Three's a Crowd

by Simon Booker

  ‘Adorable,’ he said. He peered at the text – the sender’s name above the photo. ‘My son’s called Tom,’ he said.

  ‘Mind if I reply?’

  ‘Not in the least.’

  I tapped out a few words (kidnap cat, leave big tip) then sent the message and put the phone on the table.

  ‘Where were we?’

  He leaned forward and held my gaze.

  ‘I asked if you were flirting with me.’

  My phone beeped again.

  ‘Sorry.’

  He blinked.

  ‘Go ahead. Might be grandma.’

  But it wasn’t, it was Tom again.

  How’s The Wolseley?

  I pecked out a reply.

  I’m moving in.

  His answer was instant.

  And the company?

  I replied again.

  Smooth.

  ‘This “Tom” seems very persistent,’ said Richard.

  When I looked up he was smiling but I could see he was making an effort not to be pissed off. I switched the phone to silent and put it away.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘No more texts.’

  I stuck to my word, even though I could feel the phone vibrating in my pocket. After a decent interval, I excused myself, went to the toilet and checked none of the calls were from Nan. Nope – all pictures of cats at the Cat Café. I texted Tom, telling him to stop it because he was making me into the kind of rude arse-clown I hate. I got back to the table just as Mr GQ arrived with the bill. It was clear that Richard was a regular, asking after the bloke’s knee op and taking a genuine interest in the response. Maybe it’s something to do with all the crap jobs I’ve had (office cleaner was the worst), but the way people treat restaurant staff tells me a lot and Richard passed the test. Easy-going, friendly without being patronizing, excellent eye contact.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  ‘Can we go halves?’ I said.

  He smiled and shook his head.

  ‘My treat. To congratulate you on making the Voice of London shortlist.’

  Which is when I said it. Maybe it was the alcohol or maybe I just fancied him but let’s face it, what came out of my mouth could have been a lot worse than what I actually said, which was:

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  His face grew serious. He leaned closer.

  ‘Since you ask, I was wondering…’ He tailed off.

  ‘Yes?’

  He looked into my eyes.

  ‘How you’re planning to spend the rest of the afternoon.’

  There was no mistaking what he had in mind.

  Life boils down to a few key decisions. This felt like one of them. I could feel my pulse quickening, my heart pounding. I drew breath to reply…

  … and my phone rang. I’d forgotten that I’d turned it back on. Nan’s name flashed on-screen.

  ‘Sorry. I need to take this.’

  I stood up and walked towards the door, holding the phone to my ear.

  ‘You okay, Nan?’

  ‘I can’t find the TV thingamabob.’

  ‘You mean, the remote? It was on your bedside table.’

  ‘Who put it there?’

  ‘You did. Have a look. Is it there?’

  A pause.

  ‘It’s by the bed,’ she said. ‘Was there something else?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Why did you call me?’

  FUCK’S SAKE, NAN, I’M ABOUT TO HAVE SEX IN A POSH RESTAURANT TOILET!

  ‘You called me,’ I said.

  ‘What for?’

  I sighed.

  ‘I’ll be home soon.’

  ‘Don’t hurry on my account.’

  By the time I got back to the table Richard had paid the bill. He was tapping a finger on his coffee cup. Tap, tap, tap.

  ‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘That was Nan.’

  ‘Is she okay?’

  ‘A bit confused.’

  He leaned back, studying my face.

  ‘I think the moment has passed, don’t you?’

  I played dumb.

  ‘What moment?’

  And that’s when he said it – the thing I’d always remember.

  ‘If I were two hundred years younger, Harriet Brown, you’d be in a lot of trouble.’

  Mr GQ arrived, clutching a hat. FUCK, NOT A FEDORA, THEY MAKE MEN LOOK LIKE KNOBS.

  ‘Your taxi’s here, Mr Young.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Richard. He smiled at me. ‘I ordered a cab, while you were on the phone.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said, doing my best not to sound deflated. But he was right: the moment had gone. He slipped a banknote FIFTY FUCKING QUID! into the waiter’s hand then got to his feet. I followed him to the door.

  ‘Now I feel bad,’ I said.

  ‘Ill?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Like I was a rubbish guest.’

  ‘It’s been lovely,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s the problem.’

  He ushered me outside, into the street. The fresh air made me giddy. He looped his arm through mine, guiding me towards the taxi.

  ‘You’re going to be a star, Harriet. I feel it in my bones.’

  I shook my head.

  ‘I’ve left it too late.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  The doorman greeted Richard with a smile, receiving a tenner for his pains.

  ‘Just tell the driver your address,’ said Richard.

  ‘But it’s your taxi.’

  ‘I like to walk. The cab’s on account.’

  I opened my mouth to protest but he placed a gentle finger on my lips.

  ‘Mustn’t keep grandma waiting.’

  His smile was warm but his tone brooked no opposition. I climbed into the taxi.

  ‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘I had a lovely time.’

  ‘I’ll look for your name in lights.’

  He started to walk away.

  ‘Richard?’

  He turned.

  ‘Could we go for a quick drive? Around the block?’

  He smiled, climbed into the cab and told the man to drive around Hyde Park Corner. As the taxi headed along Piccadilly, I took his face in my hands, leaned forwards and brushed my lips against his.

  You know that sweet spot when the alcohol is working its magic, making you tipsy but not shit-faced, and you’re kissing someone you really like, for the first time? That pretty much describes the next couple of minutes. Our kissing was hesitant at first, then more passionate. Before I knew it, we were back on Piccadilly, pulling to a halt opposite The Wolseley. I was the first to break the clinch.

  ‘So,’ Richard said. ‘Where to now?’

  I traced a finger along his cheek.

  ‘Lovely brunch,’ I said. ‘Lovely bloke.’

  LET’S GO BACK TO THE RESTAURANT FOR A QUICKIE IN THE LOO.

  FUCK’S SAKE, HARRIET, GET A GRIP!

  I let him out then gave the driver Nan’s address and was driven away. As I craned my neck to look out of the rear window, Richard was watching, lighting a cigarette. The taxi turned a corner. He disappeared from view. I leaned back and closed my eyes, feeling my heart thumping in my chest.

  Tick, tick, tick.

  RICHARD

  If it weren’t for all that kissing I might have found it easier to put her out of my mind. Evolutionary science offers several explanations for the kiss. It allows women to get close enough to detect the scent of men whose immunity-coding gene differs from their own. Mixing genes enhances a child’s immune system, giving a better chance of survival. And our old friend dopamine, the feel-good neurotransmitter, is boosted by new experiences, which explains why a first kiss can feel so good.

  Knowing this makes not the slightest difference – not when you’re on the receiving end of a kiss from a beautiful woman only slightly tipsy on champagne and in complete control of her faculties.

  Brunch was going well until we were interrupted by texts from some idiot in a café full of cats. His name was Tom and that’s all I know. Harriet didn’t volun
teer more information and I didn’t ask.

  Our conversation confirmed she was single, so was I out of line when I began to flirt? I didn’t think so and judging by her reaction nor did she. Setting aside the age gap, when it came to banter, eye contact and body language, the lovely Harriet Brown gave as good as she got. If we hadn’t been interrupted by poor old Grandma who knows how the afternoon might have turned out? A room at The Ritz? Or back to Belsize Park? As it was, I watched her taxi pull away then headed for home, walking along Piccadilly with a spring in my step and a song on my lips. ‘You Make Me Feel So Young’ by Ol’ Blue Eyes himself – who else?

  I hadn’t felt so cheerful for ages. And if I had to pretend to be a vegetarian for a while, so be it. At the same time, I felt uneasy, as if I’d crossed a line. But what line? There’s no rule about DJs fraternizing with listeners. In any case, Harriet wasn’t a Silk FM fan, she’d simply read about the competition and submitted an entry that had made the shortlist. Should I have given her my private email address? Should I have invited her to brunch?

  Why not? She was in her thirties not some teenybopper (do they still have those?). Yet something wasn’t right.

  Back home, I slowly climbed the staircase and put my key in the front door. I asked myself a question: would she have made the final three if I hadn’t lobbied the TfL executives on her behalf? Answer: probably not. They’d preferred another entrant but I’d argued for Harriet. Her husky voice was classy yet classless, mellifluous yet commanding, calm yet authoritative. Above all, it had a quality that somehow made it the perfect voice for London. I hadn’t seen her in the flesh until the photo call so there was no way my preference could have been dismissed as lechery (which is bad, obviously) or even lust, which even in these PC-blighted times is normal and experienced by men and women and whatever other genders they have these days. Thank God for that.

  All the same, my antennae were twitching, sending warning signals. In the current climate, if the tabloids got a sniff of anything registering on the Harvey Weinsteinometer, no matter how unfairly, I could find myself being buffeted by a social media storm faster than you could say ‘MeToo’.

  All of which was going through my mind as two things happened, both equally disturbing. The first was the onset of a creeping suspicion that someone had moved my laptop from one side of the kitchen table to the other. The second was the arrival of an email from Bonnie, telling me she wanted a divorce.

  The first matter was simple. I’d been procrastinating but it was definitely time to call a locksmith. That was as much as I could think about the intrusion for now. I knew who the intruder was, of course – George, my so-called father – but doing anything other than making the flat impregnable would risk opening a Pandora’s box I’d sealed years ago. The contents remained toxic.

  The second matter, Bonnie’s email, was more complicated. She’d been gone a long time but in my heart of hearts I must have believed she’d come back and that normal service would be resumed as soon as she’d got it (whatever ‘it’ was) out of her system. Denial is part of being human. God knows how people get through the day without it. But there comes a time when life catches up with you.

  Despite what Tom may think, I’ve never been one for affairs. Like drugs, adultery is a form of adventure for the unadventurous. Nevertheless, it seems that I’m the one stuck in Belsize Park while Bonnie is having an affair at the Blue Moon Retreat in Goa, so what do I know about anything?

  I poured a large glass of wine and sat at the table, staring at the blister pack of happy pills. Not to be consumed with alcohol. Easier said than done, pal. Try having a midlife crisis. Try losing your wife to a yoga teacher with buns of steel and a vagina. Try alienating your son through no fault of his own.

  Try falling for a woman fifteen years younger than you.

  And there it was – the thought that snapped me out of my spiral of self-pity. Was I falling for Harriet?

  As if on cue, an email pinged into my inbox. As if she could read my mind. As if we had a connection. Spirits lifting, I took a breath and clicked the email.

  Dear Richard, thanks for brunch and sending me home in such style. Sorry about all the cat texts and Nan. But it’s just as well she phoned… don’t you think?

  H xxx

  I felt a surge of optimism, a sense that she was fishing. And there was a smiley emoji and three xxx! One was mere punctuation. Two showed affection without being over-the-top. But three!

  I downed the wine in two gulps. Refilling the glass, I paced around the kitchen, my mind racing, blood thudding in my ears. That irritating saying came to mind. No fool like an old fool. I sent it packing, to languish alongside Not to be consumed with alcohol. Then I sat at the table and re-read Harriet’s message, focusing on the last sentence.

  It’s just as well she phoned… don’t you think?

  Was she fishing? Yes. The giveaway was the ‘don’t you think?’ But most of all it was the ellipsis.

  I typed a single word.

  No.

  I hesitated, finger poised over the keyboard. Then I pressed ‘send’ and stared into the middle distance before forcing myself to come back to earth. I re-read the message from my wife.

  Dear R, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and have come to the conclusion that there’s only one way forward: divorce.

  I can’t pretend it came as a surprise. Not after twenty-two years. Did I still love Bonnie? The answer was probably yes – but more out of habit than any grand passion.

  I never cease to be amazed by couples who stick it out through the Steradent years, hip replacements and flagging libidos, all the way to the final curtain. Bottom line: we all change. The dreamboat you fell in love with decades ago is not the same person today and nor are you. If we’re lucky, we adjust to whoever our spouse turns into and vice versa. If that’s the case, maybe we’ll make it to the rose-covered cottage. Most aren’t so lucky. Too many of us won’t admit we no longer even like the person we’re stuck with. We’re too cowardly to concede defeat so we wait till we fall off the perch. That wasn’t Bonnie’s plan. Good for her.

  Just as she’d become Bonnie 2.0, I seemed to be morphing into Richard 2.0. She was right. It was time to move on to the next chapter. And let’s face it, the fallout would be easier to handle with someone new waiting in the wings.

  GEORGE

  Old joke: what’s the difference between a gigolo and a lawyer?

  Answer: a gigolo only screws one person at a time.

  I’ve never been called a gigolo (well, not to my face) but if that’s what I am then c’est la vie. Better and more honest than being a lawyer. I like to think of myself as someone who discreetly helps to make the world a better place for a discerning type of lady. As for ‘con artist’, that’s not a description I accept. There’s nothing admirable about con men (although with Captain CombOver making it as far as the Oval Office, the limitations of their ‘profession’ may require a re-think). Bottom line: a con-man takes all he can but gives nothing back, a modus operandi that has never been my style. I’ve given plenty of myself over the years, thanks to those little blue pills, and there have been few complaints, even when l’affaire has run its course and the time has come to move on. But however you care to describe my curriculum vitae, it’s safe to say that Richard does not approve.

  Sometimes I let myself into his flat and just sit there. Not when he’s at home, obviously, but at lunchtime, when he’s out at ‘work’. I tend not to listen to his programme. All those crooners’ chansons d’amour remind me of the career I might have had had things turned out differently. I’m not complaining. Life in the fast lane has treated me well so I’m nowhere near ready for life in the bus lane.

  I’ve never been a family man but on my last clandestine visit to Richard’s flat I found myself leafing through his diary and making a note of Tom’s address. Not that the lad has expressed the slightest desire to see me but you never know when a family connection might prove useful. On the other hand, given the circumst
ances, perhaps it’s wisest to let this particular sleeping dog lie.

  Today was the big day – my reunion lunch with Imelda Shine. Dinner was too run-of-the-mill; a lunchtime assignation seemed a more appropriate forum in which to ‘casually’ put forward a business proposition. Besides, it was her birthday – what better gift than the opportunity to invest in a sure thing?

  I insisted on meeting somewhere other than her usual haunt, the Savoy, and booked a table at Le Caprice. This was no time to be availing myself of her generosity (she insisted on paying for all our outings); this was a moment to demonstrate my independence if only by picking up the tab for lunch. My turf, my game, my rules of engagement. There was the birthday cadeau, too, of course – the earrings from, er, Asprey…

  A loan from Paddy had allowed me to make this lunchtime gesture. Stake money, he called it. The old sod may have gone legit but he’s still got an eye on the main chance. And, like me, he remains hopeful of pulling off the big one before it’s too late.

  Alighting from her chauffeur-driven Bentley, Imelda was impeccably groomed, as usual, her blonde bob perfectly coiffed, her slim figure clad in a navy blue Chanel suit rounded off with a pair of impossibly high-heeled shoes, which she swore were as comfortable as slippers.

  ‘Never choose comfort over style,’ said the now eighty-one-year-old as I murmured compliments while settling her into a booth.

  ‘You look ravishing,’ I said. ‘Bon anniversaire.’

  ‘Don’t remind me. Being old is nothing to celebrate.’

  ‘It beats the alternative,’ I said. ‘Dom Perignon?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  The earrings went down well. We ordered without consulting the menu. I’ve noticed how the rich automatically assume any restaurant will be able to provide whichever dish takes their fancy regardless of whether or not it’s on the menu. Miraculously, they’re never disappointed. On this occasion, our order couldn’t have been simpler: Dover sole for the lady, steak tartare for me. The champagne arrived. She took a sip then peered at my face.

  ‘You look burned to a crisp. How was Peru?’

  I felt a flicker of relief. My sunbed tan had clearly passed muster. (I’m not daft enough to use a spray; the smell is a dead giveaway.)