t spend half your life scratching the fleshy underbelly of the entertainment business without knowing a crook when you saw one. And when he looked down into the eyes of the little man, Dermot saw something hard there, something cold. Something that suggested it would be foolish to mess with him, however small he might be.

‘I have a message for you from my employer.’ The man smiled, the chill never quite leaving his eyes.

Mulrooney.  It had to be. Dermot gripped the edge of the door more tightly. ‘Look, I can ...’

Repaying the money he owed the loan shark wasn’t going to be a problem. It just wouldn’t be happening today.

Or that week.

‘Tell him ...’ Dermot trailed off. He’d taken Molly to a travel agent in Edinburgh and booked the Disneyland holiday there and then, with the money he’d put aside to pay his debts.

And now he was skint again.

The Russian gave another of his knowing nods, his cold gaze never leaving Dermot’s eyes. But he wouldn’t look quite so tough with a face full of front door. Then there’d be ample time for Dermot to nip out the back and do a runner. The Russian wasn’t going to catch him on those little legs. Dermot tensed, took a breath, and then rammed his shoulder against the door as hard as he could.

‘That wasn’t very friendly, Mr Jack.’ The man had stepped back to avoid a door in the chops. But he’d still managed to force his foot into the gap to stop it closing. And if said foot was hurting at all, he wasn’t showing it. Surprisingly tough for a little man, it seemed.

‘Not very friendly at all.’ The Russian was surprising strong too. The door began to inch open again as he pushed.

It looked like something was going to ruin Dermot’s day after all.

Chapter 2

The purse hit the floor of the Tube train with a slap. Anna was already on the move as the man reached for it. She grabbed his arm, twisting it up behind his back and forcing his grubby face into the even dirtier glass of the carriage door. It all took a second, maybe less, the sort of move she’d practised hundreds of times on the judo mat.

‘Gerroff me.’

He tried to throw an elbow round to catch her face. Hardly the most chivalrous move Anna had seen.

Or the most effective.

She dodged easily and shoved his head against the door again, perhaps a touch harder than was strictly necessary.

‘Think it’s big, do you? Stealing from old ladies?’

Up close she could smell him: stale alcohol and three-day-old sweat.

‘You what?’ The feigned outrage was laughable.

He squirmed again as the train gathered speed. But he was small and slight, built for stealthy snatching, and certainly no match for Anna.

The old woman in question stared at the purse on the floor, only just beginning to cotton on.

‘Are you OK?’ A man was at Anna’s side now. Youngish and Australian from the accent, little more than a teenager.

Clearly new to London and the world’s most antisocial transport system, he was blissfully unaware of that golden rule – don’t get involved. Nobody else ever did.

Except for Anna, of course.

‘I can handle it.’ She cringed at her own D-list action-hero dialogue. ‘Could you please just give the purse back to the woman over there?’

The Australian obliged and sat back down, trying not to look too put out.

Late-afternoon and the Tube was still pre-rush-hour quiet. Not the best time to try a bit of pickpocketing. Anna had noticed the snatcher the moment she’d stepped into the carriage, there was just something about him that had made her look twice. A certain slyness; ratty little eyes darting around, nose on the sniff for any kind of opportunity.

He’d made his move at the next stop as the old woman got on, dipping a quick hand into her bag and coming up with the purse. A jolt as the train started up had shaken it from his grasp at the crucial moment.

‘It fell out. I was just picking it up for her.’

Yeah right. Anna spun him round and grabbed at the greasy lapels of his jacket; a short sharp knee to the balls was practically her civic duty. But she had to show restraint.

‘Let me go, please.’ The indignation was gone and there was just desperation now, as sweat started to run down his skinny face.

Anna felt her anger swiftly morph into something closer to pity. Just another hopeless junkie trying to fund his next score. Involving the police would only make things... Her mind stretched for the type of euphemism her bosses might use.

Complicated. Yes, that was it.

She kept a tight hold of him as the train slowed for the next station. Then, as the doors opened, she pushed him out onto the platform, far more gently than he deserved. But he stumbled and fell all the same, shouting the odds as his scrawny arse hit the floor, not appreciating the let-off she was giving him. The small cluster of passengers waiting to get on let out a collective gasp. Then they stepped around