Missing Dad

by J Ryan

  I hope I’ve passed my chauffeur’s oral exam, although I don’t think it was anything like the driving test is. I guess Monsieur must get chased around by the paparazzi all the time because he’s so rich. He says, ‘It’s time for a little drive, Joe. In my favourite car.’

  We leave the carpark and take the lift again, down to a floor below the basement. I always thought the sous-sol was the bottom floor. But not here at L’Étoile Fine Wines. We’re in a cave. It’s cold and damp. I can see rocky walls, and here in the darkness, lit only by a few lamps bolted onto the walls, there’s rack on rack of bottles, and barrel on barrel of wines.

  Monsieur le Directeur sees me looking at them. His quiet voice echoes slightly in the cave, as he says, ‘My company imports quality wines by the barrel, Joe, which we bottle with the Étoile Fine Wines label. We also import really fine wines which my clients want to buy as investments because they’ll be worth even more in a few years’ time.’

  Then Monsieur’s voice becomes grave, and I can still remember every word he said. ‘Of course, this cave hasn’t always been used to store valuable wines, Joe, although it’s so secure that it’s ideal for it. Have you heard of the Bristol slave traders?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘They were rich merchants, who made their fortunes from importing and selling slaves. They continued to bring in thousands of slaves even after it became illegal. They used places like this underground cavern to keep them until they were taken secretly through tunnels up to Clifton to be sold.’ He pauses, looking at me in the darkness, and I can’t see his face. ‘This place has a shameful past.’

  It’s not just the cold of the cave that’s making me shiver as I look at the shadows that surround us. Monsieur goes on, in a more business-like tone, ‘It’s also where I keep my favourite car.’

  I’m not cold anymore. It’s a Bentley. A Continental. Just like the one in the ad. So some ads tell the truth, then. This huge, dramatic car with its big mesh grille is pale gold, and the sleek, aggressive lines just blow me away. It oozes power and speed and living on the edge of everything you could ever want. Monsieur le Directeur throws me the key. ‘This is the driving part of the interview, Joe.’

  I open the driver’s door, and stare at the acres of wood and leather, not a crisp packet in sight. I slip into the driving seat, and touch the steering wheel with those flying wings in the centre. The smell of leather almost goes to my head. Nobody would dare eat a Pot Noodle in here, any more than they would in front of the Queen.

  ‘Let me take you through the controls, Joe.’ I wonder if he’s going to give me a test on them. They’re so complicated, they make my Peugeot look like something out of Toys R Us.

  ‘Are you OK with all that, Joe?’

  I swallow and nod. ‘I think so, Monsieur.’

  ‘Then, let’s go.’

  I press the starter button and there’s the quiet rumble of a massive V12 engine. It sounds like a lion that would like to eat quite soon. But the lion’s far away, just getting a sniff of its prey. I dab at the pedal like I’d play with a tiny kitten, and we’re gliding forwards. This car is so big, it makes the cave seem like a cupboard; I’m terrified of scraping it along the stone walls. My hands are slippery on the leather steering wheel, and I ask myself why my first ever go in an automatic has to be in a machine that’s got to be worth 250 times more than mine is.

  Somehow, we make it to the exit. Two doors swish aside, leaving a space so narrow that I hold my breath. I inch the car along just waiting for the screech of metal. Then we’re out near Bristol city centre, and I know where we are. Monsieur le Directeur says, ‘Now, we head for Weston-super-Mare.’

  It’s amazing how the sight of a Bentley makes other drivers give way. I feel like a celebrity and wave my thanks as we slip through the traffic and onto the motorway. I’m in control of a Bentley Continental. Doing a regulation seventy mph in a car that can do an awful lot more. In a job interview that’s more like being on Top Gear. And I haven’t messed up yet.

  ‘Do you feel comfortable with the car now, Joe?’

  ‘It’s a beast, Monsieur, but I think I’m getting to know it.’

  ‘What do you see behind you?’

  I’ve been watching it. ‘There’s a black Porsche Carrera, looking like it’s going to overtake us.’

  ‘Let’s lose the Porsche, Joe.’

  I give the accelerator a bit of a shove, and feel the kick in my back as we power away from the Porsche. It’s suddenly very small in the rear view mirror, and we’re doing a hundred and eighty. The car feels rock solid; it was born to do this speed. I feel like I was born to do it too.

  Then Monsieur says, ‘We have to leave at this junction.’

  The exit is just a hundred yards away. With what Becks’ brother Steve used to call, ‘Enthusiastic braking, Joe’, when he was teaching me, we come off the M5 in one piece. Five minutes later, I see a small sign on the right that says ‘Private Road’.

  ‘Take the right, Joe. We are almost there now.’

  Private Road is incredibly narrow. A 30-tonne lorry with attitude coming the other way would not be good. We get to a barrier like the entrance to a carpark where there’s a dude in this little office with a sliding window. The barrier lifts, and we drive on. There’s just this road ahead with a parking area to one side. The road’s really wide, like you could have six or seven cars driving along it side by side. And all around, it’s completely flat.

  Monsieur looks at me. ‘There are no other vehicles here, Joe, and no police cameras. Now, I want you to show me how fast you can drive my favourite car.’

  Hoping that my hearing isn’t going and he hasn’t said ‘The last time you drive my favourite car’, I floor the accelerator. I’m shunted back in the driving seat as the monster takes off, the scenery’s flying past, and we’re doing a hundred and eighty again. The engine sounds like it’s spotted its prey, the lion’s purring happily.

  Then I hear warning bells in my head, as I see the start of a bend. I’m easing off a bit, when Monsieur says, ‘You don’t have to slow down, Joe. Trust the car.’

  So I trust Monsieur and I trust the car. I keep on the power and we’re going into the bend. It’s one long arc, and there’s not a sound from those fat tyres. We get through the bend without coming unstuck, and I know exactly what I can see ahead of me now and I know what kind of road we’re on. It’s a chicane ahead and we’re on a test track. I’ve seen them when I was watching Top Gear with Steve, and I remember how he said you have to take a chicane.

  I hold my breath and power in, brakes hard on, let the tail slide, swing the wheel the opposite way you normally would, and power out. Again, and again. The tyres are chatting away but they sound happy. And this huge car is behaving just as I’m praying it will. Monsieur is quiet beside me, and I can’t see what colour his knuckles are. We’re through the chicane, and we’re heading into another straight, doing nearly two hundred mph. I’ve never driven at half this speed before; I can hear the grey cells babbling in my brain. Then we’re hurtling towards what looks like a load of gravel on the road; it seems to go on and on, and I think, ‘Don’t, whatever you do, touch the brakes!’

  That’s when Monsieur says, ‘Stop now, Joe.’

  So I do what every instinct is screaming at me not to. I stamp on the brake pedal, and keep my foot there. The tyres are really shouting now. They’re yelling as loud as my instincts and I can feel the ABS pumping through the brake pedal. The seatbelt’s biting into my ribs and my stomach’s trying for a quick exit through my throat. I can see smoke in the rear view mirror – must be coming from the tyres – but the Bentley’s going in a dead straight line. Gravel is flying around and I cringe in case some of it hits us.

  We’ve stopped. The engine’s still growling quietly, like it’s just had a stroll through the jungle but didn’t find lunch after all. My heart’s making
far more noise than the engine. But it’s not like I feel scared.

  I look at Monsieur. He’s sitting there with not a sleek silver hair out of place. That half-smile is there again. ‘What do you think of my favourite car, Joe?’

  I try to sound as cool as he is. ‘I think I could handle that chicane a bit better next time. Can I take your favourite car round again, Monsieur le Directeur?’

  ‘That will not be necessary, Joe. You have shown me all I need to see.’

  Half an hour later, we turn into the cave.

  ‘We will go back up to my office for the final part of the interview, Joe.’

  I park, and this time it’s so easy, but I think, ‘How do I turn the engine off?’ Then, I remember that I need to push a button on the dashboard, and while I’m fumbling around for it, I must have hit the driver’s window switch, because the window glides down.

  I stare at it. It’s not like the kind of glass that’s in my Peugeot. The window glass in Monsieur le Directeur’s Precious is an inch thick. My brain does a quick Control S, as I hit the switch to get the window back up.

  I don’t know if Monsieur notices or not. He slips out of the passenger seat, and heads for the lift. I go back up by the stairs, thinking, ‘This is what chauffeurs do, we take the stairs while the boss takes the lift.’

  We meet outside those doors, and go back into the room with the chandeliers. As I hand him back the key I wonder if I’ve done anything like as well as all the other interviewees who’ve driven round that test track.

  Monsieur’s on the phone to Madame de L’Étang. ‘Be so good as to send Patrice up to us please, Françoise.’ She comes in, followed by a dude carrying measuring tape and a notebook, and he tells me to stand still and raise my arms, while he runs the tape over practically every part of my body.

  Monsieur says, ‘And now we get to the part of the interview where you can ask the questions, Joe. So, what would you like to know about the job?’

  As Patrice measures my neck with cold hands I ask about the pay. Monsieur nods, as though I should have asked much earlier. He names a monthly amount that’s four times what I’m on now. ‘Do you have any more questions, Joe? Feel free to ask.’

  I take a deep breath. ‘When will I know if you’re going to offer me the job, Monsieur le Directeur?’

  He shrugs – it’s the first thing he’s done that looks really French. ‘Patrice would not be measuring you up for your chauffeur’s uniform if we had no intention of offering you the job, Joe.’

  Monsieur le Directeur has gone to make some phone calls. My head’s spinning with a weird feeling. This must be Happiness; not Hope, but the Real Deal. I have to swallow hard to get the words out. ‘When does Monsieur want me to start, Madame?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Joe. We will find you an acceptable chauffeur’s uniform, until your own is ready.’

  ‘That’s fantastic, Madame. What time does Monsieur want me to be here?’ I’m thinking about what bus I’ll need to get to Bristol. She calls him, and after a few minutes, he comes in.

  ‘Do you have your own transport, Joe?’

  ‘Well, I do, but it’s not driveable right now. But it’s cool, I can take the bus, Monsieur.’

  Monsieur is quiet for a moment, looking at me, and I can’t guess what he’s thinking. Then he puts his hand in his pocket and throws me a key. I just about catch it, and stare. It’s the key to the Bentley.

  My brain’s sending me all kinds of messages, like ‘This program has performed an illegal act and will be shut down.’ I hear myself say, ‘Monsieur le Directeur, I love this car, it’s amazing, but it could get trashed outside my house. We’d never get it into the garage.’

  He’s still looking at me in a way that I can’t work out. ‘See it as one of the perks of the job, Joe. As for the possible risks – that’s why we have insurance. Take the car. And be here at seven tomorrow morning.’

  He shakes my hand again with those long fingers. ‘Welcome to L’Étoile Fine Wines, Joe.’ Then, almost like a throwaway, with that half-smile, ‘I very much enjoyed our drive.’

  Chapter 6

  Heaven

  ‘Oh-my-God, Joe – what have you done now?’ Becks stares at Monsieur’s favourite car. ‘I don’t believe this!’

  Steve comes out of the house, and gives a low whistle as he takes in The Beast.

  I’ve rehearsed this, all the way from Bristol to Becks’ place, and it still feels like I’ve got the wrong script. ‘It’s only a matter of months before I’ll be legal, Becks. I couldn’t pass it up – a chance like this could never come my way again.’

  ‘You must be out of your head! What if you get caught again? Don’t you think of your mum at all?’

  My face goes hot and I don’t know what to say.

  Steve walks around Monsieur’s Precious, runs a hand across the gleaming gold paintwork, sits at the wheel and inhales the leather. Nods. ‘Quite an animal, eh, Joe?’

  Becks shakes her head, green eyes blazing. ‘What IS it with dudes and cars? Tell him he’s an idiot, Steve!’

  ‘You’re an idiot, Joe. An’ I want your job.’

  ‘You’re a pair of STUPID GREAT KIDS!’ Becks storms back into the house, banging the door behind her, as net curtains right and left start to flutter. Like stupid great kids do, Steve and I carry on as though nothing’s happened.

  ‘Thanks for letting me doss with you tonight, Steve. I’ve told Mum I’m here, and that I got the job. I just couldn’t say…’

  He grins. ‘…what the job is. You’re a quality driver, Joe. Not your fault if the rules don’t allow for early developers. Just be careful, that’s all.’

  There’s no sign of Becks when we go in.

  ‘Better let her cool off. She’ll come round.’

  I’m not so sure about that. Especially when the front door opens then bangs shut again a few minutes later. She still hasn’t come back when I crash out on their sofa at half ten.

  When I wake up at five the next morning, I’m soaked with sweat. I’m convinced that either I’ve imagined the whole thing, or the Bentley’s real but someone’s poured acid over it and kicked the panels in. And the whole night, I’ve been dreaming about Becks chucking bucket loads of brown paint over me. At least, I think it was paint.

  Lenny’s left a message on my voicemail: ‘Hi Joe. How’s your Grandad? Go see a film tonight?’

  I drive sedately back to Bristol wearing Dad’s Balmain, trying to look really old, at least thirty, like a re-habbed rock star with his new toy. It’s a relief as Precious glides quietly into the cave. I haven’t phoned Lenny. I don’t know how to tell him I’ve got the job that he warned me off so urgently.

  In a room next to Madame’s office Patrice has a rail full of uniforms for me to try on. He holds a jacket up against my chest, and tuts. ‘You ‘ave very broad shoulders, Monsieur Joe. Do you work out?’

  ‘Only with Big Macs.’

  He takes another jacket off the rail. ‘I am not sure thees will be long enough, you are so tall.’

  Patrice is the first person I’ve met in this place who has a French name and a French accent to go with it. I’m trying on the fourth uniform when Madame knocks. ‘Monsieur le Directeur would like to see you in his office, Joe, when convenient.’ I know that ‘when convenient’ actually means ‘like, now’, because you don’t keep your boss waiting. Patrice is fussing around, and this uniform’s about OK, just a bit tight under the armpits.

  ‘Look, I really have to go.’ I’m trying to button up the jacket, when Patrice takes this chauffeur’s cap and jams it on my head. It bounces off my thick crew cut, I grab it, ‘Thanks, Patrice,’ and leg it for the stairs.

  As I get to the top of the stairs I see a big dude in another Armani suit heading out of Monsieur’s office and into the lift. All I glimpse is his bulky shape, big head and sticking out
ears, before he’s gone.

  Monsieur is there, behind the runway. ‘Sit down, Joe. There’s something I need to discuss with you.’

  I hope that I’ve not made some stupid mistake, like wearing a uniform that’s too tight, or using the wrong deodorant, or having bad breath.

  Personal hygiene isn’t what he wants to talk about. ‘I’ve been considering your situation living at home, Joe. Many of our journeys will be at anti-social hours. And there will be times when I will need you to be instantly available, not a half-hour drive away. So, I think it would be better if you live here, in our offices. You would have your own apartment, there are several within this building. Naturally, the company would pay all the costs. How do you feel about my proposition?’

  Of course I say, ‘That would be great, Monsieur le Directeur.’ Even if I didn’t fancy living in a free apartment in the centre of Bristol, with all the night-life around me, and shops and restaurants and cinemas, I’d still have said Yes. Because I’ve learned one big thing in a short time: you don’t say No to Monsieur le Directeur. If I reply, ‘Actually I’d rather live at home, thanks’, this heaven that I’ve found will implode and I’ll be back with Lenny in that no-hope job with my family telling me how to live my life. I’ll be a loser again.

  So I smile my biggest smile. ‘It’ll be amazing to live here in my own apartment, Monsieur. But can I have some choice as to the drapes?’

  He smiles too, that half-smile again. ‘I think you mean the curtains, Joe.’ He shakes his head in mock disapproval. ‘You have been watching too much American TV.’

  I don’t think you can watch too much American TV, but I don’t say so. ‘And will there be broadband, and Sky, Monsieur?’

  He replies, in mock resignation this time, ‘Yes, Joe, there will be broadband and Sky in your apartment. Madame will show you round.’

  This job is getting more like heaven with every minute. And I think, ‘There’s a logical explanation for that thick window glass. Every important person needs it, don’t they? They have to protect themselves. Perhaps that dude with the big head I saw leaving the office just now is Monsieur’s minder.’