by Ben Foster
During the process, I rejected the watches with metal bands and was left with three with leather straps.
‘This is like the Miss World contest,’ Vivienne said. ‘I know exactly which one you’re going to pick.’
I looked down again and indicated one of the three watches.
Vivienne gasped, and I shook my head.
Flippo put the Longines back in its bag.
Two remained. I studied the Tiffany Chronograph for a long time. The dial was blue, the chrome colour of Vivienne’s eyes, with silver numerals and a blue alligator strap.
‘Self-winding, water resistant,’ Flippo said.
I shook my head and he slid it back into the bag.
The watch that remained was the most simple, a wafer thin gold-faced Omega De Ville on a brown leather strap. Vivienne threw up both arms and shook them like a football fan who has just watched her team score a goal.
‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I knew it. It’s so you. Try it. Try it. You must try it on.’
I removed my plastic Casio to do so. Flippo placed the remaining watches back in the case and snapped the locks shut.
‘Hang on,’ I said, and Vivienne placed her hands over my wrist to prevent me unbuckling the Omega.
‘It’s for you.’
‘No, no, no. I can’t.’
‘Why not?
‘It’s . . . I don’t know.’
‘It’s only a watch.’
I held up the Casio. ‘But I already have a watch.’
‘Now you have two.’
‘Wow, you English. So good at matematica.’
Vivienne finished her cappuccino and placed her cup decisively in the saucer. I wouldn’t have felt so awkward allowing her to buy me a watch if Flippo hadn’t been sitting there, but if you accept the gift you have to put up with the discomfort. A car, clothes, a gold Omega. Where was it going to end?
‘Vivienne, thank you,’ I said, and she turned to Flippo as if she hadn’t heard.
‘Do you have something for me?’
‘Always,’ he replied.
He reached into his top pocket and removed something small enough to keep hidden beneath his fingers as he slid it across the table. Vivienne covered the unseen object with her mobile phone.
‘I want more cake,’ she said, and waved her hand to the waitress.
As the girl went off with the order, Bethany Bolter arrived smiling her smile. Flippo immediately stood. I copied him. I was learning.
‘Bethany, I had a gorgeous swim, thank you,’ Vivienne said. ‘Can I introduce you to Filippo Borghese? Bethany Bolter.’
He bowed and kissed her hand. She jiggled from foot to foot.
‘What a pleasure . . . ’
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ he said.
‘Filippo’s my dealer . . . watch dealer,’ Vivienne added, and Bethany wasn’t sure what to say.
‘That’s marvellous. How marvellous.’
Bethany had an inbuilt radar that allowed her to pinpoint a person’s place on the social map the moment they met. Even with an accent, the usual giveaway, Flippo – Filippo – with his bright eyes and good manners was clearly what Bethany would have called ‘people like us.’ I would come to learn that she was right on target: Filippo Borghese Pecci was from an aristocratic family with princes and Popes on the family tree. He sold coke and watches because lots of those old families had lost their money without losing the desire for all the things it buys.
The waitress returned with a slice of cake for Vivienne and three more cappuccinos.
‘Put it all on the complimentary list,’ Bethany said grandly.
Vivienne’s head dropped to one side. ‘Thank you,’ she said in a tiny voice.
That was something else I would come to learn. Vivienne did not pay to use the spa at Southley. Bethany had given her a pass in order to buy her friendship and with the prospect that Vivienne would bring her friends. When people are titled or in the public eye, other people, normal people, get a kick out of doing things for them. Their generosity is not flouted or taken for granted. They become fringe members of the court and are repaid by occasional invitations to, say, a large cocktail party – what Vivienne called a ‘rat fuck’ – where a celebrity would be present. It gave those people a name to drop in the eternal game of who’s who, who knows whom, who do you know and how do you know them.
Vivienne ate some of the cream from the carrot cake and left the rest. Likewise the coffee. She stood, gathered up her phone and the little package hidden beneath. She placed them in her Lulu Guinness bag and slung the bag slantwise across her chest.
‘You are driving back to town, Flippo?’ she said.
‘Sure I am.’
‘Can you take Ben? I’ve got so much to do. I’ll be in touch.’
She kissed his cheeks. She kissed my cheeks. I watched her pace from the café and heard the Ferrari roar as she accelerated back to the gate. I didn’t see her again for a month.
14
POSITIVE THINKING
In my dream I was swimming underwater. When I looked up, I couldn’t see the light and realised I had gone down too far to swim back to the surface.
I woke coughing and covered in sweat.
Dance music blasted from the radio in the kitchen. Kelly was clattering around making breakfast. Claire was having a screaming fit. I sneezed. I had a sore throat. My eyes hurt. I couldn’t understand why. The previous day at Southley I had felt like a super hero.
I pulled the pillow over my head. I was trying to doze off again when my mobile buzzed angrily. The name ‘Angela’ appeared on the screen.
‘You haven’t replied to my email,’ she snapped.
‘I’m sorry . . . ’
‘Are you too busy?’
‘No, I . . . ’
‘If you’re not busy, why don’t you answer your emails?’
‘I don’t have a computer.’
‘That’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard in my life. You’re not messing me about, are you, Ben?’
‘No, I’m not. I’ll go to the library and my check my mail.’
The tone hummed in my ear as the line went dead. My linen suit was hanging on the side of the wardrobe. It didn’t look like me at all. I pulled on an old shirt and shorts and went downstairs.
‘You look like something the cat’s dragged in,’ Kelly said.
That made Ollie laugh. Claire was still screaming and bit me when I tried to pick her up.
‘What’s wrong, baby?’
‘Me, me, me, me, me,’ she cried.
‘She wants George’s police car,’ Kelly said, ‘and he doesn’t want to give it to her.’
George was on all fours making the siren wail as he pushed the car between the table legs. The noise put my teeth on edge and I resorted to bribery, the only thing that worked.
‘George, Georgie. If you let Claire play with your car, I’ll take you to the park for pizza.’
Ollie paused from eating his cereal and punched the air. ‘Yeah, pizza.’
George took after me. He was always agreeable. He immediately gave his sister the toy and Claire did exactly what he had been doing. She made the siren wail as she pushed the car across the floor. When Claire wanted something, she used charm and rage, smiles or tears, whatever it took until she got it. I couldn’t help admiring her for that.
‘Georgie,’ I said. ‘You’ve won the prize. Double cheese.’
Kelly shook her head. ‘Pizza in the park again. Can we afford it?’
‘Yep, no problem. I’ve got my regular tomorrow.’
She poured me a cup of tea from the big brown pot that used to belong to Gran. We had kept her mugs and a set of six plates, the first with a whole apple, the second with an apple with a bite taken from it and so on until the last one showed just three apple pips.
‘There’s food to buy, we’re out of everything,’ Kelly continued. ‘Bills to pay . . . ’
‘Look, don’t go on. Everything’s under control.’
She
took a long noisy breath. ‘What do you want for breakfast?’
‘Nothing, darling, I’m all right. I’ve got to pop out and check my emails.’ I burned my tongue drinking the tea. ‘Remember, I’ve got some parcels coming later. I’m not sure what time.’
‘I’ll be here till I start work, same as always.’
‘Soon as we’re on our feet, you’re going to give up that job.’
‘Let’s see how it goes, shall we? You’ve only got a trial, don’t forget.’ She came to the door and gave me a kiss. ‘You look after yourself.’
Kelly had seen how working double shifts at The Lodge had taken its toll. She was pleased I had found a new job with more money. Finally, I would be doing something I was trained for and wanted to do. I had told Kelly I had been obliged to buy suitable clothes to conform to the spa’s dress code and would be paying for them out of my wages. Another lie. I was getting good at it, or used to it, anyway.
As for my extra-curricular activities, they had been rationalised, justified, tucked away in a box in the back of my mind. I was paid for sex. It sounded like a bad joke. I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn’t still in a dream forty fathoms down in deep water. I was going to have to split myself between two very different roles, the good husband and loving father at home, Casanova for ladies with special needs when I went to work.
What plays in the massage room stays in the massage room.
It had taken me a while to work out what Bethany meant exactly by the Golden Rule, but I’d got there in the end.
People confuse kundalini massage with tantra. Massage is sexy. When you are rubbing your oiled hands over a naked body, how could it not be? But massage is not sex, even if that’s what results.
Tantra is sex. It is a love-making technique originated by Hindu masters in India 5,000 years ago. It is designed to create a mind body connection that can result in powerful climaxes, although that’s not the central point. Tantric sex is slow moving. Couples can remain joined for many hours, the purpose being to empty the mind and take a step on the road to nirvana, enlightenment, ultimate bliss. The original meaning has fallen by the wayside and what remains is no longer a spiritual pursuit, but a quest for bigger and better orgasms.
I drove to the library trying to focus on Napoleon Hill and thinking instead about Vivienne. She could be moody if she didn’t get her own way, and didn’t care about anything except her own passing whims and pleasures. That’s what made her such fun to be with. She was like a spoiled girl you wanted to punish so you could lick away her tears. Vivienne was trouble. I knew that. But once you get up on the highwire it’s not easy to get off.
Flippo had driven me back to Soho. I had tried to pump him on his relationship with Vivienne but, like her, he was discreet and gave nothing away except that he had met her in Tuscany where her family owned a villa. Gossip is a form of currency and I didn’t have anything to exchange. Flippo did talk about his family’s princes and Popes, but kept coming back to the one subject dear to his heart: cocaine. The industry was on the ‘verge of collapse’ because dealers were ‘bashing’ it so hard that users were snorting poison.
‘Coke’s everywhere except where it should be, in cocaine!’
He shrugged passionately as he made his points and the car jerked across the lanes.
‘People think they’ve died and gone to heaven paying £40 a gram. What’s the big deal if it’s only two per cent pure?’ He was outraged. ‘My white lady comes straight from Peru. None of that Colombian shit. She’s from the source, the same coke the Incas have been using for thousands of years. Say what you like, at £100, that’s a bargain.’
‘You’re right,’ I said.
‘You need anything, you know where to find me.’
Flippo didn’t drive as fast as Vivienne, but we were back in London in under an hour. He was seeing customers in Groucho’s and drove me straight to my VW in the Brewer Street car park.
Angela’s email had given me instructions to pick up Kate – Lady Catherine – from her home on Saturday at eight-thirty. I had a dinner reservation for nine in the name of ‘Alan Ingram’ at the Cock and Bull, a pub about eight miles from Kempton. I was to dress well, pay the bill and ‘be the perfect gentleman.’ She also told me to send her my bank details.
I apologised for not answering earlier and promised to follow the instructions ‘to the letter.’ I slowly copied the sort code and account number from my debit card. My fingers that stroked out stress clusters were all thumbs on the keyboard and I read through what I had typed twice before pressing ‘send.’
While I waited to see if Angela responded, I Googled ‘cocaine side effects.’
I was relieved to discover that, without actually having flu, the symptoms were the same: a sore throat, runny nose and aching limbs. Coke increases your blood flow, heart rate and brain activity. You feel more alert, confident, intoxicated with energy. It didn’t say sex on cocaine is astonishing, but I already knew that. The cure is to eat well and, predictably, drink plenty of water. The worst thing you can do is take another hit. That’s the cocaine merry-go-round. Once you are on it, it’s hard to get off.
Was Vivienne an addict? It was hard to say. It was another area in which I was totally inexperienced. But I did recall that in Groucho’s, when she left for ‘two ticks,’ she had returned with her blue eyes glittering and twice as big. She’d talked rapidly about time and metronomes, then drove like a getaway driver to Southley. She had grown bored waiting in the Jacuzzi and we snorted the last of her supply before we swam, before our performance in the shower, before coffee and carrot cake. She had been witty, charming and had left the café with another package from Flippo in her bag. Vivienne thrived on speed, action, constant change. She was as demanding as she was generous.
I glanced at the gold watch on my wrist. It was a statement. I wasn’t entirely sure what it meant, but those in Vivienne’s circle knew the secret codes. I hadn’t seen her pay for the watch, or the coke, for that matter. But her relationship with money wasn’t the same as mine. Parking fines double if you don’t pay them straight away. Vivienne didn’t concern herself with the cost, only the inconvenience. Bills and debts were handled, dealt with, put off for some other time. Talking about money, except in abstract terms, in millions and billions, was vulgar. Nothing should be allowed to cast a cloud over life’s main purpose, to be amusing and to be amused.
For me, for the poor, for most of us, money is the one thing you never have enough of. Money is something you try and save, you borrow from parents, lend to mates and are anxious about all of the time. With remarkable modesty, or a lack of imagination, what most working men dream of – aside from winning the lottery and sleeping with beautiful women – is having an extra £40 a week in their wage packet. For Vivienne, for the rich, money is the means by which one doesn’t have to worry about money.
There is a myth I grew up with and heard so many times that I had believed it. They say money doesn’t buy you happiness. This is a delusion the poor cling to and the rich find comical. Money does buy happiness. Money equals freedom, the highest form of happiness. Money equals pleasure. The more you have the more pleasurable life is. People with money can never know what it is like to be without money. And something I would learn in the next two years: money is a magnet, it doesn’t trickle down, it is sucked up.
Where did Flippo fit in the great scheme of things? He came from what they call a ‘good family’ and had an essential skill: supplying Inca coke. Where did I fit? It’s not easy to see yourself as you really are but, if I am honest, it was the apparatus Maggs had named Big Ben.
The computer pinged. It was Angela with three words. Don’t Be Late.
I pinged back: I won’t be.
That felt good. I had not forgotten that Angela still owed me fifty quid.
From the library, I wandered down King Street to Starbucks. My flu symptoms were fading and had just about gone by the time I’d finished my cappuccino and almond croissant. I went to Curry’s and
bought a Toshiba laptop. It was time Ollie had a computer at home. He knew the alphabet and was just about starting to read. Ollie was good with his hands and I was sure, once he got his little fingers on the keyboard, it wouldn’t be long before he was teaching me how to build a website.
The Asian lad put my card through the machine and the box in a bag. He wrote his name, Mo, and a phone number on a sheet of paper, then slid it across the counter in the same way that Flippo had passed his product to Vivienne.
He spoke in a whisper. ‘If you have any trouble getting on line, give me a call.’
I was running through our nest egg and decided to emulate Vivienne and not think about it. Through repetition and conviction, I was making myself believe that when you stop fretting over money, it slips like a breath of fresh air under the door. On my way back to the car, I passed a shop with the windows plastered in signs: Summer Madness, 20% off. My bleary eyes were drawn to the display of sunglasses. Ray-Ban Wayfarers. The real deal. £69.99. It would have been a mistake not to get them.
Was I aware that I was spending all the spare money on myself, not my family? Of course I was. But I didn’t feel guilty about it. They say you have to speculate to accumulate. I was putting the tools in place in order to build a better life for them. I slipped on the shades as I left the store and already the world looked a little better.
Think and Grow Rich filled my ears driving home. You have the power to achieve what you want to achieve. It is all in your own mind. Tell the universe what it is you are seeking. Say it out loud. Repeat it again and again. Write it down. Be clear and precise. The only thing between you and your goal is your own self-doubt.
The depression and aching bones I’d woken with that morning had gone. I knew what I had to do: work hard, harder than I had ever worked before, and never take cocaine again. Drugs and alcohol didn’t suit me. They never had.
There had been too many mornings when I had set off on the trawler from Lowestoft harbour with a hangover. I remembered the lows after the highs, the empty feeling and paranoia from smoking dope. Drink and drugs turn you into a different person, a projection on a screen that looks like you without being who you really are. After the momentary high, your confidence dips and you want to dig a hole to climb into.