Back Trouble

by Matt Kinnaird

  ‘It’s not buying them I’m concerned about. It’s stealing them.’

  ‘Stealing them? But it’s right opposite the counter. We keep an eye on it.’

  I tilt my head to the left and raise my eyebrows. ‘It’s also right near the door. And if both staff are helping customers?’

  A flicker of recognition passes over her face. She clenches her jaw in acknowledgement of her mistake, and nods. Without a word she walks to the fizz display and starts to dismantle it, shifting the bottles and boxes towards their usual position to the left of the counter. I watch her while she works. I’ve never thought she was a particularly attractive girl, but occasionally I’ve been tempted. She’s medium height with a solid build, a pretty, round face and enormous breasts, and on delivery days when she strips down to her vest top I certainly get ideas. But she has piercings in her nose and tongue, and spikes in her ears, and they put me off. I also think she looks up to me, and it’s wrong to abuse a position of responsibility.

  Ruth wipes her brow. ‘What do you want there instead?’

  I decide to show her I have faith in her. ‘I’ll let you decide.’

  She turns away and mutters something which sounds like ‘New World fizz, then?’ but I can’t be sure.

  I assume she’s joking, and laugh.

  At noon after a hectic morning Sam, my senior sales assistant, comes in to start his shift. It’s always a good idea to have three people on at the busiest times, especially in the run-up to Christmas, and all three of us will be on now until eight, when Ruth goes home. It’s quiet when Sam arrives, so I take the opportunity to nip to the post office with the banking.

  If I were a habitual criminal instead of an aspiring murderer I know how I’d make my money. I’d hang around outside shops and wait for one of the staff to walk out with something tucked under their arm. It’s simple, and so obvious it beggars belief. It’s not just shops, either. Pubs, restaurants, you name it: we all, once a day, march through town, slightly faster than normal, with a couple of grand in cash in a sack.

  The bottom of the High Street is fifty yards away from my shop, over the river and through the Western Gate, a massive Norman defensive structure marking the boundary of the old city wall. The post office is halfway up, and sparsely populated for a change despite the Saturday crowds, so I quickly deposit the money and head back out into the cold. Some days I have to queue there for half an hour or more, so it seems I’ve got lucky. I don’t have to rush back to work and I can kill two birds with one stone. I begin to meander back down the High Street, towards my shop, watching my breath dissolve in the air. Looking at it, I’m struck by how valuable my breath is to me, and wonder if I’m really considering taking somebody’s breath from them.

  The charity bookshop is only forty paces away. It has a broad range of books. The fiction section takes up the half of the shop nearest the door, and I’m always searching through it for a new paperback, but I rarely venture deeper. Today I brave it, past poetry, first editions, religious, and reference, to nature, film, architecture and more, shaking my head in bewilderment at the peculiar assortment of literature on offer. There are big, gaudy hardbacks on the history of steam trains; whole volumes dedicated to single cocktails; Battleships of the Second World War; Wine-making for Beginners; Beaches of Kent. In a few minutes I find what I’m looking for: Human Anatomy: An Inside Look. Perfect, but I don’t stop there. I can’t just buy this alone, it would look weird. Ah, A Practical Guide to Woodwork. Brilliant. What else is there?

  I end up buying five books, but I’m only interested in two. The hook-nosed pensioner behind the counter tallies up the cost.

  ‘Quite a range of interests,’ she says.

  ‘Quite the opposite,’

  She arranges the web of wrinkles around her eyes into a quizzical expression, so I continue: ‘I’m looking to broaden my knowledge. I’ve decided I don’t know about enough, you know, things.’

  ‘Maybe you need an encyclopaedia?’

  Maybe you need a poke in the eye.

  ‘Maybe next time.’

  ‘I’m sure we’ll have one in stock. That’s £21.95, please.’

  It’s only when I’m out of the shop that I realise I have to carry these back to Viva Vino, and from there back to Wat Close. And every time I want to take a bottle or two home I’ll have the same problem. Carrier bags aren’t good for the back, especially if you’ve only got one, as the lateral forces put pressure on the spine. So I pop into a department store for a rucksack. I buy the least conspicuous bag I can find, navy blue and unmarked apart from the black rubber rectangle which bears the brand name. It’s not a big bag, but there’s room for five books. Or four bottles of wine. Or a knife, a hammer, a hat and a change of clothes.

  The shop’s heaving when I get back. Ruth is manning one of the tills with an exasperated look on her face, and Sam is by the Chilean wine section, talking to a tall, well-dressed woman. I gesture to Ruth to smile, quickly dump my bag at the back of the shop, then join her behind the counter. It’s the usual Saturday afternoon crowd: Mrs Hampton, white-haired, red-faced and trembling, in for her daily half-bottle of gin to hide at the bottom of her handbag, armed with yet another excuse for drinking involving her fictitious daughter; Mr Logan, moustachioed ex-army colonel, wanting a Haut-Medoc to drink in front of the History Channel; squadrons of noisy lads stocking up on beer; the local tramp, Willy, with his pungent handfuls of coppers, incredulous that we still don’t carry Special Brew; attractive student girls with cleavage, clutching cheap Pinot Grigio as if it was drinkable; and then there’s the blonde woman with Sam.

  I know the type; we get a few every weekend. They clamber down from their clean-as-a-whistle off-roaders, having parked them outside on the double yellow, breeze in, let little Quentin and Genevieve run riot round the fragile wine displays without paying them a moment’s notice, and then expect your undivided attention for the foreseeable future. And they don’t just want any old wine; they want the perfect wine to be drunk in a marquee at four in the afternoon, after prawn vol-au-vents but before a buffet lunch, and it must be suitable for their daughter’s engagement party (her fiancé’s a lawyer, don’t you know), and therefore impervious to a broad range of upper-middle class snobbery. It must be sold on sale-or-return, we have to supply the glasses (which they send back sticky, with dead wasps in them) and it must be less than five pounds a bottle, as if they didn’t have money coming out of their eyeballs. Then there’s the fizz, and not everybody likes white, and do we do soft drinks? And is there a bulk discount? So we recommend a light Chilean chardonnay and they don’t like chardonnay, and they never quite got on with New World wines in any case, and is that one too oaky?, and is that one too dry?, and how about a white burgundy? But white burgundy is chardonnay you ignorant bint, and you’ll never get a decent one for under a tenner, and if you’re not going to listen to my advice why did you fucking well ask, you posh cow? And while we’re on the subject, why are you wearing Wellington boots in the middle of the city? Sometimes I feel like flashing a ‘Fox-hunting is murder’ sign at them just for a laugh. Imagine it: ‘Come on Quentin, we’re leaving.’ Well, good riddance. Get back in your four-by-four and fuck off.

  I’m safe from this one, behind the counter, serving. Busy. Sam’s dealing with her, walking with her around the shop, now pointing to some top-shelf Bordeaux, now waving an arm at the fizz, but he’s wading out of his depth. You can always tell with Sam. It’s funny that such a big, handsome guy should lack confidence the way he does. He’s great with the passing trade, but doesn’t like committing himself to recommending something when there’s serious money involved. And this one looks like she might want to spend some serious money. Come to think of it, she’s startlingly attractive. Maybe I should help him out after all.

  The queues at the tills dwindle, and Sam, who’s been treading water for a while, looks to me for support so I join him on the shop floor. He introduces me to the woman. Close up she almost makes me gasp.

 
‘This is our manager. I’m sure he’ll tell you everything you need to know.’

  I extend my hand, try to keep my cool. ‘Good afternoon. Simon Cheese. How can I help?’ Her hand is small, cold and well-moisturised, and she shakes with a firm grip. From first glance I’d been expecting the dangling-a-dead-fish handshake so many of these rich women offer you, as if shaking your hand properly would lower them to your level, but I’m pleasantly surprised.

  ‘Christine Milston.’ She keeps hold of my hand, and keeps hold of my eyes with hers. ‘I’m not sure where to start, but I’ve landed myself in a bit of a pickle.’ She lets me go.

  ‘Oh dear. We can’t have that. What’s the problem?’ She’s beautiful: nape-length bottle-blonde and permatanned, still a couple of years shy of handbag skin; her mouth is round like a thumbprint and her nose is so unassuming it might as well not be there. It’s the eyes that dominate her oval face. They’re open and hopeful like a hungry kitten’s and each time she blinks you’d expect a breeze.

  ‘Well, you see, it’s my daughter’s eighteenth birthday in a week’s time,’ – I’m surprised, she doesn’t look older than forty – ‘and we’d like to throw her a party, and Robert was going to organise everything because he knows about that sort of thing but he’s been detained in New York on business and now it looks as if he’ll miss the party altogether. And he said he’d get the champagne, and we must have champagne because it’s Emily’s favourite and–’ She cocks her head and sighs. ‘You see, what we thought would be fun would be to have some sort of blind champagne tasting, as a bit of entertainment, and everyone could join in. But we haven’t got the champagne.’

  ‘And that’s where I come in?’

  She’s relieved. We understand each other. ‘Exactly. And we haven’t got the wine either.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. How much fizz were you after, exactly?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Well, how many guests are you expecting?’

  She looks upwards, making calculations in her head. I risk a scan, down and up. Expensive black shoes; tight navy jeans; white, fitted shirt, almost see-through; white, well-filled bra; slim silver necklace with a tail of silver globes pointing between her breasts, black Prada handbag. Nice body, and wants people to know it. Since she has no coat, she must have parked outside. She can’t be enjoying the breeze from the front door, though. ‘I think around two-hundred guests.’

  ‘Wow. And all these will be taking part in the tasting?’

  ‘I should think so. And we want enough for people to drink afterwards.’

  ‘Right. You know that’s going to be a lot of Champagne, don’t you?’ She nods a little double nod. Cute as anything. ‘What sort of quality are you after? Vintage versus non-vintage, that sort of thing?’

  ‘Yes, but we’ll want some Krug, Dom Perignon, Cristal, Belle Epoque. We might as well do it properly.’

  My head is starting to spin. This could secure my Christmas bonus on its own. I’m going to need a lot. Where am I going to get it? I walk her to the Champagne section by the counter.

  ‘Ok, this is the sort of thing we have in stock. From our own Champagne to Moët, Bolly, Taittinger, Veuve, Pol Roger … vintage and non-vintage. We don’t carry much of the top-end stuff because we don’t sell a lot here, but I can get it.’ And there’s no way I’m letting you go to Hotshot across town. ‘I can draw up a list of Champagnes I think would be suitable, and try to secure the stock from other branches.’ That will be like getting blood out of a football at this time of year; all the managers hang on to their top bubbly because it helps them hit their targets. But I’ll go over their heads if I have to.

  ‘That would be very kind. I know I’ve left this late.’

  ‘It’s what I’m here for. Now tell me, do you have any budgetary restrictions?’

  For a fraction of a second the life in her face vanishes as if nobody’s home, but her eyes twinkle back into the room as she gets my meaning. This is clearly not a woman who is used to budgetary restrictions. That settles it: I’m going to get this sale and do it right if I have to put on a gimp suit and dance like a monkey.

  ‘Oh no. Robert’s left the chequebook. It won’t be a problem.’

  Chequebook. Quaint. I fight the urge to grin.

  ‘Right. This is what we’ll do. If you’ll just bear with me.’ I start to slide back behind the counter again; it’s time to assert my managerial authority, and you can’t do that without a counter. I nudge past Ruth and reach down for the diary. Mrs Milston follows me on a parallel course along the shop floor. ‘So, at this stage what I’ll do is take your details. Then I’ll make some calculations and draw up a blueprint for your tasting based on the numbers you gave me and what’s available. I’ll start chasing up the Champagne right away. Once that’s settled I’ll give you a call and we can get together to see if it’s the sort of thing you’re after.’ Sam and Ruth exchange a look. ‘How does that sound?’

  ‘That’s marvellous. Thank you.’ Her face is bright and grateful. It doesn’t seem like such a big deal to me, but what do I know? I suppose your level of gratitude is often directly proportional to how badly you feel you need help, rather than the help itself, and she was bordering on panic when she got here. Fantastic. I’m a knight in shining armour. I might be able to take this up another notch.

  I lean forward and she joins me in a conspiratorial huddle. ‘And listen, if you’re running a tasting would you find it useful to have some notes?’

  Bull’s-eye. A hand comes out and grabs my forearm. ‘Oh God, yes please. That would be …’ Her face is now so close to mine I can almost feel its warmth.

  ‘Well. Champagne’s my speciality. How about I write you some? Give you some pointers about the things to look for?’

  Out comes the other hand. ‘That would be just … oh, I think you’ve saved my life.’

  I squeeze her hands and return them to her. We both stand up straight. ‘Not just yet. I’ve got to get the Champagne first. Now, Mrs Milston–’

  ‘Christine.’

  ‘Christine. Could I have an address and telephone number, please?’

  ‘Certainly. I live at Brougham Manor, Brougham.’

  This feels unreal. She’s too nice to be that rich. And I think she fancies me.

  Chapter three

  What really annoys me about the squalid little country we live in is that every bastard’s out for himself, almost without exception. It seems fair enough, as we’re all restricted by our own point of view, but I bloody wish that more people would see things from mine. All I want is a few cases of DP, a couple each of Krug vintage and non-vintage, a couple of Belle-Epoque and a couple of Cristal. Between ourselves and Hotshot we can manage the rest, but I’ve been in the office phoning round for two hours and from the reaction I got from most people you’d think I’d asked them for a lung. So it’s slow work, but I’m getting there.

  I’ve plumped for ten kinds of Champagne, twelve bottles of each, the cheapest of which is a hundred pounds a bottle. At twelve half-glasses per bottle that should cover one hundred and forty-four guests. It’s a cert that some of the two hundred will be driving, and some will be children. Mind you, these posh kids can put back the bubbly too when they take the straws out of their noses.

  My stumbling blocks are the Cristal and the Dom Perignon. Five minutes ago I slammed down the phone to a jobsworth prick in Kensington, who’s got more than enough of the Roederer and won’t give it up, so I got straight back on to my regional manager and explained the situation to him. With any luck, he’ll sort it for me. The Dom I need a lot more of, because that’s for the party too, not just the tasting. I know DP’s a bit steep, but if I’m going to do this for Christine, I’d like to do it properly. I can’t see her settling for anything less classy, and if money’s no object I’m sure she’ll follow my suggestions. I just hope she takes my advice in the spirit it’s intended, and doesn’t think I’m trying to get as much money out of her as I can. I’ve put i
n requests to some of the bigger shops in London to let me have some of their stock, with the backing of the regional manager again, but it looks like I’ll have to drive over there myself to get it; they can’t spare their vans at this time of year, and ours was decommissioned in January. It won’t be so bad, though, and it’ll get me out of the shop for a day. I can still count it as work time on the rota.

  One more phone call and I’m done. I hit the speed dial button marked 235, the big shop’s branch number. Three rings and they pick up.

  ‘Hello, Viva Vino?’

  ‘It’s Simon.’

  ‘Hi Simon. Mark here.’ Hotshot. ‘What can I do for you? I get the feeling this call is going to cost me stock.’

  ‘It’s that big order again. I need two cases of Sancerre and three of Châteauneuf. The pricier one.’

  ‘It’s a definite sale?’

  ‘I haven’t finalised it yet, but she said she was happy to follow my suggestions.’

  ‘Couldn’t you suggest something you’ve got more of?’

  ‘Look, she lives at Brougham Manor. She’s exceptionally rich. I can’t very well give her The Belfry’s house red.’

  ‘Ok. I’ll hold it for you until you finalise the sale. If you do that, you can have it.’

  ‘Great. I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘And thank you.’

  I hang up. I’m not getting drawn into his petty points-scoring, and anyway, I’m sure ‘Great’ qualifies as a thank-you these days.

  I clap my hands and lean back in my chair, feeling the tension finally slip from my shoulders. That’s as much as I can do today, the wheels are in motion. A glance at the CCTV tells me everything’s under control downstairs, so I reach into my new rucksack and get out the book on woodwork.

  Now then, weapons …

  We shut up shop at ten. I let Sam go home and cash up on my own, as reward for the extra lifting and carrying he’s been doing because of my back trouble. I’m distracted anyway, and don’t feel like company. I’d been in a great mood this evening, what with Christine and everything, and just after Ruth left at eight I was bustling round the shop, making it all look as neat and shiny as I could, while entertaining the delightful new notion that I could mix my weapons: knock somebody out with a hammer, then finish them off with a chisel. Bang. But then the Weasel came in.