Le Beaujolais

Usually nothing happens. I prefer that, I preferred it more when employed by the Agents. I went across scathes of Africa to attend meetings and other events which did not occur. They paid me anyway, that type of employment still exists, but not for me, these days it is a contract that might fruit which is rare. The fee is good when something happens but most often nothing happens. When nothing happens the benefit of the contract is as the same as the cost of doing. “Modern life, Michael, you are an old man now”.  I am.

On the train to London I sent a check in text and R replied: “I am in the office. Enjoy Le Beaujolais.”  A wine bar, a successor says R to Solanges, in Litchfield St, up and right from Leicester Sq. You will like the place, she had said the day late last summer that she invited me to scope it. “We like it too” said R, “And I knew you would.  It is by the glass on a professional day, but this evening we can have a bottle.”

“It suits you: chance to be professional along with being drunk”.

The mark and his three associates were already at the table, the first bottle down, food ordered. A delay at the bar before the waitress took my order with a French eyebrow raise, “a glass, rouge reserve”. I thought, in words, she has a sea wave of hair and very Moulin lipstick. I went to the toilet, the way I have learnt to scope and when I get back, the table next the mark, three quarters to his vision, is vacated as R’s Jasmin, a trainee, leaves right on time, without a glance.  I said to myself, hopefully without blurting “this has been well set up, something might happen.”  It did.

 I plumped like Depardieu into the vacated seat. I slurped a quarter of the reserve rouge, set out my notebook, “I write stories for a hobby”, set the Blackberry, this weeks recording device, the Nokia being too obvious in England though it was not in Denmark. My right ear, the deafer one better thus for concentrating on one voice amongst many amidst the hubbub, cocked right into his sound. He could see should he be interested some of my pate and the right side of my jowly.

The customers there are largely these sets: clandestine couples, groups of lady peeler laughers in for lunch, groups of men, florid a bit, in tables of four talking about deals. The mark had a voice in the style of Alistair Campbell, or in my era Derek Moule. It is a voice, coarse, male, cigarette honed, that dominates a conversation which was helpful for my ear and the recorder.  He was lubricated, ready to talk. Better, his minder was also post prandial. He saw me but marked me as a shambler.

They noted me slump down, it is the habit, there was a cautionary silence. That silence can be long, they can leave, and on those occasions nothing happens. But on this occasion the mark was voluble. I heard about planes being bought and sold, third party financing, suggestions that it might be necessary “to tickle his tummy,” and so on.

Scrawling away since even now notes much enhance the recording I wondered who the ultimate client was. R, since she went freelance (believe, that not!), said “it’s all commercial now” could have the Agents, but HMRC, lots of obscures and I presume newspapers too amongst her contractors.  

“Stay one hour. Then whatever has happened leave”

On the third glass of rouge, I was inclined to stay but, fearing a lecture and a delay in a much needed fee, and, I realise, a long applied habit of doing what I am told where R is concerned, I paid, in cash, gathered up and strode into the confusing bustle that is London when emerging from a wine bar mid-afternoon. In the street air I felt the adrenalin provoked desire for a cigarette.

On the tube to Paddington I clutched the notebook and the Blackberry and checked them often since at this stage to lose either would be a great professional wine induced blunder. At Paddington I walked rather random, a very unnecessary precaution in my view, and found a giant empty venue on Little Venice just open for the day waiting for office closing and beyond. The barman, callow, disturbed from his preparations, served up a “large please” glass of white which I set down on the spacious empty table along with the equipment. I typed a bit, one fingered, listened to the recording, decided it would do, sent off both “straight away” as instructed. Done. Good. I left the large glass untouched, to make the barman think, and found, two minutes early the Paddington Hilton where Will was waiting for the cover meeting.

Will went to get his train, I, by now feeling slightly dishevelled, a bit wobbly, decided it was best to get close to home ground before I had another. On the train from St Pancras, before the first tunnel, a text: beep.

“Well done. Have a good evening. See you soon. Rx”