Read Clapham Lights for Free Online Page B

remember. Last tax year we made more money than Monaco and-’
    ‘Actually, Mark,’ Harry says as he drops a sun-dried tomato onto his stomach, picks it up and eats it, ‘why don’t you send me that on an email?’
    ‘Sure.’
    ‘Good. Anyway, enough of all this business talk. Tuck in.’
    Harry hacks away at his pizza with the blunt cutlery and shovels chunks into his mouth. He then pours his salad onto the remaining half of his pizza, folds it in two and devours it as Mark tries not to look.
    ‘What time do they expect you back at the office?’ Harry asks, picking food out of his teeth.
    ‘I’m not going back until later. I’ve got another meeting this afternoon .’
    ‘You’re a busy man, clearly. I’ve told my team not to expect me back as I’m off to the Oval later to watch the cricket.’
    ‘Actually, I’m sure we’ve got a box at the Oval… and that’s another benefit of investing with us. Each year you’ll get tickets for the internationals . In fact, if there’s space for another corporate guest for the Test match, I’ll definitely get you in. If you’re serious about investing, of course.’
    ‘Oh, I’m serious. Now I know what you mean by MenDax building strong personal relationships.’
    ‘Good. Um, Harry,’ Mark says, changing tone, ‘I’ve left my watch in my gym bag, have you got the time?’
    Harry lifts his glasses and checks his gold Casio. ‘It’s two forty-two.’
    ‘Shit, I’m going to have to go. I won’t have time for dessert. I’ve got to be somewhere before three. Harry, do you mind covering this? I’ll pay for the next one.’
    ‘It’s a shame you have to rush off.’
    ‘Yes, it’s just that I’ve got another client to meet and he’s only in the UK for one day a month.’
    ‘You go, Mark.’
    Mark unrolls his sleeves and adjusts his tie as Harry, whose shirt is a patchwork of damp stains, gets up to shake hands. Mark gives him a limp business card from the stack in his wallet, thanks him for lunch and hurries off.
    He dodges through a group of French school children who have congregated outside the restaurant and rushes towards Green Park. The sun is burning down and he’s breathing heavily. The clock on the spire of St James’s Church says ten to three. He runs as far as the Royal Academy and stops again to catch his breath at a bus stop. Spotting a gap in the traffic, he lumbers across the road, narrowly avoiding a motorcycle courier, and hails a taxi.
    ‘The Churchberry,’ he pants.
    ‘What, hang on mate, that’s two hundred yards up the road, you can walk it,’ the cabbie shouts out the passenger window.
    ‘I can’t. I’ll give you a tenner.’
    ‘Get in.’
     
    Mark sits alone at a table on the edge of the dining room and, thanks to the air conditioning, has started to cool down. Crystal chandeliers hang from the ceiling and on the wall beside him is a portrait of King Charles II on horseback. At the next table along, three glamorous elderly ladies are sharing tea and scones.
    A waiter with a slick side parting waltzes over.
    ‘I’m not too late for lunch am I?’ Mark asks.
    The waiter studies his watch. ‘We stop serving lunch at three p.m. You have two minutes to spare,’ he answers with a hint of irritation.
    ‘Good. Right. To start I’ll have two portions of the deep fried whitebait-’
    ‘Are you waiting for somebody to join you, sir?’
    ‘No. For main I’ll have the spit-roast duckling and the chicken, ham and leek pie.’
    ‘And this is just for you, sir?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Is that all, or would you like the dessert menu as well?’
    ‘Err, no. But I want some drinks. Get me three bottles of the Gruner Veltliner Renner,’ Mark’s eyes turn to the champagne list, ‘A bottle of the Bollinger Grande Annee… and a pint of diet Coke. Bring all of it over but only uncork one of the bottles of white for starters.’
    ‘I’m sorry, we don’t serve diet Coke.’
    ‘Normal Coke?’
    ‘No, sir.’
    ‘What’s that Italian