Smart Moves

by Adrian Magson

  When Marcus came in, he nodded with more civility than I’d expected, and hovered in the background like a spare part. It was a familiar sign: he had something to say but wasn’t sure how to go about it. It didn’t really go with the smart suit and aluminium briefcase, no doubt his kit for meetings with investors, but that was business; this was closer to home.

  ‘What’s up?’ I said, making it easier for him. At this rate we’d still be there at midnight and he’d never get it out. It reminded me of when he was younger and needed some pocket money for something urgent. He’d hover around me, hopping from foot to foot, looking as though he was about to speak but never quite getting there. In the end I’d got used to asking him how much he needed; it saved us both a lot of time and embarrassment.

  ‘I wondered if you fancied coming to a football match tomorrow,’ he said quickly. ‘Only if you’d like to, of course.’

  ELEVEN

  On top of the shock of being invited to share leisure time with my brother – quite something after all the recent years of distance between us – I realised with surprise that tomorrow was Saturday. One of the consequences, I guessed, of being without a job to go to: lose the routine, you lose track of the days. Only in my case I’d lost track of a few other things as well.

  ‘Not much,’ I replied instinctively. Football has never been a passion, any more than cricket, darts, rugby and most other sporting pastimes. But the look on Marcus’s face was enough to convince me it was about time I showed an interest. In any case, I was intrigued by the invitation. Was this some kind of white flag of peace? ‘But if it includes a pint or two and a pie afterwards, I’d love to.’

  ‘Cool,’ he said, and smiled with an awkward look of relief which made me glad I’d accepted.

  The following day, I joined him and a couple of his mates at a minor league ground where we stood and rooted for the team in blue. They seemed quite good – not that I was any kind of judge – and, after they’d managed to thrash the opposition comprehensively, who responded by kicking lumps out of their striker, we found a pub and sank some celebratory pints amid a heaving mass of genial drunks.

  ‘I spoke to Susan yesterday,’ I told Marcus, when I sensed the atmosphere was right between us and his mates had gone. I hadn’t bothered telling him the previous evening, mostly because I was still spitting nails and hadn’t been able to trust myself to remain calm.

  ‘Yeah?’ He sank some beer and looked warily at me. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘It didn’t. We met, we spoke, we parted. She’s filing for divorce.’

  ‘She said that?’

  ‘No. She had a legal gorilla along to say it for her.’

  He surprised me by shrugging and saying, ‘That’s okay. I guessed she would, I suppose. What will you do?’

  ‘Get a job. Start again.’ It sounded easy if I said it quickly enough.

  ‘Do you think you can?’

  I narrowed my eyes at him in mock warning. ‘Watch it, kid. I may be older and more careworn than you, but I’m not finished yet. It’s called getting back on the bike, in case you’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘Right. Like, if you fall off, get back on before you lose your nerve.’

  ‘Sort of. It’s been a long time since I was last on a bike, but I’m sure I can remember how it goes.’

  ‘Any ideas what you’ll do?’

  ‘None at the moment. Trying some smart moves for a change would be good.’

  ‘Smart?’

  I didn’t want to burden him with the possibility that Dunckley might be keeping tabs on me through Susan. It was only just hitting me that the fish-eyed git must have had more on his mind than simply lusting after my wife to have decided to get rid of me. Had I somehow tripped over something I shouldn’t see? Blundered into something he’d rather I didn’t talk about? Otherwise why the threats about confidentiality agreements and not talking to the authorities? God knows what he thought I might know, though. All I’d been interested in was doing my job and staying out of trouble in hostile places. But staying out of Dunckley’s way would be a wise course of action – even if my instinct was to nail him to a tree and let the birds pick his bones.

  ‘Jake?’ Marcus was looking at me with a worried expression, and I realised I must have zoned out for a moment.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘Just looking at the way I’ve been doing things. I’ve blundered along in the past, gone from one thing to another. I can’t afford to do that any more. I need to think smarter. You know what they say about moving targets.’

  ‘They’re harder to hit?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  We drank another couple of rounds and talked generalities, and even did some catching up on things which had fallen between the gaps of our relationship over the past few years. It proved more interesting than I’d expected, and I found myself admiring what he was doing and how serious he was about his business.

  After a while he put down his glass and said casually, ‘Would you like to come to a party this evening?’

  ‘Do what?’ I nearly choked.

  ‘I’m serious,’ he said, at my evident scepticism. ‘I got an invite from the guy who’s throwing it. He’s a new contact looking to get into the gaming and VR field.’

  VR. I knew that meant virtual reality, and nodded wisely. ‘VR. Right.’

  ‘He’s reportedly got a ton of cash to invest and I’d like to ease a little of it our way. He wants me and a few others to make a pitch.’

  I gave him a sideways look. I didn’t know much about the investment field, but I figured anyone who had to go round telling people they had a ton of cash was not exactly on the up and up. ‘Do you know this guy?’

  ‘We’ve spoken on the phone, and he seems a good bloke. A bit Jason Statham, if you know what I mean. Anyway, I thought it might help.’ He stopped and shrugged. ‘The party. Help you, I mean.’

  I was having trouble reconciling this new side to Marcus. Along with the suit and briefcase it was like meeting a stranger, and another indication of how much we’d lost touch over the years. ‘Help take me out of myself? No, thanks. I should be job-hunting not partying. Anyway, I’m not sure I’m ready to regress that much. My partying years were a long time ago and I’m not sure I enjoyed them much even then.’

  ‘Why not? Come on – you said about getting back on the bike. It’s got to start somewhere. What’s the harm in a couple of drinks? You can start looking for a job tomorrow… or Monday, I should say.’

  He was serious; he actually wanted me to accept. I thought about it under cover of going to the toilet, and thought back to parties I’d gone to in the days when leaving with the person you arrived with was considered subversive, and if you remained sensible you obviously weren’t enjoying yourself properly. It came as a shock to realise that I hadn’t been to a party in about fifteen years – and then they were those anodyne, civilised suburban affairs where everyone is terribly polite, watchful as hawks, and the only shag on the premises is the pile of the carpet.

  But Marcus was right: what harm could it do? It wasn’t as if I had any prior engagements, and the only thing I was risking was enjoying myself.

  ‘All right,’ I said, rejoining him at the bar. ‘Party it is. As long as you can stand the embarrassment of having your big brother in tow.’

  He laughed. ‘Forget it. I might be inviting you along, but if you think we are about to hang together or that I’m telling anyone we’re related, dream on.’

  The first thing I had to do was get myself some new clothes. I’d come to the conclusion that the ones I had were beyond their wear-by date. They certainly weren’t designed for boogying the night away. Okay, I was being optimistic in assuming there would be any boogying, but hope was beginning to spring eternal in the breast, and even I could see that my current kit had a certain middle-aged quality about it.

  The trouble was, buying clothes had never been my favourite occupation. I hate the whole rigmarole of trying on stiff new clothes in a tiny booth built for a rab
bit, and finding my already low expectations of what I might look like being fully met.

  I headed for Regent Street and trawled through some of the stores in search of something suitable. I ended up in one, gulped at the inevitably high prices, and, as they had a few options on offer, I forged ahead. ‘Good afternoon, sir.’ The first assistant to spot me performed a deceptively lazy gallop across the thick carpet, abandoning a pair of French tourists who were fingering the goods with a look of disdain. He looked to be in his forties though could have been older, but he moved like a dancer. Along with his fake tan and elegantly combed hair, his pinstriped suit and pink shirt gave him the air of someone about to break into a routine from a Fred Astaire movie.

  Two other slim young things who had started forward from further back in the shop gave up halfway out of their blocks and went back to folding jumpers and discussing the price of property. Business was clearly a bit slow.

  ‘Looking for something specific, sir?’ he ventured. I could feel him running his eyes over my clothes and totting up the potential bill.

  Though all my instincts were to bug out of there and go with what I’d got, I gritted my teeth and nodded. Might as well get it over and done with.

  ‘I’m going to a party,’ I told him. ‘I need something respectable but casual.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He fingered my leather jacket and stood back for a moment. Alongside his tailored elegance, I felt like something the cat had dragged in. ‘What sort of party, may I ask?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Younger business people, mostly. In IT.’

  He nodded, zeroing in on a type. ‘Ah. That’s where all the fun is, so they say. Any older people?’

  I looked at him, trying to spot any meaning in his question, but he stared back without a flicker. Something told me he was treading a well-worn and tactful path.

  ‘Older than me? Probably not. But I don’t want to kid myself or look out of place.’ He nodded and led me past racks of perfectly suitable clothes – the type I would have gone for if he hadn’t buttonholed me – into the rear of the store where they kept their changing booths and a scattering of comfortable chairs. Shades of Pretty Woman – only I wasn’t the Richard Gere type.

  He managed to ease me out of my jacket and place it carefully on a hanger with what I thought was undue reverence. He even brushed a hand across one lapel to remove a trace of dust. This man took his job seriously.

  He squinted at me in the manner of an undertaker and wandered away with a faint smile and a casual wave to indicate he wouldn’t be long. He came back with a pair of tan chinos and held them up for me to see.

  ‘I was thinking of something a little–’ I floundered, feeling unaccountably faint-hearted now I was faced by the need to make the first decision. Given my own head, I’d have plucked something simple from the rack and got him to wrap it up, then beaten a rapid retreat. Later I would have found it either didn’t fit or was somehow unsuitable and quietly slid it to the back of the wardrobe. Then I remembered I didn’t have a wardrobe. Which meant whatever I took had better be right.

  Thus dresses the modern man.

  ‘Smarter?’ he finished for me. ‘More formal?’

  ‘Yes. I suppose.’

  He shook his head and pursed his lips. He may have moved like Fred Astaire, but he reminded me of my old history teacher when given a wrong answer in the weekly quiz. Harold Bleech, bless his socks. The more lamentable the answer, the more Bleech pursed his lips and shook his head. If the head shaking lasted longer than five seconds the class would fall deathly silent as we all waited. Out of nowhere, like an old western gunfighter, Bleech would produce a wooden blackboard rubber, the missile catching the slow-thinking a swat on the side of the head with a faint thud and a cloud of white chalk dust. It was considered almost an honour to be caught out by him, so dazzling was the speed of his draw and the accuracy of his aim. Ah, the good old days. They don’t make them like they used to.

  ‘Not necessary, you’ll find, sir,’ the assistant advised me. ‘The only people who wear ties to parties are the police officers who arrive to break them up. Casual is a great leveller, you see; people don’t like to be pigeonholed. Much better to hide behind a vague hint of style, and that way nobody knows if you’re a dotcom millionaire or a dustman. May I ask, sir, how long it is since you went to one of these… parties?’

  ‘For ever,’ I said. It had probably been fifteen years, but somehow for ever seemed less personally damaging than admitting to a specific and possibly huge number.

  ‘I see. A tad out of practice, then.’

  ‘I’m forty-one, not twenty-one, if that’s any guide.’ It felt somehow safe breaking the news to a complete stranger I’d probably never see again. I was tempted to tell him I’d never been in practice, but made do with a nod. No reason for me to confess all my failings to him. I snatched the trousers and headed for the changing booth, where I was serenaded by a poor copy of Simon and Garfunkel while I wrestled with my clothes. When I came out I was sweaty, irritated, uncomfortable and self-conscious. More so when I saw the assistant’s two colleagues had abandoned their folding and had drifted across to watch their colleague attempting the impossible.

  ‘Oh, goodness, what a nice fit,’ the Fred Astaire move-alike murmured, without a trace of irony. He plucked at my shirt, which was white and plain, and turned to the taller of his two colleagues, who were both standing with hands clasped before them like a pair of pantomime dames. ‘Chris – I think the charcoal polo, don’t you?’

  Chris made a pretence of eyeing up my size by pursing his lips, but I could tell he was only playing. He drifted languidly away and returned moments later with a lightweight sports shirt wrapped in tissue paper. He handed it to Fred, who carefully unwrapped it and held it up before me.

  ‘Try this on, sir. So much more a statement than white, I think you’ll find.’

  ‘And slimming,’ murmured Chris, as if bestowing a blessing.

  I disappeared into the booth again and put on the charcoal polo. It was a good fit and I was surprised by the effect. When I stepped outside again, the three stooges were waiting wordlessly. They all nodded approvingly.

  Fred was holding out my leather jacket.

  ‘I was thinking of a new jacket, actually,’ I told him. Mine wasn’t too bad, even among all this brand-new finery, but it had seen better days and had been dragged around the world more times than a ship’s rudder. Maybe it was time to consign it to a better life somewhere else.

  To my amazement, they all shook their heads.

  ‘Stick with the leather,’ said Fred, finally managing to sound camp, and looked to his colleagues for support. ‘Don’t you think, boys?’

  The boys oohed and aahed in unison and fingered my jacket, and before I knew where I was, it was back on me and I was standing before a long mirror, their faces smiling encouragingly in the background like ghosts at a wake. Even I had to admit I looked a hundred per cent better. Well, maybe eighty per cent.

  ‘You can’t get leather jackets like that now,’ Chris explained wistfully. ‘Cheap crap, most of them. I bet you got that one abroad, didn’t you?’ He fluttered his eyelashes in what I was sure was a piss-take. ‘Gran Canaria, was it? Tunisia?’ His eyes went big and round and he said softly, ‘Don’t tell me – Rabat in Morocco!’

  ‘No way,’ the third one finally joined in, pulling in his cheeks and shaking his head as if he had a wasp in one ear. ‘That’s a Kos number, if ever I saw one. Hell, I should know, I’ve seen enough of ’em.’ He smirked knowingly, attracting a warning look from Fred.

  ‘Actually,’ I muttered, deciding to bring the Bluebells show to a close before they got carried away and broke out the tap shoes, top hats and tails, ‘it was Cape Town. And you lot are kidding me, right?’

  Fred smiled and adjusted my collar. ‘If you mean about the jacket, sir, not a bit. You look great, I promise. Believe me, no-one will know what you do or – forgive me – how long you’ve been doing it. But they’ll have a good time guessin
g.’ He patted my arm. ‘Just don’t leave it lying around or you’ll never see it again.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I told him, and meant it. He could have oversold me twice over and I wouldn’t have known. I asked him to wrap up a second pair of trousers and a couple more shirts, and handed him my credit card. Might as well hit it while I could.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, handing me my purchases, and glanced towards the other two, now dismissed back to folding jumpers. ‘Sorry about the display. The boys like to have some harmless fun when things are quiet. Enjoy your party.’

  TWELVE

  ‘Well, this is it,’ said Marcus, eyeing a broad expanse of front garden with a couple of girls standing under a tree sharing a bottle. ‘I’m off.’

  We’d left his place half an hour earlier and travelled by taxi into the depths of the Kingston/Richmond jungle, finally fetching up at a large house close to the river. The location of the party was marked by an obscenely-arranged bunch of balloons on the lamppost outside and a heavy beat of music pounding through the pavement. The surrounding properties were equally expensive-looking, and I wondered what the neighbours thought of the din. If the people throwing the party had any clue, they’d have issued a street-wide invitation to head off any complaints.