“I’m not sure I could do, you know, your job. Must be stressful. All that money.” He hoped his lie wasn’t too see-through. What he’d give to spend ten minutes in a room with an Arab.
She shook her head, the lump of hair coming free again. “It’s not stressful really. It’s just organising. As long as you’re organised it sails through.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “To be honest, being nice to total arseholes is the hardest part.”
The word arsehole took him by surprise. The little rich girl opposite maybe wasn’t that rich. Sure the name sounded rich, but that seemed too down to earth.
Jim curled his nose slightly. “I’ll stick to statistics. I’ve always been useless with money.”
Her eyes grew wide, and it wasn’t the approaching mushroom pasta. She shrugged her shoulders. “Money’s not everything,” she said as the waiter arrived.
Despite the lack of anything dead on his plate, Jim actually enjoyed the meal. Small portioned and intricately put together, it was what he’d always called posh twat’s food. Yet it tasted fantastic; each individual flavour seeped out. It wasn’t worth thirty-five quid, but he’d always known that.
The dinner was unrushed and chatty. Charlotte’s rate of talking had speeded and slowed throughout, the faster bits when she got excited. Jim had eventually run out of other topics and had asked about her family and past. He received a long lecture about her life growing up in Buckinghamshire, her two older sisters she didn’t see anymore and her parent’s tragic death in a car accident four years ago. There’s only so many ways to say I’m sorry, and Jim used all of them at least twice.
“This is actually nice isn’t it?” she said. “You don’t notice there isn’t meat.”
“It’s not that hard really, to not eat meat I mean.” He supposed it wasn’t anyway. He imagined you just cooked normally, but missed out the meat bit.
“So where did you grow up?” she said.
“Coventry.” He knew he’d told her that yesterday. Perhaps she hadn’t remembered everything. Maybe she wouldn’t remember the beef stew.
She smiled and nodded. There was no backing out now, so he started his carefully invented background. He hoped she’d find no holes. His real fear was that she’d have once lived next door to the fake Jim.
Luckily, and after ten minutes talking, during which time his pasta got cold, his story was watertight. She seemed to buy every word about his moderately unhappy childhood, his obsession with statistics after failure at sport and his degree at Aberdeen University. Aberdeen had been Pete’s idea. Pick the furthest university away, and chances were not many English people went there. The tale finished with his moving to Northumberland then Newport for his work with the Office of National Statistics and finally to London. He even threw a few failed relationships in on the spot to add reality. This new invented Jim had taken him over trance-like. He realised afterwards just what a good job Pete had done. Shame he’d let him down so badly.
Finishing his speech, he offered Charlotte a top-up. She accepted and he finished the bottle into his own glass. The conversation seemed exhausted. Jim went through a mental list of Charlotte’s life, looking for anything he hadn’t asked or she hadn’t volunteered. Work? Done. Growing up, school and university? Definitely done. Her failed marriage? Maybe best not to dwell. Favourite biscuits? Done, bourbons. He remembered the big deal she was brokering. That sounded interesting. He knew little about finance and the city, but he was after money and the city had lots of it.
“You’re going to think I’ve come down in the last shower,” he started, “but, I don’t really understand the money side of the city, you know.”
Her eyes lit up again as she tried to re-stick the wobbly lump of hair back to her forehead. “What part don’t you get? There’s lots of different areas.” She leaned forward.
“All of it.” He laughed. She didn’t laugh back. “Just a joke. I mean the deal you’re about to do. How do they know, the people putting money in?”
“Investors,” she interrupted.
“Yeah. How do they know they’re going to make money? Surely it’s as much a gamble as the five thirty at Monmore?” Seeing her confusion, he clarified, “It’s a greyhound track.”
Choosing Monmore had been a mistake. He was supposed to be middle-class. He should have said Ascot or Newbury. ONS workers didn’t know random greyhound tracks. Unless of course they had gambling problems.
She nodded. The hair slipped again. “There’s a limit to what I can say. As I’m sure you know, insider trading’s illegal. Obviously, we don’t do anything like that. There’s regulations and well... It’s just obvious. It stands out a mile.”
Jim nodded. She hadn’t answered his question, but she’d taken the conversation to a different, much more interesting area. The next question he wanted to ask was, can you turn a hundred quid into ten grand in a week. He thought he knew what the answer would be.
“Sometimes,” she continued, “with takeovers, the sheer amount of money invested will push up the price with people speculating, and it just becomes common knowledge. It’s almost a free-for-all.”
She was building up to something but he hadn’t a clue what.
“I mean, if people found out what companies the Emirates were thinking of buying, they could earn themselves a pretty penny.” Her voice now almost a whisper.
Jim was unable to help the smile growing on his face. “When does the deal happen?”
“About four weeks until it goes public.”
His face fell further than a bank share in a crash. In six days he’d be at the bottom of the Thames, his concrete shoes making him look like a Subbuteo-style, life-sized ornament. Another exit had slammed shut.
Aware of just how much his face had dropped, he shovelled the last piece of cold pasta in his mouth. Charlotte made a brief excuse and went to powder her nose. Jim assumed she was using the toilet rather than snorting a line of coke like many of the other diners probably were. Noticing she’d left her coat and laptop on her chair, thoughts ran through his head.
Laptop, eighty quid, coat twenty. Actually, the contents of the laptop could literally be worth millions in the right hands. Millions. No, he wasn’t going to do it. Charlotte had never hurt a fly. He couldn’t do it.
Returning, she sat down and the conversation moved from finance and deals to Friday afternoons and the lack of work they produced. Jim explained that every day was quiet in the world of National Statistics, but Friday was just a dearth of wanting to go home. Charlotte, on the other hand, had a meeting at four and a few pieces of paperwork to catch up on in the office.
They sipped their after-dinner coffee in contented half silence. They’d both declined dessert, Charlotte for her figure and Jim in case they were going fifty-fifty on the bill. Carefully and not too subtly, he engineered the conversation on a roundabout route from Friday afternoon to Saturday night.
“So, what are you doing tomorrow night?” he said.
Her eyes lit then dulled. The loose piece of hair didn’t move. She appeared to have welded it to her scalp during her toilet break. “Nothing.”
Trying to word his next sentence to sound non-corny was hard. He eventually settled on, “Really? Someone like you shouldn’t spend Saturday night alone.”
She grinned slightly, encouraging him further.
“How about we go out?” he said, “A film or show or something?” He hoped she wouldn’t pick a show; they were expensive.
She nodded her head. “Yeah. I’d like that. Yeah.”
“Okay.” He smiled. Fighting back the temptation to shout “Yes”, he instead hid his face behind his cup and sipped it.
“I’d better think about getting back.” Her heart didn’t seem in it, which increased Jim’s smile.
Jim took a look at his own watch. Two hours had flown by. Surely ONS workers weren’t allowed two hour lunches. It’d be nearer three given the travel to and from his supposed office. Whether she’d thought anything was odd, she hadn’t said.
“Can I, umm,” she caught the waiter’s attention and mouthed the words, “have the bill please?”
Jim made an attempt to go halves, but she insisted lunch was her idea, and besides, it was on expenses. He tried again to go halves, but luckily she wouldn’t hear of it. Forgetting himself for a moment, he told her Saturday night would be his treat. She reluctantly agreed and he wondered whether a burger, chips and walk by the river would be beneath her. Sighing as they got up, he followed her out of the door.
As she turned towards him on the now quiet street, an awkwardness had crept in through the back door and was holding them hostage. What happened now? Brisk yet firm handshake, peck on the cheek or a full-on kiss? Jim wished, for probably the first time in his life, he was more European. The quick double peck on each cheek was built for this situation. But, being English, he pushed forward his right hand.
She looked at it then offered her own.
“Thank you.” He took her hand and gently shook it twice.
“Thank you, too,” she replied, not releasing his flimsy grip.
“I’ll ring tomorrow, you know, so we can arrange things.”
She smiled and let go of his hand. He knew, or rather hoped, they’d be talking a lot sooner than tomorrow.
“See you.” She turned and walked away.
Walking round the corner, Jim let out the scream he’d been holding back. Getting odd looks from briefcase-carrying yuppies didn’t bother him. He’d done it. Got a second date with the most eligible person he’d ever met. Finding his bearings, he headed for the riverside. He needed to clear his head before he started work. His head was now a Charlotte-filled mess recreating every conversation, every smile and every one of his lies. Taking a few deep breaths, he leaned against the dock wall.
“Come on boy. Pull yourself together. Ten grand in six days. Ten grand in six days.”
The come down was fast. Impending death usually took the glint off an otherwise agreeable lunch. His mind now in tatters, he hoped it would concentrate him on the job ahead.
He lasted ten seconds before he thought of her again. He was taking her out tomorrow night so that would limit what he could do tomorrow afternoon. That left him needing a wedge of cash to take her out and pay for a few more nights at the hotel. At least three hundred quid. Though keeping Charlotte in the manner to which she was accustomed would probably make it nearer five hundred. Turning round, with just a hundred and fifty in his pocket, he headed for the nearest bar.
Entering, the first words he heard were, “Tarquin, did you see Jocasta look at you earlier?” He instantly knew he was both in the right place and society could only benefit from his forthcoming actions. The place was cool, both air-conditioned and fashionable. White walls were offset by some new trendy artist’s painting, while the open-plan bar area left a large standing or mingling zone in the middle. Piped jazz played through decent speakers at a respectable volume, while the occupants sipped cocktails and bottled beers. A clean, fresh smell ripped through his nose, the combination of expensive aftershave and perfume.
Jim approached the bar. After a minute waiting, he caught the barmaid’s eye and ordered a bottle of something foreign and lagerish. Robbing him of seven pounds, the barmaid removed the bottle top for no extra charge. Stood next to Jim were two bankers. He presumed they were bankers by their expensive suits, but would admit they could easily have been brokers, consultants or even just plain twats.
“Off to Monaco this weekend,” said Twat A to Twat B.
“On your own?” Twat B replied.
“No, the baggage comes with me, unfortunately.” Twat A laughed.
Jim smiled. These two would do. He wouldn’t lose any sleep tonight.
“Whereabouts in Monaco,” interrupted Jim. His false posh accent turned Monaco into Mon-archo.
Pushing his chest out, Twat A stepped aside from his buddy and looked Jim up and down. Red cheeks showed he’d been drinking heavily. Pale and tired, he looked wary of outsiders. After a few seconds, he seemed satisfied that although he didn’t recognise Jim, he must somehow know him. “Monte Carlo, of course.”
The other twat sniggered at his friend’s heroic cheek.
Jim nodded and sipped his lager-style frothy drink. He counted to three inside his head. He wanted to knock the grinning smiles off their faces, but that would come later. For now, he was his best mate. “We stay in Larvotto when we go there,” Jim said. “Obviously, we do the casinos at night.”
Being bored and in prison had benefits. “Shifty Ted”, a roulette whizz and serial gambler of other people’s money, had talked for hours about his time in Monaco after robbing a post office. It ended nastily of course. He was caught and extradited. But Ted was such a good talker and explainer that Jim had been given a virtual tour of Monaco and its pleasures. Jim had listened avidly, impressed by all the money and wealth, hoping some day he could go there and give the money a new home.
Twat A grinned then laughed. “Yacht or apartment?”
“Apartment.” Jim edged slightly to his right. His plan was to nudge Twat B from the conversation. Every sentence saw him edge further in front of him. “Cressida’s father owns it. One of the benefits, you know.” He nodded suggestively. The twat knew just what that kind of nod meant. “Shall we sit down, chaps?” He pointed to a empty table.
It turned out Twat A’s name was Raif, Twat B had a name too but Jim hadn’t bothered to listen when told it. He wasn’t important. A plan was brewing in Jim’s head, he wasn’t sure where it was going or what it involved, but Twat B played no part.
They spent half an hour drinking expensive lager and talking about Monaco, bonuses and money. It turned out Raif’s short break was a gift from his company for the best performing twat this quarter. When asked where he worked, Jim gave Charlotte’s company’s name. He regretted it instantly, but he was thinking on his toes and mistakes were bound to happen. He was sure they’d never remember. They were both well gone.
As they spoke and laughed the plan grew, mutating in his head. What should have been his first venture into wallet thievery was becoming more serious.