‘We haven’t, no. Is that something you do every time?’ I nod. ‘Doesn’t feel strictly necessary. Still,’ and here he makes a note, ‘accumulating unnecessary data frequently reaps dividends. I’ll have a look later.’
‘Are you sure it’s a second home? I only do second homes.’
‘I thought you were interested in how we operated, Al?’
I smile at Em. ‘Of course I am. Must be forgetting my manners.’
She smiles back, just as friendly, just as dishonest. And with that politely disagreed, we sit down to breakfast.
Eight hours later, night is throwing its ebon veil over the Ram’s Head, a charming pub-with-rooms in the heart of Bridling. It’s got an actual skull nailed above the bar, horns and all. A bit forbidding.
I wish we weren’t here. I wish we’d made our way into the house in daylight, unpacked, then gone out for dinner. But these guys have their own method and they’re convinced I’ll convert once I’ve tried it. I’d never admit it, but I’ve been impressed enough so far that I’m swallowing my better judgement to go along with them.
Little bit of life advice for you: don’t ever, ever swallow your better judgement. If we’d done it my way, there’s a chance I wouldn’t be writing this document at all, let alone typing it on a computer that has the wordsHMP BRIXTON SUXcarved into the side of the monitor.
But I digress.
The pisciners lazed around at the house until about eleven, then packed up. I did my usual fingerprint scrub, and while they weren’t quite as careful, thankfully we have similar notions about not nicking the silverware.
Then, after a lengthy get-out – Jonny remembered he’d forgotten to collect about six internal cameras – we drove to Bridling. Or rather, I drove. As my contribution, I’d rented a van from my regular garage, so these three could leave their car in London. Tariq, who runs Mr Toad’s Motors, was clearlysurprised at me hiring anything bigger than a Mini, but he’s polite enough not to ask questions. Tariq is a proper gentleman.
We stashed the van off a lay-by, off a lane, off the main road linking Bridling to civilisation, then walked to the village and into the Ram’s Head.
It’s a stunning pub. The windows are mullioned (think I’m using that word right? Each window is made of 150 tiny windows). The tables are huge heavy oak numbers that probably date back to the Civil War, and the menu is in that tiny font which informs older punters,We’re going to flatter you into thinking that you’re young enough to read this without your glasses. Also, don’t look at the prices.
Now, I maintain that coming here in the first place was a mistake. But Elle’s a foodie and insists we pass for visitors who are just taking in the local area. I’m not convinced. For a start, it is extremely white out here. There’s a preppy Asian family at one of the tables, but barring them, it’s monochrome. Even Em and Elle look exotic, and Jonny is the only black guy in the place. He doesn’t appear to have noticed, though, because he’s busy with a screwdriver and the remnants of a Rubik’s Cube. The manager looked politely appalled when she brought our mains.
As for Bridling itself: we looked around on our walk through, and Em was right. This is a gorgeous village. They have aNormanchurch, for heaven’s sake, surrounded by an unkempt churchyard with crazily angled tombstones and galloping lichens. There is doubtless a functioning bell-ringing society.
Theresesaredes, too – the centre’s all charming thatched cottages opening onto the lane-and-a-half road, bigger detached places in the ‘suburban’ bit, then further out a few really grand houses, one of which we’ll be breaking into in about half an hour. The high street is a parade of little antique shops and boutiques, plus one upmarket grocer’s – it’s so posh there isn’t even a supermarket, but there’s a Waitrose (of course) within a ten-minute drive. I’m impressed.
I can’t work these three out, though. I know Em and Elle are sisters, but I can’t decide if either of them is with Jonny. Both? I suppose it’s possible, but they’ve given nothing away so far. Although I think Em is single and straight, because contrary to all sensible pre-interlope rules, she has spent the last two pints giving the boy behind the bar a series of remarkably suggestive looks. He – clearly an agricultural student and preoccupied with soil erosion or whatever it is they learn – has not reciprocated at all. Elle has observed with faint amusement but not joined in. Jonny appears to only have eyes for his Rubik’s Cube.
Mainly I’m still stunned that these people do exactly what I do, except – and, again, a team of award-winning CIA waterboarders couldn’t persuade me to admit this – with rather more technical proficiency. I remind myself:Soft skills are real, soft skills are real, there’s a reason you’ve never been caught …
‘Al?’
‘Mm?’
‘Time to go.’ The light outside has softened enough thatyou could doubt your eyesight, and that’s the way they like it. The golden hour has given way to rural murk. Jonny picks up the bill, which comes to over a hundred quid – there really must be money in teaching suckers how to trade whatever the latest cryptocurrency is – then we gather our clobber and leave. Em gives the barman a wink as she goes, which prompts a whispered chat with Elle about whether she should pop back here for last orders. As we leave, the ram’s skull gives me one final encouraging grin.
It’s about a twenty-minute walk to the house, which is called Larksfoot. (I once spent a year trying to stay exclusively in houses with names rather than numbers, just to see if they genuinely are much nicer. Spoiler: they are.) But just before we get there – we’re climbing the hill leading out of the village, and thankfully there are no cars around – Elle gives a little squeak, and claps her hand over her mouth.
‘Oh, shit.’
‘What?’ says Em.
‘My coat.’
‘What about it?’
‘It’s still in the pub.’
‘Oh. Sure?’
Elle gestures at her clearly uncoated torso.
‘How did you forget that?’
