E: Chapter Four (yes Four, Two &; Three are missing)

The week after his lunch with Tyson, JP decided to take advantage of
a quiet afternoon at Parallax to do some shopping at Harvey Nichols. He
has told Angel, who he believes is slowly falling in love with him, to
cover his absence by diverting all calls to his cell-phone, and
promised her that he'd be back after lunch. This will not
happen.


JP takes clothes very seriously, and had missed the sartorial
temple that is Harvey Nicks during his four year sojourn in California.
It would be inaccurate, however, to say that JP loved shopping per se;
what JP loved was owning beautiful clothes and he regarded the process
of shopping as a necessary evil means towards this end.



Because of this antipathy towards the shopping process, JP
invariably shopped by himself: he has good taste and he trusts it and
so is exceedingly efficient: reviewing, discarding, selecting and
buying with a ruthless speed. Shopping companions, particularly the
type of women who had to try-on and solicit opinions on every
conceivable alternative, not only slowed JP down, but drove him to
poorly concealed fury.


To illustrate this, it is necessary to reveal that JP had
once ended a three month relationship by abandoning his then
girl-friend, without a word of goodbye, whilst she was in the changing
room of a department store. The provocation had been three hours of
waiting as she tried on no less than twenty-seven separate outfits
without buying a single one. By the time the poor girl (already in JP's
mind an "ex"), had located him in the bar of a neighbouring hotel, he
was quite drunk and flirting with the Antipodean bargirl who was
letting him feed her olives (it was a slow afternoon).


"I'm terribly sorry, my dear, but I'm afraid I decided I
couldn't be with somewhat that indecisive for one minute longer", he
explained, "Oh, which dress did you choose in the end?" he added in an
inebriated attempt at being conciliatory.


"I didn't" replied the stunned Miranda (for such was her
name, she deserves to be remembered for this indignity), still too in
shock to fully accept that three months of emotional investment was
being negated by three hours of shopping, "I found one, but I wanted
your opinion on it".


"Ah. I see. Well, I'm afraid my opinion is no longer, what
you would call, germane to the question. This is Jacky, by the way.
Maybe Jacky has an opinion. Did you bring the outfit with you - you
could try it out in the loo here and see what Jacky
thinks..?"


Since that incident, JP has been quite religious about being
a solo-shopper and on this particular day, his strategy had been
entirely successful. Less than 65 minutes intense searching had secured
him two suits (one Paul Smith and one Armani), a selection of soft
casuals courtesy of Nicole Fahri and an assortment of cuff-links and
other boy accessories, including some snake-skin moccasins by Jeffrey
West, which he had no idea when he would wear but simply had to have.
Satisfied with his hunter-gathering, JP ascended to the 5th floor in
order to replenish his resources.


The 5th Floor at Harvey Nichols has obtained something like
cult status amongst ladies who lunch and other aficionados of leisure.
In a world of inadequate department store restaurants, it emerged early
as a place where wealthy people who were serious about both shopping
and lunching simultaneously sate those vital needs.


On this occasion, JP chose to eschew the eponymous fifth
floor terrace restaurant for the sushi bar. Yo! Sushi, and its other
conveyer belt imitators offer a unique social respectability to the
lone diner, there is none of that "Table for One, sir?" from a
judgemental maitre'd; who delicately inclines his nose as he shows you
to a table in the very centre of the restaurant en route to which
scores of love-filled couples and happy families exude charity at your
solitude. No, Yo!, with its high-stools, its robotic drinks attendants,
its colour-coded charging system and its packed bar providing shoulder
to shoulder anonymity (because it is a standard rule in city-living
that the closer physical proximity you find yourself in with your
fellow metro inhabitants, the less you have to acknowledge their
presence. Hence it is that the you will happily wave to a fellow
motorist when you are both insulated in the social cocoon of your car;
but will studiously avoid catching the eye of a fellow commuter when
you are jammed, crotch-to-crotch, mouth-to-pit in the underground), was
perfect for a solo, hungry shopper; and JP settled himself in with a
certain relief from the stress of the morning's
exertions.


His mind a pleasant blank, as he munched through a selection
of sashimi, teriyaki and popped multiple pods of edemame JP's reverie
was suddenly interrupted by some commotion amongst the dinners to his
right. There seemed to be something out of the ordinary on the conveyer
belt that was exciting them, and there was a quite uncharacteristic
pointing and nudging and even giggling occurring amongst shoppers who
normally knew well enough to respect the rules of privacy. At first JP
planned to ignore it all together and return to his pleasant solitude,
but curiosity got the better of him, and he craned his neck to see what
the offending object was - a rat, perhaps, a gold watch, or a pair of
Japanese knickers?


Then he saw it: nothing more exciting than a napkin, but, it
seemed, a napkin with a note scrawled on it. The napkin was making slow
progress around the belt, because every other diner would pick it up,
read it and react in someway, before replacing it on the belt for it to
continue its journey.


More than this, JP began to notice, the reactions to the note
seemed somehow to include him. Not everyone, but a fair proportion of
those who had read the note were now shooting him sly, conspiratorial
glances, or indicating him to their neighbours, whilst whispering
behind their own napkins. The realisation began to dawn on JP that the
note might be intended for him. He scanned the dinners looking for a
familiar face that might be behind this gag. The usual mixture of well
healed ladies, posh-teenagers on half-term, business men and tourists
beamed back expectantly at him. No, no-one he knew. Very strange.



The note was now within reach. JP screwed up his eyes in an
attempt to read it without actually picking it up, trying to be oh-so
casual. But the note was folded now, with only the first word ("To"),
in deep purple ink which had smudged into the too-porous napkin.



Giving up the pretence at disinterestedness, but attempting
to hang on to at least a slice of cool, JP extended his chop-sticks and
grabbed the napkin in a deft gesture, like it was just another piece of
raw-fish. Firmly avoiding the close, and by this point quite
unconcealed, attention of the entire population of the restaurant JP
unfolded the napkin and placed it before him. On a now much handled and
smudged napkin, a curling, elaborate hand, wielding a fountain pen
imbued with royal purple ink, had written as follows:


"To the man in the Bright Blue Shirt:
You have good taste and good looks. That much we have in common?
Respond by return napkin if you also share my penchant for adventure
-x-"


There is a Sherlock Holmes story in which the great detective
attempts to deduce the hiding place of a stolen item by staging a fake
attack on the thief's house, and then intently watching her reaction.
The inference being, that in times of crisis, we reveal the truth about
ourselves, even those truths which we would normally seek to keep
concealed. Let it be noted, therefore, that despite the vanity that is
often ascribed to him, JP's first reaction on reading this was to check
that he was in fact wearing a bright blue shirt, (he was: an extremely
bright, almost aggressively blue number with out-size cuffs and collar
from William Hunt), and his second reaction was to scan all the other
men at the table to see if there were any others who could conceivably
be caught by the address descriptor (in JP's view there were not, since
he rather felt that good looking men were rare in London at the best of
times, and of those who might qualify, none were wearing shirts that
were even remotely blue).


Only then did he allow himself to come to the conclusion,
long since reached by everyone else around the conveyer belt, that he
was in fact the intended recipient of the note. That established, the
next question was: Was it a set-up, or for real? Whilst JP was not
unused to being appreciated for his looks, or to unsolicited advances,
the unexpectedness of this message, the odd-ball means of delivery and
the sub-literary phrasing (who says "penchant" anymore, really) led him
to suspect a rouse. Out of long habit and recollection of endless
campus japes, he instinctively assumed Tyson's involvement and scanned
the hall again, but the giant American, who was nothing if not
conspicuous, was nowhere to be seen. His next thought was that LP might
be behind this - they had spoken on the 'phone that morning and he had
told her that he planned to go shopping. She knew him well enough to
guess that he would end up here, and whilst practical jokes weren't
usually her thing, she had been miffed at him for not coming with her
to help choose an anniversary gift for their parents, and maybe this
was some form of revenge?


Even as he was speculating on all these possibilities, JP
knew that he had to respond to the note. Even it was most likely a
set-up, he couldn't just let it pass - the possibility of it being real
was too tantalising. There were some extremely well-healed women
sitting round the table - a Middle Eastern beauty in particular he had
registered on sitting down, though she had been on her mobile phone
almost incessantly and didn't seem to have even noticed the goings on.



JP pondered on how to respond without seeming a fool (if it
was a rouse), but also without seeming unadventurous (if it was real).
That was the challenge. Should he just get up and address the table?
No, that would be too overt, and the note had explicitly requested a
reply by napkin. At the same time he had to change the rules somewhat,
or raise the stakes, otherwise he would seem too
passive.


Inspiration struck. He unfolded a fresh napkin from the stack
in front of him and in his own firm hand, wrote as
follows:


A true adventurer wouldn't hide behind sushi. Reveal yourself
and your good taste. Best, Blue Shirt.


Pleased with the confidence of the challenge, JP placed the
note on the belt and intnently watched its progress. As did everyone
else. All pretence at anonymity gone now, JP glared at his fellow
diners, daring any of the merely curious to touch the note. This was
intended for his unknown correspondent, and for her only, she would
have to reveal herself now, either by accepting the challenge and
declaring herself, or by responding to the note. Either way he would
see her. The note continued its slow journey around the bar. No one
touched it. JP waited expectantly, someone had to flinch. He paid
particular interest as the note, neatly flanked by a pile of tuna
sashimi to its left and a fruit salad to its right, passed by any women
of remotely shaggable age and demeanour. Several read the note as it
passed by them and then smiled encouragingly at him, one or two
guffawed.
A fat elderly man in a business suit and bow-tie gave him a cheeky
thumbs up; but no one moved to make the response he was looking for.
The beautiful Egyptian- JP had decided, somewhat arbitrarily that she
was Egyptian, though she was too far away for him to hear her accent -
remained engaged on her phone, delicately nibbling on a prawn, still
quite oblivious to the drama playing out around her.


The note made a full rotation. No one touched it this time,
sensing the challenge in JP's stare, though all craned their necks to
read it, and joined in his vigil. The Yo!Sushi waiting staff, used to a
faster seat turn-over, realised that something was amiss began to
encourage those patrons who had finished their meal to pay and move on.
JP, though he had long since lost interest in food, grabbed several
more trays of stuff so as to further secure his place. The note
continued on its endless, circular trajectory. Growing bored now, a
number of dinners, including most of the more promising women, paid
their bills and left. The fat business man patted JP's shoulder and
made a brave, if ultimately unsuccessful, attempt at a rakish grimace
on his way out. The note passed JP for a third time, still untouched
and unacknowledged. The Egyptian exited, still on the phone and sipping
out of a bottle of water, her shawl brushing JP as she stalked out on
long, cream linen clad, legs. He turned to appreciate her fine
departing form, with the sighing admittance that it wasn't her.



Perhaps he had been too forward, and scared off whoever she
was - he should have played it more coyly, drawn them out slowly. Maybe
they had just changed their mind when they had seen what a muppet he
was. Perhaps it had been a joke - but if so, not a very good one, where
was the punch line? The note began its fourth circuit. A young Sloany
girl with straight blond hair reached into her hand-bag as it
approached her. She wasn't really JP's type, but he found himself
biting his lip expectantly as she pulled out what looked like a pen.
When it turned out to be lip-gloss, which she applied ostentatiously,
he slammed his hand down on the counter in frustration, causing his
pile of empty food trays to clatter and fall. The Sushi makers in the
centre-pit looked at him with disapproval, and one of them, with a
pointed glare, removed the napkin from the conveyer belt and threw it
in the waste disposal.


At this point, JP gave up the ghost. He looked round the bar.
Few of the dinners who had witnessed the first note remained. He
shrugged at them in what he hoped was a self-depreciating, "isn't the
universe a funny place and this happens to me the whole time", manner,
and pressed the assistance bell, indicating that he was ready to leave.



Remembering that he had dropped a few empty trays on the
floor, JP bent down to retrieve them, at which point the robot-drinks
server, continuing on its independent trajectory, collided rather hard
with his arse. Swearing with annoyance at the whole sorry situation, JP
spun round ready to kick the blasted robot. This is when he noticed the
napkin clenched between its robot fingers. A new napkin, but one
covered in a now familiar purple script:


Fellow Adventurer: I thought you might try and raise the
stakes. You see I know a little about you, thus I have the advantage
and will not be so easily drawn. You will have to work harder: proceed
to the Lanesbrough, take a room in your own name. Go up and wait.
-x-


PS: Any attempt to surprise me in the lobby will be taken as
a sign of extreme bad faith and will result in us never meeting. This
would be a great shame.
*