“All the others get so crowded around this time.”
Bob leant forward to bring Jennifer within the killing range of his aftershave. “Punter’s is … er … somewhat exclusive. Say, is that your new Porsche outside?”
Jennifer nodded. “Like it?”
“Not half. Got one on order myself. The new reg. of course. Electric blue, drinks tray on the back, holophonic sound system, the lot.”
“Electric blue?” Jennifer sighed wearily, took up the minuscule umbrella and bit purposefully through the shining cherry. Bob crossed his legs and winced painfully. “I like my cars as I like my men,” said Jennifer Naylor, “big and black.” Bob sank from his stool and made his way behind the counter. Here, as if by magic, he became some four inches taller. “Mind you don’t fall,” said Jennifer, who had seen the platform installed.
“Where’s Eric?”
“Picking his nose over the quiche the last time I saw him.”
“Eric!”
“Watchawant?” The voice drifted from the kitchen where the cocktail barman stood combing his dandruff into a bowl of green salad.
“There’s customers out here want serving.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Eric slouched into view adjusting his bow-tie and stroking stray flecks from his waistcoat shoulders. “Same again, dear?” he asked Jennifer.
“Same again for the lady,” said Bob, settling himself in behind the bar, “And I’ll have a Raging Stonker.” He winked lewdly towards Jennifer. He’d come up with all the suggestive names for the cocktails himself, after a holiday in Benidorm. It seemed to go down a bundle over there and Bob was at a loss to understand why the Brentford glitterati had not taken to it.
“How would you like your Raging Stonker?” Eric asked. “Shaken or stirred?”
Bob stared some daggers at the barman and smiled one of those you-can’t-get-the-staff-nowadays kinds of smiles towards Jennifer.
“Stirred,” he said from between gritted teeth. Eric went off about his business worrying at his scalp with a cocktail stirrer.
“What do you think of this?” Bob bared his left wrist towards Jennifer, exposing something that resembled a broad gold band and swiftly changing the subject.
“A bracelet, how sweet.”
“Not a bracelet,” said Bob. “It’s the very latest innovation in wrist-watches from Piaget. The dial encircles the wrist, see, and this little light inside travels round once every twenty-four hours, telling you the time. Clever, eh? Press this button-” Bob did so, “and all the digits shift, so you can tell the time anywhere in the world. Waterproof and shockproof and very exclusive.”
“Paid for by the punters, no doubt.”
“You’re not kidding.” Bob leant forward smirking. “If you knew just how eager some of them are to give their money away.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’ll never guess what one of them came in to place a bet on today.”
“Won’t I?”
Bob shook his head and guffawed. “Jim Pooley only came into my shop and bet ten pounds that the next Olympic games would be held in Brentford.” Bob collapsed in paroxysms of laughter, tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks, streaking his sun tan. “Can you imagine?” he croaked between spasms. “Can you imagine?”
“And you took the bet?”
“Oh yes, I gave him a million to one on it.”
Eric returned with a Split Beaver and a Raging Stonker.
“Did you say your watch was shockproof, Bob?” Jennifer asked.
“Why yes, I think so.” Bob dabbed a tear from his eye. “Why do you ask?”
“Let me whisper, just to be on the safe side,” said Jennifer Naylor, drawing the likely lad into the aura of her exclusive perfume.
The sun, slanting away beyond Royal Kew, laid its trail of shadows and turned the gasometer, the flatblocks, the Arts Centre and the ancient island oaks into frail theatrical props.
From the black shadow of the gasometer, a car of still deeper black emerged, as if drawn from a dark wall of water. A small
Bob leant forward to bring Jennifer within the killing range of his aftershave. “Punter’s is … er … somewhat exclusive. Say, is that your new Porsche outside?”
Jennifer nodded. “Like it?”
“Not half. Got one on order myself. The new reg. of course. Electric blue, drinks tray on the back, holophonic sound system, the lot.”
“Electric blue?” Jennifer sighed wearily, took up the minuscule umbrella and bit purposefully through the shining cherry. Bob crossed his legs and winced painfully. “I like my cars as I like my men,” said Jennifer Naylor, “big and black.” Bob sank from his stool and made his way behind the counter. Here, as if by magic, he became some four inches taller. “Mind you don’t fall,” said Jennifer, who had seen the platform installed.
“Where’s Eric?”
“Picking his nose over the quiche the last time I saw him.”
“Eric!”
“Watchawant?” The voice drifted from the kitchen where the cocktail barman stood combing his dandruff into a bowl of green salad.
“There’s customers out here want serving.”
“Chance would be a fine thing.” Eric slouched into view adjusting his bow-tie and stroking stray flecks from his waistcoat shoulders. “Same again, dear?” he asked Jennifer.
“Same again for the lady,” said Bob, settling himself in behind the bar, “And I’ll have a Raging Stonker.” He winked lewdly towards Jennifer. He’d come up with all the suggestive names for the cocktails himself, after a holiday in Benidorm. It seemed to go down a bundle over there and Bob was at a loss to understand why the Brentford glitterati had not taken to it.
“How would you like your Raging Stonker?” Eric asked. “Shaken or stirred?”
Bob stared some daggers at the barman and smiled one of those you-can’t-get-the-staff-nowadays kinds of smiles towards Jennifer.
“Stirred,” he said from between gritted teeth. Eric went off about his business worrying at his scalp with a cocktail stirrer.
“What do you think of this?” Bob bared his left wrist towards Jennifer, exposing something that resembled a broad gold band and swiftly changing the subject.
“A bracelet, how sweet.”
“Not a bracelet,” said Bob. “It’s the very latest innovation in wrist-watches from Piaget. The dial encircles the wrist, see, and this little light inside travels round once every twenty-four hours, telling you the time. Clever, eh? Press this button-” Bob did so, “and all the digits shift, so you can tell the time anywhere in the world. Waterproof and shockproof and very exclusive.”
“Paid for by the punters, no doubt.”
“You’re not kidding.” Bob leant forward smirking. “If you knew just how eager some of them are to give their money away.”
“Really?”
“Really. You’ll never guess what one of them came in to place a bet on today.”
“Won’t I?”
Bob shook his head and guffawed. “Jim Pooley only came into my shop and bet ten pounds that the next Olympic games would be held in Brentford.” Bob collapsed in paroxysms of laughter, tears filled his eyes and ran down his cheeks, streaking his sun tan. “Can you imagine?” he croaked between spasms. “Can you imagine?”
“And you took the bet?”
“Oh yes, I gave him a million to one on it.”
Eric returned with a Split Beaver and a Raging Stonker.
“Did you say your watch was shockproof, Bob?” Jennifer asked.
“Why yes, I think so.” Bob dabbed a tear from his eye. “Why do you ask?”
“Let me whisper, just to be on the safe side,” said Jennifer Naylor, drawing the likely lad into the aura of her exclusive perfume.
The sun, slanting away beyond Royal Kew, laid its trail of shadows and turned the gasometer, the flatblocks, the Arts Centre and the ancient island oaks into frail theatrical props.
From the black shadow of the gasometer, a car of still deeper black emerged, as if drawn from a dark wall of water. A small
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