JOHN OWEN

The truth is I was feeling sorry for myself.

I’m used to being broke, and unemployment is more than a nodding acquaintance. I’ve been left by women I loved, and had some pretty fierce toothache in my time. But somehow, none of these things quite compares with the feeling that the world is against you.

I started to think of friends I could lean on for some help, but, as always happened when I attempted this kind of social audit, I realised that far too many of them were abroad, dead, married to people who disapproved of me, or weren’t really my friends, now that I came to think of it.

Which is why I found myself in a phone box on Piccadilly, asking for Paulie.

‘I’m afraid he’s in court at the moment,’ said a voice. ‘May I take a message?’

‘Tell him it’s Thomas Lang, and if he’s not there to buy me lunch at Simpson’s on theStrand atone o’clock sharp, his legal career is over.’

‘Legal career… over,’ recited the clerk. ‘I shall give him that message when he rings in, Mr Lang. Good morning.’ Paulie, full name Paul Lee, and I had an unusual relationship.

It was unusual in that we saw each other every couple of months, in a purely social way - pubs, dinner, theatre, opera, which Paulie loved - and yet we both freely admitted that we had not the slightest liking for each other. Not a shred. If our feelings had run as strong as hatred, then you might interpret that as some twisted expression of affection. But we didn’t hate each other. We just didn’t like each other, that’s all.

I found Paulie an ambitious, greedy prig, and he found me lazy, unreliable, and a slob. The only positive thing you could say about our ‘friendship’ was that it was mutual. We would meet, pass an hour or so in each other’s company, and then part with that all-important ‘there but for the grace of God’ sensation in precisely equal measures. And in exchange for giving me fifty quids-worth of roast beef and claret, Paulie admitted that he got exactly fifty quids-worth of superior feeling, paying for my lunch.

I had to ask to borrow a tie from themaitre d’hфtel,and he punished me for it by giving me the choice between a purple one and a purple one, but attwelve forty-five I was sitting at a table in Simpson’s, melting some of the unpleasantness of the morning in a large vodka and tonic. A lot of the other diners were American, which explained why the joints of beef were selling faster than the joints of lamb. Americans have never really caught on to the idea of eating sheep. I think they think it’s cissy.

Paulie arrived bang on one, but I knew he’d apologise for being late.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘What’s that you’ve got there? Vodka? Gimme one of those.’

The waiter coasted away, and Paulie looked round the room, stroking his tie down the front of his shirt and shooting his chin out from time to time to ease the pressure of his collar on the folds of his neck. As always, his hair was fluffy and squeaky clean. He claimed this went down well with juries, but for as long as I’d known him, love of hair had always been a weakness with Paulie. In truth he was not physically blessed, but as a consolation for his short, round, runty body, God had given him a fine head of hair which he would probably keep, in varying shades, until he was eighty.

‘Cheers Paulie,’ I said, and threw back some vodka.

‘Hiya. How’s things?’ Paulie never looked at you when he spoke. You could be standing with your back to a brick wall, he would still look over your shoulder.

‘Fine, fine,’ I said. ‘You?’

‘Got the bugger off, after all that.’ He shook his head, wonderingly. A man constantly amazed by his own abilities. ‘I didn’t know you did buggery cases, Paulie.’

He didn’t smile. Paulie only really smiled at weekends. ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘The bloke I told you about. Beat his nephew to death with a garden spade. Got him off.’

‘But you said he’d done it.’

‘He had.’

‘So how did you manage that?’

‘I lied like fuck,’ he said. ‘What are you having?’

We swapped career progress as we waited for the soup, with every one of Paulie’s triumphs boring me, and every one of my failures delighting him. He asked me if I was all right for money, although we both knew he hadn’t the slightest intention of doing anything about it if I wasn’t. And I asked him about his holidays, past and future. Paulie set a lot of store by holidays.

‘Group of us are hiring this boat in the Med. Scuba diving, windsurfing, you name it. Cordon bleu cook, everything.’

‘Sail or motor?’

‘Sail.’ He frowned for a moment, and suddenly looked twenty years older. ‘Although, come to think of it, it’s probably got a motor. But there’s a crew who do all that stuff. You getting a holiday?’

‘Hadn’t thought about it,’ I said.

‘Well, you’re always on holiday, aren’t you? Got nothing to take a holiday from.’

‘Nicely put, Paulie.’

‘Well, have you? Since the army, what have you done?’

‘Consultancy work.’

‘Consult my arse.’

‘Don’t think I could afford it, Paulie.’

‘Yeah, well. Let’s ask our catering consultant what the fuck’s happened to the soup.’

As we looked round for the waiter, I saw my followers. Two men, sitting at a table by the door, drinking mineral water and turning away as soon as I looked towards them. The older one looked as if he’d been designed by the same architect that had done Solomon, and the younger one was trying to head in that direction. They both seemed solid, and for the time being I was happy enough to have them around. After the soup arrived, and Paulie had tasted it, and judged it to be just about acceptable, I shifted my chair round the table and leaned towards him. I hadn’t actually planned on picking his brains, because, to be honest, they weren’t properly ripe yet. But I couldn’t see that I had anything to lose by it.

‘Does the name Woolf mean anything to you, Paulie?’

‘Person or company?’

‘Person,’ I said. ‘American, I think. Businessman.’

‘What’s he done? Drink-driving? I don’t do that kind of thing now. And if I do, it’s for a sack of money.’

‘As far as I know, he hasn’t done anything,’ I said. ‘Just wondered if you’d heard of him. Game Parker is the company.’

Paulie shrugged and ripped a bread roll to pieces. ‘I could find out for you. What’s it for?’

‘About a job,’ I said. ‘I turned it down, but I’m just curious.’