It was a bit after five on a Friday afternoon. Jacko was walking down Charlotte Street, headed towards Tottenham Court Road Tube station. He had been to a meeting with a customer research outfit whose offices were on one of those cross streets between Charlotte Street and Tottenham Court Road, and he was trying to decide if he might pop in somewhere and treat himself to an end-of-the-week ale. But then he had a better idea. He would go and see if his old boss, Laurence Harry Bates, aka Skipper, was in his lair.
When Jacko walked into the ground floor reception of the building that RKB shared with a couple of other marcoms businesses, he was greeted by Alfred, one of the night security guards.
'Hello, young sir,' Alfred said. 'Returning to the scene of the crime?'
'Something like that, Alfred,' Jacko said. 'I was just wondering if the Skipper is still on the bridge. Or has he already pulled for shore?'
Alfred shook his head. 'No, no. He's still up there -- as far as I know. I think they've got a bit of a party going on.'
'Oh? Something important?'
Alfred shook his head again. 'No. Just the usual suspects, I think. Do you need me to announce you? Or do you want to just go on up? I'm sure he'll be pleased to see you.'
'I think I'll just go up and surprise him,' Jacko said.
Jacko took the lift to the sixth floor and then followed the trail of chatter and laughter until he arrived at the entrance to Conference Room Two, otherwise known as Skipper's Friday Night Bar. 'Permission to come aboard, Skipper,' he called out.
Laurie Bates turned and beamed. 'Jacko! Gang the manplank,' he commanded. 'Pipe the side. Let go aft.'
'How are you, Skipper?' Jacko asked.
'Fit as a fiddle. Well ... no. Not quite. I think the chef may have gone a bit overboard with the saltshaker at lunch. Left me with a bit of a thirst. But we'll soon have that sorted. Here ... try this red. Argentinian. Brilliant. If I didn't know better, I'd have said Bordeaux. And a pretty decent Bordeaux at that. Pauillac perhaps.'
Jacko took a sip from the glass that Laurie Bates handed him. And, yes, Laurie was not wrong. It was very good. And Alfred had been right too; the room was heaving with the usual suspects, mainly current and ex RKB crew members. But there was also a woman who Jacko didn't recognise. Laurie must have noticed Jacko looking at her.
'Oh ... Jacko ... come and meet Maree.'
Maree (now that he knew her name) was a bit older than Jacko. She was probably in her mid-to-late 30s, and she was rather attractive in a professional sort of way, with dark chestnut-coloured hair worn up in a bun, or a French roll, or whatever, and large, tortoiseshell glasses that made her look ever so slightly owlish. Jacko guessed that she was probably a corporate lawyer of some sort. Perhaps with one of the big international firms.
'Maree, meet Jack Masterson,' Laurie said. 'Jacko's one of the ones who got away. But he'll be back. They all come back. Eventually.'
'How do you do?' Jacko said.
'Maree is keeping me on the straight and narrow while Anita is spending some time with her mother,' Laurie said. And then, suddenly, he looked sad.
Well ... Jacko had got that one wrong. Not a corporate lawyer. A temporary EA to the boss of an advertising agency. Jacko was losing his touch.
'Good luck with keeping the skipper on the straight and narrow,' Jacko said. 'I think it has been pretty much established that Laurie is unmanageable.'
Maree smiled.
'Right. I'll leave you two to ...,' Laurie said.
'I take it that Anita's mother is running out of time,' Jacko said.
Maree nodded. 'Yes. Sadly. Weeks not months.'
'Oh, dear.'
'But it's good that mother and daughter have this time together,' Maree said.
'True,' Jacko said.
And then Tom Verco bounded up demanding that Jacko adjudicate on the meaning of the word anticipate. Dave Walker insisted that it meant no more than 'to expect' or 'await'. Tom was adamant that it meant 'to expect and take steps to mitigate the effects of whatever it was that was expected'.
'Alas, I think that particular battle has been lost,' Jacko told Tom. 'A hundred years ago, you would have been correct. General Pilkington-Brown might have anticipated an attack on the left flank and despatched a squadron from the Royal Gloucestershire Hussars to deal with it. But now, I'm afraid, we are in the era of the much-anticipated third album. Anticipate has gone the way of unique and a few other such words.'
'Well, dammit, this has got to stop,' Tom said. 'It's time someone made a stand.'
Jacko wished Tom good luck with his crusade and turned back to Maree. But she was gone.
Laurie's Argentinian Bordeaux taste-alike red was very pleasant indeed but, after Jacko had worked the room for half an hour or so, he decided that he wasn't really in the mood. He bade Laurie goodnight and headed back out to the lifts. Maree was already waiting there. 'Home time?' he said.
'Home time,' she confirmed.
They took the lift back to the ground floor, wished Alfred goodnight, and went back out into the Friday night crowd. For some reason, Jacko wasn't sure why, as they hovered outside the plate glass front doors, Jacko suddenly felt it incumbent upon him to inform Maree that there was a half-decent tapas bar just a little bit further along the street.
'Oh?' she said.
'Perhaps a quick glass of cleansing white to see you on your way?' he suggested.
She seemed surprised -- which was probably fair enough considering that she had only just met him -- but then she glanced at her watch. 'All right then,' she said.
Miguel's was busy, but not too busy. Jacko caught Mike Baker's eye and held up two fingers. A couple of minutes later, Mike was delivering a couple of glasses of cool, crisp Verdejo.
'So, how are you finding RKB?'
Maree smiled. 'Interesting,' she said. 'I've never worked in an advertising agency before. My normal stomping ground is The City. And you were right: managing the man you call Skipper is ... well ... let's say it's a challenge.'
Jacko laughed. 'Yes. He's like a naughty schoolboy, isn't he? A very clever naughty schoolboy. A very kind and generous naughty schoolboy. But a naughty schoolboy nevertheless.'
Before they reached the bottom of their wine glasses, Jacko discovered that Maree was recently separated from her hot-shot lawyer husband, that she had two young sons, and that she was a big fan of European-style jazz.
'Two sons?' Jacko said. 'So, does that mean that you are in for a full weekend of sport?'
'No, the boys are with their father this weekend. We take turns.'
'Oh. And what does your weekend hold -- in the absence of junior football matches?'
'Not a lot really,' she said.
'In that case,' -- and Jacko really didn't know why he said this -- 'why don't you come and have supper with me tomorrow night. Nothing flash. But I do have a whole shelf of ECM CDs. Eberhard Weber. Jan Garbarek. Gary Burton. Dave Holland. A few others.'
Again Maree seemed surprised. And, again, why wouldn't she be? But then, after a moment or two, she said: 'OK. Thank you. You'd better tell me where and when.'
Jacko gave her an address. They exchanged telephone numbers. And then Maree said that she had better be going.
Jacko waved Maree goodbye and then decided to allow himself one more glass of wine while he worked out what he was going to cook for Saturday supper.
'Who was that?' Mike asked. 'Your accountant?'
'No,' Jacko said. 'But I know what you mean. She could pass for one, couldn't she?'
'Or a lawyer,' Mike said.
Jacko smiled.
Even though it was only October, Saturday's weather forecast was for a cool north-easterly and occasional showers. Barbequed spatchcock chicken was briefly on the menu. But then, just in case the forecasters turned out to be right, Jacko decided to make a cassoulet. Smokey sausage. Bacon. Beans. Confit duck legs. Herbs. Breadcrumbs. He'd go light on the garlic. And he'd make a salad of tomatoes, courgettes, and capsicums to add an element of freshness.
The invitation to supper had been a spur of the moment thing -- and Jacko distinctly remembered warning Maree that supper would be 'nothing flash' -- but, by about three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, he still found himself starting to fret over what wine to serve. In the end, he wandered down to his local wine merchant for some professional advice.
'Cassoulet?' Rosemary said. 'I'd probably go for a red. And not too heavy. It's not as if we are in the depths of winter just yet. Thank goodness. Maybe a Côtes du Rhône? Perhaps a Villages?'
Yes. That made sense. Jacko took a couple of bottles of the Chapoutier and promised Rosemary that he would report back.
Jacko had suggested to Maree that she come over at about six-thirty. You tend to get your money's worth with ECM recordings. If they were going to get through more than two or three, they would need to start early.
Maree arrived pretty much on the dot -- and Jacko almost didn't recognise her. Her hair was down; she had abandoned her glasses; and her business suit had been replaced with a dress that fell happily between casual and party.
'Nice to see you again,' Jacko said as I took her umbrella. 'And I'm sorry about the weather. It seems the gods didn't get my note.'
'No. I'm not sure that they check their emails as often as they might,' Maree said. 'And I wasn't sure what wine. Red or white. So I've gone down the middle. A New Zealand rosé. The chap at the offy said that it had won some award.'
'Excellent,' Jacko said. 'Then perhaps we should get the party started.'
While Jacko went and found some glasses, Maree looked around. 'This place is very nice,' she said.
'It's not bad, is it? Unfortunately, I'm just renting it,' Jacko said. 'The owners are out in Australia for six months. I'm hoping that they will decide to move out there permanently and then I can buy the place.'
'I shall keep my fingers crossed for you,' Maree said.
The New Zealand rosé was not one that Jacko had tried before, but it was very nice. It was a bit heavier than a typical French rosé, but, yes, very nice. 'Cheers.'
'To new friends,' Maree said.
'And strange men who invite you to supper just two minutes after meeting you.'
Maree laughed. 'A bit of a surprise, I must confess,' she said. 'But a nice surprise.'
'I hope you like cassoulet,' Jacko said.
'Cassoulet? Yes. Love it. We spent a week down in the Languedoc last winter, and I ate cassoulet three nights in a row. Not good for my waistline. But a real treat for my taste buds.'
'Oh, dear. So I'm competing with the real thing?' Jacko said.
Maree just smiled.
