I order a black coffee with a shot of amaretto in it and tell the barman to charge it to my room. I don’t plan on having more than a couple of drinks. Too much alcohol would dull me, and all I really want is to sit and absorb the hot pulse of the room for an hour or so. But, inevitably, this plan goes quickly astray. Before my coffee is cold, a man in an expensive-looking shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, has taken the stool adjacent to mine. I can feel the heat from his eyes, burning into my cheek like the laser-sight on a rifle. I turn, fleetingly, take him in at a glance. Dark eyes, impeccably groomed, handsome in an arrogant, narcissistic sort of way. He looks around thirty-five, forty. He looks as if he probably does something well paid and immoral for a living.
‘Not much fun, drinking on your own,’ he says.
‘How do you know I’m alone?’ I shoot back. ‘Maybe I’m waiting for someone.’
He shakes his head and smiles a self-satisfied smile. ‘You’re not waiting for anyone. I’ve been watching you for the last ten minutes.’
I flick my eyes back to him and shrug. Three sentences in and this conversation already feels dangerous.
‘Perhaps you’d like to join me at my table,’ he suggests.
‘Yes,’ I reply. ‘Or perhaps I wouldn’t.’
For most men, this would be enough, but his smile never wavers. ‘You’ll at least let me buy you another drink,’ he says. ‘Something stronger than coffee.’ And I’ve already noticed the way he formulates his questions as statements, as if all this is already a done deal.
I should probably end this right now, but I don’t. The truth is, I’m enjoying it: the power play, the mind games, the cat-and-mouse. And where’s the harm in that, since I know I’m not going to take it any further?
‘What are you drinking?’ he asks – smugly, as if he’s about to put a down payment on a sports car.
‘Champagne.’
He nods blithely. ‘Of course. I’ll get us a bottle.’
He turns to get the barman’s attention. I figure he’s going to choose the champagne, and while it would be interesting to see what value he places on me, I won’t give him the chance of escaping lightly. I’ve already made a thorough inspection of the drinks menu, before he sat down, so it only takes me a second to find the right page and jab my finger into it like a poisoned dart. ‘The 1996 Dom Pérignon,’ I tell him.
At £650 a bottle, it’s not the most expensive champagne on the menu – but it is the most expensive champagne that I can pronounce with absolute confidence; any slip in my French accent would ruin the effect.
He turns quickly back, stares for a few seconds as if gauging something, then curls his lip into something between a smile and a sneer. ‘Expensive taste,’ he notes.
‘I know what I like.’ I give him a look that makes it clear his masculinity is at stake, and I’m sure, for a second, he’s going to fold. But after a pregnant pause, he turns back to the barman and nods. ‘A bottle of the 1996 Dom Pérignon. Two glasses.’
‘And a shot of pastis,’ I add sharply. ‘Straight up. Absinthe if you’ve got it, Pernod if you haven’t.’
This time the man gives a short, aspirated laugh; but, of course, he has no reason to be displeased with my demand. It’s relatively cheap and will get me drunk quicker. He nods again at the barman.
Two crystal flutes are placed before us. The barman pops the cork and pours, then returns the bottle immediately to a cooler.
My would-be seducer raises his glass. ‘Here’s to expensive taste.’
I raise my glass and we both drink: he sips; I take a generous mouthful so that my flute is half emptied. Then, maintaining eye contact the entire time, I take the shot of pastis and upend it in my champagne, which emits a serpentine rasp as it turns the pinkish colour of mother-of-pearl. The man almost chokes; the bartender’s eyes widen in alarm, just for an instant, before he recovers his perfect professional mask. The jazz continues to reel and twist, and no one says anything for a few delirious seconds. I feel lighter than air, so free of ballast that I’m in danger of leaving the ground. It would be the ideal moment to down the rest of my drink and walk away, end the encounter with a flourish and no damage done. But somehow I can’t. Our eyes are locked and I have to see what he’ll do next – whether he’ll cut his losses, pick up the bottle and retreat, or continue to roll with the punches.
It’s the latter, of course. There’s nothing more attractive to the stupidly wealthy than an absolute indifference to the value of things. It’s like a shot of testosterone in the arm. The man’s face moulds to another sardonic smile. ‘That’s one of the stranger things I’ve seen in this bar,’ he says. ‘How is it?’
I take another mouthful, letting the aniseed bubbles titillate my tongue. ‘It’s like nothing you can imagine,’ I tell him.
13
THE KINDNESS OF STRANGERS
Another bar, another Friday. The circumstances very different.
I’m a little high, but not so much that it’s a problem. I just have that extra zing, that bit more energy and imagination. Two double vodka and Cokes have been placed before me as I rifle through my purse, searching for usable currency. I don’t have any cash – I know that already – but I realize too late that I don’t have my debit card either. ‘I must have left it in my other jeans,’ I explain to the barman, who absorbs this extraneous information as impassively as a slab of granite. ‘Can I put it on my credit card?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ He thrusts the card reader towards me.
‘I don’t know my PIN,’ I add.
‘You don’t know your PIN?’
‘No. I mean, I hardly ever use this card, except online. I’ll have to sign for it.’
The barman groans loudly, a noise that is echoed at least twice in the crowd behind me. It’s early evening, it’s central London – so of course everywhere is frantic. ‘You can’t sign for it,’ he tells me. ‘If you don’t know your PIN you can’t use that card.’
‘That’s ridiculous!’
‘It’s company policy. Prevents fraud.’
‘Well, look’ – I shove my open purse towards his face – ‘I have my driving licence here. See? Same name.’
He shakes his head and grips both vodka glasses, as if I might run off with them. ‘No PIN, no drinks.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake! I could buy a diamond over the internet without needing my PIN. So why do I need it to buy a bloody drink?’
‘Excuse me?’ I feel a tap on my shoulder and spin round angrily. It’s the guy next in line at the bar. He’s tall and I’m wearing flats, so the first thing I see is his stubble. It’s not designer stubble; it’s too-busy-to-shave stubble. He’s not much older than me – twenty-four, twenty-five perhaps – but he looks fraught, vaguely exasperated. He’s still wearing work clothes – shirt, tie and trousers. The shirt has a couple of creases and has come untucked on one side. He looks as if he has come straight from a very long week.
‘Yes, I know!’ I snap. ‘I’m holding everyone up. But unnecessary interruptions aren’t going to help matters.’
‘Er, no. Probably not,’ he agrees, with a slightly worried grin. ‘Actually, I was going to offer to buy your drink for you.’
‘Oh.’ I fumble for a few moments. The barman tuts loudly. ‘Thanks. That’s extremely kind of you. Or it would have been kind of you. I assume the offer has expired?’
‘The offer still stands.’
‘Well . . .’ I open my purse again to demonstrate its emptiness. ‘I do have a bit of a cash flow situation at the moment.’
‘Yes, I heard.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s happened to all of us at one point or another.’
‘Thank you. That’s a lie, I’m sure, but it’s a nice lie.’
The barman coughs and drums his fingers.
‘You’re sure?’ I ask, but a twenty-pound note has already been handed over the bar with no further debate.