Ensuring his surgical facemask and sunglasses cover enough of him to render his identity unrecognisable, Chris crosses the road to the dark frontage of Patel’s Stores and slides into the corner recess.
Wearing sunglasses and a mask at night might attract attention, except this is Pond Street W1, where the twenty per cent who aren’t are asking, “Would sir like to see the wine menu?”
His PR consultant boss, Gordon Price, is in the restaurant opposite. The bastard is wining and dining Clarissa Vroom, daughter of the recently ennobled Frank Vroom, a former car-salesperson, who is drinking buddies with the Minister for Greasing Palms. While as juiced as a fiddler at a barn dance, the Minister bemoaned the lack of cheap PPE to Frank.
“No problem,” said Frank. “I have contacts.”
“Get me some,” he slurred. And so, Frank fell into a multi-billion-pound contract for enough PPE to kit out the entire NHS with plastic bags disguised as surgical gowns by the expedient of attaching arms and lasering the words, “Anti-Viral PPE” on the front. As is the case with Chinese factories, they got it wrong and so “Aunty Viral PPE Plc” was born.
Clarissa is an old school friend and Chris introduced her to his boss to get their business.
“I’m going to marry that bitch,” Gordon declared after she’d left. Chris envied Gordon’s confidence but his declaration upset him because he loved Clarissa and had done so since they were fourteen – he just lacked the self-belief to do anything about it.
Outside Patel’s, Chris turned on his transceiver and tuned in to the bug planted on Gordon.
“Don’t worry about the name,” Gordon said. “We can turn it into an ingenious play on words.”
“Oh, you’re so clever,” Clarissa giggled.
“Good, glad you think so. Look, I’ve been pondering. I know it’s early in our relationship, but I wondered if you’d consent to marrying me.”
Chris clenched his fists.
“Oh Gordon,” Clarissa said, “I like you, but it’s Chris who brought me here. I’m drawn to him like a butterfly to a magnet.”
“A what to a what?” Gordon exploded, “You stupid bitch, that makes no sense.”
“I love Chris. I always have.”
“He’s a fucking moron.”
“I guess you’ll find that’s Gordon,” Clarissa giggled again. “Gordon is a moron.”
“What? What are you talking about?” He reached for his phone and text messaged Chris.
G:>You’re fucking sacked.
C:>I don’t care.
Chris crossed the road, burst into the restaurant, whacked Gordon square in the face with a right hander Tyson Fury would have been proud of and swept Clarissa up in his arms.
“Don’t call my fiancé a stupid bitch,” he snarled at the prostrate Gordon.
Clarissa looks at him, “How did you know?”
“Errrmmm.”
“You. Were. Jealous. You followed us.”
Chris nods his head and thinks, “Fuck, I’ve blown this.”
Clarissa smiles, plants a huge smacker on his lips and says, “Oh Chris. How sweet.”
There are, dear reader, pros and cons to resentment.
