Sara. Illustration Pete Field

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An Extract from Paul Halas’s forthcoming book, Sara’s Lives

To be published by AN Editions in March 2027

The Riversmeet Coffeehouse was just opening when we approached it, but they were happy to serve us very fine St Helena Peaberry coffees and a couple of excellent but horribly expensive croissants. Their effects lasted for about twenty minutes before the cold started to kick in. The high street was still largely empty, and all the shops bar Knicki-Knacki and The Fone Mart were still closed, consequently the few people out and about found it far too easy to avoid us. I mumbled to Sara that I’d told her so, and she grumbled back that it was bloody December for Christ’s sake, didn’t traders want to make any money?

I went for seconds of coffee, and by the time I returned with them the street was rather livelier. All the shops were opening, Peter and Pete had set up the stall, and one or two of the other stalwarts were around. It was game on. I jabbed a leaflet into the hand of someone who looked like a dowager before she realised what had hit her…

The rest of the morning was largely uneventful. There were no spitting incidents, no one was kicked, Pete only got into two major slanging matches, a very kind elderly man told Sara he believed there were still some places at the Sally Army hostel that night, and I had a lovely conversation with a blue-rinsed lady wearing a blue rosette who told me what a crime it was that the NHS was on its knees and her granddaughter was saddled with an eyewatering amount of student debt. She also said it was hardly surprising I was shivering like that, me with my lovely dark skin. I wished her a good day. What could I say? She was being so pleasant.

When the street eventually started to empty – we were cold, everyone else was cold, it was gloomy as anything and spitting and spotting – we called it a day. As we were saying our goodbyes to our friends (I wasn’t quite ready to call them comrade) an expressionless man in a plain grey suit, a chauffeur or a bodyguard or something (actually he reminded me of one of those Action-Man toys that were around when I was little), approached Sara and handed her an envelope. She shared its contents with me.

 It was addressed to Ms Sara and Ms Idan, and was an invitation to La Mijote in Birmingham that evening. A car would pick us up from Drake’s Bank at six, sharp. It was signed in Chinese characters, but of course Sara was able to read them. Mai Ji-Lin. No prizes for guessing who our host was, but I was surprised when Sara said we should go. I muttered that we could end the evening at the bottom of the Grand Union Canal, but she just told me not to be so melodramatic. Mr Mai was obviously acting on Henry Clarke’s behalf, and this was another attempt to win her over – but a velvet glove as opposed to an iron fist approach. It would be fine: we’d be wined, dined and sweet talked, and then she’d be given a deadline to come to her senses about selling her house. And why was I invited? Surely I had nothing to do with the deal. Part of the charm offensive, Sara smiled, we should enjoy it while we could.

            We prepared as well as we could for our night out, but after I’d bathed, washed my hair, applied the appropriate facial first-aid, and ransacked my extensive wardrobe, I went for jeans, a shirt and a pullover – as per normal – because as far as I was concerned skirts and dresses were for summer wear. Sara went for a very perpendicular but flowy trouser suit, tie-dyed of course, that looked suspiciously like everything else she wore, and some more patchouli. You couldn’t say we hadn’t made an effort, though.

            Bang on cue there was a knock on the door, and Action-Man ushered us out of the door and into the back of a very classy limousine. Lexus? Merc? Jag? I had no idea. I wasn’t taking very much in because I couldn’t shake my feeling of unease. It wasn’t so much the fear that we’d end up in concrete wellie-boots at the bottom of the River Severn, or become part of the foundations of a new shopping mall, but I couldn’t help thinking this treat was more misanthropic than philanthropic. Then I gave myself a mental slap. Sara had been right, I was worrying for nothing. I soon clocked that we’d driven onto the M5 (very smoothly, I’d add), so at least we were heading in the right direction. Sara glanced over to me and told me to relax; I was in danger of ending up constipated. She repeated that nothing was going to happen to us, apart from enjoying an exceptional meal and some pleasant chitchat. I muttered that I was perfectly relaxed. A lie, but on the other hand, I’d prevented my imagination from going into overdrive.

            I’d been so preoccupied with my own thoughts I barely took any notice of our drive up the motorway, and we seemed to reach our destination in a matter of minutes. In fact Action-Man had probably broken all the speed limits, but maybe the rules of the road didn’t apply to Action-Men. It was a relief that we’d rolled up in the middle of Birmingham, and when we got out of the car I could see we were at the edge of the Bull Ring, so maybe all was well after all. So far, anyway.

            Another almost identical Action-Man (#2) escorted us into a high-rise building, into a very shiny lift, and up to the 19^th floor. From there, walking on an ultra-plush carpet, we made our way into the all-chrome and glass La Mijote. All smiles, Mr Mai was there to greet us, and ushered us to a quiet table. That was just as well, because none of the other diners, undoubtedly captains of industry, celebrities, brokers and footballers – Premiership only naturally – looked too happy to be eating next to an old hippy, who smelled like a central Asian bazaar and wore Doc Marten boots, and a bespectacled younger woman who looked like a hamster.

            Seen properly for the first time, Mr Mai cut an impressive figure. 50s, his hair starting to turn silver, tall, physically imposing but not exactly bulky, and wearing a very, very well-cut suit. It seemed that all eyes in the restaurant were focussed on such an odd trio, but that didn’t last long. The clientele were all far too focussed on themselves to gawp at anyone else all evening. I don’t know what I’d expected, but when our host welcomed us he spoke in a kind of American-ish accent.

            ‘Mr Mai Jin-Lin I presume,’ said Sara.

            ‘Jimmy, please,’ said Mr Mai. ‘Let’s not stand on ceremony. I’m a very Americanised Chinaman.’

            ‘But your accent isn’t 100% American is it?’ said Sara.

            ‘Take a guess.’

            ‘Well, I’d say you went to school in England and college in the States. Winchester and Yale?’

            ‘Near enough.’

            ‘And you haven’t been back to China in quite a while. What is it, too many Commies?’

            Jimmy gave a wry chuckle. ‘On the contrary, the Communist Party has been very good to me. Remember Deng’s mantra, to get rich is glorious? Well, some of us took it to heart. But you’re right about living there. LA, New York, Paris and Singapore… but I’m sorry to say Beijing is a no – except on business.’

            ‘And here we are in little old Birmingham,’ smiled Sara.

            ‘Here we are at one of the very best restaurants in the country. Ms Sara, Jasmine, prepare to be wowed.’

            ‘So La Mijote has a Michelin star?’ I ventured.

            ‘La Mijote blows Michelin out of the water,’ said Jimmy. ‘It’s run by one of the greatest chefs…’

            At that moment a stoutish man of about 65, with a receding mop of suspiciously dark hair but still sort of good looking, dressed in dark trousers and an open-neck white shirt, ploughed across the room, heading directly for our table.

            ‘Speak of the devil,’ said Jimmy.

            Sara got to her feet, and she and the man embraced warmly. Bise, bise, bise, three smacking kisses. ‘Jean-Pierre,’ Sara laughed, ‘Quelle merveilleuse surprise!’

            ‘Ravi de te voir,’ Jean-Pierre beamed. ‘How many years has it been?’

            ‘Far too many! Jas, I want you to meet a very dear old friend of mine, Jean-Pierre Gris, we enjoyed countless casse-croutes together, many years ago.’

            Jimmy looked stunned, but attempted to regain a measure of composure. ‘And Jean-Pierre’s team is going to cook us a gourmet banquet. Your tastebuds are going to get the ride of their lives.’

            ‘Remember those days back in Auch?’ said Jean-Pierre, his attention solely on Sara.

            ‘Le Coin aux Canetons…’ said Sara. ‘Duck with everything, as I remember.’

            ‘So that’s where all your cooking skills come from,’ I said to Sara. ‘You learned from the best.’

            ‘Au contraire,’ Jean-Pierre beamed. ‘It was Sara who taught me. I’d probably still be churning out steak-frites if it weren’t for this lady…’

            ‘Come on, we ate well back then,’ said Sara. ‘It was down to earth food, but God it was good,’

            ‘It was. You know I miss those days.’

            ‘Me too. We must’ve polished off half the ducks in the Gers, though.’

            ‘I know!’ Jean-Pierre exclaimed. ‘I will prepare you an authentic Gersois meal, 100% terroir, or almost. First an aperitif, a floc… I know, I know, it’s usually sweet, but this one is dry, bone dry. Like a Montilla, but better. Then, how about a little garbure, a duck and vegetable soup, containing most parts of the duck, but not the beaks… although I don’t guarantee that. Then a small salade gascogne: gésiers confits, foie-gras et ses toasts, magret fumé, walnuts, a few leaves… And with it a good old St Mont. Not one of the more fashionable wines of the region, but I’ve never had a bad bottle. And it’ll stand up to the next course, magret en cocotte, a duck breast over sliced potatoes and shallots… Simple but perfect! For dessert look no further than a crème brûlée, flavoured with a hint of cardamom… of course that’s not very terroir, but I forgive myself. And as a digestif…’

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            ‘Armagnac,’ said Sara. Jean-Pierre nodded.

            ‘But nothing too chichi,’ said Sara. ‘Janneau… Twenty-five-year-old… Thirty would be overkill.’

            ‘Impeccable!’ Jean-Pierre clapped his hands together. ‘How good it will be to put on my chef’s whites again! After all these years! And making real food at last, not these stupid smokes and sous-vides and deep frozen micro conneries!’ He gave Sara another couple of hearty bises and barrelled away towards the kitchens. Not only was Jimmy’s jaw agape, most of the diners in the restaurant were looking on in stunned silence.

            The floc was very nice, very dry, almost biscuity, but with a distinct sweet aftertaste… God, I was on the way to getting as bad as Sara. Jimmy, meanwhile, drained his glass of fortified wine in a couple of hearty swigs. He needed to regain his equilibrium, but his plan to shock and awe us with a gastronomic extravaganza at Jean-Pierre’s had already been derailed. He clearly needed to regain the initiative, but how was he going to do it?

            ‘So, no prizes for guessing you’re a member of Fructus Magnus,’ said Sara.

            ‘Straight to the point,’ said Jimmy, ‘I like that. Yes, I have that privilege.’

            ‘And you all dedicate yourselves to performing good works, helping the less fortunate…’

            Jimmy gave a very indulgent look. He knew Sara was playing with him. ‘As the name suggests, we’re all about money. Business and influence. There’s no harm in you knowing that. Anyone with moderate cyber-skills can find out our members have multiple commercial interests… Fingers in all sorts of pies.’

            ‘And yours would be…?’

            ‘I acquire mineral mining rights in out of the way places… I have an eye for it.’

            ‘So you rip up the planet for gain, pay local workers subsistence wages, and probably leave swathes of pollution into the bargain.’

            ‘Well, not me personally. I just buy and sell rights; I can’t speak for the companies I acquire rights for.’

            ‘Very ethical.’

            ‘Where there’s a market, we’re there.’

            ‘Where there’s markets to manipulate and exploit.’

            ‘We’re businesspeople, so shoot us already. We see opportunity, we take opportunity.’

            ‘Some businesses…’ said Sara. ‘You’re up to your eyes in some of the worst rackets in the world. You’re gangsters… gangsters in suits.’

‘It’s a cutthroat world, Sara, but when all’s said and done we’re just a bunch of rich bon vivants, in fact that’s the glue that holds the membership together. Good living. After all, we’ve worked hard enough for it.’

‘You, work? That’ll be the day!’

            ‘Hey, here’s the soup… How about we call a truce while we enjoy the meal?’ said Jimmy. His shmoozing was not going to plan. He needed to regroup.

The garbure was hearty and tasty, and it was a good thing there wasn’t much of it, because it would’ve filled us up very quickly. I didn’t find any beak in mine, but there was certainly some skin and bone, and what looked suspiciously like half a webbed foot. It was all for the flavour, Sara assured me.

            The salade gourmande was excellent, and finding out that gésiers was duck gizzards didn’t dim my appetite one bit. I’d already had it at Sara’s. The St Mont red was hearty and sustaining, but not so heavy as to assault the palate (tsk, Jas). Then the duck breast in its own little casserole dish was sublime, a perfect medium-rare, but with dead crispy skin. The potato and shallot mix below the magret had sautéed in the duck juices, and there was a sumptuous caramelised layer of them in the bottom of the cocotte. Yum. The crème brûlée was a triumph, but I still wanted to know why it wasn’t quite terroir. In fact I wanted to know what terroir was. Sara explained it was from the word terre, earth, of the earth. In other words local produce – local to the Gers, anyway, so using cardamom had been taking a bit of a liberty. A successful one, though.

            Finally, it was time for the digestif. I said I wasn’t that keen on spirits, and Jimmy insisted on having a whisky. A good one. In that instance a twenty-year-old Macallan. At least he didn’t ask for it on the rocks, Sara muttered under her breath. I, meanwhile, tried a tentative sip of my Janneau. Stuffed as I was, the constant flow of wine during the meal had given me a buzzy head, but not so much that I could make myself enjoy the Armagnac. I just wasn’t a spirits person, and the long-suffering Sara had to help me out with it.

            ‘So,’ Sara turned to Jimmy. ‘I assume you’re in the UK to meet with our mutual friend. Or is the election your primary interest?’

‘A bit of both, I guess. The election is kinda interesting.’

‘I imagine your organisation has something in mind should Jeremy Corbyn become prime minister.’

            ‘You know and I know that isn’t going to happen… he gave us all one heckuva fright two years ago, but no way will anything like that be repeated. You can be sure that if Mr Corbyn were ever to set foot in Downing Street, Uncle Sam would have half a dozen agencies onto him… and I bet the British army wouldn’t stand idly by either. I can tell you one thing though, Corbyn’s successor has already been picked, and boy is he a peach.’

            ‘I thought the party membership chose the leader,’ I said.

            ‘Oh Jasmine, how wonderful to be so young and full of belief. The party membership will think they’ve chosen the new leader, that’s for sure, but you can bet your bottom dollar it’ll be the business sector’s housetrained pet. But anyway, we leave the cloak and dagger stuff to others. Our group are just businesspeople; we’re just into networking and good living. A healthy overdose of hedonism, if you like.’

‘All well and good,’ said Sara, taking it all in, ‘but what I can’t understand is why you’re giving the time of day to a pillock like Henry Clarke.’

            ‘Surely you’re not going to let him join your silly little boys’ club,’ I said. A floc and three glasses of St Mont had loosened my tongue a little.

            ‘Boys’ and girls’ club, but never mind… He’ll have to be voted in by the membership, and believe me that ain’t a given, but his little project in Cranley? It’s quite interesting. It shows real ambition, vision even…’

            ‘Greed, more like,’ said Sara.

            ‘Yes, that too. His most admirable quality, in fact.’

            ‘He’s a grubby little con man.’

            ‘So is the POTUS… or he’s a big one, rather.’

            ‘But he hasn’t even got the finance for it,’ I said. ‘He’s desperate for investors.’

            ‘I repeat, it’s a good scheme. It’ll turn your backwoods creek into the Las Vegas of the Cotswolds; he’s thought of everything. All of it top end, catering for the mega-rich, luxury hotels and condos, casino, spa (I bet you never knew about the health-giving properties of the River Cran, did you?), conference centre, pleasure gardens, and of course upgraded transport links. There’s even a plan to turn the nearby gliding club into an airstrip for private jets… A billionaires’ playground.’

            ‘It’ll turn Cranley into a ghost town,’ I said.

            ‘Can’t make an omelette…’ said Jimmy dismissively.

            ‘Clarke will still need a shedload of money,’ said Sara.

            ‘Won’t be a problem,’ said Jimmy. ‘Not if he joins Fructus. Like I said, it’ll depend on the way the membership votes, but I for one will be a yea. I think he’d be an asset. Too many in the ranks born with money, we need a few honest to goodness grifters in the mix too. You know, the good ol’ American dream, anyone can become a billionaire. Even a Brit…’

            ‘They’ll really vote for him on the strength of this pie-in-the-sky development in little old Cranley?’ said Sara.

            ‘I don’t frankly know… Won’t do him any harm though. It’s a good scheme. It would certainly put that little Podunk town of yours on the map. And they’ll admire his chutzpah, going full steam ahead before he’s got two cents to rub together. Shows initiative. I’d say it was in the balance.’

            ‘It’s insane,’ said Sara. ‘No one will want to go there.’

            ‘People will want to go if there’s clubs, hotels, a spa, a casino… Could invest in the soccer club, bring major league soccer to Cranley…’

            ‘Football!’ Sara snorted, arms crossed.

            ‘Whatever… This could absolutely transform the Cotswolds.’

            ‘It won’t if I don’t sell up.’

            ‘I was coming to that. Your little road looks unimportant, but we want to upgrade it as the westerly access point to the development. We hope sanity will prevail and you’ll accept our offer. I happen to think it’s a very generous offer, and bear in mind it’s also our last offer.’ He pushed an envelope across the table.

            Sara tore it open and handed the slip inside it over to me. ‘Haven’t got my reading glasses,’ she said. ‘Can you read it to me Jas?’

            Sara didn’t use reading glasses. She was enjoying the game. ‘It says two million pounds,’ I said.

            ‘Well?’

            ‘No.’

            I looked sharply at Sara, but I wasn’t really surprised. I knew her too well.

            Jimmy didn’t look surprised as much as resigned. ‘You’re insane. That’s eight times more than your hovel’s worth.’

            ‘The answer’s still no.’

            ‘Have it your own way. Garçon!’ Jimmy snapped his fingers imperiously. ‘Check!’

            The meal had been so good I’d half-forgotten my earlier feeling of unease, but now it was seeping back; Mr Mai’s advances had been rebuffed. Jean-Pierre, meanwhile, swanned up to our table with impeccable grace, taking no notice whatsoever of Jimmy’s rudeness, and turned to Sara. ‘No charge, ma chère, it has been my very great pleasure to cook for you, a reminder of old times. You mustn’t leave it so long next time.’

            ‘We’ll be dead if I do,’ Sara chuckled. ‘Next time I’ll cook for you.’ She and Jean-Pierre exchanged several bises.

Then he turned to Jimmy, who was bristling at this new slight to his self-importance. ‘Do not worry, monsieur, if you come again my carte Gersoise will definitely not be available… and you can be sure I will charge you.’

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Paul Halas is a writer whose escape from 1970s hippiedom was the discovery that he could invent stories. He spent forty years contributing to various Disney magazines and books, as well as a variety of non-Disney comics, books, and animated films. His retirement from commercial writing coincided with Jeremy Corbyn becoming the Labour Party leader (he is a self-described Corbynista) and becoming a Labour activist between 2015 and 2020… only to quit the party in despair soon after its recapture by the right wing of the organisation following the 2019 electoral tragedy. He has now rediscovered his first love – writing novels and funny stories – which is just as well, as the real world isn’t very funny at present.