7
There was only standing room available when Dan entered the King’s Head, many of those who were having lunch being forced to balance plates upon beer glasses in order to free a hand with which to feed themselves. It therefore took Dan a certain amount of time and contortion to push his way to the bar. He tried to catch the attention of Martin, the landlord, but he was busy serving customers at the farthest end of the bar, so he turned his attention to Minty, the New Zealand girl who had been working in the pub for the past few months. She was serving a vociferous young businessman who had divested himself of his suit jacket to reveal a striking pair of red braces worn over a dark blue shirt with white starched cutaway collar. Dan thought how lucky he was that he no longer needed to wear the uniform of the City. He was much happier wearing his jeans and his leather jacket and his loafers. He had come to quite relish the fact that nobody could pigeonhole him into any one particular job.
He watched as the man leaned across the bar and talked to Minty in a drawling tone of self-assuredness that obviously implied that the barmaid could not help but find him outrageously attractive. As she handed the man his change, Minty beamed him a sweet smile, and then spied Dan.
“Hi, Dan,” she said, giving her hands a quick rinse in the basin under the counter and air-flicking them dry. “What can I get you?”
“Pint of Young’s, please, Minty.”
“Coming right up.”
Dan cast an eye around the thronging mass of people. “You haven’t seen Nick around, have you?”
Minty was about to answer when they both heard a sound that was quite alien to a busy London pub. Above the roaring cacophony of conversation came a short, gleeful scream that could only be produced by a seriously underaged drinker. It brought an instant hush as heads were turned to source the perpetrator’s whereabouts, but the interest was short-lived and the volume in the pub soon crescendoed once more. Dan, however, had no need to work out the origin of the sound. Only one person would be daft enough to bring a five-month-old baby into a smoke-filled pub, and he was sitting somewhere over by the cigarette machine.
Both he and Minty smiled knowingly at each other. “Okay,” Dan laughed. “I think I’ve got him.”
Nick Jessop was standing behind his table looking like a distraught kangaroo that had lost its joey. A baby sling hung forlornly empty against his tall frame as he watched with an uneasy smile on his face while young Tarquin’s considerable bulk, resplendently dressed in a minute Chelsea Football Club team shirt, was being repeatedly thrown into the air and caught again in the arms of a thin, elderly woman with a squiggly lipsticked mouth and mirrored splodges of rouge on each of her sunken cheeks. Every now and again, she would cease her physical efforts to be fortified by a good slurp of gin and tonic and a deep drag on her cigarette. Then, encouraged by the child’s gurning for more, she would again launch him into the air, her knees visibly buckling and a coughing wheeze being forced from her chest every time she clamped her arms around Tarquin’s hurtling form. Dan thought it not unlike watching a spider trying to catch a cannonball.
His arrival at the table was enough to break the attention being granted to the circus act, and Nick, with obvious relief, managed to retrieve his only child from the clutches of the woman.
“Thank God you arrived,” he breathed out, as he wedged Tarquin into the corner of the velour-covered bench, stopping his protestations by sticking a pacifier in his mouth. “I was just waiting for the moment when she got her timing wrong and took a swig and a drag when Tarquin was still midair.”
“Well, I’m afraid that you do slightly ask for it,” Dan replied, placing his pint on the table and pulling out the chair that Nick had been saving for him. “You shouldn’t keep bringing him in here.”
“Not an option, I’m afraid. Laura is working fulltime now, and we haven’t got any help in the house. Anyway, he likes being gregarious, don’t you, my”— he leaned down over his son and blew a raspberry on his nylon-shirted tummy—“cheeky, cheeky chappie!”
“So, how’s life treating you?” Dan asked in an attempt to get the conversation back to adult level.
Nick made minor adjustments to Tarquin’s position before turning his attention to Dan. “Not bad, actually. In fact, I’ve got something here that I think might interest you.” He reached down under the table and pulled out a battered leather briefcase. He gave Dan a wink as he opened it and extracted a sheet of A4 paper. “Are you ready for this?”
“I can’t wait,” Dan replied with only a fraction of the enthusiasm being displayed by his friend.
Nick spun the sheet around on the table and sat back against the bench, a broad grin on his face as he watched for Dan’s reaction. It was a drawing of something that loosely resembled an oversized banana with what looked like a dead stick insect laid across its top edge. Dan looked up at Nick, cleared his throat, and continued to study the drawing. Maybe it was meant to be the crescent moon, complete with anorexic elf reclining.
Dan shook his head. “No, sorry. You’ve got me.”
Nick frowned. “What do you mean, I’ve got you?” He spun the drawing around to face him. “It’s obvious what it is.”
It suddenly dawned on Dan that what was important about the drawing was not so much the content as the artistic prowess. He took back the drawing and studied it with renewed understanding. “It’s very good. He’s got a very bright future.”
“Who has?”
“Tarquin.”
Nick snatched the drawing away from Dan. “Okay, that’s very funny. Listen, I might not be Van Gogh, but the idea behind it is a real winner.”
“Well then, you’d better explain what it is because I don’t think that it’s obvious at all.”
Nick laid the drawing once more in front of Dan and gave it a meaningful thump with his forefinger. “I have designed a child’s car seat.”
Dan looked back down at the banana and let out a silent sigh. Why the hell is it, he pondered to himself, that whenever men or women have their first offspring at a fairly advanced age, they either act as if theirs was the first household ever to be blessed with infant birth, or that all prior knowledge of rudimentary child care had been compiled by a moron?
“What’s wrong with the ones you can get in Mother-care or Halford’s?” Dan asked.
“Outdated. This is state-of-the-art technology.”
Dan chuckled. “Nick, you’re a banker. What the hell do you know about design and technology?”
Nick looked indignant. “I’ll have you know I was very good at making Airfix models at my prep school.”
Dan stifled a laugh. “Jeez, I don’t think those credentials will impress too many would-be users. I mean, you’re not planning to glue the baby into the seat, are you?”
Nick leaned forward on the table and fixed Dan with a beady eye. “Funny you should mention that.”
The smile slid from Dan’s face. He slowly shook his head. “Tell me you’re not—please.”
Nick grinned excitedly. “No. But it is revolutionary.”
“All right,” Dan said, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. “Go on then. Hit me with it.”
“Okay! What I’ve come up with is the idea of a seat without any form of retaining straps.”
Dan looked a little nonplussed. “Oh?”
“Just wait.” Nick began to twist his hands around in the air as if caressing an invisible ball. “Once you’ve put the child in the seat, you tilt it upwards so that the child’s bottom is resting at the lowest point of the structure, and its feet and head at the top, so the only movement it could possibly make is upwards, and that, as you well know, is an impossibility in a car.”
“Unless you drive off the side of a motorway and roll ten times down the embankment.”
Nick looked peeved at Dan’s negativity towards his idea. “No one should be driving that stupidly if they have a child in the car.”
Dan let out a resigned laugh. He wasn’t even going to bother trying to rea
son. “All right, you win. I just don’t see why you can’t put straps on the seat.”
“Because they’re damned uncomfortable for young babies.”
“Well, in that case, you’d be as well sticking their arse in a bucket and wedging them in behind the driver’s seat.”
Nick shook his head. “Come on, Dan, you’ve really got to understand what I’m trying to achieve here, because”—he aimed his forefinger at the centre of Dan’s chest—“I want you to handle the product marketing.”
Dan looked aghast. “You’ve got to be joking! I’d be better trying to sell Kalashnikov rifles to Toys ‘R’ Us!”
“You’d be getting paid for it.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“On commission. And don’t tell me that a bit of income wouldn’t come in useful.”
Dan’s grin showed affection for his friend. Maybe he had been a bit cynical. Nick was only trying to help. “Well, that is very kind and thoughtful of you, Nick. I’ll tell you what, let’s talk about it again once you’ve found a manufacturer.”
Nick balled his fist enthusiastically. “Good idea.” He swept the drawing off the table and replaced it in his briefcase. He shot a glance of self-reassurance at Tarquin’s now-slumbering form before leaning back on the table. “Listen, I’ve got a plan for you and me tomorrow.”
“Really? And what might that be?”
“Well, how about heading up to Curzon Street and having a relaxed haircut and shave in Trumpers? It would be just like old times!”
Dan laughed. “A good thought, Nick, but firstly, I don’t need a haircut; secondly, I couldn’t afford it anyway; and thirdly, just in case you’ve forgotten, tomorrow is our ‘brew’ day. We can’t go without our unemployment benefit now, can we?”
“Ah,” Nick replied quietly through clenched teeth. “That was the other thing I wanted to talk to you about. The trip to Trumpers was meant to be, well, a sort of celebration.”
“Was it? Celebrating what?”
“The fact that I signed off the brew yesterday. I’ve got a new job.”
“Where?”
“In the City. With Broughton’s.”
Dan raised his eyebrows. “Well done, you. Congratulations. When do you start?”
“Two weeks on Monday. I hope to hell that I can find someone to look after Tarquin by then. I don’t think that I’d be too popular if I turned up at work with him strapped to my front.” He paused. “I don’t suppose you’d consider . . .”
“No, Nick, I would not.”
“Right. Of course not. Well, it was just a thought.”
“So you’re obviously not going to be relying on the child seat to make your fortune.”
“No. I was just planning for it to be a sideline.”
Dan laughed. “Probably just as well.”
For the first time, Nick saw the funny side of Dan’s ribbing. “Yes, maybe you’re right.” He drained the remainder of his pint, put the glass on the table, and began to spin it round with his fingers. “Listen, Dan, once I’ve been with Broughton’s for a bit, I’ll put in a good word for you.”
Dan shook his head. “Don’t bother. I’m not going back to the City.”
“Come on, Dan!” Nick exclaimed. “You’re too damned good not to go back. I just don’t understand why you haven’t had any job offers since September eleventh.”
Dan shot him a wink. “Ah, but I have, Nick. I just haven’t told you about them. Six, maybe seven, actually, but I declined every one of them.”
“But why, for God’s sake? You have to work, Dan.” There was almost a hint of desperation in Nick’s voice.
“I will, but not in the City. I think I’ve probably mellowed too much to get involved in the cut and thrust of high finance again. Anyway, I had my fair share of the pot of gold over the years. Maybe it’s time to put something back.”
Nick’s mouth dropped open. “That sounds a bit dangerous. You’re not contemplating going into the church, are you?”
“Bloody hell, no! Could you see me in a dog collar?”
Nick visibly shuddered. “No, you’re quite right. Stupid suggestion. So, what are you thinking of doing?”
“I don’t know, but I’m sure something will turn up.” His words struck a familiar chord, and he smiled to himself as he remembered Josh’s clever riposte a couple of hours before.
On the bench, Tarquin made a gurgling noise and fluttered his eyelashes, threatening to wake up, but then he just turned his head and settled back into a deep sleep. Nick took his jacket off the back of the chair next to Dan and laid it gently over his son.
“When was the last time you heard from Debbie Leishman?” he asked.
“I got an e-mail from her two days ago,” Dan replied.
“How is she?”
“She’s coping. Did you know that she’d had a baby?”
“Never. When was that?”
“In June.”
“How amazing!” Nick furrowed his brow. “Could it have been John’s child?”
“Of course it was John’s child. She didn’t even know that she was pregnant when he was killed on nine-eleven.”
Nick clicked his tongue. “What a bugger, eh? On the other hand, it’s pretty marvelous that she has something of his for always, if you get my meaning.”
“It would have been better still if they had been married. Then she would have got some compensation.”
“Are you still sending her money?”
“As much as I can, yes. I don’t think Jackie would be too pleased if she found out that I was keeping another woman.”
Nick swept away a long string of blonde hair from his face. “Are things going any better with you and Jackie, or is she still being a bit frosty?”
Dan snorted out a laugh. “No, the girls are now the frosty ones. Jackie has turned into the ice maiden.” He let out a long sigh. “But I keep smiling through it all and cooking them semidelicious meals and coming out with jovial remarks that no one finds particularly funny, in the hope that my infectious happiness will lead us all to a better life.”
“And is there any sign of that happening?” Nick asked.
Dan chuckled. “No. I just irritate the hell out of them all.”
Nick became thoughtful and began tapping his fingers on the table. “Listen, Dan, why don’t you try getting out of London for a bit? I mean, there’s nothing to stop you from taking the whole family away somewhere for a week.”
Dan shook his head. “The school term’s just started, Nick. You can’t just whip the kids away when you feel like it.” He glanced at Tarquin on the bench. “Maybe you don’t know about that kind of thing yet. Anyway, Jackie has Paris Fashion Week coming up soon, so there’s no way that she would want to go.”
“Well, go over to Paris with her. Get Battersea Gran to look after the kids.”
The remark made Dan smile. When his father had died two years before, he had moved his mother from her council house in Tottenham Hale to a small flat in a high-rise block overlooking the River Thames in Battersea. It had never ceased to amuse him that she was now universally known as Battersea Gran. “Yeah, I could, I suppose. I’ll have a word with Jackie tonight when she gets home.”
Nick gave a quick nod of his head as if to finalize the point. “Good.” He leaned over his son and carefully extracted a newspaper from the pocket of his jacket. “Now, let’s move on to more important matters. How about coming to Stamford Bridge on Saturday?”
“Who’s playing?”
“Chelsea versus Spurs—their first clash of the season,” Nick replied, folding the paper across the back page and handing it over to Dan. “Thought you’d like to come to support your old team.”
Dan glanced quickly at the prematch report before pushing the paper back across the table. “I don’t know. I can’t really make any plans until I know what Jackie is doing.”
“Come on!” Nick cajoled. “It would be just like old times.”
“Old times!” Dan laughed. “Nick, whenever we’ve be
en to a match together, we’ve ended up sitting at opposite ends of the pitch, yelling tribal abuse at one another.”
“Okay, then, bring an extra Tottenham scarf with you. I don’t mind being a Spurs fan for a day.”
Dan raised his eyebrows in surprise. “My word, I think you mean it.”
“Of course I do. Anything for an old mate.”
“Well, that certainly would be the supreme sacrifice.” He paused. “How many tickets could you lay your hands on?”
“How many extra are you looking for?”
“Just the one. For Josh.”
Nick gave him a thumbs-up. “I’ll see what I can do.” He picked up his empty beer glass and got to his feet. “Right, keep an eye on Tarquin and I’ll get another couple of pints in. Do you want anything to eat?”
“Not really. I’ll share a ham sandwich with you, if you want.”
“Right, coming up!” He slapped Dan’s shoulder as he passed him by. “And while I’m away, think about how we can improve on the design of the car seat.”
8
As he sat in his office at the top of the house that evening, desperately seeking an e-mail that had vanished from the screen of his laptop, strong evidence came to Dan’s nostrils that his carefully prepared gourmet meal was fast becoming a burnt offering. He jumped up from his desk, squirting the screen arrow off to oblivion, and bolted down the stairs, two at a time. He raced into the kitchen and threw open the oven door, reeling back as the scorching fumes hit his face. He picked up an oven glove from the work surface and waved it about to clear the air, then gingerly extracted the smouldering roasting pan from the oven and hurried out through the French doors into the garden. As the heat from the pan began to penetrate through the flimsy glove, he looked around in desperation to try to find a suitable surface on which to put it. He opted, more out of necessity than choice, for the bird table.
Pulling off the glove, he blew hard on his seared fingers to relieve them, and despondently viewed the blackened lump that was to have been Nigella Lawson’s Loin of Pork with Bay Leaves.
A Risk Worth Taking Page 5
