4

  Humphrey slumped down behind his desk with a family-size bar of Galaxy and waited for Barney’s sadly-all-too-imminent arrival.

  If only the bloke would just stop singing for a while and actually start listening to him they might be able to make a bit of progress.

  Humphrey was absolutely certain he had identified Barney’s primary failing as a professional singer; the young man had an extremely disturbing tendency to open his mouth, in any sort of public setting, and attempt to make noises with it.

  Very, very unpleasant noises.

  Even his screams for immediate assistance, in any sort of public setting, could chill the blood of any potential rescuer.

  His own idea – a personal favourite – was to have Barney attempt something else for a while. Alas, unfortunately, it looked as though it would still have to fall within the darkest depths of the entertainment world and so, unfortunately, it looked as though it would continue to be Humphrey’s problem: for the time being anyway.

  He did feel an obligation to the boy, there was no denying that.

  Proof, if ever there was any, that Humphrey Lovewell was just too soft.

  He was thinking of Anthea there, why was that?

  Something about him being too soft.

  Oh Christ, mocking laughter too.

  Barney, he needed to focus on Barney! He was going to have to be harder.

  Firmer.

  Much more dominant.

  Humphrey broke off a large piece of chocolate.

  This was how it had started the last time.

  Comfort eating.

  It’d been for a completely different reason then though.

  Or had it?

  Not Anthea, not then. But protection, from countless painful aspects of his existence.

  It was a pathetic excuse all right but, perhaps that was all he was as well: a pathetic excuse. Had he not heard it said enough times in his life, from quite a number of independent sources?

  Disgusted by his own predictability, he shoved the chocolate in his mouth in one piece.

  It wasn’t satisfying, he couldn’t even taste it.

  So he broke off another, much larger, chunk and tackled that.

  He’d put on weight the first time from the age of fifteen.

  Attention seeking, that was the technical term for it.

  That’s what he’d called it anyway.

  It had also made him extremely difficult to embrace properly, except by blood relatives of Mr Tickle. That had been vitally important, since it had provided the perfect explanation for the distinct lack of any kind of affection from the direction of his father.

  At least in Humphrey’s mind.

  He had actually asked him for a hug once, although he couldn’t quite remember why. He distinctly recalled being labelled a ‘pathetic excuse for a boy’ for even making such a daft request though.

  Michael wasn’t someone he would – voluntarily – ever have wanted to spend any time in close proximity with anyway, which made the whole thing even more bizarre. In fact, he really couldn’t even begin to imagine what he might have been thinking. He must’ve been on drugs or something.

  Well, yes, of course he had.

  Chocolate!

  It hadn’t simply been a compulsive need to eat that had left him weighing more than an average household’s furniture though. Genetically, he was supposed to be lean and athletic: just like his father.

  Except that Humphrey had been blessed with far better legs than him and was, therefore, far better placed to be able to do justice to a netball skirt.

  That had been attention seeking too, of course.

  Oh, heavens: he was reminiscing.

  That was all right, though. A brief trip down Memory Lane could be rather exhilarating.

  Why had the coin always come down on the side of ‘fight’ though, and not ‘flight’? That would have been far more sensible, certainly with his father. His late adolescence would’ve been different.

  Potentially even crappier, but different.

  His life now would be different.

  Not that his life now could get much crappier, but maybe he would still have Anthea?

  She never reminisced. Then again, she took a general, all-encompassing, umbrage to most things almost immediately, so perhaps she didn’t really see the need to?

  But there was so much more to her than that.

  That performance earlier on, for instance.

  She may not have reminisced but she certainly remembered things, especially things he had done wrong.

  Which, of course, was most things.

  Blimey, the event horizon preventing any nice memories from escaping from her mind must have been close to defying the laws of physics.

  It must’ve been like the end credits of ‘Get Smart’ up there, with all those doors slamming shut.

  If, indeed, she had ever unlocked them to anyone or anything in the first place.

  Humphrey had obviously broken down one or two of them and made his lasting presence felt; he’d obviously got to her, although – apparently – not in any kind of a good way.

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  He’d well and truly got the message that he’d managed to completely ruin her life, although she hadn’t been too specific as to precisely how he was supposed to have done that.

  But all wasn’t lost, not by a long way.

  Because even by giving him all of that – somewhat destructive – credit, she was acknowledging how important he’d been to her: which meant he had her attention.

  He was absolutely positive that she hadn’t thought that one through!

  His own thoughts were interrupted by a face at the window of his office.

  For one awful moment he thought Barney was early for their appointment, but he relaxed considerably the second he realised it wasn’t him.

  What on earth did that say about their working relationship then?

  Before he could further consider that question, the door opened.

  ‘Mr Lovewell?’

  Hell’s toenails.

  What was he supposed to say to that?

  He’d been caught out like this before.

  Admittedly, he’d been caught rather more off-guard the last time. He’d answered the question truthfully through a locked door which, within seconds, was being forced from its hinges by a pair of, rather ferocious-looking, bolt-cutters. He’d then felt obliged to ask his own, somewhat clichéd question of the intruder…

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing then, you bastard?!’

  … which had been met by a medley of four-letter expletives.

  It was a stupid question to ask, given the blatantly obvious circumstances, and he’d cursed himself for coming up with it, using some of the new abusive language he’d just learned. With hindsight, he should have asked the nice gentleman for his autograph perhaps, or to maybe even pose for a photograph with him.

  Something completely unexpected.

  Then again, he might not still be alive to have those sorts of regrets if he’d done that. These debt collector types certainly took no prisoners.

  He’d managed to talk his way out of that one, eventually.

  He could charm everybody could Humphrey.

  Apart from his ex-wife that is.

  Oh, and his father.

  The two most important people in his life.

  Allegedly.

  Yes.

  That was a bit of a waste of a gift then, really.

  Would it even work on this woman he was facing at the moment?

  She mightn’t even be a debt collector; she did look a bit old to be in that sort of game. Although, with the state of the country these days, that might not have made any difference.

  Except that he didn’t actually owe anybody any money this time.

  Or did he?!

  Anthea hadn’t left many major debts for him to have to worry about, having managed to get the house and all of its associated utilities from him during the divorce, together with a hefty chunk of his monthly pay-packet for years to come.

  That was kind of her really, because it left him with fewer long-term financial concerns in his own life. He didn’t have to worry about putting any of his spare money anywhere it might have incurred debts either because, thanks to Anthea – and her brilliant legal adviser – he didn’t have any spare money these days.

  She’d been thinking of him, that was the sort of person she was.

  Kind; considerate.

  Or something like that, anyway.

  That lawyer though, he’d been purely out for himself.

  Well, if it wasn’t something in his personal life, it had to be something to do with work.

  He quickly ran through the list of performers he had sent out into a largely unsuspecting world the previous evening. While none of them would’ve been in danger of ever actually setting the world on fire, they should all – just about – have been able to entertain people reasonably safely.

  If said people were not too fussy.

  And if said people had very low entertainment expectations.

  And if said people were drunk – and preferably unconscious as well – it really couldn’t hurt, either.

  Actually, he might have been doing one or two of his clients a disservice with such a broadly dismissive description; one or two of them may well indeed have had the talent for a spot of global pyromania, albeit accidentally.

  Humphrey would have to clamp down on any act involving naked flames of any kind, just to be on the safe side.

  Barney bloody Adams: it must have been him then.

  That bloke already had more insurance policies on him than a seaside pier. This poor cow must be yet another one of his disgruntled punters.

  She’d be after damages then.

  Well, she certainly wasn’t getting the rest of his chocolate and he had nothing else of any value to offer her.

  Apart from his body.

  Yes.

  So he had absolutely nothing else of any value to offer her.

  Mind you, she didn’t seem to have any sort of psychopathic look to her. In actual fact, this woman looked half asleep.

  Christ, she was!

  How long had he been pondering her question?

  What the hell day was it?

  She had asked him a question, hadn’t she?

  Right then!

  ‘No.’

  He was decisive. She was startled.

  ‘ “No”, what?’

  Humphrey hesitated.

  ‘ “No” being the answer to your question.’

  Whatever it was; she obviously couldn’t remember what she’d asked him either.

  They blinked at each other.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t like to bother you just then. You seemed to be concentrating quite hard on something. Actually, I thought you might have been in the middle of a particularly nasty “number two” experience’.

  Had he passed wind there?

  No!

  His ‘charming’ face clearly needed a significant amount of work.

  ‘I do beg your pardon. Are you here to audition for me? Because, you see, it might be better if you were to make an appointment…’

  ‘No, no, no! Nothing like that. I am here… on official business.’

  Humphrey gulped.

  She must have her bolt-cutters concealed in that pink gingham shopping bag.

  In that case he feared for his deadbolt, he really did.

  ‘Barney Adams’.

  He eyed her, suspiciously. She still wasn’t getting his chocolate, whatever Barney’s singing might have done to her.

  ‘What about him?’

  ‘I’m here because of him.’

  Hell’s bells.

  ‘I thought as much. Is this anything to do with his singing by any chance?’

  The woman smiled warmly.

  ‘His singing; his presence; his body: everything!’

  Hell’s bells with knobs on.

  That boy had obviously really done it this time.

  Just wait until he got his hands on him.

  ‘May I ask, without admitting responsibility for him in any way whatsoever, what exactly you mean by that?’

  Truth be told, he was almost afraid to know the answer.

  In historical terms, this was like asking Anthea if she wanted a romantic encounter instead of watching ‘EastEnders’.

  He should have been safe and yet, he never was. She’d always been able to do both.

  Usually only missing the title theme of that god-awful programme in the process.

  ‘I represent his fan club, Mr Lovewell. That is to say, his Appreciation Society.’

  Humphrey glanced outside. It wasn’t sunny enough out there to induce such a dangerous case of sunstroke, surely?

  ‘Are you feeling all right? Can I get you a glass of water, perhaps?’

  The woman seemed overwhelmed by his humble offering.

  Perhaps she might have been impressed by his body after all?

  ‘Would he have touched the glass, Mr Lovewell?’

  ‘I don’t think so, no. Barney and glass, they don’t really get on.’

  The woman nodded in agreement. That was interesting, as it implied she knew exactly who she was dealing with, warts and all.

  If Barney even had an ‘all’.

  He certainly never seemed to give it.

  ‘What I want to know is, Mr Lovewell…’

  Humphrey waited. She was obviously going to ask him for the name and number of a good psychiatrist, perhaps; or whether he knew of somewhere she could get counselling.

  ‘Ask Sandra.’

  And with that, she and her gingham exited from the premises as fast as her elderly legs could carry her.

  Sandra?

  Anthea’s Sandra?

  Humphrey glanced out of the window again and spotted, what he had to assume was, the reason for her hasty exit.

  There, using all his powers of concentration to push the button for the pedestrian crossing, was the old melody-mangler himself, Barney Adams.

  Humphrey dearly wished he’d seen him at the same moment his fan had done. He’d have joined her – very swiftly – in her flight, that was for sure.

  Sadly, it was too late now.

  He returned to his chocolate and waited for his day to get even worse.

  After a good three or four minutes of sitting there, it occurred to him that, one way or another, Barney really ought to have been there by now. Admittedly, the crossing often proved tricky for the boy. But there was almost always someone around who could help him.

  Reluctantly – and probably with the same lack of enthusiasm that his ex-wife had already commented upon that very afternoon – he dragged himself to his feet and gingerly approached the window.

  There was no sign of Barney anywhere.

  Buoyed on a wave of hope – always one of his greatest weaknesses – he opened the door and checked in both directions.

  Nothing.

  Could Barney really have just vanished into thin air?

  Could Humphrey really, really be that lucky?

  Past experiences clamoured for his attention, all desperate for the opportunity to remind him that he was not a lucky sort of chap at all, despite the mask of optimism he stoically wore as part of his day-to-day attire.

  He wasn’t lucky, all right. Not many people were, as far as he could ascertain. The world was unpleasant and life itself was often not much better. Yet there was always enough hope to make going on with it seem, just about, worthwhile.

  Humphrey himself would always appear to have just enough going for him to make him want to plough on and try to do better. The Fates were cunning like that.

  Of course they were.

  They were women.

  ‘Hiya, Humphrey!’

  Just as he’d thought, he wasn’t a lucky sort of chap at all.