A Spy by Nature - Charles Cumming [51]
I spot Saul now, sloping into the party on the far side of the garden, and feel relieved. There is a look of wariness on his face, as if he were here to meet a stranger. He looks up, sees me immediately through the dense, shifting crowd, and half-smiles.
‘There he is.’
‘Your mate?’ says Ben.
‘That’s right. Saul.’
‘Saul,’ Ben repeats under his breath, getting used to the name.
The five of us turn to greet him, standing in an uneven semi-circle. Saul, nodding shyly, shakes my hand.
‘All right, man?’ he says.
‘Yeah. How was your shoot?’
‘Shampoo ad. Canary Wharf. Usual thing.’
Both of us, simultaneously, take out a cigarette.
‘These are the people I work with. Some of them, anyway’
I introduce Saul to the team. This is JT, this is Piers, this is Ben. Harry, meet an old friend of mine. Saul Ricken. There are handshakes and eye contacts, Saul’s memory lodging names while his manner does an imitation of cool.
‘So how are things?’ I ask, pivoting away from them, taking us out of range.
‘Not bad. Sorry I was late getting here. Had to go home and change.’
‘Don’t worry. It was good of you to come.’
‘I don’t get much of a chance to see you these days.’
‘No. Need a drink?’
‘Whenever someone comes round,’ he says, flatly.
Both of us scan the garden for a waiter. I light Saul’s cigarette, my hand shaking.
‘Nervous about something?’ he asks.
‘No. Should I be?’
No reply.
‘So what sort of shampoo was it?’
‘You really care?’ he says, exhaling.
‘Not really, no.’
This is how things will start out: like our last meeting in March, the first few minutes will be full of strange, awkward silences and empty remarks that go nowhere. The broken rhythm of strangers. I can only hope that after two or three drinks Saul will start to loosen up.
‘So it’s good to finally meet the guys you work with,’ he says eventually. ‘They seem OK.’
‘Yeah. Harry’s a bit of a cunt, but the rest are all right.’
Saul puffs out his lips and stares at the ground. There is a waitress about ten feet away moving gradually towards us, slim and nineteen. I try to catch her eye. A student, most probably, making her rent. She sees me, nods, and comes over.
‘Glass of champagne, gentlemen?’
We both take a glass. Clear marble skin and a neat black bob, breasts visible as no more than faint shapes beneath the thin white silk of her shirt. She has that air of undergraduate self-confidence which gradually ebbs away with age.
‘Thanks,’ says Saul, the side of his mouth curling up into a flirty smile. It is the most animated gesture he has made since he arrived. The girl moves off.
We have been talking for only ten or fifteen minutes when Cohen sidles up behind Saul with a look of intent in his eye. I take a long draw on my champagne and feel the chill and fizz on my throat.
‘So you’re Saul,’ he says, squeezing in beside him. ‘Alec’s often spoken about you.’
Not so.
‘He has?’
‘Yes.’
Cohen reaches across and touches my shoulder, acting like we’re best buddies.
‘It’s Harry, isn’t it?’ Saul asks him.
‘That’s right. Sorry to interrupt but I wanted to introduce Alec to a journalist from the Financial Times. Won’t you come with us?’
‘Fine,’ I say, and we have no choice but to go.
Peppiatt is tall, almost spindly, with psoriatic flakes of chalky skin grouped around his nose.
‘Mike Peppiatt,’ he says, extending an arm, but the grip goes dead in my hand. ‘I understand you’re the new kid on the block.’
‘Makes him sound like he’s in a fucking boy band,’ Saul says, coming immediately to my defence. I don’t need him to do that. Not tonight.
‘That’s right. I joined Abnex about nine months ago. August-September.’
‘Mike’s interested in writing