Sugar Mummy (3 page)

I shout 'Hi' and Vinny shouts back. I look into the living room
where he is watching telly in Couch Position A (sitting hunched over what my mum
would call an 'occasional table' eating something from a foil container). Later
he will be in Couch Position B (lying down and farting).

'Jesus, what a smell. What the hell are you eating?'

'Chicken tikka lasagne with Thai dumplings. Want some?' he asks
with mock enthusiasm. 'Urgh. What are you watching?'

'Foreign film.'

'Bit intellectual for you.'

'Yeah, but there's a strong chance of a bit of tit later on.'

'Oh, OK. Give us a shout.'

'I don't think you'll be around, though, your friend Jonathan
rang just before you came in. Looks like another job, stud.'

My heart leaps. 'When did he ring?'

'I told you, just before you came in,' says Vinny with his mouth
full, and adds in a remarkably accurate imitation of Jonathan's impeccable, strangled
Home Counties vowels: 'Have him call me as soon as he gets home.'

I ring Jonathan and he snaps, 'Where have you been?'

'Er, work. Can't give up my day job yet.' What was supposed to
be friendly sounds sarcastic.

'What about your mobile?

‘It's off. We have a rule about switching them off in the office
and I haven't turned it on again-'

'She's very impatient, quite rude, actually,' says Jonathan,
ignoring me. 'Thing is, I sold you hard to her and then I couldn't get hold of you.
Bit embarrassing. I was going to try one of the older guys but she definitely wants
someone your age.' He pauses. 'Sorry, mate. Bloody clients! Let me call her again
and I'll come back to you.' He hangs up.

I start to put my shopping away, telling myself that I'll probably
be at home this evening after all. The phone rings again and I drop a pack of cherry
tomatoes which explodes like a cluster bomb on the floor. Jonathan starts talking
immediately, 'Chat her up a bit. She should be all right. Just a bit pissed off
at being kept waiting. Started asking me what kind of outfit I'm running here. Fucking
nerve. Anyway, give her a call.' He gives me the number.

I put the phone down and close the kitchen door. Taking a deep
breath I dial the number. It is engaged. Fuck! That's it. Two hundred quid out of
the window. She's organizing something else. Jonathan will be furious. Fucked up
on only my second date.

I pick a cherry tomato off the floor and try once more.

Engaged again. I switch on the oven to convince myself that I
really have given up and am ready for an evening in with Chris Tarrant and Vinny's
gut-wrenching flatulence. Then I try again and it rings only once before it is answered.
A slightly husky American voice says, 'Yes?'

'Hello. It's Andrew from the agency,' I say too quickly.

Cool or what?

There is a pause and then the voice says, 'Ah! Hello, Andrew
from the agency. About time too!'

'Sorry, I've been out.'

'So that asshole of a boss of yours said.'

I laugh nervously.

'Well, look, Andrew - you're English, right?'

'Yep.'

'OK. Look, Andrew, the thing is I just want to go out tonight
and relax a little.'

'Sure,' I say, glad to get onto familiar territory.

'I've had one holy shit of a day and I just need to unwind, OK?'

'OK.'

'I'm going to make a reservation for about nine o'clock so you
had better be here by eight-thirty at the latest.'

'Great.'

'OK.' She hangs up. I'm about to call a mini cab when I realise
that I don't know where I am going.

I press redial. 'Yes?'

'Hi,' I snigger ridiculously. 'Er, where are you?'

'I'm at home.'

I laugh again. 'Yeah, of course, but where is home? The agency
didn't give me your address,' I start explaining but suddenly she has said it and
I've missed it. 'Sorry? I didn't catch that.'

She sighs and repeats an address in Belgravia with exaggerated
clarity, adding, 'Now hurry up.'

It takes me less than five minutes to get ready but the cab is
late and I am just abusing the guy at the car company when the door bell goes.

'I won't wait up, my little studling,' sniggers Vinny, now in
Couch Position B.

The taxi drops me at the entrance to a quiet mews near Eaton
Square. Her house is painted white and pink. There are blue flowers in the immaculate
little window boxes. A Wendy House probably worth over a few of million pounds of
real money. I push the bell and a moment later a tiny South American woman in a
pink and white striped uniform opens the door suspiciously.

'Hi, I've come to see-' Who have I come to see? What's her fucking
name? Jonathan was in such a panic he never told me. '-er, the lady who lives here.
An American lady.' But the maid jerks her head knowingly and opens the door wider
to let me in. Inside, the house smells of scented candles and flowers. It is mostly
cream and white with a few touches of gold. On little tables and along the mantelpiece
are silverframed photographs sprouting like mushrooms on a forest floor. There
is a huge crystal vase overflowing with white lilies on a glass coffee table. The
settees around it are piled high with fat cream and gold cushions. I notice that,
like my first client's living room, the chairs face each other rather than the telly
like in normal people's living rooms. This is how posh people must do it. The South
American girl is saying something to me.

'Sorry?'

She gives a small laugh. 'I say, would you like drink something?'

'Er, yeah. I'll have a Scotch with ice,' I say, remembering that
it seemed to work with my first date.

She moves over to what looks like a bookcase but the books are
false and behind them is an array of bottles and cellophane-thin cut crystal glasses
with gold rims. She makes my drink while I look round again and sit down, trying
to mount a cushion in a dignified and manly way. She gives me my Scotch and I say,
'Thank you.' She looks at me for a moment and then her big mouth breaks into a wide
grin and she turns round and almost runs out of the room.

I take a mouthful of Scotch to calm my nerves and carry on looking
around, taking in this opulence. Then I hear someone coming downstairs. I stand
up and turn to see a tall slim woman in a simple, mustard-coloured dress walk into
the room. She is fiddling with an earring so I can't see her face properly as she
eyes me up and down but she has a tan and an enormous wave of perfectly sculpted
dark blonde hair.

'Got a drink, then?' she says.

'Yes, thank you,' I say like a well behaved seven-year-old staying
at a friend's house for tea. Hang on, is she being sarcastic?

I'm just about to ask what she wants when she says, 'Fix me a
Manhattan, will you?'

A what? Oh shit! What's that?

'On second thoughts make it a vodka tonic. Oh! These goddamn
earrings. You need surgery to get them in.'

Deciding that earrings are women's things and best left to her
I poke around in the drinks cabinet and make her drink, adding lots of ice because
I know Americans like it that way.

When I turn round she has won her battle with the earrings and
is looking me up and down again. She has a sharp, lined face but it's still very
pretty - slim nose, large dark eyes and a full-lipped, sensual mouth. She must have
been gorgeous twenty years ago. Perhaps thirty. She takes the drink from me, still
checking me out.

'Chin-chin.' She wanders off around the room, moving a photograph
frame imperceptibly and touching her earring again with her fingers. 'You said you're
English, right?'

'Yeah, that's right.' I try a smile but I'm too nervous. My face
sort of cracks.

'You don't look English.' She sounds like she thinks she's being
cheated.

'I'll take that as a compliment.'

She ignores my pathetic joke. 'From London?'

'Near it, do you know Reading?' I say and immediately realise
that she obviously doesn't know anywhere outside SW1.

'Reading? Never heard of it. Where is it?'

'Sort of west of London.'

'What's your last name?'

'Collins. Sorry, I've just realised I don't know yours.'

'I'm Marion,' she says quickly. Is she annoyed by my impertinence?
She moves over to one of the settees and sits down, folding one leg up behind the
other on the cushion and stirring the ice in her drink with a long, slim finger.
'So, Mr Andrew Collins of Reading, siddown. What do you feel like doing tonight?'

'I don't mind, it's up to you.'

She pauses, still looking at me. Is she smiling? 'I hope you
like Italian.'

'Love it,' I say, beginning to feel a bit more confident.

'You love it. That's good. We're going to a little restaurant
in Knightsbridge called Scarafinos. Do you know it?'

'Ermm ...' OK, any decent Man About Town would know it, know
the manager and know which is the best table and be able to get it if she wanted
it. I don't. I can't. OK, I'm crap. I'm about to say something like 'I think so'
when she says, 'Obviously not.'

I decide to go on the front foot with this one. 'I'm sure it's
great. There are so many restaurants in London, you can't know them all.'

She puts her head on one side. 'No. That's true.' She looks at
me for a moment. 'Perhaps you'd prefer to go somewhere else. What's your favourite
restaurant in this neighbourhood?'

Oh, fuck. My mind goes blank. Quick, quick. Along Knightsbridge
- it's all a blur. King's Road, erm. Pizza Hut. Yep, just her sort of place. She
has already picked up the phone. 'I'll cancel Scarafino's if you want and we can
go someplace else.'

'No, no. Scarafino's is fine with me.'

'Good.' We look at each other for a moment 'I like it.'

'Where are you from in the States?' I say, my voice shaking slightly
as nerves suddenly grip me. She ignores me.

'Been doing this for long, Andrew?' My stomach begins to tighten.
This is not how it's supposed to be. I'm supposed to have charmed her, made her
laugh, listed a variety of smart restaurants within a few minutes' drive and persuaded
the receptionist at the one she has chosen that since it's me, yes, they do have
a table. Instead ... well, I think I'll just go home. I hold her stare a moment
and decide to brazen it out. After all, I've got nothing to lose - except £200 and
any remaining shred of dignity.

'Not long. In fact, you're only the second woman ...client ...
I've seen.' Obviously impressed by my candour, she nods slowly.

'Good. Lucky me.'

I smile. Then I find myself pushing it further and saying, 'What
about you? Do you do this often?'

Now it's her turn to be slightly wrong-footed but, of course,
she regains her composure almost immediately. She looks away for a moment as she
puts her drink down. 'No,' she says slowly. 'No, I don't. It's just that all my
friends are out of town or busy tonight and someone gave me Jonathan's number. Back
home in New York I've engaged a couple of ... walkers, as we call them in the States,
and I find them, I find it very relaxing. It's a great way to unwind after a tiring
day. When you have money but limited time you can spend it on things like this.
I mean it's quite natural to spend it in this way.'

She looks at me as if to say touché. She has acquitted herself
very nicely.

'Makes sense,' I say. I wonder whether to ask if she always likes
her walkers to be twenty, thirty years younger than her but I decide that really
would be pushing it a bit. She stands and takes a final slip of her vodka tonic.

'Drink up, Andrew, I think the car is here.'

A huge black BMW is sitting outside. A chauffeur opens the door
for her and she gets in without saying a word. He comes round to open my door but
I have done it anyway so I say 'Sorry'. He smiles. Then he gets in as well.

'It's Scarafino's,' murmurs Marion, looking at her lips in her
compact.

'Yes, madam,' says the guy who I realise is just a bit older
than me. It only takes a few minutes, which is a shame really, because riding in
that huge, soft air-conditioned car is pure sex. Driving it would be even better.

The manager at the restaurant is delighted to see Marion and
bows for some reason. She acts as if it is the least he can do, as if he's promised
her something and let her down.

'How are you, Mario?' she asks.

'Oh, no so badder, you know whe' you get my age.'

'Mario is a grandfather and still working,' Marion tells me,
as if nothing could bore her more.

'Oh, congratulations,' is all I can think of to say. 'Congratulations'?
What the hell am I on about? Fortunately they ignore this weird comment and as a
young girl takes her coat from her Marion says, 'Mario, this is Mr Coleman. Coleman?
Is that right?'

'Collins. Hello, nice to meet you.'

'Good evening, welcome,' says Mario, warmly. We shake hands firmly.
I am obviously the only one who is embarrassed. The waiter, who has been standing
behind the maitre d' takes us to a little table in the corner of the room which
must be one of the best in the restaurant. Probably 'her table'.

The place is kitted out in royal blue with white chairs and a
black and white tiled floor. I begin to feel scruffy - my clothes are quite smart,
I suppose, but they sort of look like they have been worn before. Everyone else
looks like theirs have just been taken off the rack. Or hand-made earlier that day.
Also, unlike me, everyone else looks tanned and foreign.

And rich.

'What would you like to drink?' Marion asks as she looks across
the restaurant. I look back to see another waiter, standing by our table nervously.

'Scotch with ice?' I suggest to him.

'A Manhattan,' says Marion. 'Mario knows how I like it.' The
waiter disappears and there is a pause. I begin to feel quite proud to be in this
smart restaurant with a beautiful older woman. And she is beautiful with her
large eyes, flawless skin and that look of contemptuous elegance. Just then she
finishes scanning the room and suddenly I panic that I am not earning my money.
She does look beautiful – but bored.