by J Ryan
The apartment’s on the second floor and it’s probably bigger than my house. There are vertical blinds at the windows, so no worries about posh flowery drapes. The vast lounge is like the backdrop to the photos they take of celebrities in their homes when they’ve just had a baby or got divorced. There’s acres of thick grey carpet, small runways for tables, and sofas that aren’t leather – thank you, Monsieur – just soft cushions that you can collapse into with a can of Coke, very carefully. The massive widescreen TV with DVD player has got Sky, like Monsieur said it would. And there’s a PC with broadband, right next to the TV.
The kitchen is like a Jamie Oliver film set, all pale creamy wood, with a microwave to heat up my lasagne ready meal, and a cooker that looks like a space ship with its gleaming metal and hood. In the bathroom, there’s a shower that sprays water over you from just about all directions, and loads of soft, white towels.
‘Is there a washing machine, Madame?’
‘You will not need one, Joe. There is a laundry service to take care of everything.’ Mum says that too, but with a different tone of voice.
In the bedroom, there’s a king-sized double bed, and lights over the bedside tables, so I can read up on maps to work out where I’m going next. ‘This is amazing, Madame, I’m going to love it here.’
I take in the view of the docks through the blue-tinted windows. ‘How do I get back in here, Madame, like when I go out during my time off?’
‘I will get you a key, Joe, that will let you in at the back and up the stairs so that you won’t set off the burglar alarm. But you must lock and bolt the door behind you, every time.’ She closes the apartment door quietly behind her.
As I’m trying out all the channels on Sky and looking for Top Gear, an error message pops up in my mind. If Monsieur wants me to live in this apartment, so I’m available 24/7, does that mean he lives here too? Somewhere in this office block, in one of the other apartments?
I don’t think so. Doesn’t fit with that sleek, silver hair, chiselled face and Armani suit. He must live in a billionaire’s mansion up in Clifton. So, why does he want me to live here, and not in his mansion? Then I think, well, he keeps Precious here, so it makes sense for me to be here too. When he calls me up in the middle of the night, I’ll drive up to his place to collect him. Wonder what it’s like, Monsieur’s place.
My mobile goes, and the voice brings me down to earth with a bump. ‘The date for the trial is set for December 2nd, Joe. I’ve informed your mother. I’d like to meet up with you before then to talk over a few things.’
‘I’ve got a job, Inspector, and I’m like on call all hours, so a meeting’s a bit tricky at the moment… but it’s probably very temporary. Maybe only a week or so.’
‘The meeting needs to be within the next few weeks, Joe. We have to be one hundred percent clear on the facts, and so do you’.
‘I’ll call you in a couple of days, when I know how long they want me for – that OK, Inspector?’ I’m so relieved DIW doesn’t ask about the job.
I call Becks. ‘Sorry, can’t talk to you right now. The funnier your message, the sooner I’ll get back to you.’
I can’t think of anything funny. ‘Becks, I’m really sorry. Please, let’s talk?’
Then, I brace myself for the phone call home. I daren’t tell Mum and Grandad about this apartment; they’re bound to think there’s a catch, because it’s so just too good to be true. I’ll make up for all these lies one day, when I’m really successful in my new job, and they can be proud of me.
‘How was your first day, love? Did it go well?’
‘Really well, Mum. But the commute’s going to cost a bomb. So, one of the guys I’m working with says his parents can let me doss in their spare room?’
‘Oh.’ The excitement in her voice gives way to the worried note. ‘Can you come home at weekends?’
‘Probably not, as I’m working shifts. But the job’s not for long.’
‘How long is ‘not for long’?’
‘Maybe just a couple of weeks. And it’s really brilliant. My boss is so cool. That OK, Mum?’
Mum sighs. I know she wants to say ‘No way’. But she hates party-pooping with me and Jack. ‘Well… all right… but you will keep in touch, won’t you, love? Text me with the address of where you’re working. And where you’re staying. And take care, promise?’
‘Promise. Love you Mum.’
Steve collects my stuff from home and brings it down in the afternoon, in return for a French lesson. He taught me to drive in return for me teaching him some French as he has a French girlfriend. I open the door and he takes a step back, almost dropping the suitcases. ‘Blimey, you look like the Gestapo. Sieg Heil, mein Fuhrer!’ He snaps his heels together.
I’m annoyed to feel my face going red. ‘It’s only what every chauffeur wears. If they drive a Bentley, anyway.’ I take one of the suitcases as we go inside.
‘You just need the black leather boots.’ He looks round, picks up the TV remote, presses a button and inspects the HD screen, as Rooney slams the ball home. ‘Now that telly is quality. Cool flat, Joe.’ I take him on a guided tour.
‘How on earth d’you work the shower? Looks like a secret weapon.’
‘How’s Becks? She’s not answering.’
‘If I was you, I’d try radio silence for a few days, mate. Now, what’s the French for ‘You look really great in that dress, Annette’?’
Chapter 7
Servant and Master
After Steve’s gone, I change into jeans and nip out for a Chinese. A forkload of sweet and sour is on its way into my mouth when Madame calls. ‘There is a consignment of wine for delivery this evening, Joe. Can you please be in my office in five minutes.’
I put the fork down, puzzled. I thought it was Monsieur I would be driving. They’ve got delivery vans for the wine, haven’t they? Then I think, well, it is fine wines. Monsieur’s customers must expect a really five star service. They’ll get that alright, with the most expensive delivery van on the planet.
Battling with the stiff buttons, I scramble back into my uniform, and check in the mirror for any food that could have sneakily plopped onto my chin. I just make it to Madame’s office in time. It’s half eight at night; Madame must work flexible hours, like me. She’s sat at her desk, tearing a sheet of paper from a notepad. ‘The consignment is in the boot of the Bentley, Joe. It is to go to this Kensington address, for ten o’clock.’ She hands over the piece of paper.
‘Do I ask them to pay, or sign for it, or anything?’
She shakes her head. ‘There is no need. Come straight back; there may be another delivery when you return.’
As I leave her office, I’m even more baffled. Another delivery after this one? It’ll be well gone midnight by then. These customers can’t be in nine to five jobs. Will a dude meet me at the door in his pyjamas, or what?
Butterflies are bobbing in my stomach as I take the lift two floors down to where Precious is waiting, gold coachwork glowing in the dimly lit cave. By the time I slip into the leather-scented cabin, I’m tingling all over. Should I take a look in the boot, just to check that the wine’s there? Better not. Don’t want to be late on my first run.
The lion wakes, and gurgles quietly. We glide forwards, the headlights blazing into the cave, I hit the remote and the doors swish open. With quite a bit more confidence than I had on that first drive with Monsieur, I ease the Bentley out into the street, look right – and jam on the brakes as my heart leaps into my throat. There’s a police car coming towards me. My chauffeur’s career could be so short, it’ll make the Guinness Book of Records. The driver flashes me to go ahead. But my heart’s thumping all the way onto the M4, and at every junction, my head whizzes round like an owl.
Damn, I’ve forgotten to put the address into the sat nav. At the services I pull over, and look
at the crumpled piece of paper, trying to get my head back together. It’s difficult to read Madame’s spidery writing. Number 26… what’s the name of the street? Burlington or Darlington? I’ll go for Burlington. My stomach knots up, as I remember the last time I had a problem with street names. I tell myself, ‘Get a grip, that was then.’
The sat nav likes Burlington; it fits with the postcode I’ve keyed in. ‘Please press OK to confirm address.’ Those sugary female tones with their Texas twang are going to get changed when I get back. I wonder if the voice menu has a Top Gear option…‘At the next left, make a handbrake turn.’
‘Yeah, Jeremy.’
The rest of the trip to Kensington goes without any more heart-stoppers. My American girlfriend talks me patronizingly to number 26, Burlington Drive; there’s even a parking space just outside the tall, elegant house, with its black railings, white-painted door, and polished brass knocker. The Bentley’s in quite good company with a dark blue Ferrari in front of us and a silver Mercedes SL Coupe behind, gleaming in the street lights.
Jamming on my cap I open the boot. There are two wooden cases with labels bearing the L’Étoile Fine Wines logo; the intricate, sixteen-point star that I first saw on that ad. A larger wooden box is behind them. This one has no label: is it more wine, or something else? I tuck the labelled cases under each arm – they feel heavy enough to contain wine bottles – as I take the steps three at a time up to that brass knocker. There’s a doorbell on the right so I press it; I guess the knocker’s just there for show. I can’t hear the bell ring inside the house. What do I do now? Press it again, or try knocking?
Maybe a minute ticks past, and I’m just about to try the bell again, when the door opens. I can hear a buzz of voices somewhere beyond, as a young dude appears in the doorway. He must be around twenty. He’s got blond hair that flops over his eyes and he’s wearing a black evening suit, kind of casually, like Bond. The white shirt is open at the collar, the bow tie dangling either side.
‘I’ll take those. Get the rest.’ His crisp, cold voice sounds like he went to an expensive school, where they learn to give orders but not to say Thanks.
I hand over the wine cases, and go back down the steps for the third box. It’s lighter than the others. Perhaps it’s wine glasses. As I approach the door again, he’s waiting outside this time. In the street lights his face is easier to see now. The skin is taut over his cheekbones and jaw, and there are frown lines between his eyebrows that make him look older than he is. He almost snatches the box. They must all be gagging for a glass of expensive wine in there.
He stares at me. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
‘Is… is that OK, then?’
‘Just get lost, idiot.’ The door swings shut behind him.
My feet are wooden, almost tripping me over as I make my way slowly down the steps and back into Precious’s leather seat. I start up the engine, and glance in my mirror to check behind me. A middle-aged couple in evening wear are going up the steps to number 26. Even at night, I can see they have a Bermuda tan. Jewels around the woman’s neck flash as she picks her way upwards, holding her long dress.
A horn blasts impatiently behind me. A crimson Daimler is indicating left to pull into my parking space. Precious glides out of it, and I can see the peaked cap of their chauffeur pointing backwards and forwards, as he manoeuvres the limo into the slot. He’s going to have to sit there, waiting like a dog tied up outside a supermarket for hours, maybe all night, till his owners are ready to go home. If I was him, I’d have brought my iPod with me. But I saw white hair under that black cap; he’s more likely going to have a quiet snooze.
I pull into a bus stop, and switch on the sat nav. The main menu comes up as Barbie Doll trills, ‘Welcome to the world of GoPlaces. You don’t know the place, so we go there together.’
I growl back at her, ‘You don’t know it yet, but you’ve been sacked.’
The lights are out in Madame’s office when I tap on the door. No more deliveries tonight, then. She’s left a note for me on her desk. ‘Please tell the security guard that he can lock up, Joe. Do not go out again tonight. The alarms will be on.’
What security guard? I jump, as a shadow falls over the piece of paper.
‘You finished for the night, then?’
The voice is gruff, but not unfriendly. I look beyond the uniform, at bright blue eyes in a lined face, and see a wiry figure that looks fit enough to chase off any unwanted company. He’s carrying a torch and a two-way radio.
‘Yeah, I’m done, thanks. Just going up to my flat.’
He’s locking Madame’s office, and I’m about to go up the stairs, when I think, I’m probably going to meet up with this guy again, as they seem to go in for night deliveries in my new job. Hesitantly, I hold out my hand. ‘My name’s Joe.’
He could just tell me to Get Lost, Idiot. But a strong, bony hand clasps mine in return, although the voice is as rough-edged as before. ‘They told me you’d be late in. Get up to your flat now, son. And don’t leave before six, or there’ll be all hell with the alarms.’
I plod back up to my posh apartment, peel off the black jacket and chuck my hat on the sofa. I can’t work out whether I’m more hungry than tired, or the other way. I give my Chinese a blast in the microwave, and sit down with it on my lap to stare at footie. When I wake up at four in the morning Home Alone is playing on Sky, and my hand that was holding the fork has flopped into my cold plate of sweet and sour.
Over the next few days, I leave more messages for Becks. Still can’t make them funny. Still no call back. Is she OK? Perhaps she’s ill, maybe even in hospital. Should I call Steve? But he would have contacted me, wouldn’t he? It’s so not like Becks to stay this angry with me. Even when I fell off the roof of that bus shelter in Stroud after Jack dared me to climb it, she was only cross for a day. We’ve never been out of touch for this long.
Checking for a message from Becks every time I stop, I do drops to Leeds, Manchester and Newcastle. All the deliveries are at night. All the faces look at me like I have some kind of infectious disease and they can’t wait to close the door. I do Kensington again. At number 26, Burlington Drive, it’s a different guy who takes the boxes this time. He looks at me like I’m a Tesco You Shop, We Drop driver, and he’s not interested in what I hand over to him.
At nine thirty, the morning after that drop, I don’t throw the alarm clock at the wall. I’m fed up with being out all night and then sleeping all day, like Fats does. I crawl out of bed, and blast open my glued-shut eyes with the power shower on nuke setting. Then I make myself a Mum-style fry-up, and burn the bacon while I watch Clarkson blowing up some car he loves to hate. I’m trying to scrub off baked beans that have splatted onto the roof of the microwave, when the phone rings. ‘Are you available to drive me to Plymouth, Joe?’
Like, of course I’m available. Monsieur’s my boss, isn’t he? I dive into my uniform like I’m jet-propelled. He sits in the front seat, cool as ever in the black Armani. As I key in the address, and the English voice announces solemnly, ‘Destination confirmed’, he looks at me with that half-smile. ‘It is preferable to the American, Joe. So, no more drapes, then?’
‘There was a French option, Monsieur. But my French isn’t that good.’
We fly down the motorway in the purring Precious, and I bombard Monsieur with questions about the TV screens in the head rests, the mood lighting, the automatic headlights and the rain sensing wipers, like this is a Bentley edition of Top Gear. He smiles as he tells me about his favourite car.
He doesn’t ask how the deliveries are going, and now I don’t care. Every job has its downside, doesn’t it? I can live with dropping off cases of fine wines to people who’ve never learned how to say Thanks.
After a short wait for Monsieur outside a bank in a Plymouth high street, he tells me to follow signs to the marina. We park up and I follow
him past the rows of moored yachts with their tinkling rigging. He stops when we get to a graceful white yacht, maybe sixty feet long, with a single, tall mast. Her name is painted in gold and black on the hull, in a flowing script. ‘Lisette.’ At the sight of her I start to tingle all over.
Monsieur adjusts the mooring so that it’s ready to cast off, then swings himself onto the deck. I follow, my heart thumping with excitement. This could be as amazing as my first drive in the Bentley.
He checks the rigging before going into the cabin, returning with lifejackets and harnesses. ‘Have you sailed before, Joe?’
‘Only in our dinghy, with Grandad.’
‘Dinghies are harder work. Now, you need to clip yourself onto the rail. ’
I notice he’s done the same. ‘Is it going to get rough?’
‘The forecast is for light winds, force two to three. But you should always be tethered. Sailing is an unpredictable business.’ He starts the engine while I cast off and tidy the rope away. Slowly, the Lisette moves backwards off her mooring, and Monsieur steers her expertly through all the hundreds of yachts, catamarans and trimarans thronging the busy harbour. Suddenly, he swings the wheel hard left. A dark blue launch shoots across our bow to join another one at the harbour side. Uniformed officers swarm onto a gleaming Sunseeker cruiser. Monsieur sees me staring. ‘The harbour police. Very likely they are searching for drugs.’
I swallow. ‘What sort of drugs?’
His voice is severe. ‘Cocaine, mostly.’
Soon we’re clear of all the shipping and out in the open sea, with gulls crying piercingly over the top of that tall mast. ‘Take the helm, Joe. I’m going to hoist the jib.’
Apprehensively, I take over the wheel. ‘Is it like using a tiller?’