Upgrading

by Simon Brooke

  I haven’t always hated that place. I used to be good at selling and Debbie used to like me. But now I’m just bored and can’t see a way out and what at first appeared to be the biggest amount of money anyone had ever earned (well, in comparison to a student loan, anyway) soon disappeared in no time. Back then I felt comfortably superior to that bunch of no-hopers who sat at desks around me but now I feel like I’m just not up to it. They can hold this stupid job down but it seems I can’t.

  Neither can I do the Marion thing properly. How come Mark can “get that ice” and I just get—what do I get, apart from into trouble at work? I decide to tell her that I just can’t carry on our life together and put in so many hours at this awful sweatshop. Perhaps she’ll feel guilty and tell me just to quit that ridiculous, demeaning job and give me enough money to be able to step off the treadmill for a few weeks or months and decide what I do want to do with my life. I’ve never had a gap year and unlike the girls upstairs, those junior fashion assistants who go to the South of France for the weekend, I’ve never had the opportunity to do anything without paying for it with my own hard-earned money or £50 at Christmas from my parents. I just want some money so that I’ve got a bit of freedom to come up for air for five minutes.

  Why can’t Marion just go the whole hog, be done with it and just set up a comfortable trust fund for me? It would be nothing to her.

  Of course, when I ring her, she is completely unsympathetic. She just suggests I get another job.

  “Better still,” she says, crunching pretzels. “Start your own business. Why be a wage slave? You’ll never get rich working for some corporation. My father didn’t and neither did either of my husbands.”

  “That’s a possibility,” I say. It is, actually.

  “That’s the problem with you Brits, you have no get up and go,” she adds. “Someone pointed it out to me on Concorde last month—you go to the best schools, the best colleges and then you all go and work for some big corporation, like rats on a wheel. It’s crazy. Start your own business—that’s the only way to do it, Andrew.”

  “I’ve got a degree in Business Studies. For God’s sake, I should be able to do something with it, shouldn’t I?” I’m quite warming to this idea. I hope she is too. But it’s never quite that simple. “I just need the capital.”

  “Sell things,” she says absentmindedly. “Sell things to rich people. Antiques, cars … what else? Horses. Rich people love horses. You should meet my friend Carla who lives in Argentina. She has a stack of horses. And those other things … er, cattle. Loves them.” She is distracted for a moment and then continues. “Sell things. Sell things to rich people, they’ll always be buying whatever the economy does,” she adds with a flourish.

  I sometimes wonder whether Marion lives in the real world. Then I realize she doesn’t—which is the whole point of her.

  “Thanks, very helpful,” I say but my sarcasm is wasted on her as usual.

  “It’s the only way to develop yourself professionally.” I decide to go for broke—after all I’ve got nothing to lose.

  “Marion,” I say, trying the little-boy thing. “I’ve just got no money.”

  “I know, you mentioned it before. We’ll sort something out. Do you know where I can get one of those plug things?”

  “What?”

  “You know by the bed I’ve got a lamp and a radio and an ionizer and now I’ve got this humidifier. I want one of those things to plug them all in together.”

  “You mean an adaptor,” I say miserably.

  “What’s it called?”

  “An adaptor.”

  “Yeah, that’s right—an adaptor. Where can I buy one from?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—Peter Jones across the way from you.”

  “In Sloane Square?”

  “Yeah, they’ll have one.”

  “OK.” I hear her throw some more pretzels into her mouth and shout to Anna Maria. “Peter Jones—that big store in Sloane Square has them, Andrew says. Oh, and take these goddamn pretzels away from me before I eat the lot.” There is a pause while she hands Anna Maria some stray pretzels and I decide for the umpteenth time to jack it in with her and find another rich woman. I’m beginning to wonder if anyone with money is as reluctant as Marion to actually give any of it out—even to their lover. I pull the telephone cable out straight, distractedly, while I ponder that must be worth one last try. I could spend my life on the phone talking column inches and discount rates, if I’m not careful. Anyway, if Mark can do it so successfully, why can’t I? I just can’t believe that every rich divorcee or widow can be so fucking mean and plain exhausting to go out with as Marion. She is talking again.

  “Listen, honey, I’m going away this weekend to Venice to see an old, old friend. Do you want to borrow the car while I’m away?”

  Do I?

  “Gosh that would be great,” I say sweetly. (Gosh? When do I ever say “Gosh?”)

  “That’s good. I don’t want that asshole racing around London in it while I’m away.”

  “Sure.”

  “You know he still lives with his mother? The back seat of my car is the only place he can fuck in peace and quiet.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  “Makes me sick just thinking about it. OK, come by any time and pick up the keys from Anna Maria. I’m going Friday. What do you want?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “From Venice. What do you want from Venice?”

  “Oh, whatever.”

  “Oh, you. I’ll find you something nice.”

  I have to stifle a contemptuous laugh.

  Vinny arrives back with Malc just as I put the phone down.

  “Evenin’ all,” he says. I nod hello to Malc.

  “Where have you been?” I say absentmindedly, flicking around between channels.

  “Have you missed me, darling?” says Vinny.

  “Been counting the seconds.”

  “Jane’s just on her way over,” he mutters, watching the telly. “Christ! Hasn’t this woman got a big mouth? Imagine snogging that! You could bloody fall in.”

  I sit up and find myself looking down at what I’m wearing. Navy-blue polo shirt and faded 501s—neither of which seem to have anything spilt down them, strangely enough. I check that my collar isn’t turned in and then mutter, “Oh, OK.”

  “OK, is that all?” he says, surprised.

  “Whatever,” I say coolly.

  “Whateve-e-e-r,” drools Vinny.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I saw that discreet wardrobe check.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talkin’ about lurrve!” He gives me a sideways look through narrowed eyes. “I think you find Jane strangely …”

  “Oh, leave it out, will you?” I say, laughing with embarrassment.

  “Malc’s a mate of hers,” he says, savouring this information.

  “Oh, right,” I say quickly. “So?”

  “Just saying.”

  “Knew her at college,” says Malc, scratching his shaved head. “Nice girl.”

  “Yeah, she is,” I say. “And did you go out with her? Did you have sex with her? What was it like? Was it any good? Were you any good?” I ask. Well, I don’t, of course, but I’d like to.

  Vinny hasn’t given up.

  “Is that the beginnings of a blush spreading across those chiselled features?”

  “Look, mate, your nose will be spreading across your features, if you don’t shut up,” I tell him.

  “Oooh, be like that,” says Vinny. “Just thought Malc might be able to fill you in.”

  “I don’t need filling in. Now piss off.”

  “OK,” says Vinny, enjoying my discomfort.

  Just then the door buzzer goes. Suddenly Vinny screeches theatrically and throws his hands into the air. “Argh! Panic. She’s here and I haven’t a thing to wear. Quick! Mouthwash! Cologne! Moisturizer.”

  “Oh, blow it out your arse, will you.”

 
“Your hair’s sticking out at the back,” he says seriously as he gets up to let her in. Discreetly I spit on my hand and attempt to press down the disobedient locks.

  When they’re not drinking lager out of smeary glasses, Vinny and Jane’s idea of an evening’s entertainment consists of making pancakes, I discover. Malc has gone to meet some friends in the West End so Vinny and I sit at the table and drink the cans Jane has bought while she gets to work with the pancakes: whisking up batter, carefully checking the consistency and tutting at us about the state of our frying pan. Just as I could have predicted, Jane is thorough and conscientious: flipping each yellow and brown blistering disc while balancing herself with one hand and then carefully sliding the finished product onto a plate which she keeps warming in what we discover is the upper oven.

  “We’ve got two ovens?” asks Vinny, intrigued.

  “Didn’t you know?” says Jane disapprovingly. “It’s for cooking light meals or keeping plates warm.”

  “Oooh, can’t wait to drop that into conversation at the golf club,” says Vinny.

  Finally Jane has used all the batter and the pile of pancakes is dripping with lemon juice and sugar. My mouth is literally watering as she puts them on the table and hands out our knives and forks.

  “Deeelicious,” I say as I carefully lift one off the top.

  “What are you doing?” says Jane indignantly.

  “Erm, taking a pancake.” I wonder if we’re supposed to say grace or whether I just appear horribly greedy which, of course, I am.

  “We don’t do it like that,” says Jane. “We cut it like a cake.”

  “You idiot,” hisses Vinny melodramatically. “Sorry, he’s just got no savoir faire,” he says to Jane but she just mutters, “It’s much better this way” and carefully serves me a syrupy, slithery portion.

  We eat quickly.

  “Lovely,” I say to Jane by way of apology.

  “Thanks,” she says quickly, concentrating on her food. After we’ve finished Vinny knocks back his beer and then burps loudly.

  “I see those deportment lessons are finally paying off,” I observe, helping myself to more lemony syrup from the bottom of the plate.

  “Daddy’ll be delighted,” says Vinny in a cut crystal accent. Jane is laughing, half-choking on her last mouthful.

  “Ooops, sorry,” she says, putting her hand over her mouth and regaining her usual composure. “You’re quite funny.” I look up at Vinny, who is smiling too and then realize that Jane is talking to me.

  “What? Me?”

  “Yeah, that was rather witty,” she says, as if stating the obvious. “You can be rather droll for a … er …”

  “For a stuffed shirt?” I offer.

  “I was going to say for a smug yuppie twat,” she says sweetly. Now it’s Vinny’s turn to laugh.

  “I’ll hold her and you hit her,” he suggests.

  fourteen

  on Friday I nip round to Marion’s after work and drive the BMW home with all the windows open and Oasis’s Wonderwall blaring out through the warm dirty air.

  Saturday morning, after a sleepless night wondering whether it has been nicked every five minutes, I show the car to Vinny because he is walking out of the door for his copy of the Guardian and to have the fry-up at the greasy spoon down the road that we often have together. He is not as impressed as I had been hoping he’d be.

  “Porkin’ hell,” he says, peering at it from every angle. “She give you this?”

  “I wish. She’s just lent it to me for the weekend.”

  “Mean old trout. Still, you could always sell it.”

  “That’s true. You wanna lift?”

  “No, thanks. I think I can walk to the end of the road.”

  “Go on,” I say, clicking the remote at the object of my affection.

  “Frankly, I’d feel like a bit of a tit in that,” he says, kicking one of the rear wheels.

  “As opposed to feeling a tit everywhere else.” It comes out less funny and more unkindly than I’d intended.

  “Very witty, Damon Hill,” Vinny laughs sarcastically.

  “Oh, go on, mate,” I say. I realize that I genuinely want Vinny’s company more than I want to show the car off to him. “We can drive down to the café.”

  “It’s only down the road.”

  “Yeah, I know, but it would be a laugh.”

  “What you going to have? Double egg, chips, beans and valet parking?”

  I smile. “Might do.”

  He thinks about it for a moment and says quietly, “No, you’re all right” and sets off down the road whistling. I open the car door and he turns round. “Is this what you want?”

  “Heh?”

  “This. This big snazzy car.”

  It’s a funny thing to say and Vinny is now a good ten feet away from me so it doesn’t help that this odd, unexpected comment is coming to me long distance.

  “Er, yeah,” I say. “Well, it’s a bit of a laugh, isn’t it?”

  “Is it?” He thinks about it for a moment. Then he laughs and shrugs his shoulders. “What you doing?”

  “How do you mean?” I say, by now completely phased.

  Vinny starts to walk back towards me.

  “I mean, what’s going on, mate? Borrowing this ridiculous motor—are you insured for it?” Am I? Christ, I never stopped to think. I suppose I am otherwise Marion wouldn’t have lent it to me. On the other hand Marion’s consciousness of little domestic details like motor insurance is probably pretty sketchy. “Going to posh restaurants with a bunch of old farts. Flying all over the world like a member of a Fulham jet set.” Somehow Vinny makes it all sound like shit. My desperate, unconvincing, wannabee high life. “How old is this woman? Where did she get her money from?” I’m about to say “from her ex-husbands” as if to defend her and emphasize the fact that, huh, actually, Vinny, she is very rich but then I realize that this makes it all sound even worse. “Just wondered. Cheers, mate.”

  He carries on down the road. I think about joining him for a moment but instead I decide to go to Sainsbury’s so that I can stock up things I can’t carry home on the bus. Very sensible, except that I can’t think of anything to stock up on now that I’m eating with Marion all the time so I buy some boxes of bottled beer, some crisps, a pound of grapes and six family packs of toilet rolls. I wonder whether the girl at the check out thinks I must have a really bad stomach problem to need so much bog roll—if she ever notices what she’s scanning.

  Driving back I pass Vinny’s greasy spoon. Fucking hell, Vinny. Every Saturday morning you go that café, have the same breakfast, read the paper, come back and then just lie on the settee and watch telly. The most you might stretch to is the pub with your mates. Which makes me think about Jane. Which gives me an idea.

  Our phone book has been thrown down behind the settee along with an old can of Foster’s, heavy with cigarette ends. The first few hundred pages have been stuck together with a sweet-smelling yellow liquid. Fortunately the pages of Ps seem to have escaped this fate so I find the number of Paperchase in Tottenham Court Road very easily.

  The first time I call Jane is on her break. I wonder whether this is a good idea after all. The pancake evening was nice, laid back. Do I want to look like I’m trying to sweep her off her feet? Well, perhaps I do. Surely the desire to drive your woman in your car, to impress her with its horsepower and to challenge other predatory males in their smaller, less powerful cars is one of man’s strongest primeval urges.

  Anyway, she can’t object to a drive and a lift home on a sunny Saturday afternoon. I try again later and Jane says “Hello?” slightly surprised.

  “It’s me, Andrew.”

  “Hi.”

  “Busy?”

  “Sorry? Oh yeah, well it’s quieter now.”

  “Thanks for the pancakes the other night.”

  “Oh, you’re welcome. I enjoyed it.” There is a pause.

  “I was wondering if you wanted a lift home?”

  “A
lift home?”

  “Yeah, a lift in a car?”

  “But you haven’t got a car, have you? What are you going to do? Give me a piggy back?”

  “Just wait and see.”

  “OK. Hang on a minute.” I hear her telling someone that they sold out this morning but there are some more on order. She comes back. “Er, yeah.”

  “Where shall I see you?”

  “Erm, let’s see. In front of the shop just after six?”

  “Great. See you then.”

  I don’t feel nearly so confident as I sound but I’m committed now. Besides, not everyone enjoys personal calls at work as much as I do. I watch Grandstand and eat my grapes until about half past five and then pick up my keys and step out of the house to see my baby and make sure she hasn’t been keyed.

  Admiring my parking, I operate the remote control from thirty feet away but nothing happens—bit optimistic, perhaps. Then I try ten feet and she’s ready. I get in and am greeted by the familiar sweet smell of leather and electronics. The sun is low and it floods the car with a warm, yellow light. I sit back in the seat for a minute and then put the key in the ignition and turn it. Immediately the car growls and comes to life. Lights come on, indicator needles move up ready for action and there are small clicks and buzzes as the electronics check themselves and stand to attention. The control panel is lit up before me like my own private staff reporting for duty. Powerful, efficient, confident, awaiting my orders.

  This is not like my friends’ cars where everything has been pushed and pulled and jiggled while they explain, “Sorry, it’s a bit temperamental” or “She doesn’t like the cold weather.” This is not like the car my mother used to take my sister and me to school in where everything was the simplest, cheapest possible and the driver had to do all the work. A car which said, “Well, we’ve had a go with the heating and the hazard lights, but now it’s up to you.” In this car everything is effortless. The merest touch and everything is done for you.