Formal British Reserve Read online

  This time it was an old lady who picked up the call. She didn’t sound too sure where Les was, or even where she was, but I explained I’d be at the British Museum that afternoon, if Les were able to meet me.

  It was a slim man with a goatee beard who turned up—a gent in his fifties, fingernails rather long and beautifully manicured, his suit the best that Savile Row could offer.

  “Sandrine, how nice to see you,” he said and took my arm, leading me, as ever, to the Ming vases. It could have been the little old lady who turned up, or an imperious middle-aged woman. I once told Les he was the master of disguise, and he sniffed in disgust.

  “Don’t be silly, girl,” he said. “I can only appear as one man, myself. Hardly a master of disguise then.”

  It was true. But it was also true that in his prime, back in the seventies, Les has been the UK’s foremost cat burglar. He’d had the respect of the criminal world and the loot of the rich one. His method was simple—he dressed as a woman to enter and evaluate his targets, usually jewellery shops. Then he’d come back in traditional cat burglar gear and break in. As a demanding female shopper he could spend hours in a shop, leave and go back over a period of several days, and nobody would think anything of it. Women were difficult to please and s/he was choosing between several expensive rings or necklaces.

  I’ve never been told what went wrong, but Les ended up in prison, where he had some kind of nervous breakdown. When he got out he turned straight, in both senses of the word, and became an expert in porcelain, touring Europe to buy and sell plates and statuettes. That’s the official version, anyway.

  Underneath that version is the fact that Les still burgles, but for revenge, not profit—although he’ll pick up anything portable and pricy along the way. His targets are the bigwigs of the criminal world—men who would have been his contemporaries when he was at his best. And he still dresses as a woman, so convincingly that sometimes even I have to wait for a sign that the person I’m talking to is really Les.

  He’s also my uncle. My mother’s brother in fact. She was the only one who visited him in prison and I assume that’s why we’re the only ones not on his list of people to harm. Believe me, you wouldn’t want Les as an enemy.

  So we walked through the Ming vases, Les giving me the usual disquisition on porcelain and then took a stroll in the fresh air. If your hobby is breaking into the homes of drug barons and arms merchants, you get very careful about what you say in places where CCTV might be observing you.

  “How can I help you, Sandrine?”

  “There’s a girl at work, causing mischief. I think she’s after my job. The problems are (a) she’s too clever to get caught in the act and (b) Minty’s already on her side, not mine.”

  Les nodded. “So?”

  “Well… I think I need to know what she’s up to. If, over the next few weeks, we had a very demanding but high-spending new customer at F.B.R., she’d be bound to try some kind of trick—if I watch her from the shop, and you from the customer end, I think we might be able to catch her out.”

  He paused and looked at a pigeon that was pecking up burger crumbs outside MacDonalds. “Poor little bastard,” he said, “having to eat that crap.”

  I took it as agreement. Les will never actually say yes to anything dubious—he’s worried about hidden mikes and cameras, and although I should be insulted that he doesn’t trust me, I’m sure he must have good reasons for his fear.

  I outlined a plan and Les stroked his beard. I knew that from now on he’d improvise like a stand-up comic and I’d have to run to keep up, but he was good at what he did, none better, and when he changed the plan without warning it would be because he’d thought of something better. I just hoped I was clever enough to back him up and catch Alison out.

  It took nearly two weeks, during which my temper was stretched until I felt either it would snap or I would, but I managed to smile at everybody and swallow my irritation. I felt the staff watching me, wondering if my days were numbered, and wherever I went and whatever I did I saw Alison’s smirking face. I looked forward to Thursday afternoons, which were my time off, with a feverish anticipation, desperate to find distractions from my fears.

  On Thursdays I went to the London Art Cinema to watch three black and white films back to back. The audience was usually a mixture of nostalgia buffs and art and film students, an eclectic mix of style and grunge that sat alongside each other in the auditorium but never actually spoke to each other. Like most of the nostalgics I dressed carefully for my afternoon’s orgy, looking at the film listing and making my clothing choices to reflect the stories on offer. Usually the first film would be a silent movie, the second a short ‘funny’ and the third a black and white talkie from the golden age of cinema. There was a break after the funny so that people could grab a coffee and run to the toilet before settling back down for the ‘big’ film.

  I always used that time to make eye contact with my chosen partner. I wasn’t fussy, it might be a he or a she, a nostalgic or a student, but it had to be somebody I’d never seen there before. I wanted a rushed and ardent fuck, not a relationship, nor to find myself being stalked by another nostalgic. It sounds boastful, but the others aren’t like me. They tend to be pale, nervous and lacking in conversation. Their obsession with the past seems to render them colour- and word-less. When they see me—whether I’m wearing a beaded 1920s Chanel tea-gown and roll-top stockings or a 1940s ration suit and Veronica Lake hairdo, or 1960s cheesecloth and a headband, they all think their dreams have come true.

  I used to fall for this, for their desire to dress me and make me up, and pay me for my time, buying me clothes and jewels, loving me, turning me into the dancing doll in the middle of the past times jewellery casket. But all too often it wasn’t just the clothing that the nostalgic desired, but the manners and morals and mores of the period in question. And that usually meant women being seen and not heard. Women who didn’t drink or smoke or work. Women, in other words, who were slaves. I’d been kept by three nostalgics—two men and one woman—and each of them had ended up trying to imprison me in a beautifully decorated cell they called ‘home’. I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. So fast fucks were in, and out of town strangers even more so. The coffee break helped me find out if they were local or not, which was my main criterion, in fact my only criterion.

  On this Thursday it was a young man, really almost a boy—perhaps twenty-one or two, but looking younger. He told me that he was down from Hull on a day-trip and he’d always been a big fan of the old silent movies, so when he saw the LAC listing in the free newspaper he’d been handed on the tube, he’d felt as if his dreams had all come true. “Blokes in Hull are supposed to like rugby, not films,” he said, blushing deep crimson.

  I let my leg brush up against his, so that my precious real 1947 nylons were touching his crumpled jeans. “Well, what is it that appeals to you so much,” I asked.

  “The glamour I suppose,” he replied, and I knew I’d found the lover I was seeking, for that week at least.

  We sat next to each other for the final film, and as the heroine gazed into the hero’s eyes for the first time, I took his hand. I had the feeling he’d been waiting for me to make the first move, but he probably wasn’t expecting me to make the second one too! As they kissed on screen for the first time, I led his fingers to the top of my stockings and then higher, pressing them against my bare thigh. As he stared at the screen, his breathing getting more harsh with every second, I pulled his hand entirely under my skirt, letting his fingertips touch the edge of the silk cami-knickers I’d paid a fortune for on eBay, before introducing him to the even softer silk of my pubic hair.

  By the end of the show my young nostalgic-in-the-making didn’t know what he should do next. I could see in his eyes that he was terrified to make a wrong move or say a wrong word that would end the sexual spell I’d thrown over him.

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nbsp; I led him by the hand, out of the LAC, along the street and round the corner so that were looking at the grimy rear windows (not many), drainpipes (very many) and fire escapes of the building. Like almost any great edifice, the back of the LAC didn’t match the front—gone were the marble pillars and grand Latin inscription. Instead a warren of brick-built bunkers jutted into the street—they were offices and storerooms, added whenever the LAC outgrew itself and they offered exactly what I wanted now—deep shadow, rough surfaces and almost no chance of getting caught.

  I pulled my chosen one into the gloom of a cul-de-sac made by two such offices only a few feet apart, and pressed myself to the bricks which scratched my fingertips—pleasure with a little pain mixed in—that was what I was seeking. He pushed up against me, his mouth finding mine, and I took one hand from the wall to lay against the small of his back, drawing him closer and—not entirely coincidentally—grinding my own spine into the harsh wall.

  With my other hand I lifted my skirt, sliding it up between us so that his hands could find my thighs again, but this time he didn’t wait for me to lead the way. His fingers gripped my flesh, pulling and tugging, and almost immediately he slid one finger inside me. I arched my back to give him the access we both desired, and unbuttoned his flies so that I could return the compliment by holding his shaft in my hand. I was careful to be passive about my part in the proceedings—he was a very young man, after all, and would probably be hair-trigger with all the fantasy, mental stimulation and adrenalin that were already turning his libido into an explosive cocktail. Any physical movement could push him into coming prematurely.

  So I held him gently as his fingers explored my wet depths and very soon made me come. Then I slid the specialist ‘Love Hurts’ condom out of my jacket pocket, tore the foil, slipping it onto him and him into me with the ease of long practice. The condom kept me safe but also added a level of discomfort—it was a little like being fucked by a fragment of the wall I was leaning against. Rough surfaces inside and out, my new friend thrusting hard, the wall not giving an inch and me between the two, pummelled, scraped and bruised. It didn’t take me long to come in those circumstances and as I tightened around him, the boy from Hull gave a great sigh and came too, punishing me against the wall for a lost delicious moment.

  So, on Friday morning, I had a spring in my step and a smile on my face as I walked to work. I was early, because I needed to drop the suit I’d worn off at the dry cleaners to get the brick-grit removed from it, but even so, I felt happy and back in control again.

  The first thing Frank said to me after I changed from my street clothes into something suitable slinky from the costume rack was, “Hey, Sandrine. That mysterious new customer turned up yesterday.”

  “Hmmmm?” I said, although I knew immediately who he meant.

  “Mrs Whitely,” he said. “And guess who got to serve her?”

  “Not Alison?” I said, trying to force my face into an expression of dismay.

  “I’m afraid so. I tried to get her to take anybody else round the store but no, Mrs Whitely looked us all over, like some kind of beauty contest, and crooked her finger at Alison, so that was that!”

  “So what’s she like?” I logged onto the computer and looked at the previous day’s sales. “Crikey, she certainly spent enough!”

  “Very cut-glass. Not quite a blue-rinse but nearly. Wearing Jaeger, excellent haircut, very good jewellery, obviously a beauty in her youth.” Frank knew the kind of summary I wanted on any new customer who looked likely to become a large part of F.B.R.’s future, and I stored it all away, knowing Les would be thrilled to hear that he’d ‘been a beauty’. “She’s having it all delivered, tomorrow evening. Apparently she’s giving a party.”

  I glanced up, hoping my shock didn’t show in my eyes. That wasn’t part of the scenario I’d agreed with Les—he really was winging it now. I wanted to run to the phone and ask what the hell he thought he was playing at, but I kept my eyes fixed to the computer screen and waited.

  “Alison’s putting the order together in the loading bay,” Frank said. I nodded without looking up. “I’ve added that furniture we were talking about,” he said. I did look up then, and he winked. “In my flat, I mean, I’ll tell you about it over lunch.”

  “Okay,” I said, switching off the computer and heading for the front door to greet the first customer of the day. Nobody seemed to notice how my heart was pounding, my concentration shot to ribbons. What the blue blazes was Les up to?

  Frank’s heavy-handed mystery was simply that he’d installed a tiny fish-eye camera at the entrance to the loading bay, in the hope that it might catch Alison tampering with the goods ordered for Mrs Whiteley’s soiree. But he was so pleased with himself, and so sure he’d found the way to trap her, that I had to sit and congratulate him all through the lunch-break. After all, it was a clever idea, and he had given up his own time after work to put the camera in place. He wasn’t to know that his little plan, in the scheme of things, was no more than an outlying strand in a huge web being woven by a master.

  Congratulating Frank and paying for his lunch meant I couldn’t call Les until after work and then the phone rang without being answered.

  I went to bed and lay sleepless, consumed by worry and excitement until even my bones were twitching and jumping with nervous tension. I thought about getting up and going to work again—maybe trying on some of the new vintage gear that had arrived during my day off—but then I remember Frank’s camera and decided that I wasn’t going to take the risk. Too many people were watching F.B.R. too closely for me to do anything so quixotic.

  At midnight my mobile rang. Wide-awake and dry-eyed I grabbed it and heard Les say, “Don’t worry—we’ve got her cold. Make sure you drive the van down to the party though.”

  “But what are you going to do, and where is the party, anyway. Do you own the place?” But he’d hung up and I knew if I called again I’d get the vague old woman who would promise to pass messages on, but Les would never call back. Why should he? He was the vague old woman in the first place!

  I became as jumpy as a Jack-in-the-Box. I could look at the unfamiliar address listed for ‘Mrs Whitely’ as often as I wanted on the computer, but I couldn’t go down to the loading bay and see whether Alison was tampering with any of the goods she was packing into a stylish F.B.R. crate. It took her most of the day to finish the job—big orders for delivery were a weakness in our operation. Minty and I had talked it over a hundred times, back in the days when we were still in each other’s confidence, but we’d never found an answer.

  Most small shops had a guy who both shrink-wrapped orders onto pallets and drove them to their destination in a van. That didn’t fit with our business ethos though. First—it lacked style, second—it put our most sensitive customer information such as names and addresses in the hands of somebody who didn’t have the same face-to-face relationship with the client as the shop staff did. We dealt with the rich, the famous and the closeted. Our reticence was one of the attributes that brought kings and queens, tennis players, opera divas and chess Grand Masters to our door. You didn’t easily hand that information over to a person whose pedigree was driving a van.

  The only solution was to take people off the sales floor to pack up and deliver orders, but that meant the shop could often be left short-handed while they worked downstairs and the person working on deliveries had to run up and down the stairs to help out the sales team when things got busy. When Frank started scowling significantly at me each time I passed, I realised that F.B.R.’s busy day might be interfering with his clever scheme. Sure enough, as soon as he had the chance, he hissed, “Useless! It’s not CCTV you know—whenever I’m called away from the monitor to deal with customers, I can’t see what she’s doing!”

  I shook my head. I hadn’t understood that the new camera wasn’t booked into the recording system, but it was too late now. All the
staff were still watching my every move—Minty’s warning hung over me as menacingly as ever—I couldn’t allow Frank to stay at the desk if we needed him to serve customers. Minty would hear about it and I’d be the one on trouble. So I shrugged, “Nothing I can do, Frank.”

  He nodded and we went back to work. But now everything depending on whatever mysterious idea had hatched in Les’s brain. I didn’t know whether to wish for Saturday evening to arrive as soon as possible or pray that it never came around.

  It did, of course. We locked up the shop at five and then Alison and I had a stilted conversation about being back in time to drive to ‘Mrs Whiteley’s’. It was the first time we’d actually spoken without an audience of avid staff hanging on our every word, and I was more than a bit disturbed to find that she had a triumphant air which suggested she thought she’d achieved something important. Anything that made Alison happy was going to be bad news for me.

  I went home and browsed my wardrobe, trying to decide what to wear for the journey. I had no idea what Les might expect of me and trying to dress for all occasions, while wearing something that would give me enough confidence to deal with Alison’s gloating confidence, was an impossible task. In the end, I opted for leather slacks originally worn by Honor Blackman as Pussy Galore and an emerald green silk jacket, under which I wore a sports bra—smart enough for a party, tough enough for anything explosive that might happen, or at least I hoped so. I pulled my hair into a severe knot and lacquered it in place until it shone like cherry wood. I hoped I looked like I meant business.

  When I got back to F.B.R., Alison was already waiting outside. I surveyed her clothing—gunmetal Versace trouser suit and her hair tucked into a crochet cap scattered with small pearls—there was nothing I could complain about in her appearance. Her face was beautifully made up and tendrils of sugar-blonde hair escaped the cap and curled around, making her resemble a bride waiting for her bridegroom. If she hadn’t been such a troublemaker, I could definitely have fancied her.