Seven Daze (20 page)

He looked out of the window and winced. Would one of her acquaintances count as off limits? There’d have to be no comeback to her. He couldn’t hurt her, but some other city slicker? They were prime targets.

“Shall we get out here?” she said.

Jim looked back at the road. Gridlocked. Nose to tail, both directions. The cabby sighed loud enough to be heard in Chiswick. Jammed as he was, now north of the river, Jim couldn’t blame him for being miffed.

The fare was ten pounds eighty. Jim handed him a twenty and shrugged his shoulders. Joining Charlotte at the curb, they meandered up the busy street towards what Jim thought was Chinatown.

A ten-minute walk later they were in Chinatown. Having never been there before, Jim was amazed by the shops, signs, bustle and array of restaurants. It was just how he’d imagined, and more.

“You haven’t been here have you?”

“No.” His voice trailed off.

 “If you want Chinese, go to Chinatown.”

Jim thought she’d said it snobbily. Perhaps she’d wanted to be surprised by where he was taking her. Either way it was too late. She did seem different this evening. Her whole demeanour. Whether stressed or maybe just bored of him he wasn’t sure. As she guided him towards a particularly bright and large restaurant, he thought of taking her hand. Maybe kissing her before they went inside.

“This one here,” she said, ruining his chance. Not that he’d have done it anyway.

He reached for the door and opened it. She smiled, but it wasn’t her best one. He knew he should have gone for Indian, or something more exotic or trendy.

Guided to a table, they sat down. The waiter handed out menus and took their drinks order. They both had a bottle of lager while waiting for the wine menu. Jim studied the menu. Chinese names with English descriptions afterwards. There were no numbers; how were people expected to order? Try to pronounce the squiggles that were words or just point? Pointing was always going to win. The menu was in the wrong order too. Any normal Chinese was soup, starter, main and then dessert. This one was all over the place.

Jim looked round. Charlotte had the best view again. Her back to the outside wall left Jim with paranoia that someone behind was flicking v-signs at him.

“Quite busy isn’t it?” he said.

She nodded. The stray lump of hair finally fell across her forehead but was quickly tidied up. “Weekends are impossible to get a table. I sometimes bring people here for lunch in the week.”

Jim nodded. His regular Chinese haunt in Coventry, Wok This Way, didn’t bear comparison to this place. He wanted to tell her about its surly waiters and chipped tables, but couldn’t. He knew this was where things would end up. He couldn’t make her a part of his life. He could never really open up. Always in the back of his head were the lies, the cheating. He wondered how serial philanderers and men with multiple lives and families had either the energy or the brainpower to get away with it.

“There was a restaurant we used to go to in Newport. It was called Wok This Way. Always made me laugh that name.” Though he’d managed to twist the lie, it still felt a lie.

She smiled. “There’s an Indian in Basingstoke called The Spice is Right. That makes me chuckle.”

Jim laughed. “Know any more?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Fish and chip shop in Newcastle, Right Plaice Right Time. They spelt it wrong though, which ruined the joke.”

She laughed before sipping her lager. “What do you fancy? They do a wide range of vegetarian.”

Jim sighed before he looked at his menu. He had to sort out the vegetarian thing, but now wasn’t a good time. He’d normally have chicken curry and chips or sweet and sour chicken balls. He was going to have be inventive. “Quite a lot here, isn’t there? What are you having.”

She shrugged her shoulders. It was Charlotte’s choice of where to eat. He took it that he should be deciding what they ate. This could go badly wrong.

“I suppose,” he said, “we ought to decide how many courses first. Soup or starter, then main and pudding.” He regretted saying pudding. The London word was undoubtedly dessert.

She patted her non-existent stomach. “I don’t think I could manage more than soup and main.”

Jim nodded. He was relieved. Not for the cost, the place seemed quite reasonable, but just for the number of decisions involved. The wine waiter arrived and gave him a few more seconds thinking time. Jim said Charlotte should order the wine as she knew a lot more than he did. She ordered something French with a long name. Jim nodded, pretending to agree it was a good choice.

“Hot and sour soup?” he asked. She nodded. That just left the main. On the back of the menu was the business lunch section. Three courses for a tenner. Chicken in black bean sauce he’d had before, remembering it was nice.

“Do they do a vegetarian black bean sauce?” he asked while making a show of looking all around the menu.

“There.” She pointed. “The vermicelli’s also very good. I haven’t tried the veggie one but the chicken’s incredible.”

Jim nodded.

When the waiter returned he ordered the soup plus a combination of three dishes between them. The wine soon appeared and flowed. Jim got brave and told her about the time he spent a month in Coventry for the ONS. At last he didn’t have to lie. Turning the conversation round to her, he asked what else she’d done recently besides work. She was not as open as before; talking was jerky, not fluent. Jim wasn’t sure if that was normal for a second date or not. He knew so much about her and wanted to know more, but couldn’t think where to start. His own lies got in the way. He knew this could only go on for so long. They needed to connect; an embrace or more. He had to remove that thought from his head. Especially the more part. The bit that came after the embrace.

The food was more than worth the money. Jim was more than impressed. It was nowhere near as salty or oily as his old takeaway. Very powerful flavours too. He almost hadn’t missed the lack of meat.

The wine nearly finished, and the time approaching nine, the stifled conversation turned again to Jim’s job. Charlotte was interested in what he actually did during the day. This was an obvious problem, and his few attempts at playing the fool and trying to shift the conversation didn’t work. “Do you know what I mean, though.” He tried a different track. “You work there all day and when you think about it later, you think, what have I actually done?”

She smiled. “Yeah. Happens to me too. Sometimes you just firefight all day, but with no embers to show at five o’clock.”

Jim liked that line, but had a feeling she’d used it before.

“So the GDP revision figure.” She leaned further into the table, her eyes connecting with his. “Do you do any work on that?”

Her eyes so close, she could have asked him to kill a puppy and he’d have done it. Was this going somewhere it shouldn’t or was she finding common ground? He thought back to the taxi. He was sure she’d hinted that people would pay for advance information. He wondered both what they’d pay and why she was suddenly so interested.

“Yeah.” He paused. “ But what you’ve got to remember is you don’t see the whole picture.” He paused again. He knew in his head what he wanted to say, but was unsure whether it was believable. “I mean, I see one part of the figures. Finding what the actual figure is from that part. Well, it’s bordering on impossible.” He realised he’d answered her unasked question: Did he know what the figure would be? He wondered if he could use this at some point. Would the information be worth thousands?

Off limits.

He shook his head. “Sorry, that probably didn’t make sense.”

Her lump of hair flopped down but she didn’t push it back up. “I did this course on sampling at college ...” Jim wasn’t sure what sampling meant, but he guessed she didn’t mean taking a loop or riff off a song to create another tune. “Sometimes the sample doesn’t have to be large to give an accurate end result.” He got what sampling meant, but he didn’t like where this was going. She left her sentence hovering, dangling in the wind like her lump of hair. He was surprised as she shook her head. “No, it’s a revised figure. Sampling theory breaks down doesn’t it?”

Jim nodded, he didn’t have a clue what she was on about now. He just wanted the bill. Maybe a toilet break was needed.

“You have to see all the parts or else it’s as much a guess as the first reported result.” She seemed to ponder this for a minute. “That’s quite clever really, isn’t it?”

Again, Jim nodded before standing up. “Little boys room,” he said, walking away.

The bill paid, and the topic of conversation altered, Jim wondered what was next. A taxi home and a peck on the cheek would see him in bed before
News at Ten
. He wanted more, not more between them, but more time with her. She seemed different tonight, and he was only just working out why. What he’d thought were bored signals weren’t. She was relaxed. The motor mouth had gone too. She was herself with no need to talk for the sake of it. He thought he was falling for her too, in a big way, but this wasn’t the time for that. He’d be dead in three days if he didn’t get rich soon.

“Do you fancy a drink before we get back?” He realised after saying it that it kind of hinted he’d be going back to hers. He clarified, “I mean before I go back to my hotel and you go home.” He realised that sounded worse. Her face joined his in going red. He wanted the restaurant to swallow him or the huge Chinese warrior dragon on the wall to come to life and eat him.

“Probably ought to get back. Early start and that. Shall we share a taxi?”

Jim nodded. He couldn’t help but think he’d set his cause back a week or so. God knows what Harry would have said on the subject. “Second date? Second date? You should be rutting her in empty doorways by now you big ponce. You’ve disappointed me again, son. Disappointed me. Again.”

The taxi hailed, Jim half leaned on her as their stop-start journey headed south. Turning towards her, her face and lips next to his, he kissed her. Expecting her to pull away or slap him, she didn’t.

A minute later, his face numb, and mind pulped to a mash, he breathed. He’d smudged her make-up and lipstick, and the droopy lump of hair was now joined by three other lumps. But he hadn’t dislodged her smile. Taking her hand, he held it until the cab pulled up outside her flat.

Another kiss outside her door and Jim was ready to go. He didn’t want to go, but he didn’t want to stay and ruin it either.

“I’d better ...” He pointed down the road.

She nodded. “Me too, I ...”

One more kiss, then he stepped back. Opening the door, she stepped inside then turned to face him. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Thank you. It was your choice.”

“Thanks anyway.” With one last smile, she closed the door and triple-bolted it.

Walking down the street, Jim looked at the sky. “Why now?” he asked. “Why the fuck now?”

Jim woke with a curious gurgling in his stomach and a clear head. The first day in many without a hangover, his mind rushed with thoughts of Charlotte.

Morning x,
the text said.

Morning. Thanks again for last
night x,
he replied.

Breakfasting on burnt sausage and partially raw toast, he received the reply,
Thank YOU for last night x.
Smiling, he finished his breakfast, paid for two more nights then hopped into the shower.

Within two hours of waking, he walked the familiar East End High Street towards The Queens Arms. Still an hour from opening, he headed for Filthy Alan’s. Inside, the familiar unpleasant smell hit his nose. Filthy, despite his apparent poor vision, recognised him straight away. “I’m trying to get hold of Terence,” said Jim. “You haven’t got a number have you?”

Filthy did a wily head shake Terence himself would be proud of. “Might have.”

Shaking his head, Jim pulled a twenty from his pocket. Filthy’s memory now clearer, he said, “No point ringing, he never answers. His flat’s just up the road. Floor two, number six, Che Guevara Tower. Just up the road. You can’t miss it.”

Thanking Filthy he left, spotting an old foldable table on the way out. “Keep that for me,” he said. “I’ll come back later.”

“Always a pleasure doing business.”

A ten-minute walk and he realised Filthy was right. It was easy to find. The thing blocked out most of the East End’s natural light. Climbing the stairs, he knocked on Terence’s door before waiting. After the third knock Jim was convinced he was out, but shuffling behind the door told him he was in luck. Opening it, Terence nodded his head for Jim to enter.

“Who gave you my address?” he said, bolting the door.

“Filthy Alan. It’s okay, I’m only after the licence.”

Terence leant past Jim and closed the corridor’s only door. Inside was the living room and a mountain of goods, some Raif’s and some from other unfortunate souls. Like Filthy’s shop, Terence’s flat had the same musty male smell. He wondered if they were in some way related.

“You’re in luck.” Terence reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. “Wouldn’t know it was fake, would you?”

Jim grabbed it and looked. Though at first not recognising himself with glasses on, it was definitely him. The card was a good copy. Hologram and professionally sealed; he reckoned it would nearly fool the DVLA themselves.

“Nice one.”

“Does a good job. If you’re after a passport, he can do them too.”

“This’ll do for now.” Jim turned and made for the door that Terence was opening.

“I’ll see you for another drink next time you’re in,” Terence called after him as he made for the stairs.

“Thought you might,” he replied.

By the time he’d reached south London again, morning had gone.

Having lunch now x,
Charlotte had said.

Me too x,
he replied.

Leaving the hotel with two bags for life containing an iPad, Wii, the laptop and Freeview box, he walked further south. He’d always thought the new, modern pawnbrokers were ideal for the criminal. Easy cash. Except for one thing: proof of address. Like everywhere else, cameras seemed to rule the shops too. It took a large pair of
cojones
to walk in with stolen goods and risk all for a few hundred quid.