by J Ryan
‘Take in that car, Lenny!’
But he shakes his head. ‘Not this one, Joe.’
And half of my mind agrees with Lenny, telling me just what Becks would: ‘You complete idiot! After all the trouble driving that car got you into, all the rules you broke…’ And I can hear my mum, and somewhere a lot further off, my dad.
But the other half of my mind can only see that amazing Bentley, and it’s yelling at me, ‘This is your big chance, maybe your only chance, to prove you’re not a loser!’
Lenny doesn’t know I’m not old enough to drive legally, but he still shakes his head. ‘Don’ go there, Joe.’
‘What’s the problem, Lenny? I bet the pay’s amazing.’
‘You don’ wanna work for these people, Joe. B’lieve me, you don’.’
‘But I do want to work for them! Look, Lenny, driving’s the only thing I can do well. Don’t you see? If I get this job, it could be the best thing that’s ever happened to me!’
He shakes his head again, and the scar below his eye is red now. ‘Or could be the worst thing, Joe.’
‘But why, Lenny? We both want to get out of this place, don’t we?’
‘Sure. But not there, Joe.’
I really don’t want to embarrass him, because I know he can’t drive. ‘OK, let’s forget it.’ We look at some other websites then he dosses down in my room, and we go off to work the next day as usual.
That day, I don’t ask Lenny home to surf job websites. ‘I’m shattered, need an early night.’ I’m up until gone midnight, making my CV look really good, and putting together a letter that makes me come across like a dude Lewis Hamilton loves to hate.
Next day, as I shut down the computer, I can’t wait to get back and look at my email. Lenny says, ‘Sub Rooms for the gig?’
‘Sorry, mate, I promised to help Mum clean up my room.’
‘S’cool. See you t’morrow, Joe.’
I check my email. There it is. I’m invited for a job interview as chauffeur for the Chief Executive of L’Étoile Fine Wines. It’s for a week today. Madame de L’Étang doesn’t ask for references or anything, not like the other jobs I’ve had where I even had to bring my passport to prove I was me. Her email says: ‘The interview will take from 11.00am until 4.00pm and it will involve some driving. I attach a location map for your guidance.’
The next morning, I miss my break and go outside to phone the job agency and tell them that I can’t be at work that day. Then I see Lenny right behind me, with a coffee for me. ‘Day off, Joe?’
‘I have to take my grandad for a doctor’s appointment.’ The lie comes to me so easily it worries me a bit. This is the third lie I’ve told Lenny. Actually, it’s the fourth, if I count not telling him I was going to apply for the job. I hate lying, but he’d be really bothered if he knew.
In the evening, Mum’s loading the dishwasher. I give her a hand, trying to prop up glasses the way she can and I can’t. ‘I’ve got a job interview tomorrow, Mum.’
She straightens up, wiping a smear of tomato sauce off her hand with the dishcloth, and I can hear Worried in her voice. ‘That’s great, love. Who’s it with?’
‘It’s this fine wines company, in Bristol.’
She bends again to jam a bowl into the rack. ‘Bit of a commute, then? What’s the job?’ She’s wearing a belt with her jeans. She’s thinner. It’s me, isn’t it?
‘Same sort of thing that I’m doing now, but the pay’s better.’
I swallow, as more lies trip off my tongue. To my mum, this time. She smiles, and I can see the shadows beneath her eyes. ‘Good luck, love. But you must make a big effort to catch up on your school work when term starts.’
‘Is it alright if I borrow one of Dad’s suits? I need to look really smart…’
She hesitates only for a second, but I feel bad, like I’m trying to step into Dad’s shoes, as if anyone ever could. ‘Yes… yes, of course you can.’
In the lounge, Grandad’s sat in his usual armchair, his bald head nodding gently. The TV babbles away with the news. A sailing magazine’s sliding off his lap and his glasses are about to follow. He looks so peaceful that I just stand in the doorway for a few seconds. Then, I think about how tomorrow is going to be the most important day of my life. I go quietly over to him. ‘Can I look in Dad’s wardrobe for a suit, Grandad? Got a job interview tomorrow.’
He looks up, blinking. ‘Course you can… course…’ His head nods forwards again, and his glasses topple to the floor. I put them gently back in his lap. Then I tiptoe out of the lounge and go upstairs.
Dad’s clothes are kept in the wardrobe in Grandad’s bedroom because his room is bigger than Mum’s and has a bathroom next to it. Grandad came to stay a few months after the time when Dad went away and didn’t come back, and we had to move house and change our name. I can hardly remember anything about our old house now, except that it was quite a lot bigger than the semi where we live now.
I slip into Grandad’s room and open the wardrobe. It’s an old-fashioned wooden one with brass handles on the doors and on the drawers beneath. The door squeaks quietly as I swing it open. A tangy, fresh smell hits me – not the musty oldness that I expected. And suddenly I’m back on that bridge in Bristol, but this time I’m with Dad and it’s bright day.
The tide is flooding in; it’s so high that it’s almost at the top of the banks, completely covering all the mud. I must be very small in this memory because I have to look down at the river from beneath the top rail of the bridge. One of Dad’s hands is holding mine and the other is waving at the graceful, single-masted white yacht that’s motoring smoothly up the river towards us. A man is at the wheel of the yacht and he’s waving back to Dad, but I can’t make out his face all those hundreds of feet below. Then my attention is caught by the way the sun makes the golden hairs on Dad’s arm sparkle, and I look away from the yachtsman.
As quickly as it’s come, the image goes; but the scent remains. I suppose it’s Dad’s aftershave. And that memory was the one Mum was talking about in the hospital. I wonder if the yachtsman is the other man in the photo.
My hands reach out and touch the smooth fabrics of the suits; Dad has some classy clothes. Checking out the sizes, I’m about the same as him now. Carefully, I lift out a dark grey Balmain and team it with a white shirt and light grey tie. That tangy smell wafts across my nose again as I take out the shirt. It’s spotless, like it’s been washed and ironed quite recently. Does Mum keep Dad’s clothes fresh for him, ready for him to walk in the door as though he’s never been away? Is that how adults keep their memories and hopes alive?
Wondering if Grandad has any photos of Dad, I take a quick glance around. There’s just one black and white pic which I guess is him and Gran on their wedding day, with her in a long lacy veil and Grandad looking about eighteen. Suddenly, all this staring into the past is too much. Tomorrow is where my future begins, and no matter what it takes I’m going to find my dad.
As I head into my room, there’s a shout from across the landing. ‘Hey, Joe, come and see what my angel fish are doing – it’s amazing!’ Dad’s clothes draped over my arm, I pick my way carefully across Jack’s saxophone, keyboard, drum kit and guitar, and stare into the tank. ‘They look great… just, having a meal?’
The lights from the tank illuminate Jack’s excited face, as the disc-shaped, rainbow-coloured little fish with their trailing fins glide slowly around a plant leaf, where a cluster of tiny eggs lies beneath a thin, glistening film. ‘The male is eating the eggs the female laid.’
‘Right. Is that good?’
‘Not for the eggs, I s’pose. And they both looked so proud of them yesterday. But the female just doesn’t seem to mind, does she? You’d think she’d go mental.’
‘She looks cool. Why is that?’
Jack sits down on his bed, and plays a few Pink
Floyd chords on the keyboard. ‘That’s fish for you. They just have different priorities. Easier to understand than teachers.’ He looks at Dad’s clothes. ‘Got an interview?’
‘This fine wines company in Bristol.’
‘Go for it, bud.’ Jack’s fingers fly across the keys to give me a full orchestra fanfare as I duck into my room.
Mum shouts from below, ‘Hey, you two! Time you were both in bed!’ But I have to practise for tomorrow as I’ve never worn a suit in my life. The shirt and tie go on easily because I do those every day for school. I was worried that the jacket and trousers would be too big but they fit perfectly. Should I button the jacket? I reach to the back of my drawer and take out Dad’s photo. ‘What am I supposed to do, Dad?’ His blue eyes look at me, amused.
‘It looks better unbuttoned.’ Mum has come in silently behind me. Her eyes are shining and she whispers, ‘Dear God, Joe, you look so like your father it’s terrifying.’
I give her a hug. ‘Don’t be terrified, Mum.’ And for once I shut my big mouth. I don’t tell her about my small shred of hope and my huge ambition, because it could be the cruellest thing anyone could do to her.
Chapter 5
Precious
I catch the nine o’clock bus from Gloucester to Bristol and sit fiddling with my tie. I never thought I’d look good in one of my dad’s suits. I’ve binned the neck brace – doesn’t go with Balmain. Nervously I check through my pockets to make sure I still have Madame’s email. And that’s when my fingers encounter something I didn’t put there. Taking it out, I stare at this small plastic disc. It looks like mother of pearl the way it’s textured and the colours shift in the light. On the orange circle in the centre there’s the number 10. And around the number are the words ‘SOCIÉTÉ DES BAINS DE MER MONACO’. Bains de mer? Sea baths? Is this a kind of swimming club in Monaco? Looking more closely I can see the number ‘18663’ bevelled into the outer ring of the plastic.
Completely baffled, I slip the little disc back into Dad’s pocket and concentrate on getting from the bus station to the docks in twenty minutes. The last thing I want is to arrive in a lather of sweat.
Finding the place is no problem. Right in the centre of Bristol, by the docks, and it’s so cool – it’s sub-zero. A tower of blue glass rises into the sky. Potted palms greet me at the entrance and the doors slide back silently when I go up to them. In Reception there are enormous, leather covered sofas, and tables made from lush dark wood with glass tops, not a smear on them.
This is nothing like the places where I’ve worked before, with an office like a shed, some tacky furniture and a phone. This is a palace where everything is quality and so spotless there must be coachloads of cleaners going round all the time, wiping the floor after you’ve walked in and dusting the sofa after you’ve sat down. I half look round to see if I’m being tailed by one of these cleaners. I’m really glad I polished my shoes.
Two movie stars are sat behind a reception desk the size of a runway. Straightening my tie, I go up to the nearest one. ‘Hi. I’ve… er… come for this job interview?’ I show her the email from Madame de L’Étang.
She flashes me a smile that would shatter sunglasses. ‘That’s cool, Joe. Would you like a coffee while you wait?’
I really would like a coffee, as I didn’t have any breakfast, and I’m about to say, ‘That would be great.’ But then I think, ‘She’s probably going to give me a kind of menu like you get in Starbucks, with latte, mocha, mocha with latte, mocha with choc shreds, and maybe mocha with spaghetti, and I don’t want to look a complete pillock before I’ve even got into the interview.’ So I say, ‘I’m good, thanks,’ and I wander over to one of these leather sofas, and sit down. And kind of slide backwards into it, it’s so huge. I so hope that Dad’s suit doesn’t have Fats’ cat hairs on it, otherwise there’ll probably be ten cleaners on the case the moment I get up.
I try to imagine what Madame de L’Étang must look like. I guess that as she’s a Madame she’s married and probably has kids, and maybe they’re grown up and live in France while she has a sophisticated lifestyle here in Bristol. Of course, she must have a lover, as French men and women do, and no one seems to mind, not even with politicians, Grandad says.
So I’ve got this image in my head of Helen Mirren with a French accent, when I see this tiny old lady with grey hair sort of swept up behind, a smart suit and high heels, click-clacking across from the lift. She looks quite severe, but as she comes up to me she puts on a smile. I struggle to get out of this slippery leather sofa, and now I’m two feet above her. I’d have to get down on my knees to shake hands with her. But she’s clutching a clipboard, so I don’t need to.
‘It’s Joe, isn’t it?’
Well, I hope it is. She doesn’t have any kind of a French accent; but then, neither does Mum, as she’s lived in England for so long. ‘Good to meet you, Madame.’
‘Monsieur le Directeur is ready to see you now, Joe.’
We walk upstairs with carpets so soft you can’t hear a thing, polished wood railings on either side. At the top, there’s a door that’s covered in more of this quality wood. Madame knocks, then opens it.
As we go in, I see another table like a runway and two sparkling glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. Must keep the cleaners busy changing the bulbs.
Then, I see Monsieur le Directeur. He’s sitting at the end of the table but he gets up as I enter with Madame. His hair is so silver it seems to glitter in the light of the chandeliers, and it’s cropped short, perfectly cut. He’s slim but athletic-looking, like he works out regularly, and he’s wearing a suit that I guess is Armani it looks so good. He has grey eyes, and his cheekbones are fine and chiselled. In fact, this guy really does look like I wouldn’t mind looking, when I’m as old as he is.
Monsieur takes me in for maybe a second before he comes over with a slight smile, holding out his hand, and says in a quiet voice with a small trace of an accent, perhaps it’s American, ‘Joe, welcome. It’s good to meet you. Have you been well looked after while you’ve been waiting?’
Hoping that the tiny pause didn’t mean I have a snotty nose, I shake his hand, and feel a firm grip, with long fingers that wrap round mine. ‘Yes, just fine thanks.’ Then I think about how Mum says you talk to French people, and I say, ‘Just fine, Monsieur le Directeur. Thank you.’ I say the French words with an English accent. I don’t want to look too clever because I know that doesn’t work in job interviews.
He waves me over to the chair next to his and says to Madame, ‘A light lunch as arranged, please Françoise, in twenty minutes.’ She click-clacks off like a nervous little duck. Monsieur le Directeur sits down, so I do too. ‘Tell me why you applied for this job, Joe.’
‘It’s the driving, Monsieur le Directeur.’ Now I’m feeling really nervous. Will he suss my age?
He gives that half-smile again, ‘Do I take it that driving is a pleasure for you?’
‘When I saw that ad, it seemed like the job I’ve wanted all my life, Monsieur le Directeur.’
His grey eyes are looking straight at me now. ‘I see that you have a French surname – St Aubin?’
‘Er… yes. It’s my mother’s name – she’s French.’
Monsieur’s eyes are hawk-like. This is a man you do not want to lie to. Hoping that he doesn’t ask why we don’t use Dad’s surname, I stare awkwardly at the table. But he just nods. ‘And do you speak French, Joe?’
‘A bit…’ If I tell him that I’m not bad, he’s going to start chatting in French and I won’t be able to understand because French words just flow into each other.
‘You have been to France?’
‘Oh yes – Mum has friends in Aix-en-Provence…’ I’m on safe ground now and as Monsieur knows Aix well, we have a really fun conversation until lunch arrives, carried in by two more starlets who are almost as stunning as the divas in Rece
ption. It’s Caesar salads, and fruit juice. I’m relieved because I was dreading it would be a four-course meal where I’d need sat nav to find the right knives and forks.
Monsieur le Directeur just picks at his Caesar while I try not to gulp mine down. Perhaps he’s going for a fancy meal tonight with some real movie stars and wants to leave plenty of room for it.
When I’ve cleaned up my plateful he says thoughtfully, ‘So, you like driving, Joe. Would you like to do some driving now, to show me what kind of chauffeur you would be for me?’
‘Show me the car, and I’ll show you my driving, Monsieur le Directeur.’
We leave this room and its glittering chandeliers, and we go into the lift outside in the corridor. Monsieur touches a button labelled SS, and I remember that in French SS means sous-sol – below ground. The lift hisses down into the basement. As we walk out of it we seem to be in an underground carpark. It’s lit partly by overhead lamps and partly by the daylight coming through two windows with bars that look out onto a street. I can just make out a silver Jag XKR and a yellow Lamborghini, Lenny’s dream car. But I can’t see anything else because it’s so shadowy down here.
Then Monsieur says, in a casual kind of way, ‘What would be your first thought if you had to get me away from a dangerous situation in this carpark, Joe? Assuming that there would be a car available?’
I’m not expecting this at all, but I remember that time in Bristol with Leah Wilks. ‘The car would have to have a full tank.’
‘And if the car had plenty of fuel and there was another car in here with people who are looking for us, what would you do?’
Now, my imagination’s working overtime. ‘I wouldn’t use your car, not right away. We’d get right down underneath a different car, so their headlights wouldn’t find us. They’d think we’d escaped, so they wouldn’t waste any more time here. Then we get into your car, and go where you want to go.’