Neverwhere(3)

And the subject had indeed come up. Jessica had, however, convinced herself that Richard’s troll collection was a mark of endearing eccentricity, comparable to Mr. Stockton’s collection of angels. Jessica was in the process of organizing a traveling exhibition of Mr. Stockton’s angel collection, and she had come to the conclusion that great men always collected something. In actuality Richard did not really collect trolls. He had found a troll on the sidewalk outside the office, and, in a vain attempt at injecting a little personality into his working world, he had placed it on his computer monitor. The others had followed over the next few months, gifts from colleagues who had noticed that Richard had a penchant for the ugly little creatures. He had taken the gifts and positioned them, strategically, around his desk, beside the telephones and the framed photograph of Jessica.

The photograph had a yellow Post-it note stuck to it.

It was a Friday afternoon. Richard had noticed that events were cowards: they didn’t occur singly, but instead they would run in packs and leap out at him all at once. Take this particular Friday, for example. It was, as Jessica had pointed out to him at least a dozen times in the last month, the most important day of his life. So it was unfortunate that, despite the Post-it note Richard had left on his fridge door at home, and the other Post-it note he had placed on the photograph of Jessica on his desk, he had forgotten about it completely and utterly.

Also, there was the Wandsworth report, which was overdue and taking up most of his head. Richard checked another row of figures; then he noticed that page 17 had vanished, and he set it up to print out again; and another page down, and he knew that if he were only left alone to finish it . . . if, miracle of miracles, the phone did not ring . . . It rang. He thumbed the speakerphone.

“Hello? Richard? The managing director needs to know when he’ll have the report.”

Richard looked at his watch. “Five minutes, Sylvia. It’s almost wrapped up. I just have to attach the P & L projection.”

“Thanks, Dick. I’ll come down for it.” Sylvia was, as she liked to explain, “the MD’s PA,” and she moved in an atmosphere of crisp efficiency. He thumbed the speakerphone off; it rang again, immediately. “Richard,” said the speaker, with Jessica’s voice, “it’s Jessica. You haven’t forgotten, have you?”

“Forgotten?” He tried to remember what he could have forgotten. He looked at Jessica’s photograph for inspiration and found all the inspiration he could have needed in the shape of a yellow Post-it note stuck to her forehead.

“Richard? Pick up the telephone.”

He picked up the phone, reading the Post-it note as he did so. “Sorry, Jess. No, I hadn’t forgotten. Seven P.M., at Ma Maison Italiano. Should I meet you there?”

“Jessica, Richard. Not Jess.” She paused for a moment. “After what happened last time? I don’t think so. You really could get lost in your own backyard, Richard.”

Richard thought about pointing out that anyone could have confused the National Gallery with the National Portrait Gallery, and that it wasn’t she who had spent the whole day standing in the rain (which was, in his opinion, every bit as much fun as walking around either place until his feet hurt), but he thought better of it.

“I’ll meet you at your place,” said Jessica. “We can walk down together.”

“Right, Jess. Jessica—sorry.”

“You have confirmed our reservation, haven’t you, Richard.”

“Yes,” lied Richard earnestly. The other line on his phone had begun to ring. “Jessica, look, I . . . “

“Good,” said Jessica, and she broke the connection. He picked up the other line.

“Hi Dick. It’s me, Gary.” Gary sat a few desks down from Richard. He waved. “Are we still on for drinks? You said we could go over the Merstham account.”

“Get off the bloody phone, Gary. Of course we are.” Richard put down the phone. There was a telephone number at the bottom of the Post-it note; Richard had written the Post-it note to himself, several weeks earlier. And he had made the reservation: he was almost certain of that. But he had not confirmed it. He had kept meaning to, but there had been so much to do and Richard had known that there was plenty of time. But events run in packs . . .

Sylvia was now standing next to him. “Dick? The Wandsworth report?”

“Almost ready, Sylvia. Look, just hold on a sec, can you?”

He finished punching in the number, breathed a sigh of relief when somebody answered, “Ma Maison. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” said Richard. “A table for three, for tonight. I think I booked it. And if I did I’m confirming the reservation. And if I didn’t, I wondered if I could book it. Please.” No, they had no record of a table for tonight in the name of Mayhew. Or Stockton. Or Bartram—Jessica’s surname. And as for booking a table . . .