Guy shook his head. ‘I still can’t believe it.’
‘I told you it was worth a try,’ I said. ‘Cheer up. We’ve just saved the company yet again and you’re looking worried.’
‘It doesn’t feel right,’ said Guy.
‘Oh, come on. What do you want to do? Turn down his money?’
‘No.’
‘Well, then? This can only be good news.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Guy. ‘I don’t trust him.’
18
June 1992, The City, London
The long hot afternoon was beginning, and I was going to spend the whole of it in Nostro Reconciliations, reconciling nostros. The very thought of it made my limbs feel heavy and my brain tired, so tired. Computer printouts to go through, boxes to tick, mindless tedium. I was a junior member of the audit team for United Arab International Bank. My current task was to make sure that the balances at the bank’s main accounts in each currency, known as nostro accounts, reconciled with the bank’s own accounting system. In theory I might uncover a multi-million-dollar money-laundering fraud at any moment. In practice they added up, with mind-numbing regularity. I glanced across at the manager in charge of the department. He was a small, rather scruffy man who seemed to have a permanent itch just below his collar. He was too nervous to talk to me. I fantasized that this was because he was a master criminal, afraid I would unmask him at any moment. Of course I knew he was actually worried that my boss might criticize his department. But there wasn’t even much chance of that, I thought, as I ticked another box.
I had tried to get myself on the audit teams for as many banks as possible, on the theory that it would make it easier to escape accountancy for banking once I qualified. A fine theory, but boring, boring, boring.
I had one thought to sustain me, like the glimpse of an oasis across the desert sands. That evening I was attending a reunion for the old pupils of Broadhill School. It would be held at a hotel near Marble Arch, the headmaster would make a speech pleading for cash and there would be lots to drink. Lots and lots. I was looking forward to it.
I was also looking forward to meeting the people there. I hadn’t kept in touch with anyone from school; my life at university and as an accountant had taken me away from them. I had read about one or two of them in the papers: a quiet girl in my economics class who had won a swimming medal at the Seoul Olympics and a boy who had rescued his fellow explorers after two weeks lost in the Borneo jungle. I had also read about their fathers: Torsten Schollenberger’s had been accused of bribing a senior German minister and Troy Barton’s had won an Oscar. No mention of Guy’s, though. Nor of Guy. The thought of them both made me shudder. Even five years after the event I couldn’t think of Guy without the guilt flooding back. I hoped he wouldn’t be there that evening.
He was. He was the first person I saw as I walked into the already crowded hotel function room.
He was standing holding a glass of wine, talking to two people I vaguely recognized. He hadn’t changed much: his blond hair was now brushed back off his forehead and he had filled out a bit. I hesitated, flustered, unable to decide how to enter the room without him seeing me.
He looked up and his eyes met mine. His face broke into a wide smile, and he strode over to me. ‘Davo! How the devil are you!’ He held out his hand and pumped mine. ‘Let’s get you a drink.’ He peered at his full glass, downed it all, and dragged me over to a waitress with a tray. He swapped his empty glass for a full one, and handed me my first. ‘Cheers,’ he said.
An extraordinary wave of relief swept over me, as though a ball of tension that had been screwed up tightly somewhere inside me for the last five years had been released. I had assumed Guy would never want to talk to me again and I had told myself that this didn’t matter. I now realized it did. I also realized Guy was drunk. That was fine with me, but it did mean I had some catching up to do.
‘Thank God you’ve come,’ said Guy. ‘Do you remember those two? I don’t. But they seem to think we were best mates at school. Tedious as hell.’
My immediate thought was that they couldn’t possibly have more boring lives than mine.
‘So, what are you up to, Davo?’
‘Working undercover.’
‘Working undercover! Who for?’
‘I can’t tell you. Well, I could tell you, but I’d have to kill you. And that would be messy. I’ve been specially trained, you know. You wouldn’t stand a chance. What about you?’
‘I’m a famous actor.’
‘Famous actor, eh? How come I’ve never heard of you, then?’
‘I don’t use my real name. I’ve been in a lot of big movies recently. The Division, Morty’s Fall.’
‘I saw Morty’s Fall,’ I said. ‘I didn’t recognize you in that.’
‘That’s because I’m such a good actor.’
Just then, a big man with square shoulders and a rugby-player’s neck clapped his hands for attention. He was the new headmaster, and he talked about the school and how it needed money for a new theatre. He was inspiring in a down-to-earth way. But my attention was distracted by Guy. He seemed to have come to some kind of silent arrangement with a pretty black waitress who kept bringing us new glasses of wine.
We drank them.
‘Hey, isn’t that Mel Dean over there?’ Guy whispered.
I followed his glance. It was Mel. Dressed in a smart navy blue suit. And with her was Ingrid Da Cunha.
‘You’re right.’
‘Shall we go and talk to them?’
‘Yeah. If you like.’ I was surprised Guy actually wanted to talk to Mel, but I welcomed the chance to see Ingrid again.
Just then the headmaster stopped talking, there was clapping and the crowd, which had been becoming increasingly restless, began to move again. Guy and I weaved our way through to the two women. Guy gently placed his hand on Mel’s behind. She swung round, ready to say something sharp. When she saw who it was she froze, stunned.
‘Hi, Mel,’ Guy said. ‘You look amazed to see me. I did go to Broadhill, you know. They have to let me in, although I’m sure they don’t want to. You remember Davo.’
He kissed Mel and Ingrid on both cheeks. Neither of them had changed very much since school. Mel wore significantly less make-up, and the blonde streak in her dark hair had disappeared. But she still had the pouting softness that I was sure had first attracted Guy. Ingrid looked relaxed and tanned, as though she had just come back from a holiday. She gave us both a warm wide smile.
Mel recovered. ‘Have you been groping every woman in the room, or am I specially privileged?’
‘Only you, Mel. Although I could include Ingrid if she asked nicely.’
‘Little chance of that,’ said Ingrid.
Within a minute, we were all four talking like old friends; old friends who hadn’t seen each other for a couple of months, perhaps, but who had no trouble catching up. Guy, abetted by his pet waitress, kept everyone topped up and knocked back huge quantities of wine himself. He seemed to be able to take it well enough: practice, I assumed. Meanwhile I was getting pleasantly drunk.
Time passed and suddenly we were some of the last people left in the room. Guy looked at his watch. ‘Anyone want some dinner?’ he asked. ‘I know a good place near here.’
Mel glanced at Ingrid, who nodded her agreement, and soon we were out on the street and heading towards Bays-water. Guy led us into a Greek restaurant, ordered some retsina, and we were away. The group seemed to split into two, with Guy concentrating on Mel, who was quite drunk by now and giggling ecstatically at everything he was saying.