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Upgrading

Page 15

by Simon Brooke


  When we are alone together I put my arms round Marion and look into her eyes. “Nice party,” I say softly.

  “Thanks. I throw better ones in New York but there’s just no room in London.” She kisses me on the lips and runs her hand through my hair. “Let’s go to bed.”

  I look at her carefully for a moment, wondering if what Davina said was true. “I’m just going for a quick walk to clear my head,” I say, already thinking about the hangover I’m going to have the next morning.

  “Oh, must you?”

  “Just quickly.”

  I wonder out into the mews trying to avoid any last guests in case they think I have been chucked by Marion. At the gateway I take a deep breath and stretch my arms above my head and bring one of them down on Louise, the Australian girl.

  “Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you standing there,” I say, wondering what she is doing lurking around by the gatepost.

  “No problem,” she says. There is a pause. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I say, remembering what she is like at conversation.

  There is a pause. “Could you see me home?”

  “Er, well …”

  “Look, here’s a cab.”

  Before I can say anything more she has rushed over the street and thrown herself at a taxi which stops just inches before it makes contact with her. She turns and yells across to me to come on. I run over as well and get in.

  “Where do you live?” I ask, trying to make it sound like a casual opening line of conversation rather than a panicked enquiry about where the hell we are going.

  “Kensington High Street,” she says and suddenly yells with laughter. “It’s not far.”

  Louise leads me along a silent, empty corridor of her block in West Kensington. The whole place has probably not changed much since the seventies—Hessian wallpaper, brown swirly carpets, groovy orange lightshades, some of them slightly melted. She is giggling and breathing heavily. Suddenly she throws herself against a front door and says, “Home sweet home.”

  “OK,” I say, hopelessly. “Well, good night then.”

  “No,” she squeals in protest, and lets us both in, flinging the door wide open and rushing over to switch on a small table lamp. The room is empty apart from a large scruffy sofa bed. Everything else is lying on the floor: the phone, some magazines, a CD player and CDs, clothes and a horribly ugly, terminally ill house plant.

  “Look, Louise, I must be getting back.”

  “One quick coffee,” she says, so I close the door behind us and walk round the flat while she goes into the tiny kitchenette. I look down on the headlights of the traffic moving slowly below us and open one of the creaky metal-framed windows for a moment to get some air but the noise is deafening so I close it again. She asks what I want to drink.

  “Whatever,” I say, moving over to the dividing unit. I can guess what is in her fridge: a few cans of beer and diet coke, a bottle of champagne and perhaps some cottage cheese (probably with smoked salmon or prawns), well past the sell-by date. What’s called a “tart’s fridge.” On the wall is a notice board with cards for a mini-cab service, a Pizza Hut discount leaflet and a flyer for a club I have never heard of, although Vinny probably has.

  Louise leaps up from the behind the counter with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. “Look what I found,” she says and collapses laughing on the floor.

  “I’d love to but I’d better not,” I say.

  She pouts. “You’ve been drinking all night. Why stop now? Just one.”

  “Well—”

  “A nightcap.”

  “Oh, well, thank you,” I say. “But just one glass.”

  “OK,” she says as the champagne cork shoots off and hits the polystyrene ceiling tiles. “Wow! That’s what I love about champagne.” I can’t help laughing at her delight. I sit down on a squashy leather settee and say “Nice place” for some stupid reason.

  “No, it’s not,” she says. “It’s a shit hole but at least it’s quite central and doesn’t cost anything.”

  “Why’s that?” I ask. Not very cool but I genuinely want to know. There is supposed to be no free lunch but somehow I begin to suspect that everyone else is queuing up with their trays ahead of me.

  “Oh,” she winks. “An arrangement.” Then she howls with laughter again and falls over, almost doing the splits. I help her recover. Suddenly she is serious.

  “Ow! Oh, no, I think I’ve done something to my leg.”

  “Ah you all right?”

  She puts her arm round my shoulder and I lead her over to the settee and help her sit down, me beside her. She is squeezing her inner thigh and wincing slightly. She gets up and walks round, stretching it.

  “That’s better.” Then she comes back and stands over me, one hand on her hip, the other still on her inner thigh, legs apart: “Finish your drink.”

  I open my mouth to say something but she tuts and takes the glass out of my hand. Then she straddles me and starts kissing me deep and hard. She tastes of booze and ciggies. I try to resist, pushing away.

  “Lou … ise,” I hiss through squashed lips but she ignores me. Her tongue explores my mouth and her hands run through my hair. She pulls at my ears, at first gently then so hard it almost hurts but the force of her tongue and the gentle rubbing of her crotch against mine take my mind off it. Suddenly she gets up, unbuttons her shirt and takes it and her bra off. She looks at me as she touches her breasts.

  “Louise, for God’s sake I—”

  “Shut up.”

  I feel my dick pressing against my underpants and a second later she has released it and is sliding my trousers down. I try to stop her but she bats my hand away. She works at my dick with her mouth. She is serious, determined, driven. I close my eyes and let my head fall back slightly. I’ll give her two minutes then I’ll stop, really. Two minutes. Well, perhaps five.

  Oh, what the fuck! I put my hand on the top of her head and run my fingers through her hair. Then suddenly she stops and is gone. A second later she is walking back from the bedroom, tearing at a tiny package. Skilfully she forces a condom down over my cock in a split second and slips off her jeans, eyeing it hungrily.

  “Shall we go to the bedroom?” I ask, my heart pounding, but she mutters something about it being a mess and then climbs on to my legs and eases herself down onto me, moaning softly. I gasp as the feeling washes over me. For a second I think I am about to come but I pause for a moment, think of Vinny in his dressing gown and I’m OK. Louise begins to move up and down. Slowly I reach out to touch her left breast. She grabs my hands and forces them onto both breasts, pressing hard. I crane up and take one in my mouth.

  For what seems like hours we destroy the remaining springs in the settee, knock over a glass, bang my head against the wall countless times, rip the buttons off my new shirt, oh God, my brand new shirt and rub my legs raw against the zip of my fly.

  Then suddenly she begins to move faster and starts gasping, “Ow, ow, ow.” Suddenly I feel myself coming as well. She slows her rhythm and I wait. For a moment I don’t think I’ll do it after all and I have to push myself into her harder. As a result, my orgasm is extra good. I shout out with the pleasure and exquisite pain.

  “Hey! A screamer,” says Louise. She rolls down onto the floor panting and pushing her long blonde hair away from her face and her damp forehead. I laugh and catch my breath. She sits up, looks at me for a moment and laughs again. “Ooh, animal!” Before I can stop her she gently but firmly pulls the condom off my dick and goes into the bathroom to throw it away.

  Meanwhile, I’m trying to put my clothes back together. Sweaty and still weak, I manage to do up my fly and belt but decide that my shirt is a bit of dead loss and so I just tuck it in as best as I can. Fuck, what a mess. What a waste, too.

  The toilet flushes and she comes back from the bathroom still naked. She has a beautiful, bronzed, athletic body which I wish I’d had time to get to know a bit better. Funny to have sex and then check out her
bod afterwards. She laughs, kisses me lightly on the lips and collects the glasses to refill them.

  “Er, no thanks,” I say. “I must be getting back.”

  “Oh, no worries then,” says Louise. “You can get a cab out in the street—dead easy.”

  In my state of post-coital exhaustion and sogginess I suddenly feel guilty about Marion—and more than a little nervous about what she’ll do if she finds out what I’ve been up to. That was a hell of a long breath of fresh air. I’ll have to get undressed downstairs or something. I’ll have to take the suit to the dry cleaners and buy a new shirt tomorrow.

  “It’ll be OK,” says Louise, knocking back half a glass of champagne in one mouthful and eyeing it disdainfully.

  “I suppose so,” I mutter, guilt and embarrassment really kicking in now.

  “Hey, cheer up, mate, I wasn’t that bad, was I?”

  “No. I mean, you were very good. I enjoyed it,” I say, but somehow it doesn’t sound very complimentary, more like I’m saying goodbye to a prostitute and somehow I don’t like thinking about prostitution at the moment.

  “Well, what’s the matter then?” She looks at me suspiciously. “You in a relationship at the moment? That it?”

  “Yes,” I say quietly.

  “Don’t tell me she was there—at the party?” says Louise, more intrigued than troubled.

  “Yes,” I tell her. “It was her party.”

  “Christ,” giggles Louise. “I didn’t even know whose party it was. Who was she?”

  “Marion.”

  “Marion,” she says pensively. “Oh, her. That old American woman with the blonde hair? Looked like she’d got a poker up her ass all night?”

  “Yes. I mean, no, she doesn’t look … like that.” I feel indignant on Marion’s behalf (guilt again) but I suppose that is how she must appear to the rest of the world.

  “Christ, I’m thirsty tonight,” she says, sticking her head into the fridge. “You and her together, then?”

  “Yes, we are,” I say in a very English sort of way.

  “Kinky. She’s old enough to be your mother.”

  “I like mature women,” I say even more stiffly. Louise comes over to me, opening a diet Coke. She looks me in the face.

  “Course you do, mate. Why not? I like older men—especially if they’ve got a bit of cash.” She takes a swig of Coke and waits a moment for my reaction. “She should see you all right. That house must be worth a couple of mill. Hey, you might get a flat like this, play your cards right. You’re a good-looking boy, not bad where it counts.” She makes a playful grab for my crotch and I immediately pull away. She laughs.

  “Why did you bring me back here?” I ask slowly.

  She looks surprised by the question.

  “Because I just fancied someone my own age, I suppose.” She fiddles with the tab on her Coke can. “And because you were the best-looking straight guy at that party. I thought if I didn’t get you someone else would.” She looks up at me leeringly. “Bit of a trophy fuck, I suppose. You should be flattered.”

  I sort of am. But then I’m also just a commodity, a piece of meat. It’s becoming quite a familiar sensation.

  Louise walks away.

  “G’night, mate. Make sure the door’s closed behind you.”

  As I walk out into the warm night air fatigue catches up with me. My feelings of shame about Marion are mingled with a sense of unease. Presumably Louise produces that little performance on a regular basis for whoever pays for her flat.

  And perhaps that’s it. For all Jonathan’s grinning, charming bullshit about his escorts offering nothing more than companionship and anything beyond that not really being part of the service, perhaps if you really want a nice flat rent free, clothes bought for you and enough pocket money to do your own thing you’ve got to fuck for it.

  eleven

  i put my key into the lock and creep in. The house is half in darkness and still smells of the party. I take off my jacket and undo my trousers. The zip is totally buggered and the material around it creased and pulled out of shape. Marion must never see this, I tell my shadowy face in the mirror. Then it occurs to me that even if she does ever buy me a suit it’ll only be to replace this one and I’ll end up just breaking even. The shirt isn’t as bad as I first thought—I’ve lost three buttons but I can easily ask Anna Maria if she’ll sew them on again and not tell Madam. My tie is so tightly knotted I don’t think I’ll ever get it undone but with a bit of luck Marion will be so embarrassed she’ll buy me another one as Mark suggested. God, at this stage even a new tie would be nice.

  I take my shoes off and creep upstairs. Needless to say, Marion is still awake when I tiptoe into the bedroom.

  “Where the hell have you been?” she asks quietly, without moving.

  “Er, just seeing Louise home,” I say lightly.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah, she, er, she was a bit nervous about going home on her own at night.”

  “She was nervous? I would have thought that most of the men in West London had more reason to be nervous,” whispers Marion venomously. I begin to take my underpants off and discover that my dick is stuck to the material. I pull it off as gently as I can but can’t help gasping in pain. “Now what?” says the voice from the bed.

  “Nothing. Just going to brush my teeth.”

  “There’s some mouthwash in there too.”

  The next day, Saturday, Marion has gone out by the time I wake up. Her side of the bed is just a vast, empty expanse of rumpled retribution. Oh, Christ, I’ve done it now.

  An hour later while I’m eating the Rice Krispies, which I’ve finally persuaded Anna Maria to buy by writing it out for her, my mobile rings and I answer it. I hear a muffled voice at the other end saying she wants a change from white lilies, they’re such a cliché.

  “Hello?” I say, realizing that it is Marion. She’s rung me and then got carried away bollocking someone. Probably, just practising for me. “Hello-o-o-o?” I say again.

  Anna Maria, pouring more coffee for me, looks enquiringly.

  “Madam,” I say. She rolls her eyes and walks off. This makes me laugh.

  “Some of those cute pink and purple ones,” says the muffled voice irritably. “The ones you said came from somewhere.”

  I try again. “Hello, Marion?”

  “Andrew?” says Marion.

  “Hi,” I say nervously.

  “I’m just buying some flowers.”

  “So I heard.”

  Marion ignores me and says, “I need to talk to you. Meet me in Joe’s in half an hour.”

  “But I’m not dressed, yet. Make it an hour.”

  “Not those,” screeches a voice from the other end of the phone. “Some fresh ones—those look like they’ve been under an elephant’s ass for a month.” Then, “Andrew, it’s nearly eleven. Really! Have you just got up? OK, I’ll just come home.” She rings off.

  I put the phone down. That’s it—I’m going to be chucked. And I deserve it. Bloody Louise. Fucking Louise, more like. I do feel bad about Marion. I was never once unfaithful to Helen from the time we started going out in her first term at university to the time she dumped me when she was coming back from France. Four years and not once.

  I had offers.

  That party, in a flat off campus when Helen had gone home for the weekend to see her parents. The girl in the doorway of the kitchen. Slightly pissed, face flushed, breasts heaving, under the thin fabric of her dress, leaning back against the doorframe. Laughing, saying things like, “You’re so horrible to me, I hate you.” The kind of things girls say when they really fancy you. The smell of her warm body and perfume. I was tempted. I took another swig of warm lager and looked at her lips as she ran her tongue over them, waiting for me to make a move.

  I did make a move. I muttered, “Better go. Got an essay to do tomorrow,” and staggered off home.

  Marion is walking through the door as I come downstairs, freshly showered and shaved. She is wearing
sunglasses. A bad sign. Chris is following her, trying to manipulate the biggest bunch of flowers I’ve ever seen through the front door. I’m guessing they’re not for me.

  “Hi,” I say as brightly as I can.

  “Hello, darling,” she says.

  There is a silence as she puts her bag down and helps herself to a glass of Perrier from the drinks cabinet so I say, “What are you doing for lunch today?”

  She says quietly, “I have a luncheon engagement with an old friend but Anna Maria will fix you something.” She looks across at the driver. “Chris, just leave those flowers on the settee and wait a moment, I need to go out again.” He nods and obeys. She takes a sip of water.

  Oh, Marion, please get this over with. Just tell me we’re finished and let me get my stuff and get back to normality.

  “OK,” I say quietly.

  “Sit down.” She pats the cushion of the settee next to her. I sit down. She doesn’t take off her sunglasses. “I just wanted to check something,” she says, looking straight ahead at the far wall. “You didn’t sleep with Louise last night, did you?”

  I’m suddenly very much aware of Chris, the driver, being in the same room with us. He is staring out of the window, having laid the flowers down on the settee. I don’t know what to say but somehow my mouth has started without me.

  “Louise? No. I—I just saw her home, like I said.”

  “She didn’t make a pass at you?”

  The idea that Louise, drunk and giggly, would drag me back to her flat without trying it on just doesn’t sound convincing so I say, “Well, she did, sort of but I, er, resisted,” I stammer. I resisted? What am I on about? Suddenly I’m the virtuous heroine in a Victorian melodrama. Why is it Marion makes me say such weird things?

  “Good.” She squeezes my leg affectionately. “Good boy. I really can’t stand cheaters. You know, after Edward.”

  She looks round, touches my cheek and stares into my eyes. I look for hers but all I can see is my shameless, lying face reflected back at me from the huge black lenses.

 

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