Switching Sides - 1. Switching Sides

Stanley Cheung woke with somebody else's hangover.

How could it be his? The last time he'd drunk alcohol was almost two months ago at the Lunar New Year celebration. There was no way he had consumed anything last night on a Thursday work night. Was there? Everyone knew he only drank on rare occasions and then sparingly. At parties, he could nurse a single glass of red wine all evening. Hangovers had always been somebody else's problem. Maybe he’d had an allergic reaction to something, but this certainly felt like his recollection of his one and only hangover, because this morning he felt as though someone had sucked all the moisture from his throat, beaten his body with bamboo poles, and then emptied a dumper truck full of bricks onto his head.

Something else didn't feel right either, something about his leaden body. Too stiff, too heavy and cumbersome. Perhaps those sensations were symptomatic of this magnitude of hangover because nothing compared to the broken skull sensation. Maybe he would lie still a little longer.

He didn't dislike alcohol. More the other way around. On dates, he would accept and seductively twirl a glass of vintage Bordeaux, using the wine more as an accessory, to wet his lips, to sniff at intelligently like the connoisseur he was not. Rarely would he finish the drink. Some of his male companions figured out the truth because they had dated Asian men like him before, whose faces turned rosy after a glass or two of alcohol. Rosy would be fine. Stanley's turned beetroot after half a glass. Not just that, but too much alcohol had once reduced him from an ordinarily intelligent and articulate college student into a slurring, slobbering mess.

Back then, even in his inebriated state, he'd had the sense and foresight to stagger to the bathroom and guzzle copious amounts of tap water before heading straight to bed and waking with a far milder version of what he was now experiencing.

An Irish colleague once explained a theory, which, whether fact or fiction, made a lot of sense to Stanley. Most Europeans, he said, can drink alcohol without any reaction because their ancestors learned to purify water using grain and yeast and the process of fermentation. In doing so, they created an ale that became the staple for all the family. Fermentation produces alcohol, which is essentially a poison to the human body, but because their ancestors drank this poison over the centuries, modern Europeans were born with a level of immunity.

Hundreds of years before this, the enlightened Chinese had learned a simple truth: boiling water kills disease-causing microbes, including bacteria and parasites, and could very quickly be made safe to drink. Sometimes nature's simplest solutions are the best. Like Stanley, some Chinese people experience an immediate reaction to alcohol because they do not have the enzymes that allow their bodies to break down ethanol.

In truth, he didn't give two hoots about the theory, but getting his mind to concentrate on anything other than his physical and mental state felt like a perfect distraction.

Unable to prise open his eyes, he pressed his face into a funky-smelling cushion, trying to stop the room from tilting and his stomach from churning like a KitchenAid. After several deep yoga breathing inhalations and exhalations, after the fabric surface became hot and damp with his breath, things finally began to normalise. And then an unpleasant smell rose from the cloth. Stale, male sweat, and something else, the pungent odour of vomit. Please, no. Had he puked during the night?

"Coffee," came an irritated female voice as something clanked down nearby onto a glass surface. "What time did you get in last night? You stink like a brewery."

With an effort of will, Stanley unglued his head from the cushion and peered across the room. The woman had walked to a lampshade and snapped on a light. Stanley blinked twice and then gasped. Dark Marvel comic posters lined the walls around a giant plasma television; superheroes with harsh expressions and some with hideously deformed sidekicks. Where the hell was he?

"You're gonna lie on that couch all day, aren't you?" she said, her voice tainted with defeat. "I'm off to work. Pete tried to get hold of you last night. Not sure what it's about."

"Where am I?" Mottled and cracked with dryness, his voice sounded unusually deep.

"Christ! How much did you drink?"

Even frowning, she looked pretty in a tired Amy Adams kind of way. Curled chestnut hair fell to the collar of her open beige trench coat, which revealed a hugging, knitted pencil sweater dress in chocolate brown, long legs, and a well-kept figure.

"I don't remember."

And with those three words spoken, the realisation hit him that he remembered nothing about the night before and how he had ended up in this strange woman's home.

"Why do you do this to yourself?" She stood, looking back at him while holding the front door open.

"Janice?" came a faint female voice from outside.

Once again, he lowered his face into the cushion, silently asking everyone to be quiet.

"Don't come up, Trish. I'll come down." This time her voice softened with something resembling concern when she spoke next to his ear. "Drink the coffee, then go and have a shower; you'll feel much better. I'll give you a call later. And I'll meet you at the restaurant at seven. Please don't be late tonight. I need your support with this new client. If I can land this job, I might actually stand a chance of saving the company."

And with that, she kissed him gently on the back of the head. After a soft click, the room fell mercifully silent.

A few minutes later, Stanley sat up and immediately regretted doing so. Wisps of coffee had reached his nostrils, but he needed to calm his nausea first, so he dropped his heavy head forward into his hands.

And instantly pulled away, horrified.

How could he have grown huge, hairy feet overnight? After a poorly considered shake of his head, he rubbed his hands into his eyes and peered down again. Long feet with golden hair on the toes protruded impossibly from the end of his jean-clad legs. Testing his sanity, he scrunched up his big toes, and the massive digits moved to his brain's command.

Panicking now, he reached for the coffee and took a large gulp. Fortunately, the bitter liquid had cooled by then, and he drained the whole mug. After taking a few steadying breaths, he stood up from the sofa and stopped a moment to steady his balance.

Apart from the ugly posters on the wall, the flat wasn't so bad, a little spartan perhaps. A racing bicycle leaned against one wall next to a bookshelf. Between two doors, a wooden table had a couple of cheap, foldable directors’ chairs on either side. Dirty work boots and scuffed training shoes lined the skirting board on one side of the bike.

First things first, Stanley headed towards an open doorway that appeared to house a small kitchen. On his way, he passed a wall mirror and froze.

A tall boulder of a man—Caucasian—stared back at him, horrified, the deep blue eyes wide beneath a mop of wild, scruffy hair, a dirty blond colour as though peppered with concrete dust. Everything about the look screamed blue collar, from the creased and unwashed jeans, the untucked red and black checked lumberjack shirt and white tee beneath, the massive arms and chest, to the golden nine o'clock shadow. Quite handsome, actually, came a voice deep within Stanley, one he quickly shut down.

"Nooo!" said the man in the mirror. "This cannot be happening. Who are you?"

Even his voice sounded weird, deep and raspy, and not just because of his dry throat. Right then, someone's mobile telephone trilled on the glass coffee table, sounding like a buzz saw going off inside his head. He grabbed the weapon of torture and answered the unknown caller.

"Hello?" he croaked tentatively.

"What the fuck have you done with my body?" came a voice he recognised well—his own—using a tone and language he did not.

"It's Stanley."

"Stanley Chung. Yeah, I know. That's not what I asked."

"Cheung not Chung. How do you know?"

"I have your wallet, don't I? The one with your phone password and all your credit card PIN numbers written on the back of a blank business card. Really smart, Stanley."

Stanley had forgotten he'd kept the card. More importantly, why was this person going through his wallet? A large thumb and finger pinched the bridge of his nose. First things first.

"And who are you—um, I mean—who am I?"

"Don," came Stanley's flat voice. "Bradley."

"Which? Don or Bradley?"

"Don't be a fucking smartass. First name, Don. Family name, Bradley."

"I wasn't—" he began but then stopped. "What happened to us, Don Bradley?"

"How the fuck should I know? It's some kind of Black Mirror meets Twilight Zone shit. Maybe even Groundhog Day. Have you checked the date?"

Stanley had heard of none of those things.

"What? No. Why?"

"It's Thursday, the twenty-third of March."

"Friday—"

"No. That's what I'm saying. It's Thursday. Again. What did you do on Thursday?"

Stanley began to shake his head but quickly decided against the idea. From memory, nothing unusual had happened to him on Thursday.

"I went to work, same as always," he said until his brain caught up. He looked up at the Joker wall clock as panic rose in his throat. "I can't go to work like this. And you can't go to work for me—"

"Relax. I'll phone in sick for you."

"But I never take sick leave. I work in Human Resources."

"Then that'll be another first, won't it?" The calmness in the voice helped to ground Stanley. "Want me to phone someone for you, or not?"

"No, I'll—" said Stanley and then faltered, rubbing his forehead. "Yes, I suppose you'd better. They won't know this voice."

"It's just before eight. Will anyone be there?"

"Brittany, the receptionist. Her number's in my phone contacts. I work for a firm of solicitors called Dempsey Floss. Tell her I've come down with a stomach bug and should be back in tomorrow. And to let Linda, my boss, know when she comes in."

"I'll sort that out as soon as we've done. Now let's get back to this clusterfuck. Do you remember where you were last night?"

Once again, Stanley tried to remember the night before, but once again, everything came up blank.

"I have no idea. But wherever you were, I have a horrible hangover this morning. Or rather, you do, if that makes any sense."

"Yeah, that does a little," came Stanley's voice, as the person using them considered his words. "I woke with a bit of a hangover yesterday morning. Look, we’re gonna need to meet up."

"Nice idea, except I have no idea where I am. Some grungy student digs, I think, with a bike and superhero posters—"

"You're in my flat, smartass, and I'm in yours. With photos of you all over the walls. Vain much? And what's with the fucking pink kimono in the glass case—?"

"Don't touch that. It's an antique Daxiushan."

"A what?" came the voice and then stopped. "No. Nope. I don't want to know. Forget I even asked. My flat is in West Ham, by the way. Where's this place?"

"Chiswick Park. Okay, so we're both on the District Line. I wonder if that means something. Look, I'll come to you—to me—to Chiswick Park. There's a coffee shop around the corner from my flat. Meet me there. I know the owners. Turn left out of the front door, go down to the end of the road, and turn left onto the high street. It's two roads down on the right called Coffee Banoffee."

"Yeah, that definitely sounds Chiswick."

Whether on purpose or not, the man pronounced Chiswick like a tourist, the second syllable as in wick for a candle, which had to be the worst of Stanley's pet hates. A person did not pay premium to live in a select neighbourhood of London only to have savages misspeak the name.

"It's pronounced chiz-zick, not chiz-wick."

"Whatever."

"And please bring my phone, so I can at least text Linda. I don't suppose you know how long it takes to get to Chiswick from here?"

"Why would I? Who the fuck would I know in Chiswick?"

Chiz-wick again. Stanley sighed and shook his head gently as he peered up at the maniacally-grinning wall clock.

"There's a travel card in my wallet," came his voice down the phone. "Which should be with my house keys in the empty fruit bowl on the table. The card is in a plastic pouch tucked behind the condoms. Zones one to three."

Stanley closed his eyes and sighed. What had he done that the gods had decided to punish him by body-swapping him with a Neanderthal?

"Good. Chiswick Park's in zone three," said Stanley. "Other side of town. Give me a couple of hours. I'll meet you there at eleven. But first I need to shower and take some aspirin or something."

"Bathroom cabinet. Neurofen 400. You're gonna need two with my constitution. And no touching the junk while you're showering."

An uncharacteristically bawdy laugh came down the phone.

"See you later, Don."

#

Stanley entered the coffee shop and immediately spotted the hunched-up Stanley—fake-Stanley—at a corner table. Seeing himself through another person's eyes turned out to be horrifying, especially when he recognised the pissed off look as he glared at his phone. Fortunately, the impostor hadn't noticed him yet. Before confronting him, he needed another caffeine fix, so he joined the queue of three and waited.

At first, the journey over on the train had been fascinating—experienced in the body of someone physically bigger and more powerful—but very soon became unsettling. Within a short space of time, he began to freak out at the attention. Usually, Stanley could blend into the fray. Shorter and leaner in stature than most Londoners, and, by his own admission, not ugly but unremarkable, those traits meant that when other men did hold his gaze, usually in gay bars but sometimes on public transport, he could immediately recognise the intent.

Everybody—women, girls, men, boys, old and young, and even small kids—stared openly at tall, good-looking and well put together Don Bradley, and Stanley had absolutely no idea how to respond. Naturally, he'd had a good look at the muscled, well-endowed, naked form of handsome Don Bradley in the mirror and understood the attraction. But after the first half-hour of intrusive stares on the train, he had deferred to glaring self-consciously at the floor. One older and attractive woman getting off the train at Westminster had bumped into him, apologised when he met her eyes, and then smiled before handing him a business card and asking him to call her. Did Don have to put up with this kind of attention all the time, and had he developed a mental coping mechanism? Because Stanley did not like the public scrutiny.

Not. One. Little. Bit.

When he moved to the front of the queue, the handsome barista, cheerful West Indian, Bernard, approached him. Stanley grinned at the name badge—Bernard rarely wore his—nodded and then spoke without thinking.

"Hey, Bern. Can I get the usual?"

"Sorry, sir," came Bernard's confused voice, as he looked down at his badge and then at Don's eyes, trying to place him. "Do I know you?"

Stanley closed his eyes and shook his head gently before pulling ten pounds from Don Bradley's wallet and handing the note over.

"My apologies. I'm on autopilot this morning. This place looks exactly like my local coffee shop in West Ham, just as relaxed and comfortable. Can I get your special triple shot caramel latte? Largest size you have and as hot as possible."

"Done," said Bernard, punching the order into the till. "I'll bring it over. Where are you sitting?"

"With the guy in the corner."

"Stan?" said Bernie, his voice lowering, but not before he gave Stanley's new body the kind of once-over he knew well. "Interesting. Not his usual type. But a word to the wise. He's in a weird mood this morning. That anything to do with you?"

"Could be."

"Funny, too," said Bernard, holding out Stanley's change. "That's usually his poison. He ordered an Americano today, and two Danish pastries, which is a total first."

"In which case," said Stanley, keeping his gaze neutral but secretly mortified at the number of calories going into his body. "Can you take for another Americano? Keep him happy."

"You got it," said a brightly-grinning Bernard. "Be nice to him. He's a good guy usually."

When Stanley approached the table, fake-Stanley glanced up from the phone, his eyes scanning Don Bradley's body with disgust. Before he could say anything, Stanley spoke first.

"What on earth are you wearing? It's soiled, creased all over, and there are holes in the sleeves and down the front," he asked, his voice lowered, taking a seat opposite.

"It's the coolest thing you own. Everything else in your wardrobe looked like clothes for school kids. Thought I'd had my body swapped with some dirty old perv, until I looked in the mirror and saw this looking back at me. Thankfully I found this tee shirt on your windowsill."

"For a good reason. It's what I use to clean the windows. You're wearing a cleaning rag."

"Yeah, well. You've not only given me a shave, you've dressed me like a Mormon missionary. So, I guess we're even."

Stanley looked down at the navy woollen jacket, crisp white cotton shirt, navy chinos, and cleanest trainers he could find. In his eyes, they not only looked good, but they fit the body perfectly. But fake-Stanley continued to view him with disgust, so clearly not an ensemble he wore often.

"This is weird," he muttered.

"You think?"

Stanley looked down at his phone in fake-Stanley's hands. He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out the man's phone and placed the device on the table top. Right then, Bernard came over and put their drinks on the table. Fake-Stanley seemed to make a point of ignoring him, so Stanley looked up, shrugged and smiled his thanks. After a sip of his sweet drink, he relaxed.

"What did Brittany say," he asked. "Any problems?"

"All sweet," said fake-Stanley, before his eyes widened, his attention drawn to someone passing behind Stanley's back. "Wow, nice rack."

"Stop that!" said Stanley, after looking over his shoulder and catching the eye of a passing woman. "It's sexual objectification, demeaning to women, and, moreover, totally out of character for me."

Fake-Stanley's eyes came back to his, the cold judgement plain.

"You're queer, aren't you?"

"I'm gay, yes. Is that a problem?"

"Not yet. You have a boyfriend I need to know about?"

"No, not for some time."

Strictly speaking, that was the truth, although he and best friend Rupert might just as well be boyfriends because they went everywhere and did everything together. They even dressed similarly. And Stanley knew from their friends that Rupert wanted to take things to the next level but was waiting for Stanley to make the first move. This idea seemed to make sense to everyone but Stanley, who held out on a soft dream that he would meet his Prince Charming one day. Maybe this little episode was the universe's way of telling him to wake up and settle down with Rupert before he lost his chance. First things first, he needed to find out how to get his own body back.

"Ever had a girlfriend?" asked fake-Stanley.

"No."

"What? You've never had sex with a woman?"

"No. Can we get back on track now?"

"Never?"

"Never."

Fake-Stanley's grin widened as he went to take a sip from his drink.

"You know, I've half a mind to take this body for a test drive, get him to sample the delights of the female form, go for a sail down the Bristol Channel, so to speak. He ought to know what he's been missing all these years."

"Really? Are we going there?" said Stanley, sitting back. "Be my guest. But if you and your half a mind think that body is going to attract the same amount of attention as this one, then think again. And if you're going to try me out with women, then it's only fair I repay the favour and trawl the gay bars of Soho tonight. I'll bet money I get a lot more attention than you. They'll be lining the bar walls with condoms and lube in their hands, waiting to welcome me into their beds with open legs—"

"Yeah, yeah okay," said fake-Stanley, the colour draining from his face. "Point taken. No using each other's body for sex. Let's get back on track. So how about gay friends? You must have gay friends."

"Are you a homophobe—?"

"No!" said fake-Stanley loudly, and then quieter. "No, I'm not. A couple of our labourers are gay, and they're cool. But I'm not. What I meant was that I'm not sure how I'm supposed to act around your friends, if I get to meet them. That bloke at the counter called me 'love' and 'sweetheart' and it freaked me out a little. As the real me—as you—people automatically know I'm straight, so I don't have to hide anything. They just view me as a normal heterosexual male."

"You keep telling yourself that."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I've only been you for a morning, but I'm pretty sure everyone wants to get in your pants. Men and women. I even sensed a woman's Jack Russell eyeing up your arse."

"Fuck off."

Stanley smiled in triumph. Fake-Stanley's arrogant stare had taken on a vulnerable, and frankly, adorable confusion. Across the table from him, Stanley Cheung was not a bad looking Asian guy, even if the objective realisation felt a little narcissistic. Now that he had him on the run, Stanley decided to enjoy taking this Don Bradley person down a peg or two.

"And I know your dirty little secret," said Stanley. "I opened the cupboard doors at the bottom of your almost empty living room bookcase. And guess what I found?"

"You got no right looking through my things."

"But it's okay for you to go through my wallet?"

"That's different. That was a case of necessity."

"I found paperbacks by Asimov, Heinlein, Bradbury, Le Guin, as well as Dickens, Shakespeare, Dostoyevsky, Joyce, Huxley, Camus, Faulkner, and, of course, Hemingway, to name a few. All well-thumbed, all read more than once. What's that all about? Most people would be proud to have them sitting on their bookshelves, not hidden away. Instead, you have photos of a past-their-best football team, a tacky beer tankard with breasts, old copies of DC and Marvel comics, and Men's Health magazines.

"Fuck you. The tankard was a present from my granddad. And I'm not most people."

"You can say that again. You know what I think?"

"No, and I don't think I want to."

"I think you're what they call an inverted snob. You don't want people to know you're well-read and educated, and you proudly wear your blue collar, down-to-earth persona, as a badge of honour."

"Don't fucking psychoanalyse me. I am your basic what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of bloke."

"Of course you are."

"Can we focus here?"

"Okay, okay," said Stanley, holding up a large palm to indicate a truce. "Let's go back over the past twenty-four hours. What were you doing Wednesday?"

So unlike real Stanley, the figure opposite breathed out a heavy sigh, folded his arms like a petulant twelve-year-old, and slumped back in his seat.

"Wednesday lunchtime we finished a job over in Greenwich. I'm a brickie—a bricklayer—and plasterer by trade. Anyway, the foreman stumped up for lunch and a couple of beers to celebrate. And by a couple, I mean a shitload. Ended up being a mammoth session, and I passed out on the sofa at home. Which is why I—and you—had a stonking hangover the next morning."

"This morning. Yes, thanks for that. Your—girlfriend, is she?—wasn't too impressed."

"Jan? Janice was there this morning?"

"Yes. You don't remember?"

"No. Wait, yes. She must have stayed over. Did she make coffee?"

"Yes. She seems really nice. Reminded you about meeting her for dinner with her client tonight."

Fake-Stanley's face morphed from confusion to horror before he covered his whole face with both slender hands.

"Fuck!"

"What?"

"Fuck, fuck, fuck—"

"Will you please stop using profanities while you're wearing me—"

"I didn't go. My brother Pete is going to call me today around eleven and ask me to help him plaster his spare bedroom this afternoon. Then after I've changed, we'll end up heading uptown, having too many beers at O'Leary's on Gates Cross Square, and then getting stoned in the back bar with his friends. By the time I get to Ming’s two hours late, Janice and her clients are leaving. I can barely stand. Worst of all, she doesn't even have a go at me, just tells me to go home and sleep it off, and says she'll call. But I knew I'd totally fucked up, could tell by the 'red card' look she gave me that I was being sent off. Stupidly, I staggered back to O’Leary’s, intending to carry on drinking with Pete, but I think I must have jumped in a cab before I got there, because I don’t recall much else. All I remember is that I fucked up the evening.”

Stanley had stopped listening at the mention of Gates Cross Square, because he was familiar with some of the bars around there, although he'd never heard of O'Leary's. Had he been uptown last night? Rupert often hauled him off the couch on Friday or Saturday night and dragged him up to Soho to meet his friends. But rarely on Thursday.

"Except you didn’t,” he said absently, catching up with the rest of fake-Stanley's words and taking in his distress.

“Didn’t what?"

"Mess things up. Not yet, anyway. It's still Thursday."

Fake-Stanley's brows creased, and he looked up, his chocolate brown eyes holding a measure of hope.

"Give me my wallet."

"I haven't taken—"

"Just hand me the fucking wallet."

Stanley did as asked, and fake-Stanley frantically went through the bits of paper, business cards, condom, and plastic cards, placing them in neat rows on the table. Finally, with a deep sigh of relief, he found what he sought. With a flourish, he snatched out a thin piece of paper.

"Receipt for an engagement ring," said fake-Stanley. "I picked this up yesterday from Tottenham Court Road and was going to propose to Janice after dinner. I collected the ring, but got highjacked by my brother."

"I'd be happy to pick it up."

"And then go to the dinner for me—as me."

"I—no. I don't know who you are. Can't you make an excuse? Say you're still hung over?"

"She really needs me to do this. Maybe that's why this thing's happened to us. Please, Stanley. You need to do this for me."

After a moment's hesitation, Stanley sighed and pushed Don's phone over the table to him.

"Text your brother. Tell him you're busy today. Where's this restaurant?"

"It's called Ming's. Posh place. One of Jan's haunts around Soho,” said fake-Stanley, as he stuffed the contents back into his wallet and began texting on his phone. "I'm telling my brother I'm meeting a potential client today. He'll understand."

"Ming's?" asked Stanley. "Chinese restaurant serving Cantonese fusion? On Churchill Lane?"

"Yeah," said fake-Stanley, stopping and looking up. "You know the place?"

Stanley smirked. Friends often went there near closing time after a night in town, when most of the evening punters had already left. Rupert would invite one or two of the Asian drag queens from Lipstick's last show, friends out of their frocks and back in their drab daytime clothes. With Rupert holding court, the conversation around the table tended towards the bitchy, sniping about the night's more ugly punters or lesser talented queens in the show. Stanley didn't mind. He sat back and listened because the food was always excellent. Moreover, the chef was an old friend, usually in a good mood because he'd be clocking off soon and happy to rustle up unique dishes not generally on the menu.

"Been there once or twice."

"So, you know where it is? Good." Just at that moment, fake-Stanley's phone buzzed on the table in front of him.

"You've—I've got a text message," said Stanley.

Fake-Stanley snatched up the phone and stared briefly at the screen before pushing the phone display into Stanley's face.

Rupe: Told Paulie you'd help on the door of L tonight. Know you're working late and its Thur but nobody else is available. Be there at nine.

"Who the fuck is Rupe? And why is he ordering you around?"

"Rupert. He's been my best friend since high school. Hang on, I think I remember this. He's talking about Lipstick, this drag club at the back of Gates Cross Square. I remember texting back from work, asking why he couldn't step in himself. And he said he'd already agreed to help out with the makeup, which is probably true."

"And did you go?"

Stanley scratched Don's thick scalp. Had he gone up to London last night? If he had, he had no recollection, especially if something extraordinary had happened.

"I've no idea. But I've never been known to let people down when they ask a favour."

Fake-Stanley narrowed his eyes at Stanley.

"That wasn't meant to be a dig," he said, his palms raised in front of him. "You did one for your brother. Okay, so you forgot the one you'd already promised your girlfriend. These things happen."

"They do."

"Mind you, If I'm doing you a favour tonight, to try and put things right, the least you can do is reciprocate. Paulie—the husband of the owner—will do most of the work. You just have to stand by and step in to help if things get busy. And not drink alcohol. I can't hold my drink."

Fake-Stanley glowered with horror, but after a moment of reflection, his face softened, and he nodded his agreement.

"How are we playing this? Do you want to hand me back your phone and wallet?"

"No, I think we should keep each other's possessions. And it might be a good idea if we stay in each other's company until tonight. In case we bump into anyone we know. Here's my suggested plan of action. Let’s head uptown to pick up your ring, then while we're up there, have lunch somewhere neither of us will be recognised. Would Janice approve of these clothes if I wore them tonight?"

Fake-Stanley scrutinised the clothes, this time screwing his nose up but then relenting and nodding.

"Yeah, she probably would."

"So, I don't need to change. But that outfit you picked for me needs a serious rethink, if you're going to pull off a believable Stanley tonight. I suggest we go back to my place after this and pick out something more appropriate."

"And I don't get a fucking say?"

"Yes, of course you get a say. But nothing too wild, please. We also need to work on removing expletives from your vocabulary in company—"

"Not going to happen."

"And you can help by—I can't believe I'm saying this—suggesting where I can sprinkle some in."

"You're meeting Jan's clients. And believe it or not, I can behave when necessary. I don't think you need to worry about tonight."

"In which case, let's use the time to get each other up to speed with the people we're mixing with and how we act in their company. Agreed?"

"Sounds like a plan," said fake-Stanley after a long pause, before balling his hand and holding the fist in front of Stanley. After rolling his eyes, Stanley met the petite fist with his huge, clenched paw.

"You can start when we leave here by smiling at Bernard and apologising."

They finished their coffees and chatted some more before getting up and leaving. Stanley picked up their empties and took them to the counter.

"Thanks, Bern," called out fake-Stanley from the door. "Sorry. Not quite myself this morning."

Stanley rolled his eyes at Bernard. Never a truer word.

#

That evening, when a nervous Stanley opened the door to Ming’s and stepped inside, a potent but familiar and distinctive odour caught his attention. Ming’s chefs used belachan, a Malay variety of shrimp paste, in some recipes. Although claiming to serve authentic Cantonese food with a fine dining twist, he knew the owners to be Malaysian Chinese from Kuala Lumpur, and as such, a couple of Malaysian dishes always found their way onto the menu.

Something else familiar greeted him, Lee Yi Ling, the muscle Mary, protein shake, potato queen—totally in love with his own body image and his local gym—who manned the maitre’d station. Stanley and his other Asian friends were invisible when he waited their table, more interested in his reflection than serving them or deserving his gratuity.

Not this evening.

Yi Ling’s face lit up on seeing the scrubbed-up version of Don Bradley. As fake-Don, Stanley felt wholly justified in using Don’s good looks to get what he wanted.

“Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?”

“Hello, handsome,” said Stanley, providing an overdone wink. “I’m with a party of four. Booked under the name of Janice Bowman.”

The real Don had given him as much information as possible on Janice in the time available. They’d been together four years, meeting online through Tinder, a joke and a dare played on them by their individual sets of friends—both hated online dating apps—which turned out to be a winner. She lived in Putney but originally came from Wimbledon Village. After attending the Chelsea College of Art and Design, she attained her interior design degree and worked two years for an Italian design firm. Her current obsessions ranged from architecture, Italian furniture design, fashion, tennis, and, of course, Don.

When Don articulated his knowledge of Janice and the things he liked about her, he seemed to have something of an epiphany or a revelation at having to join the dots about what attracted him to her and admitting just how important she had become. One thing Stanley knew was that he had never felt the love for someone that shone from fake-Stanley’s face.

Tonight, she sat at one side of a table, looking as pretty as Stanley remembered her that morning, although she appeared a little strained around the eyes, nodding as the man opposite her talked. As Stanley approached the table, her gaze met his, and her features softened.

“You made it.” She breathed out with relief as Stanley went over and pecked her on the cheek, the way Don had told him to greet her in public.

Possibly in their late fifties—around the same age as Stanley’s parents—the couple sat a little stiffly at the table. The man appeared happy to talk across the table to Janice while the woman looked either bored or tired or maybe both and sat unspeaking. Still on his feet, Stanley reached out a hand and began shaking hands.

“This is Roger and Emilia McPherson,” explained Janice. “The clients I told you about. They just arrived in town. They’re launching three of their holiday resorts across the UK—”

“Sanctuaries. Located in rural areas,” said Roger, who appeared to like the sound of his voice. “We have plots in the Peak District, along the shores of Loch Faskally in Scotland, and Snowdonia in Wales. Not sure how much Janice has told you, but we build cabin resorts, each designed to blend seamlessly into the landscape, self-sustaining, and using local materials, where possible. But our guests expect the best of luxury inside the cabins, which is why your lady’s pitching for the interior design contract, as I’m sure you’re well aware.”

Stanley took a seat opposite the woman, who smiled briefly and wanly before her face returned to screen saver mode.

“Emilia suffers horribly from jet lag,” explained Roger. “We landed this afternoon from Tokyo, and she’ll need time to acclimatise.”

“I sympathise entirely.” Stanley did, too. He remembered his trip to Hong Kong and how the first day wandering around in the blistering heat and suffocating humidity had felt like he was still on the plane, still in a dream—or a nightmare.

“Really?” asked the man, looking puzzled at Janice. “We were under the impression you didn’t travel much.”

“He’s messing around,” said Janice, putting her hand on Stanley’s arm. “He’s never flown long haul. The furthest he’s been is Italy for a European football match.”

“One hour time difference and I still got jet lag,” said Stanley grinning and making Roger laugh. “So, I can only imagine what twelve hours in the air must do to you. Have you ordered yet?”

“Just this minute,” said Janice. “Roger chose. I know you’re a little fussy, Don, so he’s gone for a selection of their signature dishes, something for everyone.”

“Hope that’s okay, young man?” said Roger.

“I’m sure that’ll be perfect, Roger,” said Stanley, unsure what would come but knowing he had rarely been disappointed by the restaurant’s food.

“We ordered a bottle of vintage Bordeaux, too. Would you like a glass?” said Roger, reaching for the bottle.

“I’m going to stick with water tonight,” said Stanley, as Janice squeezed his arm. “Hope that’s okay with everyone?”

“My father told me never to trust a man who doesn’t drink.” said Roger, staying his hand on the bottle but raising one eyebrow.

“Oh, trust me, he drinks,” said Janice, grinning at Stanley. “A little too much, sometimes. His crew finished a building job yesterday, and the foreman bought them drinks all afternoon.”

“All evening, actually. I wasn’t in a particularly communicative state this morning,” said Stanley, smiling at her. “And that’s not fair on Janice, who had to force feed me coffee. Now, Roger, tell me more about this project. Are these cabins similar to outward bound lodges?”

The ploy worked, and Roger appeared to enjoy getting back to talking about their life’s work.

“More upmarket. Aimed at the luxury traveller. The press has taken to branding us as wellness holiday providers, with the emphasis on the physical and mental health of our guests. Very popular with the new generation of traveller, but we’ve also had international businesspeople staying, for conferences and training retreats. We’re already established around the Asia Pacific region.”

“In which case, Janice will do you proud. Luxury interiors are her specialty. Where in Asia Pacific are you?”

“New Zealand, Malaysia, Borneo, and Indonesia. Emilia is originally from Malaysia.”

“Penang,” said the quiet woman, her features finally coming to life.

“Really? My grandfather did his national service there in the late fifties. When Malaysia—Malaya, as he used to call the country—was still a UK colony. He was there because of something to do with communist rebellions at the border,” said Stanley, and then realised he had been talking about his own grandfather and not Don’s.

“The Malayan Emergency,” said Robert, chipping in. “Back in our not-so-illustrious colonial past. My father would have been stationed in Kenya around the same time.”

“Small world, eh? Sorry, did you tell me the name of your company?” Stanley asked Emilia in an attempt to keep her in the conversation.

“No, he didn’t. It’s PlainSight. Roger’s idea. From a book he was reading at the time called Hidden in Plain Sight.”

“Jeffrey Archer,” said Stanley and noticed Janice turn to look at him.

“You like Lord Archer’s books?” asked Roger.

“I’ve not read them, but I’ve certainly heard of that one. I’m more of a science fiction and fantasy fan, to be honest.”

“Ursula Le Guin,” said Emilia, smiling finally. “I read the Earthsea trilogy as a child. Absolutely captivating.”

“I love those books,” said Stanley.

Thankfully, Don and Stanley had that much in common. Stanley didn’t have the same passion for books as Don, and certainly not science fiction, but he had read and loved the first Earthsea trilogy. While he chatted to Emilia about the stories and shared their disappointment at the television adaption, Roger and Janice spoke about the project.

During a lull in the conversation, Stanley excused himself to visit the restroom and noticed the chef in the corridor, standing at the open back door, having a cigarette. Before heading in, Stanley talked to him and asked if he could add one of his specialist dishes to their order, a particular item that had always pleased the crowd. At first, the man stared back suspiciously, but then a familiar smile lit his face, and he nodded enthusiastically before stubbing out his cigarette and heading back to the kitchen.

On Stanley’s return to the table, Janice stood waiting for him in the corridor. Over her shoulder, he noticed Yi Ling observing them from the cash register. As Stanley drew level with Janice, she went up on tiptoes, put her arms around his neck and pecked him on the lips.

“Just checking on you, love,” she said, smiling into his eyes. “I can tell you’re not yourself—”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. I know you, Don. You’re trying really hard, but I know you’re out of your comfort zone, and I completely understand. And I didn’t mean for you get all dressed up, but I absolutely love that you did and for doing this for me. I’d begun to think Roger’s wife was going to bail on us. Believe it or not, she’s the one who has the money and calls the shots. And then you start talking to her about those books she loves, ones I’ve never heard of. You’re a bit of a dark horse, sometimes. But I’ll make it up to you tonight when you come back to mine.”

Stanley hadn’t considered the eventuality of performing as Don, and the thought sent a shimmer of anxiousness through him.

“Let’s see how tonight pans out, shall we? We haven’t eaten yet.”

Once again, she pecked him on the lips but then released him and patted a speck off the shoulder of his jacket.

“Go back there and woo them,” she said as she headed to the restroom. “But thank you. You’re doing a fabulous job.”

As he approached the table, he was pleased to see Emilia more alert and animated, chatting to Roger. Both peered up and smiled. Anyone could tell they had been talking about either him or Janice—probably about both of them.

By the time Janice returned, the food had begun to arrive. Yi Ling brought the final dish out last, covered by a silver cloche and waited for a nod from Stanley.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Stanley. “I ordered another dish, a simple one, but something I know the chef cooks well and is also from your part of the world, Emilia.”

With a nod from Stanley, Yi Ling removed the cover to reveal the Malaysian noodle dish.

“Oh, Don. Char Kway Teow. Thank you so much,” said Emilia with delight, staring at the dish, her hands held as though in prayer beneath her chin, and her eyes finally coming fully to life. “You have no idea how much I’ve missed this. Janice, he’s such a clever thing. It’s one of the most popular street foods in my part of the world. In Hokkien—which is a Chinese dialect—Char means stir-fried and Kway Teow refers to this tagliatelle style of flat rice noodles. Your man has made my night.”

“Takes a lot to impress the little woman, Don,” said Roger. “Well done, young man.”

Putting the familiar food in front of Emilia turned out to be a masterstroke. Once they had all sampled the dishes, she took over the conversation, talking about her childhood in Malaysia, how she had met Roger and their inspiration for PlainSight.

At around ten, Stanley’s phone began buzzing in his pocket.

“My apologies.” Stanley pulled out his buzzing phone and peered at the screen only to see his own name displayed. Fake-Stanley was calling Don’s number. Something serious must be up. “Sorry, everyone. Can you give me a moment? I need to take this call.”

Stanley excused himself and walked outside onto the street for some privacy.

“Stanley,” came the voice the moment he thumbed the accept button. “Can you get your arse to the club? Like, right now. I need your—my—muscle. Your pal Paulie’s getting into one with these drunken wankers, and I’m about to wade in, but if you could bring me and my bulk to help out, that would be really helpful. Shit. Gotta go.”

As the call dropped, Stanley’s skin went cold. Memories of last night flooded back. After Rupert had volunteered him to help Paulie at the door to Lipstick, the night had dragged until five drunks in suits had tried to barge their way in without paying. What had started as a shouting match with Paulie refusing them entry soon devolved into violence. Rupert had come out and dragged Stanley away as they piled into Paulie and screamed at him to call the police. Eventually, the good-looking ginger-haired man in the club—Rupert called him Marmalade—who Stanley had been eyeing with interest from his previous visit but had never found the courage to speak to, had rushed to assist. By the time the police arrived, Paulie had been beaten unconscious and taken away in an ambulance, and Marmalade had disappeared altogether.

As he stood there, he sensed someone approach him.

Janice.

“Jan,” he said, putting the phone in his pocket. “Someone’s in a spot of trouble not far from here. Came out without his wallet, and he needs a quick loan.”

“Oh, Don. It’s not Pete, is it?” said Janice frowning.

“No, it’s this new bloke, Stanley. He’s a good guy, love, if a bit forgetful. I promise I’ll be back in half an hour tops. Can you explain to Roger and Emilia for me? Tell them I want to carry on with our conversation and maybe share a Malaysian dessert with Emilia.”

“Don Bradley, you are too nice for your own good sometimes.”

“You wouldn’t have me any other way.”

“No,” she said, smiling up at him. “No, I wouldn’t. Now go and save the day, my gullible knight in shining armour.”

#

Stanley walked around the corner from Ming’s, flicking through the apps on Don’s phone, trying to find a cab hire company. He could have jogged, even with Don’s heavier body, but that would tire him out. Even at a steady pace, everything might be over by the time he got there. No way was he risking that again.

Just at that moment, a white London style taxi pulled up to the kerb in front of him, its yellow for-hire sign illuminated. The passenger door had an advertising logo of a large stopwatch with an arrow going forward at the top and one going backwards at the bottom, and the words PROM Cabs written beneath. All the windows were tinted, but Stanley could still make out the silhouette of a driver. Without thinking any further, he climbed into the passenger seat.

“Where to, governor?”

“Can you take me to a club called Lipstick? It’s on the far side of Gates Cross Square off Tottenham Court Road.”

“The drag club?”

“That’s the one.”

“Are you sure? Been a bit of trouble outside there tonight. Sounds like a couple of drunken punters causing trouble with the people on the door. Been a bit of a scuffle, by all accounts.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Sorry, guv?”

“I meant, yes, I heard. A friend of mine just called. Asked me to go over and help out. Any chance you could hang on when we get there? I need to get back here, to my—uh—girlfriend. And can you put your foot down, please?”

“Right you are.”

By taxi, apart from having to circumvent a couple of one-way streets, they reached Gates Cross Square in no time. The cab pulled up outside Lipstick into the aftermath of the incident, but very different to the one etched in Stanley’s memory.

A squad car parked hastily at the pavement with its light still flashing. Two police officers took statements from what Stanley assumed to be witnesses, including a couple of drag queens he recognised. Spectators stood beyond, enjoying the unlikely scene. At any other time, the sight might have prompted a chuckle from Stanley, but not tonight. Tonight, when he looked out the window, a tight knot of fear gripped his stomach.

Mercifully, Paulie and fake-Stanley sat on folding chairs outside the club. Stanley breathed a sigh of relief when he saw Paulie very much conscious, laughing with fake-Stanley, while ginger hottie Marmalade sat away from them, a handkerchief held to his forehead, glancing nervously at them both. Each of them appeared to have been through the wars. Fake-Stanley had a smear of blood on his cheek and a white handkerchief wrapped around one hand. Paulie kept plucking fresh tissues from a box on his lap and putting them to his nose to staunch the bleeding, but that didn’t stop him from laughing at fake-Stanley’s banter. Rupert stood behind the trio, further back near the entrance, arms folded and glaring at them with disapproval.

Stanley reached for the door handle, but stopped when the taxi driver’s voice issued from the cab’s communication system.

“Sir. Looks like the police are still taking statements and you might get involved. Can I suggest you stay here while I call your friend over? Give the two of you a chance to speak together?”

“Okay. Yes. That makes sense. Thanks,” said Stanley, shuffling over to make room.

The cabbie, whose face he could not make out, lowered the driver’s window and called out to fake-Stanley. Only he acknowledged the cabbie’s voice and stood to listen. Stanley couldn’t hear what was being said, but fake-Stanley came immediately towards the passenger door. Turning back once, he called out something to Paulie and Marmalade, now engrossed in their conversation, before climbing into the back.

“What happened to you?”

Fake-Stanley appeared to be high on adrenaline, because he spoke fast, his breathing shallow. Stanley checked him over, barely noticing as the cab began moving again.

“Best fucking night ever. Me and your mate Polly—"

“Paulie. Put your seatbelt on.”

Fake-Stanley looked to the heavens but did as asked while he kept talking.

“Paulie, Polly. Whatever. We saw off these wanker-bankers trying to barge their way in without paying. Fucking classic. Your mate, Paulie, stood his ground and, of course, they didn’t like that. Started calling us names like gaylords, queer fucks, and shirt lifters—well, you know the score—because that’s the kind of lame-arse dickheads they are. That’s when I called you. But when they started laying into Paulie, I lost my rag. They won’t make that fucking mistake again. Don’t think they banked on me and him fighting back. And when Rory waded in—”

“Wait. Who’s Rory?”

“Rory. Ginger bloke sitting with us. I think he likes me—you—by the way. When he joined in, those bastards all but shit their pants. Ran off down the road like the walking dead was chasing them. Reckon we’d have finished them, too, if it hadn’t been for that wanker friend of yours, screaming at me for getting involved and then wussing out by calling the fuzz.”

Stanley remembered things differently, but what would be the point explaining.

“What happened to your hand—?”

“Sorry about that. Used it to smack big mouth in the nose. Paulie got me some ice, but it’s gonna hurt like hell in the morning. Where are we going? I told your mates I’d be back in a minute.”

The cabbie must have heard because he turned on the intercom and spoke.

“Back to the restaurant, sir. Something about unfinished business with your girlfriend.”

“Oh, yes,” said Stanley. “Thank you—”

“Actually, I was talking to the other gentleman, the real Mr. Bradley.”

Both of them turned to stare at the driver, who carried on talking.

“Rather than explain, can I suggest you use this time to bring each other up to speed on what’s happened tonight? But when we reach the destination, only the real Mr. Bradley should depart.”

“Hang on. How come—”

Without waiting for a response, the driver switched off the comms and blacked out the partition windows between the driver’s compartment and the back of the cab. The two of them stared at each other for a moment before fake-Stanley began to speak.

“You’re still me. So, I s’pose I’m still you?”

Stanley nodded.

“Then you’d better give me the low-down. What happened with Jan?”

Stanley explained everything quickly; details of the project Janice had pitched for, his faux-pas about his grandfather’s national service in Penang, how he and Emilia shared a love of Earthsea, and the dish of Char Koay Teow he had ordered specially from the chef. Stanley reminded him that he still had his number if needed. Finally, they reached a lamppost outside the restaurant, and fake-Stanley took a deep breath before putting his hand on the door handle, opening the door, and stepping down onto the pavement.

“Don,” said Stanley, as he followed him out of the cab.

“Yeah.”

“All the best,” said Stanley, standing awkwardly. “This has been—interesting.”

“Can say that again, buddy.”

“The engagement ring’s in your inside jacket pocket. Janice is an absolute gem. You’re a very lucky man. And, more importantly, she adores you. Don’t mess this up, okay? I’ve got a very strong feeling that you might be on a promise tonight.”

“Permission to engage the enemy, Sergeant?”

“You are such a nerd,” said Stanley, chuckling and holding out his hand for a handshake.

Fake-Stanley stopped and looked at the outstretched hand. A mischievous grin lit up his face as he placed his hands on his hips.

“And you need to go back and talk to Rory,” said fake-Stanley. He had been thinking about heading back, but to speak to Rupert. “You never know, you might be on a promise, too.”

Ignoring the outstretched hand, Fake-Stanley smiled broadly and held out his good fist. Stanley grinned back, rolled his eyes, but brought his hand up to join in with the fist bump. Above them, the lamppost light fizzled, then flickered off and on.

And Stanley found himself looking in the opposite direction.

Not only that, but he stared back at the unmistakable face of Don Bradley, his fist still connected to a much larger one. At the same moment, Don had seen the same thing because his mix of shock and relief was evident.

“Sorry, sir,” came the voice of the cabbie. “Need to rush you. Got another job coming through.”

Stanley climbed into the cab and slammed the door shut, watching Don Bradley’s impressive form head into the restaurant.

“Ouch,” said Stanley, as the cab moved off with a jolt, when he looked down to see his hand wrapped in a blood-stained handkerchief. “That hurts.”

He sat back in the seat and watched the world go by, noticing with overwhelming relief the reflection of plain old Stanley Cheung staring back at him. But he grinned to see a scratch on his cheek and the skin-tight black silk shirt Don Bradley had picked out. Never had he been so pleased to look at his reflection. Another memory flashed back from the night before, of being in the back of this same cab, sharing with another passenger, a very drunk Don Bradley.

“Who are PROM Cabs?” he asked the cabbie.

“Thought you might ask,” said the cheerful driver, through the now transparent glass screen, his bulky back to Stanley. “We look after the London circuit. After business hours. But as you’ve probably guessed by now, we’re more than just a cab service. Truth is everybody stuffs up. Sometimes a little, sometimes a lot, and occasionally irreversibly. Some of those last ones often come up to the city to drown their sorrows, or worse. Our job is to keep an eye on the worthy ones, ensure they get home safely, but also to provide a timely intervention to put right one mistake. Put. Right. One. Mistake. PROM. Get it?”

“I didn’t make a mistake.”

“Didn’t you? Are you sure? You certainly helped to fix one tonight, though, didn’t you? You’re a good person, Stanley Cheung.”

“I’m not sure about that.”

“And this is somewhat unusual,” continued the driver, “but I’ve been sanctioned to offer you one final gift. This is not a service we offer everyone, but something the bosses upstairs approved. You get to glimpse two versions of a future Stanley Cheung based on the life choices you decide to make, starting from tonight. One through the right window, and one through the left. I can’t tell you what to look for, or give you advice. But you only have one glance through each side, so think carefully about what you’re looking at. Whatever choice you make, you’ll need to live with, and exit through that door once we arrive at your destination. Will you accept the gift?”

Would he? Stanley wasn’t sure. Would he want to know how he turns out in the future or leave things to destiny? Maybe a quick glimpse couldn’t do any harm.

“Sure, I’ll take a peek.”

“Okay. Pick a side.”

Stanley shuffled over and peered first through the left passenger window. Even though the taxi seemed to be moving at speed, the view remained static.

Daylight flooded the square outside a bar just down from Lipstick. At first, he didn’t know what he was looking for, with people passing by on the pavement. But then he noticed a frighteningly older Stanley in a mess of casual clothes; a mustard yellow baseball cap on the table in front of him, dark glasses, grey sweatpants, and burgundy fleece—the kind of uncoordinated get-up Don Bradley might wear. He sat on a bench at a table in the sunshine, drinking wine and laughing with a much older Rory, who sat with his arm draped casually across Stanley’s shoulders. Sporting a sizeable gut, Rory had a pronounced double chin and was almost entirely bald on top. Cropped ginger hair lined his head around the sides, and his gingery-grey eyebrows sat above deep green eyes. Older Stanley still had a full head of hair, but unkempt and with streaks of grey throughout. He had also piled on a few pounds. At the shock of seeing his aged self, he backed away from the window with something bordering on disgust.

Shuffling across to the other window, he saw himself with Rupert. Like the previous scene, Stanley sat next to him on a metal bench, but this time he sat beneath a sign for Tottenham Court Road Underground Station. Both had untainted jet-black hair, both immaculately dressed alike in black jeans crossed at the knees and black polo neck sweaters. Both were older—if the lines on their faces told a story—but neither had put on weight, both as lean as they had been when younger. Paulie would have called them GQ over-fifties, Asian hotties, or DiLFs even, and Stanley had to agree. They made an astonishingly handsome and charismatic couple.

But as he began to smile at the scene, something struck him. Neither of the pair appeared happy. They were not sitting close together, a space of at least six inches between them. Rupert’s gaze had drifted off somewhere to the right, his usual air of carefully cultured boredom evident, of constantly seeking out something better. Older Stanley stared at the ground, lost in thought, but raised his gaze to Stanley’s.

And at that precise moment, present-day Stanley met his older version’s eyes and hiked in a breath. He knew that look well. The expression reflected profound sadness, of opportunities missed, and of stoically putting up with the lot he had been given. Older Stanley looked as though he had forgotten how to live and love and laugh.

“Where shall I drop you? Tube Station?”

Stanley threw himself back in the seat, turned to the left window, and then to the right. Eventually, his gaze travelled to the cabbie’s silhouetted form in the front seat.

“Don’t suppose there’s anything through the back window?”

A soft chuckle came from the cabbie.

“Sorry, guv. No.”

“In which case, take me back to Gates Cross Square, please driver. Back to Lipstick.”

He looked up into the driver’s mirror and saw the cabbie’s dark glasses staring back, a grin on his face and a barely discernible nod of the head.

“Right you are, governor. Right you are.”

* * *