Vanished Years Read Online Free PDF Page B

He glanced at Piers, who raised his eyebrows in disbelief.
    ‘Yes. I was thinking. It could be quite good. Why don’t I leave? And then you don’t even need to buy the burgers. Or cook them, for that matter.’
    ‘You’re not serious,’ said Piers. It was a statement, not a question.
    ‘Deadly. It could be a solution. I really don’t think I’m cut out for all this.’
    ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together,’ boomed Piers.
    ‘OK,’ I replied meekly.
    ‘You can do it if you pay a hundred thousand,’ was his generous last thought on the subject.
    ‘No, I don’t have that kind of money.’
    ‘Then stop whining and get on with it.’
    ‘OK. Right.’
    Piers then went upstairs to try to sell me to the girls’ team, but unfortunately they weren’t buying.
    I went to the loo, so that the others could have the bitch about me I could tell they needed. As I came out I passed a small door. It was ajar. I peeked through. Outside was a service staircase. I felt like the character from
Midnight Express
. I looked around. There was no one in sight. I slipped through and shut the door behind me. I leant against it, my heart racing so hard, my vision throbbed. Did I dare? What would everyone say? Someone walked past talking loudly. Probably Philip Green had arrived with the champagne. Fuck it.
    I ran down that staircase three at a time. I crashed against the emergency door. An alarm screamed inside the building, and I ran across the road. I have rarely felt so exhilarated in my life. I sprinted all the way to Piccadilly, crossed the street and nearly crashed into Richard Curtis getting out of a taxi. I swerved into the Ritz. It was a narrow escape. In the Ritz everything was going on as usual. I collected myself, looked back to make sure the scoutmaster wasn’t following and about to blow his whistle at any moment. What a stroke of luck that I was wearing a suit. There seemed to be only one thing for it. I straightened my tie, did up my jacket, smiled at the receptionist, and breezed down that beautiful long corridor, with its cream walls and gilt mirrors, its sconces with their wonky little lamp-shades, past the Palm Court, where a fat bald man played the violin accompanied by a grim spiritualist on the piano, and straight into the restaurant.
    ‘Do you have a table for one, by any chance?’ I asked the maître d’.
    ‘Of course, Mr Everett. This way, please.’
    He led me through the half-empty room to a table in the window. I sat down and stroked the crisp pink linen. I was in heaven. The restaurant at the Ritz was one of the most beautiful dining rooms in the world. At night it had a soft pink glow and a slightly religious atmosphere. Conversation was hushed, delicate, and broken only by the sound of corks being drawn from bottles. Candles fluttered inthe breeze from the waiters’ tailcoats, and ghosts of a thousand dinners could be heard under those ceilings of pink and blue skies if you listened very carefully. Outside, Green Park stretched down towards the Palace. Lamps shone in necklaces laced through the bare winter trees.
    I called my agent.
    ‘Michael. I left. You’ve got to tell Richard. Say I’m sorry. I couldn’t take it.’
    ‘What happened? Why are you whispering?’
    ‘I’m very upset. It was just hideous. I can’t talk.’
    I had a delicious dinner and then went home.
    I never slept so well in my life as I did that night. When I woke up it felt like the first morning of the school holidays. I went out with my bike to get the papers and have a leisurely breakfast, but on my front doorstep was the lady who had collected me the night before.
    ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked, without stopping, panic suddenly exploding through me again.
    ‘They want you to come back,’ she said.
    ‘No. I can’t.’
    I got on my bike. Another lady appeared. Christ, maybe they were going to abduct me. The second lady grabbed my handlebars.
    ‘Look. I’m sorry. I’m very late. I am not coming