So this is what it's like to be a millionaire.
A lot of doors that had previously been closed to him would now have a big ‘welcome’ sign hanging on them.
Yes, just three months into 2017 this would be his year of opportunity. Life was going to be wonderful from this point on.
He needed to phone home, to tell Norman the wonderful news. He was rich, no, they were rich. And money comes to money, right.
Peter speed dialled a number on his iPhone. He realised his mistake as the answerphone at the tiny antiques shop in London cut in. He had forgotten the five-hour time difference between New York and London. Two o'clock local time was seven in the evening back home.
He dialled a different number and heard Norman’s voice. “Hello, lover, how did it go?”
“Norman, darling, we did it. We’re rich. It sold for $5.3 million. Put the champagne on ice I’ll be home tomorrow and we can celebrate.”
“Oh Peter, that’s wonderful news. You’ve worked so hard for your success. Well done. I told you you’d do it in the end. When you get back let’s have a holiday. Where would you like to go?”
Peter’s mind was whirring. St Tropez seemed apt. Or maybe Italy?
“Yes, a couple of weeks in the sun is the least we deserve. I’ll give it some thought and we can book it when I get home.”
“I’m so proud of you Peter. Most people would have given up, but not you. This is your reward for all those years of struggle. Enjoy your success. You know I always believed in you. I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back. I love you. Bye.”
Peter’s mind was buzzing. The world looks different when you have money. He should start to make a list. Perhaps a personal trainer would be a good idea.
Sotheby’s had promised the payment would be in his bank account within fourteen days. So by the time they returned from holiday the first port of call would be a visit to the Jack Barclay car showrooms on Berkeley Square in Mayfair. A brand new Bentley Continental. Maybe a convertible would be nice. At around £170,000 it wouldn’t make too much of a dent in the bank account.
As the taxi made its way from the dingy budget hotel that had been his home for the past two days, Peter thought he deserved a treat. So he called the airline and upgraded his ticket home to first class.
Why not? He could afford it and he was worth it. Life was wonderful. No more settling for second-rate, thank you very much. From now on it would be first class all the way.
As the Boeing 747 took off from JFK International heading for London, Peter sat back in the comfortable reclining seat with his second glass of Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle and reflected on how life had been compared to how things would be.
What a lucky break he had met the stamp and postcard dealer Martin Young.
Chapter Eight
THE FIVE BELLS INCIDENT
Schoolteacher Barry Turner picked up the tray of drinks from the bar at the Five Bells pub. As he turned round to walk towards the table where his three colleagues were seated discussing the events of another day at Trentbridge High School, he caught the arm of someone standing behind him. “Sorry.” He said.
“Watch where you’re walking you prat.” The words were virtually shouted in his ear.
He apologised a second time and walked away, thinking the altercation over, but didn’t see the big dark man with the strong Irish accent put out his foot. It tripped the schoolteacher and sent him flying to the floor and the tray with the four pint glasses go crashing down with him.
“Watch yer step,” said the Irishman, laughing to the two younger men by his side.
“You stupid bastard, you did that on purpose.”
“Nothing to do with me. You tripped over your own feet.”
The man behind the bar came round, holding a dustpan and brush. He leaned down looking as if he were there only to scoop up the broken glass but he whispered from the side of his mouth to the man still on the floor, “Don’t get involved, not a man to cross, just leave quietly while you can.”
Unfortunately, his words went unheeded.
“You’re just an ignorant Irish pig.” Barry needed the last word. Schoolteachers always do.
Picking himself off the floor, he walked over to his friends. “Sorry, guys, I’ve had enough of this place. You stay if you want but I’m getting out of here.”
“Okay, Barry, we’ll stay for one more and see you in the morning back at the asylum.”
The last thing Barry Turner remembered was looking down to pick up the set of keys he had just dropped as he walked to his car. He didn’t see the iron bar that came crashing down on the back of his skull. And he didn’t feel the repeated kicks to his stomach and the three kicks to his head.
Eric Davies was gasping for a pint. It was the end of a long day where he had nearly told his boss where to shove his job, but decided better of it at the last moment. With a wife and two kids to support it would not be a wise move. His tongue could almost taste the amber nectar and he was about to step out of his car and go into the pub when he witnessed the one-sided attack. Not wishing for his day to get any worse he decided to stay sitting in the driver’s seat until the three large figures had walked to their black 4x4 vehicle. He watched them laugh at the crumpled figure they’d left behind and then drive off.
Once he was sure the three thugs were out of his eye line, he dialled 999 requesting police and ambulance. After a few seconds, he started his engine. After what he had just seen
