Are you still in stockbroking?’
I wish she hadn’t said that. Three years ago, in the interregnum between the Post and O’Hare’s, I had spent six months working as a postboy on the trading floor of a big stockbrokers. If my memory served me, I had somewhat overstated my role to her. To what extent, I couldn’t recall. German equities analyst? Chairman?
‘No, I’m in the, er, restaurant trade now.’
In the same way that an usherette’s in the film business.
‘Oh, interesting. You were a media industry analyst, weren’t you?’
Was I? I had no idea how my mind had come up with this lie, but I cursed it filthily.
‘Well, yes, sort of.’
The ponce moved in, sensing my discomfort. ‘Sort of? What do you mean?’
‘I was training to be a media analyst, but I left before I did any actual, you know, analysing.’
‘So, what kind of work were you doing?’
‘Oh, précis-ing reports, general dogsbodying.’
‘Which firm?’
‘Gellner DeWitt.’
The ponce was warming up.
‘Interesting. I know people there. Did you know Tim Locke?’
Why, certainly. Fat loudmouth, third seat up on the Japanese warrants desk, the ‘character’ of the trading floor. Always had a pint of Guinness on his desk in the afternoons. Never said a word to me in six months, though I doled mail out to him four times a day, hoping to get noticed.
‘No, I don’t remember a Tim Locke.’
A mistake. You would have to be the veteran of the nursing home not to remember Tim Locke.
‘How strange. Most people remember Tim. How long were you there for?’
‘Only a few months.’ Give it a rest, Colin.
Lucy joined the group. The ponce continued.
‘Lucy, you know Tim Locke, don’t you? He was the year above Tom at school.’
‘Oh, yes. Big noisy chap. Stockbroker.’
‘Well, Frank here worked with him for six months, but doesn’t remember him.’
Lucy looked puzzled. ‘Where did you work with him, Frank?’
‘Gellner DeWitt, apparently.’ Come on, leave off, Lucy.
‘Oh, was he in the postroom, too?’
‘I don’t know. As I say, I don’t remember him.’
The ponce was down on me like the Assyrians.
‘The postroom. So you were a postboy, I see. No, you probably wouldn’t remember Tim, then. Not a very memorable name. I don’t suppose our postman would remember our name, would he, Sophie?’
Sophie nodded judiciously, but looked embarrassed. To the credit of their sex, all three girls looked embarrassed. I hazarded a look at Sadie. She looked mortified, the blessed little creature. The ponce left me pinned and wriggling, and turned the conversation back to himself. Floored, I took a bottle of champagne back out into the courtyard for another ferocious assault on a Lucky. I perched on a twee little garden bench and sparked up.
Lucy put her head round the door from the kitchen.
‘Have I said something wrong?’
‘No, Luce. Don’t worry, I’m fine.’
‘You can’t stay out here. It’s freezing.’
‘No, I’ll be fine. Really. I need to smoke.’
She looked at me with eyebrows raised for a moment with what could have been either indulgence or displeasure.
‘Have you met Tom’s dad yet?’
Tom had arranged for me to be interviewed for a menial job on a men’s mag his father was setting up.
‘Not a squeak.’
‘I’m sure he’ll get in touch. He’s probably pretty busy.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Come on, Frank, get inside, we’re leaving for the restaurant in a minute.’
‘Look, Mum, I’m only halfway through this cigarette. You know I always like to see things through.’
I’d called Lucy Mum sometimes, even before she was pregnant.
She moved to sit down next to me on the bench. I could sense her looking at me.
‘You know, we’re really pleased you’re going to be godfather, Frank. And we think it’s great about this interview. Tom’s positive it’ll come off.’
‘Yeah, and I’m really pleased myself, honestly. I’m just not very good at … being polite.’
Lucy giggled. I turned to look at her. She had the kind of face that women call beautiful and men call ‘all right, I suppose’. She was pale and faintly freckled with a kind mouth that always seemed to be slightly moving; pursing, grinning, pulling itself awry.
‘Come on in. You’ve nearly finished your fag. And you haven’t really got going with Sadie yet.’
‘I think that relationship’s over. It just never quite worked out. I tried my hardest, but it was never meant to be. Anyway I need another ciggie. If I don’t average two an hour, I go into a coma.’
She laughed and as she stood up kissed me on the top of the head.
‘OK, if you insist. The taxis will be here in about quarter of an hour.’
‘Thanks, Mum.’
I then spent an enjoyable ten minutes cannonballing half a bottle of champagne, then lashing Colin to a tree before shooting him in both knees with an eight-bore.
Tom and Lucy had decided that we were all going out for dinner to celebrate their immaculate conception, but crucially hadn’t yet revealed whether they were paying or not. They were already well past the stage when they were earning so much money they didn’t know quite what to do with it. They now knew exactly what to do with it. There is a myth abroad that the heinously overpaid yuppie died with the eighties. Not so. It’s just that now they’ve learned to keep a little quieter and spend their money in places where you or I can’t see it. This lot of bankers and barristers, if they were doing averagely well for their
