Seven Daze (7 page)

Today’s plan was forming well. Meet with Charlotte for dinner and hopefully get a few words in edgeways. Then maybe, hopefully, arrange something for the weekend. The longing he’d had for a roll in the hay with Soho’s finest had gone. He wanted more. He wanted someone classier.

The other benefit of meeting Charlotte in the city was he could spend the afternoon visiting pubs. No doubt he’d find some bladdered stock brokers or bankers and relieve them of their wallets. Today, Jim had decided while struggling with the trouser press, would be old school day. No guns or armed robberies. No, today he’d examine the art of pocket pilfering. Wallet stealing was the game, maybe even the odd mobile. If he was really lucky, a laptop. Keys to a car? As the tube clickety-clacked over poorly maintained tracks, he pictured himself driving someone else’s Porsche, spending their money and using their phone.

Allowing himself a smile, his dream continued as the tube worked through London’s labyrinth. Ten grand in a week was a serious ask. What made it really hard was the nation’s love affair with plastic. So few people carried money anymore that even finding ten thousand in notes might take longer than a week. He briefly wondered if there was even ten thousand pounds of paper money actually in existence. Of course, he knew from his day job that everything had a cash value. Every piece of plastic, every phone, laptop, even car keys had a black market value. Problem was, it was between a fifth and a tenth of the actual worth. The other problem, he didn’t know anyone in London to offload gear onto. This wasn’t a big problem. The Queens Arms yesterday had stolen goods written all over it. Even with his poor mathematical skills, he knew he’d need to steal upwards of sixty phones a day to get anywhere near ten big ones. Cash was the way. Some places must have cash. They were the ones to hit.

Jim loosened his tie. He always felt uncomfortable in a suit, it reminded him of court. This afternoon would be a bit of fun, no serious money could be made, unless by a one in a million chance he found Ferrari or Porsche keys lying round. Just a bit of fun, a chance to earn some pennies to pay the week’s hotel bill. Maybe enough to take Charlotte out - if she agreed, obviously.

He checked the tube map again. Still three stops away. His watch showed he was nearly an hour early. But, he told himself, that was good. Being early gives you time to get your bearings. He’d have a quick shufty round; find side alleys in case a quick exit was needed. The amount of CCTV cameras in the city was worrying. In a suit and wearing shades he wouldn’t look too out of place. He reckoned he looked like a proper merchant banker.

Smiling harder, he looked at the dusty floor. Next to his left shoe was a grubby five pence piece. Picking it up, he pocketed it to the disgust of the woman opposite.

Just that little bit closer. Ten grand was getting nearer.

Leaving the station, he walked round looking at bars, coffee shops, sandwich shops and restaurants. The square mile felt bigger when travelled by foot. People and traffic everywhere, side streets, back alleys, similar looking landmarks. Everything conspired to make you lose your bearings.

A half hour walk made him comfortable with the layout. But it was the people he wasn’t comfortable with. They had too much money, and with it too little respect for anything.

Charlotte had texted him the address of the restaurant earlier. She’d offered to send him GPS coordinates, but Jim had said there was really no point. Whatever the hell GPS was, he doubted his twenty quid throwaway phone could use it. The restaurant was actually quite easy to find. Being half an hour early he went for another walk, keeping his bearings and location all the time.

The restaurant itself was expensive. He stared at the window menu with horror. He had a hundred and fifty in his pocket, but that was supposed to last him more than one lunch. Some of the main courses were nearly a hundred. Add to that wine and he was looking at an embarrassing afternoon of washing up. He hoped, really hoped, that she’d be both a light eater and feminist enough to insist on going halves.

He stood outside the restaurant with five minutes to go, the streets thronged with what appeared to be every city worker. People walked round him at their quick London pace. He almost felt seasick stood still. Busy people wanted busy sandwiches or wraps or whatever it was they ate, and they wanted them quickly. They wanted them yesterday.

He almost didn’t recognise Charlotte in her light brown suit, Gucci shades and tied back hair. When he did recognise her, it was too late to hide his smile. She was good-looking. More so than he remembered. He immediately wondered what she was doing looking at him. The suit, he convinced himself. You’re wearing an expensive suit. Don’t forget that.

She walked the last few yards to him, a slight smile on her own face. “Sorry I’m late,” she said.

Jim was surprised the sentence had stopped so soon. “You’re not. Late I mean. I’m early.”

Smiling, she stepped the final half yard bringing her to his side. A wave of expensive and slightly floral perfume scouted out an advance party. Breathing in the freshness, Jim’s eyes opened more. She seemed more dominant and confident. The constant talking gone. He hoped so anyway. That scared bunny in the headlights yesterday was now a confident, slick and slightly intimidating woman. Jim couldn’t help but feel like a kid in junior school. He was well out of his league.

“Shall we?” she asked.

Jim nodded and walked towards the restaurant, holding the door open for her. Chivalry may be dead, but it at least gave him an excuse to smell her perfume again.

The table had been booked in Charlotte’s name, Rathbone. Jim thought it the sort of name that oozed money. It had big house in Cheshire and private school written all over it. The
maitre d`
welcomed her with a theatrical cheek-kiss and ushered them to a small table in a recess. Charlotte took the rear seat giving her a view of everything behind Jim’s back. Jim had only a wall and Charlotte to stare at; the wall was never going to win.

A sparse conversation, possibly in French, between Charlotte and the
maitre d`
told Jim this wasn’t her first time here. She was well known. This was also her table and the
maitre d`
had been well tipped in the past.

As they were left to their menus, Jim peered over the top of his. Her eyes were scanning the menu she probably knew by heart, while her left hand traced a figure of eight over the top of a spoon.

“Sorry about missing your message last night,” said Jim. “I walked so much yesterday I just sort of collapsed.”

“It’s okay.” She flicked a wayward lump of hair that had fallen in front of her menu back onto her head. “I didn’t really have anything to tell you. It’s just, you know,    sometimes ...”

“I know,” Jim interrupted. He sensed she was gearing up for a speech and thought he’d nip it in the bud. “I woke up about oneish, but couldn’t get back off.”

She smiled and her eyes returned to the menu.

Looking at his menu, Jim tried to put on an “I’m not that hungry” look. “How was your morning?” His eyes flicked briefly towards hers.

She placed her menu diagonally across her cutlery. Taking a quick scan round the nearly full restaurant, her eyes met his. “Quiet really. I mean, I was supposed to have a meeting with a client, but he cancelled so that was two hours and a lunch appointment gone. I’d already booked here and well, you can’t waste reservations here, they’re just so hard to get, you know.”

Jim nodded.

“Apart from that a fairly normal day. I haven’t seen any heart attack victims yet either.” She smiled at what could have been a joke.

 Jim smiled back in case it was. “Just a normal Friday for me. In the boring world of statistics nothing exciting happens.”

She nodded then returned to the menu. Her face wasn’t as smiley as yesterday. Maybe she’d realised him for the chancer he was. Looking at the menu, his eyes hovered over the starter section, not going anywhere near desserts.

“What do you fancy?” she asked.

You, he nearly said. “The mushroom tagliatelli sounds nice.” It was also the cheapest.

“That’s a starter isn’t it? I’m not sure I can manage a starter and a main.”

Jim knew this was where things could get out of hand. He could barely afford a starter, let alone eat more than one course. “Erm, what do you want?”

“The lobster’s fantastic.” Her smile half returned.

Jim nodded and forced himself to look at the price. It ought to be more than bloody fantastic for that. He knew his eyes were bulging, but was helpless to stop them. This was almost torture.

An idea formed in his head. He’d later admit to having no clue where it came from. Though not strong enough to turn a man from crime and towards religion, it was damn close.

“I err.” He paused for effect, trying to look more nervous than he already was. “I don’t eat meat.”

“Oh no.” Her face fell; the smile disappeared. She looked mortified. Jim felt his own face drop too. “I’m sorry. I mean, I just assumed you ate ... Oh. My. God. I just didn’t even think. I mean here we are in the ‘meatiest’ restaurant in London, and you’re ... Oh I am so sorry ...”

He wanted to interrupt and stop her, but couldn’t. The vegetarian wheel had been set in motion and no amount of mung bean salad was stopping it. The cute city kitty had morphed back to the scared little talky bunny.

“... I should have asked. We could have gone to Bellini’s or that really nice Japanese place off ...”

“It’s okay,” he interrupted.

She stopped talking. Putting the menu down, she held her forehead in her hand.

“Seriously.” He knew he’d mess it up but before they’d even ordered. That was quick. “Look, it’s only food. I can have the, umm, green salad or the nut and seed roast.” As impossible as it was to say that with enthusiasm, by God he tried.

The waiter, maybe sensing the need to interrupt, walked over. “May I take a drinks order?
Madam, Monsieur
?”

Charlotte said, “A bottle of,” then added three words Jim didn’t understand. Charlotte nodded at him for approval. He nodded back and forced a smile.

“Are you ready to order your food, Madam?”

“Not quite,” she said.

Jim laughed as the waiter walked away. “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head, the stray piece of hair flopped off her forehead and returned to her cheek. “It’s me who should be apologising.”

“You have lobster, I’ll have the mushroom pasta.”

She shook her head. “We’ll both have tagliatelli. It’ll be a nice change.”

An embarrassed silence ensued, during which time Jim remembered he’d eaten beef stew last night and had told her. She obviously hadn’t remembered. She would though. A different waiter offered the bottle of wine to Jim. Testing it, as he’d seen posh people do in films, he was surprised by its smoothness. It almost didn’t taste like wine. He was used to best bitter and prison Hooch. He’d rarely drunk wine, and what he had, had been cheap plonk. But this, it excited taste buds he never knew existed. He thanked the waiter and confirmed to Charlotte it was very nice. Very, very nice.

“How long have you been a vegetarian?”

A little voice in his head said two minutes. “Not forever. A few years.”

She nodded. “What made you convert? Sorry, that’s not the right word is it?”

“Erm.” Think Jim, think. “Money at first. I mean I’d never really liked the way animals are, erm, farmed and all that. Intensive farming, yeah, you know. But, yeah, it was lack of money really.” He felt his cheeks growing red. He knew that sounded as transparent as a jellyfish.

The main waiter returned, just in time to save Jim.

“Are you ready to order now,
Madame, Monsieur?”

“Yes,” she said. She proceeded to give the order in French, and added a long burst afterwards. By the look on the waiter’s face, Jim guessed she’d either told him he was a vegetarian or a child killer.

The waiter removed some cutlery and walked away. Jim gulped back some wine. The conversation had lulled. He wanted to talk more about her than himself. He wasn’t comfortable lying; it could only trap and catch himself out. However, he was struggling to pick a topic. If he asked about her past or her family he knew the question would come back at him. He had to pick something just about her. Something she couldn’t reuse.

 Charlotte seemed reluctant to make conversation too. Maybe she’d realised this was a stupid mistake. Jim had the feeling this was going to be a long, fruitless and expensive lunch. Maybe he should quit now, before it got really expensive. But, that little voice in his head returned. How many times was he going to be in this position? A woman opposite, who was sort of interested. It wasn’t going to happen again. He should at least make the fucking effort. He had to keep her talking. Talk about her work. If he got her lost in conversation, this might not be a disaster.

“So,” he started, “how’s that deal going you mentioned?”

She frowned slightly. Puzzled, she seemed to think what deal she may have told him about. Suddenly her eyes lit up. “Oh the Dubai deal?” He nodded. “Yeah, we’re getting there. Some pull out, others join. It gets quite hectic this close to the deadline. Someone pulled out this morning, hence the reservation. Still, it all goes on expenses, you know.” She smiled.

Jim regretted his conversion to vegetarianism. Did that mean she was paying in full? If so, she could have made it clearer.

The stray lump of hair had rolled down her face again. Flicking it back atop her head, she dropped her voice and looked him straight in the eye. “There’s so much money involved. It makes you wonder sometimes. I mean, I know it’s oil money and oil’s running out so they’re investing for their future, but just how much do you really need?” She shook her head.

Her piercing eyes had made his stomach quiver. It was probably a good job he wasn’t eating meat. He sensed that beneath the high-flying deals, this cookie wasn’t the happiest in the packet. Seeing other people’s money make more money, obscene amounts of money, can’t be easy. He just wished someone would share some with him. Ten grand’s worth to be precise.