by Nick Hopton
The bartender recommended and served an elaborate champagne cocktail which arrived with a grail of peanuts and crisps. He then presented Jimmy with the bill.
‘Oh no,’ countered Jimmy, ‘the club will pick that up.’ The barman cast him a suspicious look.
‘Club? Sir?’
‘Yeah, Man United. My new club.’
The barman seemed only partially reassured. ‘So if you’re a United player, how come I don’t recognise you?’
‘You will… you will,’ smiled Jimmy confidently. As the barman turned away, he sneaked a look at the bill still sitting on the table. Grief, the one drink came to double the cost of a well-lubricated evening in The Feathers. Suddenly feeling rather sober, he reflected that he still had some way to go before he was totally at home with the new surroundings.
Jimmy’s old club Millwall, though sorry to see him go since he was their top scorer and with him went any real chance of promotion that season, knew that they couldn’t ignore the half a million pounds which United had offered them. That was serious money for a Second Division club. After some half-hearted deliberation the board agreed to let Jimmy go. It had really happened very quickly.
Si didn’t expect to hear from Jimmy for some time. He knew his friend would be caught up in the move and was unlikely to have time for the kind of life he’d been living till then. Si hoped that success wouldn’t go to Jimmy’s head. But even more, he hoped that Jimmy wouldn’t blow this chance. It was almost certainly his last opportunity to make it big as a professional footballer.
~
By now Si had established a routine at work and thought he could read Dougy’s mind well enough. He had done three religious pieces and Dougy hadn’t complained about the generally pro-Government line he’d been taking. He’d decided that this was the message Dougy wanted to get across. So Si relaxed. It was time to really put the boot into the Opposition’s education policy.
Si wrote a story about a vicar in Wakefield—an easy hook—who had spouted a lot of guff about daily prayers in comprehensive schools. A few days later, he heard about an Anglican bishop who’d made some injudicious remarks on local radio attacking the Government’s education record. Si followed it up and wrote a witty piece pulling the bishop’s arguments apart and asking if it was official that the Anglican Church would be taking sides in the election battle.
The day after the piece appeared Dougy called him. ‘Loved it, kid. Loved it. You just keep it up, okay?’
Si felt smug. This was child’s play. He’d got his job sussed and now he was going to enjoy it.
~
‘Jimmy called,’ said Bill.
‘Oh yes? Did he leave a message?’
‘Yeah. Said he’d be back on Wednesday night. He’ll ring again.’
Si was excited at the prospect of seeing Jimmy so soon. He’d only been gone a month. It would be great to hear how things were going.
On Wednesday evening they met at the usual time at The Feathers. Jimmy was relaxed because Wednesday was Brenda’s night off. He didn’t want his former lover to spoil his triumphant return from the north.
‘The Boss reckons that if I have another good session in the Reserves, I might be on the bench for next week’s first team match.’
‘Shit. That’s great. It’s really happening for you, isn’t it?’
‘Sure is.’ Jimmy looked well on his success. He wasn’t drinking—just orange juice—and the sallow look which had haunted his face for the past year had gone. This was a man reborn and burning with ambition.
When he first came into the pub, a couple of the regulars looked at him a bit oddly—word had spread fast. Not that they approved of his move to Manchester United—they all supported Arsenal and Chelsea. But otherwise nothing had changed in The Feathers. Not even Si, thought Jimmy. Strange, when so much had happened in his own life since he last saw his friend.
‘So, how’ve you been, mate?’
‘All right… All right. I got a letter from Roberta the other day.’
‘Roberta?’
‘The foreign one.’
‘Oh yes, Roberta. She was nice, she was. Pity it didn’t work out for you.’
‘Well, she wants to work things out.’
‘Really? How? Is she coming back here, then?’
‘No, she wants me to convert and to go visit her in the Sudan.’
‘Grief. That’s a bit heavy. Convert to what, anyway?’
‘To Islam. To become a Muslim.’
‘Gawd.’
‘That’s what I thought. I mean, I’m not really religious but to become a Muslim… That’s really asking a lot.’
‘And what if you don’t? Can’t you go and visit her anyway?’
‘No. She says her father would never tolerate her going out with a non-believer.’
‘You’re in a right mess here. Maybe you should convert?’
Si wondered. Why not? It was quite an attractive philosophy and as religions went it had some good points about it. Si had always had a soft spot for Islamic art and ceramics. ‘Maybe. But that’s not the half of it. You see, Roberta said that if I went to the Sudan now, without converting, there would be a danger that I’d be killed. By extremists.’
This decided Jimmy. ‘Forget it, mate. This is crazy. She’s only a chick, after all. Many more where she came from.’
‘Yeah, I suppose so.’
‘Get yourself a nice English girl. One who doesn’t threaten to kill you. Know what I mean?’
‘But she was special. Really special in some ways…’
‘I don’t even want to hear about it. You might end up getting me killed as an accomplice!’
Si managed a smile.
‘That’s better. Look, there’s plenty of girls who’d leap at the chance to go out with a guy like you. Plenty.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Yeah. Just look at that one over there… No, not there. The one by the bar. With the black jeans on.’
Si began to take heart. It was good to see Jimmy back in London. He brought with him a sense of perspective.
~
Sir Lesley glanced in the mirror and decided that he looked immaculate. Even at his age, he could turn young women’s heads. He straightened his bow tie, shrugged inside his dinner jacket and, holding himself erect, returned to the drawing room to await his guests.
Sir Lesley was a self-made millionaire who had long since buried his origins. A shrewd businessman and a friend to what he liked to call “the political class”, he considered himself an influential man. His newspaper was just one way of exerting this influence. Certainly, it was the most public technique he used. As a man of influence and property, Sir Lesley liked to keep a two-bedroom mews cottage in Chelsea. He rarely stayed there, preferring to return to Wiltshire and the young family he had produced with his second wife, Marina. But the mews cottage served for discreet business meetings and occasional dinner parties for select groups of friends.
This evening Sir Lesley was expecting half a dozen guests, including two Cabinet Ministers, the Shadow Spokesman for the Environment, the presenter of a nightly current affairs programme and the head of a merchant bank. The sixth and, in Sir Lesley’s eyes, the most important guest was La Contessa di San Benedino, Carla Melli.
Sir Lesley had been introduced to the widow at a Sotheby’s reception the week before. He had been struck by her mournful beauty and brooding intelligence. He hadn’t met a woman like her before. His interest was heightened by Carla’s aloofness and obvious indifference to his presence. But when he had suggested a quiet supper with ‘a few interesting friends’, she had accepted graciously.
By the time Carla arrived the other guests were already onto their second drink. As she entered the room, the two male politicians leapt to their feet. The Secretary of State for Education, Alison Smith, and the TV journalist Suzanne Radi remained seated. Alison glanced at the newcomer briefly and, once introduced, returned deliberately to her conversation with the Shadow Spokesman, ignoring the freque
nt glances he cast over her shoulder.
Sir Lesley perched beside Carla, who was the focus of the other guests’ attention. ‘Carla… May I call you that?’
An elegant nod, betrayed only by a slight play around her mouth, indicated he could.
Sir Lesley smiled as if he’d just been elevated to a peerage, and continued declaiming to his guests. ‘Carla lives in London but rarely goes out. We’re extremely honoured to have her here tonight.’
Carla offered a demure smile to the collected company.
‘Which part of Italy are you from?’ fawned the Government Chief Whip. ‘Tuscany? I do so love Tuscany.’
‘No, not Tuscany.’
The Chief Whip drooped.
‘I was brought up in Paris, but my family are from near Lago Maggiore.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. I had a holiday near Lugano ten years ago…’
Dinner passed off smoothly, and even Alison seemed to warm to Carla.
After the crème brûlée, Sir Lesley sat at the end of the table surveying the scene and congratulating himself. Talk about power and influence, he thought. I’ve got it, I really have. Just look at my guests… You should always judge a man by his friends… He waved to the waiter to refill Carla’s glass with the excellent Sancerre he’d personally chosen.
‘Really my dear Carla, you must have a little bit more wine.’
‘Sir Lesley, you are a naughty man.’
‘Me? No, I’m never naughty.’ Sir Lesley flushed.
‘Yes you are naughty… Not just with wine, but also with your newspaper.’
‘Oh?’ He was slightly taken aback. He hadn’t expected her to take a serious tack.
‘Yes. Just yesterday I read a story in your paper which made fun of the Rabbi Rebecca Schultz. It said that she was an example of the wet liberalism prevalent among religious leaders in Britain today. And that the future of the country should not be trusted to people like her.’
‘Oh…’ Sir Lesley vaguely remembered reading the piece in the Diary. It hadn’t struck him as particularly offensive at the time. In fact it seemed along the right lines. He was as keen as either of the Cabinet Ministers at the table to pick holes in the Opposition’s religious education policy.
‘But it was naughty to write that. And to say that she ate pork.’ For the first time that evening Carla became really animated. The other guests broke off their conversations to listen in.
‘The story said she ate pork? Oh, I doubt it.’
‘Are you questioning my word, Sir Lesley?’
‘Not at all, my dear… Now, would you like some coffee? We can adjourn to…’
But Carla interrupted him. ‘In a moment. But just to finish with this story. The paper said that Rebecca, who is a friend of mine… It said she had advised the journalist not to worry too much about eating pork. And that she had eaten pork herself in the past. Your article made fun of poor Rebecca.’
Carla seemed to realise that she had been on the verge of making a scene and embarrassing her host. She slipped back behind her mask and resumed the flirtation. ‘So, you see, Sir Lesley, you are a naughty man.’
Sir Lesley tried to smile but was only able to produce a grimace. He was beyond embarrassment. Inside he was boiling. Wait till I get hold of McCormack, he fumed.
‘Shall we take some coffee in the drawing room? Alison, why don’t you lead the way? Through the door to the right…’ Alison threw him a mocking glance and glided out of the dining room. As everyone apart from Carla knew, she didn’t need directions. She had spent enough time here in the past to know her way around. Her eyes twinkled as she recalled a certain incident on the dining room table which would certainly have surprised tonight’s guests if they’d known. But the real source of her amusement was the way that chit of a girl had torn a strip off Lesley.
As he gave his arm to Carla and felt the limp touch of her hand, Sir Lesley realised with a surge of irrational anger that the dinner party had failed to advance his amorous plans.
~
‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
‘What? How do you mean?’ Dougy was confused. He had no idea what Sir Lesley was on about.
‘Don’t muck me around, McCormack. I employed you to produce a paper, not to offend people. You realise that, don’t you?’
‘Yes, of course, Sir Lesley. But if you don’t mind me asking…’
‘I do mind. I mind very much. In fact I mind immensely. Next time you decide to attack respectable members of the Jewish community, you think again. Okay?’
‘Uh…’
‘Do you hear me?’
‘Yes, Sir Lesley.’
‘Good. Good.’ Having vented his spleen and frustration, the newspaper magnate calmed down somewhat. ‘Okay, well, we’ll say no more about it, this time…’ He let the threat hang as he pressed the button and cut the line.
Dougy got up and breathed deeply. What the heck had that all been about? He stood in front of the big windows and looked out across Docklands. He loved this view. To him it symbolised the new Britain. Power, glass, money and water, glamorously combined. But even the view couldn’t cheer him at this moment. He tried to work out what had upset his boss. Finally, he slapped the glass.
‘Damn. It was the bloody Diary.’ He walked over and opened the door. ‘Martha, get me Simpson up here now. Like pronto. Okay?’ Martha returned a scared look as Dougy slammed the door.
~
‘But I thought that was what you wanted.’
‘Well, I don’t want it any more. Okay? I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to get it right. Understand?’
‘Yes.’ Si looked glum.
‘I brought you here because I thought you had potential. Don’t blow it, okay? Don’t blow it.’
Si just nodded and hoped he would be allowed to leave the room soon. The story had been routine, part of the series on religion and education. He’d done nothing out of the ordinary. Just phoned up Rabbi Schultz and pretended to be a lapsed Jew wanting advice on dietary rules. She’d been sweet and helpful and the piece he’d written had presented her far more sympathetically than had initially been his intention. And now this. Dougy bollocking him for no apparent reason. Si couldn’t make it out. But he’d realised at an early stage in the interview that it was prudent to remain silent and not to attempt a defence. Hopefully Dougy would calm down and forget about the whole thing in a day or two.
‘And I’ve been thinking,’ said Dougy, as if moving on to an unrelated subject. ‘I think we’ve probably done enough on the religious education stories. For the time being anyway. So drop it now, okay?’
‘Sure. Of course.’
‘Good. Now, just to be on the safe side, I want you to show me the Diary page from now on before it goes to bed, okay? I don’t want any more cock-ups. All right? All right?’
Si groaned inwardly. One of the things he’d enjoyed most about his job was the semi-autonomy he’d had to decide what went into the Diary. It now looked as though Dougy was removing this authority and relegating him to an Assistant Diary Editor role. At least for the time being.
‘Yeah. Of course.’ Si looked up as Dougy’s eyes bored into him like lasers. He looked away and started to move towards the door.
As he went out he passed Martha. She glanced up quickly before looking nervously past him into Dougy’s office. Si thought he could see the faint stain of tears on her powdered cheeks. He managed a weak smile and raised his eyebrows. He sympathised—what a nightmare to work so closely with the irascible editor. At least he could now bolt back to his own relatively safe corner of the office. Martha was exposed to Dougy the whole working day. Her gaze flickered back onto Si as he passed. But she didn’t return his smile.
~
Si knew he should stop going to parties. He simply didn’t enjoy them any more. Even less since Jimmy had moved away. He’d come to this one with some acquaintances from work and, although he told himself it was history and a waste of emotions, he couldn’t help remembering the la
st such party he’d been at where he’d met Roberta. He missed her.
‘God, I’m bored.’ A girl standing next to him brushed back a loose strand of blond hair and leaned back against the wall. All around the party continued unabated. ‘All these ghastly people. Have you seen our host?’
‘No, can’t say I have.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t bother going looking for him. When I came in he was standing right here and I thought it right to say hello, especially since I didn’t know him.’
‘So how did you get here, then?’
‘Oh, I came with some friends, but they’ve disappeared now. Anyway, I went up and thanked him for his hospitality and do you know what he said?’
‘Uh, no.’
‘He said, “Hey babe, no big deal. You just go on in there and have fun. There’s lots of coke and some serious meat to get your teeth into…” I mean! What way is that to welcome somebody, especially someone you don’t know?’
Si sucked on his beer and tried to assess this talkative girl. She was attractive, and dressed conventionally with an Alice band and a stripy shirt far too big for her worn over a short black skirt. Court shoes and navy tights confirmed the look. Normally such women bored him silly, but this one had something about her. A mesmerising vitality and, despite the superficial appearance, a malevolent sparkle in her cornflower eyes that spoke of sharp intelligence.
‘So why are you bored? All that coke and… How did you put it? Serious meat? Not very lady-like expressions, are they?’
‘Don’t patronise me. He said it, not me. I would never use such terms normally. If you’re going to be boring I’ll go and find someone more interesting to talk to.’
‘No, don’t get like that. I was only trying to make conversation. I’m sorry.’ Si changed tack. ‘Look, I’m Si, what’s you’re name?’
‘Mary, Mary Cunningham,’ and she stuck out her hand expectantly.
Si took it and completed the formal greeting. ‘So, what do you do, Mary Cunningham?’
She narrowed her eyes but didn’t turn away. ‘I work in the City. Emerging markets.’