looked not unlike herself, waiting at the Taj Mahal as a handsome blond man approached. She imagined a kiss and Heidi began to feel a little happier. She decided that, whatever happened, Emma Morley must receive this letter.
But there was no address on the envelope and no return address for ‘Dexter’ either. She scanned the pages for clues, the name of the restaurant where Emma worked perhaps, but there was nothing of use. She resolved to ask at the reception of the hostel over the road. This was, after all, the best that she could do.
Heidi Schindler is Heidi Klauss now. Forty-one years old, she lives in a suburb of Frankfurt with a husband and four children, and is reasonably happy, certainly happier than she expected to be at twenty-three. The paperback copy of
Howards End
is still on the shelf in the spare bedroom, forgotten and unread, with the letter tucked neatly just inside the cover, next to an inscription in small, careful handwriting that reads:
To dear Dexter. A great novel for your great journey. Travel well and return safely with no tattoos . Be good, or as good as you are able. Bloody hell, I’ll miss you
.
All my love, your good friend Emma Morley, Clapton, London, April 1990
CHAPTER FOUR
Opportunities
MONDAY 15 JULY 1991
Camden Town and Primrose Hill
‘ATTENTION PLEASE! Can I have your attention? Attention everyone? Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking. Please? Please? Thank you. Right I just want to go through today’s menu if I may. First of all the so-called “specials”. We’ve got a sweetcorn chowder and a turkey chimi-changa.’
‘Turkey? In July?’ said Ian Whitehead from the bar, where he was cutting lime wedges to jam into the necks of bottles of beer.
‘Now it’s Monday today,’ continued Scott. ‘Should be nice and quiet, so I want this place spotless. I’ve checked the rota, and Ian, you’re on toilets.’
The other staff scoffed. ‘Why is it always me?’ moaned Ian.
‘Because you do it so
beautifully,’
said his best friend Emma Morley, and Ian took the opportunity to throw an arm around her hunched shoulders, jokily wielding a knife in a light-hearted downwards stabbing motion.
‘And when you two have finished, Emma, can you come and see me in my office please?’ said Scott.
The other staff sniggered insinuatingly, Emma disentangled herself from Ian, and Rashid the bartender pressed play on the greasy tape deck behind the bar, ‘La Cucaracha’, the cockroach, a joke that wasn’t funny anymore, repeated until the end of time.
‘So I’ll come straight out with it. Take a seat.’
Scott lit a cigarette and Emma hoisted herself onto the barstool opposite his large, untidy desk. A wall of boxes filled with vodka, tequila and cigarettes – the stock deemed most ‘nickable’ – blocked out the July sunlight in a small dark room that smelt of ashtrays and disappointment.
Scott kicked his feet up onto the desk. ‘The fact is, I’m leaving.’
‘You are?’
‘Head office have asked me to head up the new branch of Hail Caesar’s in Ealing.’
‘What’s Hail Caesar’s?’
‘Big new chain of contemporary Italians.’
‘Called Hail Caesar’s?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Why not Mussolini’s?’
‘They’re going to do to Italian what they’ve done to Mexican.’
‘What, fuck it up?’
Scott looked hurt. ‘Give me a break, will you, Emma?’
‘I’m sorry, Scott, really. Congratulations, well done, really—’ She stopped short, because she realised what was coming next.
‘The point is—’ He interlocked his fingers and leant forward on the desk, as this was something that he’d seen businessmen do on television, and felt a little aphrodisiac rush of power. ‘They’ve asked me to appoint my own replacement as manager, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I want someone who isn’t going anywhere. Someone reliable who isn’t going to run off to India without giving proper notice or drop it all for
But there was no address on the envelope and no return address for ‘Dexter’ either. She scanned the pages for clues, the name of the restaurant where Emma worked perhaps, but there was nothing of use. She resolved to ask at the reception of the hostel over the road. This was, after all, the best that she could do.
Heidi Schindler is Heidi Klauss now. Forty-one years old, she lives in a suburb of Frankfurt with a husband and four children, and is reasonably happy, certainly happier than she expected to be at twenty-three. The paperback copy of
Howards End
is still on the shelf in the spare bedroom, forgotten and unread, with the letter tucked neatly just inside the cover, next to an inscription in small, careful handwriting that reads:
To dear Dexter. A great novel for your great journey. Travel well and return safely with no tattoos . Be good, or as good as you are able. Bloody hell, I’ll miss you
.
All my love, your good friend Emma Morley, Clapton, London, April 1990
CHAPTER FOUR
Opportunities
MONDAY 15 JULY 1991
Camden Town and Primrose Hill
‘ATTENTION PLEASE! Can I have your attention? Attention everyone? Stop talking, stop talking, stop talking. Please? Please? Thank you. Right I just want to go through today’s menu if I may. First of all the so-called “specials”. We’ve got a sweetcorn chowder and a turkey chimi-changa.’
‘Turkey? In July?’ said Ian Whitehead from the bar, where he was cutting lime wedges to jam into the necks of bottles of beer.
‘Now it’s Monday today,’ continued Scott. ‘Should be nice and quiet, so I want this place spotless. I’ve checked the rota, and Ian, you’re on toilets.’
The other staff scoffed. ‘Why is it always me?’ moaned Ian.
‘Because you do it so
beautifully,’
said his best friend Emma Morley, and Ian took the opportunity to throw an arm around her hunched shoulders, jokily wielding a knife in a light-hearted downwards stabbing motion.
‘And when you two have finished, Emma, can you come and see me in my office please?’ said Scott.
The other staff sniggered insinuatingly, Emma disentangled herself from Ian, and Rashid the bartender pressed play on the greasy tape deck behind the bar, ‘La Cucaracha’, the cockroach, a joke that wasn’t funny anymore, repeated until the end of time.
‘So I’ll come straight out with it. Take a seat.’
Scott lit a cigarette and Emma hoisted herself onto the barstool opposite his large, untidy desk. A wall of boxes filled with vodka, tequila and cigarettes – the stock deemed most ‘nickable’ – blocked out the July sunlight in a small dark room that smelt of ashtrays and disappointment.
Scott kicked his feet up onto the desk. ‘The fact is, I’m leaving.’
‘You are?’
‘Head office have asked me to head up the new branch of Hail Caesar’s in Ealing.’
‘What’s Hail Caesar’s?’
‘Big new chain of contemporary Italians.’
‘Called Hail Caesar’s?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Why not Mussolini’s?’
‘They’re going to do to Italian what they’ve done to Mexican.’
‘What, fuck it up?’
Scott looked hurt. ‘Give me a break, will you, Emma?’
‘I’m sorry, Scott, really. Congratulations, well done, really—’ She stopped short, because she realised what was coming next.
‘The point is—’ He interlocked his fingers and leant forward on the desk, as this was something that he’d seen businessmen do on television, and felt a little aphrodisiac rush of power. ‘They’ve asked me to appoint my own replacement as manager, and that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I want someone who isn’t going anywhere. Someone reliable who isn’t going to run off to India without giving proper notice or drop it all for
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