Blame It on the Bossa Nova by James Brodie Page B

But the morning had brought the news that Khrushchev had ordered his freighters to temporarily hold off from entering the zone where they would be searched, and the world was clutching at this straw.
    “Heard the news?” I said.
    “I don’t want to talk about it.”
    I had no idea how she wanted the business to run out anyway, perhaps she wanted a limited nuclear Armageddon, so I didn’t pursue the matter. Instead I said “I wanted to say sorry about the other day.”
    “Forget it.”
    I was erasing it from my memory when she added “... look, today I’m out to enjoy myself, OK?”
    “Great,” I said, and we set off for Chris’s flat.
    Christopher was pottering about in a silk dressing gown. He was suitably impressed. “I approve Alex.” On a coffee table was a bowl of ice, bottles of gin, martini, whisky, tumblers. We helped ourselves.
    He carried on a conversation with Pascale through the open door of his bedroom as he was changing, questioning her closely on her connections in French society and letting drop the name of a Comte or two who certainly wouldn’t have remembered him with the same clarity. After Chris had changed we sat around drinking while he made some ‘essential’ phone calls. Most of them sounded far from that, and after a brief exchange of salutations degenerated swiftly into bitchy gossip about an absent third party. I was jarred into brief attention by one call when he actually made an appointment to see someone at his surgery. He had succeeded so thoroughly in suppressing all talk of his business life since I had known him that I was shocked, as once before, to be reminded that he had a livelihood. When he finally put the phone down we sat and drank and talked and drank some more.
    When we at last climbed into his battered old Daimler it was well past midday. I had been told Christopher never cleaned his cars. Never is a long time, but on the external and internal evidence confronting us I could believe it. I made sure I got in the back first and that Pascale took the front passenger seat. I didn’t figure our relationship had a lot of mileage in front of it so I lounged back out of the restricted beam of a two-way conversation and played the diligent professional, my role completed. Her personality was a radio that she could turn on like a switch. With Christopher it was set for harmony and he couldn’t get enough of it. She brought out wit from him, which she then applauded, and he in turn found the company as relaxing and conducive as a sandalwood bubble bath. They quite forgot about me in the back so I picked up a copy of the new satirical magazine, Private Eye, lying on the back shelf.
    Some time later I was jolted out of my reading by Christopher swinging the car off the road into the gravelled forecourt of a gigantic Neo-Tudor Thirties pub, one of a number that encircle the outskirts of London like strategically placed fortresses.
    “Where are we?”
    “I don’t know, Alex, somewhere on the Portsmouth Road, the suburban hamlets of London are mysteries to me.”
    “We’ve just come off the Kingston by-pass,” said Pascale, revealing an unexpected knowledge of local geography.
    As we entered the pub we encountered a small group of football fans, bedecked in their team’s colours, they were just leaving.
    “Where are you off to lads?” asked Christopher with a bonhomie born in the depths of cynicism.
    “Bournemouth,” they replied.
    “And who’s your team?”
    “Crystal Palace,” their gruff voices rising slightly with the pride of association.
    “Great. Good luck to you, I hope they win.” As the last of the group passed him Chris gave him a comradely pat on the back. We took our drinks back to one of the darkened alcoves that encircled the bar, gloomy even in the midday sun. Between us and the bar was an expanse of carpet big enough to be used as a training pitch by a formation dance team. Perhaps at night it was crowded - now it was deserted. Each alcove