The Magpie Trap: A Novel (8 page)

Like Father Like Son

Chris
Parker strolled back into work, clearly feeling the buzz of two pints and a
whisky coursing through his veins. But he wasn’t unsteady on his feet. If anything,
the alcohol looked to have made him feel stronger; he bounced off the balls of
his feet in an un-self-conscious hard-man swagger. Walking down the road, he
looked as though he was Richard Ashcroft in the Verve’s
Bittersweet Symphony
video; a man totally set on where he was
going, and where he wanted to be. Here was a man who couldn’t be distracted or
shaken off course; a man following the set path of destiny.

           
The alcohol had also not had any
effect on his carefully constructed, carefully styled outward appearance. He
looked like the kind of man that was immensely proud of his look; he probably
moisturized, and definitely was a gym member. His grey suit was well-fitted,
and obviously expensive; he wore his shirt without a tie and casually unbuttoned
to show-off some of his muscular physique. His cuff-links sparkled in the
sunlight. He was the kind of person for whom the old-fashioned term
‘well-groomed’ would still fit nicely. Even his hairstyle looked as though it
had taken him a lot of time and effort. That messy look doesn’t just come about
by accident, you know?

           
Despite his feigned nonchalance
then, Chris Parker wanted a reaction. He wanted, and had grown accustomed to,
people looking at him; the archetypal aspirant young professional populating
Leeds
City Centre; the
future
.
And so, he bounced down

           
As he strolled past The Brasserie,
he was spotted by its owner, who was outside watering his hanging baskets. As
soon as he saw Chris and gave him a mock-serious salute which Chris returned
before crossing to speak to him.

           
‘All right Maurizio,’ said Chris.

           
Maurizio was actually Maurice. He
looked like a stereotypical Italian waiter, but was, in fact, pure
-bred
Yorkshireman
. Pretending to be
Italian was better for business, clearly.

           
‘Coming in tonight?’ asked
Maurice, hands-on-hips, watering can forgotten.

           
‘No; I thought that I’d cook for
myself tonight, Mo,’ said Chris, removing the Ipod earphones from his ears.

           
‘You’re not serious?’ asked Maurice,
concerned. He play-acted waving his arms about with a dramatic flourish,
looking as though he’d just found out that a family member had died.

           
‘Am I hell, mate; what’s the point
of living above a Brasserie if I can’t come in for my dinner every night,’
laughed Chris, slapping Maurice on the shoulder with a little too much force.

           
‘Oh
Meester
Chris lives above a Brasserie and spreads the
moulah
by coming in here on an evening
and supplementing Maurizio’s
meagre
income with
hees
tips. We is thanking you, sir,’ said Maurice,
giving a mock-bow.

           
Chris laughed: ‘Don’t be stupid; I
saw that Beamer you’re driving now.
That’s
what I’m paying for, with my bloody tips.’

           
‘
Meester
Chris is like a bumbling-bee pollinating all of the flowers around here;
the gym and the pubs and the clubs and
the
ladeez
.’

           
‘I can’t take you seriously when you do that
voice,
Mo.
And by the way, the reason I go to the gym is so
I can work off the excess calories from your cooking every night. The amount of
cream you put in that goddamn
lasagne
sauce last night… Bloody hell.’

           
‘Bloody hell is right mate,’ said
Maurice, suddenly reverting to his
Leeds
accent.
‘That cream was imported from the sheepses on the mountains of northern
Italy
and…’

           
‘I’ve just come back from northern
Italy
’s slopes and there were no bloody sheep up
there,’ grinned Chris. ‘You buy the cream and the meat and the rest of your
crap off Leeds market or off someone like – hold on; you don’t buy it from my
father, do you?’

           
The mere mention of his father
caused Chris’s face to cloud over.

           
‘Not after what you told me about
him,’ said Maurice.

           
‘Good… good; I can still frequent
your Brasserie then.’

           
‘Where you off anyways?’ asked
Maurice.

           
‘Back into work; you know the score.
Gotta show face…’

           
‘Want any of those cream-a-cakes
like-a you took back last time?’ asked Maurice as Maurizio again.

           
‘You know what; yeah. I reckon
that’ll endear me to those fuckers once again. You know what I’d like to do
with it though; shove it in their pale, vegetarian faces and watch it congeal
like animal fat.’

           
‘Still not any happier there?’ asked
Maurice, leading the way into the Brasserie and to his usual seat at the counter.
Chris hated sitting anywhere else in the place; it was all too pristine and
clean in the main dining area; at least there was a bit of action at the bar…
And some of the waitresses and bar-girls they had on were usually quite tasty
too.

           
‘Not really,’ mused Chris, picking
out a sugar sachet from a bowl and tearing off the end, watching the sugar
granules glisten on the smooth wooden bar. In fact,
everything
in Maurice’s Brasserie either glistened or was made of
smooth wood. It was like a show-restaurant or something off the telly. ‘There’s
just no excitement in it any more. At first it was quite funny getting paid to
just fanny about and pretend I was
being
creative
, but now it’s just boring.’

           
‘Pays the bills though,’ said
Maurice, carefully tying a dainty ribbon around the fragile-looking box into
which he’d deposited the dietician’s-nightmare cakes.

           
‘Yeah, s’pose. And the extortionate
rent that investor charges for the flat.’
   

           
‘Why do you still rent? Surely you
can buy some plush pad somewhere by now…’

           
‘Who are you; my father? I know that
it is
dead money
, but I prefer
renting to a mortgage because it gives me the freedom to escape if the fancy
takes me.’

           
‘You have lots of disposable cash,
and that’s exactly what you’re good at; disposing of it,’ laughed Maurice,
sprinkling a little confetti-type stuff into the clear plastic bag which held
the be-ribboned box which contained the elaborate cakes. ‘You dispose of it
into the designer clothes shops, into the cash register at countless bars and clubs,
into the ringing tills of the travel agents to pay for your frequent holidays.’

           
‘That’s right,’ agreed Chris,
already turning away. ‘Live for the moment; see you tonight…oh, shit; just
remembered mate. Talking of dear daddy; I’m supposed to be going round there. I
don’t think I can come in later. It’ll have to be tomorrow.’

           
‘Okay Chris, I’ll have your
favourite table for you tomorrow then,’ said Maurice, clearly disappointed;
crestfallen.

           
‘I don’t think you realize that I’m
not missing out on coming through choice,
Mo.
All I’ve got to look forward to is the constant digs
from my father; you know the type of thing:
when
I was your age, I’d been married twice, and had a son’
.

           
‘Want to have a quick drink now? You
can sit on my psychiatrist’s couch?’

           
Maurice gestured towards a pale
brown leather chaise long which was propped against the exposed brickwork of
the far wall.

           
‘Did you really buy that thing from
a shrink?’

           
‘Yes, and he’d tell you the same
thing as me,’ said Maurice, stroking his moustache. ‘Have a drink; enjoy
yourself.’

           
‘Daddy-dear had his own business and
worked
every hour God sends
to ensure
it was a success,’ continued Chris. ‘Do you know; I heard that particular line
so often as a child that I built up a picture of a bearded Santa-like God
popping special certificates in the post allocating extra hours as a reward
which the hard worker could then hand in to the post office who would change
their clocks in return.

           
‘You have a vivid imagination. You
should be a writer or something.’

           
‘Another thing Daddy-dear wouldn’t
have approved of. No; he had paid through the nose to put us through a public
school education which would iron out all such deficiencies. The only thing
that place was there for was to teach us was that our supposed rightful place
in the world was to be surrounded by piles of cash.’

           
‘Come on; have a drink,’ pleaded
Maurice.

           
‘I can’t; work. Don’t worry though;
you’re still my favourite restaurant,’ beamed Chris through his
whiter-than-white smile.

The
offices of
Peach Marketing Agency were
situated in a refurbished red-brick warehouse which backed onto the River
Aire
. Much of the brickwork round the back had been
replaced by huge floor-to-ceiling tinted windows, and a new, great glass
elevator shaft which made the passenger think that they were floating in the
air above the river. It was the kind of architectural marriage between the
traditional and the modern which so
characterised
the redevelopment work which had overtaken the riverside section of
Leeds City Centre.

           
With a resigned sigh, Chris entered
the expansive reception area and sneered at the atmosphere of ostentatious
wealth. The place was all about first-impressions, and the Peach reception was
supposed to indicate success and creativity. There was an artfully-arranged
seating area overlooking the river which looked more like a bar than a waiting
room. In every corner, setting off the ubiquitous exposed brickwork very well,
were sets of sticks. Sticks? Were they intended to be firewood?

           
In fact, the only aspects of the
reception area which gave away anything about the nature of the business were
the occasional copies of some of their adverts. Chris spotted some of his own
designs up there; work that he knew hadn’t demanded much time and effort on his
part, but which had been deemed by the company to have been a success.

           
He approached the vast reception
desk, wincing once more at his own photograph being given pride of place on the
wall behind it. The picture portrayed why he’d been such a success in the world
of marketing far more effectively than the examples of his actual work had
done. For the photograph captured his magnetic, film-star-esque aura acutely.
From his dashing good looks and sparkling eyes, to his whitened teeth,
everything spoke of his attractiveness. Male colleagues and clients were not
jealous of his good looks, but instead felt fortunate when he deigned to grace
them with his presence; women adored his adventurous spirit, and the wistful
look which would cross his eyes when he thought nobody was looking.
  

           
Gemma, the receptionist, suddenly
reddened when Chris approached her. He was so tall; so self-assured. She
fiddled nervously with her telephone headset its microphone which protruded
across her face as though she was part-machine.

           
And part-machine she was; even in
his brief, wistful walk through the reception area, he’d heard her robotic
voice successfully answer, and then transfer three calls. She handled each of
the calls both swiftly and effectively; and on each occasion, she’d always conveyed
the same grateful subservience, as though that particular call was the most
important call she’d ever taken in her life. But, of course, there was still
that human part of her which remained, and as he stood at the reception desk,
waiting for her to deal with the last of the calls, Chris could have played a
juvenile game with himself; trying to recognize the outlines of animals in the
fierce crimson patches which covered her cheeks. She looked like an
apple-cheeked farm girl, completely out of her depth wallowing in the cynicism
of the city.