Nocturne Read Free Page A

leaned forward across the desk.
    ‘ You can, ’ he said, ‘ I know you can. ’
    ‘ But I ’ m not sure I want to. ’
    ‘ Why not? ’ He had his hand out for the video. I gave it to him. ‘ This is OK, as far as it goes, but if you ’ re serious, really serious, then you have to be around these guys, understand the way they work, what drives them, what keeps them at it. ’
    ‘ Ego, ’ I said at once. ‘ And money. ’
    ‘ Of course, of course. ’ He was smiling now, indulgent this time, the kindly uncle. ‘ But it doesn ’ t end there, believe me. These guys are more complex than they seem and, like it or not, they matter. ’ He tapped the cassette. ‘ If you ’ re really interested in change, in doing something, then you have to start at the top. You want to change the world? Fine. You think the guys we elect are a load of wankers? Terrific. But get to know them first. Time spent in reconnaissance is seldom wasted. Rule number one. ’
    Listening to him, it occurred to me that we appeared to have swopped roles. He was pitching. I was playing hard to get.
    ‘ What about afterwards? ’ I said carefully.
    ‘ We do another series. ’
    ‘ I meant me, ’ I nodded at the cassette. ‘ And all those ideas I sent you. ’
    Brendan looked at me for a long time. Then the smile was back. ‘ We ’ ll see, ’ he said softly. ‘ But first things first, eh? ’
    Back home , in Petersfield, my mother was delighted. So delighted, she offered to pay for the van I ’ d need to hire to ship my stuff up to London. Thus far, I hadn ’ t given much thought to where I might live, but once the Doubleact offer was in writing, I knew I had to get myself organised. The series was already in pre-production. Brendan Quayle was i nsisting I start no later than 1 st November. Time was short.
    I spent the best part of the next week in London, camping out on Nikki ’ s living-room floor. Nikki was my best girlfriend. We ’ d been together down in Bournemouth and - lucky thing - she ’ d already got herself a job on a new fashion magazine. Her flat was over in Chiswick and I left every morning after breakfast, taking the tube to the Angel and schlepping from estate agent to estate agent, looking for a place to rent.
    The first shock was financial. Down in Bournemouth, I ’ d been used to paying £150 a month for a room. Up here, that kind of money wouldn ’ t buy me a bus shelter. By lunchtime on day one, my dreams of a studio flat in Islington had withered on the vine. They were certainly available, and some of them sounded really nice, but at £650 a month they were way past my limit. With my trusty A-Z , I began to work north, neighbourhood by neighbourhood, amazed at how slowly the rents came down. Even one-bedroomed flats in Stoke Newington would have stretched me to the limit. Finally, depressed by yet another afternoon of trudging round damp, badly converted bedsits, I phoned my mother. It might, I suggested, be cheaper to commute.
    ‘ Have you thought about buying? ’ she said at once.
    ‘ I can ’ t. ’
    ‘ Why not? ’
    ‘ I haven ’ t got the money. For the deposit. ’
    ‘ How much would you need? ’
    I did the calculations. Up around Tottenham, only that day, I ’ d seen places going for £48,000.
    ‘ They normally ask for five per cent. ’ I said. ‘ That ’ s £2,460. ’
    ‘ When would you want it? ’
    ‘ Now. ’
    My mother gave the proposition a moment or two ’ s thought then told me the money was mine. I could pay her back on a monthly basis. We ’ d work the figures out later.
    Next morning, newly bold, I was back in Tottenham Green. The streets off the High Road were full of ‘ For Sale ’ signs but most of the places looked grim. I was beginning to wonder whether I couldn ’ t afford a bigger mortgag e when - late in the afternoon - I found exactly what I ’ d been looking for.
    The street was a cul-de-sac, a hundred metres or so from end to end. At the top was a major road; at