old patterned tiles, a staircase with red carpet, and, sitting behind a desk, a man who looks about ninety-three and is talking on an old-fashioned telephone. He puts his hand over the receiver and says, “One minute, young lady,” then resumes talking.
Since he’s busy, I wander over to the other side of the hall and peep through a pair of massive wooden double doors into a large room. It has a marble mantelpiece and lots of ancient armchairs, just like at Luke’s club. But, oh my God. Luke’s club seems totally vibrant and down with it compared with this place. For one thing, it’s half-empty. And for another, everyone here looks as if they’re ninety-three. Even the young people look as if they’re ninety-three. I’ve never seen so many leather elbow patches.
As I watch, a shriveled waiter pushes along a wooden trolley covered with bottles. He pauses by an armchair and leans down to address one of the young ninety-three-year-olds.
“Sherry?” he intones funereally, and I bite my lip to stop myself giggling. The waiter looks older than anyone; in fact, I’m amazed he can lift the sherry bottle.
“Young lady?” I turn to see the man at the desk summoning me, and I hurry over.
“Hello!” I say with a friendly smile. “My name is Becky Brandon, née Bloomwood. I saw your wonderful suitcase-thingy in the window, and I would very much like to buy it. Please,” I add hastily. “Thank you.”
The man behind the desk sighs a weary sigh.
“Young lady,” he says.
“Becky,” I put in.
“ ‘Becky,’ ” he echoes with disdain, as though he’s never heard the name “Becky” before and doesn’t care for it. “I’m afraid the portmanteau on display—”
“Portmanteau!” I can’t help interrupting. “I knew it had a name!”
“I’m afraid it is not for sale. It is the prize in our Christmas raffle.”
A raffle? That’s just typical.
“Well, can I buy a ticket for the raffle, please?” I ask. “In fact…several tickets?”
I’ll buy as many tickets as I can afford, I instantly decide. I mean, someone’s got to win, haven’t they? And why shouldn’t it be me?
“The raffle is only open to members,” says the man discouragingly.
“Oh,” I say, deflated. “Right. I see.”
How do I get round this? Could I ask one of the ninety-three-year-olds to buy me twenty tickets, maybe? I could compliment his elbow patches and take it from there….
“How much are the tickets?” I ask casually. “Just out of interest.”
“Twenty pounds,” says the man, and I stare at him, appalled.
Twenty pounds? Twenty pounds? For one raffle ticket? That’s not right. It’s against the laws of raffles. If I were a member of this club, I would be complaining.
“Was there anything else?” says the man, raising his eyebrows.
Honestly, he doesn’t need to sound so snotty. I’m tempted to say, “Yes, actually, I’m a sherry inspector and I’ve come to see if your trolley’s up to scratch.”
“I suppose not,” I say at last. “Thanks, anyway. So why are you called London Billiards?” I can’t help asking. “What happened to the ‘Parlour Music’ bit?”
“The parlour music declined,” says the man disapprovingly, although whether he disapproves of parlour music or of the fact that it declined is hard to tell.
They could do with a bit of parlour music round here, if you ask me.
If the parlour music were Beyoncé, and the parlour were a disco.
“Well, bye, then,” I say. “Good luck with the billiards.”
I head unwillingly toward the door, my eyes fixed on the portmanteau. It would be so perfect…so perfect….And then suddenly a new thought strikes me.
“Excuse me,” I say, striding back to the desk. “Could you please furnish me with the name and details of whoever made the portmanteau?”
I’m quite pleased with “furnish me with.” It sounds suitably pretentious.
I can tell the man is trying to think of a reason to say no but can’t quite manage it.
“Very well,” he says at last. He opens a ledger, leafs through the pages, squints at an entry, then laboriously writes out all the information on a slip of paper. It’s someone called Adam Sandford, in Worcestershire.
“Thank you so much.” I beam at him.
This is even better. I’ll commission Luke his own special portmanteau! There’s no time like the present, so I send Adam Sandford a quick email, standing on the street. Then, feeling satisfied with myself, I decide to go to Hamleys toy shop. I cut through the Burlington Arcade, which is full of the most gorgeous twinkly trees and massive red baubles, and onto Regent Street, all lit up