“Yes, Mr. Ward,” he said. “I do.”

“Now then, we can’t have you dressed like that.” Ward looked at Edward’s suit with a distasteful expression. He peeled two pound notes from a roll he kept in the pocket of his jacket. “Get down to Marks and Spencer and buy yourself a new suit, a couple of shirts and a pair of shoes. We’ll treat that as an advance on your first two weeks, alright?”

Edward took the notes. “Thank you,” he said. “I appreciate the opportunity.”

“Not a problem,” Ward said, turning away. “Just don’t make me look like a mug, alright?”

13

EDWARD TURNED UP EVERY MORNING at six for the next week and worked hard. It was a simple enough trade to grasp. Most of the stock was old and near to the end of its useful life. Cars that had been shining and new just a few years earlier would now be bought for a pound or two, touched up by Buck and pushed on to unsuspecting punters for as much as they could get. Where once the motors had been immaculate, now they were battered and bruised: the axles creaked; the gearboxes groaned; the bodywork rattled; the upholstery was stained and torn; the registration books filled, in most cases, with a litany of names.

The other salesmen had little time for Edward or, it seemed, each other. It was a cut-throat way of doing business, the half dozen men circling the forecourt like hyenas, pouncing upon potential customers or, during the quieter periods, trying to round up likely looking prospects from the street. They were loud-mouthed Charlies with oil-slicked hair and faces full of spots, offering oleaginous handshakes and honey-dripped platitudes. They wore check sports-coats and grey trousers, or lounge suits, always completed with an old school tie and shoes polished to a high gloss. Their language was filled with incomprehensible jargon that baffled the punters and yet sounded impressively reassuring and authentic. Edward did not rate any of them in any sense other than the most important: they all had a sixth sense for selling. It was a seeming ease that allowed them to identify and then exploit every customer’s foible: vanity, security, reliability. They had a talent for detecting whatever it was to which they needed to pander.

Edward watched them in action. They gathered in groups when times were quiet, scattering at the first sight of a customer. He made to fuss with a nearby car as the man Ruby Ward had chastised on his first day latched onto a young buck who had come in looking for a sports car. He watched as the man smoothly guided him from the one that he had his eye on to another, an unreliable jalopy that Ward had bought for ten pounds and which they were offering for ninety. The salesman was a skilled liar, effortlessly extolling the virtues of a car he knew to be on its last legs, so persuasive that Edward suspected that he almost believed his own pitch. That was a useful attribute, he thought, and one he knew that he also possessed. The salesman summed up the customer in a flash, adapting himself to the man’s personality, instinctively knowing which would be the path of least resistance to a sale. After half an hour the sale was concluded. It was an impressive display.

On the second day, he decided to try for himself.

Ruby Ward had something of a name for sports cars and it was another young man who came through the door. Edward had noticed him idling on the forecourt and had positioned himself ahead of the other salesmen so that when the man had plucked up the courage to come inside he was able to smoothly attach himself to his side. The man had paused by a Jaguar XK that Edward knew suffered with a poor carburettor. “This one?” he said to the man with idle charm. “Funny you should notice that. Between you and me, we were going to take it off sale. Mr. Ward himself is rather fond of it, some suggestion he might buy it for his lady friend, but if you want it––provided we move fast––I reckon we could probably have it for you.”

“It’s nice,” the man offered uncertainly. “What’s it like?”

Edward assessed the man again: he was young, and, he guessed, this was his first or second car. What would he want? He would want the reassurance that the car was fast. He would want his sense that the car would make him popular with girls confirmed. He was too young to buy the car himself and so he would also need to demonstrate it was a sensible purchase to his parents. “She’s a beauty, alright,” Edward said, running his fingertips across the chrome bodywork. “Reinforced spring-gaiters. That dummy brake drums help cooling as well as looking good. The engine has unusually high compression, so that makes it extra reliable as well as giving it that little bit of extra poke.” He grinned at him. “It’s been carefully kept, one owner previous, he always garaged it when it wasn’t being used, and just ten thousand miles on the clock. You have good taste––she’s a lovely little number.”

He noticed Ruby Ward watching him from the side of the showroom as he led the helpless customer around the car, pointing out the particular features that made this model a more attractive proposition than any of the others. He discussed the success of the make on the track, reciting a long list of famous names who had had success behind the wheel: Ted Horn, Rex Mays, Bill Holland. The man requested a test drive and Edward told him that that was fine, he could have one if he liked, but that delay would increase the chances that the car would be withdrawn from sale. The man demurred, negotiated a small discount for cash, and drove away with the car.

“You’re a natural,” Ruby Ward told him afterwards, shaking him firmly by the hand. “You see what you just did?”

“I’m not sure,” Edward said, pretending that he didn’t when, of course, he knew exactly.

Ward beamed at him. “You made him think that you were his friend. It’s a real art––not everyone can manage it. You have to be an actor, or a born liar, and you’ve got the gift, alright, Fabian––you, my man, have got a silver tongue.”

14

IT WAS HIS FOURTH DAY at the garage, towards the middle of June, when he saw the girl on the forecourt. Edward had been talking to Hynde, the least objectionable of the salesmen. He had thick black hair and a slight paunch, his eyes were bright and greedy and his pleasant smile seemed to be fixed. “Blimey,” Hynde said. “Would you look at her?”

He got up quickly but Edward laid a hand on his shoulder. “She’s a friend,” he said.

“Course she is.”

“I’m serious.”

“All’s fair in love and war,” Hynde said with a vulpine grin as he set off. “And motor cars,” he added over his shoulder.

“You know Violet Costello?”

He stopped. “Course,” he said, frowning.

“That’s her niece. Still want to have a go?”

His face fell. “Really? Oh, bollocks to it then. She’s all yours.”

Edward strolled across the showroom. Chiara was stroking the chrome mirror of a sleek MG and was as beautifully attired as before: a cardigan with padded shoulders, a single pleat plaid skirt with nylons underneath and patent leather Oxfords with a continental heel. She saw Edward’s reflection in the MG’s windscreen and turned, smiling. “Hello,” she said. “I was passing. My Aunt said you had started working here. I thought I’d come and say hello.”

“A very pleasant distraction.”

“I’m glad you think so. Have you sold any cars today?”

“As a matter of fact, I have––a little Packard Coupe. I sold it to a charming chap just twenty minutes ago for twice what it’s worth. If he’s not back here complaining that it isn’t starting by the end of the week then I shall be most surprised.”

She laughed. “Does Ruby still employ the same disreputable types as before?”

“I work here,” he said. “I couldn’t possibly comment.”