by Charlie Wade
Sorry I missed your message. I slept off and on. Hope you got off eventually.
Sending it, he went to the bathroom and filled a plastic glass with water. The stale and stagnant water greased his furred tongue as he drank. Hitting his stomach, it gurgled. He imagined his dehydrated body instantly using the water, carting it off to the most drought-ridden areas. A glance in the mirror revealed a badly hung-over thirty-year-old with bin-liner sized bags under each eye. Beard stubble was showing and tufts of his hair were at right angles to his head. The headache was still pounding, but he was getting used to it. He breathed out heavily, his rank breath clouding the mirror. Filling the basin with tepid water, he washed his hands and face.
Less than five minutes after his message, the phone beeped a reply. Unable to help the smile crossing his face, he ran to the phone.
Eventually got off at three. I’ve rung hospital. Geoffrey doing well. Off to work. Catch up later :)
The smile grew as he returned to the bathroom. “So.” He cocked his head and pursed his lips to a pout. “Catch up later, eh?” Winking at his hazy reflection in the mirror, he finished washing then got dressed.
Walking to the empty reception, he rang the imitation bronze call bell. The dull ping didn’t help his headache. Each step down the stairs had felt like a crisp packet bursting behind him. Last night’s waitress and bar proper-upper walked from a rear office in a fairly clean uniform.
“Yeah?” She looked confused already before Jim had even said anything.
“Have you got any headache tablets?”
She shook her head immediately though appeared to take longer to digest the sentence. “No. There’s a shop down the road.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Was that it?” She scrunched her nose up. Whatever she’d been doing before was obviously more important than this.
“Yeah. Thanks for your help.”
Opening the outside door, a rush of polluted morning air and noise knocked him back. His head pounding, he walked to the shop and bought some painkillers. Nearly five pounds lighter, he returned to the hotel and headed for the restaurant.
Most of the people from last night were there and in various states of dress and hair loss. Though none were in pyjamas or dressing gowns, some had obviously slept in parts of the clothing they were wearing. Feeling a bit overdressed in jeans and t-shirt, he picked the single man, sad bastard table and sat down. His mouth still Sahara dry, he coughed as he tried to dry swallow a tablet. Eventually getting it down, he chewed the other instead. The powdery sharp taste filled his mouth and removed what little saliva he still owned.
Waiting, he picked up the menu and read it again, the sixth time so far. Looking round, his neighbours still weren’t about. Perhaps they’d left yesterday afternoon. He’d only met them a few mornings when his head was still buzzing and his plans were clear and simple. They’d talked to him for ages, most of which he didn’t listen too, but he was sure they’d booked in for a week.
Eventually, the waitress cum receptionist appeared and took orders. Jim ordered the full English - you got to get your money’s worth - and a cup of tea. After two minutes of looking round the room, politely smiling and checking his watch, he was bored. Everything was so slow in the hotel. It had to be intentional. Take your money then leave you high and dry waiting all day. Compared to London’s fast pace, the hotel felt like it never moved.
The problem for Jim was most of the other guests had someone to talk to. A few of the other single guests were also breakfasting; possibly late starts to their working day in the city. Most of the suited and booted brigade he’d seen in the bar or at meal times had probably eaten earlier. Their toast would have still just been warm, unlike the cold and soggy toast Jim knew he was going to get.
Picking up a free paper from the windowsill next to a dying plant, he attempted to read the two-week old local news. The breakfast arrived twenty minutes later. The chef was a genius, managing to both burn and undercook sausages simultaneously. The nearest he’d come to Michelin was a calendar. Jim presumed it was a he, but chances were it was the waitress-receptionist all-rounder.
Crunching through the burnt shell covering the pink sausage meat middle, Jim dunked his cold toast in his runny egg and shovelled it in his mouth. Despite everything else, the eggs were perfect. The headache tablets now working, his appetite had improved. He had a long day ahead and breakfast was the most important meal of the day. Just what his long day involved, he wasn’t sure. But if he ended the day with less than two grand in his pocket, the next five days would be harder. Much harder.
The breakfast finished, he wandered to the deserted reception and rang the bell. This time the ping just made him wince. The tablets were doing a grand job, they weren’t worth a fiver, but they were working. The waitress appearing, now dressed as a receptionist, wasn’t a shock.
“You again?” Her scowl was set at full mast.
“Can I stay a few more nights, please?”
She sighed, heavily. “What room?” She shook her head in case there was any doubt of the extra work he was causing.
“Room twelve.” Jim looked at the London Eye leaflet on the stand next to the desk. He would admit that despite his slight fear of heights, he fancied a go in it. Sure it was just seeing London from up high, no chance of making ten grand, but it just seemed like a good experience.
Retrieving a piece of paper from a file, the waitress looked for a pen. “I don’t know where they disappear to. Ah, there’s one. Right.” She sighed again. “How many extra nights?”
“Two, maybe three.”
She sighed again. It lasted a few seconds. “Shall I write down two or three?”
“Two.”
“Oh, hang on. You paid cash, didn’t you? We’ll need payment in advance.” The first smile Jim had seen cracked its way across her face. She was hoping that would scupper him. She was expecting a fight. Expecting him not to have any cash on him. Her smile grew in anticipation.
“Yeah, that’s fine.” Watching her face drop gave Jim his own smile.
She looked wounded and briefly struggled for words before finding them. “That’s a hundred and twenty-eight pounds then.”
Handing over nearly half his remaining money, Jim tried to keep his smile. He’d bought himself two days bed and board. Two days in this city to make or break himself. Technically, the making would be for someone else’s benefit. The breaking would be all his though. All his.
Back in his room, he was surprised Charlotte had rung twice and sent a text since he’d gone for breakfast. He still hadn’t got the hang of carrying the damn thing everywhere. It was like some traceable identity bracelet. Everyone needed to carry one. To have the means of being tracked and contacted twenty-four hours a day. He reckoned his Granddad had fought a war to stop that sort of thing, but it’d been ushered in through the back door.
The message: My lunch meeting got cancelled. Are you near the city at one today? The table’s already booked.
Smiling, he typed, Yes. Where can I meet you?
After a brief celebration he took his crumpled suit back out of the suitcase. Turning his nose up at the state of it, he opened the trouser press operating manual.
Chapter 8
Taking the tube to the city, his last hundred and fifty quid in his pocket, Jim felt a twinge of optimism. Being skint was nothing new; he’d spent his life without money. It felt like an old friend returning. In some ways, he was glad the way things had gone yesterday. Glad he was back to skint old Jim.
Glad he wasn’t a murderer. Shaking his head, he stared at the tube map. Three stops to go. Why did she want to meet him? They barely knew each other. He’d convinced himself last night that sleep would bring her to her senses. Obviously it hadn’t. He wanted to see her, but wondered where this could possibly go. What possible common ground did they have?
For a summer’s Friday lunchtime, it had turned surprisingly warm. The tube caught the full stickiness of the subterranean metropolis. The pa
ssengers in his carriage, mainly tourists, had smiles on their faces. Capital smiles, he called them. Their hearts captivated by the bright lights and tall buildings, they wandered from spot to spot taking photos and enjoying themselves, but deep down secretly glad they were only visiting and didn’t have to live here.
Today’s plan was forming well. Meet with Charlotte for dinner and hopefully get a few words in edgeways. Then maybe, hopefully, arrange something for the weekend. The longing he’d had for a roll in the hay with Soho’s finest had gone. He wanted more. He wanted someone classier.
The other benefit of meeting Charlotte in the city was he could spend the afternoon visiting pubs. No doubt he’d find some bladdered stock brokers or bankers and relieve them of their wallets. Today, Jim had decided while struggling with the trouser press, would be old school day. No guns or armed robberies. No, today he’d examine the art of pocket pilfering. Wallet stealing was the game, maybe even the odd mobile. If he was really lucky, a laptop. Keys to a car? As the tube clickety-clacked over poorly maintained tracks, he pictured himself driving someone else’s Porsche, spending their money and using their phone.
Allowing himself a smile, his dream continued as the tube worked through London’s labyrinth. Ten grand in a week was a serious ask. What made it really hard was the nation’s love affair with plastic. So few people carried money anymore that even finding ten thousand in notes might take longer than a week. He briefly wondered if there was even ten thousand pounds of paper money actually in existence. Of course, he knew from his day job that everything had a cash value. Every piece of plastic, every phone, laptop, even car keys had a black market value. Problem was, it was between a fifth and a tenth of the actual worth. The other problem, he didn’t know anyone in London to offload gear onto. This wasn’t a big problem. The Queens Arms yesterday had stolen goods written all over it. Even with his poor mathematical skills, he knew he’d need to steal upwards of sixty phones a day to get anywhere near ten big ones. Cash was the way. Some places must have cash. They were the ones to hit.
Jim loosened his tie. He always felt uncomfortable in a suit, it reminded him of court. This afternoon would be a bit of fun, no serious money could be made, unless by a one in a million chance he found Ferrari or Porsche keys lying round. Just a bit of fun, a chance to earn some pennies to pay the week’s hotel bill. Maybe enough to take Charlotte out - if she agreed, obviously.
He checked the tube map again. Still three stops away. His watch showed he was nearly an hour early. But, he told himself, that was good. Being early gives you time to get your bearings. He’d have a quick shufty round; find side alleys in case a quick exit was needed. The amount of CCTV cameras in the city was worrying. In a suit and wearing shades he wouldn’t look too out of place. He reckoned he looked like a proper merchant banker.
Smiling harder, he looked at the dusty floor. Next to his left shoe was a grubby five pence piece. Picking it up, he pocketed it to the disgust of the woman opposite.
Just that little bit closer. Ten grand was getting nearer.
Leaving the station, he walked round looking at bars, coffee shops, sandwich shops and restaurants. The square mile felt bigger when travelled by foot. People and traffic everywhere, side streets, back alleys, similar looking landmarks. Everything conspired to make you lose your bearings.
A half hour walk made him comfortable with the layout. But it was the people he wasn’t comfortable with. They had too much money, and with it too little respect for anything.
Charlotte had texted him the address of the restaurant earlier. She’d offered to send him GPS coordinates, but Jim had said there was really no point. Whatever the hell GPS was, he doubted his twenty quid throwaway phone could use it. The restaurant was actually quite easy to find. Being half an hour early he went for another walk, keeping his bearings and location all the time.
The restaurant itself was expensive. He stared at the window menu with horror. He had a hundred and fifty in his pocket, but that was supposed to last him more than one lunch. Some of the main courses were nearly a hundred. Add to that wine and he was looking at an embarrassing afternoon of washing up. He hoped, really hoped, that she’d be both a light eater and feminist enough to insist on going halves.
He stood outside the restaurant with five minutes to go, the streets thronged with what appeared to be every city worker. People walked round him at their quick London pace. He almost felt seasick stood still. Busy people wanted busy sandwiches or wraps or whatever it was they ate, and they wanted them quickly. They wanted them yesterday.
He almost didn’t recognise Charlotte in her light brown suit, Gucci shades and tied back hair. When he did recognise her, it was too late to hide his smile. She was good-looking. More so than he remembered. He immediately wondered what she was doing looking at him. The suit, he convinced himself. You’re wearing an expensive suit. Don’t forget that.
She walked the last few yards to him, a slight smile on her own face. “Sorry I’m late,” she said.
Jim was surprised the sentence had stopped so soon. “You’re not. Late I mean. I’m early.”
Smiling, she stepped the final half yard bringing her to his side. A wave of expensive and slightly floral perfume scouted out an advance party. Breathing in the freshness, Jim’s eyes opened more. She seemed more dominant and confident. The constant talking gone. He hoped so anyway. That scared bunny in the headlights yesterday was now a confident, slick and slightly intimidating woman. Jim couldn’t help but feel like a kid in junior school. He was well out of his league.
“Shall we?” she asked.
Jim nodded and walked towards the restaurant, holding the door open for her. Chivalry may be dead, but it at least gave him an excuse to smell her perfume again.
The table had been booked in Charlotte’s name, Rathbone. Jim thought it the sort of name that oozed money. It had big house in Cheshire and private school written all over it. The maitre d` welcomed her with a theatrical cheek-kiss and ushered them to a small table in a recess. Charlotte took the rear seat giving her a view of everything behind Jim’s back. Jim had only a wall and Charlotte to stare at; the wall was never going to win.
A sparse conversation, possibly in French, between Charlotte and the maitre d` told Jim this wasn’t her first time here. She was well known. This was also her table and the maitre d` had been well tipped in the past.
As they were left to their menus, Jim peered over the top of his. Her eyes were scanning the menu she probably knew by heart, while her left hand traced a figure of eight over the top of a spoon.
“Sorry about missing your message last night,” said Jim. “I walked so much yesterday I just sort of collapsed.”
“It’s okay.” She flicked a wayward lump of hair that had fallen in front of her menu back onto her head. “I didn’t really have anything to tell you. It’s just, you know, sometimes ...”
“I know,” Jim interrupted. He sensed she was gearing up for a speech and thought he’d nip it in the bud. “I woke up about oneish, but couldn’t get back off.”
She smiled and her eyes returned to the menu.
Looking at his menu, Jim tried to put on an “I’m not that hungry” look. “How was your morning?” His eyes flicked briefly towards hers.
She placed her menu diagonally across her cutlery. Taking a quick scan round the nearly full restaurant, her eyes met his. “Quiet really. I mean, I was supposed to have a meeting with a client, but he cancelled so that was two hours and a lunch appointment gone. I’d already booked here and well, you can’t waste reservations here, they’re just so hard to get, you know.”
Jim nodded.
“Apart from that a fairly normal day. I haven’t seen any heart attack victims yet either.” She smiled at what could have been a joke.
Jim smiled back in case it was. “Just a normal Friday for me. In the boring world of statistics nothing exciting happens.”
She nodded then returned to the menu. Her face wasn’t as smiley as yesterday. Maybe
she’d realised him for the chancer he was. Looking at the menu, his eyes hovered over the starter section, not going anywhere near desserts.
“What do you fancy?” she asked.
You, he nearly said. “The mushroom tagliatelli sounds nice.” It was also the cheapest.
“That’s a starter isn’t it? I’m not sure I can manage a starter and a main.”
Jim knew this was where things could get out of hand. He could barely afford a starter, let alone eat more than one course. “Erm, what do you want?”
“The lobster’s fantastic.” Her smile half returned.
Jim nodded and forced himself to look at the price. It ought to be more than bloody fantastic for that. He knew his eyes were bulging, but was helpless to stop them. This was almost torture.
An idea formed in his head. He’d later admit to having no clue where it came from. Though not strong enough to turn a man from crime and towards religion, it was damn close.
“I err.” He paused for effect, trying to look more nervous than he already was. “I don’t eat meat.”
“Oh no.” Her face fell; the smile disappeared. She looked mortified. Jim felt his own face drop too. “I’m sorry. I mean, I just assumed you ate ... Oh. My. God. I just didn’t even think. I mean here we are in the ‘meatiest’ restaurant in London, and you’re ... Oh I am so sorry ...”
He wanted to interrupt and stop her, but couldn’t. The vegetarian wheel had been set in motion and no amount of mung bean salad was stopping it. The cute city kitty had morphed back to the scared little talky bunny.
“... I should have asked. We could have gone to Bellini’s or that really nice Japanese place off ...”
“It’s okay,” he interrupted.
She stopped talking. Putting the menu down, she held her forehead in her hand.