Читать книгу The Money Makers - Harry Bingham - Страница 18

Where was George and what was he up to? Those were questions he was asking himself right now. He was somewhere in Cornwall, he knew that much. His car was parked in a lay-by off the A30 somewhere close to Bodmin Moor. It was late evening in mid-August and George watched as the last blue light surrendered to the gathering stars.

Somewhere in the car was an insect which George wouldn’t find until it bit him. He wound his seat back as far as it would go. It wasn’t far. A Lotus Esprit is not designed for men of stocky build to camp out in, as George had by now proved many times over. But his first attempt outside in a tent had been a disaster, with a summer storm leaving him soaked and desperate and since then he had preferred the car’s cramped interior to any tent, no matter how spacious.

He closed his eyes with a sort of fantasy idea that closing his eyes would send him to sleep. It didn’t. His legs sent him a message which he mostly ignored, but it had to do with bucket seats, feather beds, and their relative merits. Somewhere outside the car, an animal screamed. George remembered seeing video footage of a puma loose on Bodmin Moor, apparently still not caught. But they couldn’t attack Lotuses, could they? He wound up the window, just in case.

As he slumped back into his seat, the insect found George, and slap around though he did, George failed to find the insect. He struggled for the light switch, found it, and swatted round aimlessly for a minute or two, using the copy of the Financial Times which lay rolled up beside him.

As the light was on and the paper in his hand, George looked again at the familiar page. A section of classified ads, all but a few of them with blue lines through them. He’d carry on with the rest tomorrow, then it would be time for the next paper and the next set of ads, and so it would be until his last dribble of cash ran out, leaving him stranded in his Lotus Esprit, too poor to afford a gallon of petrol.

Zack and Matthew might laugh about his billionaire friends, but George knew the rules of the international jet set better than they did. If you wanted to be part of it, you either had to pay your way or be young enough and pretty enough to sleep your way. George hadn’t the cash or the body for it. As soon as people found out his wallet was empty, he’d be dumped faster than last season’s clothes. He’d sooner do the dumping himself.

He threw the paper down. On his answering machine at the flat, there had been three messages from his sister and one from Kiki. He missed them both.

He turned off the light again and tried to sleep.