road.’
‘I think we can do better than that. Trader Vic’s sound good?’
The famous bar at the Hilton Hotel in the centre of London was a more exciting choice than Sal had anticipated from Stuart. She had never been there but she knew its reputation: it was an impersonal rendezvous, convenient, and particularly appealing to transient Middle Easterners who would abandon their abstinence from alcohol in favour of a substantial supply of bourbon and the company of compliant women towards the latter end of the evening. It would certainly be more interesting than the Builder’s Arms.
The car travelled quickly through the empty Sunday streets, and Stuart chatted away. ‘I’m not normally in London at this time. I’m usually with Jenny and the kids in Walberswick. They spend August there with her mum and I generally jump on the last train on Saturday. But I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow so it didn’t seem worth it. Anyway, it means I get to do something like this.’
‘Doesn’t Jenny mind being stuck out there without you?’ Sal couldn’t think of anything worse than a bucket and spade holiday with children and her mother.
‘She’s happy as Larry.’ Stuart shrugged, as if it were nothing to do with him. ‘Bloody hot, isn’t it? I went to see
Heat and Dust
this afternoon, just to be somewhere cool. It might have been better to see
Ice Station Zebra
. That Greta Scacchi, she’s gorgeous. Come to think of it, she looks a bit like you.’
‘Oh, thanks. That’s very flattering, but you must be blind – she’s blonde, for a start.’
‘No.’ Stuart turned to look at her, smiling. ‘There’s something about the mouth.’
Sal lit a cigarette, winding down the car window to throw out the dead match, and to allow her to turn her face away from him. She supposed he was on autopilot – he probably flirted with all the young female journalists.
By ten o’clock there was a pile of coloured paper cocktail umbrellas on the round table. Sal had surprised herself by her interest in Stuart’s conversation. In his late thirties, he was a passionate newspaperman, concerned about the direction his industry was taking, the likely confrontation with the unions.
‘It’s all changing now. It’s going to be a bloodbath. With Murdoch in the frame – you don’t know what he’s capable of. I’ve not got much time for the NUJ, but you know us scribblers are thought of as dispensable if we don’t fight our own front. Now it’s the printers who are manning the front line.’
Like many journalists, he was enthralled by the sound of his own anecdotes, and as the evening went on told them with practised, theatrical gusto, accessorized with endless Silk Cuts. Sal’s initial lack of enthusiasm for her date had been replaced by something approaching admiration, and she was flattered to be thought of as a worthy recipient of his indiscreet gossip about what went on in the office.
The bar’s famous Mai Tais, which had kicked off the evening, had been replaced by Tequila Sunrises for her and weighty glasses of bourbon on the rocks for him. He asked about her family as she stirred in the grenadine, turning the orange drink crimson.
‘I’ve got a brother, Jonathan. He’s ten years older. My mum and dad are ancient and I think I was a bit of an accident,’ Sal replied. ‘I love them, but I don’t see them that much now. I should go home more often, I know. Dad teaches, and my mum does research. They’re not that pleased that I’ve gone into journalism. They would have preferred me to be like my brother. He’s a solicitor. At least they got one of us where they wanted.’
‘Ah, well, there’s a lot that have that opinion of journalism, you’ll discover. We of the fourth estate have our detractors.’
‘I suppose so.’ Sal was flattered again at being included in the journalistic tribe. ‘Well, at home, they only take the
Observer
on weekends, though Mum will buy the
Herald
if I’ve told her I’ve got
‘I think we can do better than that. Trader Vic’s sound good?’
The famous bar at the Hilton Hotel in the centre of London was a more exciting choice than Sal had anticipated from Stuart. She had never been there but she knew its reputation: it was an impersonal rendezvous, convenient, and particularly appealing to transient Middle Easterners who would abandon their abstinence from alcohol in favour of a substantial supply of bourbon and the company of compliant women towards the latter end of the evening. It would certainly be more interesting than the Builder’s Arms.
The car travelled quickly through the empty Sunday streets, and Stuart chatted away. ‘I’m not normally in London at this time. I’m usually with Jenny and the kids in Walberswick. They spend August there with her mum and I generally jump on the last train on Saturday. But I’ve got an early meeting tomorrow so it didn’t seem worth it. Anyway, it means I get to do something like this.’
‘Doesn’t Jenny mind being stuck out there without you?’ Sal couldn’t think of anything worse than a bucket and spade holiday with children and her mother.
‘She’s happy as Larry.’ Stuart shrugged, as if it were nothing to do with him. ‘Bloody hot, isn’t it? I went to see
Heat and Dust
this afternoon, just to be somewhere cool. It might have been better to see
Ice Station Zebra
. That Greta Scacchi, she’s gorgeous. Come to think of it, she looks a bit like you.’
‘Oh, thanks. That’s very flattering, but you must be blind – she’s blonde, for a start.’
‘No.’ Stuart turned to look at her, smiling. ‘There’s something about the mouth.’
Sal lit a cigarette, winding down the car window to throw out the dead match, and to allow her to turn her face away from him. She supposed he was on autopilot – he probably flirted with all the young female journalists.
By ten o’clock there was a pile of coloured paper cocktail umbrellas on the round table. Sal had surprised herself by her interest in Stuart’s conversation. In his late thirties, he was a passionate newspaperman, concerned about the direction his industry was taking, the likely confrontation with the unions.
‘It’s all changing now. It’s going to be a bloodbath. With Murdoch in the frame – you don’t know what he’s capable of. I’ve not got much time for the NUJ, but you know us scribblers are thought of as dispensable if we don’t fight our own front. Now it’s the printers who are manning the front line.’
Like many journalists, he was enthralled by the sound of his own anecdotes, and as the evening went on told them with practised, theatrical gusto, accessorized with endless Silk Cuts. Sal’s initial lack of enthusiasm for her date had been replaced by something approaching admiration, and she was flattered to be thought of as a worthy recipient of his indiscreet gossip about what went on in the office.
The bar’s famous Mai Tais, which had kicked off the evening, had been replaced by Tequila Sunrises for her and weighty glasses of bourbon on the rocks for him. He asked about her family as she stirred in the grenadine, turning the orange drink crimson.
‘I’ve got a brother, Jonathan. He’s ten years older. My mum and dad are ancient and I think I was a bit of an accident,’ Sal replied. ‘I love them, but I don’t see them that much now. I should go home more often, I know. Dad teaches, and my mum does research. They’re not that pleased that I’ve gone into journalism. They would have preferred me to be like my brother. He’s a solicitor. At least they got one of us where they wanted.’
‘Ah, well, there’s a lot that have that opinion of journalism, you’ll discover. We of the fourth estate have our detractors.’
‘I suppose so.’ Sal was flattered again at being included in the journalistic tribe. ‘Well, at home, they only take the
Observer
on weekends, though Mum will buy the
Herald
if I’ve told her I’ve got
Similar Books
