I couldn’t argue with that.
‘And then,’ she said, taking another long, sweet swig from the bottle, ‘we’ll see what happens next.’
I sort of wanted to see what happened next.
[5]
‘Why do this?’ I ask, as we take cover from the rain in the entrance of Delmonico’s on South William.
The Chinese man is long gone, swapped for a mustachioed homosexual in a leatherette sailor’s cap on his way to a party downtown. We followed him until the rain ran slick through our hair.
‘Come,’ he says. ‘Inside.’
We take a table in the center of the room. He wipes the rain from his brow, and takes a menu.
‘You know this place?’ he says. ‘First printed menus in the US. First tablecloths, too. This place has a lot of firsts. First place to use the term Baked Alaska. Claims to have been the first to make eggs Benedict. Manhattan clam chowder – started right here, in those kitchens just three feet through that door. And you know the best one?’
I remove my jacket and shake my head.
‘The Hamburg Steak.’
I have never heard of it. Cockroft looks startled.
‘The first hamburger!’ he says. ‘Here. Right here. In 1834. So you see, it pays to be original, it does, you need that moment of inspiration, for you will forever hold your place in history!’
I look around, because I sense that’s what he wants me to do.
‘And yet,’ he says, leaning toward me now. ‘What if you don’t do anything with it?’
He holds my eye and takes his time.
‘You know how many McDonald’s we passed on the way here today? You know how many there are in the country? Nearly 6,000. They made $7 billion last year. This place? Sells maybe twenty burgers a day, I don’t know. You can buy a 39-cent burger in London now. Tokyo – can you imagine! But did McDonald’s invent the idea? Did they diddely. They followed. They took inspiration. You could argue the hamburger belongs to them now. And therein one sees the power of an idea.’
‘But you’re not in this for money,’ I say, and I am reminded of the question he so elegantly avoided out in the rain. ‘Why do you copy?’
‘Hmm?’ he says.
‘Why copy?’ I say.
‘Why copy?’ he says.
‘Yes,’ I say.
‘Yes,’ he says.
‘Yes?’ I say.
‘Yes?’ he says.
I sit back, unwilling to play.
He shoots back in his chair, too, an exaggerated look of confusion across his face.
‘I’m sorry, I’m joking,’ he says, his wild blue eyes softening. ‘Copy? I just told you. We all copy. It is in us. It forms the greatest part of our own personalities. You think we are all born original? We are not. Every book you’ve read, every movie you’ve seen, every idea you’ve ever thought was yours … all of them were somewhere else first. If we see further, it is because we stand on the shoulders of giants.’
‘That’s a nice way of putting it.’
‘I didn’t put it that way. Isaac Newton did. But the fact remains … I mean, “Books serve to show a man that those original thoughts of his aren’t very new after all.” Abraham Lincoln.’
‘I see,’ I say.
‘Pretty original thought. Although Marie Antoinette said it before him. On it goes. Shakespeare, all of them. Everything that can be put has already been put. Everything that can be done, be felt, be heard, has already been done, felt and heard.’
‘I’m not certain I understand what you’re saying.’
‘What I am saying is what others have said and it is simple: why not take a short cut and get to the good stuff? Why go through all the legwork, the tedious invention of the thousand and one things that have to happen before you discover a thought, a moment, an intention – why not just find someone who’s already there, or on the cusp, and piggyback their joy?’
fourteen
We stood on Stoke Newington Church Street, outside 5 Star Cleaners, underneath the lamppost by the bus stop.
Another bus went straight past.
‘Well, this is fun. I can certainly see what all the fuss is about.’
‘You just have to be patient,’ said Pia. ‘What about him?’
She pointed with one elbow – her hands deep in her parka.
‘That guy? You want to follow that guy?’
Fifty feet away, a man in his mid-thirties crossed the road from the town hall, looking both ways as he did so.
‘Why not? Look at his shoes. Converse. That shows he’s grounded.’
‘Or cheap.’
‘Laptop bag, worn leather. So he’s professional, but probably creative. Bag from the wine shop.’
‘So he’s going home.’
‘He might be going to a party. He might be going to a wine-tasting. You don’t know.’
‘He looks very … normal.’
‘Don’t you want to be normal?’ she said. ‘Get a mortgage? Order the same curry every Friday night from the same place you always use? Get an office job, answer the phones, “Good morning, Kitchen and Home Supplies, Tom speaking …?” That’s what most people want.’
‘So you just want to follow normal people as they order their favourite curries?’ I said.
‘Sometimes I see the value in that. Sometimes I see the value in “Good morning, how can I help you please thank you?”’
‘What’s your codename, anyway?’
‘My what?’
‘Andy Double. Felix Follow-everyone-about. What’s yours?’
‘Mine’s double-barrelled,’ she said. ‘Pia Likewise-Xerox.’
‘You just made that up.’
‘I did. I find all that so uncool,’ she said, scanning the street, looking down towards the library. ‘What about her, then?’
A teenage girl in a pink velour tracksuit barked loudly into a cheap handset, a box from Luigi’s in the other hand. Her words floated over us.
‘Lemme ahks you a question, right? … Nah, lemme ahks you this …’
She walked past John’s Garden Centre, then stopped to shout into her phone.
‘No thank you,’ I said.
‘I’m just saying. All these people are going somewhere. They’ve each got a story. A destination. Isn’t that interesting?’
‘Nope.’
‘Come with me into town. Let’s go to Trafalgar Square. Do you know how many stories start there? At this time of night it’s a story a second!’
‘We’ll end up following a tourist to Heathrow. That will be our story. Standing in WH Smith as they buy a travel pillow and some mints. And how do we know when to stop? When we hit Osaka?’
‘Hey – look …’ she said, ignoring me, and I followed her eye.
Now this – this was interesting. A gentleman. Not a man. A gentleman. Older. Maybe mid-sixties. Hat. Classic Burberry trench in almond. He’d been in The Fox Reformed – the wine bar with the red frontage I’d always fancied going to but never felt I’d fit. He stood for a moment under the bust of Edgar Allen Poe and fixed his hat by the orange blush of the streetlight, leaves fluttering around him.
‘He’s brilliant,’ said Pia. ‘Check out his briefcase.’
It was old, cared-for. Brass locks over dulled maroon leather. He wore brogues, and tan leather gloves. A beard and small round glasses, face rich and flush as the bottles of red on the Fox’s wine list.
I took it all in. I think it was the longest I’d ever really looked at a stranger. I saw them all the time, strangers … just never looked.
The man checked his watch as he approached and smoothed down his jacket as he passed.
‘Let’s follow,’ she said, and she tugged at my sleeve.
‘I don’t feel comfortable with this,’ I said, staying where I was.
‘Just for a bit,’ she said. ‘He’s going …’
She stared at me, like a little girl on an adventure who can’t believe her boring uncle won’t join in with the make-believe.
And so
I humoured her. We kept our distance. We walked down Church Street, a hundred steps behind.
He turned right on Green Lanes and then upped his pace.
‘He’s late for something,’ she said, upping hers. ‘He’s got to be somewhere. That’s exciting.’
‘He could be going anywhere,’ I said, annoyed. ‘Slow down …’
‘The whole point,’ she said, ‘is that he could be going anywhere!’
On Green Lanes, he broke into a pained jog as the 141 approached, raising one hand to catch the driver’s attention, but the bus didn’t even slow, didn’t even raise a ‘sorry’ hand as a basic courtesy. Everyone’s busy. Everyone’s got some place to be.
‘Okay,’ I said, surprised to find I’d been jogging too. ‘He’s missed his bus. That’s that. We’d have followed him to a bus stop and then watched him go. Can’t believe we missed out on that.’
‘Your sarcasm bores me,’ said Pia. ‘Look – he’s got a plan.’
He checked his watch again and continued to stride down Green Lanes, past the Brownswood and on, past the Pirate’s Playhouse.
‘He’s heading for the tube,’ she said. ‘Manor House. That’s the Piccadilly Line. Where’s he going? Kensington?’
‘That’s the glamorous way of looking at it. He might be going to Uxbridge. Or Heathrow.’
‘You up for it?’
‘Uxbridge? No! Pia, we’ve followed a man to a bus stop and now we’re walking to a tube station. It’s ten to eight, I sort of feel I’ve had enough for one night.’
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘You’ve got an Oyster Card. You’ve got an Oyster Card because I stopped someone nicking your Oyster Card! And what’s the difference? Let’s give it an hour. You can be tucked up in bed by half nine, I promise.’
Something in her eyes had changed. They were shining now. And only now did I see how dulled they must have been before. This was what she wanted to do. I could stop it all in a heartbeat. Or I could go with it. It was only a tube ride, after all.
‘Tucked up in bed by half nine,’ I said.
Into Manor House we ducked, swiping our Oyster Cards behind the man, who was moving quickly now, skipping down the steps, hand trailing lightly on the banister. She was right. He had to be somewhere. I suppose it was interesting. I suppose part of me now wanted a hint of where he could be going. Some minor resolution.
‘First test,’ said Pia. ‘Northbound to Cockfosters, or Southbound to excitement?’
We watched the man study the signs. He chose Southbound. She gave me a nudge in the ribs. A look that said, ‘See?’ … and we followed him down to the platform, deep down below the streets and flats and parks of London, and when the train arrived a minute later we jumped on board, five or six steps behind him.
‘Fiver says it’s King’s Cross,’ I whispered. ‘And that’ll be that. I’m not just going to spend my evening doing someone else’s commute.’
‘We have to keep our distance,’ she said, pulling me to the other end of the carriage. ‘What’s he doing now?’
I cast a glance to the other end.
‘He’s sitting down. He’s got a newspaper out.’
‘Which newspaper?’
‘Telegraph.’
‘So he’s a traditionalist,’ she said, and I rolled my eyes.
‘Are we supposed to make up a story for him now?’ I said. ‘Like we’re young lovers in a Simon & Garfunkel song? Are we supposed to say he looks like a spy?’
‘He does look like a spy!’ said Pia. ‘We should get a copy of the Telegraph later, though. See what he’s reading. It might give us some ideas.’
‘Later?’ I said.
On we rode, past Finsbury Park, Arsenal, Holloway Road … at King’s Cross we prepared ourselves, knowing he’d probably alight here, minding the gap and heading for the Metropolitan Line, or the Circle, or maybe heading up into the vast Georgian arches of the station above to find his train back to the provinces.
But he remained in his seat, ruffled his paper.
‘He’s going into town,’ said Pia, squeezing my arm. ‘We’re off!’
And past Russell Square we bounced, then Holborn, then Leicester Square, Covent Garden …
‘He’s getting up,’ she said, hushed, in my ear, pretending to be looking somewhere else. ‘He’s getting his things together …’
‘Okay, so, Piccadilly Circus …’
‘He might be going on a date! Maybe there’s some cool, out-of-the-way restaurant only people like him ever know about! Or a sex club!’
‘You would follow this man into a sex club, would you?’
The train slowed, tracks screeching, and we tensed ourselves to deal with the moment of hard stop.
The man was already at the door.
‘You’ve got another thirty minutes,’ I said, and she made a miniature triple-handclap like I’d just told her that, actually, we were going to Disneyland.
Up the escalator he climbed, and we climbed after him, moving quickly past still passengers, gently squeezing the odd tourist to the right, and through the barriers we pushed, up the stairs and out, beneath the huge neon signs of the Circus.
He moved with speed now, checking his watch again, adjusting his hat and moving head down, gently using his briefcase to guide slower pedestrians out of his way and nipping gracefully between them. It was a busy night in Soho, all crowds and buses and cabs, and we moved with him down Shaftesbury Avenue, past Rupert Street – Chinatown and stag parties to our right – until we found Soho fire station. He raised his briefcase in thanks to the bus that let him cross and dashed over the road.
‘He’s doubling back on himself,’ I said. ‘This looks weird.’
‘He’s no idea we’re following him,’ she said, as we pounded across. ‘He’s heading into Soho. Maybe Ronnie Scott’s. He looks like a jazz musician.’
But we passed Frith Street.
‘Maybe he’s a theatre director. Maybe he’s late for the opening night of his own musical.’
He turned right on Dean Street.
‘Maybe he’s going to Pizza Express,’ I said. ‘Maybe he’s going to eat a pizza.’
‘I think you’re wandering into the realms of fantasy now,’ she said, then: ‘Look.’
The man was sidestepping a group of paparazzi outside a grey building with giant red flags outside. He was trying to get through, politely raising one hand but not afraid also to accidentally bash one in the small of the back with his briefcase.
‘That’s the Randolph,’ I said. ‘Private members bar. Well, I guess that’s that.’
‘Why is that that?’
‘That’s that because we can’t go in. You have to be a member.’
The man was through the door. And the door – vast and black and solid – was closed.
‘No, you don’t have to be a member,’ she said. ‘I mean, you do have to be a member. But you can also just act like a member. Which is good for you, because you’ve been acting like a member all night.’
She rabbit-punched me in the ribs. It really bloody hurt.
‘Sorry!’ she said. ‘No, you just walk in.’
We stood outside, away from the photographers.
‘I’m not just walking in. All they’ll do is ask us to leave. Don’t you have to have ID or something?’
‘Not in a place like that. They daren’t ask for ID in case you are someone. And you just don’t let them ask if you’re a member. They’ve got a guestbook. You just say, “Hey everyone!” and act like you’re always in there, or you say, “Is upstairs open tonight?” and before you know it you’ve signed in and they just assume you’re someone who belongs there. You think these places recognise all their members?’
‘You seem remarkably comfortable in situations like this.’
‘Come on. You take the lead. Just say, “Hey everyone!”, sign in, and keep walking.’
‘Absolutely not.’
She pushed me, along the pavement, towards the doors.
‘No. Fun’s over.�
��
She kept pushing. I tried to play it off, tried to make it look normal, but now one of the paps had turned round, sensing something. He raised his camera, just in case.
‘Stop it,’ I said to her. ‘People are looking.’
I did not want to be the centre of attention. I had to act normal. I got to the door and pushed it open while Pia giggled behind me.
Inside a small anteroom, smart girls in black looked up from behind a tall oak desk. Three sets of bright red lips, three friendly smiles.
I raised a pathetic hand.
‘Hey, everyone!’ I said, so they wouldn’t ask me if I was a member.
‘Hi,’ said the first girl, her smile fading now, and then: ‘Are you a member?’
Shit.
I looked at Pia, who was already at the guestbook, pen held in one clenched fist like a child, already trying to move things on.
‘No,’ I said, shrugging. ‘Nor’s she.’
‘We’re actually meeting someone here,’ said Pia, shooting me a look. ‘And they’re a member.’
‘And what’s the member’s name please?’
‘Matthew Channing,’ she said, without missing a beat.
Who? I looked again at Pia, confused, then saw she had a finger on the guestbook. A random name. Someone who’d already signed in. Matthew Channing.
‘Is Matthew expecting you?’ said the girl. ‘He didn’t say he was expecting guests.’
‘We’ve been texting,’ said Pia. ‘It only just came up. He said to swing by. Said he was sitting his usual spot and to ask you where that was.’
‘Okay,’ said the girl, walking round her table and opening the door. ‘He’s in the upstairs bar …’
Through the doors, laughter. A mahogany bar, art on the walls – a Damien Hirst? – fat leather club chairs, espresso martinis, piano music.
Only she stood in our way.
‘I’ll just take you to him,’ said the girl.
‘Oh, you don’t have to do that,’ I said, suddenly panicking, because we could really do without being presented to a blank-eyed stranger. ‘It’s fine. Honestly. We’ll find him. I mean, it’s not that big up there. Or is it?’
Who is Tom Ditto? Page 11
