‘It makes you look distinguished.’
‘Ha!’ Henry made the same sort of sarcastic laugh Hughie was used to hearing his mother make after a couple of drinks. ‘Don’t try to handle me, Hughie!’
‘I’m not!’
(He was.)
‘Really, Henry, no one would ever know you were, what … fifty?’
Hughie had never been good at guessing people’s ages. Then again, he’d also never been very good at remembering that he wasn’t very good at guessing people’s ages, until, of course, it was too late.
Henry blanched and stood there, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. ‘You think I’m fifty?’
‘No … not really … did I say that?’
‘You did! You said fifty! Fifty fucking years of age!’
‘I’m teasing! Come on! Lighten up, Henry! Look at this,’ he groped around on the tea tray, ‘a shortbread finger! Mmmm! Want one?’
‘No, I do not! I can’t believe you think I’m that old! I’m shattered! Really shattered!’
‘Well, I’m fairly shit at that sort of thing anyway. So tell me, how old are you really?’
Henry stiffened. ‘Well, fifty, if you must know.’
Hughie stared at him a moment, then put his tea down. ‘OK, now this is stupid. I can handle a world where I have to walk on eggshells around women who are terminally insecure for no particular reason no matter what their age, weight, height, hair colour – you name it! But to live in a world where men are just the same, just as ridiculous?’ He stood up emphatically. ‘No, I say! Absolutely not! Where is the silent heroism of the lonely male? Where are the Clint Eastwoods, the Steve McQueens, the Robert Mitchums of this world? Where are the men whose whole grooming regime consisted of nothing more than a shit and shave? Who spat in the face of time and wore their wrinkles with pride? I ask you, would Bogart give a toss about plastic surgery? Would John Wayne worry about sunscreen? Would Sean Connery think twice about a double chin? Never! I shudder to think what sort of pale, insipid existence we have to look forward to if we enter into that singular, unfortunately female state of mind that depends wholly on the approval of others before we can ever begin to see ourselves. In short, Henry, you are acting like a girl!’
He sat down again and finished his tea.
Finally Henry spoke.
‘I’m … I’m so ashamed! My only excuse is that I’ve been in this profession far too long. It’s everything to me – my whole life! And I suppose I’ve gone a bit … a bit mad,’ he conceded.
Hughie raised an eyebrow. ‘You never had another job?’
Henry said nothing.
‘You couldn’t have lived all your life in hotels! Why don’t you have any photos? What happened to your family?’
Henry closed his eyes. ‘I have no family. You see, I’m a fraud, Hughie. A terrible old fraud. I should retire; give it all up. I’m done with this game. Finished!’
Crossing, he opened the cabinet that housed a bar.
‘Let’s have a real drink,’ he said, taking out a bottle of Scotch. He poured out two glasses, handed one to Hughie then sat down again. ‘I’ll tell you why I have no photos, no family.’ He paused, as if he were gathering the strength to go on, then smiled wryly. ‘Life is odd, young Smythe.’
‘That’s a fair assessment.’
‘It happened like this,’ Henry began. ‘When I was very new to the game, some twenty-odd years ago, I was hired to flirt with a young wife. Her husband arranged it; he was a bit of a cad, always getting caught with his pants down, and wanted to cheer her up. And in those days, it was all a bit more rough and ready. Flick didn’t prepare reports – she wasn’t even with us then. Valentine just used to give us a photo and an intercept point and you had to wing it.’ He took a slug of Scotch. ‘Well, I was a bit cocky – young, good-looking, money in my pocket. I thought I’d seen it, done it all! The intercept point was Peter Jones and there was my mark, looking at towels.’ He paused. A dreamy look filled his eyes. ‘The photo didn’t do her justice. I’m telling you, from the moment I laid eyes on her, I was smitten! And when I went to speak to her, I was completely tongue-tied. I can’t tell you what an ass I made out of myself!’ He looked across at Hughie. ‘She never bought the towels, young Smythe.’
‘What happened?’
‘I spent the entire day with her. I took her to lunch, we walked through the park. Valentine went mad. I’d missed so many appointments. I lied – told him I was ill. And the next day we met again. Only we spent it in a hotel.’
‘Henry!’
‘I know!’ He leant forward. ‘You see, I loved her! I’d never really been in love before, but I loved her.’
‘And did she love you?’
‘Yes, I think she did. But nothing came of it.’
‘Why not?’
‘I’m almost too embarrassed to tell you.’
‘Go on!’
‘I never knew her name! She wouldn’t tell me; terribly worried about getting found out. And in those days Valentine thought we didn’t need to know things like that. Better for client confidentiality. I couldn’t very well ask him without arousing his suspicions. We saw each other a few more times; the last rendezvous we spent here, in this very room. And I told her that if she ever wanted to find me, I’d be here, at the Savoy. It was a bit over the top – I was trying to impress her. But, you see, I like it here. It reminds me of the happiest hours of my life.’
‘And you’ve been waiting for her to contact you ever since?’
Henry sat back. ‘I know it seems silly. I should really be looking for some old rich widow so I can retire in peace. But I can’t help myself. A man can dream, can’t he?’
‘She’s bound to be a bit rough now,’ Hughie warned.
Henry just smiled. ‘I’m sorry I made you break up with Leticia. I’m not much of an example to you.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. It wasn’t your idea, was it?’ Hughie felt relaxed and peaceful; it was nice to share confidences with Henry. He kicked his shoes off, stretching out on the sofa. ‘You’re only human, Henry. Hey, do you mind if I kip here for the night? It’s a lot more comfortable than at my sister’s.’
‘Be my guest,’ Henry said, finishing off his Scotch.
He got him a spare pillow and a blanket.
‘She might still come,’ Hughie said.
‘She might.’
‘And you’ll be here.’
‘Yes.’ Henry paused by the door. ‘Oh, she was lovely, Smythe! Blue, sort of greenish eyes … actually, maybe they were brown … hard to remember now. They were pretty, whatever colour they were.’
Hughie rolled over onto his side. ‘So you believe in true love?’
‘Absolutely! Without a doubt. Don’t you?’
‘Utterly.’
Pause.
‘So … why do you think, I mean, if true love exists, why are we so busy?’
Jamming his hands into his pockets, Henry concentrated. ‘Well,’ he decided, ‘I think it’s that they, you know, the rest of them, don’t try hard enough.’
‘That must be it.’
‘Lazy.’