by Simon Brooke
“I want you to see something of life,” she says solemnly. “There’s a great big world out there and there is so much to learn. It will be a great education for you.”
“I hope so,” I say truthfully.
She lies on the bed while I watch Eurosport and MTV on the telly in the living room. Some guy speaking American English with a German accent is jigging up and down and trying to convince us he’s having a good time while he introduces the next act: a Danish heavy metal band called DStrukt. I put my feet up on the settee, take a swig of beer, throw some peanuts up in the air and try and catch them in my mouth. Then I start on the chocolates they have left us.
After a while I get bored and decide to venture out—after all, the hotel may be great but we are in Paris, aren’t we? Seems a shame to waste it. I tiptoe into the bedroom to see if Marion is awake. She is still lying motionless on the bed, arms held rigidly by her sides. She must be asleep. I’ll write a note—besides, I won’t be long, just a walk around, buy a postcard or two. Just as I close the door she asks, “What are you doing?”
“Er, I was just going to go out.”
“We’ll have to get ready for dinner soon. I don’t think you have time.” Oh, come on—it’ll only take me a minute to change—if I bother to change at all.
“Just for a quick walk.”
“OK. There’s money in my purse—just go down to the lobby and change it. Get me a magazine and some aspirin.”
“Oh, all right.”
I take thirty Euros from the wad in her handbag, guessing at how much is there altogether and slip out. The corridor is silent, airless and dimly lit. The carpet is thick and the silence almost suffocating. I wonder what is going on behind these other doors. Other people lying in the bath, on the bed, with prostitutes, reading glossy magazines full of things they can buy without checking their bank accounts. Relaxing. Doing the things rich people do. I buy American Vogue and Anadin Extra for her and a Vogue Hommes for me plus some funky “Hollywood” chewing gum which I can show off with at home.
Then I go outside for a walk around and it hits me that I am in Paris. Yippee! I am in bloody Paris! So far I could have been anywhere—the plane, the hotel and the car in between them have been just nondescript international luxury—the same as London. Funny how rich people, even the ones who travel a lot, pay to make sure they only have minimum contact with any of the places they visit. On the other hand, perhaps that’s the point of business-class travel and five-star hotels.
But now I really am in Paris and as I look around I see Paris and people wandering about being French; doing ordinary things with that serious, stylish intensity. A young man, my age, carrying some fairy-tale boxes of patisserie home with him, another frowning and slouched at a café table, reflecting on his wasted life or considering the meaning of it all. Two young professional women walking quickly down the street towards me, dressed to kill, smoking seriously and locked in an indignant, passionate debate.
I wander along the rue de Rivoli for a while, breathing in the atmosphere, letting it sink in that I have got this far and then I turn off and walk slowly past the Palais Royale, along the Rue St. Honoré back to the hotel, stopping off on the way to buy some tiny strawberries because they look so good in their little wicker baskets.
Lying in the bath, I can hear Marion in the other room on the phone to a friend.
“Oh, poor you,” she is saying. “Oh you poor, poor thing. That is so unfair.” I can tell that the news is cheering her greatly, even before she puts her head round the bathroom door to check up on me and smile. Then she rolls her eyes and goes back into the living room, continuing her sympathetic noises.
I lie back under the sweet-smelling, frothy blanket and close my eyes. I cannot remember ever using bath foam before. Limited budget, limited time, limited imagination. I don’t know. Like most things before I met Marion. I massage my dick a bit until I get a lazy, half hard-on. Then I take a gulp of champagne, pop a couple of tiny, sweet strawberries into my mouth and begin to laugh at the whole ridiculous, fucking thing.
We eat at a restaurant on the Left Bank where, of course, the maÎtre d’ welcomes Marion like an old friend and she seems only mildly displeased to see him. He gives us a table in the corner and we order vodka and tonics while we decide what to eat. Putting on her glasses Marion looks down at the huge gold-embossed menus.
“I’m just going to have seafood,” she says. “Some oysters to start with and then maybe some lobster. You should have this veal thing, it’s their specialty. Here, third one down.”
I look over at her menu to see what she is pointing at and notice that, unlike mine, it has the prices. And what prices.
The waiters probably assume that this woman is taking her nephew or godson out for a special dinner. Perhaps they think I’m working in Paris or studying here.
Or perhaps I’m not the first young man Marion has brought here.
I suppose the food is good. And there is plenty of business—white gloves, lots of extra cutlery, people filling your glass after you’ve taken a single sip—all the kind of things that Marion likes.
During the main course Marion asks how I can spend all my day on the phone trying to sell things alongside all those other people. I explain tragically that I have to because I’ve got to pay the rent. This leads onto how can you live in Fulham. She drove through it once and it was full of people being sick all over Fulham Broadway. I admit that it can be a bit rough on Saturday night.
“This was a Tuesday morning,” she says.
She goes on about do I want to spend my life renting a little flat in Fulham? I should get on the property ladder. Real estate is the thing. “Buy land—they ain’t making it anymore,” as some friend of her father used to say.
“You’ve never invited me to your place,” she says, taking a sip of wine.
“Sorry?” I say, horrified.
She laughs at my reaction. “I said I’ve never been to your apartment.”
Apartment? I wonder for a moment what kind of place Marion thinks I live in.
“Would you really want to?”
“Sure, I’d love to come and meet your roommate.”
“Really?” I gasp in horror.
“Why not?” she says in an innocent, slightly hurt tone.
“He’s usually out—being sick on the Broadway,” I explain sadly.
After dinner we walk a bit and then take a taxi back to the hotel. The sex is good—we are both warmed and relaxed by the wine and the rich food. As we lie in bed, Marion’s head on my chest, she asks what I would like to do the next day. The thought hasn’t occurred to me, today has been so amazing. I tell her that. I would quite like to go shopping and get some new clothes but I don’t tell her that. Meanwhile, she has reached down and found my dick again.
“Andrew, will you do something for me?”
“Er, yes, what is it?”
“I don’t know why the British don’t do it immediately like the Americans.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“In America, it’s automatic with all male babies.”
I don’t want to admit to myself that I think I know what she is talking about. Is she being serious?
“D-do what?” I ask again looking down at her awkwardly to see if her face gives anything away.
“Oh, you know, get circumcised.”
“What?” I move up sharply and her head falls away from my chest. She looks surprised and then props herself up on one elbow. I can see her face properly now, she isn’t joking.
“It’s much cleaner, more aesthetically pleasing—”
“Marion, you are kidding, aren’t you?”
“No. What’s the big deal? Both my husbands were. All American men are. You’ll find it the most natural thing in the world. It’s much more comfortable.”
“How would you know?”
“It’s obvious,” she says lightly.
“Are you serious? You really think I’m going to … to … cut a bit of my dick off
just because you’d prefer it.” I move further away from her in the vast bed and find that my hand has automatically moved over my willy. Poor bugger: it’s got me this far, to Paris, in this hotel. I feel I owe it something.
“Well, it’s up to you,” she says, idly rearranging her hair. “But if you really cared, you’d—”
“What?” I gasp, getting out of bed. “Marion, I can’t believe you’re saying this. I’ve lived twenty-four years with it like this, I’m not changing it now. Anyway, do you have any idea how painful it would be at my age?”
“It wouldn’t last long and you’d soon feel the benefit.”
I look down at my dick which looks even more shrivelled and miserable than it usually does after sex. Marion shrugs her shoulders and then gets up and goes to the bathroom. As soon as she has gone and the bed has become neutral territory I get into it again. I begin to realize that this is the deal. Yes, you can travel to Paris and stay in a suite in one of the most beautiful hotels in the world. Yes, you can eat in the one of the famous restaurants and you can probably have some presents into the bargain but in return you have to lose a little bit of your manhood—literally.
Marion comes back and immediately I go into bathroom. As I brush my teeth I look at myself in the mirror and realize that I’ll have to play for time—she can’t mean it really. I have a quick piss and then go back and get into bed next to her. Staring up to the heavily moulded ceiling I say, “I’ll make some enquiries when we get back to London.”
“Good boy,” she says, turning slightly to face me.
I roll over and try to go to sleep.
On Sunday we get up late, have breakfast in the room and then go for a walk around the Marais which is the bit of Paris I know best. I’m glad to be able to take the initiative for once. Marion says it’s beautiful but complains about the shops and when we find a little brasserie and have steak frites for lunch she says it’s too small and noisy. Never mind.
Monday night, after a day of shopping—for Marion—we arrive back at hers. I am interested to see that it’s just as depressing for the rich to get back from a trip as ordinary people. The house feels cold and empty and so do I.
Marion goes upstairs to change and I decide to make a cup of tea. While the kettle boils I switch on the TV and watch the end of news and the weather. Tuesday will be a typical grey, rainy June day. Then I click onto MTV and watch some Israeli boy band. The thought of work depresses me so much I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.
Marion calls from the living room, “Andrew, would you come here a minute.” She sounds formal and serious. I wonder for a moment if she is going to “chuck” me. I haven’t been “chucked” for years. Not since Helen. Well, at least I got Paris. And the opportunity to keep my foreskin.
“Yes?” I say, as I come into the room.
“Come here.” She holds up a watch. “Do you know what this is?”
“It’s a watch, isn’t it?” Oh my God! Oh my God! I hope I don’t sound too obvious.
“It’s a Rolex. Twenty-two carat gold. And I want you to have it. That watch you have on at the moment is just disgusting. Get rid of it. I want you to wear this, OK?”
“OK.” I feel a bit dizzy. This is it. Get that ice or else no dice.
Mark would be proud of me. Hang on, I can’t wear it to work, someone is bound to notice. So what if they do? Why not? Five-star hotel in Paris, Rolex watch. What did you do this weekend, guys? Sainsbury’s and the pub? This is what it’s all about, after all. “It’s beautiful,” I say.
“It is a beautiful timepiece,” she says and puts it back in its box which is on the table next to her and then takes it back upstairs with her. What the fuck is she doing? Where is she going? Can’t I wear it? What do you mean? Why are you taking it away from me? “You can wear it next week when we go to Aspinalls for dinner,” she says casually from upstairs.
At least I think that’s what she says. I can’t hear properly because my head is in my hands.
The next morning I walk quickly into the office, sit down at my desk without taking off my jacket, pick up the phone and dial the number of a client. Any client. I wait and, of course, there is no answer. The ringing tone is beginning to hypnotize me and my mind is wandering off when I hear Debbie’s voice behind me asking Sami to ask me to come into her office when I have finished on the phone. Debbie knows that I am not speaking to anyone and I can hear her perfectly well but it is part of her prickly, artificial politeness never to interrupt anyone on the phone. That is the thing about Debbie: you don’t actually dislike her for anything in particular. It’s just the fact she’s Debbie.
There is no need for Sami to repeat Debbie’s request. I’ve had enough of this ringing tone anyway, so I put the phone down and follow her into her office. As soon as I sit down I realize that this is a mistake, I should have taken a moment to think and get my story straight.
“Where were you yesterday?” she asks, pressing some aspirins out of a foil pack.
“I was away,” I say defiantly.
She throws the aspirins into her mouth and takes a sip of coffee. “Yes, I know that. You were supposed to be here.”
I decide to go on the attack a bit. “No I wasn’t, I had the day off, remember?”
“You didn’t have the day off,” she says, obviously trying to control her temper.
I know I am beaten but I try anyway. “I did. Remember, I said last week—”
“I said we’d see how it goes. I never said yes and you know it.”
“Oh, come on, Debbie, I thought—”
“Come on nothing, Andrew. If I’d said yes, Claire would have marked it on the sheet and it would all have been done properly. I’m giving you another warning.”
Oh fuck it, I’ve lost. Better just to end this whole thing quickly.
“Well, I’m sorry. I obviously misunderstood.” I turn to leave.
“Andrew,” she says quietly. She bites her lip. “What’s the matter with you these days? Look, is there anything wrong? Anything I should know about?”
What can I say? I can’t tell her the truth, I don’t want to lie to her again and I’ll be buggered if I’m going to apologise any more. She’s had one “sorry.” We stand in silence. She breaks it.
“You used to be good—one of our best sales people. You saved our skin on more than one occasion.” I stare at the floor, wishing she’d just shut up and let me go, wishing that what she is saying wasn’t true. “Remember that supplement they suddenly dropped on us? How many pages did we have to fill?” It was four and a half but I’m not going to remind her. “You worked so hard and you really pulled the whole team together. I was really grateful.”
You were also nearly in tears one night, I think. I know that if I say anything now it will make things better between us but somehow I just can’t. She waits a second and then her mood changes.
“OK. Don’t let it happen again. That’s a warning. An official warning. I’ve had enough.” She picks up the phone.
As I get back to my desk I decide that this isn’t working out quite as smoothly as I had first thought. Paris was great—apart from Marion moaning about the lack of shops and posh restaurants in the Marais. How can anyone not like the oldest, quaintest, most beautiful part of Paris?
But now I’ve come back to this dump and a bollocking from a woman who can’t see further than the end of a balance sheet.
My phone starts to ring but I don’t answer it. I look up at the dust dancing around in a beam of sunlight. It shows the dirt on the windows. Don’t they ever wash those bloody things? Why bother, we’re only Classified.
What’s the fun in living it up in Paris with a beautiful rich woman and then coming back to this?
I’ve got to escape. I need more income to do that, which means I need to meet more women like Marion, women who will spend their money on me. After all, if they’ve got the money just sitting there and I make them happy, so what? I mean, they wouldn’t spend it on me if they didn’t want to! I’
m not black-mailing them or mugging them. It’s just a sensible, convenient commercial arrangement. Mutually beneficial.
Does that sound immoral? Who said there was anything moral about media sales? None of us in this crappy little office is selling two-centimetre, one-column-width advertising space to people with holiday villas to rent and six-week language courses to flog because we think it will make the world a better place, we’re doing it to earn twenty grand a year plus commission if we reach our targets. I can’t really see anything particularly noble about that. If I’d asked about the vocational or ethical element of the job at the interview, somehow I don’t think I’d have got it.
Women like Marion obviously have plenty of money—all I want is just a little bit. A little bit from her and a few others, women that Jonathan or even Mark could introduce me to and it’ll soon grow. Give it five or six years, by the time I’m thirty I’ll have a nice little nest egg and fuck off media sales, fuck off advertising, fuck off career plan, fuck off ever having to work in an office ever again.
I’ll be young, rich and free or die in the attempt, I decide, as the tea trolley clatters into the office.
A few minutes later Sami comes back to her desk and sees me staring into space.
“All right?” she asks, her huge brown eyes wide with concern at the bollocking I’ve just had from Debbie. She looks so sweet that I can’t help but laugh sadly.
“Yeah, fine.”
“Shall we have a drink at lunchtime?” she asks.
I suppose Sami proves that you can be hard-working and virtuous and nice rather than hard-working and virtuous and horrible, like Debbie.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes, let’s do that.”
Sami and I leave the office at 1 p.m., carefully explaining to our colleagues that we are just nipping out and we will be back by 2 p.m. We give up on the lift and walk downstairs in silence. We get to reception almost in a trance. Ted starts to say something but we just carry on walking.
We find a quiet corner of the pub and I get a Coke for Sami and a Scotch for me. I really need a drink.