rather understandably, elsewhere. It took all my self-control, in fact, not to snatch his little silver pen and that little black book of his, jump onto the table-top and dance around in a circle doing the maths right then and there. My father had been right. A lucky turn, a lucky streak, call it what you like. Things were on the up.
Whittington continued to witter on about having happily ascertained my character as a professional and whatnot, but I tell you, I wasn’t taking it in. Twenty per cent of a high six-figure sum. We were talking a hundred grand. A hundred grand, minimum ! For hanging whatever the hell it was in my window. A hundred grand ?! My feet were dancing, my face trying to control a big goofy grin, mathsrunning through in my head – pay off the solicitors, pay back the bank, get the basement cleaned up. I could hear music playing suddenly.
The theme to The Archers , as a matter of fact.
Yep, you heard me. Deet da-deet-da tum-ti-tum. The bloody Archers .
Whittington put down his fork and reached under his newspaper, sliding out a book of matches, an oily Zippo lighter, a small penknife, a fountain pen and finally a small silver mobile phone. The tinny theme was louder suddenly. I felt other diners glancing our way.
“Apologies apologies,” he said, thumbing it open. “ A-hoy hoy ?” A frown scuttled across his brow. “Hmn, where should we … let’s see,” and Whittington flipped to the back of his notebook where a list was written in a neat blue hand. “ The Clarendon I did yesterday,” and he crossed out a name. “ Claridge’s I’m at as we speak, so it’s … yes. There’s a little Italian place on Brewer Street. Con Panna . I find public places more private. What time shall we say?”
I thought this a good time to excuse myself and go to the bathroom . I needed to splash myself with cold water. To walk, to dance. Needed the opportunity to drop to my knees and scream worshipful thanks to the patron saint of lucky escapes. St Jammy of Dodger, or whoever.
I left Whittington to his call.
Stood among the glistening tile and gleaming brass of Claridge’s gents, I breathed long and slow, releasing the best part of a half bottle of ninety-nine Latour against the porcelain.
A hundred grand.
My stupid face grinned back at me in the pale reflection of the polished wall. And well it should. The disaster was averted, the crisis passed.
If I’m honest about it, in the huge tide of relief that sunny afternoon , the biggest and most refreshing waves were those washing in from Chelsea. Specifically, from a large five-bedroomed house off the King’s Road.
See, I knew what Jane’s father thought of me. Unsurprisingly I suppose, as he made almost no effort whatsoever to hide it. WhenJane fell pregnant for example. He’d exploded in a spray of cigars and tankards, which Edward’s type always does. The family line and all that.
However, when the dreaded ‘daughter’ word was eventually wheeled into his Chelsea Park Gardens study? Oh the glare. The blame. Me and my plebby working-class sperm. All probably on strike or at the dog track the day they were called up for action.
I had received the lecture. Me sat in one of his fat leather chairs, nursing a peaty scotch, Edward pacing under an oiled ancestor. I wasn’t to hesitate to come to him. Whatever his granddaughter needed, day or night, she’s not to go without, best of everything. On and on.
But all the time I knew. I knew. And he knew I knew. I don’t know why he didn’t just say it. Son, you can’t support my daughter. So let’s speak man-to-man shall we?Well, man-to-scruffy-Nancy boy at any rate.
No honestly, that’s his voice. I’m telling you, Windsor Davies playing Shere Khan.
I’m well aware of your upbringing. Who your father was. What he did. So let’s not pretend shall we? I’ll help you buy your tatty shop. You do what you can with your posters and nick-nackery, but I’ll provide for Jane, as you
Whittington continued to witter on about having happily ascertained my character as a professional and whatnot, but I tell you, I wasn’t taking it in. Twenty per cent of a high six-figure sum. We were talking a hundred grand. A hundred grand, minimum ! For hanging whatever the hell it was in my window. A hundred grand ?! My feet were dancing, my face trying to control a big goofy grin, mathsrunning through in my head – pay off the solicitors, pay back the bank, get the basement cleaned up. I could hear music playing suddenly.
The theme to The Archers , as a matter of fact.
Yep, you heard me. Deet da-deet-da tum-ti-tum. The bloody Archers .
Whittington put down his fork and reached under his newspaper, sliding out a book of matches, an oily Zippo lighter, a small penknife, a fountain pen and finally a small silver mobile phone. The tinny theme was louder suddenly. I felt other diners glancing our way.
“Apologies apologies,” he said, thumbing it open. “ A-hoy hoy ?” A frown scuttled across his brow. “Hmn, where should we … let’s see,” and Whittington flipped to the back of his notebook where a list was written in a neat blue hand. “ The Clarendon I did yesterday,” and he crossed out a name. “ Claridge’s I’m at as we speak, so it’s … yes. There’s a little Italian place on Brewer Street. Con Panna . I find public places more private. What time shall we say?”
I thought this a good time to excuse myself and go to the bathroom . I needed to splash myself with cold water. To walk, to dance. Needed the opportunity to drop to my knees and scream worshipful thanks to the patron saint of lucky escapes. St Jammy of Dodger, or whoever.
I left Whittington to his call.
Stood among the glistening tile and gleaming brass of Claridge’s gents, I breathed long and slow, releasing the best part of a half bottle of ninety-nine Latour against the porcelain.
A hundred grand.
My stupid face grinned back at me in the pale reflection of the polished wall. And well it should. The disaster was averted, the crisis passed.
If I’m honest about it, in the huge tide of relief that sunny afternoon , the biggest and most refreshing waves were those washing in from Chelsea. Specifically, from a large five-bedroomed house off the King’s Road.
See, I knew what Jane’s father thought of me. Unsurprisingly I suppose, as he made almost no effort whatsoever to hide it. WhenJane fell pregnant for example. He’d exploded in a spray of cigars and tankards, which Edward’s type always does. The family line and all that.
However, when the dreaded ‘daughter’ word was eventually wheeled into his Chelsea Park Gardens study? Oh the glare. The blame. Me and my plebby working-class sperm. All probably on strike or at the dog track the day they were called up for action.
I had received the lecture. Me sat in one of his fat leather chairs, nursing a peaty scotch, Edward pacing under an oiled ancestor. I wasn’t to hesitate to come to him. Whatever his granddaughter needed, day or night, she’s not to go without, best of everything. On and on.
But all the time I knew. I knew. And he knew I knew. I don’t know why he didn’t just say it. Son, you can’t support my daughter. So let’s speak man-to-man shall we?Well, man-to-scruffy-Nancy boy at any rate.
No honestly, that’s his voice. I’m telling you, Windsor Davies playing Shere Khan.
I’m well aware of your upbringing. Who your father was. What he did. So let’s not pretend shall we? I’ll help you buy your tatty shop. You do what you can with your posters and nick-nackery, but I’ll provide for Jane, as you
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