The Penultimate Chance Saloon (13 page)

Whoever the man was, he certainly got around a bit.

... and, by way of contrast,

a man in Powys who thought

he had been conducting a secret affair

for twelve years was disappointed to find out

that his local nickname was Jones the Adulterer'
.

‘I'm still right. You're angry about what Andrea did to you. I've just read this book called
Revenge: Relationship as a Blunt Instrument.
It divides men up into categories. You're a classic “Rebound Wrecker”.'

‘Except, Sal, what am I wrecking?'

‘The feelings of all these women you're bonking.'

‘For heaven's sake. I'm not hurting them. I'm being very nice to them, and they like it. None of them is any keener to have a sustained relationship than I am.'

‘No? I've just read this book called
Sex Objections: 101 Legitimate Reasons for Women to Refuse Sex
–'

‘But they're
not
refusing sex – that's the whole point. Nothing happens that isn't consensual.'

‘Bill, Bill...' said Sal patiently, ‘will you allow me to finish? I was about to say that in this book it says that the worst offence in relationships is to forget that the other person is a human being.

Even in the current state of feminist thinking, there is nothing more demeaning for a woman than to be used as a sex object.'

‘I do not use them as sex objects!'

That had come out rather louder than he intended, and turned a few heads in the Turkish restaurant. Fortunately, though, most of the lunchers there were Turkish (a tribute to the place's authenticity), and had no idea what he meant.

Bill was still in a state of shock at Sal's revelation that she knew about his recent phase of promiscuity. Obviously, she had known about Maria, who had, as it were, started his balls rolling, but Sal appeared to know there had been others too. How? Come to that, if she did know what he was up to, why hadn't she mentioned it before?

Still, the how-did-she-know question was more important. He'd tackled her directly about it the first time she described him as ‘a naughty boy'.

‘One hears things, Bill.'

‘That's not very helpful.'

‘Look, I'm your agent. I make it my business to know about what my clients get up to.'

‘Like how?'

‘Okay, after you've done a gig, the organisers sometimes ring up to say that it went well.'

‘Oh.' He felt rather gratified.

‘More often, though, they don't ring.'

‘Ah.' He felt less gratified.

‘So I give them a call, just to see that, like, there weren't any disasters.'

‘And do they often report disasters?' he asked, alarmed.

‘No, no, no. Most of the time they're very happy with you. The fact that they don't ring means nothing's gone wrong. God, if there had been a disaster, I'd hear soon enough.'

He was sidetracked by curiosity. ‘What sort of disasters do occur?'

‘Drink, usually. I have one or two clients who have a tendency to take the dinner part more seriously than the after-dinner speaking part.'

‘Oh.'

‘But they tend not to get booked again ... and pretty soon I stop representing them. So don't get any ideas.'

‘But I've never –'

‘No, no, your behaviour has always been exemplary in that department. Everyone's very pleased with what you do.'

‘Ah.' Gratification returned.

‘Nothing a mildly pissed audience likes better than hearing all those hoary old “by way of contrast” lines again.'

‘Oh.' The gratification was diluted. ‘Well, at least they're all genuine.'

‘Yes, yes, yes.' She'd heard all this before. ‘Your journalistic integrity remains intact.'

‘So there aren't any criticisms of what I do then?'

‘No.'

‘Then what's the problem?'

‘No problem. As I say, there are never any criticisms, but there sometimes are ... sniggers.'

‘Sniggers? What kind of sniggers?'

‘Sniggers of the kind that go ...“Oh yes, I think Mr Stratton had a very good evening. He looked set to have a pretty good night too.”'

‘Ah.'

‘You asked how I knew you'd been leading a life of wild promiscuity. Now you know.'

‘Mmm.' He was thoughtful for a moment. ‘But nobody's complained?'

‘You'd know if the woman had complained.'

‘I wasn't talking about the women. I was talking about the organisers. As you know full well.'

‘No, none of the organisers have complained. As I say, they just snigger.'

‘But how do they know?'

‘It's not very difficult. What thoughts go through the average prurient masculine mind when they see a man and a woman leaving a hotel bar together?'

‘Well, yes, I suppose so.'

‘Also, in a lot of cases, they're not surprised by what's happened.'

‘How can they not be surprised? They've never met me. They don't know that I might be on the lookout for ... erm –' He came back to ‘... for a sexual encounter.'

‘No, Bill, they don't know you, but quite often they do know the woman.'

‘Oh. I hadn't thought of that.'

‘I mean, I'm sure you think it's all the work of your amazing animal magnetism, but it does, as they say, take two to tango. The kind of woman who's an easy pick-up for a one-night stand has quite frequently done that kind of thing before.'

‘Right.' Bill wasn't enjoying this downgrading of his amorous adventures. It was as if he were becoming equated with the kind of man who drank too much – ‘not so good after lunch, you know.' He asked the next question. ‘You're not saying you reckon they must all be scrubbers?'

Sal's navy-blue eyes looked steadily into his. ‘I didn't use the word.'

‘Hmm.' He took a long swallow of the dusty red Yakut wine. Sal did the same. Then he re-engaged his eyes with hers. ‘So, if my recent behaviour is, as it seems, common knowledge ... what effect do you think it's had on my image?'

‘That's hardly my problem, is it? The bookings are still coming in. Mind you, if being a randy old goat was a disqualification for celebrities doing PAS and after-dinner speaking ... well, there'd be hardly anyone left on the circuit.'

‘All right, put it another way ... what effect does your new knowledge have on the way
you
think about me, Sal?'

He didn't know what response he'd been expecting. Certainly not the one he got – a shrug and, ‘Well, let's say it doesn't raise you in my estimation.'

He couldn't deny feeling a bit shaken by what Sal had said. Particularly the bits about his using women as sex objects and going for easy lays (he closed his mind to the word ‘scrubber'). His own vision of what had been going on was much more positive ... romantic even. He saw himself as the rather dashing lover, bringing a little sunshine into the women's clouded lives. But he wondered, after what Sal had said, whether he'd ever be able completely to recapture that self-image.

Still, Sal was a woman. Women had never been great advocates of male promiscuity. She might even be a bit jealous. There was an undoubted attraction between them. And she'd probably just read some book called
You Got to Hide Your Love Away: Necessary Pretences in Interpersonal Relationships.

Bill could do without a woman's sniping. What he needed was some mindless male solidarity. He rang Trevor and fixed to meet that evening in The Annexe.

* * *

‘And you really have given up sex?'

‘I told you, yes. Or rather sex has given up on me. The bloody thing doesn't work any more.'

‘But, Trevor ... maybe if you met the right woman ...'

‘I've spent my whole bloody life trying to meet the right woman, and it hasn't done me any good. If I couldn't find the right woman when I was firing on all cylinders – or at least on the one important cylinder – then I'm hardly likely to meet her now I haven't got anything in the way of cylinders to offer her.'

‘No, I meant that maybe the right woman might be able to make you change your lifestyle .... You know, someone who really cared about you could nurse you back to a more cheerful outlook on things ... get you off the booze ...'

‘Doesn't sound like the right woman to me.' Trevor put a full- stop to the line with a long swallow of beer.

‘So you reckon sex really is over for you?'

‘Yes! I've told you – why do you keep asking? My body has penetrated its last female body – and a good thing too! You've no idea how much clearer my brain is since I've stopped thinking about women all the time.'

‘So if your brain's empty of thoughts of women, what's come in to fill the void?'

Trevor took another long pull from his pint glass. It seemed an adequate answer.

‘Don't you think back nostalgically to the women you did make love to?'

He shook his head. ‘Never. Forgotten all of them.'

‘You can't even remember how many women you have gone to bed with in your life?'

‘No.' There was a long silence before Trevor said, ‘Seventeen.'

‘Ah.' Bill resorted to his pint.

‘How about you?'

‘Sorry?'

‘How many women have you gone to bed with?'

Bill had a moment of fear. Did Trevor's question imply that he too knew about his friend's recent behaviour? After the bombshell from Sal, he was beginning to wonder whether details of his sexual encounters had been posted on some international website, so that there wasn't a person in the world unaware of them.

Cautiously he replied, ‘Well, I spent nearly forty years only going to bed with Andrea.'

‘That wasn't the question I asked. How many women have you gone to bed with?'

Bill was tempted. After a slow start, his total was now getting quite impressive. Certainly exceeding Trevor's. There was an atavistic masculine attraction in the idea of crowing over his friend. But then again, if Trevor didn't know about Bill's recent liaisons, maybe it'd be better for him to remain in ignorance.

‘Oh...' Bill lied. ‘I don't know.'

* * *

He had a brief moment of anxiety with Carolyn too. Something she said made him wonder about the confidentiality of his private life.

He had dropped into the BWOC office to pick up the latest haul of ‘by way of contrast' lines. There was no necessity for him to do that; they could easily have been sent by email. But his visits were a regular part of his routine – one of the few elements of routine his life offered, apart from the round of PAS and after-dinner speeches. And being in the office as BWOC'S director gave him the illusion of being part of a busy business life.

Also, he couldn't deny that he enjoyed being in the same room as Carolyn. Andrea, he was sure, had been right about her, but a little bit of obvious sexuality' never did anyone any harm. Being with Carolyn made Bill think of being in a bakery ... and of other warm, rounded, fresh things. Of course he was never going to come on to her – he'd heard far too much of her cynicism about men to risk that kind of tongue-lashing – but he did find her presence comforting. As he found the whiff of tobacco and the warm sweet tea and the schmaltz of Radio 2 comforting.

She was talking about her son Jason, guru of the computer, creator and maintainer of the website which allowed BWOC to run with such painless efficiency. ‘He could be making millions,' she was complaining, ‘but what's he done? Only cut back on his IT work to concentrate on trying to become a stand-up comic.'

‘But is he funny? He's always seemed rather serious when I've met him.'

‘God knows whether he's funny or not,' she drawled throatily. He was funny when he was about three years old, but that's not the point. I made a lot of sacrifices to get him properly educated, and now he's turning down the chance to really clean up financially.'

‘Still, if it's what he wants to do ... surely, as his mother, you'd support anything he –'

‘Sod that.'

Ah. How is he otherwise?'

‘Otherwise he's behaving like anyone else who had the good fortune to be born with a tassel. Like he owns the whole bloody world, at least as far as women are concerned.'

‘No regular girlfriends then?'

‘No, and far too many irregular ones. Jason doesn't go for quality, he goes for quantity. He's not going to commit himself to being responsible for a woman. He's a real “notches on the bedpost” man.' And then she said the words that gave Bill a little trickle of anxiety. ‘Just like you.'

‘Just like me?' How could she know? How could she possibly know? Maybe there actually was a website called ‘billstrattonssexualencounters. com' ?

But no, it must be through Sal. Carolyn and Sal had to talk from time to time about the
By Way of Contrast
books. That must be the source of Carolyn's knowledge. Oh God, the whole bloody world knew. Probably even Andrea and bloody Dewi knew, and spent evenings over tofu bakes with their NHS harpies castigating his moral character.

‘Er ... why do you say “just like me”?' Bill asked cautiously.

Her blue eyes x-rayed him. ‘Because you're a man.'

Phew ... nothing personal, just one of Carolyn's regular diatribes against his gender. He couldn't believe – and was rather surprised by – the level of relief that he felt.

... and, by way of contrast,

a Salt Lake City Mormon with nine

wives married one more so that

he could get a discount on air travel.

The restaurant style this time was Moroccan
riad.
Tables on the ground floor, matched by those on the two galleries above, were set against the walls around a central fountain. A glass covering at the top of the space gave an illusion of openness to the sky. Multitudes of candles in spiky metal holders twinkled against engraved cedar doors and
zellij
tiles of deep blues and greens. Their light flickered over carved stucco, up tall pillars to ornately geometric friezes. Beautiful white-clad waiters flitted through the shadows. Rose petals were scattered over every surface.