Still, this year. Oh yes, this year for certain, it had to be this year. Something good was coming with the autumn, he knew it for sure.
Meanwhile he watched the lines deepen around his wonderful mouth (it was, without doubt, wonderful) and calculated the odds against him in the race between time and opportunity.
It was nine-fifteen at night. September 29th, and it was chilly, even in the foyer of the Imperial Hotel. No Indian summer to bless the streets this year: autumn had London in its jaws and was shaking the city bare.
The chill had got to his tooth, his wretched, crumbling tooth. If he’d gone to the dentist’s, instead of turning over in his bed and sleeping another hour, he wouldn’t be feeling this discomfort. Well, too late now, he’d go tomorrow. Plenty of time tomorrow. No need for an appointment. He’d just smile at the receptionist, she’d melt and tell him she could find a slot for him somewhere, he’d smile again, she’d blush and he’d see the dentist then and there instead of waiting two weeks like the poor nerds who didn’t have wonderful faces.
For tonight he’d just have to put up with it. All he needed was one lousy punter – a husband who’d pay through the nose for taking it in the mouth – then he could retire to an all-night club in Soho and content himself with reflections. As long as he didn’t find himself with a confession-freak on his hands, he could spit his stuff and be done by half ten.
But tonight wasn’t his night. There was a new face on the reception desk of the Imperial, a thin, shot-at face with a mismatched rug perched (glued) on his pate, and he’d been squinting at Gavin for almost half an hour.
The usual receptionist, Madox, was a closet-case Gavin had seen prowling the bars once or twice, an easy touch if you could handle that kind. Madox was putty in Gavin’s hand; he’d even bought his company for an hour a couple of months back. He’d got a cheap rate too – that was good politics. But this new man was straight, and vicious, and he was on to Gavin’s game.
Idly, Gavin sauntered across to the cigarette machine, his walk catching the beat of the muzack as he trod the maroon carpet. Lousy fucking night.
The receptionist was waiting for him as he turned from the machine, packet of Winston in hand.
‘Excuse me … Sir.’ It was a practised pronunciation that was clearly not natural. Gavin looked sweetly back at him.
‘Yes?’
‘Are you actually a resident at this hotel. . . Sir?’
‘Actually -‘
‘If not, the management would be obliged if you’d vacate the premises immediately.’
‘I’m waiting for somebody.’
‘Oh?’
The receptionist didn’t believe a word of it.
‘Well just give me the name – ‘
‘No need.’
‘Give me the name – ‘, the man insisted, ‘and I’ll gladly check to see if your . . . contact… is in the hotel.’
The bastard was going to try and push it, which narrowed the options. Either Gavin could choose to play it cool, and leave the foyer, or play the outraged customer and stare the other man down. He chose, more to be bloody-minded than because it was good tactics, to do the latter.
‘You don’t have any right – ‘ he began to bluster, but the receptionist wasn’t moved.
‘Look, sonny – ‘ he said, ‘I know what you’re up to, so don’t try and get snotty with me or I’ll fetch the police.’ He’d lost control of his elocution: it was getting further south of the river with every syllable. ‘We’ve got a nice clientele here, and they don’t want no truck with the likes of you, see?’
‘Fucker,’ said Gavin very quietly.
‘Well that’s one up from a cocksucker, isn’t it?’
Touché.
‘Now, sonny – you want to mince out of here under your own steam or be carried out in cuffs by the boys in blue?’
Gavin played his last card.
‘Where’s Mr Madox? I want to see Mr Madox: he knows me.’
‘I’m sure he does,’ the receptionist snorted, ‘I’m bloody sure he does. He was dismissed for improper conduct -‘ The artificial accent was re-establishing itself’ – so I wouldn’t try dropping his name here if I were you. OK? On your way.’