The woman returns and takes her seat.
“Thank you,” she says, before placing her glass on the floor.
I return an awkward smile, willing her not to engage in any further discourse.
She sits forward and turns to me, her hand outstretched. “I’m Gabby, by the way,” she says.
Please, leave me alone.
I tentatively take her hand. “William.”
I would usually avoid prolonged eye contact with an attractive woman but her lustrous green eyes have an almost familiar quality. I continue to stare into them, hoping a connection to that familiarity will spark, but nothing comes. In the end, I maintain my gaze just a little too long and she turns her head towards the stage. Her hand slips away from mine a second later.
I would usually retreat back into my shell at this point but the familiarity is still niggling enough for me to pose a question.
I steel myself. “Erm, I’m sorry, but have we met before?”
She turns to me. “I don’t think so. I hear that a lot, though. I must have one of those faces.”
“Right, yes. Sorry.”
“And besides,” she replies, her smile now a grin. “I would hope you’d remember me if we had met before.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” I bluster, conscious my cheeks are reddening. “It’s…it’s just that I meet a lot of people in my line of work and I’m not blessed with a particularly good memory.”
“And what is your line of work, William?”
Telling somebody you’re a politician, specifically a Conservative politician, does tend to pour cold water on a conversation. But seeing as I’ll be introduced on the stage in an hour’s time, there seems precious little point in evading her question.
“I’m just a humble politician.”
Her pupils widen a fraction as her sculpted eyebrows arch. “Oh, really? How fascinating.”
Is she being sarcastic?
“It’s not as fascinating as it sounds.”
Without warning, she suddenly places her hand on my knee. “Well, Mr Huxley, I hate to break it to you, but shouldn’t you be up on that stage about now?”
I stare back at her, confused. “How did you know my surname?”
Her gaze slowly falls towards my groin. I instinctively drop my head in the same direction, fearing my fly is undone.
“Ohh, right,” I say with some relief. “My name badge.”
“Yes. Your name badge,” she coos. “And my memory, thankfully, is pretty good — your name is on the list of speakers.”
“I’ve been rescheduled. Some mix up with my office, apparently.”
Before she can reply, thumping music bursts from the speakers behind us, and the lights dim. A cloud of dry ice drifts across the stage and coloured light beams burst through the fog, dancing in time to the beat.
“Bit over the top, don’t you think?” Gabby shouts in my ear.
I nod, and we join the rousing applause for the compere; a plump and overly energetic man with delusions of his own importance. Why anyone thinks this an appropriate entrance for an event of this nature, is beyond me?
Just when I think his behaviour can’t get any more ridiculous, he starts clapping his hands together over his head. A few idiots in the front rows copy his actions and that only serves to encourage him.
“Don’t indulge the fool,” I mutter to myself, perhaps a little louder than I anticipated.
Gabby chuckles again before leaning over and whispering in my ear. “That’s an unusually candid statement for a politician.”
I don’t know what to say in response, so I say nothing.
Mercifully, the music ends and the plump compere gets down to business, going through an admittedly slick introduction before he announces the first speaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please give a warm round of applause for Gavin Grant.”
The crowd oblige and Mr Grant, whoever he is, enters the stage. It takes barely two minutes for me to determine Mr Grant is insufferably dull, as are the next four speakers. Perhaps I’m being unfair as it’s not so much the speakers who are dull — it’s the subject matter. Talk of footfall trends and retail indicators is of little interest to me. The crowd seem to be lapping it up, though, and I become increasingly concerned my own speech might dampen their enthusiasm.
Before I have a chance to reconsider the content of my speech, Jeremy reappears and beckons me through a door at the side of the auditorium. I nod at Gabby before I depart and she mouths the words, ‘Good luck’.
I follow Jeremy along a corridor and enter a small anteroom adjacent to the stage. The plump compere is seated in the corner reading a newspaper and nods at me over the top. I return his nod as Jeremy offers me a glass of water.
“I’m good, thank you.”
He places the glass back on the table and checks his watch. “Three minutes, Mr Huxley.”
I take those minutes to check my speech again. Too late now to make any significant changes and I’m not one for ad-libbing.
Suddenly the door leading up to the stage bursts open and a sweaty man with a rotund face appears; the sound of applause following him into the room.
The compere folds his paper and gets to his feet.
“Ready?” he asks me.
“I guess so.”
Without another word, he heads towards the stage as the applause peters out. Butterflies begin to dance as the compere begins my introduction.
“Break a leg,” Jeremy quips while waving his arm towards the door.
The compere bellows my name. This is it. I draw a deep breath before making my way through the door and up five steps to the stage. The compere steps towards me and offers his hand. A quick handshake, a slap on the back, and he directs me towards the lectern. I shuffle over and welcome the barrier it creates. I turn to my right, looking for assurance from the compere but he’s already heading back down the steps.
The applause dies out and a sea of faces stare expectantly in my direction.
I extract the two sheets of folded paper from my jacket pocket and lay them on the lectern. After clearing my throat, I prepare to deliver what I hope will be a rousing opening line.
“Ladies and gentlemen. This government is, and always will be, the friend of business.”
I pause for effect and deliver the next line with conviction.
“Before changes in legislation under this government, businesses had been strangled by ted rape.”
Oh, Christ! Red tape, man. Red tape!
I hoped my spoonerism would go unnoticed. Apparently not and stifled laughter fills the auditorium.
“Taxi for Ted Rape,” a voice from the audience suddenly heckles.
The dam bursts and laughter roars across the room.
There is no coming back.
It takes almost a minute for the laugher to die down, by which point my credibility is in tatters. I make no effort to deliver the rest of the speech with any conviction and tear through it in half the time I anticipated.
The final line is met with a half-hearted ripple of applause before more laughter ensues. I turn and take the walk of shame towards stage right.
The compere passes me en-route, shaking his head and frowning. The greeting in the anteroom is equally frosty and the next speaker barges past me, mumbling something under his breath.
“Probably not your finest speech,” Jeremy helpfully points out.
“It was just a slip of the tongue.”
“A quite unfortunate slip of the tongue.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t expect them to be so childish about it.”
We reach an impasse and I decide it’s probably best to leave. No matter how much I might need a drink, particularly a free one, I have no desire to endure more ridicule.
“I think I’m going to head off now.”
“Right. I’ll walk you out,” he replies, possibly relieved I’m not going to ruin their event any further. “I’ve got to notify the next speaker, anyway.”
I follow Jerem
y out of the anteroom and along the corridor. We enter back into the rear of the auditorium where the crowd are thankfully engrossed by the speaker who barged past me. Jeremy shakes my hand and disappears.
As I make my way past the back row of chairs, I notice the two empty seats at the end. It seems Gabby couldn’t tolerate any more speeches and has already left. Can’t say I blame her. I reach the reception desk where a young woman is sifting through a pile of papers. As I pass, she calls after me.
“Mr Huxley?”
I turn and face her. “Yes.”
She hands me a folded piece of paper. “This was left for you.”
I take the paper and open it up, half-expecting it to be a summons for slandering Ted Rape.
It is not a summons but a scribbled note…
I bet you could do with a drink!
I’m at the bar across the road and I don’t much care for drinking alone. Please don’t leave this damsel in distress — Gabby xx
I read it twice to ensure I haven’t misread her intent.
A quick check of my watch — not quite seven thirty. There’s nothing in my diary tomorrow morning and she is certainly correct regarding my need for a stiff drink.
I give the matter a few seconds thought and conclude it would be ungentlemanly to decline Gabby’s invitation. And besides, where’s the harm in having a few drinks?
6.
I dart back through the hotel foyer and out onto The Strand. There is only one bar opposite, and I dash through the traffic to the other side of the road, and enter.
The interior has all the hallmarks of an identity crisis; as if the owners couldn’t decide if they wanted to open a nightclub, a traditional pub, or a soup kitchen. The walls are painted in burnt orange and teal while the furnishings look like they’ve been liberated from a skip. Perhaps the schizophrenic styling is all part of the latest hipster trend which seems to be plaguing our capital city.
I scan the tables, most of which are empty, and spot Gabby at the far side of the room. As I’m about to make my way over, she stands and waves, then slithers past the tables towards me. Once she navigates the assault course of furniture, her stride becomes more confident, more purposeful.
Her approach ends with us stood barely a few feet apart; well within my personal space.
“You obviously did need that drink,” she remarks.
I return an awkward smile. “Um…yes. What can I get you?” I splutter.
“Gin and tonic, please.”
I shuffle towards the bar and Gabby joins me; stood so close her arm is pressed against mine. I resist the urge to step to my right, and hail the barman.
“Two gin and tonics, please. Make them large.”
As the barman pours our drinks, Gabby leans closer towards me. “I didn’t take you for a gin man, William?”
“At this precise moment, I’m an any-kind-of-drink man.”
The stupidly-bearded barman returns with our drinks and I pay.
“Shall we grab a seat?” Gabby asks.
I nod, and follow her across the room to her table at the far side of the bar.
We sit, and she raises her glass. “Cheers.”
I reciprocate and we chink our glasses together before I take a large gulp of gin and tonic. Silence descends and I choose to dispense with the usual small talk.
“Excuse me for asking, Gabby, but why did you ask me to join you?”
She puts her glass down and puckers her lips. Perhaps my question was a little blunt.
“That’s a very direct question,” she replies.
Not a great start.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend. Subtlety is not my forte, I’m afraid.”
“Clearly. But to answer your question, I thought your speech was fascinating and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity for a little one-to-one time.”
“You thought it was fascinating?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, William. You’re clearly an intelligent, erudite man.”
She takes a slow sip of her drink, keeping her eyes fixed on me. The glass is returned to the table and she continues. “And those are qualities I really admire in a man.”
Such is my lack of experience with the opposite sex, I have no idea if she’s being friendly or flirtatious. Best play safe.
“I appreciate your positive feedback, Gabby.”
She starts laughing. I don’t get the joke.
“What’s so funny?” I ask.
“You, William. I can honestly say I’ve never met a man quite like you. You’re so very formal, aren’t you?”
Besides her obvious beauty, she’s also highly perceptive. Whilst most men seem able to effortlessly drift from one persona to another, depending on their social situation. I have one persona and evidence suggests it is not best suited to wooing a lady.
“I don’t know what to say, Gabby. I am who I am, I’m afraid.”
“Don’t apologise. I think it’s quite endearing.”
“Do you?” I reply with some surprise.
“Oh, absolutely.”
She seems comfortable to maintain eye contact whilst I struggle to hold her gaze for more than a few seconds.
“Can I ask you a question, William?”
“Of course.”
“What do you do when you’re not practising politics?”
I’m not one to lie but I’d rather not tell her the truth. While I’m in London, I spend nearly all my time at work. And when I’m not there, I’m usually to be found drinking alone at a bar near my flat in Blackfriars. It should be said that the frequency of my visits to Fitzgerald’s bar has little to do with my appetite for alcohol, and a lot to do with the fact I’d rather sit amongst strangers than sit alone in my flat.
“It’s a very time consuming job. I have precious little time for much else.”
“How does your wife feel about that?” she asks.
“I’m not married.”
My answer hangs in the air as Gabby mindlessly taps her fingers against the side of her glass. For the first time I notice an absence of any rings. I have no intention of asking her relationship status, and fill the silence with a fairly inane question.
“You never said, Gabby. What is it you do?”
“I’m a marketing consultant. I specialise in the retail sector, hence my attendance at the event.”
“And are you based in London?”
“I’m based here, there, and everywhere. It’s a fairly nomadic existence,” she replies, perhaps wistfully.
“Do you enjoy it?”
“I love my job but I don’t like the life that comes with it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I hate the loneliness, William.”
Without waiting for my response, she empties her glass and stands up. “Same again?”
I nod and she heads back to the bar. I watch her go while pondering her remark about loneliness. It does seem extraordinary that such an attractive woman should be lonely. I’d have assumed men would be queueing up for her attention.
She returns with two glasses of gin and tonic and places one in front of me.
“This city,” she says as she takes her seat. “So many people yet it’s one of the loneliest places on earth.”
“If you don’t mind me saying, I wouldn’t have considered you to be somebody who struggles to find company.”
“Why? Because I’m a woman?”
“Well, no, because you’re very…erm, attractive.”
“And attractive people don’t get lonely?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
She snorts and shakes her head. “Now that’s not a particularly attractive trait.”
“What isn’t?”
“Self-pity.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest I had any pity for myself. I was simply stating a fact.”
“A fact or an opinion?”
“An opinion based upon factual evidence.”
She leans across the table and her eyes lock onto mine again. “Well
, we’ll have to agree to disagree on that one.”
Her gaze lingers for a second before she sits back in her chair.
“Does it scare you, William?”
“What?”
“Being alone?”
It doesn’t scare me. It terrifies me.
“Sometimes.”
“It scares me,” she says. “That I might end up a lonely old spinster living with a few dozen cats and a sack full of regrets.”
It could be her soul bearing, or the gin swilling through my system, but I suddenly feel a connection with Gabby. Despite the vast differences in our physical appeal, perhaps we have more in common than I first imagined.
“Loneliness,” I reply in a hushed voice. “The worst kind of poverty.”
“That’s a very profound quote. Who said it?”
“I did.”
“Born from experience?”
I have no idea why I should be talking so candidly to a virtual stranger. Perhaps it’s out of necessity — so rare is the opportunity to discuss affairs of the heart that I can’t let the opportunity slip by.
“I have no close family, and few real friends,” I reply.
“I know that feeling.”
“Your family…”
“Both my parents are gone,” she interjects. “I lost my mother when I was eleven, and my father while I was at university.”
“I’m sorry.”
She bows her head a fraction and bites her lip. I wish I could lean across and offer some physical comfort but not even two double gins are enough to bolster my reserved nature. Then I recall Rosa’s sage advice after my conversation with Nora Henderson. It’s better in these situations to listen rather than talk.
“Tell me about them.”
“Who?”
“Your parents.”
I’m relieved to see her face brighten, and silently offer thanks to Rosa. Strangely, I feel a pang of guilt for sharing a drink with another woman. I dismiss it as illogical.
For ten minutes, I sit and listen as Gabby pours her heart out. Clearly she had a very close relationship with her parents, particularly her father, and hearing her talk so fondly of him triggers another pang of guilt, and regret.
Wrong'un (Clement Book 2) Page 4