Em gives him a look. ‘Yes, we can. Thanks for being so nice about it.’
Jonny murmurs something that sounds likenewspeakunder his breath. But Em disregards it, and extracts the flowers from her bag.
We got them at the flower stall at Embankment station. Florists take cash, thank goodness, because three of us are now operating cash-only for security reasons. (Jonny works exclusively in crypto, and in the week I’ve known him hastwice told me that any currency that hasn’t been blockchained is a barbarous relic and I may as well be buying things with silver florins or cowrie shells.)
‘Got the vase?’
She digs out the vase.
Most of the waiting staff here aren’t anything to worry about, because they’re about fourteen. There are a few who look more experienced, though, and one obvious manager – he’s wearing a tucked-in shirt and jeans, and moving around directing staff, greeting guests, occasionally pouring a pint for a favoured customer if there’s nobody else available. He’s got an air of efficiency and a trimmed beard, neither of which I like the look of. We’ll have to make sure he’s out of the way before Em goes in.
The most innocuous tasks seem horribly conspicuous when you’re doing them in the wrong place: in this case, filling a jar with flowers at a pub table. Jonny takes over, once Elle has finished fussing over theplacement, and fits what he needs to. Once he’s done what she calls the ‘technical bit’, Elle requests a slight adjustment for aesthetics’ sake – two adjacent tulips should be balanced and separated by some old man’s beard – only to be told ‘absolutely not’.
Nobody interrupts us during this transaction. None of the staff have noticed the flowers; the manager is busy elsewhere. Em whips off her jumper, revealing her Bombardier-ish shirt and apron, slides out of the booth, and takes the vase upstairs. Jonny opens his computer and hands round AirPods.
Here – as we have it – is a perfect transcript of what went on in the upstairs room, until the point where it all went wrong.
[Thirty seconds of swishy walking. A knock. A door swinging open.]
HAWTHORNE:
… just horseshit. If we had someone, we’d have to announce it. It’s not like there’s not been any …[He tails off.]
VANE:
Can we help you, miss?
EM:
I’m so sorry to interrupt you. Just wanted to bring you this. It’s a gift from the management.
HAWTHORNE:
What for?
EM:
I think everyone just wanted to say how sorry they were about Mr Harcourt.
