Authors: Simon Brooke
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.
I put on my Ray-Bans and check how I look in the mirror behind
the sun shield. Then I take the handbreak off, move it up to 'D' and spin the wheel
round with the palm of my hand.
Parking in the West End is a nightmare. Even though most of the
shoppers are leaving it takes me ages to find a space which is not barred by some
stupid restriction. Finally I find a little side street off Tottenham Court Road.
As I get out two lads sitting on a low wall look menacingly at me. Envy? Yeah, probably.
Even a couple of policemen sitting in their Ford Fiesta at the traffic lights at
Charing Cross Road had done a double-take. 'What the hell is a kid like him doing
in a car like that?'
But these boys are making me nervous, one watching my car, the
other watching me as I walk casually back to Tottenham Court Road. I am just about
to turn the corner when anxiety gets the better of me and I decide to return to
the car. They are talking to each other now. I get back and wonder exactly what
I am going to do - pretend I have forgotten something? This thing is such a bloody
responsibility. I get in, start the engine and move off. It is 6.10 p.m. No time
to park anywhere else. I drive round, back into the main road. Passing Paperchase
on the other side of the road I see Jane waiting by the main entrance, dressed in
a white T-shirt and long skirt, carrying a large shoulder bag. She is chewing a
nail and looking round suspiciously. She looks prettier than ever.
I slow down and wave, hoping to attract her attention somehow,
even though she is looking the other way. I beep the horn quickly but still she
doesn't turn - unlike everyone else. I realise she doesn't even know what she is
looking out for. She probably assumes it's a Renault Five or a Datsun Cherry. I
beep again and shout.
Still she doesn't turn.
By now the cars in front have started to move off and a cab driver
behind honks at me. I consider going round the block and coming back but it would
take forever. The cab driver behind starts shouting at me to get a move on.
Jane sighs and puts her bag down between her legs and looks up
again but through me. I shout again but what attracts her attention is the cab driver
behind me honking again. Jane frowns and I shout again 'Jane! Here!' and wave her
over. She doesn't smile but looks round at the traffic in the hope of a gap between
the cars. Of course, they are moving quickly and solidly up towards Euston Road.
I turn to tell the cabbie to shut up but he has realised what I am waiting for and
is moaning to his passengers via his rear-view mirror. Meanwhile, some other cars
behind him have decided to vent their frustration and there is an echo of horns
down the street. I try to move into the next lane to let them pass but there's just
not enough room. Someone starts shouting at me. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This is so uncool.
Jane finds a space before a bus and dashes across to get to me.
I set off immediately and we travel for a moment in silence, glad not to be the
centre of attention any longer. 'How are you?' I ask as casually as I can.
'OK. Whose car?'
I can't believe I haven't
got an answer ready for this. 'Just a friend.'
'You must have some pretty rich friends.'
I can't think of an answer to this either. I'm fine if someone
asks me in the office but Jane is a bit close to home and I realise that I don't
want to lie to her so I change the subject: 'Where shall we go?'
'I don't know. You're driving,' she says, running her hands through
her hair and gently moving it away from her face.
Her white skin looks hot and slightly sticky.
'OK,' I say slowly, thinking about the traffic. 'We could drive
up to Hampstead Heath and find a pub or something near there.'
'Sure,' she says without enthusiasm.
We crawl through the unrelenting traffic. Part of me is absorbed
in driving: desperately urging lights to go green so that I can move ahead a few
feet or wondering what the hell other drivers are playing at and all the time hoping
more than anything else in all the world that we don't get stuck behind a bus. But
part of me is aware of Jane sitting sulkily beside me unenthusiastic, ungrateful,
unimpressed. After five long, long minutes I decide to break the silence and bring
the situation to a head.
'Are you all right?'
'Fine.'
Pause.
'Because I can drop you at a Tube station or a bus stop somewhere.
I don't know how you usually get home but it's no trouble to me,' I say quickly,
looking straight ahead. It all sounds more aggressive than I wanted it to. She looks
round at me and I glance across at her quickly.
She says, 'Well, what do you want me to say, Andrew? "What
a big car. I bet you've got a big penis as well"?'
'Oh! For Christ's sake,' I say, not sure how to answer her. She
laughs irritably and looks across at me, raising her eyebrows quizzically.
'I'm sorry, but do I look like the kind of woman who's impressed
with a big car?'
'Jesus! Of course not!' There is another pause and I decide to
act hurt. 'OK, I apologise. I just thought I'd offer you a lift home and perhaps
we could spend some time together this evening. You could have said no when I rang.'
Either my logic or my hurt little-boy voice has the right effect.
She sighs and says, 'I'm sorry. I thought it would be fun to
meet up but this doesn't feel right. Here, in this ridiculous car, that's all.'
She looks around it disapprovingly and back at me. 'It's her car, isn't it?' she
says slowly.
I'm about to say 'Whose?' but I realise that playing the innocent
will only make things worse - 'Yes.' We sit at a traffic light which I realise is
in fact green. She sighs. 'I can't do this.'
I look round quickly and she is running her hand over the door
looking for the handle.
'Jane!'
'Sorry, Andrew.' She gets out, slams the door and walks off down
the street. I see her in the rear-view mirror. I try and stop but suddenly the traffic
begins to move again and immediately the frustrated rally driver in the car behind
me begins to honk. There is no way I can stop and besides, even by twisting round
in my seat and looking behind me I can't see her. She has just vanished. The honking
starts again. The road in front of me is empty.
'Oh, fuck offffff!' I shout at the driver and the world in general
but, of course, no one can hear me through the thick glass and the roar of the air-conditioning.
I drive back. It takes me hours. Fucking Jane. I like her so
much it annoys me. But what was I thinking of? Offering her a lift in this car?
I knew she wouldn't be impressed with it and it's also bloody insulting, like suggesting
to your mistress that she borrow some of your wife's clothes.
'Oh, fuck.' At the inevitable red light, I take the opportunity
to bang my head against the steering wheel. Outside a cyclist in a safety helmet
and a Barbour, coasting to a halt at the lights, looks down at me, surprised and
disapproving.
At home there is a message from Jonathan asking me to call. My
cheque! It seems like small compensation after my disastrous experience with Jane
but it would be better than nothing. I ring him back.
'Who? Oh, Andrew, hi mate. Sorry, it was a job for tonight but
I had to give it to one of the other guys.'
'Oh, sorry about that. I just wondered, though-'
'You'll have to make yourself
available a bit more if you're going to get some work.'
'Sure.' Perhaps those little wage-slave cheques from Jonathan
would be easier and more reliable than trying to get something out of Marion.
While I'm getting a beer out of the fridge I realise that Jane
would never in a million years understand what I want in life. In fact she would
probably be really shocked. That also annoys me about Jane - she's so bloody sensible.
Most men are wary of sensible women because they remind them of their primary school
teachers, those patronizing Stalinists with flat shoes and sensible skirts who had
an answer for everything.
What I really want is the best of both worlds: spend time with
Jane and spend Marion's money. At the moment I don't seem to have either. I need
to get some cash together and then I'll be in the market for a serious relationship
again. But will Jane still be around?
I think about ringing Marion but then realise that she hasn't
left a number or even told me which hotel she's gone to. I don't know any posh hotels
in Venice so, instead, I channel-surf for a while wishing we had cable so that there
were more channels I could find nothing to watch on. I realise that Vinny must be
out. What's he doing out on Saturday night while I'm stuck here? I ought to just
ring some of my friends, see if they're around tonight. Except that I don't seem
to have any friends anymore. Did I ever? I can't remember. Sure I did. I must have.
My past life all seems something of a blur since Marion.
At about ten I decide to order a curry and find a flyer for one
that delivers. When it arrives three quarters of an hour later it is cold and not
what I ordered. What's the matter with me? Can't I even order a curry these days?
I think about Jane. The way she scoops her hair back behind her
ear. Her bossiness when she made pancakes for Vinny and me the other night. Her
trendy, right-on friends that she thinks I'll hate. The way she laughs. Why is she
working in Paperchase and living in Holloway or wherever the hell it was? Why can't
she want more? More than just working to earn enough to pay the bills, a salary
addict. Or better still, why can't she just be rich? If Jane had Marion's money,
I'd be OK.
After a while I go out and look at the car again. Partly to check
it is still safe, I must admit. Luckily the dodgy family opposite have not taken
the wheels off it. Yet. Perhaps Vinny was right. What would happen if I sold it?
Would Marion mind? I could probably get fifty grand or it. I'd be laughing. I get
in and switch on the CD player. I turn it up, start the car and set off for a drive
around. I go up the Fulham Road and into Chelsea, looking at people in restaurants
and watching a couple leaving a party in a house while I wait for the lights to
change.
The woman shouts something to the host who laughs loudly then
the man puts his arm around her and they begin to walk down the pavement together.
Suddenly I feel like crying. What am I doing driving around on my own on a Saturday
night? I turn the CD off and head back home.
On Sunday morning while I'm out getting some milk and the papers
Marion leaves a message on the machine to say that she has decided to go on to Paris.
'I've got a ton of shopping to do and my personal shopper's arriving from London
to give me a hand,' she says.
Vinny surfaces at about two while I'm watching a video. 'Mornin'
all,' he mutters, flopping down on the settee.