Neil was admiring his reflection in the mirror. “I feel good,” he sang to himself in the style of James Brown, straightening the lapels of his brand spanking new Paul Smith suit. “I knew that I would…” He tried a few exploratory dance steps. “I feel fine, like a glass of good wine….” He gave a twirl. “Da, da, da, da!”
Neil adjusted his tie. “If you looked any sharper, mate, you’d cut yourself to ribbons,” he said and winked cheekily at himself. He could have nearly bought himself a new Hasselblad camera for what this little bit of schmatter had cost, but it was worth it. He felt like he’d just walked off the set of a Will Smith film.
When he’d finished admiring himself, Neil tried Ed’s mobile phone again. It was still switched off and Neil had left half a dozen messages on Ed’s answering service and his brother hadn’t replied to any of them. But then, Neil didn’t feel confident that he’d left the most coherent messages imaginable as he hadn’t wanted to give the game away.
It was fast approaching the witching hour, which was eight-thirty in this particular case. He hoped Ali had finally received her invitation, although he couldn’t have done a lot more than actually press it into her hot little palm. And that too would have given the game away. Neil caught a glimpse of himself again. God, he was looking good! Supposing Ali had got her invitation, but she wasn’t able to go for some reason—although what reason would keep Ali from The Ivy, or food in general—he couldn’t quite imagine. Why had he ever got involved in all of this? Neil chewed his fingernails and sighed out loud. What if, despite their brilliant planning, this all went belly-up? It would be hell for Ed if he was sitting there alone. He would never forgive Neil for his involvement. Although Neil, of course, would try to shift all the blame onto Jemma.
Neil stared at himself again. He couldn’t stand here all night admiring his new image, he had to do something. Something constructive. But what? A light went on in his brain, and Neil clapped his hands together with glee. He would go and lurk outside The Ivy, just to make sure they’d both turned up. Though how he would explain what he was doing there if either of them saw him would take some creative thinking. Neil slipped his car keys into his snazzy new pocket. He would give it some brainpower on the drive there.
Regretting the fact that he hadn’t had time to polish his one and only good pair of shoes, Neil bounded downstairs to his car. For once, the Citroën didn’t show its usual charming reluctance to start and roared into life at the first turn of the key. Well, perhaps not roared…
As Neil set off down Camden High Street, he had an extremely good feeling in his bones. He’d had the same feeling the day that Manchester United beat Bayern–Munich, 2–1, in the 1999 European Cup Final—both goals scored in extra time—and you didn’t get that kind of feeling very often. He fizzed with positive vibes. As he passed an Esso station, he decided to pull in and buy some flowers in case his clueless brother hadn’t thought about it. But then his clueless brother didn’t know who he was meeting and could, quite possibly, be excused a certain amount of cluelessness. Neil ran into the petrol station Late-Nite shop and there, right beneath the stack of cornflakes, the stale-looking bread and the few remaining battered and tattered Daily Mails was the most beautiful bunch of red roses wrapped in rich purple tissue paper. Neil snatched them up and winced only slightly as he paid for them. As he sprinted back to the car, thoroughly delighted with his second extortionate purchase of the day, he noticed that the pretty blond cashier was smiling coyly at him through her security window. Neil blew her a kiss. This was definitely going to be his lucky, lucky suit.