The Collected Short Stories (70 page)

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Authors: Jeffrey Archer

BOOK: The Collected Short Stories
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And then she leaned across and began kissing me once again, first on the lips, then the neck and chest, and as she slowly continued down my body I thought I would explode. The last thing I remember was turning off the light by my bed as the clock on the hall table chimed one.
When I woke the following morning, the first rays of sunlight were already shining through the lace curtains, and the glorious memory of the night before was instantly revived. I turned lazily to take her in my arms, but she was no longer there.
“Anna?” I cried out, sitting bolt upright. There was no reply. I flicked on the light by the side of the bed, and glanced
across at the bedside clock. It was 7:29. I was about to jump out of bed and go in search of her when I noticed a scribbled note wedged under a corner of the clock.
I picked it up, read it slowly, and smiled.
“So will I,” I said, and lay back on the pillow, thinking about what I should do next. I decided to send her a dozen roses later that morning, eleven white and one red. Then I would have a red one delivered to her on the hour, every hour, until I saw her again.
After I had showered and dressed, I roamed aimlessly around the house. I wondered how quickly I could persuade Anna to move in, and what changes she would want to make. Heaven knows, I thought as I walked through to the kitchen, clutching her note, the place could do with a woman's touch.
As I ate breakfast I looked up her number in the telephone directory, instead of reading the morning paper. There it was, just as she had said. Dr. Townsend, listing a surgery number in Parsons Green Lane where she could be contacted between nine and six. There was a second number, but deep black lettering requested that it should only be used in case of emergencies.
Although I considered my state of health to be an emergency, I dialled the first number, and waited impatiently. All I wanted to say was, “Good morning, darling. I got your note, and can we make last night the first of many?”
A matronly voice answered the phone. “Dr. Townsend's office.”
“Dr. Townsend, please,” I said.
“Which one?” she asked. “There are three Dr. Townsends in the practice—Dr. Jonathan, Dr. Anna and Dr. Elizabeth.”
“Dr. Anna,” I replied.
“Oh, Mrs. Townsend,” she said. “I'm sorry, but she's not available at the moment. She's just taken the children off to school, and after that she has to go to the airport to pick up her husband, Dr. Jonathan, who's returning this morning from a medical conference in Minneapolis. I'm not expecting her back for at least a couple of hours. Would you like to leave a message?”
There was a long silence before the matronly voice asked, “Are you still there?” I placed the receiver back on the hook without replying, and looked sadly down at the handwritten note by the side of the phone.
Dear Michael,
I will remember tonight for the rest of my life.
Thank you.
Anna
“Thank you, Michael. I'd like that.”
I smiled, unable to mask my delight.
“Hi, Anna. I thought I might have missed you.”
I turned and stared at a tall man with a mop of fair hair, who seemed unaffected by the steady flow of people trying to pass him on either side.
Anna gave him a smile that I hadn't seen until that moment.
“Hello, darling,” she said. “This is Michael Whitaker. You're lucky—he bought your ticket, and if you hadn't turned up I was just about to accept his kind invitation to dinner. Michael, this is my husband, Jonathan—the one who was held up at the hospital. As you can see, he's now escaped.”
I couldn't think of a suitable reply.
Jonathan shook me warmly by the hand. “Thank you for keeping my wife company,” he said. “Won't you join us for dinner?”
“That's very kind of you,” I replied, “but I've just remembered that I'm meant to be somewhere else right now. I'd better run.”
“That's a pity,” said Anna. “I was rather looking forward to finding out all about the restaurant business. Perhaps we'll meet again sometime, whenever my husband next leaves me in the lurch. Goodbye, Michael.”
“Goodbye, Anna.”
I watched them climb into the back of a taxi together, and wished Jonathan would drop dead in front of me. He didn't, so I began to retrace my steps back to the spot where I had abandoned my car. “You're a lucky man, Jonathan Townsend,” was the only observation I made. But no one was listening.
The next word that came to my lips was “Damn!” I repeated it several times, as there was a distressingly large space where I was certain I'd left my car.
I walked up and down the street in case I'd forgotten where I'd parked it, cursed again, then marched off in search of a phone box, unsure if my car had been stolen or towed away. There was a pay phone just around the corner in Kingsway. I picked up the receiver and jabbed three nines into it.
“Which service do you require? Fire, Police, or Ambulance?” a voice asked.
“Police,” I said, and was immediately put through to another voice.
“Charing Cross Police Station. What is the nature of your inquiry?”
“I think my car has been stolen.”
“Can you tell me the make, color and registration number please, sir?”
“It's a red Ford Fiesta, registration H107 SHV”
There was a long pause, during which I could hear other voices talking in the background.
“No, it hasn't been stolen, sir,” said the officer when he came back on the line. “The car was illegally parked on a double yellow line. It's been removed and taken to the Vauxhall Bridge Pound.”
“Can I pick it up now?” I asked sulkily.
“Certainly, sir. How will you be getting there?”
“I'll take a taxi.”
“Then just ask the driver for the Vauxhall Bridge Pound. Once you get there, you'll need some form of identification, and a check for one hundred and five pounds with a banker's card—that is if you don't have the full amount in cash.”
“One hundred and five pounds?” I repeated in disbelief.
“Mat's correct, sir.”
I slammed the phone down just as it started to rain. I scurried back to the corner of the Aldwych in search of a taxi, only to find that they were all being commandeered by the hordes of people still hanging around outside the theater.
I put my collar up and nipped across the road, dodging between the slow-moving traffic. Once I had reached the far side, I continued running until I found an overhanging ledge broad enough to shield me from the blustery rain.
I shivered, and sneezed several times before an empty cab eventually came to my rescue.
“Vauxhall Bridge Pound,” I told the driver as I jumped in.
“Bad luck, mate,” said the cabbie. “You're my second this evening.”
I frowned.
As the taxi maneuvered its way slowly through the rain-swept post-theater traffic and across Waterloo Bridge, the driver began chattering away. I just about managed monosyllabic replies to his opinions on the weather, John Major, the England cricket team and foreign tourists. With each new topic, his forecast became ever more gloomy.
When we reached the car pound I passed him a ten-pound note and waited in the rain for my change. Then I dashed off in the direction of a little Portakabin, where I was faced by my second line that evening. This one was considerably longer than the first, and I knew that when I eventually reached the front of it and paid for my ticket, I wouldn't be rewarded with any memorable entertainment. When my turn finally came, a burly policeman pointed to a form taped to the counter.
I followed its instructions to the letter, first producing my driver's license, then writing out a check for £105, payable to the Metropolitan Police. I handed them both over, with my check card, to the policeman, who towered over me. The man's sheer bulk was the only reason I didn't suggest that perhaps he ought to have more important things to do with his time, like catching drug dealers. Or even car thieves.
“Your vehicle is in the far corner,” said the officer, pointing into the distance, over row upon row of cars.
“Of course it is,” I replied. I stepped out of the Portakabin and back into the rain, dodging puddles as I ran between the lines of cars. I didn't stop until I reached the farthest corner of the pound. It still took me several more minutes to locate my red Ford Fiesta—one disadvantage, I thought, of owning the most popular car in Britain.
I unlocked the door, squelched down onto the front seat, and sneezed again. I turned the key in the ignition, but the engine barely turned over, letting out only the occasional splutter before giving up altogether. Then I remembered I hadn't switched the sidelights off when I made my unscheduled dash for the theater. I uttered a string of expletives that only partly expressed my true feelings.
I watched as another figure came running across the pound toward a Range Rover parked in the row in front of me. I quickly wound down my window, but he had driven off before I could shout the magic words “jump cables.” I got out and retrieved my jumper cables from the trunk, walked to the front of the car, raised the hood, and attached the cables to the battery. I began to shiver once again as I settled down for another wait.
I couldn't get Anna out of my mind, but accepted that the only thing I'd succeeded in picking up that evening was the flu.
In the following forty rain-drenched minutes, three people passed by before a young black man asked, “So what's the trouble, man?” Once I had explained my problem he maneuvered his old van alongside my car, then raised his bonnet and attached the jump leads to his battery. When he switched on his ignition, my engine began to turn over.
“Thanks,” I shouted, rather inadequately, once I'd revved the engine several times.
“My pleasure, man,” he replied, and disappeared into the night.
As I drove out of the car pound I switched on my radio, to
hear Big Ben striking twelve. It reminded me that I hadn't turned up for work that night. The first thing I needed to do, if I wanted to keep my job, was to come up with a good excuse. I sneezed again, and decided on the flu. Although they'd probably taken the last orders by now, Gerald wouldn't have closed the kitchens yet.
I peered through the rain, searching the sidewalks for a pay phone, and eventually spotted a row of three outside a post office. I stopped the car and jumped out, but a cursory inspection revealed that they'd all been vandalized. I climbed back into the car and continued my search. After dashing in and out of the rain several times, I finally spotted a single phone box on the corner of Warwick Way that looked as if it might just be in working order.
I dialed the restaurant, and waited a long time for someone to answer.
“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 ax.”
“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 theater.”
“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 theater 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 toward 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 center 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?”
“081 290 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 memorized 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.

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