Games Makers: A London Satire

by Andrew Calcutt

There is no pressing need to prolong this. Job done, and a respectable amount of networking to follow. Enough gosh-ing and joshing for each of our musketeers to have presented himself to the other with a flourish, hinting at swordplay but without any weapons drawn in anger. Surely best to leave it at that.

  But it doesn’t happen that way. What’s best... must be happening some place else.

  While Pete’s been reining in his unexpected readiness to muck in with a man he swore he’d never, ever trust again, Tony, too, is surprised by how much empathy he has – finds himself having – with his old partner.

  Each for the other. All over again. Like old times.

  Face it, Tony, you want to feel you are both in it together again. As if a rush of memory could sweep away your current uncertainty and tide you over.

  ‘We might make a night of it,’ Tony suggests, taking care to formulate an hypothesis rather than a straightforward invitation. ‘Go up town. Eat, drink, who knows? All very sedate, though. No more rock’n’roll in my life.’

  He doesn’t want to be rebuffed but finally he puts his cards on the table. ‘You up for it, Pete?’

  Pete’s pleased to have been asked. Of course it would be delicious to say ‘no’. He formulates refusing, rehearses it, savours the words in his mouth. ‘Sorry, but Carol and the kids are expecting me home. I don’t see enough of them as it is.’

  Once bitten, you fucker, I will fly.

  But Pete doesn’t really want to fly away from Tony.

  In his company he feels honeyed again, though now with a bitter taste, too. Sweet’n’sour, he tells himself, I can live with that.

  Draining his glass, Pete is already phoning home: ‘With Tony after the show. Into town, do you mind? So long since I’ve seen him, I wasn’t sure I’d recognise him... Y’sure? Won’t be too late.

  Love.’

  Now he’s steering Tony towards the Dean of Media Arts and the Vice-Chancellor of the University.

  Wheeled round by his attentive chaperone, their honoured guest supplies acceptable exit lines, though his delivery is a little more abrupt than the senior managers would have liked. How much are we paying him for this?, you can see them thinking.

  Tony meets their gaze. I’m doing it for nowt, he’s thinking. A favour for a friend, if you took the trouble to find out.

  Less than five minutes after first Tony suggested it, our boys are out in the lobby, Pete with a satchel slung over his shoulder, the one that makes him look like a permanent student (Carol always says). Now Tony and he are off and away, scampering into the big city like Morecambe and Wise.

  (7) Bon Voyage