Page 99 of A Night with Damien Spur

He fumbled around the inside of the drawer.

No luck; gone. And where was the Movado fob watch that his father had left him, and the little leather box with Laura’s wedding band?

All gone. Save for Laura’s love letters; her legacy. A punishment that served as a reminder of what a bastard he had been. He didn’t need to read them. The words were etched in his head.

Every time you leave, my soul weeps.

I know that you love me,

but my mind is in the way, Damien.

My body won’t let me say what I feel.

He pushed her to the back of his mind. At this rate he wouldn’t even make the reception.

But who was the thief? Was it the temporary cleaner who stood in while Marta was away on holiday last week? Or was it Yulia, the sexy Russian blonde he’d met at a nightclub in Regent Street the weekend before? Most likely it was her.

‘Are you free this evening?’ he’d asked transfixed. ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ Here she was in the flesh. The fantasy queen from his schoolboy days with her glossy voluptuous lips and large firm breasts accentuated by a tight red satin dress.

She had given him a playful smile. ‘I am not free, but for you being so handsome, I will give you a special price, £800 for the whole night.’

So he’d brought her back to his flat, and had fallen asleep on the job.

In the morning when he woke, she’d gone and so had the £50 notes left in his wallet on the bedside table.

He cursed her and ripped off the smart silk shirt with French cuffs and put on a foppish chemise with a jabot and a black velvet suit.

‘Randy Dandy, I am,’ he said to the mirror. ‘Fuck the bow tie.’

Calm down, said the Voice.

He waited in the road for the Uber. He needed some air. His own company had begun to frighten him, and he was relieved to see the elegant black Mercedes slow down in front of his house. He flung the door open and settled himself in the back on the black leather seat.

‘Very nice car. I always go for the executive class. Those standard Priuses are such ugly buggers. Where are you from,driver?’ he said.

‘Guess.’

‘Iran.’

‘No. Try again.’

‘Armenia?’

‘That’s right!’

‘How long have you been living here?’ Damien said.

‘Ten years.’

‘And where do you live?’ Damien liked hearing the drivers’ stories. It stopped him thinking about himself.

‘Cricklewood,’ he replied.

‘Ah, very central. Are you married?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does your wife work?’

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