The Devil Rides Out (16 page)

We sat in the immaculate drawing room drinking Dom Perignon, which Tony assured me was the only bubbly that Dietrich ever drank. I would’ve been quite happy to drink bleach for breakfast if it meant staying in somewhere like this beautiful house for the entire weekend without once having to venture outside the door, but Tony was having none of it.

‘Get your backside into gear, we’re going to the Salisbury,’ he said.

The Salisbury was a gay pub on St Martin’s Lane, full of etched glass, ornate mirrors and polished wood. It was very cruisy and hardly anyone spoke to anyone, preferring instead to communicate via furtive glances and knowing looks. The predominantly Irish bar staff were dismissive to the point of rudeness and one got the feeling that they were more than a little homophobic. Despite the pub’s beautiful interior it wasn’t one of my favourite places to go for a drink, thanks to the naff bar staff and cruisy old queens, although this was years ago and the staff and pub owners have now changed. The clientele is no longer gay these days; they sensibly moved on long ago to a boozer that appreciates their custom.

I sat down while Tony got the drinks in and as he was waiting to be served he started to chat to a podgy little guy who was wearing a bespoke suit that in its heyday had obviously been extremely smart but was now grubby and shiny with age. Tony, being Tony, bought him a drink and then brought him over to our table.

‘This is Robin,’ he said, smiling slyly as he presented me to this scruffy little hobbit.

‘Ah, that’s better,’ he gasped in his plummy public-school accent, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’ve literally just flown in from Nice, had a quick spot of lunch at La Colombe d’Or before jumping on the plane. Do you know the Colombe d’Or by any chance? No? Oh it’s fabulous, up in the hills on the outskirts of Saint-Paul de Vence. Wonderful roast lamb and an incredible cellar, I must take you both for dinner one night.’

Yeah, sure, I thought, watching him greedily demolish the remainder of his pint. He didn’t look as if he could run to egg, chips and beans at the New Piccadilly Caff, never mind fancy restaurants in Nice.

Tony, however, seemed impressed and nodded knowingly at the mention of the wine cellar. Being a bit of a connoisseur himself, there was nothing he loved more than a chance to show off his impressive knowledge, but before he could speak Robin had wiped his mouth on the back of his hand again and was carrying on the conversation from where he’d left off.

‘Yes, absolutely glorious cellar. May I have a cigarette? I seem to have run out,’ he said, smiling, helping himself to one of my Cadets. He inhaled deeply and threw his head back, blowing the smoke towards the ceiling and scrunching his face up as if he were in agony.

‘My God, these are strong, aren’t they? What are they called?’ He examined the cigarette as if he’d never seen one before. ‘Are they Turkish?’

‘No, they’re Cadets,’ I snapped, ‘and if you don’t like them then I suggest you buy a packet of something that’s more to your taste. There’s a fag machine at the bottom of the stairs, bloody ponce.’

‘What hotel would that be? The Sally Army?’ He was getting on my nerves.

‘No, I’m staying at the Hilton for the time being and I’d be delighted if you would both join me for dinner tonight,’ he said, ignoring my jibe and smiling disarmingly. ‘Now are we having another drink?’

Gullible as I was, I didn’t believe for one minute that he’d just flown in from Le Column or whatever it was called with its fancy wine cellar
et al
. He looked to me suspiciously like he’d spent the night sleeping rough, unshaven and unwashed as he was with his dirty fingernails and creased suit, and the closest he’d get to a meal at the Hilton would be whatever he’d fished out of the bins round the back. He was all my arse, I thought, a conman, the type who could charm a maggot off a corpse. He’d certainly captivated the normally sagacious Tony, for here he was gaily handing over a tenner so that the bum could ‘get a quick round in before we go off and eat’. Robin? Robbin’ bastard more like, I muttered as I stomped off to the lav.

We took a taxi to the Hilton, which Tony paid for amid apologies and promises of immediate reimbursement from Robin.

‘Let’s dump him and go back to the house, I don’t believe that he’s …’ The words died on my lips as the doorman opening the cab door tipped his hat and greeted Robin with a ‘Good evening, Lord Robin.’ Tony winked, delighted with himself and his catch. He liked collecting men with titles, his address book read like
Burke’s Peerage
.

Tony snorted and I cringed with embarrassment as I became painfully aware that my voice sounded higher than usual and my already broad Scouse accent more pronounced. Most annoying of all was that my tone suggested I was impressed by this news when in fact I’d intended to sound disbelieving.

Looking at Robin again, it started to make sense. Didn’t my ma and Aunty Annie and Chrissie say that ‘real gentry’ always looked like they ‘didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to chuck it out of’? Well, wasn’t Milord Robin living proof of that rather direct but nevertheless well-founded theory? Unshaven and tousled, looking like he’d slept in a skip and sounding like Lord Haw-Haw? He certainly appeared to have the right qualifications.

‘Nobs never carry cash on them,’ I remembered my aunty Chrissie saying. ‘They put everything down on account. They haven’t got any ready cash anyway, all their wealth is tied up in property and land and then there’s the crippling taxes. They haven’t got an arse in their trousers.’

‘Yes, awful, isn’t it?’ Lord Robin said over his shoulder as we followed him into the hotel lobby. ‘But please don’t even think of addressing me as “Lord”. I’m plain old Robin to my friends.’

‘No danger of that,’ I wanted to say, but left it unexpressed as suddenly the night looked like it was beginning to show some potential. Robin breezed up to the reception talking loudly and flapping his hands about, and people were staring. My brown leather bomber jacket and skin-tight jeans felt out of place in the lobby of the Hilton Hotel among the immaculately dressed staff and flashy Yanks.

‘Not yet, Lord Robin, but as soon as it does I’ll have it sent directly up to your suite. Is there anything else I can do for you, sir?’

Suite? Suite? Maybe I’ve got this all wrong
.

‘Could you cash a cheque for, say, five hundred pounds and, erm … send some cigarettes up. A couple of packs of Winston for me and, er, what are those fags you smoke called, Paul?’

Please don’t say I smoke Cadets
. Cadets were one of the less expensive brands, down there with Sovereign and No. 10. Common as muck. Not the done thing to be seen smoking in the hallowed corridors of the Hilton. A sophisticated Sobranie, yes, or even one of those awful French things that Scottish Billy smoked. Galoshes? Galouise? Ghastly. But most definitely not a humble Cadet.

‘Cadets! That was it,’ he shouted triumphantly, his voice carrying across the lobby.

Oh Lord
.

‘I’m afraid we don’t stock Cadets, Lord Robin.’

Sweet Jesus, just let the earth open up and take me now
.

‘However, I can send a member of staff up to the garage to get you some. How many packs?’

‘Oh, a couple of cartons,’ Robin said absently, ambling off towards the lifts, ‘and send some champagne up as well. Oh, and make a reservation for eight o’clock at Trader Vic’s, will you?’

‘Make him take it, will you plea—?’ It was out of his hand and in my pocket before he could finish his sentence. Gift horses and mouths? Not me.

Dinner was very lively. We drank nearly every cocktail that was on the menu, followed by wine and then more champagne and became very animated and loud. I lost all inhibition and did the court jester bit and when the cigarette girl with her tray appeared at the table (they still had ‘em then) Robin insisted I took at least a dozen packs. By the end of the evening I had enough to stock a small tobacconist’s shop. Oh, a good time was had by all. The other diners must have hated us and even today I’m squirming a little bit as I recall it. Robin in his matter-of-fact way told us wild and highly improbable tales about his titled friends and family and the many adventures and interesting people he’d encountered on his extensive travels. An outrageous fantasist or not, there was no doubting he was great company and I started to warm to him, my affections no doubt fuelled by that inner glow you get from slugging enough booze to make you feel affable towards all mankind.

Robin passed out on one of the sofas as soon as we got in. Tony and I collapsed on the bed, too drunk to even raid the minibar. We discussed Lord Robin quietly in the dark, trying to work him out, and in the end came to the unanimous decision that he was indeed a lord, albeit a little eccentric, but obviously very wealthy. I must remember to take the shampoos and soap out of the bathroom before we go was the last thing I remember thinking before I sank into a deep sleep.

The phone was ringing. I came to with a start and half opened my eyes. Where the hell was I and why won’t somebody answer that phone? I moaned like a cow in labour as the pain of the hangover started to kick in and put my hands over my ears. The phone eventually stopped ringing and from another room I could hear a voice talking to the inconsiderate swine on the other end of the line. Who would be so persistent as to ring and ring at this godforsaken hour of the morning? A pox on ‘em whoever they are, I rambled to myself, rolling over and trying to go back to sleep. As I lay there, the night’s events slowly came back to me in sporadic flashes. I nudged Tony.

‘Jesus,’ he groaned.

Robin knocked on the door before breezing into the room. There was something pathetic about him in his crumpled suit, trying unsuccesfully to disguise the anxiety in his voice as he explained, ‘I just have to pop downstairs to the main desk, there’s a bit of a problem to sort out. Bloody American Express. Order yourselves something to eat, I shan’t be long.’

‘Good heavens, it’s one thirty. What a night, eh? Got a fag on you, anybody?’

‘Help yourself, there’s thousands of ’em on the bedroom floor,’ Tony croaked, slowly pulling himself up in the bed. As soon as Robin left to attend to his ‘bit of a problem’ Tony was out of the bed and hastily pulling his clothes on.

‘Get up now and get dressed,’ he demanded. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Why?’ I could do with another hour in bed.

‘American Express, that’s why. Didn’t you hear him? He said there’s a problem with his card which means it’s probably nicked, so get dressed unless you want to be seen as an accomplice.’

Not again. Not the police. My mother would kill me.

I was out of bed like a whippet on cocaine and we were both dressed and out of the door within minutes, taking the lift to the mezzanine instead of all the way to the ground floor so we could watch the front desk from the balcony, unobserved. There was a bit of a commotion going on. The manager was there and a couple of members of security. Two coppers were talking to Robin, who was running his hands through his hair and shouting that there had been a terrible misunderstanding. The police eventually took him off.

‘Told you,’ Tony said. ‘That card wasn’t his and you were right all along, he was a fraud, no more a lord than you or me. Still, it was a bit of fun. Now let’s make a discreet exit. Side door, I think?’