by Simon Jenner
“It’s got nothing to do with the money. My dad’s the first in his family to have any. Besides, I won’t get a penny unless I join the professional classes.”
“So have you anything in mind?”
“No. I’ve wasted a week trying to think of something that interested me. All I managed to do was feel sick, grow a beard and develop chronic B.O.”
“Sounds like a civil service job might suit you.”
“Very good.” John took his bottle of Corona from the outstretched hand of Carmen. She had beautiful brown eyes. “You should tell my dad that one. He hates civil servants.”
“I think he told it to me.”
Ice cold Corona ran from the corner of John’s mouth as he failed to laugh and keep his lips together at the same time. “You bastard,” John said, brushing the liquid from his blue polo shirt before it soaked through. “This is my best shirt.”
“Now I know why they call this place ‘Dribbles’,” Mark said. “Anyway, what’s this about best shirt? I thought that was your only shirt.”
“Like I said, ‘You bastard’.”
John looked up from his beer-dampened shirt to see that Mark was whispering into Carmen’s ear. A moment later she was gone, but there was more of a purpose to her stride. What was he up to?
John grabbed his friend by the suit lapels. “I hope you haven’t done anything stupid.”
Mark raised both hands from the table, palms facing John. “Me? Never.” A look of triumph spread across his face, like he’d won one of his ludicrous bets. “I’ve got it.”
Pulling his arms back, John shook his head. “Go on,” he said.
“Do you remember when Spunk Eyes Spencer attacked me in the playground, when we were about sixteen?”
“Yeah, wasn’t it because you called him Spunk Eyes?”
Mark considered this for a moment. “Yes, I suppose it must have been. Anyway, you took him down like you were born to it.”
“What’s your point?”
“I’ll never forget the look in your eyes as you faced off. It was like you were on a roller coaster ride, caught up in excitement and exhilaration, not a flicker of fear to be seen.”
John took a swig from his bottle and swallowed, enjoying the memory of pulling Anthony Spencer from on top of Mark as Spunk Eyes swung fist after fist into his best friend’s face. He had enjoyed seeing the fear in the bully’s eyes. “I’m a bit old to be a boxer.”
“What about the police?”
“Are you serious?”
“I don’t mean the boys in blue. I’m talking about your secret service types. They earn six-figure salaries, and you could get that look back.”
“And they don’t exist.”
“Believe me, John, they exist all right. I can’t believe I never thought of it before. Leave it with me, and I’ll see if I can set something up.”
Mark raised his bottle, and John did the same, toasting to resolving his future. Like Mark knew anyone in a secret police unit. But the thought of telling his mother he carried a gun and shot people for a living did widen his grin somewhat.
“So we’ve sorted out my career path, what do we do now?”
“Let’s get absolutely fucking trollied.” Mark’s suggestion threw him into a fit of posh snorts, so loud that a few disapproving stares gravitated their way. John stared them all right back.
“I’ll drink to that,” he said.
2: Saturday 24th September, 06:30
John Smith lay on his back in his bed, staring into the blackness. No light had appeared through the cigarette hole in the thick velvet curtains signalling it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet. He closed his eyes and tried to remember the events from last night. A week on Scotch and a night of God only knew how many Coronas had taken its toll on his cognitive powers. Oh yes, he was going to become a secret agent, and then he and Mark had gotten pissed.
“What time is it?” said a sleepy, female voice.
John shot up, grabbed the duvet with both hands and pulled it to his chest. His heart pounded, and his skin tingled with goose bumps. Movement had not been kind to his head. He looked over to his left, but the room was still pitch black. Anyway he worked it, his head came back to the same conclusion. There was a woman in his bed.
“What the...?”
“Heh, stop stealing all the covers, chummy,” said the silky voice. “That’s no way to treat a guest.” A soft hand slid under the duvet and onto his bare chest, stroking him in slow circles. “I’m yours till eight if you want to go again.”
John felt around and banged on the lamp at his bedside. The room lit up and he blinked rapidly as he fought to focus his eyes on the warm, wriggling body that was attempting to clamp on to him. Her words percolated in his brain while he gazed down at the slender, naked frame. She was truly spectacular: hardly twenty, long dark hair, pale smooth skin and the mischievous face of a wayward angel. She was way out of his league. The soft hand crept towards his crotch just as his brain caught up with reality.
“You’re a prostitute?” he exclaimed, sliding off the bed, taking the duvet with him and wrapping it around himself like fluffy, makeshift armour. With a few feet between them, the young woman’s beauty was blatant and decidedly distracting. “You’re a prostitute,” he repeated, not sure what else to say.
Chocolate brown eyes glistened and tears formed in their corners as his guest crossed her legs, folded her arms and bent awkwardly over in an attempt to cover her newly found modesty. “I’m an escort actually, not a prostitute, and I don’t do anything I don’t want to.”
John could not handle a crying woman - prostitute, escort or otherwise. For Superman it was Kryptonite, for some it was fingernails on a blackboard, but for John it was a woman’s tears. The more tears, the more John fell apart.
“Don’t cry,” he pleaded. “I don’t care what you do. I’ve got every respect for prostitutes.” He saw the corners of her mouth drop further, and the tears began to flow. “I mean escorts. Please... please... please don’t cry.” But cry she did, and how. He racked his brain for the right words to stem the tide and end his pain. Any lie would do. “My sister is an escort. It’s in my family, why would it bother me?”
Her eyes narrowed and lingered on him, perhaps testing whether his statement would crumble under the glare of her teary vision. He held her gaze. His lie was working. “You’re only my second client,” she said, wiping her eyes and looking around the room for her clothes. “You seemed really nice.”
With the pounding in John’s head relegated to a low priority, the memory of the night began to surface. Mark had lost his bet on the football match and had seemed somewhat dejected until Carmen, the Spanish waitress, had arrived with a friend - Samantha or something? John had hit it off immediately with Carmen’s friend, which should have been a clue the size of a skyscraper, but he had been drunk so he should cut himself a little slack. She had come home with him - the same woman who was now crouching on his oversized bed, searching the room for her clothes.
Taking care not to drop the covers, John knelt and retrieved the woman’s clothes from under the bed. She would never have found them without moving, and she wasn’t going anywhere until she could adequately cover herself. He passed the items to her with a trembling hand. Was that the whisky or the fact he had a beautiful, naked woman on his bed? Most likely the latter. He turned his back to her, allowing her some privacy to dress. He noticed the light appearing through the hole in the curtain. Seven o’clock had been and gone.
“We seem to have gotten off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I remember that we chatted and kissed and that Mark took off, but I honestly didn’t know about...” How did he say this without eliciting further histrionics? He needed to mind his choice of words. “I didn’t know about ... you know?”
“Forget about it,” she said, dismissively. “You were off your face. Your buddy thought you could do with cheering up. Do you even remember my name?”
“Samantha is it? Sorry,” he said. “I can ba
rely remember my own.”
“You can turn around now,” she said.
John turned and was surprised to find her standing in front of him with her hand held out. She stood about an inch above him in black high heels and a black mini dress. The mischievous look had gone, leaving just the face of a dark-haired angel.
“I’m Savannah,” she said.
“Yeah right,” John said. He extended his hand to meet hers. It really was the softest of hands, and he felt a pleasant tingle shoot up his arm when they touched. “I’m John Smith,” he said.
“Yeah right,” she said. “Look, if you could just pay me the thousand pounds ... John Smith ...” she gave a huge grin like there was something funny about the name, “... then I’ll be off.”
John caught his breath. “Didn’t Mark take care of that?”
“No, he said you were loaded and wouldn’t hear of it.”
“This is a joke, right?”
“Am I smiling?”
She wasn’t, but she was still stunning. It must be a con. Mark was the city financier, the money man, Mr Fat Wallet. He was a joker but not of the practical kind. He was way too sophisticated for that.
“I’ll call Mark,” he threatened.
“Well make it quick,” she said, looking around the room. “I need to go.”
John grabbed the cordless phone from the bedside table and speed-dialled his best friend.
“Yes,” the voice was sharp and edgy. It didn’t sound like Mark at all.
“Mark?” John said.
“Oh it’s you. What is it? I’m in the middle of something.”
“Good morning to you too.”
“John, I don’t have time for games,” said Mark. “What is it you want?”
“You set me up with a prost ... a girl.” Phew, that was close. “Now she says I owe her a thousand pounds.”
“Yes. Your parents are right. You’re a waste of space. I thought this might give you the kick up the arse you so badly need.” Mark hung up.
John’s head thumped like his heart was inside it. He stared at the handset open mouthed. Mark had never spoken to him like that before. Yes, he’d made fun of John’s adversity to success and yes, he’d turned up at his parents’ house last Sunday in an intervention style attack on his lifestyle - but this? The voice was Mark’s, but the behaviour was not that of his best friend.
“Told you,” she said.
John shook his head and exhaled. His head didn’t appreciate the movement.
“Arghh! This can’t be right.” What was up with Mark? He let out a huge sigh, holding his head with one hand to ensure it didn’t move. Mark could wait. John had more immediate issues. “How much do I really owe you?”
“A thousand, like I already said.”
John shook his head slowly as he looked her up and down, sizing up the threat. She seemed way too nice for this situation. It was all just a big joke. Had they even had sex? He had been way too drunk to remember, and he’d yet to manage drunk and penetration at the same time. She was something else though. In her case, he may well have just gone the extra mile. None of his thoughts made any difference because he didn’t have a thousand pounds, and what could she do about it anyway?
“I don’t have it,” he said. He held out his upturned palms as if this proved how poor he was. The duvet fell to the floor leaving him totally exposed.
“Nice,” she said, taking her time to look John up and down, “but I’ll still need the cash.”
He fell to the floor and pulled the duvet up to his waist. “I really don’t have it,” he said, trying to appear unruffled as he looked up at her. He hesitated before saying, “You really liked what you saw?”
She bit her bottom lip and rolled her eyes. “Look, John Smith, I don’t do the threatening, I’m just the talent.” She reached into a small black purse, which John hadn’t noticed against the matching dress, and passed him a business card. “Call me within forty-eight hours when you’ve got the cash, or my boss will break your legs.”
John stared at the card blankly. “But...?”
Before he could form a coherent sentence, Savannah Jones of Aphrodite’s Angels had left the building.
3: Saturday 24th September, 08:00
John could not get back to sleep. He was dog-tired, but his spinning mind prevented a return to slumber. What had Mark got him into?
For three hours he paced around the spacious flat in a pair of black boxers, swearing under his breath at his predicament, kicking anything in his path. Damn Mark. John never lectured him about the thousands he blew on gambling, so what gave Mark the right to interfere with his life? Some bloody friend. Where could he get a thousand pounds in forty-eight hours? He wouldn’t be paid for another six days and there was a salary advance and an overdraft to cover, leaving a few hundred over for essentials at best.
Recent events with his family meant they were unlikely to assist without a good explanation, and no matter how many ways he played out the scene in his head, it didn’t end well. Besides, the thought of begging his parents or Rachel for money turned his stomach. His sister was daddy’s girl through and through. The voice might be shriller but the message would be the same: you got yourself into this mess, so you find a way to get yourself out of it. No, it had to be Mark or a local money lender, and as a loan shark would put him effectively back to where he was, he reckoned he was stuck with Mark.
His huffing, puffing and expletives were scarily interrupted by the occasional thought of the long-legged Savannah. He couldn’t recall ever having been so taken by a person’s natural beauty before. And those eyes! Had she really liked what she saw, or was it all part of the service? Why had he asked? He must have appeared so lame. She had seemed incredibly nice for a prostitute. He guessed people expected a lot for a thousand pounds - and why shouldn’t they? Some of them might even work hard for it. He wondered how long it would take him to save up for another night and whether she would agree not to sleep with anyone else until then? Probably not, he concluded.
At 11.00 A.M. he gave up thinking and headed to the wet room for a shower. After ten minutes of sixteen individual jets of hot pressurised water massaging his every muscle, he was a new man. He admired himself in the full-length mirror. Not bad for thirty-two, considering he hadn’t exercised since university. A little muscle mass had deserted him, but at least it hadn’t turned to fat. He jumped on the scales which measured him at just over twelve and a half stones with eighteen percent body fat. At half an inch over six feet, he reckoned they were pretty good stats. Savannah could do worse.
John changed into a pair of tatty old blue jeans, a red t-shirt, baggy green GAP hoodie and a pair of Nike black Air Max trainers bought recently on his credit card. They had been a steal at just under a fifth of a night with Savannah. As usual he skipped breakfast.
*
Two tubes later he was standing outside Mark’s apartment block in South Kensington. The streets were bustling with the rich and the even richer. Most pedestrians carried designer umbrellas of varying lengths and colours despite the predictions of the weathermen for a late summer day. Not surprisingly, the sky, grey and overcast, threatened rain or worse. Did anyone believe the weather forecast anymore? John glanced along the line of residents’ neatly parked cars which followed the curve of the avenue, and as usual didn’t spot a car that cost less than fifty thousand pounds.
Doormen in various uniforms, complete with hats, many like the trained monkeys sat on top of the barrel organs of yesteryear, stood outside blocks of exorbitantly priced apartments. This wasn’t the most expensive post code in London but it was right up there. Of course, Mark’s apartment was the penthouse. How much did a flat have to cost to be considered an apartment? Wasn’t an apartment just an Americanism for flat? The rich and their obsession with labels, John mused as he dialled Mark’s mobile. The pickup was immediate.
“Where are you?” asked Mark.
“Outside,” John said. “Can you tell the concierge to let me up? Last ti
me he refused and told the doorman to never let me back in.”
Mark sounded pissed off. “Why are you here?”
“Come on, you posh bastard. You owe me after that stunt you pulled.” John put on his best aristocratic accent. “Tell Parkes that Lord John Smith is here.”
“You’re such a child. I’ll instruct him when I’m done.”
“Or you could say, ‘let my friend in’. Try talking like the rest of the human race, why don’t you?” John disconnected the call. They were like chalk and cheese all right. Sure they’d gone to the same elite school, but they were worlds apart in every other way. And yet the tie between them was strong, and neither one had ever managed to explain it. It was what it was, and despite the possibly bone-threatening position Mark had left him in, John would do just about anything for him. Once he’d coughed up the thousand pounds, of course.
John watched yellow leaves fall from the oaks, beeches and silver birches which were prevalent along the exclusive avenue. The light breeze seemed distinctly autumnal, carrying a chill which his hoodie failed to deflect. As the leaves fell in a lazy, pendulum-style motion, he was reminded of his failure to take hold of his own life, which too seemed on a downward path to nowhere.
Five minutes later, Parkes emerged from the building and headed towards John at a brisk pace. This didn’t bode well. He wore the same bus-red uniform as the doorman but had a more elaborate hat. Perks of the job, John supposed. As he approached, he opened his mouth to speak but John beat him to it.
“All right, Parker?” John said.
“It’s Parkes,” he said. “My name is Parkes.”
He was a tall, muscular man of about forty years old with a pronounced black widow’s peak which he hid beneath the hat. The head gear was a half-height, black top hat with a bus-red band to match the uniform, giving him the appearance of a circus ringmaster. Parkes had been a thorn in John’s side since Mark had moved into the block fifteen months ago, always making entry to his friend’s apartment difficult for him. Mark had told John that Parkes was ex-military, but he didn’t believe a word of it. John had never taken to orders well: at school, at home and especially from a steroid-pumped attendant.