Westminster
The door opens and two figures enter, dragging in their slipstream some of the chill fog from outside. They pause for a moment as the heater above the door blasts the mist away, refusing to allow anything to blur the crisp uniformity of the coffee shop’s branding. Outside the air might be clouded in such a way as to render the edifice opposite indistinct, yet the patrons inside - all of them - know it is there. They also know what it represents too, even though seen from their soft sofas, the faux cosiness of the Cafe Nero experience, and through the damp lens outside, it could be a building that housed anyone or anything and not necessarily the Mother of Parliaments.
The men pause and look around, ostensibly to seek out a suitable and vacant table; yet there is, in the theatrical way one of them removes his heavy overcoat and shakes it lightly, something of a performance in their movements, as if they want to be seen, as if their arrival should be an event of note. Indicating two seats in the far corner, the now un-coated man points authoritatively towards them, then heads to the counter where, as luck would have it, there is no-one waiting. In her tight brown "barista" t-shirt, the young woman behind a display of blueberry muffins and panettone, smiles.
"The usual, Sir?" she asks, her professional tone edging toward a line of familiarity it manages not to cross.
"Absolutely," he beams equally professionally, and then in a practiced sonorous voice adds, "Laura".
She smiles a different smile then, more secret and knowing, certain that - contrary to the appearance he was trying to give - her name had only come to him thanks to her lapel badge and in spite of his having frequently used it over the past few weeks.
"And two almond croissants," he adds, as if the addition to their order delivered in an ostentatious French accent might succeed in interrupting her train of thought. "Let’s push the boat out, shall we?"
Two minutes pass, and following the exchange of folding money and a loyalty card for a dark circular tray laden with food and drink, he joins his companion at their corner table.
"Ah, provisions!" the seated man says, moving a small leather Filofax from in front of him and placing it on a nearby chair which houses his own coat - even though that chair belongs to the next table. "You spoil me, Toby."
"Making notes already?" asks Toby, noticing that the Filofax is already open.
"Nothing quite so prosaic!"
"Or a diary? A commentary on the weather, perhaps? We’ll make a weatherman of you yet, Ian!"
Toby laughs at his own joke. It is a full, well-rounded - if well-rehearsed - laugh that goes with his voice. Two people now waiting at the counter look over.
"Too late for that, Old Fruit. I’m afraid my ship sailed long ago."
"Which is why you’re stuck with an old landlubber like me and where drinking plastic coffee is our only means of escape from ‘you know where’…"
Removing his coffee and croissant from the tray, Ian retrieves his Filofax and finds just enough space to lay it open it on the table in front of him.
"Notes of a sort," he confesses, looking down at the exposed page.
"Aha!" says Toby, still cradling his coat, "straight to the point! I like your style." He hesitates for a moment as he searches out somewhere to deposit his own recently discarded garment, eventually settling - with an apologetic shrug - to rest it on top of Ian’s. "So, where are we?"
"Cut of your jib," Ian suggests.
"Come again?"
"Cut of your jib. If you were going to persist with your landlubber theme, you should have said that you liked the cut of my jib."
"A step too far for me, that Old Boy. Never could join up more than a few dots."
Ian looks at Toby knowing that to be a bare-faced lie.
"As if," he suggests.
"So, where are we?" Toby repeats, turning his attention to his croissant.
"Essentially just about where we were a week or so ago." Ian flicks a page in his Filofax.
"No movement?"
"Nothing of any note."
"Why am I not surprised?"
"Did you talk to His Lordship?" Ian turns the page back and looks up. There is something derogatory in the appellation which is clearly noted and accepted. Toby, having just put some croissant in his mouth, points to his chewing and begs a moment to respond.
"I did," he says finally, cutting another piece of pastry before returning Ian’s gaze. "His line is still the same."
"What he wants?" Ian prompts.
"And when he wants it. Even though," Toby slips more croissant into his mouth, though this time not begging a pause and talking through his eating, "even though I told him it might be impossible. That we couldn’t possibly get things lined up in time."
"Does he understand the difficulty?"
"He says he does."
Ian lets a small laugh slip.
"But what he says and the truth of the matter are probably vastly different things!” When Toby fails to respond, Ian senses that he may have trespassed towards - but not over - a boundary. "I’m not saying it’s just your man, obviously. They’re all like that. Maybe mine is one of the worst. They have no grasp on reality."
"Indeed," Toby concurs, accepting restoration of equilibrium. "And it’s always the same, isn’t it? At the beginning of a session."
"Or the beginning of an administration."
Toby accepts Ian’s offer.
"Absolutely. So put the two together…" He allows his voice to trail away and then scoops up the remainder of the croissant.
Ian pulls a pen from his jacket pocket then lays it on the Filofax but without writing anything.
"I suspect this term it could be much worse."
"Oh don’t worry," Toby’s voice rises again as he tries to be upbeat, "we’ll bring them round. We always do, don’t we? When was the last time we had someone who didn’t get it? Who didn’t march to the inevitable drum?"
"And where are they now?" Ian asks, adding a layer to Toby’s question, knowing the implicit meaning will be immediately understood.
For a moment that seems decisive enough for both men to lift their respective coffees and take a sip.
Toby recoils slightly.
"Too damned hot - as usual! I don’t know why we come here."
"But you do," Ian suggests, smiling slightly. "As we always say - and usually at some point within the first five or ten minutes - because it offers us a means of escape."
"I know." Toby scans the rest of the clientele briefly. "But what about the rest? What about all these people?"
Ian follows his gaze, settling for a moment on a small group of orientals sitting near the entrance.
"Food. Drink. To rest their sore feet having walked all the way here."
"From where?" asks Toby, engaged again. "From where do you think they might have walked? Waterloo? Piccadilly?"
"At least, I would imagine. Who knows?" Ian sips his coffee again, then, more wistfully: "If only they knew."
"Knew what, exactly?"
"I don’t know. Who we were, perhaps; or what we did."
"Aha!" says Toby, puffing himself up slightly. "Well, there you have it, Old Boy. There you have it! To them I suspect we’re just a couple of suits having a break; freed from the chains of the office."
"Or chains of office," Ian suggests at which Toby offers one of his short resonant bellows. Two of the Orientals look round.
"I think," continues Ian, looking down into his coffee before lifting the cup towards his lips again, "you do the Great British Public a disservice. Or the populous at large, perhaps I should have said."
Toby replaces his cup on the table, his actions the mirror opposite of his colleague. "What do you mean?"
From his tone, Ian is suddenly unsure as to which element of his statement Toby is questioning. "About what: us or the Great British Public?"
"Us."
"Of course." Ian nods, unsurprised. As he lowers his coffee, Toby raises his own once more. Ian notes the choreography. "Well, look at us, Toby. Hardly your average ‘suit’, wouldn’t you say? Yours, for example. Saville Row?"
"And the overcoat," Toby affirms between sips.
"Well, then. And it shows. Not like some Johnny Come Lately from the City, eh?" Ian watches his friend nod in a satisfied manner. "And if we’re not from the City… Where might house two mature and experienced operators such as ourselves? And right near Westminster Bridge too."
Toby had marked Ian’s pause as he described them. He found the sobriquet acceptable enough. For a moment he feels vaguely expansive and thinks about offering a second coffee.
"You’re right, of course. Devoted to Her Majesty in some way shape or form. Obviously. Home Office, perhaps? Or the Treasury?"
Ian smiles at the in-joke. It is clearly familiar ground.
"As if. We’re hardly - what shall we say - ‘under-dressed’ for the part!"
The notion brings another loud roar from Toby, appreciative of Ian’s new aphorism. "Or the Foreign Office, perhaps?"
Ian smiles dutifully.
"Of course, we’re not that far away from you know where… We might be two of those fit types who like walking. You know, brisk stroll past the Cenotaph; freed from the highest office…"
"Now you’re talking, Old Boy!" Toby drains his cup with an air of satisfaction. "If people are going to mistake us for anyone, why not there? Are we not dressed for the part?"
"Better than many of the incumbents I would suggest. Or aspirational incumbents," says Ian, playing on his companion’s vanity.
"Never a truer word, my dear sir; never a truer word."
Having had a sense that a second coffee might have been in the offing, Ian pauses and retrieves some croissant crumbs from his plate. He looks up to see Toby staring at a poster just over his left shoulder. But it is not a stare driven by study or the need to interpret, but rather something more vacant and wistful; a look spilling from history, the missed opportunity that might indeed have seen Toby ensconced in the immediate vicinity of Number 10. Ian has heard the story before - and more than once.
"Well," he tries to sound upbeat and decisive, "this won’t get our problems solved, will it?" Toby looks back towards him, mid-recollection. Ian needs to haul him back. "We need to bend our minds…"
"Our considerable minds!" Toby affirms, unwilling to let an opportunity for self-flattery go by, thereby taking the bait Ian had set out in the minutest of pauses.
"Of course. Our ‘considerable minds’ to the matter at hand, and how we align the stars as it were and get our men seeing eye-to-eye."
Near the door, in a sudden flurry of activity and noise, the Asians rise en masse and prepare to leave.
"Where did we get to?" Ian asks, now forcing himself back to reality.
"Our last formal meeting?" Toby checks, seeing Ian beginning to scan his notes again.
"Indeed."
"Indecisive. Over two hours, if you recall, of going nowhere very, very slowly." Toby makes a gesture Ian finds difficult to decipher but assumes it to be resignation.
"Well," Ian’s finger pauses half way down a Filofax page, "at least there’s only one major sticking point."
"Only one?!" says Toby incredulous. "That’s what you think? I know it appears that way, but believe me, even were we to find a way of resolving that particular impasse, then I’m sure other things would arise. I suspect there are issues waiting in the wings…"
Toby allows the phrase to drift off, perhaps out into the murk with the departing Chinese. Ian watches them go then hauls Toby’s phrase back.
"‘Issues’? On our side, you mean?"
"All I’m saying is," says Toby, dodging the question, "that even if we could bring our men together, they would find other aspects about which they were suddenly un-settled."
In spite of the balance of the response, Toby’s inference is plain - as always. Ian notes it mentally, fails to smile, and tries to push on.
"That may or may not be the case, but for now what have we got to go on?"
"You tell me," Toby says, sighing slightly and deliberately sounding weary.
"I don’t believe we have an issue in principal," Ian looks up for a reaction, but there is none; Toby appears to be listening, his eyes are once again focussed on the poster. "We have a difference over the dates and cost, and what a successful outcome looks like."
"Not much then."
"If we can engineer some movement on the dates - perhaps a quarter on either side - we can tie that one up. Allowing for our superior skills, that should be easy."
Toby nods in recognition of the flattery, but Ian can see he lacks commitment. He tries to fight the disinterest.
"Cost is actually the primary concern. My man will not accept such an astronomical figure -"
"Astronomical!" Toby rises to the challenge.
Ian knows very well that the numbers, the cost of the project, would have initially come from Toby’s department, and his observation represents a more direct assault that he would normally countenance. But he too is under pressure.
"And so needs to be reviewed."
"But we spent weeks coming up with those numbers," Toby protests, allowing an edge of professional bluster to creep into his reply. He wants to sound hurt too; to give Ian the unmistakeable sense that he is feeling suddenly let down, betrayed.
"That’s what my man thinks," Ian says carefully, edging back a little. "I told him that you had spent a great deal of effort crafting them. And that I was confident they represented the best set of numbers your man could put forward.” Toby nods his thank you. "And so I think it is not actually about the costs, per se, but about the phasing of them."
"The phasing?"
"If we were able to package them up in such a way that my man could regard them as discrete steps, each associated with some kind of tangible outcome - how we sell the successes of the project if you like - then, provided he had some kind of influence at each stage, I think he might come round."
Ian pauses to allow the idea to sink in. He flicks back through his Filofax to find the entry from three weeks previously where this same notion was actually discussed in the committee meeting. He wonders why it should be any different now, and feels a little deflated that any chance of success partially rests on getting Toby on side.
"That might work," suggests Toby, slowly, "especially if we could persuade my man that the goal was still to deliver the whole thing, unhindered."
"Using your ‘considerable mind’…" Ian offers an echo from a few minutes earlier.
"But you’re not saying your man wants a veto of some kind?"
"It’s not something we have spoken about. Indeed, that word has never entered the conversation. He’s just nervous, that’s all I can put it down to. A ‘nervous newbie’ who doesn’t want to cock-up his first big project - especially such a high profile one allied with your own department. "
"Now that," says Toby, looking down at the table and allowing himself to contemplate another coffee for the second time, "is perfectly understandable. And very sensible, if I may say so."
"Noted," Ian accepts the gesture.
"But it won’t be easy. I know how set my man is on this one, and His Lordship moves positions on such things very rarely."
"Yet if we can shift him a few months or so, and offer the parcel bundled in an alternative way."
"But I won’t put a fancy bow on it," Toby protests obliquely.
"No-one’s asking you to, Toby. Let’s just see if we can edge him towards our position."
"Our position?"
"Sorry. No, not our position - obviously. Bad choice of words. If we can allow him to present his position in such a way that makes it palatable for my man… Well then."
Deciding against further caffeine, Toby rises suddenly.
"I can’t," he says, picking up his overcoat and beginning to don it, "promise anything, of course. Let me have a think. We may yet be able to turn this around." Toby offers his hand which Ian, still seated, takes, rising only slightly. "Forgive me, I have to get back to prepare for Wednesday’s session with ‘You Know Who’."
"Of course, of course. You’ll let me know how you get on?"
"Indubitably. Why don’t we meet here on Thursday, same time?"
Ian nods and smiles, and then in an instant Toby turns and is gone, his large, dark blue frame absorbed into the mist outside. As he turns his attention back to his Filofax, Laura appears at the table to collect the cups and plates.
"Another coffee, sir?"
"Why not?" Ian smiles, then returns to his notes.
From two weeks previously he sees a brief entry:
‘Cost and timing. Suggested a phased approach to try and make the pill easier to swallow and spread the cost. Under consideration.’
For a moment he wonders how he should frame today’s entry, loathed as he is to say the same thing again. After all, progress is expected and he needs to be able to depict some kind of movement. With a sigh, he lifts his pen from the table and allows it to hover over the page.