by Simon Brooke
“Charlie,” she says, turning round.
Oh, fuck, now what? It’s just a bit of dust, for God’s sake.
“What’s happening on Saturday night?” Phew, acquitted on dust charges, anyway.
“This is something I should know about, isn’t it?” I surmise. Accurately, as it happens.
“Yes, Saturday night, I told you.”
“You didn’t.”
“Oh, Charlie,” she says, shaking her head, trying not to smile. “I told you weeks ago: dinner. Tim and Sally, Mark and Sarah, and I’ve invited Peter too.”
“You didn’t tell me.” Okay, perhaps she did, but I’m a bloke and I’m no good with these things.
“I bloody well did, sieve brain. I assume you can make it.”
“Yes, of course I can. Sorry babe.”
“It’s not your fault, you’re just a boy.”
“Guilty, m’lud. I mean, m’lady.”
She takes my face in her hands and kisses me deeply. “I love you.”
“Love you too.”
“Even if your memory is crap—and your dusting’s abysmal.”
While Lauren is doing her audition practise, I decide to make a duty call and go and see my dad. Dad lives in Docklands now and he is very happy for me to come round to his flat, I mean “place.” As long as it’s not too early that is.
He works in advertising. Ten years ago he set up an agency with two colleagues half his age. Dad is actually an accountant and was working with them in a big agency balancing the books and looking for tax breaks, but when these two guys—Cambridge educated, off-the-wall twenty-somethings who exist in a world of street-fashion labels, pop culture and wall-to-wall irony—decided to go solo, they realised that his dull, safe financial know-how could form an essential bedrock to the company and so they invited him to join them.
Needless to say, my mum wasn’t keen. She pointed out the risks of starting a new business with reference to her auntie, who had opened a wool shop in Lewes in the seventies and failed, reminded him that he was comfortably on his way to retirement, and just sighed a lot when these two arguments failed to convince him. I think it was her retirement point that actually clinched it for him and made him go out and do it.
He pointed out that he had just about paid off the mortgage, the children had left home and, after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained. He didn’t mention the real reason: midlife crisis. But then perhaps he wasn’t aware of it.
The new company, Matthewman Kendall Barrett (the order of names should tell you something), won a clutch of big accounts with their cheeky, irreverent approach, grabbed some headlines in Campaign magazine, provoked a couple of outcries from the Daily Mail over risqué copy lines and then quickly floated. Suddenly my dad was fifty and a millionaire. He decided to get a new wardrobe and a new car. He got rid of his old suits, his Volvo estate and his wife, and set up home in a Docklands penthouse flat that has its own lift, speakers in the ceiling and panoramic views of the Thames—just beyond some corrugated-iron sheds and a double-glazing storage depot, that is.
Getting there is near impossible: you have to go to a perpetually windswept station and then ring for a taxi which takes you along the dual carriageways through the post-industrial wasteland to a shimmering white residential Fort Knox which has a surly security guard and a “marketing suite” which is permanently open.
Dad has had a number of girlfriends since he left my mum, but to be honest I tend to get them confused: they’re all thirty years younger than him, all blonde, all leggy and have names that end in i like Linzi, Leoni, Nikki and Toni. I’m sure most of them put a smiley face in the dot of the i when they sign their names, although none of them has ever written to me.
Amongst other things, my dad bought a coffee table supported by the kneeling fibreglass figure of a naked woman in a leather basque which he proudly showed to me when I went over there once. Holding our shots of frozen flavoured vodka, we circled it, studying it intensely.
“Sexy, eh?” said my old man, eyeing up the cellulite-free, rock-hard curves of her behind in a way that still makes me shudder slightly.
“I think it’s supposed to be ironic, Dad,” I said uneasily, trying to make out the woman’s expression. He walked round to get a better view of her face too.
“Yeah, whatever,” he said.
When I finally penetrate the security and arrive at my dad’s flat, he has obviously just got up and is still in a sort of kimono thing. My initial reaction is to say “I think you’re a bit old for that, aren’t you?” but then, of course, that observation applies to his entire life, so really what’s the point? Dad thinks he is Hugh Heffner made over by Calvin Klein. My sister says that he is more Austin Powers meets JC Penney.
“Hey, Charlie,” he says, hugging me and slapping me on the back. Unlike my mother, Dad does call me Charlie and he seems to really like the name. Whose idea was “Keith,” anyway? But I still call him Dad, not Jared, as he sometimes asks me to. I suppose Jared is similar to John, but then it was John who was married to my mother and fathered me so I’m a bit sensitive about that.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, wandering in and looking around with a mixture of intrigue and trepidation for his latest purchase. “Pool table’s gone.”
“Mmm? Oh, yeah, took up too much space,” he tells me, his voice echoing around the barnlike emptiness. “Want some coffee?”
“That’d be great,” I say, drifting around and looking out at the view. In the distance a tractor is pushing something into a hole and a crane moves almost imperceptibly against the shimmering skeins of cloud.
“How do you have it?” he asks, looking slightly apprehensively at a black and chrome espresso machine the size of a nuclear power station.
“White with a couple of sugars, please.” I wouldn’t expect him to remember that.
“Espresso? Cappucino? Latte? Ristretto?”
“Rigoletto? Ravioli? Ravenelli? Oh, I don’t know, just white coffee would be great, thank you.”
“O…kay,” says the nonstreak-bronzed barista. “Erm…” He yanks the handle off and looks for somewhere to bang out the dregs. He looks along the line of identical, minimalist, brushed stainless steel cupboard doors and chooses one. His smile indicates that this is the one with the bin.
“I can have instant, Dad, honestly, whatever’s easiest.”
“Nope, nope, this is no problem…honestly,” he says, mesmerised by the line of dials and buttons. He presses one and suddenly boiling water begins to trickle down into the grate below. He leaps back and curses again.
Just then an angel appears and saves us: a beautiful girl, straw blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, wearing only a baggy white T-shirt and a pair of tiny panties, wanders into the vast living area, the shadows of the window frames slipping over her shoulders and clearly visible breasts as she glides along, hips swaying. She comes up behind Dad, puts her arms around him, reaches up to kiss his neck and then gently, silently and confidently takes charge of the coffee machine.
Two minutes later we’re all drinking wonderful lattes.
“Very good,” I tell the girl to break the ice.
“This is Kari,” says Dad over his chunky American Retro mug. No, I don’t think I’ve met this one before, which is very possible since I haven’t seen my dad for nearly three weeks.
“Charlie,” I say. I’m never sure whether to admit I’m the son or just let them assume that I’m a cool young dude my dad happens to know—his dealer, perhaps.
The girl smiles back from the black leather settee, her legs luxuriously folded up under her. Like father like son: me and my dad both have the same taste in women. Except that his are usually ten years younger than mine.
“Good coffee,” I say again to the sphinxlike Kari.
“Should be,” says Dad proudly. “Kari works in Caffè Nero, don’t you, babe?” Presumably after school. “So what’s this new job?” he asks, turning to me.
“I’ve jacked the modelling in. I did a shoot for a
n Internet company last week and they offered me a job as marketing manager, I mean, marketing director.”
“Director? You’ve got equity in this thing?”
“Er, no. How do you mean? Have I invested something? No. I’m just on a salary.”
“That’s good.”
“I thought I’d wait,” I say, enjoying this paternal approval.
“What’s it called?”
“2cool2btrue dot com.”
“Right, heard of them.”
“Really? Have you?”
“Oh, yeah, there’s quite a bit of talk in the creative and media industry about them at the moment,” says Dad levelly. “Sort of a lifestyle site or something isn’t it?”
“That’s right. It’s a second-generation website. It’s going to be the first of the truly aspirational Internet brands. You know, the web equivalent of Gucci or Louis Vuitton.”
“Interesting,” says Dad.
“I think it will be.”
“All life consists of a label of one kind or another,” says Dad, running his fingers through Kari’s hair as she stares at silent MTV on the massive TV screen.
As I leave a couple of hours later, it occurs to me that it would sometimes be nice to have a dad who mowed the lawn on Saturday before falling asleep in front of the cricket, and spent Sunday mornings in the john with the papers, but then you can’t choose your parents.
I do some shopping in town on the way home and then, because it’s quite near to Chiswick anyway, drop in at the pub in Barnes we used to meet at post-Saturday-afternoon footy. I walk in, avoiding the gaze of the girl at the bar, and look around for the old gang. But they’re not there. I do another quick tour just in case I’ve missed them or don’t recognise them and then I stroll back over the bridge to Hammersmith and get the bus to Chiswick.
It’s nearly seven when I let myself in. I smell cooking and hear Lauren laughing. I leave my bags in the hall and wander into the kitchen. She is sitting on the work top, swinging her legs and laughing at some middle-aged bloke who is stirring something on our hob and telling her a story.
“So this girl’s reading the bloody autocue as fast as she can and the director’s shouting, ‘For God’s sake….’” He trails off as he sees me. “Hello. You must be Charlie. I’m Peter, Peter Beaumont-Crowther,” he says extending a hand.
“Hi, Peter,” I say. I’ve just realised that I really can’t be bothered with this. I just want to lie in front of the telly with Lauren and a good bottle of wine and a crap video. I look down at what he’s cooking.
Lauren fills the silence.
“Peter came to Sainsbury’s with me after we’d finished and it turns out he makes this chicken casserole thing. I thought it sounded delicious so I bullied him into doing it.” They both laugh. I know Lauren on charm mode so well. It’s just a bit unnerving to see it happening in our kitchen. I’m not sure who is the target of it, me or Peter.
“It’s a kind of chicken cacciatore but with a few secret ingredients,” Peter tells me, raising his eyebrows.
The first thing that strikes me about him is “Why don’t you get a haircut?” His hair flops forward and he is constantly sweeping it back with his hands. He has a pudgy, fleshy face, big lips and a sharp nose, and he’s just a bit too smooth for my liking.
“Smells great,” I say and leave the room. I’m kicking my trainers off in the bedroom when Lauren comes in. She watches me for a moment as I take my T-shirt off.
“What’s the matter?” she asks from the door.
It’s decision time: I can either go for a fully fledged sulk which is what I feel like but which would make tonight a hell of an effort for both of us and probably result in at least forty-eight hours of awkward silences and bickering, or I can just give in and be a good boy. I choose the latter.
“Sorry, babe, I’m just beat.”
Lauren sensibly meets me halfway. “That’s all right.” She puts her arms round me, whispering in my ear. “Sorry about this. Peter insisted we try his chicken thing and you know I’ve got to be nice to him.”
“I know. I’m just going to have a shower and then I’ll be fine.”
“’kay,” she says. She kisses me. “Hurry up, though, the others will be here in a minute.”
I’m about to walk out of the bedroom naked as any man would naturally do in his own flat, but then I remember about Peter. Oh, screw it, I do it anyway.
Chapter
7
I’m such a devoted boyfriend/crawler/good actor/spineless wonder or mixture of all four that I even ask to taste Peter’s stupid bloody chicken creation.
“Mmm,” I say, licking my lips as he holds the spoon inches away from my mouth, his hand poised underneath it to catch the drips. “That’s delicious.” In fact it’s just about okay. It tastes like chicken casserole with tinned tomatoes in it to me. “Babe, have you tasted this?” I say, deciding to put my back into this crawling.
“Yep, good, isn’t it?” says Lauren who is slicing zucchini at the other end of the kitchen. I know I’ll get my reward for this tonight.
Peter is smiling knowingly. Oh, leave it alone, you smarmy prick. It’s just bloody chicken.
“Can’t wait,” I say moving away, having done my duty. Getting drinks and laying the table is the limit of my culinary ability. Besides, it’s not a good idea to get in the way of Lauren while she is cooking unless she tells you to.
Sarah is relating her favourite dinner-party anecdote.
“So I came back early one day because I had to pick up a file I’d accidentally left on the dining table,” she tells Peter in her heavy, throaty, thirty-Marlborough-Lights-a-day voice. She is the only smoker that Lauren allows in the house and she revels in this privilege. “And I know the cleaner is there obviously because it’s a Tuesday. So I put my head round the door to say hallo and let her know I’m not a burglar or a mad rapist, and there she is doing the washing up at the kitchen sink.” She pauses. “Topless.” She punctuates her punchline with a slurp of wine.
“No!” Peter is leering across the table in disbelief.
“Seriously. And she’s not exactly Kate Moss either, yeah?”
Peter roars with laughter. “What was she doing?” he asks.
“It’s just for cleaning the glasses,” I explain, twisting two imaginary glasses over my own chest.
Peter roars again. “What did you do?”
“What could I do? I just said ‘Oh, hi, Janet, could you do the oven please if you get a moment?’”
“But preferably not with your tits,” adds Sarah’s husband, Mark.
More guffawing from Peter.
“Oh, not that awful cleaner story,” says Lauren, entering the room with two more bottles of wine and a basket of warm, rosemary-infused foccacia which we immediately fall on.
“Cleaners are such a problem, aren’t they?” says Sally. Everyone nods and mumbles agreement. Then Sally says, “The woman next to us has a Brazilian.”
I can’t help it: “Have you looked?”
Sarah is howling with laughter. “I think Sally’s talking about her cleaner, Charlie,” she says. “Not her bikini line.”
“Oh, right, sorry,” I groan, overdoing it. There is a pause while Sarah and Peter try to control themselves.
“Ooh, can I help you, Lauren?” says Sally suddenly, always glad to lend a hand. Whenever she and her husband Tim come over, Sally seems to spend more time in our kitchen than most of the appliances.
“No Sally, honestly, sit down, thank you. Charlie can do it.”
“Charlie’s doing the wine,” says Sally. “Here you are.” She gets up. I let her. After all, I’ve done my bit with the brown-nosing casserole appreciation.
“So, Peter, you’re in television,” says Mark who does something with futures in the City that we’ve all given up trying to understand a long time ago.
“Yes,” says Peter. “I run a company called Freak Productions.”
“What kind of thing do you make?” asks Sarah, obviously fee
ling she should repay him after his tremendous reception for her cleaner story. At least I’ll find out a little bit more about Lauren’s New Best Friend without actually having to talk to him.
“Mainly lifestyle programmes, like Ready Steady Cook.”
“You make Ready Steady Cook?” says Sarah. “I love that programme.”
“Er, no, but programmes like it,” says Peter. “I do one for a cable channel where a celebrity chef comes round to your house and makes over all your boring, ordinary food, takes it up a peg or two. So if you’re giving your kids beans on toast, for example, he’ll make it really special by adding some extra ingredients or showing you how to make your own beans on toast with real cannellini beans, fresh tomato sauce and newly baked sourdough bread.”
“Oh, right. You must really learn something,” says Sarah. She mulls it over while Peter looks on, delighted at the brilliance of his baby. “But on the other hand I think I’d be tempted to say, ‘Okay, you try keeping a three-year-old and a five-year-old from killing each other while you piss about with cannellini beans and skinning tomatoes.’ You know what I mean?”
But apparently Peter doesn’t. Tim, who has also been listening to the exchange and who deals in commercial property, doesn’t really do jokes, unless they come from a client. So there is only one person now roaring with laughter in the room. Oh, dear, it’s me.
“It’d be wasted on our kids,” says Mark, inadvertently twisting the knife, I mean the reinforced steel, Sabatier cook’s paring knife, in the wound.
Fortunately at that moment Lauren and Sally come back in, each with a tray full of starters arranged on small plates.
“…it’s called centre height,” Lauren is saying to Sally. “The idea is that you arrange the dish so that it’s raised at the centre—looks more dramatic, more interesting, then it’s so easy, you just chop up a packet of herbs and sprinkle them over. Gives it a more professional appearance in no time.”