Manservant

by Harwood, Michael

  I followed Drummond down to the lobby and waited with him whilst the doorman hailed him a cab.

  “So shall we meet back here at 6 p.m.?” he asked as we waited. “I’ve booked a table at China Tang for 8 p.m.”

  “That sounds great—I love Chinese food,” I said, opening the door of the cab as it pulled up in front of us. “See you later,” I mouthed through the window as it pulled away.

  I checked my watch and, realizing I had a fair bit of time to kill, I decided to walk over to Savile Row and stop for a coffee en route. But just as I was about to walk off another cab pulled up directly in front of where I was standing.

  “Need a cab, mate?” the driver said through the open window.

  “No, thanks . . .” I began to say, but when I looked into the cab I stopped mid sentence. “Frank. What are you doing here?”

  “Just get in, will you? I’m holding up traffic.”

  Not wanting to cause a scene I climbed into the back just as he accelerated, sending me totally off balance and headfirst into the lap of a woman I had never seen before on the backseat.

  “Oh! Christ, I’m so sorry,” I said as I struggled to right myself.

  “You all right there, Anthony?” she said, helping me up by my arm. “I’m Karen,” she said, taking my hand and shaking it firmly.

  “I’m really sorry, but I don’t think we’ve met,” I said, reaching over to flick the switch that would allow me to be heard by the driver.

  “Frank, what’s going on?” I said, banging on the glass partition.

  “Hang on a minute—I’m just going to park up,” he said, pulling into an empty parking bay just off Curzon Street.

  The woman next to me just sat there and smiled. She looked vaguely familiar, but for the life of me, I couldn’t put my finger on how I knew her.

  “I see you two have met then,” Frank said as he climbed into the back of the cab with us.

  “Frank, seriously, what the fuck is going on? Why are you here and who is this?” I said, before adding, “Excuse my language.”

  “Anthony, this is my sister Karen.”

  “That’s really nice for both of you, but why did you feel it was necessary to kidnap me in order to introduce us?”

  Karen began to rummage around in an oversized leopard-print handbag whilst I just stared at Frank, shaking my head.

  “Karen’s got a bit of explaining to do, haven’t you, sis?”

  “Yeah, s’pose I have,” she said, letting out a throaty laugh.

  Then I realized why she looked so familiar. I definitely hadn’t met her before, but she had exactly the same eyes as Frank, and when she laughed it was obvious they weren’t just brother and sister. They were twins.

  “Frank said I’d better explain why you found this in the glove box of my car,” she said, holding up the note from the glove box. “I’m surprised you could read my handwriting if I’m honest,” she said, letting out a machine-gun laugh.

  “What she’s trying to say is that I drove you to Sussex in her car that day. She’s my twin sister. Not my girlfriend. And she wrote that stupid note!”

  “Oi! Watch your mouth, brov,” she said, punching his shoulder. “I lent you my car, didn’t I?”

  Frank was laughing now and playfully ruffling her hair. It was sweet seeing them together, and for a second it even made me wish I had a sister like Karen.

  “So,” I said to Frank, “turns out you’re not a liar after all.”

  He didn’t say anything; he just shrugged his shoulders and smiled.

  “Right, I’m off then,” Karen said suddenly, climbing out of the cab. “Looks like you two have a bit of making up to do.”

  Frank followed her and hugged her tightly, but before she walked away she leaned back into the cab and placed her hand on my knee.

  “Be nice to him, Anthony. He’s a lovely bloke and not as tough as he looks.”

  She kissed Frank on the cheek and disappeared down the street.

  “So, where to, gov?” he asked through the partition after climbing back into the driver’s seat.

  I felt myself beaming at him, but I honestly couldn’t stop myself.

  “Number One Savile Row, please, driver,” I said. “And if you are not busy maybe we’ll have time for that coffee afterward.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I had dreamt of being fitted for a bespoke suit for as long as I could remember, so going to Gieves and Hawkes was a bit of a dream come true.

  When I arrived I was shown straight through to a private room and told that my tailor would be along shortly.

  The room was small and wood-paneled with a curtained-off changing area in the corner. It had a window that looked out over bustling Savile Row and a large oak table piled high with hardbound books containing fabric swatches. As I waited I began to flick through them, wondering what kind of fabric I should choose. Some of the pages contained Harris Tweeds in every possible color combination, but I laughed at the idea of Drummond and me in matching suits.

  I was flicking through a book of fine Italian gabardine when the door opened.

  “Mr. Gowers? I’m Patrick, Lord Shanderson’s tailor,” a tall, bearded man said, dropping a heavy bolt of fabric onto the table before offering me his hand.

  He was immaculately groomed and was, as you’d expect, wearing the sharpest suit I’d ever seen, complete with a tape measure round his neck.

  “Pleased to meet you, Patrick. I’ve just been trying to choose a fabric from all of these,” I said, waving a hand over all the swatch books. “I might need a bit of help. Although I did see a nice navy blue gabardine that I thought . . .”

  “Actually, Mr. Gowers, the fabric for your suit has already been chosen for you by His Lordship.” He pointed to the bolt of cloth he had been carrying.

  I hadn’t taken much notice when he walked in, but I examined it more closely now I knew I was stuck with it.

  “Oh, I see. And I take it this is it,” I said, running my hand over it.

  It was a sort of nondescript mid-gray flannel, and, whilst it was nice enough, it wasn’t what I would choose for myself.

  “Yes, a very fine cloth this one,” he said, slipping off his jacket. “If you could stand completely naturally with your back to me, we can begin.”

  He took what seemed like a million measurements, jotting each one down into an old leather-bound book.

  He bent my arms into various positions and pulled my shoulders back. At one point he announced that I had one arm significantly longer than the other. He seemed very matter-of-fact about it, but I couldn’t help wondering how I’d managed to never notice I was so hideously deformed.

  “I was thinking maybe a three-button jacket, you know, kind of sixties?” I said as Patrick silently worked away.

  “Actually, sir, Lord Shanderson was very clear about what he wanted. He has requested that we measure you up for a double-breasted suit.”

  “I see. In that case I’ll shut up then, shall I?”

  Patrick just looked up and smiled weakly before continuing to measure my inside leg. The whole thing took no longer than half an hour, which I was glad about, as not having the chance to choose my own suit had rather taken the gloss off the whole experience.

  Patrick said he’d be in touch about a second fitting, but to be honest all I wanted to do was get out of there and see Frank.

  I burst out of Gieves and Hawkes’s door expecting to see Frank parked right outside, but he wasn’t. I scanned the street in both directions, but I couldn’t see him anywhere.

  When a black cab pulled up alongside me, I excitedly bent down, expecting to see Frank’s rugged face staring back at me, but it wasn’t him.

  I thought maybe he’d got bored of waiting and picked up a fare. Perhaps he’d had a change of heart, and he didn’t want to have coffee with me after all. I tried to suppress my disappointment, but in truth I felt like someone had just punched me in the stomach.

  After realizing I’d been stood up by one man and deemed incapa
ble of choosing my own clothes by another, I decided there was only one thing for it and that was to spend some money. And what better place to do it than Bond Street?

  I headed past Burlington Arcade and was just about to head down Cork Street when I heard footsteps behind me. I spun around just in time to see Frank skid to a halt right in front of me.

  “You deaf?” he panted. “I’ve been shouting after you from right back there.”

  As he bent over, trying to catch his breath, I felt a huge surge of relief.

  “You came,” I said to the back of his head.

  “ ’Course I bloody came. Did you think I was going to piss off and leave you? I just went to park the taxi, and when I came back the geezer in the shop said you’d just gone.” He straightened up and stared at me like he was waiting for me to speak. “Well?” he asked.

  “Well, what?”

  “Are we going for this bloody coffee or not?”

  We crossed over Bond Street and headed down to Berkeley Square where I knew an ancient coffee shop that did great espresso. As we walked Frank chatted nonstop, telling me about the various characters he’d had in his cab that day and how he’d nearly got a parking ticket. In fact, he talked so much I started to think he was a bit nervous.

  “I don’t know how you can drink that stuff,” he said when the waitress brought over my double espresso.

  “Well, that just goes to show you what different people we are, doesn’t it?” I laughed. I raised an eyebrow at him as he stirred four sugar cubes in his tea, one after the other.

  “You and me aren’t all that different, you know,” he said.

  “Aren’t we?”

  “No. I think we want the same things.”

  As he spoke I studied his face. He looked serious, and there was something about the way he was speaking that made me think he’d been rehearsing what to say.

  “Listen, Frank. It’s been great seeing you, but I think you should know that I’ve started seeing someone, so you and I should just stay mates.”

  He looked up from his tea and cocked his head to one side.

  “Seeing someone? Like who?”

  “Never mind who. That’s private, and anyway, he and I have to keep it totally on the quiet,” I replied.

  He shrugged his shoulders and tried to look nonchalant, but I could tell it wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

  “Yeh, mates would be good,” he said eventually, before reaching across the table and putting one of his huge hands on top of mine. “But why all the secrecy?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Come on! How complicated can it be? I mean it’s not like you are shagging, I dunno, the boss or something, is it?” He laughed.

  The air in the café suddenly felt thick and oppressive; I felt my cheeks flush red-hot. I stared at my empty cup, but when I went to speak my tongue felt like sandpaper and refused to work. I needed to get out of there and away from all of Frank’s questions.

  “Anthony, you’re not, are you?”

  I looked up and saw he was staring at me and slowly shaking his head; his lovely blue eyes were now full of concern. Concern for me.

  I got up from the table and pulled a fiver out of my wallet.

  “Gotta go,” I mumbled as I pulled on my coat.

  Frank suddenly grabbed my elbow and steered me out of the café.

  “You are going nowhere until we have had a little chat,” he said as he frog-marched me across the road and into Berkeley Square. He found an empty bench and pointed to it.

  “Right, sit down and get talking. I’ve got all afternoon.”

  I told Frank everything. It was as if he’d pulled a ripcord or something. I just couldn’t seem to stop. I told him about all the gifts I’d been given, and I told him exactly what I had to do to Drummond to deserve them. When I finally stopped talking I held my breath, expecting him to be angry with me or even a bit jealous, but he was neither.

  “You need to pack in your job,” he said matter-of-factly. “In fact go and tell him to shove his job up his arse. Actually, on second thought, maybe that’s not such a good choice of words.”

  I began to laugh, even though the situation I had got myself into suddenly seemed far from funny. Frank put his arm around me and pulled me tightly to him so my head was resting on his chest.

  “Frank, what am I going to do? I need this job and . . . I like him. He looks after me.”

  Frank looked more than a little dubious, but chose his words carefully.

  “Anthony,” he said, running his fingers through my hair, “all these things he’s done for you are not because he has your best interests at heart. The car, the cottage, all that shit is just so he can control you. You must realize that.”

  I wanted him to shut up. I wanted to get up and walk away and forget this conversation ever happened, but then again sitting on a park bench wrapped tightly in Frank’s arms felt pretty damned good too.

  “He says he loves me,” I said.

  Frank took a deep breath before speaking.

  “Anthony, if you believe that you are a bigger mug than I thought. There’s no easy way to tell you this, but he loves being fucked by the help. Plain and simple.”

  His words stung like a slap in the face, and I pressed my nose into his sweatshirt so that he couldn’t see the tears welling up.

  After I’d blinked away any tears that threatened to embarrass me I glanced at my watch and gasped when I saw the time. It was 5:30 p.m., and I’d promised to meet Drummond at six back at the hotel.

  “Frank, I really have to go. I’m going to be late for him,” I said, jumping to my feet.

  “Promise me you will think about what I’ve said,” he said, getting to his feet.

  We stood for a few seconds just staring at each other, saying nothing, and then he pulled me into a bear hug so tight it squeezed the breath out of me.

  I pulled away and, saying nothing, headed in the direction of The Dorchester. When I reached the far side of the square I looked back, but I couldn’t see whether or not he was still there as the tears had begun to flow.

  Jesus, Frank. What have you done to me? I never cry, I thought as I wiped my eyes and headed off to meet Drummond. He was on the phone when I got to the suite and barely looked up as I walked through, so I headed for the adjoining room, where I’d unpacked my clothes. I quickly stripped off and turned on the shower, sitting on the edge of the bath whilst I waited for the room to fill with steam. It would be the first proper shower I’d had for weeks as Rose View’s bathroom offered not much more than a dribble of water compared to this shower. It was a gray marble cubicle as big as the whole bathroom at the cottage with a showerhead the size of a dinner plate fitted into the ceiling. When I stepped under the torrent of hot water, the pressure of it was a shock at first, but I quickly relaxed, and it soon began to feel as if every inch of my body were being massaged. It was deafening too. So much so that I didn’t hear Drummond enter the room.

  “Need a hand?” he said, pulling open the shower door.

  “Jesus, Drum!” I gasped, almost losing my balance. “You scared me.”

  I quickly turned off the shower and stepped out. Drummond was holding one of the hotel’s enormous, white, fluffy towels for me.

  “How was Maria?” he asked.

  “Fine. She sends her regards,” I said from behind the towel.

  I slipped on a robe and began to lay out what I was going to wear for dinner. I took out my dark gray Helmut Lang suit and carefully laid it on the bed. It was my absolute favorite thing in my wardrobe and had cost me a small fortune, but the way it made me feel when I wore it made it worth every penny.

  “You’re not wearing that, are you?” Drummond said from behind me.

  “Why not?” I snapped, turning to face him. “Got any better ideas?”

  “As a matter of fact I have,” he said, holding out a bright yellow Selfridges bag. “Take a look.”

  I took the bag from him and removed a parcel wrapped in tissue paper. In
side was a black velvet dinner jacket with satin lapels.

  “Put it on; let’s see if it fits,” he said excitedly.

  I slipped out of the robe and pulled on the jacket. The silk lining felt cold and strange against my bare skin.

  “That looks very smart,” Drummond said, smoothing down the lapels and fastening the buttons. “Do you like it?”

  I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall opposite and quickly looked away again. It looked hideous on me. The fit was perfect, but the cut was so old-fashioned, I wanted to rip it off immediately. I could tell by the feel of it that it was expensive, but it just wasn’t me.

  “It’s lovely,” I said, kissing him on the cheek. “I love it, thank you.”

  “Come on, hurry up or we’ll be late for our booking. That Chinese maître d’ is an absolute beast about timekeeping—the last time I was here he gave my table away to some bloody Russians whilst Tom was looking for a parking space.” Drummond laughed.

  I retired to the adjoining room to finish dressing and when I returned, he looked me up and down with an approving nod.

  “You look very handsome,” he said, placing a hand on the small of my back and guiding me toward the door.

  Stepping into China Tang is like stepping into a 1930s Shanghai opium den crossed with an English gentleman’s club. But whilst it has the power to transport its guests to another continent the minute they walk through its doors, the restaurant is actually accessed via a discreet door just off the main reception area of the Dorchester.

  Inside the restaurant it’s all dark wood paneling and oriental lanterns with a smattering of chintz, so, even though I was uncomfortable in the jacket Drummond had bought me, I had to admit that it suited the surroundings rather more than it suited me.

  “Would you like a cocktail or shall we move straight onto wine?” Drummond asked as soon as we sat down at our table.

  “Either,” I replied.

  “We’ll have two of your Sandy Slings, please,” Drummond said to the waiter. “You seem a little subdued tonight,” he said when the waiter left us.

  “I don’t mean to be,” I said, offering him a weak smile. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”