‘How’s Brucie handling it?’
‘Like it’s an adventure; he slept most of the way across. Now it’s just another new day to him. How’s your little one doing?’
For some reason I thought of a tabloid feature that had appeared when we were in Toronto; Miles and Oz, men about town. If they could hear us now. . ‘She’s great,’ I told him. ‘She’s mastered the typical ten-day-old’s repertoire; eats, sleeps and shits, and that’s it. Speaking of which, I have a couple of those to take care of myself.’
‘Sure. I’ll have my assistant call you as soon as she gets to Edinburgh, to set up the arrangements for tomorrow. See you when I hit town myself.’
‘Okay.’ I hung up and rolled out of bed. I felt a bit stiff, a late reaction to my gym work, so I did some stretching exercises, then followed up with a quick hundred sit-ups, the same number of press-ups and fifty chins, using the top of the heavy bedroom door as a bar.
I was going to give shaving a miss, and was heading for the shower when I remembered that, with luck, I’d be meeting Mr James Torrent later. I still had half a face full of shave gel when Susie called. We talked about nothing much, other than the baby, for about ten minutes; the second half of my shave wasn’t quite as smooth as the first.
By the time I had showered, dressed and eaten a healthy breakfast of wholemeal toast and black coffee, it was close enough to nine o’clock for me to take a chance on phoning Torrent to set up a meeting.
My call was picked up on the second ring, then I had to sit through one of those really annoying automated multiple choice responses. I didn’t want to rent office equipment, nor did I want to buy it. I didn’t want to buy specific items of office furniture, nor did I want to take advantage of their space-planning service. I didn’t need any other office supplies, and since I didn’t have any of their equipment, I didn’t need their technical help-line either. However I did have a miscellaneous enquiry; I pressed button seven.
They must have had a few of those that morning, for I was told that I had been placed in a queue, without the option of listening to Lou Vega singing ‘Mambo Number Five’, or those two old geezers doing the Macarena. The Trio Los Bravos performing their only hit, ‘Black is Black’, were at the point of doing my head in completely when finally I heard a real, female voice on the other end, but by that time I had begun to work something out about Mr Torrent.
I asked for his office. ‘In connection with what, sir?’ the operator asked.
‘His new suit,’ I told her. ‘This is his tailor speaking.’
I don’t know if she believed me, but she put me through anyway. ‘Mr Torrent’s office,’ said another woman; she pronounced the name with the emphasis on the second syllable. ‘How can I help you?’ Her voice was slow and cultured; for some reason she reminded me of an ad for Galaxy chocolate.
‘By making an appointment for me to see your boss; this is Oz Blackstone speaking.’
There was a silence, of a sort I’d experienced before. ‘The Oz Blackstone?’ she asked, in a tone which implied doubt.
‘There’s only one of me, as far as I know. I’ll be carrying Oz Blackstone’s driving licence when I come to see your boss. That’ll mean either that I really am me, or that I’ve killed me and stolen it. Oh yes, and I’ll also look remarkably like me.’
‘What would you like to discuss with Mr Torrent?’ she asked, without as much as a chuckle. This woman had no sense of humour.
‘That’s something I’d prefer to discuss with Mr Torrent,’ I told her.
‘I am his executive assistant,’ the woman said, humouring the mystery caller.
‘But you’re not mine. Now do I get to see the man or not. .’ I paused for effect. ‘. . Or do I have to pursue other means?’
She thought about that one for a moment or two, then, clearly having decided that she didn’t want to know what I meant, she told me to hold on. Finally, at least fifteen minutes after I’d dialled the number, she came back on the line and announced that Mr Torrent had a meeting in Glasgow that afternoon, but that he could fit me in at ten-thirty, for half an hour at the very most.
‘That suits my schedule,’ I told her, then hung up.
I was fairly chuffed with myself at getting in there without having to spill any beans, so much so that I almost forgot the reason why I was going there in the first place. Remembering, I called Ricky, to check that Alison hadn’t done a runner in the night, and to let them both know that I was going to see the man.
She sounded more nervous than ever when I spoke to her, she was still waiting for the lab to report to Morrow, and Ross had warned her not to expect good news.
‘You did tell me the truth about Torrent, Alison, didn’t you?’
I half expected her to be offended by my question, but she wasn’t. ‘Yes, honest,’ she said. Her tone took me back a few years. I guessed that the last of her carefully constructed image had been ground away by the pressure of the last couple of days. I wondered whether she’d be able to rebuild it; I should have known better.
I was about to call a taxi to take me to see Torrent when I remembered that I’d bought a bloody car. . it’s an everyday occurrence for us rich folk, see. . so instead I had it take me down to Willowbrae.
The Merc was ready and waiting, shining in the morning sun. It seemed to have a personality of its own; I took to it at once, more than I had to Susie’s M3. Say what you like, there is a difference between a Mercedes and a Beamer. I mean could you imagine Janis Joplin singing, ‘Oh Lord won’t you buy me a 3-series BMW’?
Once Simon had finished his delivery run-through, I headed off, following the signs for the A1, then picking up the by-pass and heading for Edinburgh Park, following the directions that Alison had given me. The car handled like, like. . like a pram; fatherhood was having its effect on me, right enough.
She had told me I wouldn’t have any trouble spotting the new Torrent headquarters, and she was right. It had a bloody great red ‘T’ on a pole in front of the main entrance, high enough and garish enough to be seen a mile away.
The visitors’ car park was full, but I spotted a space in the directors’ area and slid carefully in there, right in the middle of the bay to cut down the chances of my shiny car being bumped by one of its neighbours opening a door in a hurry.
The brand new, ready-to-be-opened office was a four-storey building of fairly conventional design. It looked as if it had been built out of solid stone blocks, and it shouted ‘Money!’ at me as I approached. There was a man in uniform standing just inside the big marble-clad atrium; I could see him as I trotted up the steps, and as he swung the heavy glass door open for me. Some job; still, it was better than being a traffic warden. ‘You know you can’t park there, sir,’ he said. He had the same instincts, though.
‘Yes,’ I answered. . one of my finest lifetime moments was being sick over one of those guys. . and headed for the desk which was positioned in the centre of the hall, under the high glass roof. ‘Oz Blackstone for Mr Torrent,’ I announced, loudly. The receptionist was Chinese; a plastic card clipped to her blouse identified her as Anna Chin. She had a very nice one too, with a dimple that deepened as she smiled at me. On her desk, there was a big wooden bowl, full of red cherries, and beside it a small ceramic dish for their pips.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she said, in an accent which might have been honed at Mary Erskine or St George’s School, then slid a thick folder across the desk. ‘If you’d just like to fill in your details there.’ She pointed. ‘And sign alongside. . a Health and Safety requirement.’
‘Sure,’ I told her, flashing her a quick twinkle. ‘I’m pretty healthy, and relatively safe.’ I filled in the form, and signed it; she ripped it from the pad and tucked it inside a plastic holder, then produced a small book from beneath the desk. ‘If you could sign here, too, I’ll let Mr Torrent’s chief personal assistant know you’re here.’