Chapter Six
Edward stood by the red Porsche in the blazing sunlight.
He had wanted to go back home to bed, because now his throat was bitingly sore and he had lost his voice completely. But he could not leave Kim stranded, as he pictured it. He saw himself momentarily as the handsome knight, riding to the scene and dismounting from … okay, his 50cc moped. He had keys for the car, but he had opened every door, as well as the boot, and found no spare tyre.
The last place to look was underneath the Porsche chassis. Was a spare somehow bolted to the underside? There was so little room there.
He dropped to his haunches and opened the right pannier on the bike. He found the tatty plastic sheet he covered the moped with at night. Edward placed it on the ground and lay back on it, facing the brilliant blue sky. There was a whisper of rain for a moment. Somewhere above him, a lone cloud must have emptied itself like a pissed concert-goer on a sunny day at Glastonbury.
On his back, Edward used his heels to slide his body under the car. Soon he was squished against the underside of the Porsche, almost scratching his nose on the metalwork. A pothole in the road helped a little, giving his body an inch more space.
‘No tyre here either.’ As he lay there, he heard footsteps alongside the car, above his head.
His feet were projecting from under the front number plate. Edward tilted his head, pushing it back into the gravel. He could only see the ankle of a man’s suit trousers, polished red brogues, and a woman’s slim calves, the skin a deep tan or maybe Asian, the feet propped in a towering heel.
The woman’s voice said, ‘Fuck’s sake.’
The man said, ‘I got carried away is all.’
‘We’ll buy it, I guess,’ said the woman. Then: ‘Did Vinnie say the parachute was through?’
He said something Edward failed to hear, there were more footsteps on gravel, and then the two were gone.
As soon as he got out from under the car, his phone rang. ‘Where are you?’
‘Where you left your car.’
‘You’ll never guess who I met in – sorry, what, my car? Why?’
‘Thought I’d change the tyre for you.’
‘Oh, my beautiful fool. There’s no spare on a Porsche.’
‘Who have you met?’ asked Edward, trying to spare his own blushes.
‘Come to Nine Chairs and you’ll find out.’ Everyone knew Nine Chairs. The place had been called ‘Twenty-Two Chairs’, until legislation insisted that any establishment with ten seats or more must provide a customer toilet.
He arrived fifteen minutes later, inching through the door as a wide-set young man in a black tracksuit shouldered his way out.
‘Edward!’ exclaimed Stevie, getting up as though to hug him, but he held a hand out in warning.
‘No no, please don’t, I might be infectious.’
‘You should see a doctor,’ Kim tutted. This took them into medical territory, and Stevie described her slow recovery from the burns and hospital visits.
‘But you look as right as rain to me!’ said Edward hoarsely.
Stevie shot back: ‘Come off it, sunny Jim.’
Her turns of phrase were so distinctive, so veryStevie, that they all burst out laughing together. Stevie added, seriously: ‘I’ve just counted the chairs in here. Nineteen. WTF, actually,’ which made Kim and Edward laugh again.
Kim said: ‘Don’t ever change, lovely girl. Not for anyone, not even Roddy.’
‘Roddy?’ asked Edward.
Stevie froze. ‘Don’t be chilly on it, Kim. He takes a little getting used to, that’s all. I’m going to get him out of his tracksuit on the day.’
‘Whose tracksuit? What day? What have I missed?’
