The Urgent Meeting

I’ve always maintained that everything worth knowing about a man can be determined from the way he introduces himself. Strong deliberate eye contact; a firm, two-second handshake; a brief and to-the-point insertion of one’s name: ‘Charles Whitworth,’ leaving a decisive pause for them to give theirs. No ‘Pleasure to meet you’. That surely remains to be seen. Serious people don’t waste time with niceties, or small talk, or flattery. They certainly don’t worry themselves about the opinions of perfect strangers.

It's for this crucial reason that I despise the situation that I find myself in. I am a man who has risen to his position through assertiveness and rigidity—and yes, perhaps, the odd instance of intimidation. But now, after two decades in the cut-throat world of corporate litigation, including the last seven as a prosperous senior partner, the onus falls on me to shmooze a crucial potential client—an undertaking that is simply beneath me.

My partner, the unctuous yet affable Bernard Dantry, has always been the person most suited to such duties. While only a decent administrator, a passable orator, and a sub-par interrogator, the man has always been a first-rate bootlicker. It’s clear he has few qualms with debasing himself to win favour, surrendering his scarce dignity to get the prized contract singed. Since entering partnership with the gentleman, the chore of securing our highest profile clients has always fallen to him, or Terrence (our only slightly more dignified Senior Director).

But Bernard and Terrence are now both indisposed. The former grieving his late wife, and the latter convalescing after a car crash that may have cost him his right leg. Just my rotten luck. Consequently, I am at present driving down the M1 in the early sunlight, practising my best ingratiating smile in the rearview mirror, on a bright Saturday morning that should have been spent on the golf course. I can’t quite master the smile. It still looks like I’m about to tell a sworn enemy that I’ve just had relations with his wife.

Against my better judgment I pull into a service station for coffee. These places have always sickened me, with their overpriced fast-food outlets and lurid decor, their legions of disgusting working-class patrons, all covered head to toe in tattoos they haven’t the shame to conceal. I need a triple espresso though, if I’m to survive this wretched day. As I trundle down the slip road in my Land Rover Discovery, I pay a sneering glance at the electric charging station ahead; the imbeciles congratulating themselves for saving the planet one pathetic charge at a time. And while I’m tutting at a line of ugly Teslas, one of the imbeciles pulls out on me—no less driving an abhorrent version of my own car. I tap the break and give him a long blast of my horn.

After looping round the depressingly full car park for several minutes, trailing this same moron and cursing my dependence on caffeine, I finally glimpse a vacant space. He must have seen it too, however, and I watch him slow down and brake. He turns on his indicator, establishing his intention to reverse park—the only sensible option for cars the size of ours. I quickly pull forward though, making a sharp but accurate turn into the space he no doubt thought he’d claimed. I quickly climb out to see he’s rolled his window down. He’s a small, aged chap with a white goatee, dressed in a rather garish green suit. ‘Excuse me. I was clearly pulling into that space,’ I hear him shout. To which I merely smirk. ‘Should have been quicker about it then.’

I glance back as I stroll through the automatic doors, slightly irked to see someone leaving the space directly adjacent to my own, which he seizes immediately.

I can’t deny it. I would have been less willing to have pulled such a stunt on someone driving a less pompous car. I may be bold and formidable, but I’m not stupid: I know better than to risk the ire of some angry lower-class yob. The chances, however, of an electric Land Rover being driven by anyone other than someone middle-aged and unthreatening are slim.

I relieve myself in the filthy bathroom and obtain my sub-standard coffee in its lousy paper cup. When I climb back into my car, I suddenly realise my folly. Had I done as my pompous friend had eventually done, and sensibly reversed into a space, I’d now be pulling out with ease, soon well rid of this dismal place. Instead, I now find myself contending with the Gods of Tight Angles, attempting to reverse as a woeful means of escape. Any dim-witted driver knows that the dimensions of service station car parks are intentionally reduced, and this manoeuvre is almost impossible. I slowly start to pull back in a straight line. By the time I’ve managed the full length, my reverse camera starts to bleep at me. I know it’s rudimentary physics, and I should be able to adjust, but why the hell are these spaces so damn tight? I pull forward a few feet and try to come out at an angle. Christ, now I feel like I’m going to clip the car to my left—the imbecile’s car. I move forward again, adjust the steering a little more. Right, that must have done it… I turn the steering wheel to full lock. I reverse again.

Yes, It may take another point turn or two but…

CRACK.

‘Oh bloody hell,’ I groan. ‘I’ve clipped him.’

I straighten up and pull back into the space, waiting there for a moment, glancing out of the windows to check for onlookers. No one seems to have seen. With a sigh, I climb back out. Tentatively, I double check that no idiots are gawking at me. Mercifully, It seems I’ve gotten away with it. Next, I make a surreptitious attempt at inspecting the damage, which is worse than I expected. Deep scrapes on my off-side bumper. I curse. That’ll be a few thousand pounds to remedy.

Checking his car is a trickier proposition. I walk back and open my boot, leaning in and pretending to inspect something inside. Then I glance to my left. The damage on his is even worse—bumper written-off; smashed bulb; no doubt sensor damage. Christ, what a morning…

The only thing left to do is to check how incriminated the CCTV might leave me. I look up, scanning for cameras, and my heart sinks as I see a column no more than ten paces away. But a closer look at this produces a grin on my face. There’s no camera attached! Whether its vandalism or budget issues, I’ve been granted a lifeline. Try pinning this crime on a senior litigator with no witnesses or CCTV, you tree-hugging buffoon.

My grin is still present as I climb back in my scathed Discovery; a pricey trip to the body-shop is almost worth the pleasure of mangling that electric disgrace. As I pull out again—this time managing it on the second attempt—I amuse myself with the image of the pious fool walking over and gazing at his prized 4x4.

From here I must pick up the deal sweetener I’d attempted to procure a home but come up short. I have it on good authority that my would-be client is partial to wine from the Bordeaux region, specifically Château L’Evangile. I personally think this selection, a tawdry blend of Merlot and Cabernet Franc, is uncultured swill. I pre-ordered the bottle from a local vendor last night, however, and this is my next pitstop. I park up, enter the store, and within minutes the bottle is in my hand. He’ll lap this up, I think—the gesture, as well as the vile drink.

When I walk back into the car park I pray that my eyes are playing tricks on me. The smug-mobile from my misdeed is parked up right next to my own car.

‘It’s you!’ the disembarking driver exclaims. ‘You’re the nasty clod who drove into me!’

‘Haven’t a clue what you mean,’ I reply casually.

‘Oh don’t give me that. Look at your own damned vehicle.’ He points at my front bumper, the implicating scuff hewn into the right side.

‘That happened weeks ago,’ I say with compelling sincerity.

‘Nonsense. First you steal my space, then you hit my car and flee the scene. Give me your details at once, you vile piece of work.’

‘I’ve already explained that you’re mistaken. It is you that is the vile piece of work. Now piss off before you say something you’ll regret.’

‘Right. If that’s how you want to play it.’ He pulls out his phone and starts recording—with unexpected swiftness, I note, for a man of advancing years.

‘I don’t think so.’ I snatch his phone with relative ease, cease the recording and promptly delete the footage.

At this point the man’s face is bulging with veins and furious red. ‘You give that back ,’ he screeches.

I consider throwing the phone but decide not to attract any undue attention.

‘You can collect it from that wall over there,’ I say, pointing vaguely in the distance.

‘I beg your par—’

With that, I hurry round to the driver’s side of my legitimate Discovery, climb in, slam the door and speed for the exit. Once here I slam the brakes, exit to hear his feeble shouts from seventy yards away (a flurry of inspired expletives), and place his phone on the wall I’d pointed to.

I grin as I drive away, fairly proud of my own quick-thinking: I could have easily smashed his phone to prevent another piece of video evidence; much better to buy myself an overwhelming head start instead.

As I’m driving to my next destination, I marvel at the rotten luck of encountering that pompous driver at a wine store twenty miles away. If I were not such a shrewd and ruthless thinker, the situation could have turned out much differently.

I realise I need a moment to calm myself; thankfully my appointment is not for quite some time and I can afford a final pitstop. I decide on a café on the nearest high-street and pull onto its overpriced car park. I’ll have long black coffee—single shot this time—go over my notes, collect my thoughts, and compose myself for this blasted meeting. I’ll charm the wretched man into submission, secure the contract, and put this godawful day behind me. I can already smell the celebratory scotch that awaits me at home…

Once parked up I walk over to the passenger side to fetch my satchel with my laptop and notes. Forgetting about the ghastly wine I’d stowed on the seat, I yank the shoulder bag towards me.

The next dismal thing happens in slow motion.

With the momentum of my bag comes the wine bottle, which flies off the seat and straight out the car door. Instead of blocking it with my body, I turn like a coward and watch it fall onto the concrete, directly beside my feet. The bottle smashes, I attempt to hop away from the ensuing spray of liquid to no avail, and the back of my ash platinum suit trousers is drenched beyond all measure. After cursing enough to make a sailor blush, I reach into the glove box and pull out a packet of tissues. Though the only use I can make of these is to wipe my thankfully unharmed leather shoes. My trousers on the other hand are completely ruined.

Today can still be salvaged, I decide, refusing to be beaten. Before Googling the closest department store, I place a plastic bag on the driver’s seat and sit down, feeling like Francis Winton, the sad little bed-wetter we all bullied at boarding school.

I hurry through the tailoring section like a man possessed, tearing though the racks of suits before deciding to grab a clerk’s attention.

‘You there. I need a pair of ash platinum suit trousers, 34 long. Do you have them?’

‘Hmm,’ the man says languidly. ‘If you can’t find any on the shop floor, there’s a small chance we might have some in the back.’

‘Good. No polyester rubbish. I want them to—’

‘But I must say,’ the clerk interrupts in quiet voice, glancing at my lower half, ‘you should probably get yourself to the hospital. A change of clothes should probably not be at the top of your priorities...’

‘Excuse me?’

He continues to speak in a tone that implies discretion. ‘The blood on your backside, sir. I encountered this once before. A gentleman needing a change of trousers after,’ he pauses, ‘a delicate medical emergency’.

I feel rage building in my chest. ‘This isn’t a medical emergency. Look, I just need—’

‘Oh but, sir. The other customer thought the same, and I can assure you, a prolapsed anus certainly is a medical emergency. In fact, any bleeding at all from one’s rectum is always cause for concer—’

‘I do not have a prolapsed anus!’ I can’t help but shout, prompting everyone in the vicinity to turn and stare.

I lower my own voice. ‘This is red wine, not blood. Now will you just look for the trousers or will I have to speak to your manager?’

‘I am the manager, sir.’ He smiles. ‘But yes, Ash Platinum, 34 long. I shall see what I can do.’

After I’ve waited for what seemed an inordinate amount of time, feeling the eyes of several passers-by burning holes into my back, the abhorrent little clerk returns, thankfully holding a par of trousers in the correct colour.

‘Right. One pair of Ash Platinum suit trousers, 34 Long. It just so happens these are the only pair we have in that description.’ He grins. ‘Today is your lucky day, sir.’

I scowl as I go to take them from his hand, which he moves out of my reach. ‘They’re not polyester, but they are, unfortunately, Hugo Boss, so the price point is fairly high…’

‘Do I look like I can’t afford a pair of lousy Hugo Boss trousers?’

The man pays a cursory glance at my lower half again, clearly not convinced, and I snatch the item from his hands and hurry to the cash register.

As I wait in the slow-moving queue, my rage starts to subside. No time for a coffee, or to replace the wine still seeping into my underwear (Christ, I’ll have to go commando), but after a quick change in the bathroom I should still making the meeting by the skin of my teeth.

Then the unthinkable happens.

‘It’s you again!’

I sigh, realising immediately who has joined me in the queue before I even begin to turn.

‘For goodness’ sake,’ I groan. ‘Are you following me? Because I happen to be very familiar with the law, and what you’re doing is—’

‘No. But it obviously appears that fate wants you to answer for your crimes.’

He reaches into the inside pocket of his blazer and I promptly place a hand on his wrist.

I make my voice low as I stare directly into his beady eyes. ‘If you try to record me again, you’ll find that device shoved up a very intimate area.’

I scan his sallow wrinkled face and white hair, the vile yet well-tailored suit exposing the smallness of his frame, the tiny hands clutching two equally garish ties. He must be half a foot shorter than me, and around twenty years my senior.

These discrepancies must dawn on him too, as he removes the hand from his pocket.

‘Just give me your details. It’s the right thing to do.’

‘Perhaps if I were guilty…or if you had a shred of evidence. But clearly you do not.’

With that I grin and turn back to the cash register, from which the woman thankfully calls, ‘Next, please.’

I check my watch and rush to the toilet, leaving the ruined trousers and briefs inside the cubicle. Then I straighten up in the mirror, check my watch again, swear loudly, and hurry to my car.

In an overdue stroke of luck, the traffic from here is light, and I manage to arrive at the restaurant ten minutes early.

I give the maître-d my surname and am told my guest has not yet arrived, allowing me to briefly scan my notes.

At precisely 2pm, I sense someone walking over to my table. I look up.

A small, old, goateed man in a garish green suit is standing over me.

He does not offer his hand to shake.