trouble is, most men aren’t talkers and he’s an extreme example.’
‘They keep it bottled up,’ Vicky added from the bottom of her heart. I knew, I just knew, she was speaking from experience.
The three of us had met for a late cuppa in our city department store. The restaurant on the first floor stays open until five-thirty and we get in there at five and sit in comfy leather armchairs at a low round table and order pots of tea. I don’t think we’re too popular with the waiters. By then they’re thinking about going home. We’re not much trouble. We don’t order cream teas, or anything. Once Anita was tempted to ask for a scone and the waiter goes, ‘Just the one scone?’ and Anita goes, ‘Lordy, yes, I’ve got a figure to think about.’ The waiter goes, ‘No cream? No jam?’ And we’re creased up laughing. But when the scone came it was so small you could have eaten it in one bite. You should have seen Anita’s face. I think they usually serve these mini-scones to the tourists in twos or threes with jam and cream. Ever since then we settle for the tea and nothing else, but we never tire of reminding Anita and asking if she wants a scone. Often we have the restaurant to ourselves. The town is dead between five and ten, when the clubs open.
Getting back to our usual topic of men and are they necessary, Anita is still on about city break man. ‘All blokes can talk about football, in my experience,’ she says. ‘They all have a theory why England will never win the World Cup again. I’ve heard it so often that I’m an expert myself. But I had the feeling city break man would have got suspicious if I’d started cold on do you favour a four four two formation.’
Vicky went, ‘He might have thought you were proposing group sex.’
‘On a Monday morning?’
‘You never know your luck.’ Then Vicky gave me a sly nudge under the table. She was quite skittish for once. ‘Maybe that’s the way we should be handling this, instead of trying to follow him home.’
‘Group sex?’
‘No, you daft ha’porth. One of us chatting him up.’
‘I’m not his type,’ Anita goes. ‘I’d get nowhere. Ishy might appeal to him.’
‘Hold on,’ I put a stop to this before it could take flight. ‘No way am I offering my hidden treasures to a perfect stranger who sounds like a weirdo. It’s your suggestion, Vicky. You’re the one with the looks. How about you making the first move?’
She turned beetroot red. ‘I couldn’t possibly. My situation is different.’
I’d forgotten about her guy Tim. Most of the time he’s best forgotten.
‘Summing up,’ she added swiftly, trying to cover her embarrassment, ‘we’re none of us willing to sacrifice ourselves for the cause.’
‘Come on, girls,’ Anita went. ‘One of you talks about sacrificing herself and the other’s on about her hidden treasures. This doesn’t have to end in bed. Surely we can charm a few truths out of a guy without lying back and thinking of England?’
Vicky turned pink again. ‘Don’t look at me.’
But that’s exactly what Anita continued to do. ‘Vicky, my petal, I don’t see what stops you being part of this. It’s only jaw-jaw and not paw-paw. We know you’re in a relationship, but your man can’t object to a bit of harmless chat.’
‘To be honest, I don’t do harmless chat.’
‘Really? Do you always end up in the sack?’
‘Per-lease.’
Anita gave a sigh like a punctured tyre. ‘I’m starting to have second thoughts about this adventure. Are we, or are we not, the three sleuths? Seems to me we’re turning out to be the three stooges. Are you two fully committed to finding the truth about city break man?’
‘It’s easy to say yes when we’re all in it together,’ Vicky goes. ‘Safety in numbers. The fun goes out of it when we think about being alone with him.’
I chipped in here with: ‘Let’s face it, Anita, you haven’t done a very good job of selling him to us.’
‘He’s not nice. That’s the whole point of finding out what grubby little game he’s playing. We know he’s a benefits cheat. What else is he up to? If we can find out where he lives, it’s a start.’
Trying to be positive, I’m like, ‘All right, let’s give it another try. Next time he’s in your shop give me a call and I’ll do my very best to get there.’
Vicky goes, ‘What did he want this morning? Did he book another city break?’
‘To Amsterdam.’
‘Then it’s got to be drugs or girls.’
‘Do you think so?’
‘He’s not going to Amsterdam to buy tulips. He can get them from Ishy’s shop.’
‘My guess is it’s boring old football,’ I threw in. ‘All these European cities have big teams. Instead of going to Chelsea or Arsenal every week he saves up some cash and goes to watch Real Madrid or some such. What’s the Dutch team called?’
‘Ajax.’
‘Are they playing this time of year?’
‘Football is all the year round, isn’t it? The back pages are always full of it.’
Anita pulled a long face. ‘Football. If that’s all it is I’m through with spying. I’m going to bake cupcakes instead.’ Then without warning she put both hands over her face and in a strangled voice announced, ‘There he is, there he is, there he is.’
‘Who?’
‘City break man. Don’t look. Stay normal. He just walked in. He mustn’t see us together.’
There’s a counter quite close to our favourite table where they have the cakes and things on display as well as wine to go with the lunches. Actually I think they call it a bar, but it’s neither one thing nor the other. I glanced across to where this guy was standing with his back to us talking to the waiter. He was in a grey top with the hood pulled down and scruffy black jeans (city break man, I mean, not the waiter). From what I’d heard, this was the downmarket look he favoured for his job centre visits.
‘Are you certain it’s him?’
‘Hundred per cent. I’m about to make my escape,’ Anita went, rising from her seat, as if the word adventure had never crossed her lips. ‘It’s over to you, Ishy.’
‘Me? I don’t have my van,’ I went.
Then my one-time ally, Vicky, really landed me in it. She stood up and went, ‘I’m coming with you, Anita, to give you some cover. This’ll work better if Ishy follows him alone.’
Those two scaredy-cats then made a beeline for the exit, slim Vicky doing a poor job of shielding the more ample Anita. Fortunately city break man was too busy ordering his coffee to notice.
I was left high and dry. The place was empty of customers apart from him and me. How ghastly, I thought, if he brings his coffee to my table and wants to get friendly.
Who was I kidding? He chose a table across the room, about as far from mine as he could get and half hidden by a palm tree in a pot. Thinking he was unseen, he pushed back his hood. I noticed that his dark hair was cut fashionably, unless the hood had caused the bit on top to spring up.
Ten minutes passed, time for me to dwell on the hole I was in and consider my options. If I wanted to stay friends with Vicky and Anita I had to make a show of following this guy home — always assuming he would go home after finishing the coffee. I wasn’t used to cloak and dagger stuff. Tagging after him on foot was a different thing to doing it from the safety of my van. What if he spotted me?
Don’t be such a wimp, I told myself. This is supposed to be an adventure.
Then he got up from the table, looked around, returned to the counter and spoke to one of the staff. She pointed to the door across the room and I knew what was going on. He wanted the gents. The loos are on the top floor next to the hairdressing salon. He made straight for the stairs. It made me think I needed to go up there as well. Autosuggestion. No way could I take the risk. I had to be watching when he came down. I’d just have to think of other things and hope his journey home was quick.
I got up from the armchair and settled our bill (my two soul sisters had left without paying) stepped over to a better vantage point and stood refreshing my lipstick. From there I’d see him come downstairs — assuming he hadn’t made his escape through a toilet window.
Cool it, Ishy, I told myself. The poor guy hasn’t the faintest idea he’s being followed.
