Sign of the Times (19 page)

“Number sixty seven,” the Chinese girl shouted.

“Right here,” Oscar exhaled gratefully.
 
As he reached the car, he was relieved to see that it was still intact.
 
He made a mental note not to go back to that particular takeaway place.

Chapter Twenty Seven

“Hi,” Oscar planted a kiss on his wife’s cheek. “How was your day?” he asked, setting his takeaway down.
 
He opened the fridge and poured himself a large glass of milk, to accompany his meal.
 

“Do you want anything
,
G?” he called through to his wife.

“Hot chocolate, please.”

“OK.”

“Here you go,” he handed Gaby her drink and sat down with his plate on his lap.
 

“I’m starving.”

“I was too.
 
I couldn’t wait.
 
I was at the gym for an hour and a half. ”

“That’s OK.
 
I told you not to wait.
 
You know how I lose track of time.”

“Yes, I know,” something about his wife’s tone wasn’t right.

“You OK?” he asked her.

“Just tired,” she replied.
 

“Do you want a massage?”

“No, I’m going to bed soon.
 
I’m going down to London, remember.
 
My flight leaves at half six, so I need to get up at half four.”

“I’m sorry, I forgot,” Oscar reached over and squeezed his wife’s leg.

“Are you back tomorrow night?”

“No. I’ll be back about eight on Thursday.”

“OK. I’ll miss you,” Oscar said automatically.

“Me too,” said Gaby as they snuggled up on the sofa.

“I’m shattered.
 
I’m going to head off to bed.”

“OK. Night,” and Oscar kissed his wife on the lips as she moved off the sofa.

Gaby in bed, Oscar switched on the TV and watched Newsnight.
 
He woke up with a groan around one thirty.
 
Damn, he’d fallen asleep on the sofa.
 
He went upstairs to join Gaby in bed for the three hours before she had to get up.
 
Tip-toeing into the bedroom, he banged his foot against the wooden bedstead.
 

“Je-e-e-sus!” Oscar cursed under his breath.
 
He slipped off his clothes and sneaked into bed.
 
But his swearing had woken Gaby.

“What time is it?”

“Half one.
 
Go back to sleep,” Oscar cosied in against her.
 
A few minutes later he was sound asleep.
 
Meanwhile Gaby tossed and turned.
 
She’d been in a deep sleep and had broken her sleep cycle.
 
Crossly, she puffed up her pillow again and tried to drift off, but it was useless.

Oscar woke at half six, patted the space beside him and then realised Gaby wasn’t there.
 
Damn, had she said goodbye and he’d been too sleepy to notice?
 
He didn’t think so.
 
He padded downstairs to put the coffee machine on.
 
On the fridge, was a post-it from Gaby, “Didn’t want to wake you. Wish you’d have the same consideration occasionally. Gaby.”

Ouch!
 
She wasn’t happy with him.
 
Gaby didn’t sleep well. You couldn’t have a job like hers without losing sleep.
 
He’d make it up to her, buy her some lilies.

The traffic was abominable. An hour later, after sitting through twenty minutes of roadworks and waiting for the police to clear an accident, Oscar arrived at the office.
 
Thank goodness for
Bluetooth,
he thought.
 
He must have fielded about twenty calls already and his day hadn’t officially begun.
 
Janine was the only one there when he arrived. It was 8.04.

“Hi Janine.”

“Morning.”

“Any coffee going?” Oscar asked hopefully
.

“Yes.
 
I just made some.
 
Here’s the mail,” Janine said, handing him a pile of letters.

“Thanks,” Oscar retreated into his office, sat down in his swivel chair and looked out the window at the bustling streets below.
 
Opening his mail, he saw there were a couple of invitations to events and some RSVPs Janine would have to answer.
 
To maintain their profile, he attended all events they were invited to.
 
Today he had a lunch with one of the newspapers.
 
For once he wasn’t paying the bill, as he was the client.
 

National had the biggest spread in the property section, by about twenty percent over their nearest competitor. It was therefore only fitting that their discount should be commensurate with the volume of business they put their way.
 
He had a meeting with a developer at ten. They wanted to discuss an agreement for the hard-to-shift houses on their various developments.
 
The credit crunch had hit the house builders particularly hard.
 
After lunch, he had another meeting.
 
Hopefully he’d be finished by five and could go to the gym.
 
If he was lucky, he could do an hour there, have a twenty minute swim and a sauna before it closed.
 
That was his grand plan, but first he had to prepare for his conference call with Max.

Oscar looked through the commercial properties they’d brought on in the last week, collated the stats and called Max.

“Hi Max. It’s Oscar. How’s tricks?”

“Great thanks. You?”

“Good.”
 
Max never really wanted to hear how you were.
 
He wasn’t interested in his staff and their personal problems, except when they spilled over into their work lives.

“So, do you have the numbers?”

Oscar rattled them off.

“Yes, well, that all sounds good, but how close are we to signing the agreement on the south side hotel?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Make it happen, Oscar.”

“I will.”

“Hi Oscar. How the hell are you?” Jim Rogers from
The Property
greeted him
.

“Good thanks.”
 
He’d known Jim for years.
 
A waitress appeared with some menus.

“I love this restaurant.
 
Small but perfectly formed.”

“I’ll agree with that.”

They ate lunch, chatting about personal stuff, not yet touching on business.
  
As the waitress brought their coffee, talk turned to the matter in hand.
 
Jim was looking for more commitment from National and was hoping Oscar could put in a good word for them with Max.
 

“To be honest, Oscar, he’s a bit of a hard man to get through to, your boss. He covers what, sixty branches, and for some reason, National in Edinburgh are doing an awful lot more business with
The Scotsman
than we’re doing over here in Glasgow.
 
Any idea why?”

Oscar didn’t know, so shrugged, saying, “I don’t know. Have you spoken to the branch managers?”

“Some of them, but I don’t have the same rapport with them that I have with you.”

“I can only imagine he’s been offered better rates, although last time they quoted me, it wasn’t worth the hassle of changing.”

“Well, can you ask around?”

“Sure.
 
Anyway, about
our
business.
 
I’m giving you a heads up that when the stats are confirmed at month end, I’ll probably be passing you more business, but, I’ll be looking for a discount.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Jim said.
 

Jim settled the bill and they walked to Oscar’s car.
 
He dropped Jim at Kelvinhall Underground.
 
That done, Oscar headed over to Cathcart for his afternoon appointment.
 
The meeting was briefer than he’d expected, as the Finance Director wasn’t available, called out of town at the last minute. Nice of them to let me know, Oscar thought, but actually it worked out better, as the second-in-command was much more accommodating.
 
Oscar was happy at having achieved so much.
 
Finished at a decent time for a change, he drove to the gym.
 

Done.
 
Five miles.
  
Oscar felt great, invigorated.
 
What a pity he couldn’t have more of a routine.
 
His visits were sporadic because of his hours.
 
He felt good about himself, alive, not mired in the drudgery of everyday life.
 
Sweat glistened on his arms.
 
He’d driven himself hard.
  
He headed for the rowing machine, stopping only to grab a little polystyrene cone, fill it with water and take several gulps.
 
Twenty minutes of rowing and his loose, grey t-shirt was soaked through. Walking back towards the free weights area, he heard a voice call out,

“Oscar!”

He turned and saw his sometime acquaintance, Matt Foley, beaming at him.
 

“Good Matt, you?”

“Yeah, can’t complain. Still working at
Endsleigh
.”

“Right,” said Oscar.

“Listen, you doing anything later?
  
A few of us are going to Quigley’s for a pint.”

Oscar debated for a second and then thought, why the hell not?
 
Gaby was in London.
 
“Yeah, sure. I’ll get you up there.
 
I’m going to do some weights, then have a quick sauna.”
 

“No probs. You want me to spot you
?”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

The two men then counted the reps the other was doing out loud.
 
When they finished
Oscar said cheerio to Matt and went into the changing rooms to don a towel.
 
He lay back on the wood, allowing the heat to relax him, taking away his after-workout aches and pains.
 
He must have drifted off, as he woke with a start when the door opened.
    
“Evening.”

“All right?” Oscar replied, being the most conversation men will make in a sauna with a guy they don’t know.
 
After a few minutes Oscar decided he’d had enough.

Chapter Twenty Eight

“Oscar!
 
Over here!” Matt waved an arm at him, then held up his empty glass, “Mine’s a Stella.”

 
“A pint of lager shandy and a Stella, please,” he asked the barmaid.

“Coming right up.”

He thanked the girl and headed to where Matt was sitting, all the while trying not to get his drinks spilled by jostling arms.

“There you go. Anyone else want one?”

“No, you’re all right,” chorused the others.

“Matt just drinks faster than an alcoholic at the top of his career,” piped up one.
 
They all laughed.

“C’mon Oscar, give us a song!” Matt slurred a few hours later.
 

“I don’t know any.”

“Aye you do.”

“No, really, I don’t.”

“What about Bryan Adams’
Summer of 69
?”

“That wasn’t Bryan Adams.”

“Aye, it was.”

“No, it wasn’t.
 
It was Bruce Springsteen.”

“No, it was Bryan Adams.”

“It disnae matter who sang it, d’you know the words?”

“No.”

“Well, what do you know?”

“I know
Born in the USA
.”

“Well, that
is
Bruce Springsteen,” so after renewed calls for Oscar to sing, he gave his rendition of the hit.
 
The others shrieked out the chorus.
  
People at other tables turned to look their way, amusement written on the faces of some, disbelief on others.

“Matt, I’m pissed,” Oscar said, trying in vain to stop himself from stumbling, as they walked along the road, trying to flag down a bus.

“Ah know, me too,” Matt said cheerily. They’d been the last to leave. There was no question of their driving.
 
Oscar probably wouldn’t even remember that his car was parked on the bridge behind the pub.
 
That would be a surprise in the morning.

“Where’s the nearest chippy?
 
I’m starving.”

“There’s one in Byres Rd,” Oscar said, “Beppe’s.”

“That’ll do.”

They criss crossed the street, from Dumbarton Road to Byres Rd and meandered along, supporting each other as they went.
 
They couldn’t stop laughing.
 

“You’d think we’d been smoking hash, wouldn’t you?”

Oscar could barely contain himself, “I know
and
I’ve got the munchies.”

“That always happens to me when I’ve been drinking.”

“Maybe eating
before drinking would be a good idea.”

“Yes, that sounds like sound advice,” Matt said, solemnly saluting Oscar and almost falling over a bin in the process.

“Who put that bin there?
 
What about a poem?
 
Ode to a bin?
 
Do you know any poetry?”

“Do I stuff!” Oscar was indignant.

“Women love it. You can’t beat a bit of Keats,” and Matt proceeded to saunter up Byres Rd, reciting Keats at full volume.
 
He then launched into Rabbie Burns’
To a Mouse
until they reached Beppe’s fish and chip bar and dissolved into a fit of the giggles again.

“Right, what you having?” Beppe’s Italian accent was quite pronounced, even after many years in Glasgow.

“Two fish suppers.”

“They’ll be another five minutes,” Beppe said, as he went to prepare them.

“We’ll jus’ sit here and admire the view,” and with that they were off again, as they looked out upon the now quiet street, empty apart from an old tramp, walking along, talking to himself.
 

“That’ll be us one day,” Matt said.

“Oh the things we aspire to,” Oscar said.

“Taxi! Stop!” Matt dramatically walked out in front of the taxi, waving his arms to make it stop, forgetting he was still holding on to his fish supper.
 
Chips and a piece of fish flew out of the paper.

“Damn, I’ve lost half my dinner.”

They got in and the taxi driver, who turned out to be Lithuanian said, “You can’t eat in here.”

“We’ll be really careful,” said Matt.

“Close it or I not take you.
 
You make me have to clean car again.”

“OK, OK” and with a scowl
,
Matt wrapped his fish ‘n’ chips up, cupping his hands round what was left of them.

The idea was to drop Oscar off and then Matt.
 
Matt lived in the city centre.
 

“Oscar.
 
I could go a drink. Have you any whisky in the house?
 
I could go a nice wee
Lagavulin
.
”
 
Oscar knew he had plenty, as they entertained occasionally.

“I’m sure there’ll be something.”

“Keep the change,” he said to the driver, as Matt fell out of the cab.

He turned on the lights, but found them too bright.
 
Turning them off and walking further into the house, he reached the living room and clapped his hands twice. The two standard lamps came on.

“Oh, I like that,” said Matt.
 
“Very classy.
 
Right, where’s the drink?”

“I’ll get it,” said Oscar
and he headed through to the dining room, where the drinks cabinet was inlaid into the coffee table. It was really neat, hidden from view and a real space saver.
 
He raised the lid and pulled out a few bottles. There was no
Lagavulin,
but there was a
Bunnahabhain.
 
He didn’t think Matt would complain.

“Oh, now you’re talking,” said Matt, taking the glass from Oscar’s
outstretched hand.
 
He’d found the remote and put on the TV.

“I love basketball. American sports are so much more exciting, don’t you think?
 
They take themselves so seriously.”

There then followed a question and answer session regarding all manner of sports ranging from darts to ice hockey, snooker to potholing.

“OK. Who won the 1999 Davis Cup?” Matt asked

“Oh, that’s easy. Australia.”

“OK,” Matt conceded, “Well, who are the only women to have ever won the Grand Slam?”

Oscar liked tennis
and
had religiously watched Wimbledon since boyhood.
 
He knew Steffi Graff had won Wimbledon in 1998 and he was sure only one other woman had won all four major tournaments in the same year, but what was her name?
 
Damn!

“Have to hurry you,” Matt said annoyingly, toying with his remaining chips.

“Damn.
 
I know this.
 
Her name was Connolly, Marjorie, Miriam, no, no, Maureen Connolly.
 
In the fifties.”

“Well done. Which year?”

“Dunno.
 
Fifty four, fifty five?”

“Nearly.
 
Fifty three.
 
So, only one woman has won it?”

“No.
 
Two.
 
Steffi Graff in ninety eight.”

“Correct,” Matt acknowledged.

Matt’s tone meant there was at least one other.
 
Oscar racked his brain, nope; no-one came to mind.
 
Sixties, nope, seventies, didn’t think so, eighties, no way, nineties definitely not, all the way up to present day, no.

“In the seventies?” he hazarded a guess.

“What year?

“I don’t know,” Oscar spat out exasperated. “But it
is
the seventies?”

“Yip.”

“Gimme a clue.”

“It’s a big clue, but the only one I can think of,” said Matt.
 
“Her surname was double barrelled.”

“Oh, oh, I know this.
 
Margaret, damn, it was early seventies.”

Matt nodded vigorously.

“Nope. It’s not coming to me.
 
Oh!
 
Court something.”

“Nearly,” Matt egged him on, “but it’s something Court, not Court something.”

Realisation dawned and Oscar jumped up, whisky spilling over the edge of his glass,
 
“Margaret Smith Court!”

“Correct!”

“OK, my turn,” Oscar started, “who won the Monaco Grand Prix in 1977?”

“Em, jeez you’re going back a bit.
 
I like Formula One, but it’s not something I’m up on.”

“Too bad.
 
Anyway, you chose the seventies for the last question, so it’s your own fault.”

“Was it us?”

“What do you mean?”

“Was it a British team that won?”

“I’m thinking driver, not team,” Oscar clarified.

“OK, was he English?”

“No, but he spoke English.”

“Well or badly?”

“Native tongue.”

“Oh, oh, that South African dude, Jamie….”

“No.”

“No, not Jamie, Jody, Jody Scheckter,” Matt announced triumphantly.

“Might’ve been,” replied Oscar.

“It was.
 
He won it the year after Niki Lauda.”

“Yes, you’re right, but did you know that Niki won it the year before that too?”

“Yup.”

They covered more sports than they were even aware they knew of.
 
Whisky glasses were filled and re-filled, until Oscar woke up, glass in hand, lying on some scatter cushions.
 
They were a tad wet, from the whisky which had sloshed out of his glass.
 
He looked at the display on the DVD player
.
It seemed to be mocking him in its brightness.
 
He didn’t feel too bright himself
.
 
As he got up, he almost fell over the prone form of Matt, who was lying arms out as if making a snow angel.
 
He was snoring his head off. The room stank of stale booze.
 
It was half past five.
 
Oscar had to go to work in under two hours.
 
What to do with Matt?

Deciding to forget about Matt temporarily, Oscar shuffled into the ensuite.
 
Turning on the power shower, he searched for a fluffy bath sheet to dry himself when he got back out, if he ever got back out.

Oscar tried to bring himself back to life.
 
Now he remembered why he didn’t do alcohol.
 
He couldn’t handle it.
 
He flew out of the shower cubicle and hurled down the toilet pan.
 
Sinking to his knees, he threw up, again and again, until nothing remained of last night’s greasy fish supper.
 
He felt like shit. Back in the shower, he tried to put his brain into work mode, but it wouldn’t go.
 
It was melted.
 
His tongue felt like pond algae.
 
He wanted to brush his teeth, but felt so nauseous; he honestly thought he’d throw up again.
 
After about half an hour, he decided he had to get out of the shower.
 
He stumbled around the bedroom, really having to concentrate to remember what he was doing.
 
Why was he in his sock drawer?
 
He already had socks on.
 
Oh, he meant to go into the wardrobe to look for a tie.
 
He put back the t-shirt that he had pulled out.

It was a good while before he felt presentable.
 
On the way back to the lounge, he fell over one of Matt’s shoes.
 
How on earth did it get into the hall?
 
Then he remembered they had been bowling with shoes and empty beer cans.
 
They only had eight pins though, as they had mainly drunk whisky, but that didn’t ruin their enjoyment.
 
He looked around the detritus in the living room and at Matt, who hadn’t moved a muscle.
 
He left him a note and a spare key, saying “Matt, pls put through letter box when you leave.
 
I’ve got to get to work.
 
Feel free to have a shower and some brekky.
 
Good catching up. Oscar.”

With any luck the walk to the pub would wake him up.