later at the office. I want to take you shopping.” She looks down at my suit. “Get you some new clothes.” Oh! phew—not dumped then! The idea of her buying me clothes stops me in my tracks for a moment. What kind of clothes? Can I choose them? Which shops? If you eat at Ciccones and Claridges you can’t shop at Blazer and Next. The idea thrills me suddenly. Perhaps I’ll get paid for tonight with a little something from Bond Street. I feel the lapel of my rented DJ absent-mindedly before coming round to more pressing issues—like getting to work before Debbie fires me.
“Great, um, see you later,” I gasp.
“OK, honey.” She rubs my arm gently and then picks some dust off my sleeve.
Sure enough, the car is waiting. The driver says nothing, just opens the door and lets me in. I ask if we can go to Fulham please. He nods and sets off. As we move slowly along the King’s Road I slide down in the seat so that people can’t see that I’m still wearing my dinner suit.
By the time we get as a far as Fulham Broadway it’s already past nine. I ask the driver to hang on and take me to work.
“Er, come in for a cup of tea or something while you wait.”
He looks as if this is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard and then says, “Thank you, sir, but I’d better look after the car.”
“OK, I’ll be five minutes.”
I belt into the house, have a quick and dangerous shave, throw on the only ironed work shirt I can find and then run out of the door still tying my tie. We set off again and I reach for the mobile phone. I’m just about to ask the driver for permission to use it and then I realize that it’s Marion’s phone, not his, and she won’t mind. He takes no notice as I grab the handset and dial Sami’s direct line.
“Good morning. Classified. Samira speaking.”
“Hi, it’s me.”
Her tone changes, “Andrew! For goodness’ sake, where are you?”
“I’m on my way, I got a bit held up.”
“You’re hopeless. Debbie’s already asked where you are.”
“Oh, shit.”
“When will you be in?”
“About twenty minutes. Listen, will you do me a favour? Just grab some papers, photocopy them and meet me in reception in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, OK.”
“You’re a star.”
“And you’re a-a-retrograde.”
I laugh. “Sami, where do you get them from? See you in a minute.”
Of course it takes longer than I had hoped and it’s nearly ten by the time I get to the office. Sure enough, Sami is waiting, lurking behind a potted plant, in reception.
“Ooooh, blimey, all right for some,” says Ted from behind his desk. “I was saying to young Sami, here, all right for some. Wasn’t I, Sami? Their very own welcoming committee.” I smile at Ted. Oh, not now, you mad old wanker.
“Here you go,” says Sami, thrusting a pile of papers at me. “You go first, I said I had to go to Accounts about something.”
“Brilliant. Thanks, Sami.” The idea, of course, is that I walk upstairs and pretend that I’ve actually been in the building since before nine photocopying down in the basement and delivering things around other departments. Debbie has missed me, that’s all. See?
“Tell her the copier kept getting stuck, that’s why you were so long.”
“Good thinking.”
Sami presses the lift button. “Why are you so late? And whose car was that? Of course! Last night!”
“Oh, don’t ask.”
There is a ping and the lift doors open. We throw ourselves in—just as someone else is coming out. I get an eyefull of expensive pinstripe suit and the impact sends my papers flying into the air. Under the snowfall of A4 I see that I have hit Ken Wheatley, the dreary yet remarkably smug director of finance.
“Oh, Christ, sorry,” I gasp. He regains his balance and looks at the papers floating down around us.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” he mutters with the quick wit you’d expect of senior paperpusher.
“Bit of a rush on upstairs,” says Sami quietly.
“I see,” says
“Great, um, see you later,” I gasp.
“OK, honey.” She rubs my arm gently and then picks some dust off my sleeve.
Sure enough, the car is waiting. The driver says nothing, just opens the door and lets me in. I ask if we can go to Fulham please. He nods and sets off. As we move slowly along the King’s Road I slide down in the seat so that people can’t see that I’m still wearing my dinner suit.
By the time we get as a far as Fulham Broadway it’s already past nine. I ask the driver to hang on and take me to work.
“Er, come in for a cup of tea or something while you wait.”
He looks as if this is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard and then says, “Thank you, sir, but I’d better look after the car.”
“OK, I’ll be five minutes.”
I belt into the house, have a quick and dangerous shave, throw on the only ironed work shirt I can find and then run out of the door still tying my tie. We set off again and I reach for the mobile phone. I’m just about to ask the driver for permission to use it and then I realize that it’s Marion’s phone, not his, and she won’t mind. He takes no notice as I grab the handset and dial Sami’s direct line.
“Good morning. Classified. Samira speaking.”
“Hi, it’s me.”
Her tone changes, “Andrew! For goodness’ sake, where are you?”
“I’m on my way, I got a bit held up.”
“You’re hopeless. Debbie’s already asked where you are.”
“Oh, shit.”
“When will you be in?”
“About twenty minutes. Listen, will you do me a favour? Just grab some papers, photocopy them and meet me in reception in fifteen minutes.”
“Oh, OK.”
“You’re a star.”
“And you’re a-a-retrograde.”
I laugh. “Sami, where do you get them from? See you in a minute.”
Of course it takes longer than I had hoped and it’s nearly ten by the time I get to the office. Sure enough, Sami is waiting, lurking behind a potted plant, in reception.
“Ooooh, blimey, all right for some,” says Ted from behind his desk. “I was saying to young Sami, here, all right for some. Wasn’t I, Sami? Their very own welcoming committee.” I smile at Ted. Oh, not now, you mad old wanker.
“Here you go,” says Sami, thrusting a pile of papers at me. “You go first, I said I had to go to Accounts about something.”
“Brilliant. Thanks, Sami.” The idea, of course, is that I walk upstairs and pretend that I’ve actually been in the building since before nine photocopying down in the basement and delivering things around other departments. Debbie has missed me, that’s all. See?
“Tell her the copier kept getting stuck, that’s why you were so long.”
“Good thinking.”
Sami presses the lift button. “Why are you so late? And whose car was that? Of course! Last night!”
“Oh, don’t ask.”
There is a ping and the lift doors open. We throw ourselves in—just as someone else is coming out. I get an eyefull of expensive pinstripe suit and the impact sends my papers flying into the air. Under the snowfall of A4 I see that I have hit Ken Wheatley, the dreary yet remarkably smug director of finance.
“Oh, Christ, sorry,” I gasp. He regains his balance and looks at the papers floating down around us.
“Someone’s in a hurry,” he mutters with the quick wit you’d expect of senior paperpusher.
“Bit of a rush on upstairs,” says Sami quietly.
“I see,” says
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