'What's that thing?' She was looking at the Urbis museum as it reared straight up out of the concrete like some submarine surfacing in a future ocean.
'Don't know.' He lit a cigarette. 'Some art gallery, probably.'
Choosing a table where they could watch — and be seen by — everyone passing, he handed a menu to the old lady. She examined the list, mouthing the names of unfamiliar dishes: bruschetta, pappardelle, antipasto, arancini.
When a waitress appeared Sly raised a hand, then watched her closely as she approached their table. He was keen for her to notice that he was taking his grandma out, wanting her to think he was a
decent guy. Caring. Perhaps attractive. 'Coffee, Gran?'
'Yes please.'
The waitress looked down at her. 'Espresso, latte, cappuccino, mocha?'
'Just normal, dear. And a glass of water please.'
'Sparkling or still?'
'Whatever comes out of your taps, thank you.'
The waitress gave a tight smile and looked at Sly.
'Tea with two sugars, cheers.'
'And to eat?'
'Gran?'
'Oh, I don't know. You choose for me.' She shifted the shiny aluminium seat so the sun didn't shine in her eyes.
Knowing he wouldn't be able to say the names of the foreign dishes properly, Sly ordered two smoked salmons with scrambled eggs, then sat back to look at the Sunday shoppers milling past.
'One of your friends rang when I was round at your mum's the other day,' said his gran. 'I don't like it when they call you Sly. Why do they do it? Your name is Ashley.'
Believing it referred to his cleverness when it came to blagging things, he smiled as he stubbed out his cigarette. 'It's just a nickname. Like you get at school.'
'Yes, but it isn't even part of your name, is it? Sly. It makes you sound all shifty. Anyway, your mum gave him your new number. Told him you'd moved into a flat of your own.'
'Thanks.'
'So how's your job?'
It didn't exist, but Sly had his lie ready prepared. 'It's going great. I got this as part of a bonus.' He ran a hand along the sleeve of his Dolce and Gabbana jacket. 'My boss said I'm one of the best performers he's ever had.'
She smiled back. 'And are you courting?'
He almost laughed at her old-fashioned language. 'You mean seeing anyone?' Again he lied. 'There are a couple of girls I'm friendly with. But nothing too serious.'
'A couple,' she tutted. 'What's wrong with one? It would give you a chance of getting to know her properly. All this flitting between people.' Sly picked a bit of tobacco off his slightly protruding upper teeth. 'Plenty of time for that later, Gran.'
She did her best to eat the food when it arrived. But she found the eggs too runny and the fish seemed almost raw. Plus the bread was too crusty for her liking.
Finally Sly asked, 'Do you want to get going?' He noticed how she was leaning to one side, trying to keep out of the sun's creeping rays.
'Yes please,' she said without hesitation.
Seeing the waitress standing nearby, he said loudly, 'Let's go to Marks amp; Spencer. I'll get you a new coat.'
'Why? Is there something wrong with this one?' she demanded, looking down at her beige raincoat, lapels and pocket flaps straight out of the Seventies.
'No, it's just you've had it for years.'
She leaned forward. 'Then why change it if there's nothing wrong with it? You lot today, you buy something and throw it out after a few weeks.'
'OK,you win,' he said, holding up his hands. 'Shall we go to the cafe at your local Co-op? A nice bit of cake and a brew?'
'Lovely!'
He beckoned to the waitress and flipped out a large wad of notes. Peeling off the top one he said casually, 'Keep the change.' He searched her face for any sign that his nonchalant use of money impressed her. But all he got was a bright and emotionless thank you.
Chapter 16
July 2002
'Morning Sarah,' said Tom, trying to put a bounce in his step as he crossed reception, sunglasses on.
'Good morning, Tom. Popular as ever,' she said, holding up the pile of letters and phone messages.
Tom took it with a forced smile, went through to Ian's office, dropped them on the table and retreated straight to the single toilet on the ground floor. He locked the door behind him, then took the sunglasses off. Staring grimly at his ravaged face in the mirror, he reached into his pocket for the eye drops he'd just bought. He tipped his head back and, pulling his eyelids down, administered a drip of liquid into each. It was cold and tingled, making him blink rapidly. But the liquid closed up the spider's web of tiny veins, making his eyes look whiter and less hungover.
Next he took out the tube of concealer he'd taken from Charlotte's enormous make-up bag and applied a smear to the dark smudges of skin below each eye. Checking the mirror again, he saw that he looked a whole lot better — not like someone who had been to bed the wrong side of midnight for weeks on end.
Lastly he took the little bag of powder from his suit jacket. Holding it up, he noted that there was barely enough left to fill up its bottom corner and thought it was lucky he'd got the fresh bag from Brain. The moistened tip of his forefinger poked inside. He took a deep breath and dipped his finger in again: the drug seemed to be having less of an effect. Perhaps it lost its potency after a little while.
Ready to face the day, he went back through to Ian's office and started trying to prioritize his tasks for that morning. But the sheer number of things to do prevented him from starting anything. Half the letters were marked 'urgent' and the phone on his desk was already flashing with unanswered messages. Rubbing a hand over his chin, he turned on the computer and went to his Cornwall link.
Just a few days more to go, he told himself. The thought gave him enough strength to answer his ringing phone. 'Tom, hi. It's Sarah. There's a van here. A delivery of X-treme chewing gum, display cart and leaflets. Shall I get one of the boys in the studio to take it all upstairs?'
Tom knew that he couldn't afford to have the items hanging around in the office for long. He would have to get rid of it all. 'No, don't worry about it. It's going straight back out. I'll help him take it through to the store room at the back.'
He took his jacket off and walked through to reception. A man wearing green trousers, white polo shirt and a green baseball cap was placing several more boxes on to the stack piling up in front of Sarah's desk. Each one was labelled 'X-treme. Contents — 36 packets.'
'Cheers, mate. Could you give me a hand humping it through to the back?' asked Tom.
'Sorry pal,' he replied without a hint of apology in his voice. 'I'm a van driver, not a labourer. I just deliver the stuff to your premises.'
There wasn't time to argue. Tom crouched down and picked up the outermost column of boxes. By the time he got back to reception Creepy George was standing there. 'Sarah said you needed a hand.'
'Yeah, thanks,' said Tom, masking his irritation that someone else now knew about the delivery.
'Right,' announced the driver, carrying in some large cardboard tubes. 'The promotional panels for the cart are in these. They fit on to your standard Cooper's Barrow.'
'Right. We've got a couple out back, 'Tom replied.
'And these,' the driver tapped two boxes that were slightly smaller than the rest,' are your competition entry forms.'
Tom signed for everything and, with George's help, began ferrying them through to the back storage room.
Later that night, once everyone else had left, George went back to the storage room. He had a whole pile of merchandise samples he'd skimmed from previous deliveries hidden in his bedroom. After picking up a box of chewing gum from the top of the pile, he examined it, in two minds whether to steal it or not. Citrus flavour with energy-giving guarana. It sounded a bit weird to him.