by Emlyn Rees
‘The thing is,’ he began, ‘the corkage you’re planning to charge basically defeats the object of Amy’s dad going over to France to get cheap booze in the first place.’
Christine Wilcox, middle-aged and sharp-nosed, smiled thinly. ‘I’m aware of that, Mr Rossiter, but you must also understand our position. Since you’ve decided to bring in’ – she nodded towards me, checking her list – ‘Chichi, your outside caterers, we’ve automatically lost part of our profit margin. It’s therefore up to us to make that up in some other way . . .’
‘Oh, come on,’ said Amy, tapping her fingernail demonstratively on the table. ‘What about the money we’ve paid for the hire of this place? It was hardly cheap. You can’t possibly be telling me that you’re not making a whopping profit from that.’
Christine stonewalled her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Crosbie, but The Manor’s corkage policy is made perfectly clear in the Booking Terms and Conditions form you signed. As I explained to you at the time, you have the option of buying your wine directly from The Manor and thereby not paying corkage. I don’t think you can hold me responsible for your decision to bring your own wine.’
‘But the prices on your wine list are astronomical,’ Amy protested.
Sandy placed a restraining hand on Amy’s arm. ‘I think she’s saying her decision is final, dear,’ she muttered, smiling awkwardly at Christine.
‘That’s it, then?’ Jack asked, sitting back in his chair and linking his hands behind his head. ‘You’re not prepared to budge?’
‘As I said,’ Christine stated, folding her arms, ‘the Booking Terms and Conditions form makes it perfectly clear . . .’
Jack looked over at me in frustration. ‘Stringer?’ he asked.
I cleared my throat and gave Christine my best smile, and then, when this had absolutely no effect on her, I cleared my throat again and made a show of flicking through The Manor’s wine and corkage list and clicking my tongue in disbelief. I smiled openly at Jack and said to him, ‘Astounding. These charges are the same as those at the Park Lane Hotel.’ Obviously, this was a total fabrication, but never mind. I turned my attention back to Christine. ‘Were you aware of that?’ I asked her.
‘No,’ she replied, a degree of uncertainty evident in her voice for the first time since the meeting had commenced, ‘I wasn’t. No.’
‘Quite astounding,’ I repeated, smiling wearily and putting the list on the table in front of me. ‘Well,’ I began, looking slowly round the assembled people as I spoke, before finally settling on Christine, ‘if you’re not prepared to lower the corkage charges, I suppose you leave us with no other choice.’
Christine relaxed visibly. ‘So which is it to be?’ she asked Jack. ‘Will you be paying the corkage or using our in-house wine list?’
‘No, no,’ I interrupted, gaining her attention again, ‘I mean, we’ll have to do without wine altogether.’
There was silence for a couple of seconds as Christine and I stared at one another. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Amy digging her mother sharply in the ribs, signalling her to keep quiet.
‘I don’t think I’m quite following you,’ Christine finally said.
‘It’s the only way I can see ourselves getting round this corkage issue,’ I went on to explain. ‘If we don’t have wine, you won’t be charging us corkage, correct?’
‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘but—–’
‘Well, that’s simple, then. We won’t. There are plenty of other drinks I can arrange. Cocktails, for example. Chichi does a great line in cocktails. And you can’t charge corkage on spirits, can you?’
‘Er, no.’
‘Splendid.’ I turned to Jack and Amy. ‘What I suggest is that we forget the wine altogether. I’m sure Hugh won’t mind holding on to what he’s already bought. It’s not exactly going to go off, is it?’ One cautionary look from Amy, and Hugh nodded in agreement. ‘We’ll limit the champagne to the toasts, and we’ll use magnums, so the corkage won’t add up to much there.’
‘Sounds perfect,’ said Jack.
‘Of course,’ I added to Christine, ‘you’ll lose your profit margin on the wine almost entirely, but’ – I flicked the Terms and Conditions with my finger – ‘that doesn’t appear to be a contractual problem . . .’
I watched the penny drop in her eyes: no wine meant no profit. Go on, think about it, I silently urged.
Christine scratched at her nose, then said, ‘Um, in certain circumstances, I am in a position to offer some sort of leeway.’
‘A one-off corkage fee, for example,’ I swiftly suggested, ‘whereby Mr and Mrs Crosbie could pay you an agreed fee and then be able to open as many bottles of wine and champagne as they like.’
‘Erm, yes,’ Christine reluctantly agreed. ‘A one-off fee might make sense in this particular case.’ I raised my eyebrows, inviting her to continue. ‘Shall we say one thousand pounds?’ she offered.
I whistled low. ‘That’s rather steep and I don’t know if it makes it worth our while reversing our decision over the cocktails. Five hundred would seem more reasonable, wouldn’t you say, Jack?’
‘Spot on,’ he concurred, trying not to smile.
Christine considered this in silence for what felt like a long time. ‘I’m still concerned about our profit margin. Could you see yourself stretching to seven-fifty?’
‘Six,’ I said.
‘Very well,’ she finally agreed. ‘Six hundred pounds it is.’
Here in the car, I continue to watch the countryside drift past the window and I’m still buzzing. This is probably the first time I’ve done something of any real significance in the work arena, and it’s great that the recipients are my friends. But then I sigh, wishing that the rest of my life could be so simple . . .
Aside from the note I found from Karen on Monday evening, there’s been no word from her. I’ve left two messages with her parents and she’s responded to neither. I can’t say I’m surprised at this. The note Karen left was unequivocal. It was short and to the point:
Dear Greg,
Sorry. Sorry. A million times sorry. Can we forget about what happened last night? I hope so. I was upset and confused about how you felt. I hope that when I come back everything can be normal between us again. Please forgive me for making such a fool of myself.
Your friend,
Karen
The living-room was spotless as I sat there reading her note, all evidence of her bender wiped away. I went through to my bedroom and lay on my bed, reading and rereading what she’d written. It was no good, however. There was no secret message hidden between the lines. She’d been confused. That was all there was to it. She regretted her outburst and wanted our relationship to return to the way it had been before. What she hadn’t accepted was that my normal feelings towards her had never been, and would never be, normal. I wanted to remind her of this. I wanted to repeat it to her until she accepted it as the truth. Why couldn’t she have stayed and let me finish off what I was saying about Susie? Why couldn’t she have let me explain that I was prepared to break things off with Susie so that I could be with her? Why did she have to leave with so much unsaid?
‘I saw Matt last night,’ Jack calls back.
‘How is he?’ I ask. ‘Recovered from the stag weekend?’
‘H is still angry with him,’ Amy says. ‘Apparently he was a bit ratty with her when she called in on your apartment to sort things out with him.’
‘Not surprising, really,’ I comment, then noticing Amy’s look, explain, ‘He was terribly upset. He really fancied her, you know.’
‘Yes,’ Amy said. ‘Well, that’s her choice and, if you ask me, it’s a pity. I think they’d be great together. All the same, he should have been a little more grown-up about it.’
‘There’s a little more to it than that . . .’
‘Such as?’
‘He knows about Laurent, Amy.’ I shrug apologetically. ‘I told him.’
Amy’s face is a mask of confusion. ‘But how?’
‘I was there in the steam room,’ I confess. ‘With a towel on my head. You two started talking and it was too late to stop you, and I didn’t know what you were doing there, and I was confused . . .’
‘Oh, Stringer,’ Amy groans.
‘Who’s Laurent?’ Jack asks.
‘A French businessman H slept with while she was away.’
‘What?’ Jack exclaims. ‘Just after Matt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh, God, Stringer,’ Amy cries. ‘He must be gutted.’
At this juncture, my mobile rings. I hold up a hand to Amy as I pull it from my pocket. ‘Hang on a second. It’s probably work. I’m bossing a job at the London Aquarium tonight.’ I put the phone to my face. ‘Hello?’
‘Stringer?’
‘Yes?’ Then I recognize the voice. ‘Oh, Susie,’ I say, turning to face the window. ‘Hi.’
‘Go get ’em, Horse,’ Jack calls out.
I ignore him. ‘How are you?’ I ask Susie, feeling guilty just at the sound of her voice. I’ve been too busy with work to see her, and haven’t had a chance to tell her about Karen. I haven’t even spoken to her since Thursday, when I . . . oh, tits . . . when I arranged to see her tonight.
‘Fine,’ she says cheerily. ‘Are you still on for—’
‘No. Shit, I’m sorry. Tiff’s sick and I’ve got to cover a job for her tonight.’
‘Oh.’
‘Listen,’ I say, ‘can we rearrange?’
There’s a pause, then: ‘I’d rather it was tonight. What time do you finish?’
‘Not until midnight.’
‘I’ll come along then. Is that OK?’
‘Yes,’ I agree, thinking that I must get this out of the way before Karen comes back next week, or I’ll be back at square one again. ‘I’ll have a word with security at the main door.’
‘See you then,’ she says and cuts the line.
I put the phone down and look back at Amy. I notice that I’m sweating. ‘Now,’ I say, ‘where were we?’
Susie
Saturday, 23.30
I feel ridiculous.
Absolutely ridiculous.
I probably look like a lady of the night, standing here, waiting for the last tube to take me to my midnight liaison with Stringer. I certainly feel like one.
I’m not sure why I’m so nervous about how I look, or why I’ve bothered to put on my floral print dress. It’s not as if Stringer hasn’t seen me at my absolute worst: in my oldest bikini at Leisure Heaven, for a start. And what about last Sunday morning? I’d hardly have won first prize in a Monroe lookalike contest when we woke up together in bed, hungover and smelly. So why have I trussed myself up like a Christmas turkey, now I’m going to tell him I’m doing a runner? I doubt if it’s going to make a blind bit of difference. Perhaps there’s a bit of me that thinks if I look feminine and pretty, it’ll soften the blow. But actually, now I think about it, if I looked my usual dog-eared self, it would probably make things easier for Stringer. You never know, he might even be grateful that I’ve let him off the hook.
The tube pulls in and I duck out of the way of a swaying mass of blokes who pass me and career to the other end of the carriage, singing football songs. I smile wryly, feeling nostalgic about the quirks of the city I’m leaving.
I hug my bag on my lap and read the adverts above the windows, since I’m too jumpy to read my book. Anyway, I’ve decided to give up on it, since it does nothing but send me to sleep. There’s an advert for hayfever nasal spray, one for the Tower of London and a first-hand account of finding true love through a dating agency, which is compelling reading, but I doubt it’s true.
I put a lonely hearts advert in the back of Time Out for a laugh once. I received an astonishing amount of crude replies and went out with this one bloke, Jimmy I think his name was, who told me half-way through his Pizza Hut pizza that he’d brought along the studded dog collar and leash his ex-wife had given him. I did a bunk from the ladies’ loos.
See, that’s one way to dump someone. Just disappear and never see them again. Or, if they’re very persistent, be brutally honest, which is just as effective. I don’t fancy you any more is my preferred line and on the whole, blokes respond quite well to it.
Thinking about it, in all the relationships I’ve had, nine times out of ten, I’ve finished them. I would even go so far as to say that dumping people is one of my special skills, along with joint-rolling, bong-making and blow jobs. It’s a pity I can’t put any of them on my CV.
But Stringer’s different. Because I don’t want to run away, or be blunt, because I care about him and I don’t want to hurt his feelings. It’s not the fact that we had sex that makes me feel worried about seeing him and saying what I’ve got to say, it’s that we’ve shared our feelings with each other and our secrets. I don’t want him to think I’m betraying his trust, as if what he said meant nothing.
You don’t know, I tell myself. You don’t know until you see him.
Except that I feel even more nervous when I do see him. He’s standing in the middle of a reception area in the London Aquarium, issuing orders to ten or so staff as they roll table tops round to the side of the room and stack up gilt and red-velvet chairs against the wall.
Stringer looks tired and preoccupied and I watch him for a moment, wishing I hadn’t forced this meeting. I’m tempted to leave before he sees me.
But he does see me.
I clutch my bag with one hand and wave stupidly with the other.
‘I’ll be ten minutes,’ announces Stringer to his staff, not taking his eyes off me, but I can’t read his expression. ‘Hi,’ I say shyly, walking towards him.
‘You came,’ he says, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek. Hardly the rapturous reception I’d feared, but then this is Stringer at work and he’s not exactly the world’s greatest flirt.
‘Yep.’ I smile.
‘Well, um?’ he says, sounding flustered. ‘Would you like a coffee or something? I think there’s still some in the outmess.’
‘OK,’ I say.
The tanks are lit up and everywhere brightly coloured fish are darting about. I go over to have a look.
‘Here you go,’ says Stringer, coming up behind me and offering me a cup.
‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘This is an amazing place, isn’t it?’ He nods and stares at me for a moment.
‘You’re looking very pretty,’ he says.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Pretty awkward.’
Stringer laughs nervously and looks away. He rubs his cheek.
‘Shall we?’ he says, pointing along the way to a private space.
We walk in silence and I look at the fish, sipping my coffee, but when we’re out of sight of his staff Stringer stops.
‘Susie?’ he says, pulling my arm, so that I turn to face him.
I think he wants to snog me.
Uh-oh.
I put my coffee cup down on a ledge and put my hand on his chest.
‘Stringer,’ I say, gently. ‘There’s something I’ve got to tell you.’
‘There’s something I want to say, too,’ he says, pulling away.
This is not the reaction I’ve been expecting and it throws me for a second.
‘OK,’ I nod. ‘You go first.’
‘No, no. You go,’ he says, starting to pace.
‘We’ll be here all night, at this rate. Come on, tell me what it is?’
Stringer fiddles with his hands, looking as if he’s tying himself up in knots and I brace myself for some sort of declaration. This could be very messy, but at least if I know how he’s feeling, then I’ll know how to break my news.
‘I don’t know how to say this,’ he says, eventually and looks up at me.
I reach out and touch his waiter’s tunic. I can feel how firm his arm is beneath the cloth.
‘Stringer?’ I say, searching out his eyes and looking at him. ‘How about a bit of advice?’
‘OK,’ he nods.
‘Don’t make this
difficult. Do what I do and be blunt. It works every time.’
I stand back, away from him and fold my arms sedately in front of me.
‘Right,’ I say. ‘I’m ready. Sock it to me.’
Stringer takes a deep breath.
‘Just the facts, mind,’ I say and Stringer smiles.
‘OK,’ he says, wiping a lock of hair away from his eyes, but looking straight back down at the carpet. ‘These are the facts: I’m in love with my flatmate, Karen. I have been for as long as I can remember. And I never thought anything would happen, because I was . . . well . . . you know, and she had a boyfriend.’
‘And . . . ?’
He blows air up over his face. ‘But her boyfriend finished with her last weekend and she made a pass at me on Sunday when I got back from Leisure Heaven. But I told her about you and . . .’
I nod seriously as he peeks up at me and I turn my hand, urging him to go on. My heart is beating fast with a curious emotion, despite my tough-girl act. I can’t tell if it’s jealousy or relief, but I can feel a bubble of laughter creeping up my chest and tugging at my mouth.
‘I’m scared shitless,’ continues Stringer to the carpet. ‘And I don’t know what to do, but I had to tell you before anything else happens with Karen. If it does, that is. She was drunk and I didn’t explain things very well and after I told her about you, she walked out.’
I pull a face at him, but he hardly notices.
‘The thing is, I don’t think I can have a relationship with you, when this is how I feel.’
He exhales. ‘There, that’s it,’ he says, looking up at me.
But I’m giggling, my hand over my mouth.
‘What?’ he exclaims. ‘What’s so funny?’
‘Nothing,’ I laugh.
Stringer puts his hands on his hips. He looks slightly flushed. ‘OK. Now your turn,’ he says, his forehead crinkling. And he looks so deliciously cute, that I don’t know whether to kiss him or wrap him up in a big duvet and hide him away, so that he’s protected from us women for ever.
