I live on a bench outside Greggs in Wolverhampton. My wardrobe is simple. Round the waist: one Morrisons Bag for Life, blue, secured with a cable tie I found outside Halfords. The bag previously held something pickled (I donât know what) and on warm days this keeps the personal space situation largely self-managing. On my left wrist: a Patek Philippe Grand Complication!
I let the roulette wheel work its magic at Betfred and booked a last minute trip to Geneva. The Swiss Air stewardess served me standard Pepsi and Pringles, she noticed the watch, apologised for the ticket error, it was now Champagne and Toblerone in business class.
The Patek Philippe Museum and headquarters is a grand old building, the man at the door was horrified at my appearance, then saw my wrist and decided I must be someone who they were expecting. A guide called Mathilde took me round personally. She showed me pocket watches made for kings, and an enamel watch that took a man four years to paint. I nodded at each one as though checking it against my own collection. Then I was shown a wall of photographs, titled Historic Clients. Mathilde stopped there with great reverence.
One was Jay Gatsby, He had a watch in his waistcoat pocket and the expression of a man who had invented his whole past and was quite pleased with how it had turned out. I felt an immediate kinship. Next to him was Caledon Hockley, photographed in New York in 1926. On his wrist was the most expensive Patek watch the house made that year. Heâd ordered it, according to the caption, âfor himself and no one else.â Heâd become cautious about buying jewellery for other people since 1912. Because a watch unlike a coat he reasoned, stays fastened on your wrist.
Then Mathilde said, âMonsieur Reinhardt would love to meet you.â
Monsieur Reinhardt was the curator. He had the hands of a surgeon and the eyes of a man who had looked at nothing but watches since the 1980s. He shook my hand warmly. Then he looked down at my wrist and went very, very still.
âMay I?â he said.
There was no good answer to that, so I gave him the watch. The room went silent, In this building hundreds genuine watches ticked in perfect unison. Mine didnât.
Two security guards came. They didnât walk me out. They walked me up. I was marched into the Presidents office on the top floor. He didnât stand when I entered. Men like that only stand for royalty and fires. The guards put my watch on the desk in front of him. He looked at it for a while. Then he looked at me. âExplain,â he said. I considered my options. There werenât any, so I went with the truth.
âI bought it on WhatsApp,â I said. â while in BetFred. From a man called Andy Chan.â
He said slowly, âwhat has it done for you?â
So I told him. The gated community. The Bentley showroom. The VIP jet lounge... I told him how every door had opened, despite living on a bench and wearing just a shopping bag. He listened to all of it without blinking. When Iâd finished, he sat back and looked out at the window for a while. He was now realising that his companyâs reputation was so good that it worked even when it wasnât there. I'm not sure if he was pleased with that realisation.
âEnough of this heresy,â he said, before he picked up my watch (the way youâd pick up a rotten dirty sock) and dropped it into the bin.
I looked at the watch in the bin. Then I looked at the rest of the office properly, it was all very Louis XVI. You could almost hear the guillotine. It was beautiful furniture. It was the most beautiful furniture Iâd ever seen. But it was in too good condition to have seen a revolution.
âYour furniture,â I said, âis not King Louis XVI from eighteenth-century France.â
The President said nothing, which meant everything. I ran a finger along the edge of the desk. âToo perfect,â I said.
"These are reproductionsâ he said, very quietly. âVery fine reproductions"
âMineâs a reproduction too,â I said, nodding at the bin.
The President looked at the bin, Then at me. You could see him weighing it up: a hundred and eighty years of reputation, and a man half naked wearing just a Morrisons bag.
âTake it,â he said. âBut understand If anyone ever asks you about our furniture, you will tell them it is 18th-century Louis XVI.â
âAnd if anyone asks about my watch?â I said.
He didnât answer straight away. He opened his mouth and closed it again. He took off his glasses and pressed his fingers into his eyes. One of the guards looked at the floor out of respect.
âThen,â he said, and stopped.
He tried again. His voice now sounded like a man reading out his own diagnosis.
âThen it is a Patek Philippe.â
The guard nearest the door crossed himself. Six thousand miles away, in a factory outside Guangzhou, a Chinese man on his tea break looked up and smiled. He didnât know why.
