Recoil - Andy McNab [22]
The lad opened the door and I heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. The big wrought-iron gates had opened automatically. The radiator grille and solid gold Flying Lady on Stefan’s Rolls-Royce were nosing through.
Now I really was worried. Not only was my girl late home and I had a ring to give away, but I was going to have to spend time with this shit-head. Stefan wasn’t renowned for his small-talk at the best of times, unless it involved leveraged buyouts and P/E ratios, which wasn’t my strong suit. And whenever he spent more than five seconds with me, the look on his face said loud and clear that he wished he was anywhere else.
The highly polished Roller with darkened windows swept up to the house and the lad ran across to open the passenger door.
Out he stepped, olive-skinned and grey-haired, hands like shovels even though they’d never held one. He wasn’t fat, but definitely well-dined. His dark features betrayed his Lebanese roots, but otherwise he looked every inch the European tycoon in his navy blazer and yellow tie.
I took my chance and disappeared downstairs.
‘Yes, Mr Nick, can I help you?’
Shit – I wasn’t going to get away with slicing my own bread. Giuseppe, the butler, was waiting, arms folded. He was the big cheese round here. Well, sort of. He was five foot five on tiptoe. His soles never squeaked on any surface: he sort of glided around the place and materialized wherever he was needed.
‘Hello, mate.’ I hated this Mr Nick business. ‘I’m only after a cheese sandwich. I didn’t want to bother anyone.’
This was his domain, and I was trespassing. ‘It’s no bother, Mr Nick. It’s what we’re here for.’
‘I know, it’s just—’
‘Let me show you something, Mr Nick. Come.’
A mischievous grin spread across his face as he led me to a table loaded with groceries. With his long thin nose above a greying moustache, and large brown eyes, which crinkled up with the rest of his face when he laughed, he reminded me of a cartoon Italian papa in a TV advert for pasta sauce I’d seen over the past couple of months. He should have been playing Papa on TV for real.
‘I ordered a special delivery from Fortnum & Mason. Look.’ He rummaged in an immaculately packed and padded box and pulled out a small jar.
‘Branston Pickle!’ I slapped his shoulder. ‘You’re a great man, Giuseppe. So – has the time come for me to show you how to make a cheese sandwich my way?’ I’d asked him for the stuff every time I’d come down here. It was the highlight of my day, watching him not having a clue what I was asking for, but turning up his nose at it anyway.
I still remembered the mozzarella masterpiece the chef had run up last time, and how Giuseppe had shaken his head in disbelief as I picked out all the green stuff, then looked at me like I was talking Swahili when I asked for pickle. But that was before I overheard Stefan bawling him out yet again a couple of nights ago.
It was par for the course around here for the staff to be treated like dirt. A day or two back, Stefan was kicking off because he’d caught Giuseppe mimicking him. He took off the boss so well – the rest of the staff had almost had a heart-attack when they’d congregated below stairs to honk about him, and Giuseppe boomed at them from the hallway. I was down there myself at the time, making some toast. I’d been so sure it was Stefan that I’d thrown the toast in the bin before he accused me of thieving. This time, Stefan was going ape-shit that the thirty-year-old malt in the decanter seemed to be evaporating and he was pointing the finger. I went in, told the stupid fucker it was my fault, and said I’d be happy to replace what I’d drunk, if it was a problem. I was Giuseppe’s new best mate overnight, and