Authors: Simon Brooke
'You said you'd had a really bad day?' Oh good start, fuckwit
I'm sure she'll want to relive it all over dinner.
'Did I? When?'
I panic again. 'When we were talking ... before?'
'Oh, yes. Just the usual bunch of assholes fucking things up.'
'Oh, dear.' Pathetic! I start to dig my thumbnail into my hand
under the table as a punishment for being such a fool.
I try again. 'How long have you been in London?'
'Erm, let me see. Oh, a few years,' she says, looking bored rigid.
'I went to New York the year before last. It was ... great.'
'It's OK.' She takes her drink out of the waiter's hand and tests
it while he looks on terrified. It seems to measure up. Then she says, 'What will
you eat, Andrew?'
I am actually quite hungry. She suggests I have tagliarini alla
crema with slivers of white truffle because I have never had it before and then
steak because a young man of my age needs red meat. She has 'just a salad' followed
by 'this shrimp thing'.
'Nice restaurant,' I say, trying to sound grateful, enthusiastic,
impressed with her choice.
'Well, it's convenient,' says Marion.
'Sure,' I say, knowingly. Yes, well, it's not that nice, is it,
actually? I pick up a black olive from a little bowl the waiter has given us but
manage to lose control of it at the last minute and it completely disappears off
the face of the earth. 'What's your, er, favourite, erm ... restaurant ...?' Where
the hell is it? I'm relieved to see that I haven't smeared olive oil down my tie
or left a dark, greasy mark on the brilliant white, starched tablecloth but where
the hell is the little fucker? 'Er, in New York?' I finish, discreetly continuing
my search.
Marion breaks a bread stick slowly.
'I often go to the Four Seasons for lunch. I quite like Le Cirque.
They do good seafood,' she says. She pauses and then narrows her eyes slightly as
she peers across at my jacket. 'It's actually gone down your sleeve.' She smiles
gently. 'Now, what are the chances of that?'
We talk about London and the weather and a bit about politics,
for some reason. I make all the running to begin with, thinking that I'd better
try and earn my fee after my disastrous performance with the olive. She looks uninterested
for most of the time and only takes any interest in me when she is taking the piss:
asking about media sales, about reading, about my 'roommate', about my work as a
'gigolo'.
She asks whether I have a girlfriend and looks unsurprised when
I say 'No'.
'Had one before?'
'Yeah, a few.' I'm just a bit insulted.
'Oh, I wasn't suggesting you were a virgin,' she smiles.
There is a pause. That sex thing again. I'm trying to think of
something clever to say that implies in an understated way that I'm actually highly
proficient horizontally.
Instead all I say is, 'No.'
She insists I have some pudding and orders me zabaglione, which
she helps herself to a couple of times, sticking her licked spoon back into the
warm, sweet, alcoholic mucus and occasionally pushing mine gently but firmly out
of the way. But then she refuses to eat any more and just watches me finish it.
I find myself wondering how old she is. She must be fifty. Mind
you, my mum is fifty-something and she doesn't look as good as Marion. On the other
hand, my mum is not rich and exotic. People in Belgravia don't necessarily age less
than people from Reading, just differently. She becomes quite flirtatious and laughs
unexpectedly a few times, asking me to say what I look for in girls and telling
me that I am quite good looking, really. 'Nice teeth,' she says, 'for an English
guy,' and dabs her immaculate mouth with an immaculate starched napkin.
By the time we leave at eleven-thirty I feel that I have entertained
her a bit and probably performed quite well, once I relaxed. The air outside is
warmer than the air-conditioned restaurant but there is a bit of a breeze.
She takes my arm in her hands and says, 'Shall I send the car
away? We can walk from here.'
'OK.'
'Goodnight,' she says apparently to no one and then from across
the street I see the headlights of the BMW flash an acknowledgment before it moves
off. She puts her head on my shoulder. Christ, I am making progress here suddenly.
Progress towards what, though? I'm not on my way back from the pub with a twenty-year-old.
We walk along in silence for a while and I'm wondering whether we'll end up having
sex. Does she want to? Do I want to? Could I? Fifty? If her body is as good as her
face then ...yeah, why not? I'm just hoping she can't read my thoughts in some way
when I see a small group coming towards us. They are talking and laughing loudly.
'Irena,' calls Marion.
'Marion, daaaarling,' says a woman in a heavy foreign accent.
She and Marion miss kiss and then ask each other how they are and reply 'Good' in
unison.
'Irena, this is Mr Andrew Collins. Andrew this is my best friend,
Irena.'
'Pleased to meet you.' She holds out a hand and at the last moment
I decide to kiss it rather than shake it. I do the same with an older American lady
standing next to her. The women laugh.
'He's charming,' says the older woman to Marion. I shake hands
with Irena's boyfriend who has an unnecessarily long Italian name and with the American
woman's husband whose name is Moose (or is it Mousse?) for some reason. While Irena
and Marion chat the rest of us look on, laughing and agreeing like an appreciative
audience.
Finally Irena says, 'Vill heff larnch next veek.' She smiles
girlishly as she says goodbye to me.
'Sweet girl,' says Marion as we walk away. 'Thick as pig shit.
She is doing the old "I live just for my kids number" at the moment because
her first husband wants to get custody. Since she got dumped by him she has had
to make her own living. I mean she's taken up with that slimy gigolo Bernardo, but
he has no money, not serious money, anyway, so last month or something she launched
her own range of cosmetics. You know, the kind of things office girls wear. Staten
Island secretaries. What do you have here? Girls from Reading or something? Anyway,
it's called "Irena". And now her public relations people want her to call
herself just Irena, not Irena Trountz, you know, to push the perfume. So every time
she signs a visitor's book or a credit card slip she has to put a little TM after
her name.'
'Really?'
'Oh God, kidding!'
As we walk up to the front door it is opened by the South American
girl who is now in a dark green uniform. I wonder
if she has a different one for each time of the
day, or seasons of the year or just Marion's moods.
'Any messages, Anna Maria?' Marion asks her, throwing her Chanel
bag down on the settee. Anna Maria hands her some little cards which Marion flicks
through and hands back to her then she disappears.
'I'm going to have a brandy,' says Marion, walking over to the
drinks cabinet.
'Great,' I say. My heart is suddenly racing. This is it. She
is on for it after all. I've been watching her more closely since we came back.
She does have a pretty good figure and the food and wine have made me feel relaxed.
I realise that I'm entering the hinterland of horniness. She might be older but
she is gorgeous. She clatters around in the drinks cabinet and then comes back with
one glass and an envelope the same colour as the cards with the disregarded telephone
messages. 'Here you are,' she says giving me the signed credit card slip. 'I really
enjoyed it.' Enjoyed it? I haven't given it to you yet. 'I'll call you again,' she
says, kissing me on the cheek. 'Make sure the door's closed properly when you leave,'
she adds, looking down at a magazine, before picking it up and walking towards the
stairs.
Vinny yanks my arm to one side and tries to get his foot between
my legs.
'Piss ...off,' I hiss, sweat gathering on my forehead but he
just laughs and elbows his way in front of me. I fall across the work units and
he lands on top of me, sending an empty wine bottle and a pile of magazines slithering
onto the floor. We both pause in anguished silence for a moment but the wine bottle
doesn't break on the lino so I grab the back of Vinny's neck and then yank him away
by his arm. He gasps but doesn't let go. Instead he finally manages to get in between
my legs, lifts his foot and gives a good kick. There is a satisfying splat as the
ball hits the far wall of the kitchen.
'Y-e-e-e-e-s. Two one, two one, two one,' he sings above the
roar of the imaginary crowd and performs a mini lap of victory round the room. I
wait a moment before kicking it back into play. There is more banging from downstairs
and this time a shout of protest. Vinny pulls down the corners of his mouth and
winces. Then we both laugh.
'Sorry,' I shout half-heartedly. Seeing Vinny still listening
intently, I take my chance and boot the ball down the other end of the room. My
aim is perfect - it hits the window frame. A couple of inches either way and it
would have crashed straight through - again. That's the key to Indoor One Aside
Footy: precise ball control.
'Bastard. I wasn't ready,' says Vinny.
'Well you should have been, mate.' He looks despondently at me
and begins to walk away. But I know this one, so I move up field and get ready in
defence. Sure enough, he has turned the ball round with his toe and is lining it
up to score again. Except that I'm in the way. He smashes into me and tries to barge
past.
'Since when did this turn into rugby?' I ask.
'Since I got bored of football,' he says, picking up the ball.
We both have an equal grip on it and so I push my shoulder into
his chest. We struggle for a moment and suddenly Vinny stops moving and gives a
faint cry. The colour has drained from his face. His body goes limp. He swallows
with difficulty and then lets out a breath. I release the ball and look at him intensely.
'What's the matter?' But before I've even finished the sentence
he has rushed forward and placed the ball on the 'touch line' at the bottom of the
far wall.
'Bastard,' I say, trying to get it back again. The phone rings.
Still panting I crawl over to the table and answer it. 'Andrew?'
'Yeah?' I gasp, between breaths. 'You all right?'
'Yeah, sorry, I've been playing football.' I turn round and see
Vinny trying to spin the ball on his head. It immediately slips off onto the draining
board and takes a couple of saucepans and the colander with it. There is more banging
from downstairs. We both yell with laughter.
'Listen, she wants to see you again,' says the voice from the
phone. I sit down and wave at Vinny to shut up. 'She likes you, mate,' says Jonathan,
half proud, half jealous. 'When did you first see her? Two nights ago?'
'Er, yeah, that's right. Tuesday.'
'OK. Look, give her a ring now, she's at home. Well done, superstar.'
I can almost hear him wink down the phone. He gives me Marion's number again and
once I've got Vinny out of the kitchen I ring her. She asks if I'm free for lunch
the next day.
'Sure,' I say excitedly. Wrong answer. There is a pause. 'Don't
you want to check your schedule?' she asks.
'What?'
'To make sure you're free then.'
'Er, I know I'm free,' I say. 'Just had a cancellation, actually.'
Beautiful. But she laughs. 'Lucky me. Why don't you come to mine for a quarter of
one.'
I leave the office at 12.25pm - as late as I can. Friday is supposed
to be a quiet day in our office but somehow it never is.
'Where are you off to?' asks Sami, crossly.
'Colonic irrigation.'
'Urgh, Andrew, you are gross.'
'That's why you love me.'
Sami's expression changes. 'If you're going down there can you
see if they've got a packet from me, I'm expecting something,' she says seriously.
Either she has gone mad or Debbie, our martyr of a boss, is standing behind me.
I assume it's the latter.
'Yes, of course,' I say looking cross-eyed at Sami. I turn round
and sure enough Debbie is handing out some memos. I smile meekly and piss off.
It's grey and stormy outside but a cab comes along almost immediately
and I manage to grab it just before two senior suits from upstairs. Probably not
a good career move but frankly, I really don't care at the moment.
The cab gets to Marion's in ten minutes and shortly after that
I am sitting in the BMW with her. She is wearing a darkblue Chanel suit and carrying
a Prada handbag.
'Good morning at the office, dear?' she enquires sweetly. This
makes me laugh.
'Lovely.'
'I don't know how you do it. Sitting in a dreary room with all
those dreary people, waiting to get fired.'
I don't know whether to agree so she'll pity me and feel the
urge to take me away from all this etc. etc. or to show some youthful pride and
defend my dead-end job and my dead-end life. In the end I just say, 'Neither do
I.'
Which is probably nearer the truth.
The car sweeps up to Ciccone's in Mayfair. In one move the driver
leaps out and puts up an umbrella against the unrelenting rain. A split second later
he is opening the door to Marion. She seems mildly irritated - perhaps he wasn't
quick enough or perhaps there was too big a gap between umbrella and car. The driver
leads her to the door and comes round to pick me up. But, feeling slightly embarrassed
about sitting there like an old woman, I've already set off before he arrives. We
walk into each other like last night and this time both apologize gruffly.
When I get into the restaurant, soaked, the maitre d' is
sympathising with Marion about the awful British weather.
He is immaculately dressed in a heavy pinstripe, doublebreasted
suit and salmon-pink Hermes tie. He has whipped off the horn-rimmed half-glasses
which he was using to read the Herald Tribune and is now giving her his full attention.
'Angelo, this is Mr Collins,' she gestures towards me. Immediately Mr Ciccone gives
a slight bow and shakes my hand. I wonder if he is amused and intrigued by my presence
but, of course, he doesn't give anything away.