“Hello, old man,” he hallooed Dave, fluttering his last ten-pound note above heads.
“Gin and tonic, please, with plenty of ice.”
The landlord smiled and nodded, reaching for a tall glass. “How are you today, Charlie? Hot enough for you?”
“It’s positively Mediterranean out there, David. Good for business, though . . .”
All around him, off-duty workers from the new builds were glugging lager as if it was their last drink on earth. He swallowed half his G&T.
“What about this festival, then?” Charlie asked Dave. “Is Pete Diamond funding it himself or has he got sponsors?”
Dave’s face reddened. “Mr. Big Bollocks?” he spat. “It’s all his own show, apparently.”
“That’ll cost him. He’s probably writing it off against tax.”
“That’s illegal, isn’t it?” Dave leaned closer. “I could turn him in.”
“Ah! But he’s probably got an accountant to sort out a loophole. People with that sort of money do.”
“Not like me, then?” Dave snorted bitterly. “Another?”
“Lovely.”
He watched the landlord shoveling ice into the glass and wondered what Dave was actually worth. Did he have property? Savings? A maiden aunt about to pop her clogs? A pension?
“You work so hard,” Charlie said when the fresh glass was delivered. “When are you hoping to retire?”
“Not yet! I’m not that old.”
“What are you? Fifty?”
Dave smirked at the ridiculous compliment.
“Fifty-seven.”
“Ah, the golden age . . .” Charlie laughed.
“Sod off, Charlie. What are you on about?”
“Financially, David. Look, you’re sitting pretty, actually. You can now cash in your pension and reinvest it in something that actually pays out a decent dividend.”
“Yeah, I’ve done that, actually. I’ve put it in a savings account for the time being.”
“Have you? You’ve got to be careful, though. You need to put it to work to get a proper return.”
“Absolutely,” Dave said, ignoring the customer in front of him urgently asking for a refill. “Doll!” he called down the bar. “Can you take over here.”
His wife gave him a look but started pulling the pint.
“Sorry, Charlie. What were you saying?” Dave moved them both down to the shallow end of the bar near the toilets.
“Well, all I’ll say is that you might as well put your pension under the mattress if you don’t invest it cleverly. It’s what I’ve done.”
“Oh, where have you put yours?”
Charlie took a slow mouthful of his drink.
“Come on.” Dave smiled winningly. “We’re mates, aren’t we?”
Charlie put his glass down carefully, then nodded to himself and lowered his voice so Dave had to put his head closer. “Listen, old man, this is completely confidential but I belong to a small private investment company—I help run it with some old chums from the City. We put money in and lend to companies who can’t get short-term bank loans. At a premium rate. We’ve done rather well, actually.”
Dave listened as Charlie trotted out figures and interest rates while up the bar Doll tutted about being rushed off her feet.
When Dave was finally guilted into helping out, Charlie finished his drink and looked around.
“Excuse me.” A voice at his side interrupted his flow of thought.
“Sorry. Are you trying to get through?” Charlie turned sideways to let the customer get to the bar.
“Thank you. I see we were at the same school,” the good-looking stranger said.
Charlie felt for the tail end of his tie hanging out of his pocket. “Ah, the old alma mater. What house were you in?”
Two drinks later he and Kevin Scott-Pennington were thick as thieves. Charlie had told him he’d been involved in the same line of business. “Digital technology is so fascinating. I was on the periphery, of course. The financial side, not the genius brigade.” He grinned.
“The problem, naturally, is money,” Kevin told him. “Investors have no patience but these things take time to mature.”
“？’Course.” Charlie nodded. “Research and development are the beating heart of any innovative industry.”
“Well, mine needs a defibrillator. . . .”
“Ha!” Charlie put a warm hand on Kevin’s arm. “Look, old boy—I may be able to help.”