Jack boarded the Southbound Euston train, carefully stowed his shotgun, shooting jacket, brown fedora, wellies and leather cartridge bag on the luggage rack and scanned the carriage for a vacant table seat. A well-fed man with a smooth, shiny face looked up from his mac air and said in an elocuted voice.
-You’re not going to shoot me, are you?
-Not if you behave yourself – Jack replied crisply and sat in the only vacant seat opposite.
-Good shooting? The man insisted.
-Not bad…fifteen – replied Jack.
-Do you shoot often? The fat man continued.
-No, not for a while, so I was quite pleased with myself – concluded Jack and fished his own mac out of his bag to read the Telegraph. He generally disliked socializing with plebs on trains but couldn’t resist asking
-Do you shoot?
-Oh, not for ages- Do you live locally?
-No, I’m from round here but I live in London…I have a little place in Chelsea - Jack fibbed feigning modesty without looking up from his computer screen.
The man’s compressed vowels and thin, precious voice needled him…but he couldn’t resist the overtures – the man seemed genuinely curious and this both flattered him and made him keen to test the strength of his own noble façade.
-Ah, I’m in Eaton Square myself…– he proffered.
-Nice- said Jack, scrolling the headlines.
-…but I’m thinking of moving…they’re offering me 5 squillion…I bought it for 2 only a couple of years ago…
-Really- said Jack, trying to conceal the pricking up of his ears. That was a very smart square indeed, one of the smartest, and a sizeable wedge.
-Yes…and I have a few other developments in the area.
-Really- mused Jack.
-Yes, and yourself?
- I’m an Architect- Jack exaggerated -and a developer too, mainly residential…
-Really, quite a coincidence, what?
The carrot now out of the bag, the fat man proceeded to bore him with endless details of his property ventures, immense capital gains and how he proudly abused and cheated his tenants to increase his profits.
Eventually Jack could stand no more and interrupted him to explain that he really had to do some work and they both went politely back to their screens. Then the man wriggled from his tight seat and minced down the aisle in the direction of the buffet car only to return five minutes later with cheese and bacon toasties and a king-size coke, which he smartly dispatched.
He wiped his greasy lips with a napkin and, perhaps stimulated by the coke, resumed his monologue. Jack was perplexed. The man was simultaneously repulsive and fascinating because, while undoubtedly not an nob, had somehow mastered some of their mannerisms in the same way he had, and each was testing the other’s roleplay. He might just have a bit of wodge too.
They both knew that real toffs don’t work, neither as developers nor architects and that each was maintaining the charade against the odds. But now he was hooked and despite his better judgement dropped his aloof poise and began to boast about some of his own grand achievements, if only to shut the bloody self-kicker up he thought to himself.
But that evening, at home, he realized that the fat fuck had smashed his cover by appealing to his avarice and so he’d lost the game. This, along with a few brandies, made him furious - Jack didn’t like losing at anything.