‘You’re not really working undercover for the CIA, are you?’ asked Ingrid.
I shook my head. ‘No, it’s much worse than that.’
‘Really?’
‘Look, I’ll tell you, but you have to promise not to leave the table immediately.’
‘OK.’
‘I’m training to be a chartered accountant.’
‘Oh, my God,’ said Ingrid. ‘Are you sure I can’t leave?’
‘You promised.’
‘I’ve heard about people like you, but I didn’t know they really existed.’
‘We do. But we’re not let out much, so we’re not a threat to society.’
‘It can’t be that bad.’
‘Oh, it can,’ I said, thinking of my fun-filled afternoon in Nostro Reconciliations.
‘Mel’s doing her articles to be a solicitor. That must be almost as dull.’
We looked over at Mel, who had just exploded in a shriek of laughter, eyes shining and hair all over the place.
‘I’m sure she’ll make a perfect lawyer. Sober, serious, reliable.’
‘We’re all grown-ups now,’ Ingrid said.
‘So what do you do when you’re not editing Vogue?’
‘Actually I’m a sub-editor on Patio World. It’s a new title. You may not have heard of it.’
‘Not yet. But I’ll be sure to subscribe.’
‘Well hurry, because I think they’re going to close it down soon. It’s only been going six months, but it’s been a bit of a disaster.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘Don’t worry. They won’t blame me. They’ll find something else for me to do.’
‘I’m surprised you’re still in England. I’d have imagined you somewhere far more exotic.’
‘But London is exotic. The sky with all those fascinating tinges of grey. The people with their low-key warmth and friendliness. Very low key. And I find those dark wet winters so romantic.’
‘A real aficionado.’
‘Actually, it’s nice just to be in one place for once. My mother’s moved to New York with a new man and I’m so grateful I don’t have to follow her around the world any more. There is something pleasantly stable about London. And it’s a good place for my career.’
‘No better place for patios.’
‘When I’m running my own publishing empire, I’ll know where I can find someone to add up cab fares.’
‘I’d be more than happy to help,’ I said. ‘Just don’t forget to keep the receipts.’
‘I’ll start a special collection for you today.’
I poured us both another glass of wine. ‘It’s nice to see you again,’ I said. ‘You were kind to me in France. And I don’t know what I’d have done without that two hundred francs you lent me.’
‘I was so pleased to get out of there,’ said Ingrid with a shudder. ‘That was one of the more unpleasant experiences of my life.’
We were both silent, watching Guy and Mel.
Guy noticed us and seemed to sober up. ‘What are you two thinking about?’
Ingrid didn’t answer. ‘Nothing,’ I said.
Guy leaned forward. ‘It was France, wasn’t it?’
I nodded. Mel was suddenly still.
Guy poured out the dregs from the second bottle of retsina. ‘Well, let me tell you something. That was five years ago, when we were all still kids. I’ve forgotten about France. Totally and completely. And I hope you all will too. Is that a deal?’
‘Deal,’ I said, raising my glass. Ingrid and Mel raised theirs too, and we all drank to obliterated memories.
I was seriously drunk by the time we spilled out of the restaurant. Ingrid took the first taxi and I took the next, leaving Guy with his arm around Mel waiting for two more.
Who was I kidding? I didn’t know whose flat they were going to, but I could tell they were going there together.
I saw quite a lot of Guy after that evening. He seemed happy to count me as a friend, and he certainly made my life more interesting. It turned out he really was an actor, of the struggling kind. After three years at university, where he had only just escaped being thrown out, he had somehow managed to get into a reputable drama school, where he said he had done quite well. Since then, things had been difficult. He had had a few bit parts in repertory theatres and a small number of tiny roles in TV. He had been an extra in Morty’s Fall. He had an agent, who ignored him. He attributed his lack of success to the oversupply of young actors and an invisible network of contacts and friends of contacts that excluded him. That may have been partially true. A greater reason, I suspected, was that he just didn’t try hard enough. He went to the gym and watched Countdown on the telly when he should have been writing letters and knocking on doors. Young actors are supposed to be hungry. Guy was thirsty. And slaked his thirst every evening and many lunchtimes.
I was happy to join him in this. It made the afternoons much easier to get through if I knew I was going to meet Guy for a pint or five after work. Of course, it made the mornings quite painful and it played havoc with studying for my professional exams, but at least it shook things up a bit. Guy had a small flat off Gloucester Road and we frequented several pubs and bars in that area. We were occasionally joined by other friends of his, including Torsten Schollenberger when he was visiting London.
What did we talk about? I have no idea. Probably meaningless drivel. For our different reasons we needed to find friendship and escape the tedium of the daylight hours. Often, as the evening progressed, Guy would begin to chase women. He was usually successful at this. He was good-looking, of course, but he also seemed able to transmit an aura of danger and excitement that hooked them. I tried, unsuccessfully, to work out what kind of women went for him. Then I realized that almost any woman would, provided she was in the right kind of mood. The curious, those looking for excitement or searching for a quick escape were drawn to him. Guy offered sex, fun, danger and absolutely no chance of commitment. He provided an opportunity for good girls to be bad for a night.
Many of them took it.
Mel was different. He treated her like a backstop, someone to go to when he felt like sex and the evening had failed to provide him with any. He rarely seemed to make any arrangements to meet her, but often at ten or eleven o’clock he would slip off to her flat in Earls Court. From what I could tell, she was always there waiting for him.
Just occasionally she would come out with us. She was always lively and amusing and often ignored by Guy. He was never rude to her, but he was often indifferent, which was worse. I could see what was going on: Mel was in love with Guy and Guy was using her. Mel was too scared of losing him to complain and so she put up with him. If I had thought about this, I would have realized that this showed a deep self-centredness in Guy’s character. So I didn’t think about it.
Guy took me flying with him. His father had bought him his own plane, an expensive Cessna 182 with the registration GOGJ, which he kept at Elstree aerodrome, just to the north of London. We went for lunch to Le Touquet and Deauville in France and to a pretty grass airfield on a hill opposite Shaftesbury in Dorset. Guy was a skilful flyer, and enjoyed skimming along at fifty feet above the waves, or a few hundred feet above the English countryside.
Inspired by Guy, I decided to learn to fly myself. I trained in an AA-5, an old banger compared to Guy’s BMW. I was taught that it was safer not to fly much below two thousand feet, that it was important to check the aircraft thoroughly before every flight and that drinking any alcohol before flying was strictly banned. I wasn’t at all surprised that somehow different rules applied to me than to Guy but, as I learned more, I became increasingly nervous sitting next to him in an aeroplane.