Mr Lush’s son pulls into the taxi rank at Heathrow’s Terminal 5 at what some might describe as an outrageous speed and comes to an abrupt halt.
“Out! I only have two minutes before I get a ticket. And, before I forget: my 100 quid, like you promised. Now! I get that public transport is ‘unbecoming’ but I refuse to drive you to the airport for free anymore.“
As his wombat bodyguards remove Mr Lush’s luggage from the boot of the car at the wombat equivalent of lightning speed, Lush flashes his wallet and quickly presses £100 into his depraved son’s hand. This was, of course, all of the money Lush had set aside for his trip and his wallet is now, as is it so often is, empty. No sooner has the money reached Lush Jr’s hand than his thrice bequeathed Jaguar accelerates, leaving behind a cloud of dust and oaths where once a son had been. Lush, watching the car that had once belonged to cousin Charles (then Charles’ gardener, and then, of course, the gardener’s mother) grow smaller as it nears the horizon, makes use of his legendary if delayed wit to opine:
“It’s not like you’ve got anything better going on.”
Brushing off the irritation, Lush is flanked by his retinue of wombats, all four wearing (as is customary for wombat bodyguards) black single-breasted suits, white shirts, black ties, dark sunglasses, and walkie-talkies as he half-rolls-half-drags his two trolley suitcases (each one wheel short of a full set) towards the North-East check-in counter. As he does so, Lush begins to regret his clothing choices for the day. An extraordinarily old 3-button cut from a charcoal pin-striped Fresco, the suit was most certainly ‘timeless’. So ‘timeless’ in fact that it makes Lush reflect on how flexible the meaning of the word ‘timeless’ really is. In this case, it means ‘chic’, but also means ‘thick’, ‘heavy’, and ‘uncomfortably warm’. He also wonders whether the lilac shirt (already on its second set of white replacement collar and cuffs) that he has chosen to pair with the suit perhaps may have fit slightly better 20 odd years ago, when it was first made. Lush thinks to himself that the purple tie with a zig-zag pattern is a silver lining of sorts. He hopes that the tie’s pattern and the high-gloss polish of his George Cleverish horse-bit loafers (a ‘gift’ from a deceased great-uncle’s attic) will be enough to distract from the sweat running down his face. Thankfully, the horrific screeching sound of his luggage scraping on the floor (a sound he’s grown so accustomed to that it no longer registers with him) draws attention away from Lush’s face. He arrives at the check-in counter, performs an awkward bow to the employee there, and chokes out a hasty “good day”. The wombats, always professional, if somewhat curt, throw in a quick: “Ma’am.”
“Destination?”, the employee behind the counter enquires without looking up from his computer.
“Berlin.”
Yes, the jewel on the Spree. Berlin!
Lush is admittedly a bit wary of the trip the Lady in Red has sent him on. He had so hoped for a trip to the Caribbean. Three blind mice, light linen suits, rum… That is all more his speed. Not that this was the type of mission one could choose not to accept, of course.
His mood begins to improve as he goes over the details of the, frankly, quite simple plan once again. He is to be picked up by an otter (codename: Harry P.) at BER airport, then accompany him to his hotel in the city for a quick fresh-up before meeting a young old acquaintance for dinner. This acquaintance is to give him a key during the course of the evening. All Lush has to do from there is bring the key back to London with him. Mission accomplished. It all sounds rather manageable to our dear protagonist. Even so, to account for all eventualities, Lush decided to book an extra day for his trip, just in case.
Lush would barely be willing to admit this to himself but the dangling carrot of a ‘young old acquaintance’ is certainly tantalising. Lush could count on the fingers of one hand the amount of people this could be referring to and, if he’s being honest with himself (one of his least favourite things to do), he’d rather have a number of those fingers surgically removed than relive those experiences, even in his mind.
Hopeful of a pleasant evening with a bygone love, Lush hopes to boost his testosterone levels at the passengers’ lounge with a tumbler of Cryin’Air’s single malt. As he swirls his drink, he reflects on his current situation: “Could have been worse, I suppose. This mission will go off without a hitch and then let’s see what the Lady in Red has in store for me!” I suppose every hamster wheel does start off looking like a ladder.
Moments later and without a hint of envy, Lush waits patiently in boarding group 2 with his one-wheeled carry-on behind the career commuters and their immaculate luggage. These Rimowa’s witnesses in their ill-fitting Ermenedildo Pegna’s suits give Lush pause.
“Perhaps it would have been better to stay in Blighty.”
As the aforementioned RWs type out their latest proselytising messages on their phones and tablets (“You simply must invest in shitcoin!”), the wombats wait in the entrance hall for the plane to take off, so that they can send the Lady in Red the all-important code phrase: ‘The basket is in the birdie. I repeat: the basket is in the birdie.”
Take-off! As he soars through the air, Lush is brought crashing back down to Earth by the thought of his son.
“He can’t even tuck his shirt into those disgusting corduroy trousers of his. I need a gin and tonic!”
It’s finally becoming real to Mr Lush. The true melancholy (and liver) of a secret agent. MM/DPFC