It sounded as if all was not well in the Mancini household.
'Just a friend. Coins, did you say?'
'Yes.'
'What is that, a shop or-'
'It's the cafe, off Ledbury Road.'
I was obviously stupid for not knowing. 'Thanks a-'
The phone slammed down.
Information told me that Coins was on Talbot Road, Netting Hill. I put my squeakily clean blue down jacket on, picked up my bag and jumped into a taxi to join Tom for a coffee, borrowing the cabbie's map on the way to work out exactly where he lived. The sky might be full of dark clouds, but I was still feeling good.
I didn't know Notting Hill at all, just that it had a carnival each year and that there'd been a bit of a frenzy about Julia Roberts coming to stay. During the film's hype, I'd read all this stuff in the papers about the village atmosphere and how wonderful it was to live there. I didn't see much evidence of a village, just expensive clothes stores, the sort with one pair of shoes in the window surrounded by spotlights, and a few antique shops.
We turned corners and drove past stucco-fronted houses, mostly cut up into apartments and very run-down, with chunks of plaster falling off the brickwork.
The cab stopped at an intersection and the dividing window opened.
'It's a one way, mate. I'll drop you off here if that's all right.
It's just down there on the left.'
I could see the large awning sticking out over the sidewalk, with plastic side panels keeping the elements off the brave ones who wanted to sip their cappuccinos outside.
I paid him and took a walk. Coins turned out to be double fronted, with a few empty tables outside. The large windows on each side of the door were steamed up from cooking and people. As I went in, it was obvious from the rough wooden floors and plain laminated plywood that the cafe was trying to look down to earth and no nonsense. The kitchen was open plan and the smells were very tempting, even with half a pound of bacon and eggs still weighing me down.
There was no sign of Tom, so I took a seat in the far corner. There were magazines lying around on the table tops designer pictures on the walls, and fliers for a shit load of artistic events. The menu was a sheet of legal paper in a plastic folder, offering everything from neat cholesterol to vegetarian sausages and salads. The prices certainly didn't match the decor; someone was making a down-to-earth, no-nonsense fortune.
The clientele seemed to average late twenties, early thirties, trying so hard to look individual that they all looked like clones. Everyone was in baggy cargo pants and sleeveless down vests, and must have taken ages to get their hair looking like they'd just got out of bed. Quite a few were wearing thick-framed rectangular glasses, more to be seen in than to see through.
'Hi, sweetie, what can I get you?' An American female voice floated down to me as I studied the menu.
Glancing up, I asked for a latte and toast.
'Sure, sweetie.' She turned and presented the world's second most perfect rear, covered in tight black nylon flares. As she walked away I couldn't help staring at it, and was pleased to catch others doing the same. She must bring in a lot of custom; no wonder Tom came here.
There was nothing else to do but sit and listen to other people's conversations. It seemed that everybody was either just about to get a movie on just about to be in a play, but it just hadn't quite happened yet and everybody had a fantastic script that was being read by a marvelous man who used to share an apartment with Anthony Minghella.
The only time people stopped talking was when their cell phones rang, only to talk even louder than before. 'Jambo, dude! How's it going, man?'
Rear of the Year came back. 'Here you are, sweetie.' She gave me my glass of latte, which burned my fingers as I watched her walk back to the kitchen.
I picked up a newspaper, which a girl sitting on the table next to mine handed over as she left. We smiled at each other, knowing we were both thinking the same thing about our American friend.
Looking down at the front page, I waited for my toast, and Tom.
Half an hour later the toast was finished and I was on my second latte.
Clones came and went, air-kissing as they met and being very important with each other. Then, at last, Tom entered. At least I thought he was Tom. His greasy hair was now ponytailed just past his shoulders, making him look like a member of a Los Angeles garage band. His cheeks were more hamster like than I remembered; maybe the extra pounds he'd put on had changed the contours of his face.
The clothes looked as if they'd come from the same store as everyone else's here-canvas daps, brown cargos, and a faded green sweatshirt with a T-shirt that had started off white, then gone a few rounds with something blue. He must have been freezing.
Settling his chubby ass on a tall stool along the breakfast bar facing the window, he pulled a magazine out from under his arm some kind of palm-top computer and games monthly. At least he looked the part.
A small Puerto Rican-looking woman took his order. I decided to wait until he'd finished eating, then do my, 'Hello, Tom. Well well, fancy seeing you here' bit, but my plan got cut short as he suddenly stood up and turned toward the door. Along with a very pissed-off waitress, I watched him cross the road and run up a side street, losing him in the moisture on the windows and the shadow of the awning.
He must have seen me.
I got up and paid my money to Rear of the Year, getting an extra big and friendly, 'Bye, sweetie,' when she saw the size of the tip I'd left on my saucer.
Tom had run toward home, so I headed in the direction of All Saints Road, past reggae-music stores and plumbers' shops. His address was an apartment in a yellow-painted, stucco-fronted building just off All Saints. Going by the array of bell pushes at the front door, it looked like there were eight apartments in the building, which meant each one must have been the size of a broom closet. Most houses in the street had been converted into flats and were painted black, green, or yellow, with grimy windows covered by dirty old netting, which drooped in the middle. I bet this road wasn't in the movie.
I went to press the button for his apartment number four but the wiring hanging out of the intercom was rusted and frayed. Some names were slotted into the recesses on torn pieces of paper, but half of them, like apartment four, didn't even have that.
As I rang the bell, I could hear the slight buzz of an electric current. Chances were the thing did work. I waited, stamping my feet and digging my hands into my jacket, but there was no answer. I wasn't expecting one from the intercom, but thought there might have been a shout, or a face at a window. Eventually a curtain twitched on the third floor.
I rang again. Nothing.
It was turning out to be more amusing than frustrating. Tom just wasn't cut out for this sort of thing. If you want to do a runner, you don't head straight home. E4 would have had no trouble pinning him down. I found myself smiling as I thought of him up there, hoping I'd just go away and that everything would be all right.
Looking up again at the dirty window, I made sure that whoever was watching would hear me clunking down the steps, really tearing the ass out of it so they'd know I'd given up.
Walking back the way I'd come, I hung around at the junction with All Saints, knowing that he'd leave sooner or later. It was the wrong thing to do, so he was bound to do it. He might have the skill to hack into and download whatever it was in this Finnish house, but when it came to common sense, he had trouble inserting the disk, let alone playing the game.
Loitering in the doorway of a run-down shop, I was facing a massive pop art mural that covered the whole gable end of a building. Reggae music blared from a shop as two teenagers came out and danced their way along the road, sharing a cigarette. My own breath was doing a good imitation of smoke in the cold air.
I wasn't too sure that I'd be able to see Tom if he tried to give me the slip over the back of the house, but he was on the third floor, so it would be quite difficult for him. From what I'd seen of him, even if he'd been on the first floor it would have been a bit of a challenge.
I must have looked like the local loony to the kids, grinning broadly as I thought about him trying to get himself over a six-foot wall. I wouldn't want Mancini as a wing man.
Sure enough, twenty cold boring minutes later, out he came. Still with no coat on, hands tucked under his
