He didnt have to show his ticket! Malcolm pointed out.
But the inspector ignored him. A dying breed, he repeated and moved down the aisle.
Hughie looked out of the window. The man had disappeared.
Surely hed given him his ticket. But why had he bothered to save a complete stranger?
Halfway down Park Lane, the bus shuddered violently. Clouds of black smoke billowed from its engine. The driver pulled over and rang the bell. Everyone off! Everyone off the bus!
Hughie climbed off and managed to lose Malcolm in the outraged throng of pensioners and pushchairs. Traffic had ground to a halt.
There was nothing for it. So he ran down Park Lane.
At Hyde Park Corner, his phone rang again.
Im ordering without you, his mother said. You forget that not everyone is unemployed and can laze about all day like you.
MumI can explain
You have so little respect for other people. Time is more than money, Hughie, its the stuff of life. You are wasting my life! Why are you panting? Is something wrong with you? Are you ill? How is it that any child of mine could be so badly brought up as to think
Another call was coming through. It was Leticia.
After all the money Ive spent trying to give you the best possible startyes, Ill have the lamb please and a bottle of Chateau Margaux
Sorry, Mum
Hughie, dont interrupt! What have I just been telling you about respect?
Mum, if you could just hold a minute
Hold! I will certainly not hold!
Leticia rang off.
My God, Hughie, you really take the biscuit!
Mum! This is a very important call!
He put his mother on hold and rang Leticia.
The Vane home for very, very wayward women, she answered.
Then Hughies credit ran out and the line went dead.
By the time he arrived at Leticias shop, her next client was already there. He rang the bell anyway.
Cant you read the sign? she said, opening the door. No soliciting.
He pushed his hair, damp from all the running, back from his face. Im here to pick up the samples, Miss Vane. Im so sorry Im late.
And what samples might those be?
The ones for MrMrMr Licktitslowly.
Mr Licktitslowly, she repeated.
Thats right, Mr Licktitslowly and the Reverend Hardascanbee.
She sighed. Those samples have been put away. I dont have time to get them out now
Hughie leant in. Im afraid the Reverend in particular is most insistent.
She smiled, brushing her fingers softly against his thigh. He stiffened. Tell the good Reverend Hardascanbee that another time, Ill personally ensure he samples everything.
She shut the door.
Hughie waited a moment for his erection to go down, then bolted across to the Goring. He was just in time to see his mother climbing unsteadily into a cab and it pulling away.
Bugger!
By now, breakfast had worn off. He went into the Goring anyway, lifting a copy of The Times from the front desk as he passed. There was no point attempting the dining room. And the bar was heaving. Instead, he squeezed into the lounge which was full of people lunching on sandwiches. He scanned the busy room until he found a table where a middle-aged couple were just paying the bill.
Im sorry to disturb you. He flashed his most charming grin. Its so crowded, is this seat taken?
Hughies Harrow education was useful for the accent alone.
Oh! No, please! the man gestured to the spare chair. We were about to leave anyway
Thats very good of you. Here. Hughie held out the womans coat for her.
Thank you, she smiled.
No, thank you! Hughie waved as they made their way towards the door.
Then he settled down, folded out his paper and disappeared into the general throng. The woman had left half her crab-and-avocado sandwich and most of her crisps. There was a small bowl of olives and even a bit of wine left in the bottle. Hed chosen well.
Wiping the lipstick off the womans glass, he poured out the rest of the wine. Not a bad year, he thought, settling back.
At least the letter was off, winging its way across London. He was in with a chance. Today, he was scrambling for spare change but tomorrow? Who knows? He popped a crisp into his mouth. After all, it was difficult to keep a Venables-Smythe down.
He made a note of the time on the clock by the front door, then turned to the sports page and checked the cricket score.
Sooner or later, Leticias client would leave.
And sooner or later, the Reverend Hardascanbee would have his evil way.
Armenian Plumbers
Leticia closed the door.
Nothing was going to plan today. Hughie was late, the romance novelist turned out to be four foot seven, a size twenty, and obsessed with the colour pink and now shed have to measure her in the workroom because the plumber was poking about in the bathroom, trying to locate the mysterious leak. He was hammering on something, making the most God-awful noise.
She checked the tea things shed laid out earlier, running her fingers over the exquisite china cups and saucers. Thin, tangy lemon biscuits, smoky Assam tea, fine white sugar, milk, all neatly arranged on the large silver tray. Turning on a CD of Handel arias, she tried to look serene and composed, taking it back into the main room. Please forgive me!
The novelist beamed up at her, dressed in a pair of too-tight jeans and a waxed Barbour jacket, smelling of wet dogs and hand lotion. No problem at all!
So, Leticia poured a little tea in a cup, checking the colour, you want something with puffball sleeves, is that right? And a train? Are you sure?
She nodded eagerly. Do you think you can do it?
Well. How to break the news to her? Its not what I would recommend. Why dont we go for something morestreamlinedmore sophisticated?
The womans face fell. Leticia was clearly demolishing a childhood dream.
Milk and sugar? Thats not to say it wont be gorgeous, she added temptingly.
Excuse me.
It was the plumber, standing in the doorway, wiping his hands on an old rag. These people had no sense of timing.
May I have a word?
Pardon me. She eased the novelist into a chair, piling a stack of sketchbooks onto her lap and popping a biscuit in her hand. Have a look through some of these. It will give you some fresh ideas. I wont be a minute.
She followed him into the bathroom. Yes? So what exactly is wrong?
How long ago did you have this put in?
Three years ago. Why?
And who did it?
Freelance guys. Armenians. Friends of my godfathers. (Friends was a euphemism.)
So not a proper outfit, is that right?
She didnt like all these questions. Well, no. Not as such.
Why? She folded her arms across her chest. What has that got to do with anything?
Sam sighed. I didnt think it could be done by a legitimate company. Not by the quality of the work. But I wondered for your sake. Then you might have some legal recourse.
The word legal sounded ominous.
See this, he continued, pointing to the pipes that fed into the freestanding bath. Underneath the floorboards there are places where theyve been held together with chewing gum and electrical tape. These pipes arent even the same width. Youve got a well of water underneath there thats rotting the wood. Im surprised you couldnt smell it.
The Armenians had done it at the most amazing price. And so quickly too.
She ran her hand over her eyes. Can you fix it?
He shook his head. I can fix it but it means tearing up these floorboards, maybe even starting from scratch.
And how expensive will that be?
Hard to say. Twelve hundred?
No!
You can get a second opinion. I mean, another quote. But dont use it for a couple days. It needs to dry out. He began packing up his bag. If you want me to do the work, I can fit you in, but you need to let me know quickly. Here, he took a card out of his back pocket. Let me know what you decide.
Thanks, she said grimly, leading him through the workshop and opening the back door.
By the way he stopped on the threshold, looking around, what is it you actually do here?
I design bespoke lingerie.
Youre kidding! he laughed.
Leticia straightened. Whats so funny about that?
Nothing. Hey, any chance of coming to a fashion show?
Thank you for coming by she said briskly, shutting the door.
Twelve hundred for pipes! Of all the things to have to spend money on! Then she thought of her ever-climbing overdraft. It was all so depressing.
She tossed the card down on the counter, adjusted the music and went back to her client.
This really wasnt her sphere; she was an artist, after all.
The King of the Tennis Ball
Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray was the king of the tennis ball. Anyone who ever thought about tennis balls (and there were those who did), couldnt help but consider the du Coudray Imperial, with its bold mandarin-yellow felt and exceptionally springy rubber core, as everything a tennis ball should and could be.
But the du Coudray Imperial had been Arnauds fathers accomplishment. (Actually, it had taken two generations to perfectone for the felt and another for the springy core.) By the time Arnaud was born, the Imperial was the established tennis ball of champions. And so throughout Arnauds privileged life, his mother had followed him around, first when he was too small to get away from her and later, when he was too guilty to try, drilling into him that he would never match his fathers success as a son, a human being or a producer of world-class tennis balls. He might as well give up right now. Which would, of course, be disgustingly lazy.
But Arnaud did not give up. It is a credit to his sheer stubbornness that every year he embarked upon a new scheme to make his mark on du Coudray Industries and increase the already ludicrously large family fortunes.
And year after year, under the cynical eye of Arnauds mother, his schemes failed.
There was the rubber tennis dress that never needed to be washed. The coaching racquet that hurled abuse every time a player missed a shot. And the legendary Tennis Caddy, a remote-controlled tennis bag on wheels which premiered at Wimbledon, famously reaching speeds of up to sixty miles an hour. Unfortunately, these were recorded during the mens finals when one rogue version terrorized a slow-moving ball boy on national television.
But now at long last, Arnauds hour had come. The Nemesis All-Pro Sport 2000 tennis shoe was a marvel of engineering, a triumph of fashion design, and a veritable orgasm of shiny lurex, flashing lights and gravity-defying rubber springs. And with Mens Top Seed Ivaldos Ivaldovaldovich flying in from Croatia to launch it in a special ceremony in Hyde Park, it was certain to fly off the shelves despite its £299 price tag.
Standing in the middle of the vast sporting goods department of Harrods, Arnaud eyed up the competition. This time he had cracked it. None of themNike, Reebok, Pumawere a patch on his creation, he noted, smiling with satisfaction. Amateurs, all.
Behind him Jack Pollard, his marketing director, was negotiating an exclusive display with the buyer; gesturing wildly, virtually battering the poor woman into submission with his enthusiasm. But Arnaud, restless, excused himself, wandering alone through the maze of exercise bikes, yoga mats, rowing machinesan endless parade of products aimed at the preservation of youth. How depressing. There was some woman in her fifties trying to balance on a ski machine. Its too late! he wanted to shout at her. Give up!
Rounding a corner, he came face to face with an older man. The man barred his way, glaring at him. What an old shit, Arnaud thought. He was about to say something when he realized with horror that it was a mirror.
Those were his lined features, his thinning hair, his sagging shoulders. For a moment, he thought he might be sick. Then he turned anxiously to see if anyone else had witnessed his discovery.
He was alone.
Backing away from the mirror, he averted his eyes, moving quickly into another section. Rage, unholy and mountainous, boiled up inside him. The events of the past year had clearly ruined him, draining away his mental, emotional and physical well-being. And he thought of Olivia, of how she had failed him. If only she were a proper, functioning woman, things would be different!
For it is true to say that, while Arnaud hated himself, he despised Olivia even more.
He kept walking, barely noticing where he was going.
Of course he could have plastic surgery but then everyone would know; his insecurity would be revealed for the entire world to see. Besides, it was pathetic; one of his oldest friends, Fabrice, had succumbed and now he looked positively bizarretight bits here, saggy bits therehis facial expression was one of permanent surprise. It was impossible to hold a conversation with him without being offended.
It wasnt a dignified solution. Was there a dignified solution?
More and more, Arnaud began to think not.
He turned a corner into the ski department.
He hated life; hated everything about ageing and being old.
If only he could begin again.
Thats when he saw her.
She was trying on a fur-lined Prada ski jacket, pouting and posing in front of the mirror. Almost six foot tall, with long black hair, a round face and enormous brown eyes, she radiated a languid, almost bored sexuality. Her jeans were skintight, emphasizing to great effect her models figure. She couldnt be more than twenty-four.
Arnaud was mesmerized.
I dont know, she sighed, speaking in a thick Russian accent. Is so expensive!
And yet, pointed out the sales assistant eagerly, it will never go out of fashion. Its an investment piece.
Everything goes out of fashion! she snorted, turning again to examine her lovely profile with the hood on. Nothing lasts in this world! Nothing.
Then she caught Arnauds eye. In an instant, she recognized him and determined to seize her chance.
Isnt that right? she challenged, fixing him with a sultry stare, full of pornographic promise. Then, just as quickly, she removed it.