Authors: Simon Brooke
'Well, they couldn't have a married James Bond, could they?'
'Why go through the whole ceremony, then? Or he could ask her
and she could say no.'
'How do you know so much about James Bond films anyway? You seen
them all?'
'Everyone’s seen them all. I just look at them more closely than
most people, think about them more.'
'He is a bastard,' I mutter admiringly.
Jane looks at me for a moment. 'Yeah, he is.'
Ironically after my excuse to Marion and, as it happens, very
conveniently for my battle-scarred conscience, I do end up seeing an old mate that
night. As I walk back down Tottenham Court Road, lost in thought about Jane and
how I break it to Marion, I literally bump into a guy I was at university with.
After an initial exchange of irritable muttering we recognise
each other.
'Fuckin' 'ell,' he says, by way of greeting.
'Jesus, long time no see,' I say in reply.
We end up in a pub round the corner. Pete mimes a drink. 'Oh,
cheers,' I say, aware I've got hardly any money at all. 'Pint of lager.'
He gets them in. The two girls at the bar look round at me. I
smile at them but then look round quickly to see where Pete is with the drinks.
I wish I could do the flirting thing better.
After the usual update of common friends, a discussion about
work and how crap our bosses are, shouted above the noise, we commandeer a newly
vacated table in a quieter corner and he asks me about my love life. I know he never
liked Helen. None of my friends did.
'You're well shot of that smug, dreary cow,' he told me once
when we met for a drink just after I'd split up with her. Then he looked at me,
frowning quizzically through an alcohol-fogged brain. 'You haven't married her,
have you?' On this occasion I find myself telling him all about Marion. Well, nearly
all. I tell him we met when she was buying tea in Fortnum & Mason.
'And you were shoplifting,' he suggests. My casually being in
Fortnum & Mason must sound a bit odd so I tell him I was buying a present for
my parents.
'And she's older, and rich?'
'Very rich,' I say.
'Kin' 'ell,' says Pete, thoughtfully.
I tell him, matter of factly, a bit about our trips and the restaurants
we go to. I want to reassure myself that I've been very lucky so far, that it might
just be worth hanging in there. "Kin 'ell, mate,' he says. 'You jammy bastard.'
I laugh at just how incredibly wrong he is. Then he says, 'How old is she? And what's
she like, you know, physically? It's not ...'
He mimes two grotesquely low-slung breasts. 'No, very good nick.'
'You're laughing, then.'
I am so not laughing. I tell him about Jane.
'So you're shagging the rich old one but you'd like to be shagging
the young one.'
'Yep.'
'Does the young one know about the other one, then?'
'She knows I'm sort of seeing someone else but she doesn't know
any more than that. I told her I wanted to finish it.'
'Then tell her you've finished it, see her when you want and
keep the old one going on the side. Want another?' He shakes an empty glass at me,
obviously abandoning the hope that I'll offer. Wish I could, Pete.
'But that's not really fair on either of them,' I say, desperately
playing devil's advocate. Come up with a good answer, Pete, please.
"Kin 'ell, mate, life's not fair,' says Pete, getting up.
I watch him push his way through to the bar, a young man in a middle-aged suit and
tie, the crushing burden of life, a man's life, weighing down on his already stooped
shoulders. Accepting his lot with unspoken, unthinking good grace. Poor sod.
I can't do that. I just can't.
We go for a Chinese which I manage to squeeze onto my one remaining
credit card and spend a couple of happy hours reminiscing about university and discussing
the meaning of life and whether you can have kid and live in London. We end up analysing
areas of London in which you could conceivably afford to live, followed by towns
and villages in the south east and relevant commuting distances as we try and identify
some urban nirvana which will give us a half decent lifestyle within our pathetic
budgets.
Afterwards, we walk down to Cambridge Circus and part there,
promising not to leave it so long next time. I manage to get a bus back home. I'd
really love a taxi but financially that is out of the question as the cash machine
confirms. 'Do you require another service?' it asks very helpfully, having denied
me any actual cash. Yes, I'd like to order a new cheque book and get home on that.
My eyes are closing and my head is lolling against the vibrating
window when, after a couple of stops two couples get on, clambering up the stairs
unsteadily, the girls squealing and falling about onto the men. Once they've decided
who is sitting where they continue the argument they've been having and then one
of the girls says to me, "Scuse me. Can I ask you something?'
The men start to shout her down but she persists. 'No, no, let's
ask him. He's another bloke, right? OK, if you were in a relationship, yeah? And
you met a girl in a bar and you really fancied her, no, no, let's just hear what
he thinks, OK? And you really fancied this girl and thought you were getting somewhere
with her, would you, you know, shag her and not feel, like, guilty?' The two men
start arguing again but she ignores them. 'Or would you do it and tell your girlfriend
and say you were really sorry?'
'It wasn't like that,' one of the men tells her but she keeps
looking at me expectantly.
'So, do I know the girl?' I ask, still half-asleep.
'No. Never met her before.' The others stop talking. 'Well, if
I didn't know her and I didn't think we'd ever meet again ...'
'There you go,' says one of the boys triumphantly.
'No, let him finish,' says the girl, willing me to say the right
thing.
'If I didn't think we'd ever meet again,' I say, thinking carefully,
'I'd go back to hers, but then when she was in the loo or making coffee or something
...'
'Yeah?' she says, beginning to smile and half-turning to one
of the boys.
'... I'd steal everything I could lay my hands on and get out
of there.'
The house is silent when I get back. Vinny must be in bed. I
was hoping he would still be up. Knackered though I am, I could do with a quick
game of One A Side Indoor Footy. Instead I fall into bed and finally get to sleep
after tossing and turning for what seems like hours.
Coming from someone so sensible and, well, ordinary, Pete's advice
seems pretty sound. And it was good to have a drink with Jane, a normal date with
a girl. Besides, I'm just going nowhere with Marion and Jane won't wait forever.
But then I remember Pete pushing his way through the crowd in
the pub, his life set out before him as if he were a rat in a maze. No way out.
No chance of winning. Perhaps I should just stick to my plan, even if it has been
modified to involve doing something in business to make some money, as Marion and
Charles and I were discussing that night. Be ruthless. Anything to avoid Pete's
fate. Yeah, there'll be other girls like Jane. If Jane and I got married we'd end
up living in a tiny flat until we could afford to move to a tiny house in Woking
and I'd commute until I was old enough to follow her round Sainsbury's and fuck
up the house, with unnecessary DIY.
Ruthless, Mark said. Ruthless or hopeless. Fuck it. I'll spend
a month with Marion and if she still doesn't give me something worth having, I'll
end it. After all, she'll find another bit of arm candy and I'll do something with
Charles or else find someone who will give me that tiny bit of their enormous pile
of cash that will allow me to avoid Pete's fate.
But I could never have a really relaxed evening or a boys' night
out like I had with Pete, for instance, if I was living with Marion, I realise,
spreading myself out under my own duvet. On the other hand, I won't get anything
serious from her unless I do move in.
My thoughts are running on ahead of me, all over the place, like
a yelping dog let off its lead in a park. I am finally being pulled down into unconsciousness
when the phone rings. There is nothing more unnerving than a phone echoing through
the house in the middle of the night. I consider ignoring it for a moment and then
decide to answer it, hoping it's not my mum or dad with bad news. More likely it's
Marion ringing to tell me to come over. Or never to come over again. I stumble into
the kitchen just as Vinny's door is opening.
'I'll get it,' I say to the silent darkness. I pick up the phone
and whisper, 'Hello.'
'Andrew?' says a man's voice urgently.
Scared, I say, 'Yeah. Who's that?'
'It's me, Jonathan.'
'Oh, right,' I say, squinting at the clock on the cooker. Quarter
to three.
'I haven't spoken to you for ages. How are you?' Jonathan says
casually.
'Well, I'm asleep, since you ask.'
'Yeah, sorry about that. Listen, I've got a great job for you.
Really easy and just round the corner from you in Chelsea.'
'What? Now?' I remember the sheer horror of the poor little rich
girl a few weeks ago.
'Yep,' Jonathan gives a desperate little laugh. 'This is the
time people feel like it.' Feel like what? Talking? I certainly don't. I fold my
arms, the phone clamped under my chin and my eyes closed. I can almost sense already
how awful I am going to feel tomorrow morning.
'Jonathan, I'm really sorry, I've got work tomorrow. I'm so tired-'
'Five hundred quid, Andrew,' he almost sings.
'What?'
'I said five hundred quid - and it's in cash this time. Still
feeling tired?' he asks. I'm feeling dead to the world but five hundred quid is
five hundred quid. In cash, too.
'Why cash?'
'Regular client, we have an arrangement.'
I think about it for a moment. 'What do I have to do?'
Jonathan's voice changes back to its old self. 'Well,' he says
gently, like a careers master, 'the client's an old guy-'
'An old guy? Oh no-'
'Don't worry, there's a girl there too. He lives in Chelsea,
just off Sloane Avenue, take you ten minutes this time of night in a cab, and the
girl he's got there is called, er ...' I can hear him check a piece of paper. 'Vivienne.
And he just wants to watch you and Vivienne, you know, mess around together.'
'Mess around together?'
Jonathan's voice changes again, 'Yeah, play Scrabble! What do
you think?'
Still half-asleep I take a moment to consider what he is saying.
'But when we met you said, sex wasn't-'
I hear Jonathan mutter 'Jesus' under his breath. Then he hisses,
'Who gives a fuck what I said back then? What are you? A fucking choir boy? Do you
wanna earn five hundred quid tonight - cash - or not?'
I can't believe this is the same guy with the ready smile and
the floppy hair I met a few weeks ago in his Fulham flat.
'OK, OK.' I think quickly, wide awake now. This is prostitution,
isn't it? I'm going to be a rent boy. Like Mark. But five hundred quid. Cash. More
than I have got out of Marion, more than a week's salary. Oh, what the fuck! Just
mess around. I can do that. Whatever it means. Never mind, play it by ear. Can't
be that bad. Despite my conversation with Mark, part of me always knew that this
was coming. It's a fine line which I was never going to cross. But five hundred
quid. I guess I have my price. 'What's the address?'
'Good boy,' coos Jonathan. He gives it to me, tells me to get
going and rings off. I press the button down and then call a cab. I put on some
clean underpants, my jeans and a T-shirt and go outside to wait for it.
After about ten minutes I notice a silver Skoda drawing up, the
driver peering out to check the house number. I jerk my head at him. Who else would
be hanging around outside at this time of night? The car is warm and stuffy and
sweet-smelling. I'm glad of the heat because for some reason I'm shivering. I slide
into the furry passenger seat and say, 'Hi.' 'Hi,' says the driver uncomfortably.
I give him the address and we speed off. I'm trying to work out a story in case
he asks where the hell I am going at this time of night but he just turns up the
radio - some Greek station - and stares straight ahead. Above the overflowing ashtray,
next to the 'No Smoking' sign are two pictures, a pretty girl taken at a party and
a fuzzy picture of a baby in its cot. Around them hangs a chain with a tiny gold
St Christopher.
We find the mews easily and crawl along it until we come to the
right house. I push a five-pound note into his hand and say thanks. He says nothing
and begins to reverse slowly over the cobbles. I ring the door bell. There is a
pause and I panic for a moment that Jonathan has given me the wrong address. embarrassing
to wake someone up at this time of night - especially around here. They'd probably
ring the police, I'd get arrested and have to try and explain what I am doing. Name,
address and phone number. Vinny answering the phone and wondering what the hell
is going on ... Bolts are being drawn and the door is opened on a chain. A girl
with blonde hair piled messily up high and a lot of makeup looks up at me menacingly.
'Oh, excuse me-' She slams the door in my face. Oh fuck. I turn
to see if the mini cab is still here but then the door opens again, wider this time,
and the girl stands back for me to enter. Despite feeling tired, ill and suddenly
very nervous, I walk in, smile and say hello the way I have done before, the way
I think Jonathan would expect me to.
'Didn't they tell you to leave taxi at top o' t'mews,' she snaps
in a thick Yorkshire accent. 'Er, no.'
She tuts.
'Got any drugs?' she says leading me through a small white and
gold marbled hallway into an even tinier kitchen. I can see that her dress is only
half zipped up at the back.