“Laguna 50,” said an Italian-sounding young girl.
“Janice, is that you? It’s Mike.”
“Yes, it’s me, Mike,” she whispered, reverting to her Lambeth accent. “I’d better warn you that every time your name’s been mentioned this evening, Gerald picks up the nearest meat-axe.”
“Why?” I asked. “You’ve still got Nick in the kitchen to see you through.”
“Nick chopped the top off one of his fingers earlier this evening, and Gerald had to take him to hospital. I was left in charge. He’s not best pleased.”
“Oh, hell,” I said. “But I’ve got …”
“The sack,” said another voice, and this one wasn’t whispering.
“Gerald, I can explain …”
“Why you didn’t turn up for work this evening?”
I sneezed, then held my nose. “I’ve got the flu. If I’d come in tonight I would have given it to half the customers.”
“Would you?” said Gerald. “Well, I suppose that might have been marginally worse than giving it to the girl who was sitting next to you in the theatre.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, letting go of my nose.
“Exactly what I said, Mike. You see, unfortunately for you, a couple of our regulars were two rows behind you at the Aldwych. They enjoyed the show almost as much as you seemed to, and one of them added, for good measure, that he thought your date was ‘absolutely stunning’.”
“He must have mistaken me for someone else,” I said, trying not to sound desperate.
“He may have done, Mike, but I haven’t. You’re sacked, and don’t even think about coming in to collect your pay packet, because there isn’t one for a head waiter who’d rather take some bimbo to the theatre than do a night’s work.” The line went dead.
I hung up the phone and started muttering obscenities under my breath as I walked slowly back towards my car. I was only a dozen paces away from it when a young lad jumped into the front seat, switched on the ignition, and lurched hesitatingly into the centre of the road in what sounded horribly like third gear. I chased after the retreating car, but once the youth began to accelerate, I knew I had no hope of catching him.
I ran all the way back to the phone box, and dialled 999 once again.
“Fire, Police or Ambulance?” I was asked for a second time that night.
“Police,” I said, and a moment later I was put through to another voice.
“Belgravia Police Station. What is the nature of your enquiry?”
“I’ve just had my car stolen!” I shouted.
“Make, model and registration number please, sir.”
“It’s a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV.”
I waited impatiently.
“It hasn’t been stolen, sir. It was illegally parked on a double…”
“No it wasn’t!” I shouted even more loudly. “I paid ?105 to get the damn thing out of the Vauxhall Bridge Pound less than half an hour ago, and I’ve just seen it being driven off by a joyrider while I was making a phone call.”
“Where are you, sir?”
“In a phone box on the corner of Vauxhall Bridge Road and Warwick Way.”
“And in which direction was the car travelling when you last saw it?” asked the voice.
“North up Vauxhall Bridge Road.”
“And what is your home telephone number, sir?”
“O81 290 4820.”
“And at work?”
“Like the car, I don’t have a job any longer.”
“Right, I’ll get straight onto it, sir. We’ll be in touch with you the moment we have any news.”
I put the phone down and thought about what I should do next. I hadn’t been left with a great deal of choice. I hailed a taxi and asked to be taken to Victoria, and was relieved to find that this driver showed no desire to offer any opinions on anything during the short journey to the station. When he dropped me I passed him my last note, and patiently waited while he handed over every last penny of my change. He also muttered an expletive or two. I bought a ticket for Bromley with my few remaining coins, and went in search of the platform.
“You’ve just about made it, mate,” the ticket collector told me. “The last train’s due in at any minute.” But I still had to wait for another twenty minutes on the cold, empty platform before the last train eventually pulled into the station. By then I had memorised every advertisement in sight, from Guinness to Mates, while continuing to sneeze at regular intervals.
When the train came to a halt and the doors squelched open I took a seat in a carriage near the front. It was another ten minutes before the engine lurched into action, and another forty before it finally pulled into Bromley station.
I emerged into the Kent night a few minutes before one o’clock, and set off in the direction of my little terraced house.
Twenty-five minutes later, I staggered up the short path to my front door. I began to search for my keys, then remembered that I’d left them in the car ignition. I didn’t have the energy even to swear, and began to grovel around in the dark for the spare front-door key that was always hidden under a particular stone. But which one? At last I found it, put it in the lock, turned it and pushed the door open. No sooner had I stepped inside than the phone on the hall table began to ring.
I grabbed the receiver.
“Mr Whitaker?”
“Speaking.”
“This is the Belgravia police. We’ve located your car, sir, and…”
“Thank God for that,” I said, before the officer had a chance to finish the sentence. “Where is it?”
“At this precise moment, sir, it’s on the back of a pick-up lorry somewhere in Chelsea. It seems the lad who nicked it only managed to travel a mile or so before he hit the kerb at seventy, and bounced straight into a wall. I’m sorry to have to inform you, sir, that your car’s a total write-off.”
“A total write-off?” I said in disbelief.
“Yes, sir. The garage who towed it away has been given your number, and they’ll be in touch with you first thing in the morning.”
I couldn’t think of any comment worth making.
“The good news is we’ve caught the lad who nicked it,” continued the police officer. “The bad news is that he’s only fifteen, doesn’t have a driver’s licence, and, of course, he isn’t insured.”
“That’s not a problem,” I said. “I’m fully insured myself.”
“As a matter of interest, sir, did you leave your keys in the ignition?”
“Yes, I did. I was just making a quick phone call, and thought I’d only be away from the car for a couple of minutes.”
“Then I think it’s unlikely you’ll be covered by your insurance, sir.”
“Not covered by my insurance? What are you talking about?”
“It’s standard policy nowadays not to pay out if you leave your keys in the ignition. You’d better check, sir,” were the officer’s final words before ringing off.
I put the phone down and wondered what else could possibly go wrong. I slipped off my jacket and began to climb the stairs, but came to a sudden halt when I saw my wife waiting for me on the landing.
“Maureen …” I began.
“You can tell me later why the car is a total write-off,” she said, “but not until you’ve explained why you didn’t turn up for work this evening, and just who this ‘classy tart’ is that Gerald said you were seen with at the theatre.”
Overdone
