1 'I never think of the future. It comes soon enough.' Einstein Hot still air hung over the evening rush hour as Mike Jerome walked wearily from the dubbing studio. He stood on the edge of the pavement in Bayswater Road jaded by thoughts of the immense amount of writing he'd put into this film. Distracted by a girl among the rush hour travellers he was reminded vividly of Sue—she'd not been in touch since their bitter parting in New York. Still he wasn't unhappy. Just tired. An empty cab appeared and he moved quickly into the road flailing his arms. The driver manoeuvred his vehicle deftly from the outside lane.
'47 Frith Street,' said Mike, as he settled back.
His mind wandered over the petty events that led up to the quarrel with Sue. She'd wanted to stay on in New York, where she could enjoy her new found friends, while he battled with the television and film people to get some work. He wouldn't have minded, as he liked New York, but it was obvious Sue was interested in one of the men she'd met, and he didn't intend spending vast sums of his hard-earned money feathering her nest to share with someone else. The row had been short, sharp and final. Since he'd started working on this film his tolerance level had dropped almost to zero. The flat was a bit of a problem with too*much in it reminding him of her.
The taxi suddenly pulled up with a jolt; he was outside 47 Frith Street. Descending the stairs of the building to the basement door, he pushed it open and went into the jazz club. A moment or two and his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light. Standing up against the bar was the vast dark form of Pete Jones. Mike had met Pete some ten years before in Paris, when Pete was studying music at the Sorbonne, and he himself had been picking up spare cash by playing jazz piano in a club. From those very early days in Paris they had remained close friends.
'How'd it go, man?' asked Pete as Mike approached the bar.
'So, so.'
'Drink?'
'Thanks, when did you start?'
'Around ten, ten thirty,' came the bored reply.
'Idiot, when did you start boozing?' asked Mike.
'I think I must have been about six months old. My mother used to get me tight so that I wouldn't cry while I was teething, ever since then I've been addicted.'
'It must be about time someone put food in that stomach, then.'
Pete's face lit up, 'You're paying?' he said, as the two men finished their drinks and started to leave the club.
'You know, one of these days I'll drop dead with your generosity,' said Mike.
'Where to?' Pete asked, taking no notice of the heavy traffic as he crossed Shaftesbury Avenue against the lights.
'Wheeler's; it's fish night.'
They made their way through crowded Soho to Old Compton Street.
There wasn't a table ready, so they deposited themselves in the bar with two large whiskies.
'Got rid of her junk yet?' asked Pete, draining his glass in one go.
'No, but I'll get round to it.'
'Good, you're well clear of that bitch.'
. . .
