‘But you know I can’t go on seeing him without sleeping with him.’
He could find nothing to say.
‘I can’t just go and say to him, sorry about the shag, let’s have a cappuccino instead.’
‘I know.’
Her next words were formed very deliberately. ‘You complete chateau-bottled shit.’
‘Think about it, Mickey. It’s the only way.’
‘Complete. And utter.’ She pushed herself away from him.
‘He’s used you, Mickey. I want you to use him.’
‘But I love him. Don’t you understand? That doesn’t just stop.’
He swallowed, trying to find a more persuasive argument. He couldn’t. ‘It’s our only chance. Otherwise we have nothing.’
‘Let me get this clear, Tom. You don’t think I’m a slut. Is that correct?’
‘Of course.’
‘But you want me to have sex with someone, practically to prostitute myself, simply to get information from him. And that won’t make me a slut?’
Deep breath. ‘No.’
‘I see. But I don’t believe. So tell me, Tom. Would you ask Elizabeth to do this? Or Sam?’
‘That’s hypothetical …’
‘Would you even ask yourself to do this?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Here’s the deal.’ Her lips drew back in a smile, but it was not a pleasant expression. This was revenge, and she was going to take it hot. ‘I’ll go on sleeping with Paddy. Spying on him. Betraying him. On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘That you sleep with a woman I nominate first.’
‘What? Why?’
‘Because it’s the only way to prove you don’t think me a slut. For me to do only what you have done.’
‘You’re joking.’
‘I mean every word.’
‘But … I’m married.’ He shook his head like a dog trying to get rid of a tick. He knew that was the most pathetic excuse. Try another. ‘I mean, what about Elizabeth?’
‘Explain to her what you’ve just explained to me. That this is no more than a noble sacrifice. Giving up your body for the cause of justice. I’m sure she’ll understand.’
Somehow he had his doubts. He looked alarmed. ‘Mickey, I’m in enough trouble with her already. I really don’t want to do this.’
‘Frankly, the way I feel now I don’t give a toss. But that’s the deal. You want my help. You lead the way.’
‘A bit bloody Faustian, isn’t it?’
‘Oh, no, Goodfellowe. For me, watching you is going to be fun.’
ELEVEN
Another night without sleep. At some point in the far-off future, the time would come when he would simply fall into bed with nothing more to cloud his mind than thoughts of vineyards and mountains of votes, all of which had been cast for him. But he knew that so long as he went to bed thinking of women, he was lost. Like last night. He’d spent the time thinking of what Mickey had said, and knew he had deserved it, even if he was paying not only for his own sins but for those of all mankind – or at least the mankind Mickey had come into contact with, which seemed a fair proportion of the whole. He was filled with horror at being used, of being treated like – well, OK, like he was proposing to treat Mickey, but being sexually submissive went against the grain in a man. Yet in the very same breath he also found the prospect undeniably electrifying. It sent a charge shooting right through him, his body twitched in anticipation. Trouble was, he had this awful feeling this was a process that was way out of his control, that he was strapped helpless to a chair and would suddenly find himself frying. Oh, but what a challenge … His senses were intrigued. Half of them said go for it; almost all of them shouted that this was destined for nothing but trouble.
Anyway, it was no more than an outburst of temper. She’d have calmed down by now.
He found her in the small kitchen of the Dragonaria, the basement beneath the House of Commons where the secretaries toiled. She was making tea.
‘Feeling OK?’ he asked cautiously.
‘Never better.’
‘Sorry about yesterday. I truly am.’
‘Don’t be. I thought we came to a perfect understanding.’
‘You mean …’ – he stumbled – ‘you expect me to go ahead with this?’
She banged the pot of tea down on the counter and turned. He had rarely seen more resolution in anyone’s features. ‘England expects, dear boy.’
‘Seriously? There must be some other way.’
She went back almost light-heartedly to making the tea. ‘Her name is Andrina Capp. She’s one of the secretaries here in the Dragonaria. Over in the far corner, in front of the blue filing cabinets. The ones that are usually covered in flowers and thank-you cards. Tea? It’s fresh!’
She poured a steaming cascade of the liquid into a mug until it frothed and bubbled, waving the spout of the teapot up and down like a … Well, he had no illusions as to what he was intended to think.
‘But how do I know that she’ll … you know, agree?’
‘But that’s where I’ve been kind to you, Tom. She’ll do it for anyone. Even you. But she’s not the least bit party political. After hours she goes in for proportional representation. Reckoned to have gone through half the Shadow Cabinet, practically any of them who’s under eighty and not a lesbian. Although she’s even believed to have had some of the lesbians, too. You’ll do!’
‘I don’t want to embarrass her.’
‘You won’t embarrass her. She’s brazen.’
‘Please, Mickey. Think again. We can surely find some other—’
‘You’re the one who should have thought, Tom. Burnt bridges, and all that.’ She pushed the mug of steaming tea in his direction. ‘So that’s the deal. You do your bit, honey. Then I’ll do mine.’
He had expected a harridan. Instead he found a petite young woman of perhaps twenty-five with blonde bobbed hair, freckles and a hugely engaging personality. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?
‘Goodness, what a magnificent bunch of flowers,’ he offered somewhat ludicrously by way of introduction. She smiled in the sort of manner that suggested goodness had nothing to do with it.
‘You’re Mr Goodfellowe.’
‘Tom. Please call me Tom.’
‘As in Dick and Harry!’ She laughed. Or did she say Hurry? He could’ve sworn she said Hurry.
‘How long have you worked here?’ he enquired, feeling the eyes of the Dragonaria burning like night scopes into his back.
‘’Bout five months.’
God, a fast little worker. Hadn’t taken her long to settle in.
‘Your name is Andrina?’
‘Andy.’
‘I’m sorry we haven’t met before. Would you have time for a drink one evening, perhaps a bit of supper? I’d like to know what you think about this place.’ He threw his arms around expansively, trying to sound like an opinion pollster out on a canvass.
‘Sure.’
‘Er, tonight?’
‘Be fine.’
And that was it. He’d picked up a date. Out of the blue. He hadn’t done that in – well, since about the time Andy had been born – and he’d come to imagine it would be more like storming a medieval castle, all battering rams and boiling oil, defying wave after wave of repulsion before breaking down the final resistance. He’d expected more obstacles than ‘Sure’ and ‘Be fine’. It had rather taken him by surprise and before he had recovered he’d invited her to dinner at The Canasta in Charlotte Street. Four times what his normal noodle-fest would have cost him. Impulsive fool.
But the evening had brought out the sun. Charlotte Street was abuzz with pavement diners and Andy turned out to be a delightful companion who held views and amusing gossip about almost everyone in the House. He listened attentively – after all, he reminded himself, her views were so well informed. Only two things marred the progress of the evening. Over the wild cherry soup he discovered that she was only twenty-two. Th
en, too late, he remembered that the restaurant was managed by a friend of Elizabeth, one of those he’d met at her dinner party and who, after Goodfellowe’s initiation of the debate about adultery, had walked out no longer speaking to his wife. Now he had spotted Goodfellowe. And Andy. Suddenly she was looking extraordinarily adolescent.
‘Tom! Unexpected. But a delight. No point in asking how you are, you’re clearly in very good spirits.’ The restaurateur deliberately allowed his eyes to linger on Andrina a fraction too long. ‘And you, young lady, are in very experienced hands.’ He allowed the thought to twist and turn for her inspection before shifting his attention to their starter, one of the cheapest items on the menu. ‘I hope you’ll enjoy the evening. Why not try the lobster, miss? I can recommend it. Know Tom enjoys it. Flown in from Maine today. First class.’ And a price to match. A small revenge for what Goodfellowe had served up with the lobster at Elizabeth’s dinner party. ‘Be happy!’ He turned to leave before throwing in his final offering. ‘Oh, I’ll be seeing our mutual friend later in the week, Tom. I’ll be sure to tell her we met up. Bye now.’
It seemed that in a few short words the restaurateur had taken a meat cleaver to both his love life and his wallet. Still, he’d find an explanation for Elizabeth. He doubted whether he would be able to satisfy his bank manager as easily.
It was with a mixture of pain and rising apprehension that he paid the bill and they left the restaurant. Their conversation had been relaxed and flowing, but as the purpose of the exercise began to preoccupy his thoughts he found it increasingly difficult to discover the appropriate opportunity to ask her back to the apartment. It had been too long since he had approached sex simply as a shag rather than as an expression of a relationship. He and Andy didn’t have a relationship and weren’t going to develop one, and the words for this sort of situation failed him. He had to find the right vocabulary, and quickly, before they got into the taxi.
He was rescued by the fact that there were no taxis. Bloody no man’s land. ‘Let’s walk,’ he suggested. ‘Let’s walk,’ she agreed. So they set off as dusk was falling and London was beginning to glow with pride. Twilight fell across the city and the frenetic pace of day slowed to one of intimacy, a time when hands were held and bonds were built. Not that Goodfellowe had any intention of holding hands with Andrina, but they were able to stroll and laugh – she laughed most readily – lost in the anonymity of the crowd and without being conscious of the passage of time, until they had wandered through the gaiety and tinselled grime of Soho to a point where they were at the fringes of Chinatown.
‘Coffee?’ he suggested.
‘Coffee,’ she replied.
He marvelled. As simple as that. At this rate he reckoned he could become a stud. He climbed the stairs two at a time and threw open the door. ‘I don’t often bring people up here,’ he found himself apologizing.
She looked around. ‘I can tell.’
Ouch. Still, he couldn’t pretend it was designer territory. Utilitarian, second-hand, a little threadbare, so unmistakably Goodfellowe. Anyway, she was up here, that was the main point. He felt relieved that he still had the candles, and guilty when he lit them. They had been meant for someone else. For Elizabeth. Still, needs must. By this point his hormones were beginning to blur the moral niceties. A little music, a bottle of something Chilean – to hell with coffee – and they were sitting on his small sofa, knees brushing.
‘You have very beautiful eyes,’ he offered. It would have sounded trite, except for the fact that he so obviously meant it. And they were. Almond, green, like a cat’s but not cold.
‘You’re very sweet, Tom. Not at all like most of the rest.’
‘How so?’
‘You’ve noticed my eyes. Been looking at them all evening. Not just staring at me below the neck.’
‘Doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed.’
‘Of course you have. But you had the decency to start at the right end.’
‘Decency scarcely comes into it.’ He swallowed half a glass of wine. ‘Hell, I’m almost old enough to be your father.’
‘You’re older than my father, actually.’
He swallowed the other half to dull the pain. ‘And that’s a turn-off.’
‘Why should it be? I haven’t been out with anyone as old as you before, Tom, but you’ve got all your hair. Most of your teeth. The rest of you looks in reasonable shape …’ – he gave thanks for the hours of agony in the gym – ‘and I suspect it all works.’
Was she teasing him? he wondered. Was this part of her turn-on technique? Andy had come with Mickey’s mileage guarantee, yet she seemed so natural, so new. With a sudden burst of insight he realized Mickey had set him up, but not in the way he had first imagined. This was going to be a deliberate disaster. Mickey and Andy were in it together and would be sniggering over him in the morning, with the rest of the Dragonaria joining in by lunchtime. Humiliation was to be his punishment.
‘Although you wouldn’t pass my mother’s scrutiny.’
‘Why not?’ he demanded – as if he needed to ask.
‘Before I came to work in Westminster she gave me very firm advice. If I’m to make it into Hello! magazine, I’m to make sure it’s with nothing less than a rich hereditary peer.’
So that confirmed it, she was mocking him. He needed a drink, but his glass was empty. ‘Another glass of wine?’ He made to rise.
‘No. No thanks.’
There was a pause as she looked into her glass. He knew she was finding the words to say not on your life, old man, and goodnight. Then she’d have a bloody good laugh in the taxi home. A little part of him was relieved, most of him was furious, although all of him still wanted her.
‘No thanks, Tom,’ she repeated. ‘I don’t want to have too much to drink. Not if you’re planning to take me to bed.’
He sat speechless. A little awkwardly she reached out for his hand, then stretched and kissed him. It was a tentative, clumsy kiss. She drew back almost immediately, her eyes full of questions. Goodfellowe knew what was going on. Mickey’s plan was to take him to the limit. To bring him right up to the very peak of the mountain and show him all the sights. Then push him off the top.
Now Andy was back, this time not so tentative but soft and warm, her tongue wriggling, greedy, hungry for more. She was up for it. He could feel every masculine instinct within him responding, and had no doubt she could feel it too. She used her own body to urge him on. He felt desperately overdressed. He was still wearing his tie.
And he kept it on. Something within him turned, the bowstring snapped. He drew back. He still wanted her, more than ever. But not like this.
‘Sorry, Andy. I can’t. I mean … I won’t.’
There was no disguising her expression of disappointment.
‘Forgive me, but I’m not going to feel right about this in the morning.’
‘Why not?’
He took a deep breath, not certain of what he would say. ‘Hell, I’m not very good at this but… There’s somebody else. Somebody I think I love. I want to give that a chance. This would only confuse things.’
‘She wouldn’t know.’
‘But I would. And I can’t respect you or anyone else by not respecting myself.’
She thought about this for a moment, searching his troubled eyes. ‘I said you weren’t like all the rest.’
‘Sorry. Hope I haven’t misled you.’
She leaned forward. ‘You haven’t. And I’m the one who’s sorry. But not angry.’ She kissed him again, very gently.
‘Please understand, Andy, this is my problem, it’s not because of you. I guess you probably noticed I’d like to sleep with you very much.’
She smiled. ‘I noticed. And thank you. Perhaps some other time. If things don’t work out elsewhere.’
‘I suppose you’d like to go.’
‘No, not particularly. I don’t want our evening to end just here, in embarrassment. You offered me another drink. I’d like to have it now, if you don�
�t mind.’
And so he had opened a new bottle and they had sat and talked and been friends until well after two, when it became apparent to them both that she was far too tired to go home. She slept on the sofa.
‘It’s been a wonderful evening,’ she offered sleepily as she made herself comfortable under the spare sheet. ‘Everything turned out perfectly for me.’
‘Me too,’ he lied.
While Andrina dreamed, he lay awake thinking of Elizabeth.
Of her time in the security services. Wondering whether she had ever ‘sacrificed herself’ in the public interest. Wondering why he couldn’t. Wondering whether he could ever tell her, and whether she would understand. And worrying how on earth he was going to explain all this to Mickey.
In the morning he felt the age gap with a vengeance. Andrina rose with the sun, bright and brimming with youthful energy while he felt and looked like the bottom of a laundry basket. After she had bade an embracing farewell, still friends, he decided he had to do something drastic to come to terms with his dehydration. Time for tea. He took himself off to Chou’s. The restaurateur appeared glad to see him, scurrying over in a cloud of tobacco smoke that reminded Goodfellowe of Woodbines tainted with diesel oil. At the back of the restaurant the fishmonger and Chou’s wife were already locked in combat and taking no prisoners.
‘Mr Minister! Mr Minister!’ Chou greeted. ‘You arrive at difficult time. Yesterday’s swordfish was defrost not fresh. My wife want to chop me up and lock me in freezer with it. I am a coward. Hide me, please.’
Goodfellowe waved him into a chair. ‘Sun Tzu wrote that he who fights for victory in front of bared blades is not a good general.’
‘Sun Tzu very wise man,’ Chou acknowledged, gratefully accepting the seat with his back turned squarely against the hostilities.
‘So, Mr Chou, how’s business?’ It was meant as no more than a pleasantry. His mind was elsewhere. On Andrina. On Mickey. On Elizabeth. At times there seemed to be too many women in his life. So how could he feel so lonely?
The Buddha of Brewer Street Page 22