Authors: Simon Brooke
Finally our main course arrives so the guy says goodbye and goes
back to his own table, stopping for a bit of gladhanding on the way.
'Dear old Auntie David,' sighs Channing, 'she's such a dizzy
queen.' I nod in agreement, which makes Channing laugh. 'Don't you think?' he asks.
Whatever you say, mate.
As we get up to leave, just before midnight, I realise that I
am actually pretty pissed but I am still aware of being observed by the waiters,
the girl who gives Channing his coat, and the door man. I quite enjoy this experience
when I'm with Marion, people guessing what the score is, but with Channing it is
just plain embarrassing.
We step outside. While the car moves down the street towards
us, Channing notices two girls in the street examine a lipstick, and then each use
it, puckering their lips up at each other.
'Don't share lipsticks, girls, you could catch gonorrhoea,' he
tells them as he gets into the car. They look at each other in disbelief and then
burst out laughing. I just can't think of anything to say so I smile meekly as if
to endorse Channing's unusual healthcare advice and then follow him into the car
as soon as I can.
The journey back to his house is quite uneventful apart from
Channing opening his window when we stop at traffic lights and shouting 'Cute ass'
at a policeman.
'Nightcap?' he asks, dropping his coat on the settee back at
his place.
'No thanks, I'd better be going in a minute,' I say, suddenly
overcome with tiredness and alcohol.
'No problem,' he says, pouring himself one. 'Siddown.'
'Don't mind if I do,' I say groggily.
What happens next is something of a blur. I slump down on the
settee and put my feet up on the arm. Not the best of manners, Marion would have
been furious, but she isn't there, is she? I am just thinking I should drag myself
up and make a move when I feel a strange stirring in my crotch which is, well, not
all of my own making. I open my eyes, Channing is standing over me, a drink in one
hand, the other very gently unzipping my fly.
'Oh, get off,' I groan, more in irritation than in shock. I push
his hand away and swing my legs round to get up. My head is swimming and I can hardly
even guide it into my hands. I nearly stab myself in the eye with my thumb. How
much have I drunk this evening?
'Just trying to find out exactly what Marion does see in you,'
smiles Channing, walking back across the room. 'It's certainly not your conversation.'
'I've - I've got to go,' I say, getting up.
'Wasn't that part of the deal tonight?' I hear him say.
'No,' I say, feeling that I should make something more of it,
be a bit angry and threaten to punch him or something, except that I just can't
be bothered. Let alone aim. Why the hell had I lain down on the settee in the first
place? I can't really blame him for getting the wrong idea.
'Oh, I'm sorry, but quite a few of Marion's other boys have been,
you know, more than happy to oblige.'
'Well, I'm not.'
'Never mind. It's just a little game Marion and I have.'
'A little game?' I ask, putting my head between my legs for a
moment.
'Oh, you know, share and share alike. Brother and sister.'
He knocks back his drink and goes to get another. 'You're disgusting.'
He laughs. 'Oh don't be so upset. Let's face it, if I offered
you enough money, you'd do it.'
'Oh, fuck off.'
He laughs again. 'Oh, Andrew,' he says quietly, 'where do you
get off with this high and mighty stuff? What have I offended? Your honour? Your
machismo? Your great British pride? Come on, you're sleeping with Marion to get
what you can out of her. I don't have any quarrel with that. I've done the same
thing myself,' he says, pausing for effect. 'That's what people do when they are
young. You see all this luxury, this ... opulence-' he gestures round the room '-and
you want a piece of it. OK, that's understandable, but don't get so upset and give
me all that English gentleman bullshit when someone comes on to you. I don't really
fancy you anyway,' he says putting his head on one side and looking me up and down
again, 'quite nice buns but I prefer shorter hair and bigger tits.'
Pleased with this final comment he turns to get another drink.
'Thanks,' I say, not sure whether to be angry or not. I can't
be bothered to come up with a witty put-down.
'I've really enjoyed this evening,' he says with wide-eyed sincerity,
leaning against the fireplace. 'The driver will take you home if you want.'
'Don't worry, I'll walk.'
'No problem,' says Channing graciously. 'Oh, here.' He reaches
into his jacket, takes out a Louis Vuitton wallet, opens it and pulls out a note,
snapping it in his fingers to check that there is just one. It's a fifty. 'Go on.
Take it. For your taxi.' We both know I don't need fifty to get home and that no
cab driver would even change one.
I look at it for a moment, planning a proud, defiant gesture
but I'm too tired and drunk - and poor. So, like a man in a dream, I reach out and
take it.
I walk quite a long way to try and clear my head. Did I take
that money for letting him take me to dinner or just for a taxi home? Or because
he's got lots of it and I haven't any and it seems only fair? Or did I take it because
I let him have a quick grope? I think what he enjoyed about touching me up was less
to do with sexual gratification and more to do with just casually insulting me.
I shudder at the thought and turn to look at my reflection in a shop window. My
face, a ghostly apparition amongst the expensive black suits on display, appears
older and thinner than it did a few weeks ago.
Or did I just take that fifty because I'm used to taking cash
from people now without even thinking about it?
I don’t ring Marion on Sunday, just to make the point but when
I get back from buying the papers and some bread there's a message from her on the
machine telling me that she is unable to see me tonight because some old friends
are in town and she has arranged to take them to Wiltons in Jermyn Street. She will
call me tomorrow.
She sounds like she is talking to an idiot.
Perhaps she is.
I am actually quite relieved. Rolex aside (and it now seems to
smell of Channing's aftershave, like my hair and all my clothes), I'm pretty pissed
off with her at the moment. I'm also absolutely knackered: the prospect of a quiet
evening in on my own without meeting new people, going to new places and having
to rise to the challenge of yet more artificial social intercourse is very welcome.
Having mooched around all day, at about six I go and take a cold Rolling Rock out
of the fridge, find the controller down the side of the settee and put the telly
on.
It's not just my exhausting social life - the tension in the
office has worn me out too. Avoiding Debbie, judging her mood whenever I have to
talk to her, thinking up skives for the next few days and rehearsing my arguments
for the rows we're going to have is more tiring than working.
It's not even like I've got much cash to show for it. It's all
very well having Marion pay for everything and I am grateful to her, but it means
that she's always involved and always calling the shots. The idea was for me to
have money to spend as I want to. Being Marion's lap dog is harder than working
for a living.
Making a mental note to ring Jonathan first thing Monday morning,
I am almost nodding off in front of the early evening news, when I hear Vinny's
key in the lock.
'All right?' says Vinny, falling into the living room.
'Hiya,' I say unenthusiastically
and sink further down into the armchair - not difficult since it only has one spring
left. Never one to take a hint, he ploughs on. 'What's this?' he asks, gawping at
the telly, hands on hips.
'Nothing,' I say and switch over. Upstairs the loo flushes and
a moment later, Jane bursts in.
'Oh, hiya,' she says, slightly surprised to see me.
'Hi,' I say, sitting up a bit. 'How are you?'
'Fine. How are you?'
'I'm all right.' I wonder whether to stand up then decide against
it. She looks at Vinny so I look back at the telly. Vinny starts to say something
about what we're watching so I switch over again.
'Shall I give them a call, then?' asks Jane excitedly.
'Yeah, the phone's in the kitchen,' says Vinny, collapsing onto
the settee and staring at the box. Jane is still buzzing for some reason. 'All right
then, Libby, Vicky, Seth ... Paul?'
'OK,' says Vinny. Jane leaps out of the room, saying she'll put
the kettle on.
'What's happening?' I mutter.
'Er, we're off to the pub. Wanna come?'
I think about it for a moment. It would be good to see Jane again
but I'm just not in the mood. 'No thanks.' But somehow I end up coming with them.
The others arrive pretty quickly after Jane has summoned them,
and so the six of us - me, Jane, Vinny, a grungy student called Seth who introduces
himself as a musician, his drabby girlfriend Libby, and Vicky, a rather sexy Australian,
walk to the pub in a ragged crocodile. Once inside Jane grabs a table in a corner
by the cigarette machine. Five of us slide round onto the bench seat and Vinny finds
a stool. It's a while since I've been in a pub. I savour the warm, musty smell for
a moment. The thick fog of voices and thump of music from the jukebox is punctuated
by electronic squawks and bleeps from the games machines and the till. Two fat blokes
in Tshirts and tracksuit bottoms leaning over the bar look round contemptuously
at us but then return to their half-drunk pints and carry on mumbling irritably
at each other. It feels good to be doing something ordinary, something familiar.
Jane puts her hands on the table, and looks round, making a joke
about a Ouija board. We all laugh. Then she starts talking finance. I have forgotten
the financial negotiations involved at the start of a group pub visit on a limited
budget. Jane has elected herself chairperson of the board. There is a discussion
about rounds or a kitty. We vote on it with me abstaining. The kitty proposal is
passed by the board but Jane is not pleased.
'You haven't voted,' she says accusingly.
'That's because, I don't mind what we do,' I say.
'Loadsa dosh,' says Vinny, 'he'll just put it on his Gold Amex.'
They laugh and I have mock hysterics. Actually, I am seized with
panic that Vinny will tell her about Marion and my new 'job'. I shoot him a look.
He smiles goofily - is the bastard just playing with me? God, I'll foul him so badly
in the next round of Indoor One A Side Footy.
'Right,' says Jane, 'five quid each should see us through. Everyone
give me five quid.' People obey, unzipping leather jackets and pulling notes from
the back pockets of their jeans. There is some discussion between Libby and Seth
and finally she puts a tenner into the middle of the table, explaining that this
is for both of them. Jane takes it matter of factly but I notice her exchange a
little look with Vicky.
It occurs to me that that's the fun of going out with a group
of people you don't know, it's like eavesdropping on a conversation on a bus - you
get the entertainment and intrigue without any of the obligations that come with
having to contribute. There is no need to get involved in tensions and disputes
since Vicky and Jane are obviously full of righteous indignation that Seth the slob
was taking Libby, who seems a bit wet, for a ride.
I lift my bum off the seat a bit and feel in my jeans for the
notes I stuffed into them as we went out. I take out a fiver and chuck it onto the
table with the rest. Except that it isn't a fiver. It's a fifty. The one Channing
gave me. Jane picks it up slowly just to check and then puts it back disdainfully.
The others look on amazed. Vinny breaks the silence. 'See?' he laughs. 'Drinks on
you tonight, Andrew, mine's a pint - of Bollinger, that is.'
'Sorry,' I say, embarrassed,
and snatch it back. 'Here, I've got a ten if you've got change, Jane.'
'Never seen one of those come out of the cashpoint,' she says
quietly as she gives me my change.
'Oh, Andrew doesn't use the cashpoint,' says Vinny.
'OK, Vinny,' I say quietly. But that makes it worse. I realise
I should have let him run on until everyone got bored with him as they undoubtedly
would. Jane and Vicky go up to the bar with our order. I know they are talking about
me because out of the corner of my eye I see Vicky look round at me. To change the
subject I ask Seth about his band.
'Yeah,' he says, nodding. His dreadlocks make him look like a
burst mattress with its stuffing sticking out. There is a pause as he waits for
me to interview him about it. What the hell am I doing with these people?
'What's it called?' I ask at last.
Libby, who I notice is now hugging his right arm, and wearing
a T-shirt which says 'Why Should I Tidy My Room When the World is Such a Mess?',
answers for him: 'It's called the Leisure Complex. They used to be called the Consumers,
that was my idea, but Seth felt it sounded too flippant.'
'Oh, right. You don't want to sound flippant,' I say.
'Not too flippant, anyway,' adds Vinny for good measure.
'Oh no, people might accuse you of being, you know, jejune or
something.'
'I'd hate to be thought jejune,' I say, shaking my head and playing
with a beer mat.
'No,' agrees Libby, not sure whether we are taking the piss.
She turns her gentle, trusting eyes on Seth for some support.
He just carries on nodding, either in agreement, or to the beat of the juke box
or because that's what Neanderthals do.
'What kind of music is it?' I ask.
'Erm,' says Libby, looking up at the brim of the ridiculous hat
she is wearing as if trying to find the words to adequately describe Seth's output.