Leone Then and Now

When I dropped Leone back at St Albans on Sunday afternoon, she seemed a little quiet, as though she once again had a lot on her mind.

'Thank you for a wonderful weekend,' she said.

'No ... thank you,' I said. 'Without you, it wouldn't have been wonderful at all. I would have just been another year older. And I'm sorry that the teashop didn't work out.'

'Oh, well ... nothing's simple, is it,' she said. 'And, anyway, it was nice to see The Cotswolds again.'

'Are you going to give the literary agent idea some thought?'

'Yes. I will. I'll make some enquiries. I'll try and talk to a few people. Get a feeling for how it works in 21st-century UK. See what I need to know. See who I need to know.'

'Well, don't forget I'm off to Bermuda in the morning. All going well, I should be coming back on the overnight flight on Thursday - getting in on Friday morning. Maybe we could get together on the weekend.'

'I'd like that,' she said.

My mentor when I first worked at Harriman's was an ex-merchant-banker named David Turkington. David was the person who taught me what the consulting business was really all about. 'Nine out of ten clients are looking for answers to the wrong questions,' David used to say. 'But they don't realise that they have the wrong questions. That's where we come in. Just ... don't tell them what the right questions are too quickly. Let them sweat a bit. Give them a chance to appreciate how lucky they are to know you.'

David was also the person who told me: 'Whenever possible, travel First Class. Or Business Class at the very least. That's where you're likely to meet your next client. The chances of getting a fat fee from someone who travels down the back of the bus are extremely slim.'

It was while I was relaxing in the British Airways lounge at JFK that I ran into Billie Waterhouse. 'Hello. We meet again.'

'So it would seem,' Billie said. 'What brings you over to this side of the pond?'

'Just on my way back from Bermuda,' I said.

'Business or pleasure?'

'Business. Always business, Billie. And you?'

Billie explained that she had been speaking at a conference. 'These are grim times in the publishing world,' she said. 'Oh, not for everyone. There are some publishers for whom it's business as usual. But I think there are more than a few houses that might call it a day before too long. For many, the margins are just too lean.'

'Yes. I spent last weekend with a friend who, until recently, was running a publishing empire out in Australia. Mainly magazines, cookbooks, sports memoirs, that sort of thing. She was telling me that there have been quite a few game-changing mergers out there. Her guys were taken over by another group with the usual consequences. Leone herself is now trying to decide if she should move back to the UK.'

Billie frowned. 'Leone?'

'Yes.'

'Not Leone Brown?'

'Yes. Do you know her?'

'I know of her. She's a bit of a legend.'

'Yes. I gather that she was a force to be reckoned with.'

Billie smiled. 'I expect that she still is.'

It was at that point that they called our flight.

'Look, if ... umm ... your friend ... Leone ... if she wants to have a chat, get her to give me a call,' Billie said. 'You have my number, don't you?'

'I think so,' I said. But, wisely, Billie gave me her business card anyway.

The first thing that I did when I got back to Heathrow was to phone Leone. 'How are you?' I said.

'Feeling a bit like a nobody - if I'm honest.'

'Oh?'

'Finding someone who will talk to me is not quite as easy as it was in Sydney.'

I laughed. 'Yeah. I know what you mean. But I'll talk to you,' I said. 'I'll talk to you all night long if you like. Or I'll shut up when you tell me to. Look ... why don't you come down to London in time for supper tonight? I've done enough work for one week. I fancy cooking something.'

'Are you sure that you want me hanging around?'

'Hanging around? You mean from the chandelier? Hell, yeah. Why not? I'm assuming that you won't be wearing any knickers.'

At least she laughed. 'I think there's a train just after four, so I'll see you about five-thirty, six o'clock,' she said.

When I got home, I unpacked, sent off a few emails, and then I strolled up to the local fish mongers. 'What's good?' I asked Lucca. 'I have a special friend coming to supper.'

'It's all good,' Lucca said. 'If it's not good, I won't have it in my shop. You know that. I think what you mean is: what's

exceptionally

good?'

'I have a feeling you're going to tell me,' I said.

Lucca smiled. 'Line-caught sea bass. It's ... perhaps a little bit expensive. But it's worth it.'

It did look good. 'What do you think?' I said. 'Baked Genovese style? With thinly sliced potatoes, and garlic and olive oil?'

'Perfetto,' Lucca said. 'Perfetto.'

From the fish mongers, I detoured via Fine Wines West and picked up a couple of bottles of rosé. I've become a bit of a fan of rosé with Genovese-style baked fish. It has the freshness of a sauvignon blanc or a pinot grigio, but it also stands up to the oil and garlic rather well.

Leone arrived shortly before six. 'How was it?' I said. 'Were the trains kind to you?'

'Not too bad. The train from St Albans to St Pancras was almost empty. Everyone's going the other way at this time of the day.'

I poured us a couple of glasses of the rosé. 'Tell me about your week,' I said. 'I get the feeling that it didn't go quite as well as you had hoped.'

'Well ... it confirmed my suspicion that England is a bit different to Australia. If I want to talk to someone in Australia, I pick up the phone. And, if the person I want to talk to is not available, I leave a message. And they phone back - normally within an hour or so. Here ... nobody answers their phone. And nobody returns their messages.'

She had a point. 'Well ... you were a big name in Australia. Most of the people you were calling there were probably scared of you. Or they hoped that you were calling to offer them a job.'

Leone laughed.

'So ... who are the main offenders?' I asked.

'Do you know Felicity Hoskin?'

'Not personally. But I know who she is. Head of Castletown Group?'

'Correct. I called her number. And, after a couple of cursory questions from the Rottweiler who answered her phone, I was told that Mrs Hoskin does not take unsolicited calls.'

'So ... how do you suggest that we turn this into a solicited call?' I asked.

'"I have no idea," the Rotty said. "Thank you for calling Castletown." And then the bitch hung up on me. It's been a long time since anyone did that.'

'Hey, at least she said thank you.'

Leone told me another three or four such stories. 'Maybe I should just go back to Sydney,' she said. 'Maybe I've been away too long. I still think that the literary agent idea is worth considering. But maybe not here.'

'I just need to turn the potatoes,' I said. 'The secret of this dish is to

almost

turn the potato slices into crisps.' I went and shuffled the potato slices, bringing the pale slices to the top where they could begin to take on a pale golden colour before I finally added the fish fillets.

'Crikey! Something smells good,' Leone said.

'Crikey? Did I just hear crikey?'

Leone laughed. 'I think the wonderful smell coming from the oven must have reminded me of bugs on the barbie.'

'Garlic, parsley, and olive oil. Lots of olive oil. Oh ... and salt, of course. Can you smell salt? I don't know. But roasting potato loves salt.'

I topped up our wine glasses. 'Does the name Billie Waterhouse mean anything?' I asked.

Leone frowned. 'Billie Waterhouse? Oh, yes.

Publisher's World

.'

'The very same,' I said. 'She says if you want to have a chat, you should give her a call. I have her card for you.'

'Billie Waterhouse? Do you know her?'

'Not in the Biblical sense,' I said. 'But we run into each other from time to time. More importantly, she seems to be one of your fans.'

'Really?'

'I think she suggested that you were "a bit of a legend", quote unquote.'

Leone smiled and shook her head. 'Boy, it's a funny world, isn't it?'

The smell coming from the oven had taken on a slight caramel overtone as the edges of some of the potato slices began to go crisp and turn brown. 'Time to put the fish in, I think,' I said.

I rearranged the potato slices one last time, placed the fish fillets (skin side down) on top of the potato, and spooned over the last of the parsley-and-garlic infused olive oil. 'That should only take three or four minutes.'

To accompany the fish dish, I had made a simple salad of rocket and tomato with slivers of fennel bulb.

'Gosh. Billie Waterhouse.

The

Billie Waterhouse.'

'I think from her point of view it was more a case of: "Gosh. Leone Brown.

The

Leone Brown." I don't think that you'll have any problems with her Rottweiler.'

The sea bass turned out spot on: sweet and savoury and succulent. And the knowledge that one of the publishing industry's heavyweights wanted to talk to Leone seemed to do wonders for her sprits. I probably should have mentioned Billie's invitation earlier. I probably should have mentioned it the moment that I landed at Heathrow. But, to be honest, I had forgotten how unnecessarily aloof and self-important some senior people in UK industry can be. And the silly thing is: they are normally the ones who lose out.

'Whatever happened to that book that you were threatening to write?' Leone asked as we sipped the last of the wine.

'Couldn't find an agent. Left messages everywhere. No one returned my calls. I don't suppose that you know anyone?' I said.

Leone laughed.

'Do you fancy a little stroll and a thirst-quenching ale?'

'I'm not sure about the ale,' Leone said. 'But the stroll sounds fun. It's not raining, is it?'

'I don't think so. And, even if it is, the pub's not far.'

We loaded the dishwasher, grabbed our coats, and headed out into the night. There was no rain. In fact, there were even a few stars in the sky - which is a little unusual in London. 'Are you warm enough?' I asked.

'I am.'

'In that case ... let's go the long way round.'

Leone linked her arm through mine, and we set off. I'm not sure whether a casual observer would have thought that we were salt-and-pepper 'new lovers' or an old married couple. And, either way, I didn't really care.

Funnily enough, when we finally reached the pub, we were both ready to go home. There would be other nights. Hopefully there would be

many

other nights.

Back at the flat, Leone suddenly looked especially attractive. 'I think that I need you to accompany me to the bedroom,' I said.

'A candle to light you to bed?'

'Mmm ... yes ... something like that. Now ... if you could just stand here, facing the bed ... and put one hand here ... and one hand here ...'

Leone was wearing a dress with a skirt made from some soft fabric. Don't ask me what. I'm not an expert on fabrics. I gathered the skirt from the hem with the intention of laying it somewhere in the region of her waist. The surprise came as the bunched-up hem rose past her beautifully-toned buttocks. She was not wearing knickers.

I slipped a finger between the slightly-puffy protruding labia. As usual, Leone was already slick and ready to go. 'A pity to waste the juice,' I said.

Leone laughed.

I unzipped my trousers and freed my cock - which was already beginning to fatten. A bit of attention from my experienced right hand, and it was ready to go exploring.

Holding her lips apart with the thumb and forefinger of my left hand, I gently dragged the head of my cock along her slippery valley.

'Mmm,' she said.

'Mmm, indeed,' I echoed. And for a split second, my mind went back to my very first erotic encounter with Leone.

We had met at a barbeque lunch at the home of some mutual friends. Leone wasn't drinking. I can't remember why. And I was driving - so I wasn't really drinking either. But we were both flirting like mad. And then, not long after we had all finished eating, our host and hostess started to have a ding-dong barney (as they occasionally did).

The exchange got quite heated, and our hostess ended up knocking over a glass of red wine - most of which ended up over Leone's linen shorts. Shortly after that, Leone announced that she should probably go and find a cab. 'I should probably be going too,' I said.

It turned out that Leone lived quite near to where I was living at the time. 'Don't worry about the cab,' I said. 'I'll give you a lift.'

By the time that we reached Leone's place, we were deep in a conversation that neither of us really wanted to end. Eventually, Leone said that she really should go and take off her wine-splattered shorts.

'Perhaps I could help,' I said. 'You know ... it might be easier with two of us.'

Leone smiled. But, for a good 30 seconds or so, she said nothing. And then she said: 'OK, then.'

I followed her into her flat and then followed her along a short corridor to her bedroom. We removed her shorts, and then I pointed out the wine had soaked right through to her knickers. So we removed them too.

'Better?' Leone asked.

'I think so. Maybe if you could turn around and lean forward slightly.' I ran my hands over her delicious buttocks. 'Seems to be OK,' I said. But then ... 'Oh, no. It would seem that we have some moisture in this crevice.'

Leone ran an elegant finger the length of her vulva and then seductively licked the tip. 'Yes. I think you are right,' she said. 'But I don't think that it's wine. I think you'll find it's a special magic fluid designed to make it easier for you to slide your cock in.'

'Really?' I said. 'What a marvellous idea. Perhaps we should see if it works.' And we did. And, yes, it worked. It worked very well indeed.

And 20 years later, it was still working.

Saturday dawned cloudy. But the weather forecast was for the skies to clear by late morning, so we had a slow start, drinking tea, eating toast, and trawling through some of our favourite online news and current affairs sites on our laptops.

'You realise that we are part of the problem,' Leone said.

'Part of the problem?'

'Once upon a time, we would have rushed out and bought newspapers and magazines. Or had them delivered to the front door. And advertisers would have paid good money to have their products and services promoted in clever ads, created by clever advertising people, and squeezed in between the pages of carefully researched and written and edited stories. Now it's a couple of keystrokes and "Ten things you probably didn't know about Hilda Tumblebottom's left foot".'

'Who's Hilda Tumblebottom?'

'Exactly,' Leone said. 'And who cares?'

Later we strolled up to Regent's Park where a military band was playing a selection of 'pops' in the rotunda. 'So ... how come people like this still survive in this online age?' I asked. (Although I already knew the answer.)

'Public purse,' Leone said. 'Also, next bit of nastiness in North Africa or Afghanistan, and these boys and girls will be in battle fatigues, carrying stretchers. Poor bastards.'

We returned home via Marylebone High Street where Leone made a nostalgic visit to Daunt Books. And then, at Leone's insistence, we popped into Waitrose. 'Corn-fed chicken,' she said. 'I'm thinking roasted with a lime and paprika rub. And some crispy roast potatoes. And some green beans. Asparagus would be even better, but it's not in season, is it? Beans it will have to be.'

'And I'm salivating already,' I said.

Leone's supper was fabulous. And the fuck that followed was also pretty special.

'Are you sure that you couldn't go back in the morning?' I asked, as Leone packed her overnight bag on Sunday afternoon.

'I think that the St Albans' neighbours are keeping an eye on me,' she said. 'Remember, I'm supposed to be looking after the place.'

Leone phoned on Monday night. 'I'm going to have lunch with Billie Waterhouse tomorrow,' she said.

'So much for the Rottweilers.'

Leone laughed.

Leone phoned again on Tuesday evening. 'Tell me all,' I said.

'Billie's a nice lady. Very smart. And she has some very clear ideas on what makes a good literary agent. Yes. We hit it off pretty much from the start.'

'Good.'

'Oh, but it gets funnier,' Leone said. 'The guys who own

Publisher's World

have bought a controlling interest in Castletown Group. The

Publisher's World

guys have some concerns. They are a bit worried that Felicity Hoskin (who does not take unsolicited calls) may be a bit too old-fashioned, a bit too stand-offish for publishing in the 21st century. Billie wants me to go and meet with Mrs Hoskin and then give Billie a one-page opinion which she can share with her board.

I laughed. Well ... you have to sometimes. 'And when will this New World meets Old World conference take place?'

'Thursday. The day after tomorrow. At 2 pm.'

'They're in Hammersmith, aren't they?'

'Yes. I shall be visiting her in her lair.'

'Oh, good. In that case, I look forward to you dropping by for a drink afterwards.'

'You're getting me into bad habits,' Leone said.

'I like to think that I got you into bad habits years ago. Or maybe you got me into bad habits years ago. Either way, it's now just a matter of keeping them topped up. Give me a call when you are leaving Hammersmith and I'll make sure that I'm here.'

It was just after four-fifteen when Leone called. 'OK?' I said.

'Yes. I think so. I'll see you in about half an hour.'

By the time that Leone reached Hyde Park Square, I had the Veuve Clicquot ready and waiting.

'Are we celebrating?'

'We are,' I said. 'At least I hope that we are. How did it go?'

'Interesting. On the back foot, Felicity Hoskin is a bit of a pussy cat.'

Leone took a sip of her bubbly and looked into the far corner. I waited.

'The problem, I suspect,' Leone said, 'is that Mrs Hoskin is way, way out of her depth. She has no idea whatsoever of the digital world. And social media? What does that have to do with publishing? And so her focus is on preserving her status. Hence the Rotty. Hence not taking unsolicited calls.'

'Can she be rescued?' I said.

'That's not my call. But ... probably not. I don't doubt that she's passionate about the printed word, but she's oblivious to marketing. As I say, she's out of her depth. And I suspect that she knows it.'

'Does she have a natural successor?'

'It would appear not. I suspect that she has discouraged anyone who showed talent. Although, that's just my take on things.'

We made a serious dent in the Veuve Clic, and then I suggested that we should wander up to Bayswater for some Chinese-style barbeque roast pork and a few other bits and pieces.

Leone smiled. 'You certainly know how to tempt a girl. But I think that I really should be getting back to St Albans.'

'What day is it?' I said.

'Thursday.'

'Oh, good. Because ... while I could be wrong ... I'm pretty sure that you can also catch a train to St Albans on a Friday. Probably about mid-morning. So that you don't have to get up too early.'