Charlotte Street

by Danny Wallace

  There was a lengthy profile on him in Marketing Week. A few Telegraph Diary entries, where he’d been spotted eating canapés at product launches with sparkling, glossy women called Camilla or Claudetta or Collette. A mention in the Observer Food Monthly about his restaurant investments. The Guardian called him ‘former PR wunderkind, now wunderdult Damien Laskin’.

  He was self-made: working-class roots; won a scholarship to university. Taken on by a fledgling publicity firm in Bradford in the early 90s; four years later he opened their Dean Street offices. Four years after that, Avenue of the Americas. Then he went solo. Now he was the CEO or MD or VP of Forest Laskin PR. It was all very impressive. I could find little reason to dislike him.

  And then I read:

  ‘The word “forest”,’ opines Laskin, 42, ‘implies natural growth, and natural growth is what we shoot for, quarter on quarter, year on year, and what ultimately we have achieved since day dot.’

  It’s not day dot. It’s day one. And who ‘opines’? Sounds like something yodellers do.

  I scanned his list of clients. Hopefully it’d be all bingo halls and chutney.

  Mercedes-Benz spring/summer campaign.

  Oh.

  D&G Pop-up shop initiatives, Soho/Deansgate/The Lanes.

  Swarowski.

  Grey Goose.

  Breitling.

  The watch. His watch was a Breitling.

  Bang & Olufsen.

  Lexus.

  I’ve been hearing some very good things about Lexus lately.

  And something inside me snapped.

  I Googled Forest Laskin Publicity.

  Found an address.

  Called Dev.

  It’s funny how finding a challenger can focus a man.

  Of course Forest Laskin was on Charlotte Street.

  There they were, yards from Saatchi & Saatchi, pretty much opposite Café Roma, where I’d unwittingly had my picture taken by The Girl that night.

  Dev and I sat in the Nissan Cherry, our feet covered by a blanket of Walkers packets and Calippo tubes, on a single yellow line not far away.

  It was after 6.30. Parking attendants all over London were already on the tube home. And people on Charlotte Street were knocking off for the night. Dev was engrossed in a months-old-copy of GamePro. I found XFM and stared out the window.

  It’s a pretty street, Charlotte Street, I now realised. At this end, though, it was a little more corporate, a little less quirky. Huge trees reached above us, branches arching over the road where they’d mingle with others and wave away the sun or rain or sleet.

  It’s a street that people feel they’re part of, too; a street people want to put their name to.

  There’s Jamie’s Bar, where I imagine Damien Anders Laskin would sink a midnight whisky waiting for Tokyo or Sydney to get back to him each night.

  There’s Elena’s, timeless and named after the legendary Elena herself, scuttling about, putting people at ease, the ninety-year-old French woman as comfortable making a post-junket De Niro as welcome with a coq au vin as she was the bloke who used to sell the Standard by the station.

  There’s Andrea’s, which is really called Andreas, but which everyone calls Andrea’s, because it seems to fit in more.

  There’s Josephine’s, too, the Filipino Restaurant, and Siam Central, Palms of Goa, Niko Niko, Curryleaf, that Greek dancing place …

  ‘All the world’s on Charlotte Street,’ said Dev, stealing my thoughts. ‘So what’s the plan?’

  ‘We follow him.’

  ‘We follow him?’

  ‘We follow him. Why not? Let’s follow him.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘Then we’ll see.’

  ‘We’ll see what?’

  ‘What we do. If he’s with The Girl, or he leads us to her, well … then I guess it’s over. Because he’s with her.’

  I patted my jacket pocket. Dev shot me a quiet glance.

  ‘I have the photos with me,’ I said, not wanting to meet his eye. ‘And I’ll post them through the door of wherever they are and we’ll leg it.’

  Dev turned to me.

  ‘Just like that? I thought this was your big move.’

  ‘This is the closest we’ve come. What was I going to do, just keep finding places she’d been and taking my own photos there? Invent less and less popular features to slot into London Now? It wasn’t working.’

  ‘But don’t you want to talk to her?’ he said. ‘You know – closure?’

  I’d thought about it. And I’d decided that, no, I didn’t. Because, again, sometimes it’s better not to know. I mean, what if she was perfect? What if all that stuff in my head was true? The girl I wanted to know, with her shabby chic furniture and her healthy glow and her undying optimism? Imagine if I’d never written that letter to Emily Pye at school. Yeah, I wouldn’t have closure, but at least the closure I did get wouldn’t have been so brutal. I think you can trace most of my failures with women back to Emily Pye and the day I posted that letter and took that chance.

  So no. Better not to know on this one. Maybe better to think it could’ve happened, than find out it absolutely wouldn’t. Better that she’d remain just a girl in a photo, than a girl I’d met and felt I knew.

  Of course, I didn’t know if Damien Anders Laskin would lead us to her. I didn’t know for sure they were even together. But even though I was playing it straight and grown-up with Dev, that was kind of what made it so exciting. A bit of blind poker with a whole bunch of new emotions for a heart that had felt deadened and battered and bruised. What is it self-harmers say? That they self-harm just to feel? Well, I wasn’t that bad. But once in a while it felt enlivening just to take a risk. To use that moment.

  Plus, I had nothing to lose. Not really. Just an idea. Just a little bit of hope. And then at least I’d be able to move on.

  ‘I bet it turns out he’s gay,’ said Dev. ‘That’s what would happen in a film. There’d be a series of hilarious clues, all of which point one way, and then you’d confront him or something, and he’d say, “Let me introduce you to my partner” and we’d all be expecting the girl and then we’d all be shocked when some bloke walked in.’

  Dev started laughing, and slapped the steering wheel.

  ‘And we’d be in a gay bar and the bloke would have to have some kind of name which would’ve added to the confusion, like Pat, or Joe without an e!’

  He calmed down, and said, ‘Man, I wish life was like a film sometimes.’

  I looked at him.

  ‘We’re sitting in a Nissan Cherry in the middle of what is essentially a sting operation,’ I said.

  His eyes lit right up.

  And then I heard something familiar. I turned the radio up.

  ‘The Kicks,’ I said, delighted.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘That band. We’re friends. Well, we’ve met. They’re Abbey’s mates.’

  I turned it up further. It was ‘Uh-oh’. Then the DJ, the one who’s going out with the Sugababe I think, said, ‘Brighton’s brightest, The Kicks, on XFM …’

  ‘That’s my line!’ I said, delighted.

  ‘So says their press release, and who am I to argue … They’ll be at Scala in King’s Cross this Friday night, alongside Play&Record, Neighbours From Hell and—’

  ‘That’s when Abbey’s in town,’ said Dev. ‘Friday night.’

  And, as the DJ moved to ads, we looked up, and we saw Damien Anders Laskin leaving his offices and crossing to the other side of Charlotte Street.

  ‘Activate the Cherry!’ yelled Dev, turning the ignition, and doing just that.

  As it panned out, we didn’t have far to go.

  We tried creeping after him, but following a man who’s on foot is difficult when the cars behind you are insistent you at least try and come close to the 30mph limit. They never did that in Starsky & Hutch.

  Plus, Laskin wasn’t going far. He wasn’t going far at all.

  ‘Really?’ I said, staring up at the sign.

 
We left it five or six minutes before walking inside.

  ‘Table for two, please,’ said Dev, as I scanned the room.

  There he was, sitting by the window, no one in the seat opposite him.

  Maybe he was waiting for her. Maybe all this would start and end at Abrizzi’s.

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Dev.

  ‘Observe,’ I said.

  But there was something odd about this. Why Abrizzi’s? Why would he eat at Abrizzi’s? Not that there was anything hugely wrong with the place. But Roka was just down the street. Men like Damien eat at places like Roka. And that’s where they’d take girls like The Girl. They’d order mojitos to start, and they’d shun the tasting menu because they eat there all the time, so they’d take charge and fill the table with softshell crab and black cod and Ossetra caviar.

  ‘Let’s sit next to him,’ whispered Dev.

  ‘Let’s not sit next to him,’ I whispered back, but then the waitress was there, wearing her matching Jason Priestley hat and T-shirt set, and Dev pointed and asked, ‘Is by the window okay?’

  Damien Anders Laskin smelled good.

  I suppose if I were still a teacher, I would mark him like this:

  Appearance: Damien has a look about him that says ‘I am very busy and my mind is very far away’, even when just nibbling on a breadstick or casting a disinterested eye over a laminated menu in a restaurant that doesn’t suit him. Up close, he reminds you of a man from an advert, who probably has a huge stainless steel fridge with pak choi in it. Conversation: ‘Thanks,’ he said to a waiter, as we sat down, but not once did he look up at him, as his sparkling water was poured for him, like he was a little prince.

  Overall: I liked the fact that he didn’t look up, that he didn’t acknowledge the server, because it meant we weren’t the same.

  Though didn’t that also disappoint me?

  We were now sitting just inches from this man, and the strange thing was he had no idea what it meant.

  I mean, he was sort of a celebrity in our house, this guy. I don’t mean to say we were obsessed by him, or huge fans or anything, but we knew things about him. Like if you find yourself sitting in Starbucks next to Jean-Luc Picard. There’s that thrill. You want to let them know that you know who they are. As if you’ve discovered their secret somehow. But you don’t. You ignore them. Because that’s what they want, and also, you don’t want them to think you want them to know you know. You know?

  I knew Dev felt the same. So we quietly studied our menus and tapped our chins and … hang-about-what-the-hell-was-Dev-doing?

  ‘S’cuse me?’ he said, suddenly, leaning in towards Laskin.

  ‘Dev?’ I said, as if I had a question about the pizzas. ‘Hey, Dev—’

  ‘Sorry to be a pain …’

  Damien Anders Laskin looked up from his iPhone and looked at us both … and what was that? A flicker of recognition? A split-second of have-we-met? But what was Dev doing?

  ‘I was just wondering,’ Dev said, as I watched, wide-eyed, ‘if you could take a photo of us.’

  He smiled, broadly, and held up a disposable camera.

  My disposable camera.

  Damien Anders Laskin stared at it for just a second, and smiled.

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I know how to use one of these.’

  ‘Heeey,’ said Dev, suddenly feigning a memory. ‘It’s Damien, right?’

  Click.

  ‘Just so weird bumping into you again,’ said Dev, between mouthfuls of pepperoni, and for what must’ve been the fourth time. ‘Here of all places!’

  ‘Well, I only work down the road,’ said Damien.

  I had been keeping very quiet indeed, despite Dev’s constant attempts to include me in the conversation.

  ‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ said Dev. ‘Is this the place you invested in?’

  Damien smirked, put his fork down and wiped his mouth with a serviette.

  ‘No, no. Mine’s in Shoreditch. Hustle&Jive. A kind of speakeasy-jazz diner with an edge.’

  We both nodded as if we knew exactly what that meant.

  ‘No, this place isn’t quite me—’ and there was that smirk again ‘—but we just won the pitch to PR it. Small fry, really, but they’re opening up in Manchester soon, plans for Glasgow six months later, so why not get in on the ground floor? Good account for a junior to have … and in a recession, it all adds up.’

  I looked at his watch, his suit. I couldn’t imagine the recession had hit him particularly hard.

  ‘What was it you said you did, Dev? Restaurants?’

  ‘I have restaurant interests, yes,’ said Dev. ‘Brick Lane, mainly. But also, I’m in engineering. Videogame engineering. Pretty specific stuff we probably shouldn’t go into.’

  ‘And you, Jason?’

  ‘Journalist,’ I said, trying to keep things light.

  ‘Last name?’

  ‘Priestley,’ I said, and he laughed, but this time not for the usual reason.

  He held up a napkin.

  ‘“A magical slice of pizza heaven!”’ read Damien, delighted. ‘That was you?’

  ‘It was,’ I said, embarrassed. This man had a website, an empire. I had my name on a napkin.

  ‘You know that’s what helped convince them to spend on London PR? If I wasn’t eating for free, I’d pay for your dinner!’

  ‘You still can,’ said Dev, but Damien ignored this.

  ‘So … London Now,’ he said, suddenly very interested, but then a look approaching concern shot across his face. ‘Tough times.’

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘How are things there? How’s morale?’

  Morale? Morale was fine.

  ‘Oh, you know,’ I said.

  ‘Well, I think you’ll be fine. I mean, you hear things. I don’t mean to speak out of place.’

  ‘No, I mean, I’m freelance, so they don’t tend to fill me in on—’

  ‘Jason is reviews editor,’ said Dev.

  ‘Acting reviews editor,’ I corrected. ‘Just while someone’s away.’

  ‘Well, you’ve helped us out already,’ said Damien, and I shrugged it away. ‘Are you on our list? We have a list. Special friends. We hold events and suchlike. I’ll put you on our list. What’s your email?’

  And he tapped it into his phone.

  Maybe ten minutes later, Damien said, ‘Okay’ and stood up.

  He looked around Abrizzi’s and winked, conspiratorially.

  ‘Well, at least I don’t have to do that again,’ he said. ‘But it shows an interest – means the world to the client.’

  Dev and I stood, and awkwardly shook his hand. One after the other I mean, not at once.

  ‘Auf wiedersehen, boys,’ he said. ‘Jason, we’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Dev, giving me a wink. ‘One last thing.’

  Damien span round and raised his eyebrows in anticipation.

  ‘Are you a single man, Damien?’

  Nice, Dev. Subtle. I sat back down and pretended I’d had a text.

  ‘What I mean is, are you attached? Currently?’

  Dev couldn’t help but glance at me. Look what I’m doing! his eyes seemed to say.

  ‘Flattered,’ said Damien, half-smiling, his eyes darting nervously between us. ‘But I’m in a relationship, yes.’

  And as we turned and walked away, Dev realised what Damien had thought he meant.

  ‘No, not for me!’ he shouted after him, panicking. ‘Oi, Damien! Not for me!’

  He pointed to where I was sitting.

  ‘For him!’

  But I didn’t really mind. Because I knew how big Forest Laskin was – what they did.

  And I knew that however this worked out, I’d just been added to The List. I felt a strange warmth towards Damien Laskin.

  ‘Where there is the woman you love you will expend all effort, even to death, to get there.’

  Traditional Shona Tribe proverb, Zimbabwe

  Thank you for your comments on my blog. There are ten
of you now and while I’m sorry I’m being cryptic, I’m also trying to be honest.

  Martin: no, I can’t tell you his name, but your nickname fits quite well.

  Maureen: I think I would quite like to have seen the photos in the camera, yes. But I think that’s how this blog sort of started for me. As a way of remembering those moments I’ve got no proof of. So maybe I can learn from them.

  Like, when we were in his flat the first time, a flat I’ll simply say was as big as Alaska itself, I told him I had this list.

  Here it is: all the places I’ve ever sent a postcard from, and to who. It’s a potted history of me. Benchmarks, as much about who they went to as who they didn’t.

  Aberystwyth – geography field trip (to Mum and Dad, Nana)

  Dieppe – school exchange trip (to Mum and Dad, Nana)

  Glasgow – Take That, ‘The Pops’ tour at the SECC (Mum, Nana)

  Stirling – first week at uni (Mum and Dad, Nana)

  London – job interview (Mum, Nana)

  Whitby – to visit Dad’s grave. He always said he wanted to finish where he’d started. I took his car, but saved the postcard for Mum.

  And I guess that’s where he got the idea, this ideas-man. Maybe I gave him an easy in with that one.

  And much as I wish it hadn’t, it means I can’t give anyone an easy in again.

  Which is why, to answer your question Captain Stinkjet, it’s good for me to remain anonymous for now.

  Sx

  SIXTEEN

  Or ‘Goodnight & Goodmorning’

  I suppose if I were still some anonymous teacher, perhaps one who covered the odd science lesson when Mr Dodd was taking one of his sick days (if you wanted to find him at lunchtime to hand him a get well card and some flowers, he would be happy to receive them at his corner in Ladbrokes), I would describe my current situation thus:

  Objective: I can’t be.

  Method: The courts might say stalking.

  Result: That’d be nice.

  Conclusion: One step at a time. But the list’s a nice move.

  See, I knew all about lists like Damien’s.

  To be on the list, it meant you were a Chosen One. Someone regarded as valuable. Someone the PRs would call a ‘journalist friend’, not just a ‘journalist’. You were in the inner circle, invited to lavish events, days out, plied with food and drink, privy to the slaggings-off of other, lesser journalists, who are ‘not like you’.