in his hurry to flag down a taxi amid the crowds spilling out of the concert hall. The stunned look on the Saudi’s face quickly gave way to one of pleasant surprise. John stopped in his tracks, gave up on the cab and struck up a conversation. The rest of the night had gone like a dream. Bar, club, hotel room at the Hilton where the guy had booked in for just over three weeks. They had seen each other again that Tuesday. They had made another date for this weekend. But – and this was a source of regret to him – if John was fond of second times, and the satisfaction of possessing what he had lusted after, the same could not be said of the third. It was one time too many. It made him feel trapped.
When preparing to leave the office, John had weighed up his options – Paris or Ali the Saudi – as if there was ever really any question in his mind. Just then, his colleague Kate had come over and asked him to get her a box of fruit jellies from Hédiard. She was mad about those sweets, and though she could easily get hold of them at Harrods or Fortnum’s, she preferred to wait until a friend, such as John, could bring some back from France for her.
‘Just a little box!’ she added as her colleague’s face dropped.
He didn’t like being sent on shopping missions. Kate was taking advantage. On the other hand, John knew he could count on her to cover for him if he ever needed to slip out of the office. He could hardly turn down her modest request. The die was cast. Paris it was.
Outside the office, he had taken out his mobile phone and sent a message to the Saudi guy: ‘Come down with beast of a cold. Staying in bed all weekend. Sorry.’ A few seconds later he wrote him a second text: ‘See you soon baby.’
17.25. Time was ticking on. John still hadn’t quite made up his mind. The barman really wasn’t half bad. He was currently serving a group of what could only be office workers, judging by their drab suits, blue and white checked shirts and ties in clashing colours that had been loosened on the way to the pub. The five friends huddled around the bar, talking loudly about football and women. They were, what, thirty? Thirty-five? And three of them already had receding hairlines and greying temples. Little pot bellies peeked through their checked shirts, a reminder of the fifteen pints they drank every weekend. Although John was forty-five, he was fairly sure he looked younger than every one of them. He ran his hand over his stomach to confirm this. It was almost washboard flat. Glancing back at the group, whose raucous laughter was attracting stares, he told himself it would nevertheless be a good idea to go to the gym five times a week rather than his usual three. He had to be careful not to let himself go, as so many others had. Not the barman, though, whom John could watch filling glasses at his leisure. It wasn’t just his pretty face, with those exotic, rugged features. On top of that, he had incredible muscles, probably thanks to daily workouts. His biceps were especially impressive. Perfection. Good enough to eat. John was practically drooling when the barman turned round and shot him a huge smile. Taken aback, John felt a surge of heat through his body as his engine stirred into action. ‘Son of a bitch!’ he muttered to himself. By the time he had regained his composure and smiled back, the barman had returned to serving his customers in an outrageously friendly manner.
17.35. He should have left by now. With his first class ticket, John was allowed to check in up to ten minutes before the train’s departure time, rather than the half-hour required of standard class passengers. Even so, the station would be busy on a Friday night, and there was bound to be a queue to get through security. If they were checking people thoroughly, as they increasingly did, John might be pushed back and risk missing his train. But wasn’t that exactly what he wanted? He looked around for the barman and saw him busily serving at the other end of the bar. Meanwhile his colleague had finally got her arse in gear and was taking an order.
‘What an airhead!’ John said to himself. ‘And as for the other one! Why run off when he’s just been making eyes at me?’
He thought about moving to the other end of the bar to order a third pint and force that hunk to look at him again. What was he going to do in Paris? The need for this trip was becoming less and less clear to him. The weather would be just the same over there. Rain, for certain. France was going downhill. The food was often sub-standard and the service unfriendly. John was on the verge of calling the whole thing off. He glanced up to feast his eyes once more on the Brazilian, but he had disappeared, vanished, been abducted! Ridiculous as it was, a rush of panic swept over John, a sense of having been abandoned not only by the barman but by everyone in this old man’s pub in which he was suddenly aware of being out of place in his smart polo shirt, designer jeans and luxury travel bag. London itself seemed like a distant, foreign city. He had not been born here. So why not go to Paris? In one decisive swoop John picked up his bag, turned his back on the bar and made his way out of the crowded pub as though charging across a battlefield. He must emerge victorious.
At the check-in barrier, the Afro-Caribbean girl on duty refused to let him through. He was too late. The train was leaving in less than ten minutes. The queue for the next one was already forming. John made his case: a client had held him up at work and then the Tube had delayed him further. He was expected in Paris. He simply had to take this train. The check-in assistant held an impeccably polite smile as John reeled off his excuses, but refused to budge. The minutes were ticking by. John was beginning to lose his cool. He asked to speak to the manager. The girl went on smiling but had ceased to listen. Other passengers were thronging around her asking for information, describing passport problems, an issue regarding their children. Can my daughter travel alone? Eventually the departure of the 18.05 was announced over the Tannoy.
‘There, you see,’ the girl said turning back to John, whose face had drained of all colour. ‘You couldn’t have made it,’ she added with a sneer of satisfaction. ‘There’s just enough time to exchange your ticket for the next train.’
John always travelled first class and bought a fully flexible ticket. He preferred to pay top whack and have the freedom to amend or cancel the booking if he changed his mind at the last minute. The same question was tapping away at him again. Why go? It seemed as though the whole universe was conspiring to keep him in London. It didn’t usually take much to convince him to put off a trip. A glimpse of a good-looking face and the prospect of a bit of fun were enough to keep him out on the town all weekend, undoing in a flash his carefully laid plans. Why press on this time when everything was stacking up against him?
The only reason John could see for his own persistence was the date that lay ahead of him in Paris. For the past two weeks he had been exchanging steamy emails with a young Moroccan guy, whose photos had got him hot under the collar. Mohamed or Mustapha, John couldn’t remember, was an apprentice butcher in the twentieth arrondissement. One of the pictures showed him posing proudly outside his shop in his apron and white hat. The two men had agreed to meet on the night of John’s arrival, around eleven o’clock on Place de la Bastille. But Mohamed or Mustapha might very well stand him up and the whole thing would be a waste of time – and not for the first time. Already waiting in line for the next departure, John continued to weigh up the pros and cons. On the one hand there was Mustapha, who wasn’t yet in the bag, and on the other was Ali, whom he knew too well. Wasn’t it about time he broadened his horizons? Brazilian guys were gorgeous and they were ten a penny in London. The barman at the Black Swan could be a good place to start. John had reached this point in his deliberations when he found himself at the front of the queue. Without further thought, he asked for a ticket for the next departure.
‘The 19.03?’ the man behind the desk asked in a tone simultaneously obsequious and self-important, the tone the little people take on the rare occasion they find themselves in a position of power.
‘Yes. A first class seat. I’m exchanging my ticket.’
‘That train’s full, sir.’
‘What do you mean, full? It can’t be!’
‘It’s full, sir,’ the man repeated. He seemed to take
