‘Your coffee’s gone cold, darling,’ she said, as if he’d just been to the loo. ‘Perhaps you should order another.’
‘Same again,’ said Jeremy when the waiter appeared by his side.
‘Any problems?’ whispered Arabella once the waiter was out of earshot.
‘No,’ said Jeremy, suddenly feeling guilty, but at the same time exhilarated. ‘It all went to plan.’
‘Good,’ said Arabella. ‘So now it’s my turn.’ She rose from her seat and said, ‘Better give me the watch and the cufflinks. I’ll need to put them back in Daddy’s room before we meet up this evening.’
Jeremy reluctantly unstrapped the watch, took out the cufflinks and handed them to Arabella. ‘What about the tie?’ he whispered.
‘Better not take it off in the Ritz,’ she said. She leaned over and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘I’ll come to your place around eight, and you can give it back to me then.’ She gave him that smile one last time before walking out of the morning room.
A few moments later, Arabella was standing outside De Beers. The door was opened immediately: the Van Cleef & Arpels necklace, the Balenciaga bag and the Chanel watch all suggested that this lady was not in the habit of being kept waiting.
‘I want to look at some engagement rings,’ she said shyly before stepping inside.
‘Of course, madam,’ said the doorman, and led her down the corridor.
During the next hour, Arabella carried out almost the same routine as Jeremy, and after much prevarication she told Mr Crombie, ‘It’s hopeless, quite hopeless. I’ll have to bring Archie in. After all, he’s the one who’s going to foot the bill.’
‘Of course, madam.’
‘I’m joining him for lunch at Le Caprice,’ she added, ‘so we’ll pop back this afternoon.’
‘We’ll look forward to seeing you both then,’ said the sales associate as he closed the jewel box.
‘Thank you, Mr Crombie,’ said Arabella as she rose to leave.
Arabella was escorted to the front door by the sales associate without any suggestion that she should take her clothes off. Once she was back on Piccadilly, she hailed a taxi and gave the driver an address in Lowndes Square. She checked her watch, confident that she would be back at the flat long before her father, who would never find out that his watch and cufflinks had been borrowed for a few hours, and who certainly wouldn’t miss one of his old school ties.
As she sat in the back of the taxi, Arabella admired the flawless yellow diamond. Jeremy had carried out her instructions to the letter. She would of course have to explain to her friends why she’d broken off the engagement. Frankly, he just wasn’t one of our set, never really fitted in. But she had to admit she would quite miss him. She’d grown rather fond of Jeremy, and he was very enthusiastic between the sheets. And to think that all he’d get out of it was a pair of silver collar stiffeners and an old Etonian tie. Arabella hoped he still had enough money to cover the bill at the Ritz.
She dismissed Jeremy from her thoughts and turned her attention to the man she’d chosen to join her at Wimbledon, whom she had already lined up to assist her in obtaining a matching pair of earrings.
* * *
When Mr Crombie left De Beers that night, he was still trying to work out how the man had managed it. After all, he’d had no more than a few seconds while his head was bowed.
‘Goodnight, Doris,’ he said as he passed a cleaner who was vacuuming in the corridor.
‘Goodnight, sir,’ said Doris, opening the door to the viewing room so she could continue to vacuum.
This was where the customers selected the finest gems on earth, Mr Crombie had once told her, so it had to be spotless. She turned off the machine, removed the black velvet cloth from the table and began to polish the surface; first the top, then the rim. That’s when she felt it.
Doris bent down to take a closer look. She stared in disbelief at the large piece of chewing gum stuck under the rim of the table. She began to scrape it off, not stopping until there wasn’t the slightest trace of it left, then dropped it into the rubbish bag attached to her cleaning cart before placing the velvet cloth back on the table.
‘Such a disgusting habit,’ she muttered as she closed the viewing-room door and continued to vacuum the carpet in the corridor.
The Grass is Always Greener
BILL WOKE with a start. It was always the same following a long sleep-in over the weekend. Once the sun had risen on Monday morning they would expect him to move on. He had slept under the archway of Critchley’s Bank for more years than most of the staff had worked in the building.
Bill would turn up every evening at around seven o’clock to claim his spot. Not that anyone else would have dared to occupy his pitch after all these years. Over the past decade he had seen them come and go, some with hearts of gold, some silver and some bronze. Most of the bronze ones were only interested in the other kind of gold. He had sussed out which was which, and not just by the way they treated him.
He glanced up at the clock above the door: ten to six. Young Kevin would appear through that door at any moment and ask if he would be kind enough to move on. Good lad, Kevin – often slipped him a bob or two, which must have been a sacrifice, what with another baby on the way. He certainly wouldn’t have been treated with the same consideration by most of the posher ones who came in later.
Bill allowed himself a moment to dream. He would have liked to have Kevin’s job, dressed in that heavy, warm coat and peaked hat. He would still have been on the street, but with a real job and regular pay. Some people had all the luck. All Kevin had to do was say, ‘Good morning, sir. Hope you had a pleasant weekend.’ Didn’t even have to hold the door open since they’d made it automatic.
But Bill wasn’t complaining. It hadn’t been too bad a weekend. It didn’t rain, and nowadays the police never tried to move him on – not since he’d spotted that IRA man parking his van outside the bank all those years ago. That was his army training.
He’d managed to get hold of a copy of Friday’s Financial Times and Saturday’s Daily Mail. The Financial Times reminded him that he should have invested in Internet companies and kept out of clothes manufacturers, because their stocks were dropping rapidly following the slowdown in High Street sales. He was probably the only person attached to the bank who read the Financial Times from cover to cover, and certainly the only one who then used it as a blanket.
He’d picked up the Mail from the bin at the back of the building – amazing what some of those yuppies dropped in that bin. He’d had everything from a Rolex watch to a packet of condoms. Not that he had any use for either. There were quite enough clocks in the City without needing another one, and as for the condoms – not much point in those since he’d left the army. He had sold the watch and given the condoms to Vince, who worked the Bank of America pitch. Vince was always bragging about his latest conquests, which seemed a little unlikely given his circumstances. Bill had decided to call his bluff and give him the condoms as a Christmas present.
The lights were being switched on all over the building, and when Bill glanced through the plate-glass window he spotted Kevin putting on his coat. Time to gather up his belongings and move on: he didn’t want to get Kevin into any trouble, on account of the fact he hoped the lad would soon be getting the promotion he deserved.
Bill rolled up his sleeping bag – a present from the Chairman, who hadn’t waited until Christmas to give it to him. No, that wasn’t Sir William’s style. A born gentleman, with an eye for the ladies – and who could blame him? Bill had seen one or two of them go up in the lift late at night, and he doubted if they were seeking advice on their PEPs. Perhaps he should have given him the packet of condoms.
He folded up his two blankets – one he’d bought with some of the money from the watch sale, the other he’d inherited when Irish died. He missed Irish. Half a loaf of bread from the back of the City Club, after he’d advised the manager to get out of clothes manufacturers and into the Inter
net, but he’d just laughed. He shoved his few possessions into his QC’s bag – another dustbin job, this time from the back of the Old Bailey.
Finally, like all good City men, he must check his cash position – always important to be liquid when there are more sellers than buyers. He fumbled around in his pocket, the one without a hole, and pulled out a pound, two 10p pieces and a penny. Thanks to government taxes, he wouldn’t be able to afford any fags today, let alone his usual pint. Unless of course Maisie was behind the bar at The Reaper. He would have liked to reap her, he thought, even though he was old enough to be her father.
Clocks all over the city were beginning to chime six. He tied up the laces of his Reebok trainers – another yuppie reject: the yuppies all wore Nikes now. One last glance as Kevin stepped out onto the pavement. By the time Bill returned at seven that evening – more reliable than any security guard – Kevin would be back home in Peckham with his pregnant wife Lucy. Lucky man.
Kevin watched as Bill shuffled away, disappearing among the early-morning workers. He was good like that, Bill. He would never embarrass Kevin, or want to be the cause of him losing his job. Then he spotted the penny underneath the arch. He picked it up and smiled. He would replace it with a pound coin that evening. After all, wasn’t that what banks were meant to do with your money?
Kevin returned to the front door just as the cleaners were leaving. They arrived at three in the morning, and had to be off the premises by six. After four years he knew all of their names, and they always gave him a smile.
Kevin had to be out on the pavement by six o’clock on the dot, shoes polished, clean white shirt, the bank’s crested tie and the regulation brass-buttoned long blue coat – heavy in winter, light in summer. Banks are sticklers for rules and regulations. He was expected to salute all board members as they entered the building, but he had added one or two others he’d heard might soon be joining the board.
Between six and seven the yuppies would arrive with, ‘Hi, Kev. Bet I make a million today.’ From seven to eight, at a slightly slower pace, came the middle management, already having lost their edge after dealing with the problems of young children, school fees, new car or new wife: ‘Good morning,’ not bothering to make eye contact. From eight to nine, the dignified pace of senior management, having parked their cars in reserved spaces in the carpark. Although they went to football matches on a Saturday like the rest of us, thought Kevin, they had seats in the directors’ box. Most of them realized by now that they weren’t going to make the board, and had settled for an easier life. Among the last to arrive would be the bank’s Chief Executive, Phillip Alexander, sitting in the back of a chauffeur-driven Jaguar, reading the Financial Times. Kevin was expected to run out onto the pavement and open the car door for Mr Alexander, who would then march straight past him without so much as a glance, let alone a thank-you.
Finally, Sir William Selwyn, the bank’s Chairman, would be dropped off in his Rolls-Royce, having been driven up from somewhere in Surrey. Sir William always found time to have a word with him. ‘Good morning, Kevin. How’s the wife?’
‘Well, thank you, sir.’
‘Let me know when the baby’s due.’
Kevin grinned as the yuppies began to appear, the automatic door sliding open as they dashed through. No more having to pull open heavy doors since they’d installed that contraption. He was surprised they bothered to keep him on the payroll – at least, that was the opinion of Mike Haskins, his immediate superior.
Kevin glanced around at Haskins, who was standing behind the reception desk. Lucky Mike. Inside in the warmth, regular cups of tea, the odd perk, not to mention a rise in salary. That was the job Kevin was after, the next step up the bank’s ladder. He’d earned it. And he already had ideas for making reception run more efficiently. He turned back the moment Haskins looked up, reminding himself that his boss only had five months, two weeks and four days to go before he was due to retire. Then Kevin would take over his job – as long as they didn’t bypass him and offer the position to Haskins’s son.
Ronnie Haskins had been appearing at the bank pretty regularly since he’d lost his job at the brewery. He made himself useful, carrying parcels, delivering letters, hailing taxis and even getting sandwiches from the local Pret A Manger for those who wouldn’t or couldn’t risk leaving their desks.
Kevin wasn’t stupid – he knew exactly what Haskins’s game was. He intended to make sure Ronnie got the job that was Kevin’s by right, while Kevin remained out on the pavement. It wasn’t fair. He had served the bank conscientiously, never once missing a day’s work, standing out there in all weathers.
‘Good morning, Kevin,’ said Chris Parnell, almost running past him. He had an anxious look on his face. He should have my problems, thought Kevin, glancing round to see Haskins stirring his first cup of tea of the morning.
‘That’s Chris Parnell,’ Haskins told Ronnie, before sipping his tea. ‘Late again – he’ll blame it on British Rail, always does. I should have been given his job years ago, and I would have been, if like him I’d been a Sergeant in the Pay Corps, and not a Corporal in the Greenjackets. But management didn’t seem to appreciate what I had to offer.’
Ronnie made no comment, but then, he had heard his father express this opinion every workday morning for the past six weeks.
‘I once invited him to my regimental reunion, but he said he was too busy. Bloody snob. Watch him, though, because he’ll have a say in who gets my job.’
‘Good morning, Mr Parker,’ said Haskins, handing the next arrival a copy of the Guardian.
‘Tells you a lot about a man, what paper he reads,’ Haskins said to Ronnie as Roger Parker disappeared into the lift. ‘Now, you take young Kevin out there. He reads the Sun, and that’s all you need to know about him. Which is another reason I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t get the promotion he’s after.’ He winked at his son. ‘I, on the other hand, read the Express – always have done, always will do.
‘Good morning, Mr Tudor-Jones,’ said Haskins, as he passed a copy of the Telegraph to the bank’s Chief Administrator. He didn’t speak again until the lift doors had closed.
‘Important time for Mr Tudor-Jones,’ Haskins informed his son. ‘If he doesn’t get promoted to the board this year, my bet is he’ll be marking time until he retires. I sometimes look at these jokers and think I could do their jobs. After all, it wasn’t my fault my old man was a brickie, and I didn’t get the chance to go to the local grammar school. Otherwise I might have ended up on the sixth or seventh floor, with a desk of my own and a secretary.
‘Good morning, Mr Alexander,’ said Haskins as the bank’s Chief Executive walked past him without acknowledging his salutation.
‘Don’t have to hand him a paper. Miss Franklyn, his secretary, picks the lot up for him long before he arrives. Now he wants to be Chairman. If he gets the job, there’ll be a lot of changes round here, that’s for sure.’ He looked across at his son. ‘You been booking in all those names, the way I taught you?’
‘Sure have, Dad. Mr Parnell, 7.47; Mr Parker, 8.09; Mr Tudor-Jones, 8.11; Mr Alexander, 8.23.’
‘Well done, son. You’re learning fast.’ He poured himself another cup of tea, and took a sip. Too hot, so he went on talking. ‘Our next job is to deal with the mail – which, like Mr Parnell, is late. So, I suggest…’ Haskins quickly hid his cup of tea below the counter and ran across the foyer. He jabbed the ‘up’ button, and prayed that one of the lifts would return to the ground floor before the Chairman entered the building. The doors slid open with seconds to spare.
‘Good morning, Sir William. I hope you had a pleasant weekend.’
‘Yes, thank you, Haskins,’ said the Chairman, as the doors closed. Haskins blocked the way so that no one could join Sir William in the lift, and he would have an uninterrupted journey to the fourteenth floor.
Haskins ambled back to the reception desk to find his son sorting out the morning mail. ‘The Chairman once told me that the lift t
akes thirty-eight seconds to reach the top floor, and he’d worked out that he’d spend a week of his life in there, so he always read the Times leader on the way up and the notes for his next meeting on the way down. If he spends a week trapped in there, I reckon I must spend half my life,’ he added, as he picked up his tea and took a sip. It was cold. ‘Once you’ve sorted out the post, you can take it up to Mr Parnell. It’s his job to distribute it, not mine. He’s got a cushy enough number as it is, so there’s no reason why I should do his work for him.’
Ronnie picked up the basket full of mail and headed for the lift. He stepped out on the second floor, walked over to Mr Parnell’s desk and placed the basket in front of him.
Chris Parnell looked up, and watched as the lad disappeared back out of the door. He stared at the pile of letters. As always, no attempt had been made to sort them out. He must have a word with Haskins. It wasn’t as if the man was run off his feet, and now he wanted his boy to take his place. Not if he had anything to do with it.
Didn’t Haskins understand that his job carried real responsibility? He had to make sure the office ticked like a Swiss clock. Letters on the correct desks before nine, check for any absentees by ten, deal with any machinery breakdowns within moments of being notified of them, arrange and organize all staff meetings, by which time the second post would have arrived. Frankly, the whole place would come to a halt if he ever took a day off. You only had to look at the mess he always came back to whenever he returned from his summer holiday.
He stared at the letter on the top of the pile. It was addressed to ‘Mr Roger Parker’. ‘Rog’, to him. He should have been given Rog’s job as Head of Personnel years ago – he could have done it in his sleep, as his wife Janice never stopped reminding him: ‘He’s no more than a jumped-up office clerk. Just because he was at the same school as the Chief Cashier.’ It wasn’t fair.
The Short, the Long and the Tall Page 9
