Authors: Michael Ridpath
After an hour and a half, Miguel brought lunch and the questions continued. We did well. Guy in particular held his own. He knew his stuff, Tony couldn’t deny it.
‘So, Dad,’ said Guy eventually. ‘What do you think?’
Tony looked from Guy to me and back again to his son. He grinned. ‘It’s a good idea. I’ll do it.’
Guy could hardly believe it. His jaw dropped open.
‘I need to make some real money again,’ said Tony. ‘All this has to be maintained.’ He gestured to the house and gardens around him, seeming to take in his wife and son indoors. ‘The life went out of the property market years ago. The Internet is the place to be. The challenge will be good for me. But,’ he said, glancing at me, ‘David is right. I’m going to do this on a purely commercial basis. Which means I’m going to want a stake for my two million quid. A big stake.’
Guy and I exchanged glances. ‘Fair enough.’
Tony held out his hand for his son to shake.
‘Thanks, Dad,’ Guy said.
‘Good. I’ll come to England next week and we can finalize things with your lawyers.’ Guy winced. Tony noticed it. ‘You do have lawyers, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ said Guy. ‘We have a very good lawyer.’
‘Well, I look forward to negotiating with him.’
I wasn’t quite sure how much Mel would look forward to negotiating with Tony. Neither was Guy, judging by his expression.
We ordered a taxi to take us back to the airport, and after a quick look at Guy’s six-month-old half-brother, we left.
Neither of us wanted to stay in that house a moment longer than we had to.
Guy shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘I told you it was worth a try,’ I said. ‘Cheer up. We’ve just saved the company yet again and you’re looking worried.’
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ said Guy.
‘Oh, come on. What do you want to do? Turn down his money?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then? This can only be good news.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Guy. ‘I don’t trust him.’
June 1992, The City, London
The long hot afternoon was beginning, and I was going to spend the whole of it in Nostro Reconciliations, reconciling nostros. The very thought of it made my limbs feel heavy and my brain tired, so tired. Computer printouts to go through, boxes to tick, mindless tedium. I was a junior member of the audit team for United Arab International Bank. My current task was to make sure that the balances at the bank’s main accounts in each currency, known as nostro accounts, reconciled with the bank’s own accounting system. In theory I might uncover a multi-million-dollar money-laundering fraud at any moment. In practice they added up, with mind-numbing regularity. I glanced across at the manager in charge of the department. He was a small, rather scruffy man who seemed to have a permanent itch just below his collar. He was too nervous to talk to me. I fantasized that this was because he was a master criminal, afraid I would unmask him at any moment. Of course I knew he was actually worried that my boss might criticize his department. But there wasn’t even much chance of that, I thought, as I ticked another box.
I had tried to get myself on the audit teams for as many banks as possible, on the theory that it would make it easier to escape accountancy for banking once I qualified. A fine theory, but boring, boring, boring.
I had one thought to sustain me, like the glimpse of an oasis across the desert sands. That evening I was attending
a reunion for the old pupils of Broadhill School. It would be held at a hotel near Marble Arch, the headmaster would make a speech pleading for cash and there would be lots to drink. Lots and lots. I was looking forward to it.
I was also looking forward to meeting the people there. I hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from school; my life at university and as an accountant had taken me away from them. I had read about one or two of them in the papers: a quiet girl in my economics class who had won a swimming medal at the Seoul Olympics and a boy who had rescued his fellow explorers after two weeks lost in the Borneo jungle. I had also read about their fathers: Torsten Schollenberger’s had been accused of bribing a senior German minister and Troy Barton’s had won an Oscar. No mention of Guy’s, though. Nor of Guy. The thought of them both made me shudder. Even five years after the event I couldn’t think of Guy without the guilt flooding back. I hoped he wouldn’t be there that evening.
He was. He was the first person I saw as I walked into the already crowded hotel function room.
He was standing holding a glass of wine, talking to two people I vaguely recognized. He hadn’t changed much: his blond hair was now brushed back off his forehead and he had filled out a bit. I hesitated, flustered, unable to decide how to enter the room without him seeing me.
He looked up and his eyes met mine. His face broke into a wide smile, and he strode over to me. ‘Davo! How the devil are you!’ He held out his hand and pumped mine. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’ He peered at his full glass, downed it all, and dragged me over to a waitress with a tray. He swapped his empty glass for a full one, and handed me my first. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
An extraordinary wave of relief swept over me, as though a ball of tension that had been screwed up tightly somewhere
inside me for the last five years had been released. I had assumed Guy would never want to talk to me again and I had told myself that this didn’t matter. I now realized it did. I also realized Guy was drunk. That was fine with me, but it did mean I had some catching up to do.
‘Thank God you’ve come,’ said Guy. ‘Do you remember those two? I don’t. But they seem to think we were best mates at school. Tedious as hell.’
My immediate thought was that they couldn’t possibly have more boring lives than mine.
‘So, what are you up to, Davo?’
‘Working undercover.’
‘Working undercover! Who for?’
‘I can’t tell you. Well, I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you. And that would be messy. I’ve been specially trained, you know. You wouldn’t stand a chance. What about you?’
‘I’m a famous actor.’
‘Famous actor, eh? How come I’ve never heard of you, then?’
‘I don’t use my real name. I’ve been in a lot of big movies recently.
The Division, Morty’s Fall.’
‘I saw
Morty’s Fall
,’ I said. ‘I didn’t recognize you in that.’
‘That’s because I’m such a good actor.’
Just then, a big man with square shoulders and a rugby-player’s neck clapped his hands for attention. He was the new headmaster, and he talked about the school and how it needed money for a new theatre. He was inspiring in a down-to-earth way. But my attention was distracted by Guy. He seemed to have come to some kind of silent arrangement with a pretty black waitress who kept bringing us new glasses of wine.
We drank them.
‘Hey, isn’t that Mel Dean over there?’ Guy whispered.
I followed his glance. It was Mel. Dressed in a smart navy blue suit. And with her was Ingrid Da Cunha.
‘You’re right.’
‘Shall we go and talk to them?’
‘Yeah. If you like.’ I was surprised Guy actually wanted to talk to Mel, but I welcomed the chance to see Ingrid again.
Just then the headmaster stopped talking, there was clapping and the crowd, which had been becoming increasingly restless, began to move again. Guy and I weaved our way through to the two women. Guy gently placed his hand on Mel’s behind. She swung round, ready to say something sharp. When she saw who it was she froze, stunned.
‘Hi, Mel,’ Guy said. ‘You look amazed to see me. I did go to Broadhill, you know. They have to let me in, although I’m sure they don’t want to. You remember Davo.’
He kissed Mel and Ingrid on both cheeks. Neither of them had changed very much since school. Mel wore significantly less make-up, and the blonde streak in her dark hair had disappeared. But she still had the pouting softness that I was sure had first attracted Guy. Ingrid looked relaxed and tanned, as though she had just come back from a holiday. She gave us both a warm wide smile.
Mel recovered. ‘Have you been groping every woman in the room, or am I specially privileged?’
‘Only you, Mel. Although I could include Ingrid if she asked nicely.’
‘Little chance of that,’ said Ingrid.
Within a minute, we were all four talking like old friends; old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a couple of months, perhaps, but who had no trouble catching up. Guy, abetted by his pet waitress, kept everyone topped up and knocked back huge quantities of wine himself. He seemed to be able to take it well enough: practice, I assumed. Meanwhile I was getting pleasantly drunk.
Time passed and suddenly we were some of the last people left in the room. Guy looked at his watch. ‘Anyone want some dinner?’ he asked. ‘I know a good place near here.’
Mel glanced at Ingrid, who nodded her agreement, and soon we were out on the street and heading towards Bays-water. Guy led us into a Greek restaurant, ordered some retsina, and we were away. The group seemed to split into two, with Guy concentrating on Mel, who was quite drunk by now and giggling ecstatically at everything he was saying.
‘You’re not really working undercover for the CIA, are you?’ asked Ingrid.
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s much worse than that.’
‘Really?’
‘Look, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to leave the table immediately.’
‘OK.’
‘I’m training to be a chartered accountant.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Ingrid. ‘Are you sure I can’t leave?’
‘You promised.’
‘I’ve heard about people like you, but I didn’t know they really existed.’
‘We do. But we’re not let out much, so we’re not a threat to society.’
‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘Oh, it can,’ I said, thinking of my fun-filled afternoon in Nostro Reconciliations.
‘Mel’s doing her articles to be a solicitor. That must be almost as dull.’
We looked over at Mel, who had just exploded in a shriek of laughter, eyes shining and hair all over the place.
‘I’m sure she’ll make a perfect lawyer. Sober, serious, reliable.’
‘We’re all grown-ups now,’ Ingrid said.
‘So what do you do when you’re not editing
Vogue
?’
‘Actually I’m a sub-editor on
Patio World
. It’s a new title. You may not have heard of it.’
‘Not yet. But I’ll be sure to subscribe.’
‘Well hurry, because I think they’re going to close it down soon. It’s only been going six months, but it’s been a bit of a disaster.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Don’t worry. They won’t blame me. They’ll find something else for me to do.’
‘I’m surprised you’re still in England. I’d have imagined you somewhere far more exotic.’
‘But London is exotic. The sky with all those fascinating tinges of grey. The people with their low-key warmth and friendliness. Very low key. And I find those dark wet winters so romantic.’
‘A real aficionado.’
‘Actually, it’s nice just to be in one place for once. My mother’s moved to New York with a new man and I’m so grateful I don’t have to follow her around the world any more. There is something pleasantly stable about London. And it’s a good place for my career.’
‘No better place for patios.’
‘When I’m running my own publishing empire, I’ll know where I can find someone to add up cab fares.’
‘I’d be more than happy to help,’ I said. ‘Just don’t forget to keep the receipts.’
‘I’ll start a special collection for you today.’
I poured us both another glass of wine. ‘It’s nice to see you again,’ I said. ‘You were kind to me in France. And I don’t know what I’d have done without that two hundred francs you lent me.’
‘I was so pleased to get out of there,’ said Ingrid with a shudder. ‘That was one of the more unpleasant experiences of my life.’
We were both silent, watching Guy and Mel.
Guy noticed us and seemed to sober up. ‘What are you two thinking about?’
Ingrid didn’t answer. ‘Nothing,’ I said.
Guy leaned forward. ‘It was France, wasn’t it?’
I nodded. Mel was suddenly still.
Guy poured out the dregs from the second bottle of retsina. ‘Well, let me tell you something. That was five years ago, when we were all still kids. I’ve forgotten about France. Totally and completely. And I hope you all will too. Is that a deal?’
‘Deal,’ I said, raising my glass. Ingrid and Mel raised theirs too, and we all drank to obliterated memories.
I was seriously drunk by the time we spilled out of the restaurant. Ingrid took the first taxi and I took the next, leaving Guy with his arm around Mel waiting for two more.
Who was I kidding? I didn’t know whose flat they were going to, but I could tell they were going there together.
I saw quite a lot of Guy after that evening. He seemed happy to count me as a friend, and he certainly made my life more interesting. It turned out he really was an actor, of the struggling kind. After three years at university, where he had only just escaped being thrown out, he had somehow managed to get into a reputable drama school, where he said he had done quite well. Since then, things had been difficult. He had had a few bit parts in repertory theatres and a small number of tiny roles in TV. He had been an extra in
Morty’s Fall
. He had an agent, who ignored him. He attributed his lack of success to the oversupply of young actors and an invisible network of contacts and friends of contacts that excluded him. That may have been partially true. A greater reason, I suspected, was that he just didn’t try hard enough. He went to the gym and watched
Countdown
on the telly
when he should have been writing letters and knocking on doors. Young actors are supposed to be hungry. Guy was thirsty. And slaked his thirst every evening and many lunchtimes.
I was happy to join him in this. It made the afternoons much easier to get through if I knew I was going to meet Guy for a pint or five after work. Of course, it made the mornings quite painful and it played havoc with studying for my professional exams, but at least it shook things up a bit. Guy had a small flat off Gloucester Road and we frequented several pubs and bars in that area. We were occasionally joined by other friends of his, including Torsten Schollenberger when he was visiting London.