Upgrading

by Simon Brooke

  “Oh God,” she says with faint irritation when I tell her the whole story.

  “You don’t sound very concerned. I could have had the shit kicked out of me,” I say, yanking off my tie and dropping it on the floor, which I know will irritate her.

  “Have you seen a doctor?” she says bossily. Then she reaches out and strokes my injured face gently. “Poor baby.” I begin to feel slightly horny like a medieval knight back from the crusades ready to reclaim my conjugal rights.

  “No, it’s not serious,” I say. “I’ll go and put some TCP on it in a moment. I just got thumped in the stomach but you should have seen the state of Ralph. I think he’s lost a tooth.”

  “Oh no,” she gasps in horror. “That sort of thing always makes me feel nauseous. I wish you hadn’t told me that. I’ve got a thing about teeth—can’t even have mine capped. Not that I need to.” She runs her tongue over them luxuriously.

  “It made me feel quite nauseous as well. What kind of friends does Charles have?”

  “I don’t know. Charles has a lot of contacts and some of them probably aren’t nice people. You don’t always do business with people you would invite to dinner.”

  “Oh, don’t you start.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, Andrew, but it’s true. Where do you want to go for dinner, by the way? Never mind, I’ll think of somewhere.” She groans as the masseuse continues her work. “Anyway, you can have your Rolex back.”

  I look up but she is facing the other way now.

  “Thank you. Has it been cleaned, then?”

  “Clea—?” Caught you, I think to myself with grim satisfaction. I should know, though, that there is no embarrassing Marion. “Yes, yes, they cleaned it at the Rolex store.” She gives into her massage again for a moment and then says, “I think you should have a good quality watch. A watch is one of the ways people evaluate you by.”

  “Oh, thank you. It is beautiful.”

  I find myself picking my tie up off the floor in gratitude.

  “You’re welcome, sweetie. We can discuss it tonight at dinner. I’ll book a table at Aspinalls for eight-thirty. We’ll eat outside if the weather’s still good.”

  At this point I can tell she is getting bored with the conversation and wants to devote herself entirely to Brunehilda or whatever her name is.

  Lying in the bath, I decide that if making money the Charles Montague way involves getting the shit kicked out of you at regular intervals, then I’d rather not bother. On the other hand, getting my beloved Rolex back (I’m wearing it now and I’ll never take it off again) and the thought of eating tonight and probably tomorrow and the day after that at the kind of restaurants that people in the office can only read about in magazines, makes me reconsider my idea about chucking it all in during that state of panic with my head sandwiched between DM and paving stone. That certainly won’t be a long-term plan—I did say I’d give it a month with Marion, didn’t I? But I’ll never go back to selling fucking ad space as long as I live.

  Just as I’m trying to forget it all and enjoy the embrace of the warm bath water on my still aching body, Anna Maria’s voice asking Marion something reminds me of the only alternative.

  As the head waiter leads us across the restaurant to our table Marion smiles hello at a couple of people. I do too, in case I’ve met them. The waiter pulls back her chair to let her in and sit down. I could certainly do with some food and good wine after my experiences today. The waiter hands us menus and we order vodka martinis.

  “I’ve got a couple of brochures back home you should maybe have a look at,” says Marion, engrossed in the menu.

  “Brochures?” I say, wondering what the brochette de fruits de mer with saffron sauce will be like. On the other hand, the chateaubriand does sound good. Holiday brochures, I suppose. Well, that’s one good thing about being fired, at least I can go on holiday whenever I want. No need to worry about Debbie giving me time off—or not, more likely. “Brochures for what?”

  “Circumcision,” says Marion. “You said you’d do it, remember?” Oh, my God. I’d hoped she’d forgotten. The price for living with her, I suppose. How typical of Marion—no tact whatsoever. Halfway through persuading me to do one demeaning little favour for her, like marry her maid, she starts pushing another at me.

  “I think we’re ready to order,” I say to the waiter, who has chosen this moment to reappear.

  Mark clicks his tongue when I tell him that I’m going to move in for a month as we drink lattes in the King’s Road the next morning.

  “You want me to talk you out of it?” he asks.

  “No.” So why am I telling him?

  “You want me to tell you how to deal with it?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so. Point is, I’ve got no money, this business thing didn’t come off and I’m not going back to work in a fucking office so I’ve got to stay with her—at least I don’t have to spend anything on food and bits and pieces. I’ll give up my room in Fulham and then I’ll give it a month, well, perhaps two, then I’ll get out whatever happens.”

  “I told you—you’ll be on a short lead.”

  “I know, it seems to be getting shorter every day but I can’t afford anything else at the moment and she has bought me a few things recently.”

  “Good,” says Mark warmly. “Like I said: Marion wants to have you on standby at any time rather than have to ferret you out of Fulham, that’s all, that’s how she looks at it.”

  He smiles at the waitress, who brings us our coffee. She melts. I get pissed off: come on, Mark, what do you think you’re going to get out of her? We’ve already paid for the coffee. Well, I have.

  “I did it with this mad old thing who used to be an actress. No one famous but her husband had croaked two years earlier and left her a packet,” he says. “She had a place just outside Nice in the good old S of F. It was great. You could swim in the pool and look out across at the Med. I spent, what? four months just hanging out. Swimming, sunbathing. Met this local girl. Used to see her while Yvonne, the actress that is, was having a nap in the afternoons.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “It was—for a while. We’d go to parties but they were, well, you’ve been to Marion’s dos, haven’t you? Anyway, I realized that the more pre-lunch martinis she had the longer her naps became. Sometimes she woke up just in time to go to bed. But I suppose I got bored and I wasn’t earning anything, you know. I thought I’d strangle her by the end of it. Eventually I nicked some money from her safe, took a taxi to the airport and came home. Was I ever glad to be back.”

  “Nicked it?”

  “Well, she owed me something for all those weeks,” says Mark casually. “I’m not a bloody charity.”

  “I was really hoping she’d set me up in my own flat somewhere,” I say almost to myself.

  “No,” Mark tells me authoritatively. “A man would do that. I used to see this German banker when I was about eighteen, nineteen or something. He paid my rent in a place just off Kensington Church Street. Flew in once a week. Couple of meetings in the City, and then back to his wife and family in Frankfurt.” That sex thing again. I’m beginning to develop a bit of a hang up about it. He finishes his coffee, although I’ve only just started mine and raises his eyebrows to the waitress who is only too happy to come over. He hands back his coffee cup and asks for another. “Women want company, conversation, foreplay, cuddling, dinners—all that bollocks. God, women are a pain.” We consider the truth of this profound statement for a moment.

  “She said she was embarrassed about my job and the fact that I live in Fulham.”

  Mark hoots with laughter and slaps his thigh. “She say that?” I nod. “Good old Marion. Tactful or what?”

  I take a mouthful of creamy, comforting coffee and then mention the marriage thing to him.

  “Oh, yeah,” he says blandly. “Might as well.”

  “Really? You’ve done it, haven’t you?”

  “Me? Yeah. Who hasn’t?”

  “You marri
ed Victoria’s maid or something?”

  “Oh, yeah—what’s her name?” He watches a girl walk past us along the road. “It’s no big deal. Most registry office marriages in London are fake anyway, I saw a thing about it on the news. They can’t catch you. How much is Marion paying you? Five thousand?”

  “More than that.”

  “Ten?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fuckin’ ’ell,” Mark gasps. “You’re doing all right. What you waiting for?”

  “I’m still thinking about it.”

  I decide not to mention the circumcision thing.

  With elaborate care Vinny puts the ball away in its usual place: balanced on top of the teapot we’ve only ever used once, when Jane came round, but whose lid we’ve somehow managed to break since that occasion. My ball control has been crap tonight. It’s been such a half-hearted game that we haven’t even elicited any bangs of complaint from downstairs. I’ve been looking anxiously at my watch between shots as eight o’clock approaches.

  “Do you want a beer?” I ask, opening the fridge and leaning on the door for a moment.

  “Line ’em up, Barkeep.” I open a couple of cold Rolling Rocks and hand one to him. Hot and thirsty, we both drink in silence for a moment. “You’re quiet,” says Vinny. He burps. “You’re not usually like this when you’ve been thrashed. Who the hell do you think you are? David Beckham?” I laugh and take another swig. “How’s Mrs. Robinson?”

  “Who?”

  “The older woman?”

  “Oh, right. She’s … I’m, er, I’m moving in with her.”

  Vinny swallows a mouthful of beer quickly. “Really?”

  “Oh, right. Well, it’s your …”

  “Funeral?”

  “Probably.” We both stare at our beers for a while. “When are you moving out?”

  “Well, tonight, actually.”

  Vinny looks shocked. “Tonight? Bloody hell! That was quick.”

  “Yeah, I know.” Poor Vinny. I think of Jane’s words. I’ll miss him.

  “I can’t believe … well … you know.”

  “Thing is, I’ve just got no money since I got … since I left my job and I don’t have to pay any rent at hers—”

  “Oh, God, no, mate,” says Vinny, shrugging his shoulders. “I see what you mean. It makes sense.”

  “It’s the only way—”

  “Oh, yeah, sure.” We look at our beers again. Vinny gets the ball again and bounces it a couple of times on the ground. “Have you written to the landlord?”

  “Yeah, I did it this afternoon.”

  “Oh, right. Do you want a hand with your stuff?”

  “Oh, no, don’t worry. She’s sending the … someone’s coming. He’ll be here at eight. Anyway, you’re going out tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Well, I was just going for a drink with some mates but …”

  “Oh, well, go. Go on, don’t worry.”

  Vinny puts his foot on the ball. I’m trying to work out how long we’ve lived here. Just over eleven months.

  He says, “OK, I’d better …”

  “Yep. I’ve got some packing to do.” He makes for the door and I wonder what to do next. “I’ll see you though. We’ll keep in touch.”

  “Oh, sure,” says Vinny, finishing his beer.

  I scoop the football off the floor and spin it around in my hand. “After all, I want revenge.”

  “In your dreams, mate,” he says, staring at the ball.

  “I’ll be back for fry-ups on Saturday,” I say, though I don’t know how.

  “I should hope so. That girl with the wonky eye and the—what shall I call it?—under-arm problem, at the Ritz grill down the road will be sorry to see the back of you.”

  “Ah, yes. The ugliest girl in London.”

  “In Britain,” says Vinny indignantly. “Don’t sell her short!” I laugh again. Poor thing. It’s so obvious she’s got a thing for Vinny. And she hasn’t got a wonky eye. Or an underarm problem. She’s actually very pretty. Jane says it is Vinny’s defence mechanism because he can’t handle someone fancying him.

  “Don’t worry,” I say, suddenly feeling overcome with emotion. “I’ll be back for footy and fry-ups.”

  “Oh, yeah,” agrees Vinny as he heads for his room.

  I’ve been half-heartedly stuffing things into bags for an hour or so when Chris, Marion’s chauffeur, arrives with Anna Maria. He stands uncomfortably in the hallway in his uniform, looking very tall and worrying about how safe the car is, double parked outside. Anna Maria, meanwhile, thinks it is all great fun. She sniffs and turns up her pug nose. “Berry bad smell.”

  “Is it?” I say, sniffing around.

  “Smell like, er, smell like old sneakers and sweat.”

  She runs her finger along the radiator. Not surprisingly it comes up black. She gasps in horror and begins to giggle again. I lead her upstairs, asking what is so funny. Laughing, she follows me into the bedroom, looking anxiously around her.

  I point to my shirts hanging up in the wardrobe and ask her to take them down and fold them. Still giggling inanely, she discovers she can hardly reach. I take them down for her and chuck them on the bed while I deal with my underpants. No one touches my underpants apart from me—and my mum.

  Still giggling and muttering “Oh, my God,” Anna Maria begins to fold things neatly and put them into my suitcase and my Head bag.

  “Is that all?” she says after an hour or so. Chris takes the boxes with my ghetto blaster, some books, CDs and tapes. We set off back to Marion’s with Anna Maria still laughing at this whole ridiculous business and me worrying about what I’m doing. What am I going to tell my mum and dad? If they ring I’ll have to get Vinny to say that I’m out and then ring me at Marion’s and I’ll ring them back and do 141 beforehand. This is getting very complicated. As for Jane—I’ll have to cook something up with Vinny. Another lie.

  One month. That’s all. While I find … all right, let’s face it, while I find another job but perhaps a job I can actually stand to do. Then I’ll take the money—the £15,000 Marion has promised me—and get somewhere to live. Somewhere normal that Jane can deal with. Like this flat. I look around at my old room and listen to Vinny singing along to Elvis on the radio. What am I doing?

  But I can’t afford to stay here, I tell myself, picking up some socks listlessly. At least I can look back and say I went to hotels and restaurants I would never have seen any other way. I’ve got some nice clothes and, best of all, nearly a year’s salary all at once, tax free.

  When we get to Belgravia Chris takes the bag, the suitcase and the boxes upstairs and Anna Maria follows him, ready to unpack them. Marion has set aside some of her wardrobe space for me.

  “Is that it?” asks Marion.

  “Yes,” I say. “I haven’t got that much.”

  “We’ll have to do something about that.”

  Yeah, yeah, yeah.

  The next morning I suddenly realize I haven’t seen my ghetto blaster. I ask Marion where it is.

  “That old thing? With the sticky tape on the front and the aerial all bent up? Yuk! I had Anna Maria put it with the garbage. You can use mine. I’ve got one in almost every room. We don’t need any more of them, that’s for sure.”

  I suppose not.

  My mum and dad bought it for me on my first day at college.

  twenty

  and so the days drift along. I get up late, have a long, leisurely breakfast, watch a bit of TV, go for a walk, sit at the Picasso Café in the King’s Road and have a cappuccino or two while I read the paper or just watch the people walk past. I meet Marion for lunch somewhere nice or Anna Maria makes me something and serves it to me, as I sit at the head of the dining table on my own. I go to the gym or swimming or even the pictures in the afternoon. Sometimes I go window shopping. Or sometimes it’s back to the Picasso Café if I’ve got enough money. I spend quite a bit of time listening to music while I’m lying in front of the telly with the sound turned down. It makes
whatever crap you’re watching look like a documentary or some satirical pop video. In the evening we go out to dinner or to the theatre or to a party with people I don’t know and she hasn’t seen for years.

  I find myself doing funny things at funny times of the day: I’m in the bath at three o’clock in the afternoon sometimes or having lunch at four. I don’t always sleep very well so I sometimes wander downstairs and put the telly on at two in the morning or I take some pills Marion gave me.

  She nags at me sometimes to do something but whenever I ask what she means—like getting a job? Accompanying her to lunch? To her daily treatments?—she just changes the subject and I go back to the telly or the paper or the stereo.

  I ring Jonathan almost every day but either I can’t get through or some woman explains that he’s on the phone or out but he’ll call me back. I go to visit him on a few occasions at the office in Pimlico but he is never in. Usually I get the woman’s voice again, trying a bit too hard to be posh, squawking out of the entry phone that she’s terribly sorry, he’s out at the moment and she doesn’t know when he’ll be back.

  Once when I walk up the street, on the opposite pavement, trying to decide whether to be Mr. Nasty or Mr. Nice on the entryphone today I casually look up and I’m sure I see him through the Venetian blinds of a first-floor window.

  I run over to the door, jam my finger into the buzzer and hold it there until I get a voice shouting, “Hello? Hello? Could you stop that, please.” It’s him, it’s Jonathan.

  Almost as if he’s my saviour, not my tormentor, I shout, “Jonathan, hi, Jonathan, it’s me, Andrew.” There is a silence and I wait for the door to open. It doesn’t move. “Hello? Jonathan?” I push the door again, perhaps I just didn’t hear it buzz.

  “How can I help you?” says Jonathan through the metal grill of the entryphone.

  “I just wanted to pick up my other cheques.”