Sugar Mummy (14 page)

'No.'

'Travel will develop your horizons. You'll never see anything
of the world from that office window.'

'You're right.' Well, she is, I suppose, but I'm just glad no
one else can hear this ridiculous conversation. Look, she's taken me to Paris, so
agreeing with her is the least I can do. It's just good manners.

'I want you to see something of life,' she says solemnly. 'There's
a great big world out there and there is so much to learn. It will be a great education
for you.'

'I hope so,' I say truthfully.

She lies on the bed while I watch Eurosport and MTV on the telly
in the living room. Some guy speaking American English with a German accent is jigging
up and down and trying to convince us he's having a good time while he introduces
the next act: a Danish heavy metal band called DStrukt. I put my feet up on the
settee, take a swig of beer, throw some peanuts up in the air and try and catch
them in my mouth. Then I start on the chocolates they have left us.

After a while I get bored and decide to venture out - after all,
the hotel may be great but we are in Paris, aren't we? Seems a shame to waste it.
I tiptoe into the bedroom to see if Marion is awake. She is still lying motionless
on the bed, arms held rigidly by her sides. She must be asleep. I'll write a note
- besides, I won't be long, just a walk around, buy a postcard or two. Just as I
close the door she asks, 'What are you doing?'

'Er, I was just going to go out.'

'We'll have to get ready for dinner soon. I don't think you have
time.' Oh, come on - it'll only take me a minute to change - if I bother to change
at all. 'Just for a quick walk.'

'OK. There's money in my purse - just go down to the lobby and
change it. Get me a magazine and some aspirin.'

'Oh, all right.'

I take thirty Euros from the wad in her handbag, guessing at
how much is there altogether and slip out. The corridor is silent, airless and dimly
lit. The carpet is thick and the silence almost suffocating. I wonder what is going
on behind these other doors. Other people lying in the bath, on the bed, with prostitutes,
reading glossy magazines full of things they can buy without checking their bank
accounts. Relaxing. Doing the things rich people do. I buy American Vogue and Anadin
Extra for her and a Vogue Hommes for me plus some funky 'Hollywood' chewing gum
which I can show off with at home.

Then I go outside for a walk around and it hits me that I am
in Paris. Yippee! I am in bloody Paris! So far I could have been anywhere - the
plane, the hotel and the car in between them have been just nondescript international
luxury - the same as London. Funny how rich people, even the ones who travel a lot,
pay to make sure they only have minimum contact with any of the places they visit.
On the other hand, perhaps that's the point of business-class travel and five-star
hotels.

But now I really am in Paris and as I look around I see Paris
and people wandering about being French; doing ordinary things with that serious,
stylish intensity. A young man, my age, carrying some fairy-tale boxes of patisserie
home with him, another frowning and slouched at a cafe table, reflecting on his
wasted life or considering the meaning of it all. Two young professional women walking
quickly down the street towards me, dressed to kill, smoking seriously and locked
in an indignant, passionate debate.

I wander along the rue de Rivoli for a while, breathing in the
atmosphere, letting it sink in that I have got this far and then I turn off and
walk slowly past the Palais Royale, along the Rue St Honore back to the hotel, stopping
off on the way to buy some tiny strawberries because they look so good in their
little wicker baskets.

Lying in the bath, I can hear Marion in the other room on the
phone to a friend.

'Oh, poor you,' she is saying. 'Oh you poor, poor thing. That
is so unfair.' I can tell that the news is cheering her greatly, even before she
puts her head round the bathroom door to check up on me and smile. Then she rolls
her eyes and goes back into the living room, continuing her sympathetic nmses.

I lie back under the sweet-smelling, frothy blanket and close
my eyes. I cannot remember ever using bath foam before. Limited budget, limited
time, limited imagination. I don't know. Like most things before I met Marion. I
massage my dick a bit until I get a lazy, half hard-on. Then I take a gulp of champagne,
pop a couple of tiny, sweet strawberries into my mouth and begin to laugh at the
whole ridiculous, fucking thing.

We eat at a restaurant on the Left Bank where, of course, the
maitre d' welcomes Marion like an old friend and she seems only mildly displeased
to see him. He gives us a table in the corner and we order vodka and tonics while
we decide what to eat. Putting on her glasses Marion looks down at the huge gold-embossed
menus.

'I'm just going to have seafood,' she says. 'Some oysters to
start with and then maybe some lobster. You should have this veal thing, it's their
specialty. Here, third one down.'

I look over at her menu to see what she is pointing at and notice
that, unlike mine, it has the prices. And what prices.

The waiters probably assume that this woman is taking her nephew
or godson out for a special dinner. Perhaps they think I'm working in Paris or studying
here. Or perhaps I'm not the first young man Marion has brought here.

I suppose the food is good. And there is plenty of business -
white gloves, lots of extra cutlery, people filling your glass after you've taken
a single sip - all the kind of things that Marion likes.

During the main course Marion asks how I can spend all my day
on the phone trying to sell things alongside all those other people. I explain tragically
that I have to because I've got to pay the rent. This leads onto how can you live
in Fulham. She drove through it once and it was full of people being sick all over
Fulham Broadway. I admit that it can be a bit rough on Saturday night.

'This was a Tuesday morning,' she says.

She goes on about do I want to spend my life renting a little
flat in Fulham? I should get on the property ladder. Real estate is the thing. 'Buy
land - they ain't making it anymore,' as some friend of her father used to say.

'You've never invited me to your place,' she says, taking a sip
of wine.

'Sorry?' I say, horrified.

She laughs at my reaction. 'I said I've never been to your apartment.'

Apartment? I wonder for a moment what kind of place Marion thinks
I live in.

'Would you really want to?'

'Sure, I'd love to come and meet your roommate.'

'Really?' I gasp in horror.

'Why not?' she says in an innocent, slightly hurt tone.

'He's usually out - being sick on the Broadway,' I explain sadly.

After dinner we walk a bit and then take a taxi back to the hotel.
The sex is good - we are both warmed and relaxed by the wine and the rich food.
As we lie in bed, Marion's head on my chest, she asks what I would like to do the
next day. The thought hasn't occurred to me, today has been so amazing. I tell her
that. I would quite like to go shopping and get some new clothes but I don't tell
her that. Meanwhile, she has reached down and found my dick again.

'Andrew, will you do something for me?'

'Er, yes, what is it?'

'I don't know why the British don't do it immediately like the
Americans.'

'Do what?' I ask.

'In America, it's automatic with all male babies.'

I don't want to admit to myself that I think I know what she
is talking about. Is she being serious?

'D-do what?' I ask again looking down at her awkwardly to see
if her face gives anything away.

'Oh, you know, get circumcised.'

'What?' I move up sharply and her head falls away from my chest.
She looks surprised and then props herself up on one elbow. I can see her face properly
now, she isn't joking.

'It's much cleaner, more aesthetically pleasing-'

'Marion, you are kidding, aren't you?'

'No. What's the big deal? Both my husbands were. All American
men are. You'll find it the most natural thing in the world. It's much more comfortable.'

'How would you know?'

'It's obvious,' she says lightly.

'Are you serious? You really think I'm going to - to ... cut
a bit of my dick off just because you'd prefer it.' I move further away from her
in the vast bed and find that my hand has automatically moved over my willy. Poor
bugger: it's got me this far, to Paris, in this hotel. I feel I owe it something.

'Well, it's up to you,' she says, idly rearranging her hair.

'But if you really cared, you'd-'

'What?' I gasp, getting out of bed. 'Marion, I can't believe
you're saying this. I've lived twenty-four years with it like this, I'm not changing
it now. Anyway, do you have any idea how painful it would be at my age?'

'It wouldn't last long and you'd soon feel the benefit.'

I look down at my dick which looks even more shrivelled and miserable
than it usually does after sex. Marion shrugs her shoulders and then gets up and
goes to the bathroom. As soon as she has gone and the bed has become neutral territory
I get into it again. I begin to realise that this is the deal. Yes, you can travel
to Paris and stay in a suite in one of the most beautiful hotels in the world. Yes,
you can eat in the one of the famous restaurants and you can probably have some
presents into the bargain but in return you have to lose a little bit of your manhood
- literally.

Marion comes back and immediately I go into bathroom. As I brush
my teeth I look at myself in the mirror and realise that I'll have to play for time
- she can't mean it really. I have a quick piss and then go back and get into bed
next to her. Staring up to the heavily moulded ceiling I say, 'I'll make some enquiries
when we get back to London.'

'Good boy,' she says, turning slightly to face me.

I roll over and try to go to sleep.

On Sunday we get up late, have breakfast in the room and then
go for a walk around the Marais which is the bit of Paris I know best. I'm glad
to be able to take the initiative for once. Marion says it's beautiful but complains
about the shops and when we find a little brasserie and have steak frites for lunch
she says it's too small and noisy. Never mind.

Monday night, after a day of shopping - for Marion - we arrive
back at hers. I am interested to see that it's just as depressing for the rich to
get back from a trip as ordinary people. The house feels cold and empty and so do
I.

Marion goes upstairs to change and I decide to make a cup of
tea. While the kettle boils I switch on the TV and watch the end of news and the
weather. Tuesday will be a typical grey, rainy June day. Then I click onto MTV and
watch some Israeli boy band. The thought of work depresses me so much I feel like
I've been punched in the stomach.

Marion calls from the living room, 'Andrew, would you come here
a minute.' She sounds formal and serious. I wonder for a moment if she is going
to 'chuck' me. I haven't been 'chucked' for years. Not since Helen. Well, at least
I got Paris. And the opportunity to keep my foreskin.

'Yes?' I say, as I come into the room.

'Come here.' She holds up a watch. 'Do you know what this is?'

'It's a watch, isn't it?' Oh my God! Oh my God! I hope I don't
sound too obvious.

'It's a Rolex. Twenty-two carat gold. And I want you to have
it. That watch you have on at the moment is just disgusting. Get rid of it. I want
you to wear this, OK'?'

'OK.' I feel a bit dizzy. This is it. Get that ice or else no
dice. Mark would be proud of me. Hang on, I can't wear it to work, someone is bound
to notice. So what if they do? Why not? Five-star hotel in Paris, Rolex watch. What
did you do this weekend, guys? Sainsbury's and the pub? This is what it's all about,
after all. 'It's beautiful,' I say.

'It is a beautiful timepiece,' she says and puts it back in its
box which is on the table next to her and then takes it back upstairs with her.
What the fuck is she doing? Where is she going? Can't I wear it? What do you mean?
Why are you taking it away from me? 'You can wear it next week when we go to Aspinalls
for dinner,' she says casually from upstairs.

At least I think that's what she says. I can't hear properly
because my head is in my hands.

The next morning I walk quickly into the office, sit down at
my desk without taking off my jacket, pick up the phone and dial the number of a
client. Any client. I wait and, of course, there is no answer. The ringing tone
is beginning to hypnotize me and my mind is wandering off when I hear Debbie's voice
behind me asking Sami to ask me to come into her office when I have finished on
the phone. Debbie knows that I am not speaking to anyone and I can hear her perfectly
well but it is part of her prickly, artificial politeness never to interrupt anyone
on the phone. That is the thing about Debbie: you don't actually dislike her for
anything in particular. It's just the fact she's Debbie.

There is no need for Sami to repeat Debbie's request. I've had
enough of this ringing tone anyway, so I put the phone down and follow her into
her office. As soon as I sit down I realise that this is a mistake, I should have
taken a moment to think and get my story straight.

'Where were you yesterday?' she asks, pressing some aspirins
out of a foil pack.

'I was away,' I say defiantly.

She throws the aspirins into her mouth and takes a sip of coffee.
'Yes, I know that. You were supposed to be here.'

I decide to go on the attack a bit. 'No I wasn't, I had the day
off, remember?'

'You didn't have the day off,' she says, obviously trying to
control her temper.

I know I am beaten but I try anyway. 'I did. Remember, I said
last week-'

'I said we'd see how it goes. I never said yes and you know it.'