Sugar Mummy

by Simon Brooke

  'Shall I give them a call, then?' asks Jane excitedly.

  'Yeah, the phone's in the kitchen,' says Vinny, collapsing onto the settee and staring at the box. Jane is still buzzing for some reason. 'All right then, Libby, Vicky, Seth ... Paul?'

  'OK,' says Vinny. Jane leaps out of the room, saying she'll put the kettle on.

  'What's happening?' I mutter.

  'Er, we're off to the pub. Wanna come?'

  I think about it for a moment. It would be good to see Jane again but I'm just not in the mood. 'No thanks.' But somehow I end up coming with them.

  The others arrive pretty quickly after Jane has summoned them, and so the six of us - me, Jane, Vinny, a grungy student called Seth who introduces himself as a musician, his drabby girlfriend Libby, and Vicky, a rather sexy Australian, walk to the pub in a ragged crocodile. Once inside Jane grabs a table in a corner by the cigarette machine. Five of us slide round onto the bench seat and Vinny finds a stool. It's a while since I've been in a pub. I savour the warm, musty smell for a moment. The thick fog of voices and thump of music from the jukebox is punctuated by electronic squawks and bleeps from the games machines and the till. Two fat blokes in Tshirts and tracksuit bottoms leaning over the bar look round contemptuously at us but then return to their half-drunk pints and carry on mumbling irritably at each other. It feels good to be doing something ordinary, something familiar.

  Jane puts her hands on the table, and looks round, making a joke about a Ouija board. We all laugh. Then she starts talking finance. I have forgotten the financial negotiations involved at the start of a group pub visit on a limited budget. Jane has elected herself chairperson of the board. There is a discussion about rounds or a kitty. We vote on it with me abstaining. The kitty proposal is passed by the board but Jane is not pleased.

  'You haven't voted,' she says accusingly.

  'That's because, I don't mind what we do,' I say.

  'Loadsa dosh,' says Vinny, 'he'll just put it on his Gold Amex.'

  They laugh and I have mock hysterics. Actually, I am seized with panic that Vinny will tell her about Marion and my new 'job'. I shoot him a look. He smiles goofily - is the bastard just playing with me? God, I'll foul him so badly in the next round of Indoor One A Side Footy.

  'Right,' says Jane, 'five quid each should see us through. Everyone give me five quid.' People obey, unzipping leather jackets and pulling notes from the back pockets of their jeans. There is some discussion between Libby and Seth and finally she puts a tenner into the middle of the table, explaining that this is for both of them. Jane takes it matter of factly but I notice her exchange a little look with Vicky.

  It occurs to me that that's the fun of going out with a group of people you don't know, it's like eavesdropping on a conversation on a bus - you get the entertainment and intrigue without any of the obligations that come with having to contribute. There is no need to get involved in tensions and disputes since Vicky and Jane are obviously full of righteous indignation that Seth the slob was taking Libby, who seems a bit wet, for a ride.

  I lift my bum off the seat a bit and feel in my jeans for the notes I stuffed into them as we went out. I take out a fiver and chuck it onto the table with the rest. Except that it isn't a fiver. It's a fifty. The one Channing gave me. Jane picks it up slowly just to check and then puts it back disdainfully. The others look on amazed. Vinny breaks the silence. 'See?' he laughs. 'Drinks on you tonight, Andrew, mine's a pint - of Bollinger, that is.'

  'Sorry,' I say, embarrassed, and snatch it back. 'Here, I've got a ten if you've got change, Jane.'

  'Never seen one of those come out of the cashpoint,' she says quietly as she gives me my change.

  'Oh, Andrew doesn't use the cashpoint,' says Vinny.

  'OK, Vinny,' I say quietly. But that makes it worse. I realise I should have let him run on until everyone got bored with him as they undoubtedly would. Jane and Vicky go up to the bar with our order. I know they are talking about me because out of the corner of my eye I see Vicky look round at me. To change the subject I ask Seth about his band.

  'Yeah,' he says, nodding. His dreadlocks make him look like a burst mattress with its stuffing sticking out. There is a pause as he waits for me to interview him about it. What the hell am I doing with these people?

  'What's it called?' I ask at last.

  Libby, who I notice is now hugging his right arm, and wearing a T-shirt which says 'Why Should I Tidy My Room When the World is Such a Mess?', answers for him: 'It's called the Leisure Complex. They used to be called the Consumers, that was my idea, but Seth felt it sounded too flippant.'

  'Oh, right. You don't want to sound flippant,' I say.

  'Not too flippant, anyway,' adds Vinny for good measure.

  'Oh no, people might accuse you of being, you know, jejune or something.'

  'I'd hate to be thought jejune,' I say, shaking my head and playing with a beer mat.

  'No,' agrees Libby, not sure whether we are taking the piss.

  She turns her gentle, trusting eyes on Seth for some support. He just carries on nodding, either in agreement, or to the beat of the juke box or because that's what Neanderthals do.

  'What kind of music is it?' I ask.

  'Erm,' says Libby, looking up at the brim of the ridiculous hat she is wearing as if trying to find the words to adequately describe Seth's output.

  Seth decides he can handle this one himself. 'Mainly rock. Some might see elements of grunge or even R&B in it but we don't want to be labelled.'

  'No,' says Libby gratefully.

  'Oooof, you don't want to be labelled,' says Vinny, as if it's a problem he's frequently suffered from in his career.

  'Oh, no,' I add, 'I hate being labelled.'

  'Detest it,' says Vinny with feeling. Libby looks at us both for a moment.

  'Where have you played?' I ask. Seth gives it some thought. Libby also looks quizzical, taking her cue from him after a quick, sideways glance.

  'Well, er, Christ, it's not easy in London at the moment. My drummer's got a contact at the Dublin Castle so we're hoping something'll turn up there but, er, you know it's difficult. We gigged at North London Poly last month, that was OK.'

  'They have a battle of the bands, once a month,' explains Libby sweetly. Seth stiffens slightly and Libby realises that she has rather given the game away on that one.

  'Do you do birthdays and bar mitzvahs and the like?' asks Vinny.

  Fortunately at that moment the girls come back with our drinks. Pints all round. I would have preferred a Bud or a Scotch but after the fifty-pound-note episode I decide to play it safe and try to fit in. Even then I haven't got it quite right: they have bitter, I have lager. Suddenly I have a longing for ice-cold champagne served in one of Marion's heavy cut crystal glasses.

  In his usual gloomy, deadpan way, Vinny tells a story about being in the kitchenette at work and reaching up to the cupboard for the coffee jar and accidentally grabbing this fierce old bag's tit or 'ample bosom', as he describes it on the third retelling. Vicky and Jane are in hysterics. But I don't think that it is just Vinny's story that is making them giggle so helplessly, that's just an alibi for a private girly joke.

  After a while Jane suggests we check out the jukebox. I volunteer to go with her. We squeeze out and cross the crowded, smoky bar to the machine. A bloke in a blue blazer knocks into me and then gives me a scornful look by way of apology.

  'Hope you don't mind the pub,' she says above the noise.

  'Mind it? Why should I? It's fine.'

  'I thought it might be a bit of a come-down for you. I'm sure you're used to something slightly more upmarket.'

  'Not at all,' I mutter, wondering how much she knows then ask, 'Has the board allocated resources for this little extra, then?'

  'Heh?'

  'Have you budgeted for the jukebox?'

  'No, I haven't, actually. Give us some money,' she says, leading the way.

  'Oh, OK,' I say.

  'And it doesn't take fifty pound not
es, I don't think.'

  'Ha, ha.' Better to make a joke of it. She consults the list. I find two pound coins and she takes them silently. 'Now, what would you like?' she muses.

  'I don't mind, what are you into?'

  'Well ...'she says, still looking down the list, beginning to frown with concentration and then disappointment that nothing leaps out at her.

  'Let me guess,' I say, 'nothing too mainstream, too commercial.'

  'Well, not Boyzone, I don't think.'

  'And not Abba.'

  'Wrong! I like Abba, actually.'

  'Oh, that's interesting.'

  'And what about you? Something nice and safe and yuppie. Have they got any Dire Straits, I wonder-' I laugh indignantly and try to interrupt but she carries on '- or Enya.'

  'Wrong on both counts.'

  'What do you like, then?'

  I consult the list. 'Erm. Brand New Heavies?'

  She pulls a face and mulls it over. 'A bit self-consciously trendy. I don't quite believe that.'

  'Don't, then. Look, here's one for you - Radiohead.' I point to it on the list and immediately my Rolex peeks from under my sleeve, its face catching a stray spotlight. Jane doesn't notice - or at least pretends she doesn't.

  'Not bad. A bit over-exposed now, though. Even my mum's read about them in the Daily Mail. I bet they've got some of those old early eighties dance tracks for you - Cool and the Gang or, er, oh look, Randy Crawford. Perfect for dancing with the secretaries from work on a Friday night when they've dragged you off to a club.' She begins to sway about, rolling her eyes and smiling insanely. I can't help laughing.

  'Well, you can't like Madonna,' I say. 'What about the Cranberries? I can see you almost dancing to them at the Students' Union.'

  'Ha, ha. I do like Madonna, actually. She's such a strong woman, a post-feminist role model.'

  'Right on, sister.' She gives me a sarcastic smile.

  'What's that?' she says, pushing my hand gently away. I feel a slight thrill as we touch but if Jane does too she doesn't give anything away.

  'Blimey, Morrissey,' I say. 'A bit before your time.'

  'No, quite like him, actually. Even though I don't know what "before your time" means, you patronizing bastard. How old are you?'

  I think about it for a moment and I realise that, actually, I don't have to lie this time. 'Twenty-four - and you?'

  'Twenty-two. There's nothing in it.' Still looking down the list, she hesitates for a moment as we both realise what that sounds like. 'No, I used to listen to my older sister's tapes all the time.'

  'Why do you work in Paperchase?' Why did I ask that? She looks slightly surprised and turns back to the jukebox.

  'Why not? It's quite fun. It pays the rent. Besides, I don't know what I want to do yet. I might go travelling next month.'

  'Where to?'

  'Probably South America. One of my friends from university is teaching English as a foreign language in Buenos Aires.'

  'That'd be fun - the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere.'

  'Sorry?'

  'That's what they call Buenos Aires - the Paris of the Southern Hemisphere.'

  'Oh, right. Well, I haven't actually done any research about it yet, like I said - I'm still thinking,' she says slightly irritably. What did I do? Did it sound like I was showing off? 'Here, let's have the Eurhythmics, I love them. My sisters used to play them all the time.' She consults the chart and presses the code. 'Why do you sell space?'

  'Media sales?'

  'Media sales, then. S'cuse me.' She pulls a face.

  'Oh, fuck knows. It's a job. I wanted to get into advertising. Once upon a time. I suppose I just fell in to it. My mum and dad think it's a good thing.' I don't dare tell her that it was the promised salary which caught my eye first. There is a pause as we both look through the remaining songs. I wonder again what Vinny has told her. I suggest our final track and she casually agrees. We get back to the table.

  I turn to say something to Vinny but he is talking very intently to Libby. 'You see most people think you start with the big things and then move up to the smaller ones, you know - your croutons, corn, grated cheese, bacon bits, whatever. I might even include kidney beans in that.' He thinks for a moment. 'Yes, kidney beans too. But in fact you start with these because they provide you with a good solid foundation. Then you can add the larger pieces. Myself I'd go for tomatoes, cucumber, whatever. Then you can balance the really big pieces like lettuce leaves on top.' Libby looks at him the way most people look at their financial advisers after they've been urged to put a bit more aside: for a pension.

  'Vinny knows what he's talking about,' I say to Libby. 'He can pile it up a foot high at Pizza Hut.'

  'I've been banned from the salad bar in three branches in Central London,' says Vinny proudly. Vicky looks at us both in amazement and then at Jane.

  When my choice comes on the jukebox it's not what I thought it was. It's a muzacky soul track and I feel embarrassed about requesting it. It's such a responsibility choosing these things.

  We leave the pub at closing time - our kitty runs out quite a bit earlier so we spend the last three quarters of an hour or so smoking a couple of furtive joints courtesy of Vicky and absent-mindedly tearing up beer mats while we talk - or the others talk and I watch, wondering what Vicky and Jane have been talking about. Libby, who works at the DSS in Neasden, tells us about a man who completely lost it and leapt over the counter to attack the bloke who was talking to him.

  'That's terrible,' says Jane. 'What happened?'

  'Oh, well, he was suspended.'

  'What? Because a claimant attacked him?' demands Vicky.

  'No,' says Libby in her little girl's voice, 'he was working for the DSS. The guy he attacked was a claimant. He was, you know, really getting on his nerves.' Vinny and I laugh. Libby looks bemused and Vicky mutters, 'Jesus.' I think she is talking about Libby.

  Somehow a round-the-table quiz starts. We start with the first record everyone has bought, and then the worst record. Mine is 'Eye of the Tiger'. Everyone laughs, including me. Confession must be good for the soul.

  'That is bad,' says Jane.

  'What was yours?' I ask.

  'Probably "The Final Countdown".' We all laugh again and I catch Jane's eye for a moment. She looks away.

  After that, the conversation is slow and full of longrunning in-jokes, so I don't say much. But when we get up I find the thick, warm atmosphere of the pub and the long evening of slow boozing has left me pleasantly mellowed.

  Outside, Vinny and I wish Seth good luck with the band and then he, Vicky and Libby set off for the Tube station and the three of us walk back to ours. I am glad that our farewell consists of waves and shouts of 'Cheers'. I don't even mind Vicky winking and miming a telephone receiver at Jane. Kissing Marion's friends goodbye is always so exhausting even if you can remember who does single kisses, who does double kisses (usually a safe bet) and who triple kisses, it still takes forever to say goodbye and then if you have done all yours you still have to wait, an awkward spectator, while everyone else finishes their elaborate choreography of handshakes and kisses. I am sure that is why evenings with Marion's friends seem never-ending.

  We walk back in silence and I notice that Jane has put her arm through Vinny's in a sisterly sort of way. We stop for a takeaway curry. Jane has a vegetable thing, I have a chicken bhuna and Vinny has his usual, which he doesn't even have to ask for now because they recognise him as soon as he walks in. He describes it as a Chernobyl vindaloo. Then he makes his usual joke about nuclear 'phal' out and burps violently.

  'Vinny!' says Jane.

  'Fucking animal,' I add.

  We eat them in the kitchen at Jane's insistence, saying little as we realise how hungry we are and then we retire to the living room with mugs of tea to see if there is anything on telly. At about half-past eleven Vinny yawns and says 'night'.

  'Goodnight' say Jane and I in unison. Embarrassing. It only emphasizes the fact that there are just the two of us n
ow, sitting in a darkness broken only by the flickering light of the TV.

  We stare at the box where two alternative comedians discuss wanking and zits with a studio audience of thirtysomethings who are obviously wondering why they splashed out on a babysitter for this rubbish. Eyes fixed on the picture, slightly embarrassed, we half-laugh every now and then. If we're not laughing why are we watching? And if we don't watch, what else do we do? I find myself wishing Vinny was still here.

  "Scuse me a minute,' I say and leap up off the settee. I dash upstairs to find Vinny, who is in the bathroom brushing his teeth.

  'Vinny,' I whisper urgently, half-closing the door behind me.

  'Ussh?' he says, through a mouthful of toothbrush and froth.

  'What have you told Jane about me?'

  'Usshing,' he says, looking alarmed.

  'What? Didn't tell her about my, you know, other job?' I can't bring myself to say 'escort' even to Vinny.

  'No.'

  'Oh, good. Thanks. Did you tell her I was seeing someone else?'

  He looks slightly apologetic and then removes the toothbrush and spits out, a procedure which seems to take about half an hour.

  'She wanted to know, mate. Wondered where you were going the other evening when she was just arriving.'

  'Oh, OK.'

  'Sorry,' he says.

  'Oh, don't worry.' My mind is racing. Jane must be wondering what we're talking about. I'd better get back.

  'Thanks.'

  Halfway down the stairs I turn and run back.

  'Ow wha'?' says Vinny, his mouth full of toothpaste again.

  'Did you say how serious it was?'

  He spits out once more. 'No, I just said you were seeing a woman and that's where you were off to that night, s'all.'

  'OK.' I think about it. Vinny picks up the toothpaste again.

  'Woman? Did you say how old she was?'

  'No, 'course not, I don't know how old she is.'

  'No, sure. And you didn't say where she lived?'

  Vinny looks exasperated. 'No, I don't know her bloody postcode either. For Christ's sake, Jane obviously likes you. Just get back there and don't come back - I'm running out of toothpaste here. Jesus! She's a lovely girl. I'm not going to tell anyone you're playing away from home.'