Seven Days

Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Constructive criticism is always welcome

Monday

I met Andy in the Princess Alexandra; a relic of the great days of the public house, for which read no other form of entertainment for the masses. The economic tide had receded and left a poky and rather down at heel little dive off the corner of two quiet side streets. However, it was more or less equidistant between me, Pete, Phil & Andy and it could be more or less guaranteed to be quiet enough to get somewhere to sit. I wasn't fond of propping up the bar. There'd inevitably be someone convinced that you wanted to hear his opinion.

This day I commandeered the snug as I wanted a bit of privacy. For those that don't know what a snug is, it's a small room in a pub that allows maybe half a dozen to sit in comfort. It's a bit of an institution, often highly territorial but of a weekday lunchtime, not so much.

We settled ourselves in and Andy leaned forward with his elbows on the table, showing off his early male pattern baldness . He was something middle-managementy in the local NHS and I hoped he would give me some pointers on what to expect in a formal job interview seeing as I'd never had one.

"Why do you want this job anyway?" he asked. "I thought you liked being your own boss."

I shrugged. "Things are changing. Computers and software are getting easier to use so in the long run my job's going to disappear. The University is a good bet. It's not going to relocate; it's not going to change its business model and it's not going to go bust. And I could learn a lot."

"Well, it is a university," Andy said, smirking at me over the rim of his glass.

I gave him a dry look and he laughed. "So, you gonna help me or what?"

"Sure, sure," he said, putting his pint down and leaning back in his chair. "Where do you see yourself in five years' time?"

I stared at him. "You what?"

"Where do you see yourself in five years' time?" he repeated.

"What kind of a question is that?"

"One they'll ask you. What you gonna say?"

"Um, doing an easier job for more money!" I quipped.

"Is what you won't say. Not if you want the job. Now answer the question."

I floundered. I don't think about things like that. I don't really plan at all - which was one of the things that used to wind Klara up.

He took pity on me.

"You'll say something like, 'I expect to have gained a solid grounding in blah-de-blah technical something-or-other and be studying for an appropriate qualification from the Open University in my spare time.'"

"Oh."

"What are your strengths?"

"Huh?"

He sighed heavily. "This is going to be a long one. Get me another pint."

***

Tuesday

This close to midsummer the sun rose at 4:30am. In a cloudless sky it would be delivering a kilowatt to every square meter by midday. Which is another way of saying it was going to be a scorcher. The mercury would probably top 35°, which, in a country where things are generally cool and cloudy, is not something we're used to dealing with and we tend to go a bit bonkers. By sunset there would be legions of the lobster skinned wandering about. The evening news might well have a report of some unfortunate who jumped into water to cool off, unaware that the shock could kill them.

Anyway, I had more pressing problems. The interview was mid-morning, and I didn't want to arrive as sweaty mess, so I was waiting on a taxi to convey me to an air-conditioned café not far from the Humbert Building. There I would chill for an hour before trotting the fifty meters or so to my interview.

***

About forty minutes later I sat killing time in the window of Brian's Regal Beans (terrible name, how do people come up with this sort of thing?). I often tried to sit near a window if it was available, even if I had company. It enabled me to freewheel, unmoored from the present.

Students occupied the tables in the café, eking out their cappuccinos while they gossiped and discussed coursework. Gossip inevitably included romantic attachments and I pursed my lips. Klara was firmly in the rear-view mirror, and the nature of my business kinda precluded relationships. In any case no one had caught my eye in a long while. Maybe in a more settled role someone would come along. Maybe.

My gaze drifted out through the glass to where a group of young women strolled past, chattering like starlings, all strappy tops and scandalously brief shorts which seemed to be this summer's fashion. Can't say I wasn't appreciative of the view but none of them took my fancy. No amount of unblemished skin would make up for the experiential - and therefore conversational - gulf between us.

I dug out my notes for the interview to distract me from melancholy.

The appointed hour duly arrived. Frowning at the pain from my formal black shoes I straightened my clothes and prepared to engage the enemy. Opening the door, I winced at the blast of hot air that washed over me. The current heat wave showed no sign of abating.

The interview panel confirmed my worst fears. A razor-sharp woman from HR - which was apparently the rebranding of Personnel. I always saw myself as more of a person than a resource but that's late-stage neoliberal capitalism for you. She was perfect, in an Ice Queen sorta way. Sense of humour excised in favour of a twist of the lips that was supposed to be a smile.

The suited and booted guy from ... um, some admin function, was so bland I had trouble remembering his face, let alone his name. These two started with the initial questions, such as, "Where do you see yourself in five years' time?" I smiled and trotted out my plausible response, as I did for "What do you consider your strengths?" et al.

Nah, the only true adversary in the room was the bearded wannabe surfer dude. I couldn't see his feet, but I'd have laid odds that he was wearing sandals.

Surfer Dude was a bit snobby about Windows and little by little revealed himself to be a worshipper at the altar of Unix. In layman's terms this is a bit like a racing car mechanic who's forced to work on mundane Renaults and Toyotas to make ends meet. He lobbed in a few questions about DOS and Windows NT, but you could tell his heart wasn't really in it. This therefore was the point of the job advert. He didn't want to lower himself to helping real people navigate their devices. Fortunately, I had exactly the kind of experience they were looking for.

I ignored Miss Sharp and Mr Faceless after that, instead trying to spark a bit of camaraderie with Surfer Dude. After all, if I got the job, I'd probably be working with him.

***

Ninety minutes later they told me I'd be informed of their decision by the end of the week. I thought the interview had gone tolerably well and therefore I deserved a self-congratulatory pint in the Bridge Hotel bar. I stuffed my tie into my jacket pocket, rolled up my shirt sleeves, swung my jacket over my shoulder and set off towards the river in the available shade on the southern side of Churchill Street.

The hotel maintained the wonderfully old-fashioned but very civilised custom of retaining the morning papers for its patrons to peruse, so I grabbed the Grauniad* from the table on the way in. My favourite place was in the bay window that stuck out over the river leading to the bridge that lent the hotel its name. I watched the sunlight glance off the water as it eeled lazily past, dotted with river craft ranging from dinghies to tourist pleasure craft to the professional users of the waterway.

*Famous for its typos

Dropping into the bay seat, I slapped the newspaper and my folder with my interview notes on the table and sighed very deeply. I did actually need the job, but it had still been a stressful business all round and I needed to de-stress.

I liked the Bridge Hotel bar. It had just a little bit more pizzazz, and a bit more shine. It was most certainly a lot cleaner than any of the city pubs nearby. Sure, they had their attractions, cozy warm and dark, thick with the fug of sweat, cigarette smoke and beer late on a Friday night. But on a weekday lunchtime they would smell stale and look shabby in the unforgiving sunlight.

Being a Tuesday lunchtime it was very quiet. Just me, the bartender, and a trio of women, probably office workers, on their break. I caught the bartender's eye, and he tapped the beer pumps one by one until I gave him the thumbs up. He then made the hand signs for 'big' or 'little' until I gave him another thumbs up and we were sweet.

I was deep into an article excoriating the government for its (lack of) industrial strategy and didn't notice the tap tap of heels as they came up to my table.

"Excuse me, I hope I'm not interrupting."

Well, she was, but when I looked up, I was prepared to forgive her. Curly dirty blonde hair to her shoulders, clear grey eyes, and a wide mouth with an ironic slant. Well, she wasn't my type for one thing. My type were tall, slim in the bust and the hips, dark haired and dark eyed, effortlessly elegant.

Let's not go there.

I smiled reflexively and the corner of her mouth inched ever so slightly higher.

"What can I do for you?" I asked.

She thought for a moment. "That's quite an offer."

I laughed and her eyes sparkled with mischief. "But for now I was wondering if you had a light?"

"That I can do," I replied, fishing in my jacket pocket for a lighter.

It was one of those new-fangled things where the gas burned hot in a narrow blue cone. It wasn't very effective as a lighter. While it looked positively Bladerunner at night, during daylight, the flame was hard to see. She squinted, trying unsuccessfully to place the end of her cigarette in the flame and I took her hand to steady it. Her eyes flicked up to study me and I was suddenly conscious of a laser-like intensity that I struggled to ignore while I brought the lighter flame to her cigarette.

She stood up straight and exhaled a plume of smoke up into the air, then looked down at me in a wonderfully artless sort of film star pose, one arm across her, the elbow of the other resting on its wrist, while the cigarette hung carelessly between two fingers of her out-turned hand.

"That's a fancy lighter," she remarked. "Would you like a cigarette?"

"No thanks, I don't smoke."

Her eyebrows rose. "Are you a gentleman then?"

"I don't think anyone would ever accuse me of that."

Then her eyebrow quirked, and she gave a gentle chuckle. "Oh, naughty!"

I waggled my head from side to side in modest agreement. As I did so I caught sight of her companions at the bar, whispering and giggling. I returned my attention to her.

"Are you chatting me up?"

"I don't know," she said, coyly. "Would you like to be chatted up?"

"Am I still being a gentleman?"

"You claimed not to be."

The whole Bogie and Bacall thing was quickening my pulse and warming me inside and I desperately wanted to keep the vibe going.

"Then being chatted up is my second favourite thing to do."

"Well now that's a shame because me and the girls have got to get back to work but if you're free this evening then we could rendezvous back here around eight."

"Let me consult my diary," I said and with barely a pause, continued, "That will be fine."

She smiled. "Catch you later, Slim," and turned to walk away, acknowledging my bark of laughter with a slight turn of her head.

I watched her sashay back to her friends. The view was, to quote Bill and Ted, most excellent. Oddly enough I found it harder to care about the government's industrial strategy.

***

I could say that I showered twice but that would be a lie as I didn't shower at all. But I thought about it in between convincing myself that it was 'just a date' and needed no special prep. Because this was going nowhere on recent form. So, you may ask, why did I polish my shoes? And refresh my cologne? Twice. And I wore my black shirt. With my great-grandfather's 18 carat gold cufflinks. I briefly considered my dad's blue and gold silk cravat before deciding that that would be too soon. I placed it back on its hanger and shook off the chill of memory.

While I was pushing a comb through my hair my thoughts drifted to the last time I had worn this outfit. The comb dragged to a halt, and I stared at my reflection. Carefully I unpacked a memory ...

Klara was indeed tall, dark eyed, and effortlessly elegant ... and impatient. Mired in my grief I hadn't really noticed.

"You can't just sit there mourning the rest of your life! You have to put it behind you and move on! Get a grip, Michael, there are things we need to do."

I sat silent and numb, her words bouncing off me. She stood ramrod straight, her hands curled into fists at her side, biting her lip as if holding back things she wanted to say. Although sometimes she did, in tightly controlled but volcanic little bursts of rage.

"Wake up, Michael! Wake up! If we're going to have a life together you need to snap out of this funk.".

Which, it had to be said, did eventually provoke me to action.

***

I was early. Not super early. But I was back in the bay window seat at seven o'clock to be sure that I had it all to myself. Was I trying too hard? Probably.

Trouble is I didn't remember too clearly what she looked like - except for her eyes when I lit her cigarette. I shook my head free of speculation, I didn't know. But I sipped my pint over the course of an hour.

Finally, she was there. I say 'finally' because she was dead on the dot of eight o'clock, and I heaved an enormous sigh of relief.

She was wearing was some sequined Art Deco halter dress in a shade between verdigris and aquamarine with a split up the side.

That was an awful lot of leg.

She scanned the room and beaded me in my lair; then walked over, dragging stares from a goodly number of patrons. Keeping my gaze north of her chin I rose to my feet as best I could in the confines of the alcove.

"Hi!"

"Evening," she responded, putting her clutch on the table and sitting down across from me.

Still slightly awkwardly bent at the waist I asked, "What would you like to drink?"

She looked up at me from under her lashes and my heart fluttered in my chest.

"What do you suggest?"

I could think of a dozen ways to answer that, some of which didn't involve drinking at all.

"Dry martini?"

"Sure."

At the bar, the barman said "Dirty?", and I blinked at him in confusion.

"A martini made with a little olive brine and served with an olive is called a 'dirty' martini," he explained patiently.

"Um, sure," I said hoping that she would find it acceptable.

As the bartender poured the chilled gin from the shaker, I looked at the near brim-full glasses with dismay. Somehow, I had to carry them across the width of the room without making a prat of myself. His eyes flicked to where my, um, guest, sat with her back to us, cigarette dangling from her fingers. He took pity on me.

"Go and sit down, I'll bring them over."

I sighed with relief. "Thank you."

Back at the alcove, she looked at me questioningly. "Drinks?"

"He's bringing them over."

She blew smoke into the air and then turned her attention back to me. "What's your name?"

"Vladimir."

What the fuck just came out of my mouth?

She arched one impeccable eyebrow and I corrected myself.

"Michael."

"What's with the Vladimir thing?"

"I was trying to stay interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Sure. At lunchtime you could have asked the barman for a light, and he'd certainly have had one. But you didn't. Instead, you crossed the floor to ask me so I'm guessing you find me interesting. Interesting enough to arrive on time."

"Well, Sandra and Laura were just going to talk work and I fancied a diversion."

"I don't think I've ever been a diversion."

"There's a first time for everything. How's it working out for you?"

Just then our drinks arrived. I toasted her. "Pretty good so far."

She smiled. Unfortunately, she took rather too large a sip of her martini. Gin can be unforgiving. I could have clumsily rounded the table like some gallant, but I stayed where I was and enjoyed the show.

"Are you alright?" I asked innocently.

"Fine!" she snapped, and glared at me as she fumbled a tissue from her clutch.

I'm often struck by how that word in a woman's mouth is precisely the reverse of its definition in my namesake's dictionary.

"Guess I'm not the diversion anymore," I observed.

She frowned and then suddenly burst into giggles, her hand over her mouth. "And I was being so cool!"

I smiled and she smiled back, a proper smile, all white teeth and dimples and sparkling eyes.

Lord, what eyes ...

"Would you like something different to drink?" I asked.

"No, no! The martini's fine, it's just been a while."

"Since what?"

She indicated her dress with the downward sweep of a hand. "You know. Making an effort."

"I thought you looked pretty good at lunchtime."

"And now?"

"You don't think I dress up like this for just anyone, do you?" I said drily.

She took a more cautious sip of her drink and looked away. "Actually, I thought you looked pretty good too."

To my utter chagrin I blushed. I brought my glass to my mouth and hoped she wouldn't notice my flaming cheeks. Too late. Her eyes flicked sideways. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly, and her eyes softened.

"I hate shouting across the table like this. Would you mind if I joined you in the alcove?"

Mind? Not trusting myself to speak I waved my glass. She pushed hers across the table and then scooted round to sit on the bench under the window. Leaning back to look out at the river, she sighed.

"Rivers are so romantic, don't you think?"

I turned and rested my arm on the sill. Upstream the setting sun gilded the bridge and the waterfront beyond. It brought out the highlights in her hair and I had to keep my hand firmly on the table because I wanted nothing more than to bury my fingers in her curls.

Her gaze returned to my face. Female telepathy is a hell of a thing. She put her hand through her hair and shook her dirty blonde waves. The light danced and I felt faint.

"Advantage Ms ...?"

"Hind," she said promptly. "Nikki Hind. 'k' and 'i' and no 'e'."

I must have looked suitably baffled as she then proceeded to spell it out letter by letter. Nikki with a K. Well, that was one thing she had in common with Klara. Pretty much the only thing.

"Ah. I'm guessing people mostly get it wrong?"

"All the time," she sighed, and my gaze was drawn to the subtle swell and movement of her bust.

"What about you?"

Dragging my focus back to her face I was momentarily at a disadvantage.

"Me?"

"What's your name?" she asked patiently.

"Oh. Collins."

Her mouth quirked. "Are you a revolutionary then?"

It was my turn to sigh. "There should be a law allowing children to sue their parents for poor name choices."

"There's always deed poll."

I leaned forward and jabbed the table for emphasis. "There's the thing. You grow up with the nicknames and the teasing and you weather all that stuff and then to discard it seems like ... like ... disloyalty."

Words crowded my lips, and I didn't utter any of them. I stared out at the bridge where an intercity train was slowly wending its way to the central station.

Her hand landed gently on mine, and I jumped. Her face was a mixture of compassion and amusement.

"Golly! I ripped the top off a scab there, didn't I?"

I shook my head. "Sorry for going off on one like that. I didn't think it still bothered me that much. Obviously, it does. Silly of me." Actually, it bothered me for entirely different reasons, but she wasn't to know that.