Sugar Mummy

by Simon Brooke

  'No! Don't worry.' She shoots me another glance.

  'Why not?' She smiles slightly. 'Don't you want a ride?'

  'I'll just walk, thanks anyway, besides I'm going a bit earlier than that'.

  'OK.' She looks back to the TV again and celebrates her victory with another pretzel.

  Marion does what I half-suspected she would do.

  'Bye.' I say quickly, popping my head round the bedroom door.

  'See you later.'

  'I'm ready,' she says, getting up from the dressing table. 'I can give you that ride after all.'

  'Are you?' Normally she takes forever to get dressed and put her make-up on and I end up pacing up and down or having a couple of drinks and watching the telly while she buggers about. Sometimes by the time we arrive somewhere I am already half-cut but after a while I've got used to it and, anyway, it helps me relax.

  'Yes,' she says sweetly. 'Isn't that good timing?'

  'I thought you were going at eight.'

  'Oh, did you?' She says innocently. 'Well, seven-thirty, eight o'clock. Something like that, Channing will just have to scrape off his face mask before it's dry, that's all.' She slips on her shoes and then looks at herself in profile in the mirror. 'What do you think? Good enough to eat?' By this time the little girl voice has become quite sinister.

  'Delicious,' I say quickly.

  'Shame you won't be having any then, isn't it?' she says sweeping past me. I stare at the floor in disbelief for a moment and then follow her downstairs. Then she turns round and walks upstairs again. 'Where are you going?'

  'I forgot my earrings.'

  I pace around the living room and flick the telly on and then off. Then on again. Marion returns.

  'That's better,' she smiles. 'OK, let's – oh - oh.'

  'Now what?'

  'Wrong shoes - that's you hurrying me.'

  Twelve minutes - twelve minutes - later she comes back down again with the same shoes on as far as I can see. We finally walk out to the car. I decide I'll drop her off at Channing's and then walk onto the Oyster Bar.

  'Evening, madam,' says Chris as we get in. He looks at me in the mirror.

  'Evening, Sir.'

  'Good evening, Chris,' says the seven-year-old Marion. 'How's your mother?'

  'She's much better now thank you, Madam.'

  'I'm glad to hear it. I'm going to Channing's and we're dropping Mr Collins ... Where are we dropping you, Andrew?'

  'Albero & Grana in Sloane Street,' I mumble.

  'Where?' says Marion, innocently.

  'Albero & Grana. That bar near the top of Sloane Street. I'll show you.'

  'Sounds very expensive for your friends,' says Marion.

  'We don't drink much,' I say.

  'Very sensible,' says Chris. I shoot him a look. He grins again.

  'Oh, my God. I forgot my pocket book,' says Marion, ferreting around in her handbag. 'What is the matter with me today? Won't be long, dear, you wait here.'

  She gets out. I look at my watch. It's already twenty to eight. I look up and see Chris staring at me in the mirror so I get out of the car. At a quarter to I go back in to shout to Marion that I'll walk after all but she is coming out again.

  'Sorry about that.'

  Without saying anything I get back in the car. 'Right, Chris, to where was it?'

  'Albero & Grana.'

  'Yes, to Albero & Grana and on then to Mr Charisse's please.'

  'No. Well, we may as well go to Channing's first,' I suggest half-heartedly.

  'But you've got to be there at seven-thirty. Oh look, it's nearly ten to eight now. Chris, step on it will you?'

  We set off into the early evening traffic. As we move into Sloane Square Marion suddenly pipes up; 'Is there an office licence near here?'

  Chris is as flummoxed as I am this time. 'A what?' I say.

  'An office licence. Is that what they're called? Channing asked me to bring a bottle.'

  'Bring a bottle?' I gasp. 'What do you mean? Your friends never bring bottles.'

  'But he's run out of booze. He had a party last night.'

  I sit back. It's nearly five to eight. OK, Marion, you've won. You've so won.

  'Safeway might be the best bet, madam,' says Chris helpfully. 'They've got quite an extensive selection of wines and spirits.'

  I think 'Cunt' at Chris but he just smiles helpfully. 'Safeway?' says Marion. 'There's a thought. Is there one nearby?'

  'In the King's Road, madam, five minutes from here.'

  'Marion, I'll just get out and walk.'

  'Bit difficult to stop here, sir,' says Chris.

  'I'll see you later,' I say to Marion and give her a peck on the cheek. But the door handle doesn't work.

  'Better wait,' Marion says quietly, without looking round.

  Minutes later we're at Safeway. Marion goes in. I debate whether to get out and run off. Instead I pick up the car phone, get the number for the Oyster Bar from directory enquiries, scribble it on a piece of paper that I've been sitting on, and begin to ring it. I don't care that Chris knows that I'm not going to Albero & Grana.

  'Hello, I'm supposed to meeting someone there and I'm slightly late,' I say quietly, aware that Chris is listening to every word, probably ready to relay it all back to Marion. Above the roar and clatter of the restaurant the girl at the other end doesn't sound very hopeful.

  'What do they look like?'

  'She's got dark red hair, early twenties, pale complexion ... erm ...'

  'Hold on,' says the girl. I hear her shouting something to someone else. I look up and Chris is watching me 'Oh, fuck off, will you?'

  He laughs and looks away.

  'I can't see anyone exactly like that, listen we're really busy, can you ring back later?'

  'Oh, please, she must be there. She's got a sort of bob and-'

  There is a knock of the window which makes me jump so that I bang my head on the ceiling. It's Marion with a Safeway guy struggling under a huge box. The door seems to be working now.

  'Well, give me a hand, won't you?' says Marion, who is not doing anything. The boot pops open and I help the Safeway assistant who is sweating under the strain of putting a box of Veuve Cliquot into it.

  'Phew,' says Marion, giving him a tip. We get in. 'Who were you calling?'

  'No one.'

  'OK, let's go to - where was it?' Chris moves off slowly.

  Then Marion grabs my arm and shouts at him: 'Stop! I forgot: Channing asked me to bring cigarettes.' I'm almost past caring. We reverse back into a place on the double yellows lines.

  'Look, I'll walk,' I say firmly.

  'You can't,' says Marion. 'It's going to rain.' She slams the door and immediately the central locking clicks in. Biting my lip hard, I sit back and wait. There is nothing I can do now. Marion will be ages - she'll make sure of that. It's nearly ten past eight. I consider giving the Oyster Bar another call but then decide against it because I can't stand the thought of Chris listening in and laughing at me. I look at the piece of the paper I've written the number down on. Along the top it says: 'Montague Car and Van Hire, Wimpole Street, WI - Leasing Agreement'. It's for this car - it mentions a black BMW Seven Series and I recognise the number plate but under client it says 'Kremer Holdings Ltd' with an address in the City. Suddenly there is click and Marion gets back in again.

  'Sorry about that. Right, let's go.' I slip the paper down onto the floor.

  I run into the Oyster Bar at just after twenty past eight. It is busy and there is a queue.

  'Can I help you, sir?' says a young waiter, assuming that I'm trying to push my way in which, of course, I am.

  'I'm supposed to be meeting someone,' I say irritably, looking over his shoulder. A few people stare up at me from their tables as I look around the room for her. I push past and then wander around, wanting to believe she is still there, that I just haven't seen her yet, that I'm just looking through her. Is that her? No, it's a middle-aged bloke with a beard. Not quite. After what seems like half an hour
, by which time I've disrupted the whole restaurant and made a total tit of myself, I walk out, past people in the queue who stare at me with narrowed eyes.

  I look down Sloane Avenue and then the other way towards South Kensington Tube. Suddenly I see her. In the distance. It must be her. I run across the road. A taxi blows its horn and a car stops inches away from me. I can see her walking along slowly, looking up at a poster, moving out of the way to let a woman with her pushchair past, swinging her bag at one point. When I'm near enough I shout. She doesn't turn round. I get nearer and shout again and this time she does. Thank God!

  'Hi,' I say, running up to her and panting slightly.

  'Oh, hello,' she says flatly, her strong intelligent mouth set determinedly.

  'I'm sorry,' I gasp.

  'I thought I'd been stood up.'

  'I know, I'm so sorry. I just couldn't get away.'

  'Don't worry about it,' she says and starts walking again.

  'Jane.' I walk after her, sweating now. I catch her arm. She looks round angrily and shrugs my hand off her. 'I'm really sorry.'

  'Oh, Andrew, forget it,' she snaps. 'I waited over half an hour for you, sitting there like a fucking lemon in that poncey place. Five quid for a glass of wine, for Christ's sake.'

  'Look, let me buy you another,' I say and immediately regret it because it doesn't come out the way I meant. It sounds like I'm offering to reimburse her, not talk to her. She looks at me for a moment, face contorted with contempt.

  'Don't worry. Really, don't worry about it.'

  'Look I'm so sorry, I just couldn't get away. I tried to ring.'

  'I told you it doesn't matter.' She starts to walk again. I run up to her again. I'm conscious of stopping other people walking down the street.

  'Marion just screwed things up when I was trying to get out.'

  Jane looks at me again. 'Is that her name?'

  I realise I've never mentioned it before. 'Yes'.

  'Marion. Mmm.' She carries on walking.

  'Jane.'

  'Wasn't that the mother in Happy Days?' she says casually, still walking.

  'Yeah, yeah it was. She's not very like that, though,' I add helpfully, talking to keep Jane where she is while I try and think of something to say. She takes a deep breath. 'Did she know you were coming to see me?'

  'No, of course not.'

  She thinks about it for a moment. 'Andrew, I don't really want to talk about her.'

  'Oh, no, neither do I.' I'm looking closely at her, trying to work out what she is thinking, trying to will her to forgive me. 'Shall we go and have a drink somewhere?'

  She is silent for a moment. Then she looks straight ahead, avoiding my eyes. 'I can't do this. I can't be the other woman. I've just got more self respect than that.'

  'Of course, I-'

  'Funny thing, is,' she says, the muscles in her pale smooth neck twitching as she fights back the tears. 'Funny thing is, I'm always meeting complete ... fucking ... arseholes trying to be nice guys and you're basically a nice guy trying to be an arsehole.' She gives an irritable, confused laugh. 'Why? I just don't understand.'

  'Jane, I-'

  'Oh, never mind,' she mutters, which is quite a relief because I don't actually know how to answer this accusation. 'You know how I feel about you, Andrew, but you've got to decide. I've had enough. Like I said, I just can't do this.' She sniffs and looks around her. 'The phone's working again, you've got my number. Just, er ...' She starts to walk away and I know she's crying. I don't go after her. It would just make it worse.

  I begin to walk back home. 'Home'? Is that what it is? By the time I get to the King's Road it has become very dark and as I walk into Sloane Square the heavens open. Big warm splats of rain clear the streets and some people at a cafe start squealing and running inside.

  I don't care, though. In fact I walk all the way round Eaton Square as well, taking in the warm, sweet-smelling air. By the time I get back I'm well and truly soaked, even my shoes are squelching. I ring the doorbell and Ana Maria opens the door very slowly. She gasps, begins to giggle and opens it properly.

  'Mr Andrew, you soaked.'

  I look at her for a moment. This is the woman I'm going to marry.

  'I know,' I say unnecessarily. I walk in and trudge upstairs, leaving big soggy grey footprints on the white carpet. I decide to have a bath because I need to think.

  By the time Marion gets back at just after eleven I'm sitting in front of the TV still in my bathrobe. She looks slightly surprised to see me.

  'How was Vinny?'

  'Fine,' I say looking her in the eye and realising that I must have drunk an awful lot. I've spurned Ana Maria's kind offer of supper. To be honest, I just can't bear to look at her at the moment. Not since we've become engaged.

  'Where'd you go? The pub?' she says brightly, putting her bag down on the settee. She eyes the bottle of Scotch sitting on the coffee table next to my feet, neither of which I can be bothered to move. God, Marion don't you ever give up?

  'Yeah.' I don't care that she's probably had Chris following me again with his Polaroid camera. He'd have got some good shots this time, though - me charging; round the restaurant glaring at the customers while the staff try to decide how much longer they'll give me before they chuck me out or call the police, me haring around outside looking for Jane, me running along the road in front of oncoming cars to catch her up, her turning her back on me and walking off. In a way I'd quite like Marion to see those pictures, I'd like her to see what I'll do for someone I really love, really care about, someone who is straightforward and honest and just wants to have a normal relationship, not play weird mind games. And I'd like her to know that I'd never bother to run after her like that.

  'Andrew, would you fix me a Perrier with ice, I'm terribly thirsty. I'm just going to change.' She grabs her bag and walks off.

  When I get up I realise that actually I'm really pissed. I stumble over to the drinks cabinet, gashing my shin on the coffee table. I look at it for a moment and then kick it hard with the underside of my foot. The huge vase of lilies shifts very slightly but the table itself hardly moves.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I wake up in the spare room, I can't quite remember how I got there but I'm just so relieved I don't have to face Marion. I reach over and check my watch. Twenty past ten. I try and swallow and find that my mouth is dry. I'm horribly hungover, of course, really sick as well because I didn't eat anything last night. I take a deep breath, stand up and have to sit down on the bed again quickly. I feel hot and cold at the same time and an icy hand seems to be very slowly squeezing my brain. I lie down again, perhaps I'll fall asleep and feel better when I wake up. But I can't.

  It's not Jane's words from last night that chase around my poor, damaged mind, it's her expression. Disgust. Contempt. And I can't blame her. I look around the room for a moment and think about the house I'm in. The five-million-pound house in Belgravia. I've got the clothes. I've been to the restaurants. The truth is I deserve that look of disgust and contempt. Perhaps this my reward for trying to have my cake and eat it, have Jane and my glossy, five-star, designer-clad, business-class lifestyle. Perhaps what I am actually cut out for is to be a bit of passive, brain-dead arm candy for rich old women, after all. Like Mark, except that I haven't got the guts to go that extra mile and make some real hard cash. I might be shocked at the way he earns his living but he obviously doesn't care. Better than working in an office. Two fingers to the lot of you. But I can't quite do it.

  I can't help thinking about Jane, who does work for a weekly salary fix, who does travel on the Tube, trying to open her book under someone else's armpit, who does save up for cheap holidays on a Greek island and who does talk about what was on telly last night with her colleagues. Jane, who does all the things I used to do, used to think I was too good for. The kind of things that Vinny, Sami, Pete and all my old friends do every day without thinking about them. Ordinary activities that suddenly seem not just routine but comforting and normal
. I used to hate them, used to think I could find something better but now I want to do them again. With Jane. I can't believe how easily I've slipped into this role. Lost my drive, my energy, lost most of my interests, my friends, most of all my self-respect. Jane said she had too much dignity to be the other woman but I've just got no dignity at all.

  What do people think when they see Marion and me eating in expensive restaurants together? When they see us nosing our way up Sloane Street in that huge black BMW with the peak-capped chauffeur - immaculately turned out (as I always am now), rich and very bored? Not just a rich couple with nothing left to say to each other but a rather strange, almost laughable, couple of beautifully dressed oddballs.

  I put my bathrobe on and open the door. Marion's bedroom door is open and I can see that the bed is made.

  I go into the main bathroom and let the tap run cold for a while then I splash a few careless handfuls of water onto my face and round my neck. I look up at my puffy bloodshot eyes. I don't bother to dry myself, too much effort, besides my skin still feels very warm. Carefully holding onto the banister, I ease myself down the stairs. Still no Marion. Thank God - she must have gone out for the first appointment in her busy schedule.

  I have to sit for a while on the bottom step. Then I pull myself up again and walk over to the kitchen to find some cold orange juice. Just as I am approaching the door it is thrown open and Marion appears. Suddenly it's all too much: her look of surprise and then haughty disdain, the smell of her perfume, the sadistic way she is pulling on her black leather gloves, the roar of the dishwasher behind her and Ana Maria crashing pots and pans about on the draining board. I just have that overwhelming need to get down very low, where I can't fall down any further, where I belong. Somehow I sense that the floor is my only friend at the moment.

  I squat for a few seconds, concentrating on not fainting or throwing up and then look up to see them both staring down at me: Marion's face a picture of loathing, Ana Maria partly intrigued, partly concerned.

  'Can I have some orange juice please, Ana Maria?' I say in a very small voice.

  She looks at me for a moment and then mutters 'Yes, Mr Andrew.'