Rain smashed against the glass as I sat, admiring our London view. The city lights danced and glimmered as droplets coursed down the glass. A quick flash illuminated the room, quickly followed by the strangely comforting rumble of thunder. I cast my eyes up to the sky, taking solace from Mother Nature.
I was alone. I had no idea where Harry was, but suspected he was supping red wine in a bar not far from his Café Rouge, discussing his latest literary project with any one of his more cultured friends. I started out quite sensitive to his ideas and his enthusiasm, genuinely interested in what his mind was conjuring up. This, however, was not long lived, as he never finished anything he started.
The television was flickering away in the corner of the room with the volume turned right down. Loveday, an Oxford college contestant, leered into the camera as he answered yet another question correctly. The lack of volume spared me the indignation of not knowing the answers. I comforted myself in the knowledge that my hair was significantly less greasy than his.
My mood was dark. I was scared. I didn’t know what to do, what to think, or who to speak to. Another flash of lightening, another round of thunder.
Sarah had helped throughout the afternoon of that day, ignoring the lack of productivity coming from my end. But how long could that last? I still had a job to do and a life to lead. Besides, if I had free rein to go and find out more about whatever this situation was, where on earth would I begin? I had no idea how I would get in touch with Michael Caine, and although the presence of the girl seemed perennially close, it felt as though it would only be on her terms that contact would be made.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
Slowly, I reached over and picked it up, revealing its lit screen and the sender of the text. Sarah. Sliding my thumb across its front, I accessed her message: ‘Hello. U ok? I’m having a drink in The Paradise if ur about? Thought u could do with a pick me up’.
On the one hand, I sighed nervously because going to The Paradise meant a certain awkward encounter with the bar maid that I’d ditched, quite unceremoniously and certainly not proudly, by text. On the other hand though, I thought that Reece might let me off given the state of affairs that set this stormy evening.
I needed comfort and I needed support, and that’s what this sounded like, especially in Harry’s absence. I thumbed a quick, ‘I’ll be there in ten x’, and heaved myself out of my chair.
I picked up my worn out, hand-me-down Barbour jacket (Harry had just bought himself a new one), searched for the elusive sods that were my keys, turned everything off and exited our sharp, gold flat.
Outside, the storm was building. I paused in the doorway in order to light the essential cigarette, before starting down Chamberlayne Road, hunched forward against the wind and the rain.
Despite being outside, the darkness felt like an envelope against the prying eyes that could have been around me. A man with what must have been one of those illegal monster dogs swathed past me; a couple of kids on skateboards trundled by across the street; the Cypriot lady stood in her Chippy, arms folded and staring absently through the window. A white van accelerated past me up the hill.
It was a short walk to The Paradise. I had barely finished my fag before I arrived, and as I entered, I nervously checked the bar for the disapproving gaze. I noted Louis Theroux’s customary presence at the bar, pint of Guinness in hand, but I couldn’t see Reece so switched my attention to finding Sarah.
The Paradise was dimly lit and entertained a lot of dark corners for people to adjourn, so finding someone already in there meant a lot of peering into strangers faces before apologising quickly and moving on. First floor clear, I started up the stairs that led to a further myriad of awkward encounters. A muffled crack of thunder could be heard over the soft hum of conversation.
As I entered the main bar upstairs, my head swivelled, searching for the comfort and distraction that I had come for. Sarah had some hot mates who she was always happy to wingman me with, and the prospect of telling a joke or two to a pretty lady served as distraction enough from this burbling sea of doubt and dread.
There, in the far corner of the room, Sarah sat, nursing a condensating gin and slim. She was sitting facing me, talking easily with a brunette girl whose back was turned to me. The pair kept addressing what must be a third girl, hidden from view, behind the wings of a broad armchair. Buoyed by finding the group, I quickened my pace as I approached, ready to make a bold entrance for these lovely ladies.
Sarah spotted me and I was surprised to see her expression harden. She meant to send me the text, right?
As I came closer, instantly worried of some misunderstanding, I saw the top of the head that occupied the arm chair. I noted not the voluptuous do of a beautiful lady, but instead the short, grey curls of an elder gentleman.
I looked back to Sarah, confused, then onto the brunette sat opposite her. As she turned her head to match my stare, my disbelief was well and truly rolling. Her prettiness, her pinkiness and her winkiness shone up at me in a way that took my breath away. My eyes watered and my mind swam. My mouth gaped like a line-caught trout. The girl merely smiled a smile of nervous sweetness.
‘Hello, boy’. The East London twang danced its way around the wing of the armchair. As I turned, I saw Michael Caine leaning forward and staring at me.
The Warm Up 