by Simon Brooke
I can't do that. I just can't.
We go for a Chinese which I manage to squeeze onto my one remaining credit card and spend a couple of happy hours reminiscing about university and discussing the meaning of life and whether you can have kid and live in London. We end up analysing areas of London in which you could conceivably afford to live, followed by towns and villages in the south east and relevant commuting distances as we try and identify some urban nirvana which will give us a half decent lifestyle within our pathetic budgets.
Afterwards, we walk down to Cambridge Circus and part there, promising not to leave it so long next time. I manage to get a bus back home. I'd really love a taxi but financially that is out of the question as the cash machine confirms. 'Do you require another service?' it asks very helpfully, having denied me any actual cash. Yes, I'd like to order a new cheque book and get home on that.
My eyes are closing and my head is lolling against the vibrating window when, after a couple of stops two couples get on, clambering up the stairs unsteadily, the girls squealing and falling about onto the men. Once they've decided who is sitting where they continue the argument they've been having and then one of the girls says to me, "Scuse me. Can I ask you something?'
The men start to shout her down but she persists. 'No, no, let's ask him. He's another bloke, right? OK, if you were in a relationship, yeah? And you met a girl in a bar and you really fancied her, no, no, let's just hear what he thinks, OK? And you really fancied this girl and thought you were getting somewhere with her, would you, you know, shag her and not feel, like, guilty?' The two men start arguing again but she ignores them. 'Or would you do it and tell your girlfriend and say you were really sorry?'
'It wasn't like that,' one of the men tells her but she keeps looking at me expectantly.
'So, do I know the girl?' I ask, still half-asleep.
'No. Never met her before.' The others stop talking. 'Well, if I didn't know her and I didn't think we'd ever meet again ...'
'There you go,' says one of the boys triumphantly.
'No, let him finish,' says the girl, willing me to say the right thing.
'If I didn't think we'd ever meet again,' I say, thinking carefully, 'I'd go back to hers, but then when she was in the loo or making coffee or something ...'
'Yeah?' she says, beginning to smile and half-turning to one of the boys.
'... I'd steal everything I could lay my hands on and get out of there.'
The house is silent when I get back. Vinny must be in bed. I was hoping he would still be up. Knackered though I am, I could do with a quick game of One A Side Indoor Footy. Instead I fall into bed and finally get to sleep after tossing and turning for what seems like hours.
Coming from someone so sensible and, well, ordinary, Pete's advice seems pretty sound. And it was good to have a drink with Jane, a normal date with a girl. Besides, I'm just going nowhere with Marion and Jane won't wait forever.
But then I remember Pete pushing his way through the crowd in the pub, his life set out before him as if he were a rat in a maze. No way out. No chance of winning. Perhaps I should just stick to my plan, even if it has been modified to involve doing something in business to make some money, as Marion and Charles and I were discussing that night. Be ruthless. Anything to avoid Pete's fate. Yeah, there'll be other girls like Jane. If Jane and I got married we'd end up living in a tiny flat until we could afford to move to a tiny house in Woking and I'd commute until I was old enough to follow her round Sainsbury's and fuck up the house, with unnecessary DIY.
Ruthless, Mark said. Ruthless or hopeless. Fuck it. I'll spend a month with Marion and if she still doesn't give me something worth having, I'll end it. After all, she'll find another bit of arm candy and I'll do something with Charles or else find someone who will give me that tiny bit of their enormous pile of cash that will allow me to avoid Pete's fate.
But I could never have a really relaxed evening or a boys' night out like I had with Pete, for instance, if I was living with Marion, I realise, spreading myself out under my own duvet. On the other hand, I won't get anything serious from her unless I do move in.
My thoughts are running on ahead of me, all over the place, like a yelping dog let off its lead in a park. I am finally being pulled down into unconsciousness when the phone rings. There is nothing more unnerving than a phone echoing through the house in the middle of the night. I consider ignoring it for a moment and then decide to answer it, hoping it's not my mum or dad with bad news. More likely it's Marion ringing to tell me to come over. Or never to come over again. I stumble into the kitchen just as Vinny's door is opening.
'I'll get it,' I say to the silent darkness. I pick up the phone and whisper, 'Hello.'
'Andrew?' says a man's voice urgently.
Scared, I say, 'Yeah. Who's that?'
'It's me, Jonathan.'
'Oh, right,' I say, squinting at the clock on the cooker. Quarter to three.
'I haven't spoken to you for ages. How are you?' Jonathan says casually.
'Well, I'm asleep, since you ask.'
'Yeah, sorry about that. Listen, I've got a great job for you. Really easy and just round the corner from you in Chelsea.'
'What? Now?' I remember the sheer horror of the poor little rich girl a few weeks ago.
'Yep,' Jonathan gives a desperate little laugh. 'This is the time people feel like it.' Feel like what? Talking? I certainly don't. I fold my arms, the phone clamped under my chin and my eyes closed. I can almost sense already how awful I am going to feel tomorrow morning.
'Jonathan, I'm really sorry, I've got work tomorrow. I'm so tired-'
'Five hundred quid, Andrew,' he almost sings.
'What?'
'I said five hundred quid - and it's in cash this time. Still feeling tired?' he asks. I'm feeling dead to the world but five hundred quid is five hundred quid. In cash, too.
'Why cash?'
'Regular client, we have an arrangement.'
I think about it for a moment. 'What do I have to do?'
Jonathan's voice changes back to its old self. 'Well,' he says gently, like a careers master, 'the client's an old guy-'
'An old guy? Oh no-'
'Don't worry, there's a girl there too. He lives in Chelsea, just off Sloane Avenue, take you ten minutes this time of night in a cab, and the girl he's got there is called, er ...' I can hear him check a piece of paper. 'Vivienne. And he just wants to watch you and Vivienne, you know, mess around together.'
'Mess around together?'
Jonathan's voice changes again, 'Yeah, play Scrabble! What do you think?'
Still half-asleep I take a moment to consider what he is saying. 'But when we met you said, sex wasn't-'
I hear Jonathan mutter 'Jesus' under his breath. Then he hisses, 'Who gives a fuck what I said back then? What are you? A fucking choir boy? Do you wanna earn five hundred quid tonight - cash - or not?'
I can't believe this is the same guy with the ready smile and the floppy hair I met a few weeks ago in his Fulham flat.
'OK, OK.' I think quickly, wide awake now. This is prostitution, isn't it? I'm going to be a rent boy. Like Mark. But five hundred quid. Cash. More than I have got out of Marion, more than a week's salary. Oh, what the fuck! Just mess around. I can do that. Whatever it means. Never mind, play it by ear. Can't be that bad. Despite my conversation with Mark, part of me always knew that this was coming. It's a fine line which I was never going to cross. But five hundred quid. I guess I have my price. 'What's the address?'
'Good boy,' coos Jonathan. He gives it to me, tells me to get going and rings off. I press the button down and then call a cab. I put on some clean underpants, my jeans and a T-shirt and go outside to wait for it.
After about ten minutes I notice a silver Skoda drawing up, the driver peering out to check the house number. I jerk my head at him. Who else would be hanging around outside at this time of night? The car is warm and stuffy and sweet-smelling. I'm glad of the heat because for some reason
I'm shivering. I slide into the furry passenger seat and say, 'Hi.' 'Hi,' says the driver uncomfortably. I give him the address and we speed off. I'm trying to work out a story in case he asks where the hell I am going at this time of night but he just turns up the radio - some Greek station - and stares straight ahead. Above the overflowing ashtray, next to the 'No Smoking' sign are two pictures, a pretty girl taken at a party and a fuzzy picture of a baby in its cot. Around them hangs a chain with a tiny gold St Christopher.
We find the mews easily and crawl along it until we come to the right house. I push a five-pound note into his hand and say thanks. He says nothing and begins to reverse slowly over the cobbles. I ring the door bell. There is a pause and I panic for a moment that Jonathan has given me the wrong address. embarrassing to wake someone up at this time of night - especially around here. They'd probably ring the police, I'd get arrested and have to try and explain what I am doing. Name, address and phone number. Vinny answering the phone and wondering what the hell is going on ... Bolts are being drawn and the door is opened on a chain. A girl with blonde hair piled messily up high and a lot of makeup looks up at me menacingly.
'Oh, excuse me-' She slams the door in my face. Oh fuck. I turn to see if the mini cab is still here but then the door opens again, wider this time, and the girl stands back for me to enter. Despite feeling tired, ill and suddenly very nervous, I walk in, smile and say hello the way I have done before, the way I think Jonathan would expect me to.
'Didn't they tell you to leave taxi at top o' t'mews,' she snaps in a thick Yorkshire accent. 'Er, no.'
She tuts.
'Got any drugs?' she says leading me through a small white and gold marbled hallway into an even tinier kitchen. I can see that her dress is only half zipped up at the back.
'Sorry?'
'Drugs? You boys usually 'ave 'em.'
'Sorry, no one told me,' I say like a boy scout. What 'boys'? She tuts again and opens the fridge. 'Champagne or beer or-' She peers into it, scrunching up her face which is quite pretty under all the powder. 'Or whatever you want, but if you want a Bloody Mary or owt like that you'll have to make it yourself.'
'Whatever's open.'
Without saying anything she picks up a tall, heavy glass, thrusts it into my hand and pours champagne into it until it drips over my fingers.
'Thanks,' I say, licking some of the froth off my fingers. She takes something from behind the cappuccino machine. It's an envelope. She half-pulls some fifty pounds notes out of it.
'That's your five hundred plus another two,' she says, shaking the notes in my face. 'Extra. If you do a good job.'
She puts it back and makes towards a spiral staircase, slipping her stilettos off as she goes.
'Hang on a minute,' I say, finally catching my breath. 'It's you and me, right?'
She tuts and rolls her eyes. 'See this house?' She nods in the direction of the sitting room. 'Ten of 'em like this. He owns the whole bloody mews,' she hisses, as if that is supposed to explain what we are going to do. 'Just look as if you're having the fuck o' your life and don't worry about me - I'll make the right noises.'
I follow her up the tiny spiral staircase trying not to trip up or bang my head. I realise that my hand is shaking slightly on the rail. We emerge into a bedroom which covers the whole upper floor of the house. It is lined with black wood, mirrored cupboards and a thick, cream-coloured shag-pile carpet. The lights are on low and the place is full of shadows. I can make out an empty champagne bottle lying on the floor next to an ashtray and a handbag. Most of the room is taken up by a huge bed which is covered with a white fur bedspread. It looks as if there is a dead pig on it. In fact it is a fat bloke lying on his stomach, his head hanging over the edge.
Vivienne strokes his scraggly grey hair and then runs her hand down his hairy back to his huge fat bum which is also covered with grey hair.
'Wake up, love,' she says tenderly. 'Look what I've brought you.'
He grunts and stirs and then squints at her, taking a moment to remember who she is. Then he says, 'What have you brought me, Viv, my love?'
'A young stud,' says Viv. Hang on - that's me. I try to smile seductively but I feel more like a future son-in-law than a panting sex machine. He stares up at me. So does Viv, giving me a look of 'Oh, put your back into it.' His face is like the rest of his body, bulging, sagging and pink with wisps of grey hair. His huge bloodshot eyes struggle to focus on me and as they do so his fat fingers, with their heavy gold rings, grasp the bedcover tightly. Only a chunky gold identity bracelet shows where the fur ends and the grey hair of his forearms begins. He farts and belches and then his head drops down on to the bed again. I look at Viv for guidance.
'My love,' she says to him. The old man mumbles something. 'What did you say, my darling?'
He moves his head out of the furry bedcovers and says, 'Tell him to take his clothes off.'
She looks up at me. 'Well, you heard what he said.' I freeze for a moment. Obviously I knew from the start this was going to happen from the time Jonathan first told me about the job but standing here with these two it feels even weirder than I thought it would. 'Go on,' she says again, like I'm a bit slow.
My hands tremble even more as I pull off my T-shirt. I stop at my underpants. Viv rolls her eyes. 'All your clothes, he wants to see what you've got for me.' I take a deep breath and slip off my underpants with all the erotic finesse of a man facing an army medical. The old guy is watching me now. I feel very vulnerable, I have to stop myself from covering my dick with my hands.
'He's big,' coos the man. 'You've done well, my dear.' I'm feeling slightly sick by now.
'Ye-e-e-s,' says Vivienne. 'He's a big boy.'
'Vivienne,' says the man, like the presenter of a 1950s TV programme to a guest who brought a baby tiger cub in to show the children, 'will you show me what you do to boys like this.' Viv gets up and fixes me with a mean, sneering look. Then she kicks off her shoes, drops to her knees and takes my dick in her mouth. I gasp more with surprise than pleasure and the client looks up at me. Then Vivienne begins to make groaning noises. She starts to dig her long, sharp nails into my bum, out of spite, I think, rather than desire. I decide I'd better make an effort if I want that five hundred, no, seven hundred pounds. I say it to myself again. In cash. I start to moan too and move rhythmically in and out of Viv's mouth.
'Mmmm,' says Viv from down below.
'Oh y-e-a-h,' I gasp, hoping it sounds genuine. But my voice is shaking slightly.
'Oh, yes,' says the little piglet enthusiastically, as if he were endorsing a motion at the Residents' Association meeting. It's actually the least surreal conversation we have had all evening. After a while he seems to get bored.
'Vivienne?' he asks politely.
She looks round at him, still with her mouth full. 'Vivienne? What else can he do?'
She stands up. 'Shall we show him?' I look at her dumbly.
She slips off her dress, bra and panties very quickly while the piglet and I watch. When she stands naked I notice that her pubic hair is blonde with tiny black roots.
'There's a condom in the draw, stud,' she says. I pull open the drawer, take out a condom, tear open its packet with difficulty (I am sure Viv rolls her eyes at this point). For some reason I have got a hard on. It's as is my dick is betraying me. Shouldn't it feel revolted and appalled by this whole thing? Apparently not. I roll the condom on while they both watch. When I look up again Viv is moving onto the bed.
'You like it doggy style, don't you, Viv?' says the piglet. This time even I can tell that he means, 'I don't care how you like it, Viv, I'm paying.'
'Oh, yes,' murmurs Viv, moving onto all fours next to him on the bed. She pouts and inserts a long red fingernail into her mouth. 'That's the way I like it,' she gasps and I realise this is an invitation to me to get to work.
I move over towards her. But I can't do it. My dick has finally got the message. This isn't right - worse, it's just disgusting. No amount of money is worth this, in fa
ct the idea of the money suddenly makes me feel even more dirty.
Viv looks round irritably to see why our little live show, audience of one, has stalled. I stare at the floor, trying to avoid her eyes. But Viv, obviously quick-thinking and resourceful, has nimbly backed on to me and is apparently enjoying great sex, moaning and arching her back. I stand there, numb, wondering whether it looks convincing to our client or whether he just wants it to. But then I notice that the old git has slumped forward with his eyes closed again.
'K-e-n?' Viv whispers in ecstasy. No reaction. 'Ken?' she groans again, louder this time. 'Ken?' Her tone changes to one of irritation. 'Ken?' She reaches across and pokes him roughly. 'He's off at last,' she says. 'Thank fook for that. What's the matter wi' you, anyway, you're not fooking being paid just to stand there, you gormless twat,' she says, pulling off a false eyelash while reaching across to the ashtray for her ciggie which is now mainly ash. She takes a drag and picks some ash out of her pubes. Just then Ken wakes again and looks round at us. Instantly Viv is back in position and in ecstasy again, gasping and squealing this time. But this time I move away. I don't even want to touch her. I stand back against the wall, breathing hard. Feeling dizzy. Feeling disgusted. Trapped.
'Come back, my love,' murmurs Viv, giving me a furious look.
I just stare at her for a moment.
'What's the matter, young stud?' says Ken, also slightly pissed off that his purchase isn't doing what he bought it for.
I don't say anything - what can I say? I look at them both lying on the bed. I realise that they are almost the same colour. Pale, pink, insipid. Ugly. So very, very ugly. Like me. We're all so very ugly. I just reach down quickly and find my underpants.
"Ang on,' says Viv, getting up.
'We haven't finished yet,' says the piglet, as if I was a waiter trying to take his plate away.
I open my mouth to say something - excuse, abuse – but nothing comes out. My underpants are on at last and so is my T-shirt, distorted and wrapped around my body in my panicked haste. I throw my trainers down the spiral stairs and follow them, tripping and falling down the last few steps. Sprawled at the bottom, I pull my jeans on, and without doing them up get up again and run into the kitchen.