to one corner and cramped enough for the staff to be unable to serve side by side necessitating an intricate but effective pas de deux. Whilst one pulled a pint or reached for a whisky glass or discussed the runners at Kempton Park, the other would look over his shoulder to take the next order. And then they’d change position with a courteous glide. A coal fire murmured away constantly from November until March. From May until September, the back door was permanently open to a small patio complete with its own grapevine, increasing the pub’s interior capacity of twenty-eight seated and six standing to a further twelve standing. On Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Thursdays, sausages and mash were available. At other times, peanuts and crisps were complimentary.
At the Swallow, though no one actually knew what anyone actually did or where they lived, the atmosphere was congenial and every now and then, a sense of community emerged. Arthur gave everyone a great tip for shares to be bought in a new Internet start-up. Lynton offered Marlboro cigarettes for less than half the shop price. When Barry’s flat was broken into, his home was restocked courtesy of the staff and clients at the Swallow. Eddie’s cousin owned a locksmith’s concession and sorted out new security. Anne ran up two new pairs of curtains for Barry because the burglars had ripped down his to use as sacks. Lynton knew someone who did CD players on the cheap and as they owed him a favour, he secured one for Barry for free. But Saul earned himself complimentary pints for a month. Not that free drinks were Saul’s motivation to provide Barry with more CDs than he’d owned in the first place, an electric shaver, an electric toothbrush that retailed at twice the price of the shaver, a digital camera, an Alessi teapot and a lava lamp.
‘Blimey, mate,’ Keith the landlord had marvelled, pulling Saul a Guinness on the house, ‘is all that kosher?’
‘You got a little shop or something?’ asked Barry, hugely grateful but also quietly wondering what else Saul had. ‘Or you got the back of a lorry?’
‘Knock-off?’ Lynton quizzed, defensive but interested.
Saul had laughed. ‘It’s kosher, Lynton, your patch is safe, mate! I’m a writer,’ he shrugged, knowing he’d told them before at some point. ‘I’m sent stuff all the time to test and review. Mostly, they don’t ask for it back. I’ve had a 42-inch plasma since the summer.’ Barry glanced up hopefully from behind the ziggurat of CDs. ‘They’ve only just asked for it back,’ Saul continued, ‘they’re talking about installing a home cinema for me to test next.’ Saul was called everything from lucky geezer to jammy bastard and the wish-lists of the staff and clients at the Swallow were discreetly presented to him.
So, when Ian Ashford phoned Saul, Saul suggested the Swallow as perfect for a mid-November, mid-week drink, with perhaps sausages and mash if they fancied.
‘Jesus, it’s been a while.’ Ian shook Saul’s hand warmly, nodded and grinned. ‘What’ll you drink?’ he asked, glancing around the Swallow and nodding approvingly.
‘I’ll have a Stella, thanks,’ Saul replied, reciprocating Ian’s amiable nodding with a friendly punch to the bicep. ‘Good to see you,’ Saul said warmly, ‘it’s been bloody ages. Where’ve you been?’
‘Otherwise engaged,’ said Ian. He watched Saul take a long drink. ‘Literally,’ he added. He winked, sighed and took a swig of beer. ‘Engaged.’
‘Work been a bitch, then?’ Saul enquired.
‘Work?’ Ian said. ‘I’m engaged.’ Again he winked and raised his eyebrows along with his glass when he saw the penny drop for Saul.
‘Christ!’ Saul exclaimed. ‘Bloody hell,’ he raised his glass and drank urgently before chinking Ian’s, ‘bloody hell – and there was I thinking you’ve been up to your eyes in some crucial trial at the Old Bailey when all the while you were waltzing up the road to eternal love and heading down the aisle to domesticity!’
‘You sound just like your column,’ Ian protested, ‘don’t you go featuring me.’
‘Here’s to you and Liz. Congratulations,’ Saul said, with genuine affection.
‘Er, I’m engaged to Karen,’ said Ian. ‘Lizzie and I broke up.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said. Though he hadn’t expected Ian to be engaged, he certainly hadn’t reckoned on it being to anyone other than Liz.
‘I left Liz for her,’ Ian said lightly.
‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said darkly.
‘I know,’ said Ian guiltily, ‘I know.’ He sipped at his beer and looked into the middle distance. ‘I always thought it would be Lizzie. Then I met Karen and there was no contest. No conscience, even. It’s what you’d call a “no-brainer” – I had to be with her. Simple.’
‘Bloody hell,’ Saul said, his vocabulary sorely limited by the shock of Ian’s news. He downed his drink thirstily. ‘Another pint?’ He went to the bar, ordering sausages and mash at the same time. ‘How’s work?’ Saul asked Ian on his return, a packet of crisps between his teeth.
‘Oh fine,’ said Ian, ‘manic. Karen’s a lawyer too so she totally understands the stress and long hours issue. She works in Litigation. At Tate Scot Wade.’
‘Right,’ said Saul, ‘right.’ He didn’t want to dislike Karen before he’d even met her, he didn’t want his affection for Liz to colour his acceptance of her. But he couldn’t help but resent Ian’s surprise fiancée for dominating the conversation thus far and for having monopolized his friend in recent months.
‘How about you?’ Ian asked. ‘What’s happening?’
‘More work than I can do – but I can’t turn any of it down,’ Saul laughed. ‘I love it. Mostly.’
‘Karen’s a fan of your column,’ Ian said, ‘we both are.’
‘Which one?’ Saul asked, genuinely flattered.
‘ES magazine – it’s so much more than a consumer low-down. It’s like a little slice of your life – very self-effacing and engaging. Well written, too.’ Ian chinked his glass. ‘I chuckle but you have Karen in stitches.’
‘Cheers, mate,’ Saul said, ‘cheers.’
‘And you still have your regular slots in the men’s mags?’
‘Yes,’ said Saul, ‘GQ have expanded my section. I do the gadgets pages for that new mag, Edition, my columns for the weeklies and the odd bit of roving reporter here and there, some editorial consultancy for launches on the side.’
‘Don’t suppose you’ve any iPods knocking around?’ said Ian, who could easily afford one but loved the idea of a freebie. ‘Any cool press trips? Golf in the Algarve? Scuba anywhere?’
‘Just the one iPod,’ Saul said, ‘and as for press trips, there was Bermuda for sailing and Sweden for sledding. By husky. And a lost weekend in Prague with Sonja from the Tourist Office.’
‘You jammy bastard,’ Ian laughed.
‘Three thousand words, though I had to censor most of it, thanks to Sonja,’ Saul said, as if it was an occupational hazard.
‘And how about you?’ Ian asked again, with a concern Karen had taught him how to access. Saul tucked
