Authors: Simon Brooke
'I can't do that, sorry, I just couldn't.'
Mark laughs. 'Up to you, I'm just saying that's what makes money.
Refill?'
I leave Mark to his beautiful, off-white minimalist world just
after eight because he has to be somewhere by nine. I thank him and he says he'll
try and introduce me to some other people. But it's been a pretty depressing conversation
especially when Mark refilled my glass and admitted that not only did he get turned
on by the feel of those crisp fifties - 'very flat, very smooth, just out of the
bank, with that slight roughness where the print is' - but that these days he couldn't
really get turned on without them.
My cheque arrives from Jonathan on Tuesday morning as I'm dashing
out of the front door. By my calculation it should have been for £160 but it's just
£23. The accompanying photocopied note just says, rather mysteriously, 'Deductions
for administration: £137'. What the hell does that mean? Funnily enough I get the
answer phone when I ring. I leave a message but somehow I doubt he'll call back.
Marion rings me at work in the afternoon to tell me what a crap
time she's having in Paris and that she'll be back by dinner time.
'Where do you want to go tonight?'
'Don't mind, whatever you think,' I say, already lifted by the
thought of good food and wine. That I can do. The idea of dinner in a smart restaurant
sounds sort of pleasant and familiar and comforting after my conversation with Mark.
I find myself visualizing, yet again, the tall, dark, handsome guy I met at Claridges
in his dinner jacket and later padding round his drop-dead elegant flat, having
sex with an ageing American man in a hotel bedroom. The American has a dodgy wig
for some reason in my little fantasy. Is Mark enjoying this? No, impossible, surely.
Participating? As little as possible, I suppose. Then picking up his clothes off
the floor and getting dressed as quickly as he can. Taking a wad of cash off the
old guy, telling him it had been fun and promising to see him again soon.
One thing's for sure, I might have a lot to learn about persuading
women to buy me clothes and dole out cash but I'll never, never do that.
'I don't want too much,' Marion is saying.
'What?' I snap.
'I just I said I don't want to each too much, just a Caesar salad
or something,' she says. 'I thought maybe just grab a bite at Le Caprice.'
'Yeah,' I say. 'Yeah, sounds great. I'll come over to yours at
about seven-thirty then.' I look up and see Sami roll her eyes. 'Out again?' she
mouths.
I smile but Marion is off, 'Oh, one other thing, Andrew. I think
you should start thinking about moving in.' I can't quite believe I heard that.
What is she talking about?
'What? With you?'
'No, with Charles and Camilla,' she sighs. 'Of course with me.
It's crazy you trying to live in two places and besides I can't bear to think of
you in that slum in Fulham.'
'It's not a slum,' I mutter distractedly as the whole terrible
scenario opens up slowly before my eyes.
'Doing your own ironing in the kitchen is not the kind of lifestyle
I want for you.' Christ! What a thought. I would never see my friends, never have
any privacy, never be able to slob in front of the telly. It might improve my chances
of getting more presents and even some serious income but I could probably kiss
goodbye to my sanity. Besides, what could I say to my parents? They would understand
that I'd moved, but to Belgravia? With an older woman? Oh my God, they might want
to meet her. She might want to meet them!
'Andrew?'
'Erm ...'
'Well, think about. It's only sensible, I'm sure you'll agree.
See you at seven-thirty. Don't be late.'
She hangs up and I stare down at my desk for a minute. Perhaps
this was the downside of having her fall for me that Mark was on about. He's right
- again. I'll end up being a poodle, not a gigolo. And a cash-poor poodle at that.
'Everything OK?' It's Sami.
'Yeah. Fine ... fine.'
I feel in need of another coffee - and a lot of drugs.
Thinking about it from Marion's point of view, it does make sense:
she'd have me on tap. Never late for dinner, never out when she phones. Less likely
to be seeing anyone else. Perfect.
Getting a cup of coffee from the disgusting machine by the lifts
I decide that I can stall her for a while - say something about deposits and tenancy
agreements or I can half-move in, take some clothes over in a bag and spend some
nights there and some nights in Fulham. After all, I am already staying at her place
two or three nights a week. I'll just increase it to four or five. On the other
hand, if I gave up Fulham completely I'll save a fortune on rent. And food. And
just about everything else. My salary would be all mine for spending.
But what about when I want a bit of time on my own? Or if I want
to have some friends round? If Marion wasn't there it would be great: 'Come round
to dinner,' I could say. But not for the old lasagna and salad off assorted Habitat
and John Lewis plates courtesy of the landlord or previous tenants. No running between
the kitchen and the living room to check everything is all right. No finding the
pan has boiled dry and the place is filling with black smoke. No dragging it all
home from Sainsbury's on the bus and getting back four minutes before the first
guest arrives. Do it properly for once. Whatever I want, whenever I want, served
by the maid from big china plates and solid silver cutlery. Pretty impressive, eh?
Suddenly I see Jane's face. Bloody hell. That would completely
end it. As soon as she found out she'd never want to speak to me again.
I decide to put off making a decision for a bit and perhaps ask
Mark for his advice.
'Move in?' he says over an early evening drink at a bar near
his. I want to exorcise our last conversation, assure myself that although this
guy is basically a rent: boy, he is still Mark, still pretty cool. Wearing a dark
suit, one button done up and an immaculate white shirt without a tie, he does look
pretty cool. 'That's a big commitment.'
'Telling me.' He turns away from the bar, looks across the room
and smiles devastatingly. I carry on, 'I mean it would save me rent and food money
and things; but talk about a bird in a gilded cage.'
'Yeah,' says Mark slowly. I turn to where he is looking and see
two teenage Sloanes in polo neck pullovers giggling and whispering to each other
over bottles of Michelob.
'Don't get too excited, they're probably still getting pocket
money,' I tell him, turning back to the bar.
'Think so?'
'You're too old for them, mate, face it.'
Mark turns back to me and laughs. 'Oooh. You're not supposed
to get this bitter for a least another couple of years.'
'Mark, I'm sorry, I just want some advice.'
He sighs, looks into his drink. 'OK. If you move in you will
save a lot of money and you will increase the chance perhaps of her giving you something
decent in the long term. On the other hand, she will keep you on a very tight lead.'
'No social life.'
'No life.'
'So what would you do?'
But now Mark is distracted by someone at the other end of the
bar.
'Mark?' No reaction. I'm wasting my time here - again. I take
another swig of beer and stand up. He stands up and catches my arm.
'Look, I'm sorry, mate,' he says.
'You just can't help it, can you?'
'No,' he says seriously. 'I can't.'
I take a deep breath. 'Sorry, I lost my rag. I just don't know
what to do.'
'Hang in there,' he says without hesitation.
'Really?'
'Marion's a tough one to crack but I suppose you've invested
quite a bit of time with her already.' Mark stands with his arms folded, staring
down at the floor, frowning with concentration. He looks like a model advertising
a suit.
'She just wants you around, not at the end of a phone line. Yeah,
that's good - move in. Like I said, Marion really likes you and she'll look after
you. Where did you go the other weekend? New York? Hey, why not? At least you'll
travel a bit. Work at the clothes thing, like I told you.'
'Sure.'
'Oh, and in the meanwhile, I'll introduce you to some other people
- less, you know, control freaky. Can't do any harm.' I suddenly feel a strange
pang of remorse for Marion. I'm moving in but with the option of dumping her in
favour of someone else. Am I really such a shit? Mark senses my concern.
'It's a tough business,' he says. 'You don't think when she was
with each of her husbands she didn't have her eye on the bigger chance, a better
catch? You've got to grab the opportunities as they come along - all of them.'
'I suppose so.'
'Look, do you want to go to New York business class and wear
that Rolex or not?'
'Yeah but do I have to-'
'If you want get some money out of these people you've got to
be ruthless about it. The truth is, Andrew, that two seconds after Marion gets bored
of you she'll be looking for someone else.'
'You said.'
'Exactly. Hot brick!' He looks at me. 'You don't get it, do you?
The reason why Marion has all that money is that she's worked for it - rich husbands
didn't rush up to her with cheque books in hand. She went out and got it. You want
to make serious money, not just pocket money, you say? Yeah? You want more than
just a couple of hundred for dinner - and you don't want to do the sex thing - if
that's the case you've got to be tougher than me, more determined, more ruthless.'
Ruthless? Me? Debbie said in my last appraisal that I could be
'quite determined' but 'ruthless'? That's another story. Even if I could be as hard
and money grabbing as ... well, Marion, there is still one other little complication.
Jane. I'm still horribly embarrassed about her reaction to my stupid stunt with
the car. How would she feel if not only am I driving Marion's smart expensive car,
hut I'm living in her smart expensive house too?
'Look,' says Mark. 'Set yourself a deadline.' He points a finger
at me thoughtfully. 'A month, say. If you still feel you're pissing about for pocket
money and not a lot else, then knock it on the head. Like I said, I can introduce
you to some other people.' That sounds reasonable - somehow a time-limit makes it
more bearable.
'OK.'
'Good man,' says Mark, punching me on the arm. I still can't
decide, though, if I feel dirty and immoral at the end of this conversation or just
a berk, a smooth operator with an unscrupulous master plan or just a media sales
executive from Fulham with delusions.
'Thanks, mate,' I say.
'You're welcome.'
I think about it all for a moment longer while Mark watches me
digest his words. Then I look across at the girls and say to him, 'Go on, go and
talk to them.'
I arrive at Marion's at just after seven-thirty. She asks where
I've been, she rang me at home and the office and no one knew where I was. I tell
her I was having a drink with someone. Someone she doesn't know. Then we kiss and
and go upstairs. We begin to make love slowly while a warm breeze blows in through
the windows. But I'm not really into it. We lie back halfway through and let the
sweat on our bodies evaporate.
I can't help wondering now whether Marion was meeting someone
in Paris. Someone younger, better in bed, more innocent and emollient. A blanker
canvas. A cuter, blanker canvas.
'How was Paris?' I say after a while.
'It was boring.'
'Boring? How come?'
'It just was.'
'Why was it boring? Who did you see there?'
'Oh,' she says dismissively. 'Well ... let me see.' She takes
a deep breath and looks around the room. 'I had boring things to do. I had to visit
with some old friends who you would have hated and I had to get some clothes for
the Fall. There's just nothing in London, I've looked.'
'OK.' She looks across at me without moving. I do the same.
'It's true. Everyone says London is great for shopping but frankly
I've been appalled at the choice. It's an absolute scandal - your newspaper should
do an article about it.' I think the Home and Style section already has.
'I see ... ' What do I see? Marion has obviously had enough of
this conversation.
'Fix me a drink, will you?'
Without saying anything I get up and walk over to the tiny fridge
in one corner of the room. I remember my dad coming home from work one day in a
foul mood. Quarrelling with my mum, picking on me and my sister. It turned out that
some management consultants had advised the company to cut costs by removing the
executive fridges from the offices of his level of management.
'What d'you want?' I say, opening the fridge. 'There a bottle
of champagne in there?'
There is. I take it out and bring it back to the bed with two
glasses. I open it and pour. We both take a sip and lie back.
'Buy me anything?' I ask.
'There's some aftershave in one of those bags,' she says, closing
her eyes and squeezing the top of her nose. Aftershave. Duty free. Great. Forgot
about me until the last minute. Mark is right, I've got to keep any eye out for
something better.
Marion is having a dinner party. We're eating some dark brown
stew. I haven't touched mine but around me the others are tucking in, talking and
laughing. Anna Maria and another girl are serving salad. I know I've got to leave
the room to do something but I can't remember what. Someone next to me is talking
nonstop and I'm dying for them to pause a moment so that I can make my excuses and
get up. I know I haven't got much time. Desperately I look round in search of the
door which, for some reason, is not where it usually is. To my left is Channing,
who is holding a champagne glass in one hand and a fork full of food in the other.
He is smiling lecherously at me and some of the stew is dripping down his chin.
The person on my right who keeps talking is not a woman, as I had first thought,
but Ted the security guard from work. Ted, shut up, I'm thinking. I look around
to see who the hell else is here and directly opposite me is Jane.