“Hmm, you’re right.” Tristan concurred pensively, “How we like to fool ourselves when someone else is paying!”
“Oh please. These gentlemen know how the land lies, believe me. But they repress the knowledge so they can keep a clear conscience. And we make it easy for them; after all, the individual items of the evening’s expenses never appear in the invoice issued by the bank. All you find there is the consultancy fee. – Who’s escorting the gentlemen this time?” asked Marcus.
“George and me,” replied Tristan.
“It’s good that George is going with you,” said Marcus as he chewed. “No one could be better suited. You’ll never succeed in business if you take ethics too seriously. I went with them once and it had a disastrous effect on our business. We’ve never been given such a small order. One man’s pangs of conscience blight the general mood straight away. It’s as though there’s a pact in which everyone lets themselves go completely, with no limits. Anyone with limits is a spoilsport and ruins everything.”
“What did you do?”
“I couldn’t bring myself to cheat on Amy, even though things were going quite badly for us at that time. I stayed with two girls at the bar, while the others went upstairs with their ladies. The two of them were terribly disappointed. I bought the two birds all the drinks they wanted and told them about my problems at home. They were really sympathetic and one of them gave me advice that was better than I’d had from my psychotherapist. So if you should have any problems, don’t go and see a psychotherapist – go to a whore. Only to talk, of course, otherwise you might as well put a bullet in your head straight away. Never sleep with your psychotherapist."
Marcus paused to load some sauerkraut on to his fork with his knife. Between mouthfuls, he went on: “When the others came back I was so drunk that the boss gave me a dressing-down the next morning.” Marcus gave him a rather acidic smile. “He informed me that my behaviour had been unacceptable!”
They burst out laughing and motioned the waiter to bring them another two beers. The restaurant was now filling up, as more and more Londoners came in for lunch.
“And how about you? You often go with them, don’t you? The first time was soon after we’d both started at the bank.”
“Yes, the boss asked me to accompany an older colleague, so as to add the youthful touch that you need for everyone in the group to feel young.”
Tristan picked up the glass of beer that the waiter had set down in front of him, and took a deep gulp. Marcus examined him attentively, until Tristan finally continued: “I was aware, of course, that as a young analyst I couldn’t afford to break faith with the older generation. So I first put a ludo game in my pocket and produced it when I was with the prostitute in her room. I promised her that my firm would pay her for an hour and a half of her time with all the extras, but said that instead of actually indulging in the activity we should have a game of ludo. She laughed like a little girl and ordered room service to bring the champagne and fruit that we were going to play for. Then as we played she told me about herself. She was a social science student and was doing this work to finance her studies. When we’d finished, we went downstairs. The old man studied my bill with a great show of astonishment, and the others slapped me heartily on the back. It really is a pathetic spectacle, you’re quite right, but it’s part of our job, there’s no getting away from it, and so I regularly go with them,” concluded Tristan and reached for his beer again, while Marcus quietly chuckled to himself. As he did so his face, starting from the corners of his eyes, displayed a multiplicity of tiny wrinkles, some of which went up to his light-brown eyebrows, while others ran in a small curve across the top of his cheekbones. The sight of this radiant smile from the moon-shaped open mouth was infectious, and Tristan, too, soon had a smile all over his face.
“Ludo? Good grief, Tristan, I’ll never understand you!” And at last he burst into laughter; Tristan joined in and they could be heard all over the restaurant and even in the kitchen, where the two stout German cooks started to wonder what on earth was causing all the noise.
V
Tristan cursed as the fifth taxi in a row went roaring past, sending a wave of muddy water on to the pavement. On top of this, the rain was lashing down on him. Snorting with rage, he drew the collar of his overcoat closer round him, shut his eyes tight to keep out the acid rain, and continued on his way to Goodge Street tube station. The sky over London was dull and leaden. A bird flew fast through the cold wet wind, while the rhythmic sound of his leather-soled shoes on the pavement beneath him was drowned out by the hammering of the torrential rain. Why had he insisted on stretching his legs like this instead of sharing a taxi with Marcus?
His friend had drawn the right conclusions from the sudden change in the light conditions, as the brightness had faded to a dark grey and the alley, which seemed to stretch out endlessly in front of Tristan, was beginning to flood. The water dripped down from his long hair into his neck, and he looked in disgust at the rivulets of dirty water running between the pavings. After what seemed like an eternity, he finally reached the entrance to the underground station. He stamped several times on the ground, so as to shake off the rainwater from the leather and cork of the soles of his shoes, then took his mobile out of his overcoat pocket together with the business card on which Isabella had noted down her number the day before. He wiped a wet strand of hair from his face, leaned against the cold wall and waited for her to answer.
“Hello?”
“Hello Isabella. I got caught in a shower of rain and wanted to ring you before your number was washed away.” She must have known he was smiling from the way he spoke. “I’ve just finished brunch and I’m on my way home. And I wondered if you would care to accompany me to the opera tonight.”
“To the opera?” She sounded surprised.
“Yes,” he laughed, “I’ve got a spare ticket and I’d be delighted if you would do me the honour.”
There was a silence. Tristan furrowed his brow. He looked at the light-coloured tiles lining the walls of the tube station and called to mind the delightful image of Isabella in her red dress the previous evening. He went on: “It’s ‘La Traviata’ tonight, the world’s best-known opera. Please don’t say anything ... or ... wait.” He smiled again, “Just say: I’ll come with you!”
He heard her laughing, then – at last – she said: “I’ll come with you.”
Tristan made a triumphant gesture and then, before she could change her mind, quickly said: “Fantastic! I’m so glad. Just tell me where I can pick you up. Shall we say – half past seven, okay?”
“Yes,” she replied slowly and gave him her address. Tristan closed his eyes and committed the street name to memory, before saying goodbye and quickly storing her address in his phone. As he put the mobile back in his inner pocket he was surprised at himself, for he felt his heart thumping. He shook his head, smoothed down his wet hair with both hands and set off to find his tube line. On the steps he noticed that his train had just entered the station. A man jostled him as Tristan rushed to get to the doors before they shut. A woman noticed him running and stopped the train from leaving.
“My second stroke of luck today,” he said, happily, and looked at her as he passed her and got into the train. The door shut behind him, and he saw the happy smile on the face of the woman turn first to surprise and then, as the train departed, to disappointment. The woman looked as though she wanted to say something. Then she disappeared. She wasn’t exactly pretty, thought Tristan to himself, and sat down in a vacant seat by the window.
Through the window he watched the unbroken expanse of shadowy tiled walls race past.
The two women from last week appeared to his inward eye ... Marie and Sam. They writhed naked in front of the concrete pillars of the London underground as they rhythmically flashed past. Love was always fascinating, stunning, bewitching, he thought.
But what if only the women felt it?
Involuntarily,