“Could I stay for a couple of nights, then?” I asked. “I will be gone by the weekend.”
“Stay as long as you like,” he said. “I’ll tell Jenny that she and the girls can’t stay over this weekend.”
“No,” I said quickly. “Don’t do that. I’ll find myself a more permanent place by then. Much better all around.”
“You might be right,” he said. “Are you coming in to work today?”
“Oh yes,” I said. “I think so. But maybe not until later. I want to hire the car first.”
Carl dropped me at the car-rental offices on his way into work.
“Certainly, sir,” they said. “What sort of car would you like?”
“What have you got?” I asked.
I decided on a Ford Mondeo. I wanted a fairly nondescript vehicle that wouldn’t attract attention if, for example, I went again to the members’ parking lot at Smith’s Lawn and the Guards Polo Club.
One of the car-rental company staff insisted on coming with me to my bank to make the payment arrangements before he would give me the keys of the Mondeo. It often seemed to me that the restaurant business was one of the few that allowed its customers to consume the goods before asking for any payment, or even a guarantee of payment. The old joke about washing dishes had worn a bit thin over the years, and I had never known anyone who actually did it, although I had come across many a customer who didn’t have the wherewithal to pay for his dinner after he had eaten it. What could I do? Reach down his throat and pull it out again? In truth, there wasn’t anything one could do except send him on his way, accepting his promise to return with the money in the morning. In most cases, a check quickly appeared, with profuse apologies. Only twice in the six years that I had been open had I simply not heard anything afterwards, and one of those times was because the person in question had died the day after, but, thankfully, not from eating my food. On the other occasion, two couples that I didn’t know, and who had enjoyed the full dining experience we offered, including three courses with coffee and two bottles of my best wine, had both then claimed that they thought the other couple was paying. They had given me just their assurances and their addresses, both of which turned out to be false, and I had carelessly failed to record the license plate number of their car. I bet they had thought it was funny. I hadn’t. I would recognize any one of them instantly, if they ever tried it again.
While I was at the bank, I drew out a large wad of cash and also arranged for a replacement credit card to be sent to me at the Hay Net at the earliest opportunity. Tomorrow, they said. How about this afternoon? I asked. We would try, they said, but I would have to pay for the messenger. Fine, I said, get on with it. Without my credit card, I felt as naked as I had been in the road last night.
I sat in my new wheels and took stock of my situation. I was alive, I had a change of clothes in my overnight bag, my passport in my pocket, somewhere to sleep for the next two nights, and I could always put up a bed in the office of the restaurant if I had to. But I had no watch, and my cell phone was, I was sure, totally beyond repair, having been alongside my wallet in the pocket of my blazer, which had been hanging over the back of the sofa when I went to bed last night.
I parked the car and went into the cell phone shop in the High Street. I explained to the young woman behind the counter that my house had burned down with my phone still in it and I needed a replacement, preferably with the same number as before. Now, this didn’t seem like an unreasonable request to me, but it took me more than an hour to achieve it and involved me having to raise my voice on several occasions, something I was not used to doing.
For a start, she kept asking if I had the SIM card from the phone, and I tried to explain to her that my phone, along with the damn SIM card, was no more. I told her that it had been melted away into a puddle of silicon, solder and plastic. “You shouldn’t have put the phone battery in a fire,” she said. “It’s not good for the environment.” Only a semblance of remaining decency prevented me from strangling her at this point. Finally, we neared the end of our tortuous affair. I had the phone in my hand, as yet uncharged, and I had my stack of money ready and available for payment. “Do you have any form of identification?” she asked, somewhat belatedly to my mind. I proudly flourished my passport. “That won’t do,” she said. “I need something with your address on it. Do you have a utility bill?”
I stared at her. “Have you listened to anything I have told you?”
“Yes,” she replied.
“Then how would I have a utility bill if my house has been completely burned to a crisp?” I said. “At the time, I hadn’t exactly thought that a utility bill was something I needed to save from the inferno along with my life.” My voice rose to a crescendo. But I somehow managed not to boil over completely. “Sorry,” I said more calmly. “No, I don’t have a utility bill.”
“Then I’m sorry, sir, I must have something to confirm your address.”
We were getting nowhere.
“Can you please produce a duplicate of my last month’s phone bill?” I asked her, now back to my usual calm tone.
“Certainly, sir,” she said. I gave her my cell phone number, and, unbelievably, she also wanted the first line of my address, for security reasons. I told her. A printer under the counter whirred, and she handed over a copy of my bill, complete with my full address printed in the top right-hand corner.
“There,” I said, handing it back to her. “One utility bill.”
She didn’t bat her thickly mascaraed eyelashes.
“Thank you, sir,” she said, and processed my order. Hallelujah!
“Can I leave the phone here to charge for an hour?” I asked her.
“Sorry,” she said. “You will have to do that at home.”
I sighed. Never mind, I thought, I’ll try elsewhere.
In the end, I bought an in-car charger from her and again sat in the Mondeo with my new phone connected to the cigarette lighter socket. Progress had been slow. I looked at my wrist. No watch. It had been on my bedside table. The car clock told me it was half past eleven. Half past five in the morning in Chicago. Still too early to call Caroline, even if I knew the number. I was sure she would call me when she woke. I hoped my phone would be sufficiently charged by then.
I left it charging while I went for a coffee. I sat in the window of a café with the car parked right outside. I had needed to leave the car unlocked with the keys in the ignition in order for the charger to work, so I kept a close eye on it. I didn’t fancy the prospect of having to go back to the young woman to explain that my new phone had been stolen before I had even had a chance to use it.
I next went into a luggage shop and bought myself a suitcase, which, during the following hour and a half, I proceeded to fill with new pants and socks, five new shirts, three new pairs of chinos, a navy blue blazer, two tweed jackets and a tie. Fortunately, my work clothes, the sets of specially designed Max Moreton embroidered tunics and the large-check trousers, were safe at the restaurant. I never wore them home, since they went every morning with the tablecloths to a commercial laundry. But, I thought, I would look a bit stupid wearing a chef’s tunic to the Cadogan Hall next week.
Caroline called around two o’clock and was appropriately horrified to hear my news about the cottage.
“But are you all right?” she asked for the umpteenth time.
I assured her that I was fine. I told her that I was staying with Carl for a couple of days, and I would find myself some temporary accommodation while I decided what to do long-term.
“You can come and live with me,” she said.
“I would love to,” I said, smiling. “But I need to be nearer to the restaurant, at least for a bit. I’ll think of something. It’s all a bit hectic in my mind at the moment.”