by Simon Brooke
David is talking to me across Farrah.
“Sorry?” I say.
“I was just asking what line of business you’re in.”
What line of business? Pissing about in an office and skiving off to watch a rich woman shop.
“I’m in media sales,” I say instead, trying to make it sound like a serious, heavyweight profession.
“Space,” says David.
“Er, yeah.”
“Friend of mine did that for two years. Then he went into media buying. You know, gamekeeper turned poacher. He’s making a packet, huge basic plus commission, must be on £120K by now.”
“Who’s that?” Farrah asks sweetly.
“Rob,” David says quickly to her. “And he does consultancy work now as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if he sets up on his own soon.”
“Great,” I say without enthusiasm. “What about you? What do you do?”
It sounds really aimless and studenty, as if I’m expecting him to say that he is travelling a bit before starting teacher training.
“At the moment I’ve got a number of projects on the go,” he says, swallowing, obviously glad I’ve asked. “I deal in old cars. Not vintage ones, you know, not London to Brighton crap but sporty little numbers from the fifties—Aston Martins, Panthers and the like. There’s an incredible market for them down here. My dad and my brother pick them up for next to nothing up in the North East, we drive them down, I’ve got a couple of lads who check them over and do them up and then we flog ’em. Amazing what they go for.”
“Brilliant.” Part of me is, I’m afraid to say, genuinely impressed but mainly I’m amazed, as usual, at how easy it all sounds.
“They’re such beautiful cars,” says Farrah with an almost pained look on her face. “And my brother in New York is going to help him import American ones as well—Buicks, Cadillacs and stuff.”
David cuts her off, “Also me and my mate are opening a club in South London next month and we’re going to use these cars to ferry the VIP guests to and fro. Emma Bunton and that bloke from EastEnders—what’s his name?—are doing the opening night. I’ll get you and Marion on the guest list. You can use the VIP suite.”
“Oh, right, thanks.” Yeah, thanks, but somehow I don’t think so, you flash tosser. Emma Bunton and EastEnders! That’s the kind of thing that would impress most of the people in my office but I think I can aim higher than that now. I look round at Marion who is listening to the French boys and grinning. I stare harder but she doesn’t see me. David has more.
“Then me and this mate of mine from the army are going to start opening clubs in Europe, Ibiza and places. There are no licensing laws or any of that shit and some of those clubs are huge—”
Then he is telling me that he can get me some Versace stuff, seconds, dead cheap, all sizes when I realize that the one consolation that comes with this wanker, other than that my girlfriend is richer than his, is that, with a bit of luck, he might be in prison by this time next year.
Anna Maria and the other girl clear away our plates. We move onto the next course and I realize what it is that’s so strange about Marion’s parties: when her friends talk, no one actually connects with what anyone else says. Sometimes their comments are sort of related but there is no interaction, no reply. People just politely wait for a pause and then stick their oar in. It is as if they are in competition with each other, trying to dominate the conversation.
“New York was terribly hot last week. We hardly went outside. To the opera once and to a party at Vanora Fielding’s.”
“The only city I visit in the summer is London. I would never go to New York during July or August.”
“But you must have been to Judy’s new apartment there?”
“If you want to see Judy you have to go to New York. She never comes here, she hates Paris and London. I just think she hates Europe altogether.”
“We went to an amazing club in Paris last weekend—go-go dancers, boys and girls. You’ll never guess who we met there. Peter Katzberg. Oh, you remember Peter Katzberg, you must do. Can you imagine it? Darling Peter in this crazy club?”
“Peter Katzberg decorated Petronella Bywater’s first home. You must know it, off Cadogan Square. Petronella hated it so much she sold it immediately and stayed with her parents in Venice until she found somewhere else. That cute kid, what was his name? Kevin? He picked up the search fee—£10,000, so the woman he used to live with told me.”
“Veronica del Luzio has a new apartment in Cadogan Square on three floors, which I am dying to get my hands on. Divine!”
“Veronica’s always moving. I saw her in La La last month and I said what are you doing here? She said ‘real estate.’”
“She buys apartments the way most women buy handbags.”
“I’m going to buy another apartment, somewhere near here. I hate my apartment.”
“You shouldn’t buy in London. The economy here’s going down the tubes. The rich people will get the hell out and then where will London be? You know what the British are like, they just sit there waiting for someone to give them some money. Then they look at you like they’ve done you a favour.”
And so it goes on, people, cities, sex, money, good times, clothes, personal recommendations and utter condemnations. But all of them could be sitting at home talking to thin air.
By eleven-thirty we have finished our ice cream and coffee and I am feeling tired and slightly pissed. David has tried to sell Christopher Maurice-Jackson some of his half-price Versace crap. Now Christopher Maurice-Jackson is trying to sell Marion a chaise longue or something. She is picking some bits of fluff off her skirt and saying “Uh, huh” in a quiet, noncommittal way.
David is talking to the other French guy. “I do ten reps for biceps every other day but I never do me abs. No, never, don’t have to.”
“Tell us about the Marines,” he says, “that must have been fun.”
“Well, they certainly look after you. I learned to ski, to snorkel . . .” Then he starts showing how you fall on the ground correctly after a parachute jump so that you don’t hurt yourself. Farrah looks on and asks questions helpfully. Well, it could be useful next time she has to bail out of Harvey Nics in a hurry.
When the two French guys leave to catch the last Tube back to Brixton the others make a move as well. Daria’s almost tearful farewell makes it appear like she is leaving a wake except that Marion hardly looks like a grieving widow. I find myself promising to call David for some reason. Ostrich farming, I think. Farrah makes me promise to look after Marion. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Christopher Maurice-Jackson tells Marion that they will “do lunch” next week and then gives me such a frosty goodbye that I can’t help laughing as soon as the door is closed.
Marion flops down into a chair and asks for another drop of champagne. “It’s all gone,” I say, picking up the most recent of the bottles. Just then Anna Maria comes out of the kitchen with a tray to clear the table.
“Open another bottle of champagne, will you,” Marion tells her.
I sit down next to her and she puts her head on my shoulder.
“Well, do you like my friends?”
“Yeah,” I say, “they’re fun.”
There is a pause.
“They bore me to death,” says Marion and we both burst out laughing.
I stay over again that night. We don’t wait for the champagne but go upstairs where I unzip Marion’s dress and let it fall to the ground. She stands there for a moment in just her bra, panties and high shoes, looking up at me wide-eyed. Then I kiss her breasts and pull her towards me roughly. She gasps, almost like she’s indignant, and I push her down onto the bed.
eight
this time I remember to set the alarm. Marion is not pleased: “It’ll wake me up too.” I apologize but explain that I really need to be in time for work once in a while. I could also point out that she is usually up before me anyway but I don’t want to make things worse. She sulks a bit and then go
es off to have a shower. I can’t decide whether it’s a little bit insulting that she wants to wash me off her before she goes to sleep. I’ve always enjoyed falling asleep, slightly sweaty and sticky.
The next morning, Thursday, I look hopefully out of the window just to see if the car is there again. It isn’t.
“You’ll have to take a cab home. Chris isn’t coming by until later,” says Marion’s sleepy voice from behind me.
“Oh, OK,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed.
“Get my purse from the dressing table and I’ll give you some cash.” She slips off her eye pads, opens her bag and hands me a twenty as I try to see how much else she’s got in there. “I’m going out with a girlfriend tonight,” she says, turning over again. “But I’ll call you this afternoon at your office.” I kiss her goodbye and she slips her eye pads back on.
If she had given me just a bit more money I could have kept the taxi waiting while I got dressed and used it go on to work and been on time. But she didn’t and, just for a change, I’m not.
I fall into a light, tense sleep in the taxi on the way home and so I feel particularly crap when we finally get to the flat. On the way to work I get a large cappuccino and two slices of toast and marmalade from the café near the office in the hope that this injection of caffeine and sugar will keep me going until lunchtime. It also makes me even later.
I sit down at my desk with my breakfast and go cross-eyed at Sami, who is already on the phone, by way of a hello. She giggles and then waves me away crossly. I take a gulp of creamy, hot, sweet cappuccino followed by a bite of butter-drenched toast. I savour it for a moment and then, looking back at Sami, I open my mouth. She winces and then looks away.
Then I pick up my phone and dial 9. But instead of ringing a client, I find myself dialling Jonathan’s number. On the second ring he picks up.
“Oh, hi, Jonathan? It’s me, Andrew.”
“Hello, mate,” he says as if I was his best friend ever.
“Hi. Erm, I was just ringing to see whether I could pick up a cheque from you.”
“Oh-oh. Chasing me up, eh?” laughs Jonathan. Is that funny? I laugh anyway.
“Well, no, I just wondered—”
“Andrew, it’ll be a couple of weeks or so.”
“Oh, right, sure.” Then I say quickly, “Well, listen, I’m around if you get any other calls.”
“Fine. No problem. Listen, gotta go, other phone’s ringing. Cheers, mate.” He hangs up.
“Bye,” I say.
God, I’m glad Marion and I have cut him out of our little arrangement. I suddenly feel like quite an entrepreneur. I start to make a cold call from a list Debbie gave me yesterday, determined to sell this bastard some space in the paper whatever it takes.
By mid-afternoon my eyes are heavy and I’m beginning to drift off.
“Andrew? Andrew, are you all right?” asks Sami.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, closing my eyes for one gorgeous moment and breathing deeply.
“Ah, ha. Been burning the candle at both ends,” says Sami, pleased with this phrase.
“Yeah, I have. I’m going to get a coffee. Do you want anything?”
“No, thanks, I’ve had a strawberry yoghurt,” says Sami, as if it were an alternative.
“Sami, you’re so good.”
“Andrew, you’re so bad.”
I get up and walk into Debbie, which is rather embarrassing. We avoid each other’s gaze and I mutter something about going to get a coffee and being right back.
I go out to the vending machine by the lifts and watch the machine as it buzzes and gurgles. The temp from Reception comes out from another door and checks me out while she waits for a lift. I’m so tired that I end up giving her a convincingly cool reaction. When the lift arrives she holds my gaze until the doors close. Funny how hot you can look when you feel like shit.
Suddenly the door to our office swings open and Maria puts her head out. I’ve always had a soft spot for Maria, a dark-haired thirty-something, because of what you might describe as her direct manner.
“Christ,” she once said to me in the back of a taxi after a very rare excursion to see a client. “I’ve got such an itchy vag today.”
“Oh, how … I mean … that must be …”
She fidgeted a bit more while I kept my eyes dead ahead and then she said, “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not asking you to scratch it for me, I’m just saying.”
If you ever wanted advice on anything from personal finance to what tie to wear with what shirt, Maria will give it to you, without hesitation. She will break off a phone conversation with a client to tell one of the girls to chuck her boyfriend and find another.
“There you are,” she says. “Some American woman on your phone. Bloody rude, wouldn’t leave a message, insisted on speaking to you. You’re a dark horse, Andrew, and no mistake. I want the full story when you’ve finished. Oooh, I’m dying for a fag, I haven’t had one since Friday. You haven’t got one, have you?”
“No,” I laugh. “Sorry.”
I leave Maria hunting for ciggies and go back to my desk, taking the long route round the office to avoid Debbie, who is talking to someone.
“Where were you?” says Marion.
“Just outside the office having a coffee.”
“Do you wanna go shopping?”
“When?” I ask.
“Now, silly boy.”
“Marion, it’s the middle of the afternoon. I can’t just get up and leave.”
“Why not? Just tell them you have a doctor’s appointment or something.”
I laugh. “I don’t think they’d believe me.”
“Such a shame. I’ve just been to Bond Street and they have such nice jackets in Ralph Lauren this season.”
Oh, God, it’s tempting. I look around the office for a moment. Phones are ringing, the place is buzzing and Debbie is talking to someone across the room. No, I can’t, it would be madness.
“Why not Saturday?”
“Oh no, I’ve done Bond Street for one week and besides I’d like us to do something at the weekend.”
“OK.” Sounds promising.
“I thought we might go to Paris. Would you like that?”
“God, yeah.”
“OK, I’ll call the airline and make some reservations. We can do better shopping in Paris than here. We’ll go Saturday morning and come back Monday.”
“Great,” I say with feeling. Paris this weekend would be brilliant. Coming back on Monday would be catastrophic but I can’t think about that now.
“Listen, I’m out tonight but I’ll call you later.”
“OK. Love you,” I say, getting slightly over-excited by the thought of our little trip but she has clicked off.
When I put my key in the lock I find that the front door isn’t chubb-locked as well. Another evening in with Vinny. We usually have a laugh with One Aside Indoor Footy or just taking the piss out of the crap that’s on telly but why doesn’t he ever go out? The boy really should get a social life. I let myself in and drop my stuff in the hall.
Suddenly a girl’s voice shouts, “About bloody time and all. I could’ve made them quicker. You’re missing it.” She is sitting cross-legged in front of the telly, reddy brown hair in a bob, boot-cut jeans, bare feet and a huge white T-shirt with a sort of Warhol print on it. She looks at me as if I’ve just walked into her sitting room. “Oh. Hi. Sorry. I thought you were Vinny.”
“I’m not, I’m Andrew, his flatmate.”
“Hello, I’m Jane,” she says in a gentle Liverpool accent.
She looks at the teapot and mugs in front of her and then says, “Like a cup of tea? You can have Vinny’s mug. He was supposed to be getting me some chocky bickies but I think he’s left the country.”
“Thanks.”
I throw my jacket on the settee and sit down. She pours me a cup and says, “I hope you like it strong. I can’t abide weak tea.” Abide. Who says abide?
“Love strong tea,” I
say, determined not to be intimidated by this sensible, tea-making intruder. “Is that our teapot?”
“Yes. Why? Do you mind me using it?”
“No, ’course not. I just didn’t know we had one.”
“Yes, it did take quite a bit of cleaning,” she says, looking at it critically. At that moment Vinny comes in with the biscuits.
“Right, what mouth-watering smorgasbord of broadcast entertainment awaits us tonight?” he asks, collapsing on the settee dangerously near my jacket. He bowls a packet of milk chocolate digestives across the floor to Jane. “Oh, sorry. Jane, Andrew. Andrew, Jane.”
“We’ve done that one,” says Jane, handing me my tea purposefully.
We spend quite a pleasant evening, drinking tea, followed by a couple of glasses of whisky each while we watch TV and take the piss out of it. When the news comes on Jane tuts at a government minister and says, “Christ, slimy bastard” under her breath. Later in the programme, when there are scenes of sea birds wallowing helplessly in crude oil I remark that it is probably a good thing because otherwise they just crap on your windscreen. Vinny grunts in agreement. Jane shoots me a look, wondering whether I am serious. I smile back but she is still not sure. Keep them guessing.
At eleven, after we’ve finished watching a wildlife programme about the Australian bush by night, Jane gets up from her cross-legged position on the floor, yawns, stretches and asks, “Time for another brew?”
Slumped across the settee Vinny and I reach for our mugs and hand them to her.
“So I’m making it, am I?”
“Woman’s work,” explains Vinny kindly.
Jane laughs sarcastically.
“And you did a great job with our teapot,” I add.
“Was that our teapot?” asks Vinny. “Blimey, I didn’t know we had one.”
“Jane cleaned it for us.”
“Right, one of you had better give me a hand,” says Jane, putting the mugs back on the tray. I get up—just a bit too quickly. “No, Vinny, you can help me. Andrew can stay here, he looks knackered.”