Read Online Blame It on the Bossa Nova by James Brodie - Free Book Online Page A

that as usual her thoughts were occupied somewhere other than present time and space.
    “I have explained the situation to our young friend, and he is still interested,” said Toby giving a resume to any listeners who had missed the last episode.
    “It looks as if we’re going to be going to parties together,” I said to Pascale in a fresh schoolboy manner.
    “It seems that way,” she said.
    “Better brush up your dance routines. I’ll give you some lessons if you like.”
    “I don’t think that will be necessary.”
    “You and me together Pascale. We could take on the world.”
    She showed her enthusiasm for this vision by walking round to the other side of the car and getting into the front passenger seat.
    “Time to be off then Old Boy,” said Toby, now fully recovered from the effects of the tutorial.
    “You couldn’t drop me at the bus stop could you?”
    “‘Fraid not. Bad security.”
    “Just testing,” I said. “I wouldn’t have wanted any other answer.” I watched the car wind its way down towards the Robin Hood Gate. I watched it get smaller as it put distance between us. Inside it was Pascale. Our five minute meeting had reminded me of her characteristics, her body, the way she moved, her indifference, hopefully calculated. There was no doubt about it, she was becoming more gorgeous by the second.
     
    *****
     
    Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrringgggggggg.
    “Hello.”
    “Alex Marshall?”
    “Yes.... Who is this?”
    “You’re a friend of Sandie’s?”
    “No.”
    “A friend of Chris’s?”
    “Yes.”
    “I’d like to meet you sometime soon.”
    “Sure....... Who are you?”
    “Could you come to the House tonight?”
    “Any particular house?”
    “The House of Commons.”
    “Sure..... What time?”
    “Is ten o’clock alright.... I’ve got a Division earlier.”
    “Sure.”
    “If you wait at the entrance to Dean’s Yard I’ll send someone to pick you up.”
    “Cheers.”
    “Well...... see you later, then.”
    “It is who I think it is, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Sure..... see you later........” I put the Mingus ‘A Night in Tunisia’ LP onto the turntable of the Dansette record player, savouring what I took to be its anarchic crescendos. I wanted to be loose for my confrontation with the Establishment.
     
    Of course they kept me waiting. Once or twice I hopped across to the statue of a griffin, or whatever it is, in the middle of The Sanctuary, in front of the west front of the Abbey. It was cold. A crowd started to spill out of the Methodist Central Hall opposite, and to dissolve. As I watched, momentarily distracted, a hand was placed on my shoulder. It spooked me. I jumped up and round.
    “Mr Marshall?” It was some old guy, not worth taking in.
    “..... Follow me please.” He led me under the archway that is the entrance to Dean’s Yard, along a stretch of pavement and up some steps. A porter in the lobby waved us through and we began to climb a narrow flight of steps in an old building that was apparently partitioned off into hundreds of private offices mostly for backbench MPs, I could see by the labels on the doors we passed. We went down a corridor at the end of which was an open door. Light came out, we went in....... A room with three secretarial stations, filing cabinets and trays, papers everywhere - on the floor, on shelves, on cupboards. Seated behind a typewriter but casually swinging his legs sideways and also leaning back, forcing the pivot in the back of his office swivel chair to its extremes, was Ronnie Forsythe, the guy I’d seen through the half open door with Sandie at the party in Earls Court. He was one of those guys with the permanent seven o’clock shadow - but groomed. The image says ‘Successful Businessman, Smooth Hard-Case’. And generally it doesn’t lie. He had the suit and tie to match. I heard the door close behind me and looked round. Old Bones had disappeared but a young guy had taken his place, also smart but this time hard in