Upgrading (7 page)

“Thank you,” I say and kiss her lightly on the lips, partly so that other people around us can see.

When I wake up the next morning with Marion already in the shower I find them lying on the bedside table next to my keys and feel very decadent. Is this what it’s all about? I wonder.

The first thing I see when I open the door of the office later that morning is Debbie. Or rather her eyes: narrowed with fury. She is standing over a new girl’s desk, giving her some pieces of paper. I know that all around her, they are wondering how long this one will last, whether she will hit her target and be lucky enough to stay, whether it is worth getting to know her. By the time I have taken off my jacket Debbie has finished with the new girl and is saying, “Can I have a word with you in my office, Andrew?”

I can tell she is really pissed off because she is using my name. I suppose I’ll have to explain why I wasn’t in the office yesterday morning and also why I was late this morning. It was actually because the chauffeur was late getting to Marion’s to pick me up because of trafffic in the King’s Road but I can hardly say that.

“Sure,” I say casually and step in.

“Close the door.” It’s getting worse. “Where did you sneak off to yesterday?”

“Yesterday? I didn’t sneak off. Like I said, we had a leak at the flat and I called the plumber. Didn’t you get the message? It was a disaster, there was water everywhere …”

“Oh, I see. It’s just that Robin took a call on your phone at eleven-forty from a woman asking where you were because you were supposed to be at hers at eleven-thirty.”

Oh fuck! My mind goes blank. What the hell is the matter with Marion? Has she no sense?

“No, no.
She
was supposed to be at
mine
at eleven-thirty, you know, for the plumbing … and things …” I mutter something about plumbers being useless. Debbie’s dad is probably a plumber.

She pauses and raises her eyebrows, sceptically, “Your plumber is an American woman?”

“No, she’s just the secretary, you know, who answers the phone.”

There is another pause and Debbie shakes her head slowly and then says, “Don’t let it happen again.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I think they’ve fixed it,” I say and immediately regret it. Debbie looks down at her desk and I realize that the interview is over. I leave feeling furious with myself or her or Marion for making me feel so stupid.

Sitting at my desk doodling angrily, I decide that the only consolation is that in the end Debbie is the stupid one. Yes, of course she is good at her job and well respected by the corporate squirrels that infest this place, but so what? She’s got a job that she hates and it’s taken over her whole life. She’s got a miserable little flat, which gobbles up all her income and probably suffers from negative equity as well as rising damp and rampant Ikea. She spends most of her income on DIY stuff which is what she does all weekend and the rest on River Island suits for work. I mean, what is the point of living like that? She’s got the spending power of a Tesco check-out girl and the stress and the workaholic lifestyle of a chief executive. It’s the worst of both worlds!

Thinking about Debbie makes me more determined than ever to get something better than this. And I’ve got a new plan now. I was playing with those lovely crisp £50 notes on the way into work in the chaffeur-driven car this morning and it occurred to me that there are plenty more where these came from.

Every evening at my mum and dad’s, it’s the same: both of them sitting in front of the telly, my mum knitting or flicking through a magazine and kidding herself she isn’t watching, my dad tutting at the news or complaining how whatever he’s watching is a waste of the licence fee and how much is this guy getting paid, anyway?

Sometimes when I was still at school, when there was nothing worth watching or I couldn’t face my homework, I would leave my parents sitting in front of the set, drift upstairs and, for want of something better to do, sit on my father’s side of the bed and flick through his self-help books. If he ever looked in and saw me reading he would join me, pulling one out of the stack and finding some chapter that he thought was particularly relevant. He referred to them by their authors, square-jawed, slick-haired Americans with button-down shirts whose weird names were followed by a string of qualifications from the University of God Knows Where.

“If you’re thinking of going into advertising you ought to read Gierson,” he would say, running his finger down the ever-increasing pile. They all had titles and subtitles like:
Close That Deal—How to Make Them Say Yes or Busting The Block—Taking On The Corporation And Winning.
Each one was such a hard sell that one title was not enough. There were new ones he’d picked up in the discount bookshop and dog-eared old friends that he turned to for comfort every night, reading the patronizing, reassuring advice. Don’t worry, bud, leave it to us—we’ll look after you. In my dad’s case, reading them and repeating their simplistic, cocksure advice like a mantra was a substitute for actually doing any of the things they advised.

Not that it was that easy to work out what they were advising you to do and whether it would be relevant to the purchasing department of a tool hire company based in Slough. “It always seems to me like they’re generally in favour of virtue,” mused my mum one day.

The central theme of one of his favourites was: Live Each Day at the Office As If It Was Your Last! “There are two types of worker in every corporation,” boomed the blurb on the back above the price in dollars. “The Doers and the Done-tos. Have you ever noticed how your boss and his boss are both a world apart from the geek sitting at the desk next to you? ’Course you have. And what’s the difference? Your Boss is a Doer and the geek is a Done-to. So, how do you get to be a Doer? Simple.” (It always was.) “Live every day in the office like it’s your last. Like you don’t mind getting fired this very afternoon.”

I don’t mind getting fired in the very next ten minutes but apparently if you could wait until this afternoon, the way to act was to: “Devise and implement operational programs that
you
want regardless of budgeting prerequisites!” and “In meetings initiate multi-directional interfaces regardless of hierarchical command criteria!” Eh? Lots of exclamation marks and quotes from Done-tos who had managed to become Doers followed to back this up. What it boiled down to was: be a rebel, cut a swathe and you’ll be promoted.

I’ve tried being a rebel, living as if I didn’t mind getting fired whenever convenient. But the way I’ve done it is to come into the office late every morning, to leave early and to spend half an hour going to the coffee shop down the road where a pretty Italian girl flirts with me and her crazy old father whips up cappuccino like a deranged magician, rather than be a good boy and use the coffee machine by the loo where a thin trail of instant stuff pees into a flimsy plastic cup like a long overdue oil change. And funnily enough, it’s done me absolutely no good whatsoever.

Neither has it helped my dad. None of the books have helped him. I think they just hold out the promise. Like those women in that play we once saw at school, who are always crapping on about pissing off to Moscow, knowing that they will never get round to it. My dad finds refuge in his self-help books, knowing that some day he will find the perfect solution to his life and rise up, a Doer not a Done-to! One day, dad, one day. Before you retire, perhaps.

W
hen I get home from work that evening Marion has left a message on my answerphone: “Andrew, it’s Marion. I’m having a little dinner party tomorrow night and I would very much like for you to come.”

I’ve just opened the fridge to get out a Rolling Rock when Vinny crashes through the kitchen door, talking to a tall black guy he introduces as Malc.

“Don’t mind if I do, squire,” says Vinny, peering round me into the fridge. “Malc?”

“Chismate,” says Male, sitting down at the kitchen table.

“You’d like a beer, is that what you’re saying?” I ask Vinny.

“When you’re ready,” Vinny smiles innocently. “You could bloody die of thirst in here,” he says to Malc.

“You’ll die of something else in a minute, shit for brains,” I tell him.

“Andrew works in the media so he’s good with words,” says Vinny to Malc, who laughs politely. I find myself smiling too. God, he’s infuriating!

“And Vinny works in graphic design so he’s good with er … let me think … oh, absolutely nothing,” I explain.

“Malc’s a graphic designer too,” says Vinny triumphantly.

“Don’t worry about it, mate,” says Malc quickly. “My dad thinks it’s something to do with coloured pencils.”

“Sorry, mate,” I say, handing Malc a beer. “It’s just that Vinny’s not a particularly good advert for your profession.”

Vinny has mock hysterics and then plays his ace: “And Andrew’s a part-time gigolo,” he explains to Malc.

“Oh, right,” says Malc. “It’s you, is it?”

I finish choking on my beer.

“You bastard,” I say to Vinny, then to Malc, “What he means is … I sometimes … escort …” This sounds even worse than Vinny’s description.

“Do go on,” says Vinny.

“Hang on,” says Malc. “You get
paid
to go out with women.”

I think about it for a moment. Malc looks impressed.

“Yeah,” I say, glad to hear him put it so attractively, so acceptably. “Yeah, that’s about it.”

We kick the football around a bit, idly working out how Indoor One Aside Footy could be adapted to accommodate a third player. Then we give up and decide to watch telly instead. Vinny suggests we get a pizza or some dope from a friend of Malc’s. In the end we opt for a pizza because we’re all quite hungry so we have a whip-round, Vinny and I poking around on dressing tables and mantelpieces for some change and negotiating who puts in what. Then Vinny sets off up the road to get it.

The mention of money makes me think of Jonathan. From what I remember him saying, I should be eligible for a cheque by next Monday for my first job for him with the mad woman. The thought of getting my hands on the dosh makes me feel pretty good—better than waiting for that little payment slip at the end of the month. That usual joke with Lucy from accounts that she has missed a nought off the end here. Ha, ha!

I promised Marion that I would be first to arrive at her party and I am, feeling decidedly shabby in my Blazer jacket, button-down-collar shirt with its slightly frayed cuffs and Chinos which have seen better days. I’m following Mark’s advice: I have the air of faded grandeur you’d expect of an aristocratic son of a purchasing manager from Reading.

Oh, and I’m also sick with nerves.

Anna Maria opens the door with a smirk.

“Hiya,” I say and she giggles and looks down at the floor. “How are you?” She giggles again, still looking at the floor. “Where is she?” I ask, trying a different tack. The room is full of the smell of flowers. On the glass coffee table is the habitual cloud of white lilies.

“Madam is upstairs,” says Anna Maria and half-runs back into the kitchen, laughing. I seem to be a bit of a hit here—if she had a few million to chuck about I’d be well ahead in my new career plan.

I help myself to a drink and go upstairs. My first instinct is to shout “hello” but then I decide that we must know each other well enough by now. I walk into the bedroom and Marion sees me in her dressing-table mirror. Without turning round she says, “Hello” girlishly and smiles.

I say nothing. I walk over to her and kiss her neck very slowly. She gasps slightly, closes her eyes and lifts her head. Something about this room, this house, makes me feel as if I am in a movie. Being with Marion gives me a buzz that I never had with Helen, even when we first started going out. She was more like a comfortable pair of jeans whereas Marion is an Armani suit and every time I see her it’s like the first time I’m trying it on.

Then I go and sit in a chair in the corner of the room while she puts on her make-up. She does it quickly and confidently, pausing every few seconds to pout or look sideways to check the effect. Her blonde hair is already neatly sculpted into its classic wave and she is brushing powder onto her elegant cheekbones. She puts her hand on brushes and pencils without having to look round for them. Then she examines her face from every angle, opening her huge dark eyes wider every now and then.

It’s funny, I’ve never really watched a woman get ready. Helen hardly ever wore make-up except when we went to a wedding and she kept applying lipstick nervously during the service and asking me if it was smudged.

I could never have sat and watched my mum put her makeup on. I suppose for her, powdering her face and applying a bit of lipstick is a private, furtive thing. If people notice that she is wearing it and compliment her she gets embarrassed and says, “Well, I thought I’d better make the effort.” Either that or she laughs with embarrassment and tells them, “Oh, shut up!”

I never saw any of my other girlfriends get ready to go out. They probably didn’t have the confidence to let a man observe this secret female ritual. One of the first, Cathy, suddenly appeared at my house on a Saturday night with dark lines around her eyes.

“Are you all right? You look ill,” I said.

“No, I’m just wearing a bit of make-up” she explained as if it were the obvious alternative explanation for her appearance. My older sister sometimes wore it when she went out with her friends. I still remember the sound of a hairdryer over the babble of Radio One and the sharp sting of Clearasil on the landing outside her room that hit you like a sisterly slap in the face.

Finally Marion stands up, smoothes down her dress and turns to look approvingly in the mirror at herself in profile. Then she looks round and smiles at me. The kind of inviting smile that fills a room, the kind of smile that must have caught the eye of her ex-husbands and ex-lovers. And trapped them.

“Whaddya think?”

“Delicious.”

She walks over to where I am sitting and I put my arms round her hips while she buries my face in her stomach and plays with my hair. Then she pulls back, looks at me and says disappointedly, “We’ll have to get you a new shirt. Look at this, Andrew, you can’t meet people dressed like this.” One of her long, tapering fingers touches my neck and suddenly I imagine them wrapped round my dick again. I pull her to me and start kissing her. She resists at first, but then gives in, begins to run her hands through my hair as she pushes her tongue harder into my mouth. I begin to manoeuvre her towards the bed but she pulls away.

“I’ve got people coming.”

“I’ll say.”

“Oh, look, I’m all smudged.” Then she giggles. “Andrew, you’re such a naughty boy.”

“I know,” I find myself whispering.

She goes back to her dressing table and repairs the damage. Pouting and licking those lips of hers. Then she stands up again and looks at me.

“We should get you a suit, maybe. A really good suit, the kind you can wear to lunch and for shopping.”

“OK,” I say coolly.

Marion leads the way downstairs. Anna Maria is opening the door to a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in black.

“Marion, my darling, how are you?” says the woman in a thick Middle-Eastern accent, rushing in to meet her. She holds Marion’s hands in hers and they triple kiss.

“Good, thanks,” says Marion, smiling gently. Still holding her hands, the woman studies her for a moment and then says urgently, “You’re looking well, that’s the main thing.”

“Daria, this is Andrew Collins.” I stick my hand out but by this time the woman has very quickly nodded in my direction and is looking back at Marion anxiously. I let my hand drop slowly.

Daria is already getting up my nose. I decide I’d better make the effort, though. God knows how.

Fortunately, the door bell rings again and I go to open it before Anna Maria can get there. Two young guys stop talking and look up at me. I think for a moment that they must be at the wrong house. Both are in 501s and DMs, one has a tight, white T-shirt and cut-off denim jacket, the other just a tartan waistcoat covered with buckles and clips, a sort of post-punk Gaultier effort.

“Is Marion in?” asks the waistcoat in a French accent.

“Er, yeah, come in.” I gesture them into the house.

“I am Jean-Charles,” he says, “and this is Philippe.” I give them both a firm, arm’s-length handshake and take them into the living room. Somehow I didn’t think Marion’s friends would look like they collected glasses in a gay bar.

“Hello, boys,” calls Marion from the settee.

They walk over and kiss her.

“Jean-Charles and Philippe work at my health club,” Marion says. Daria is sitting next to her, staring at her intently. The boys get an even quicker acknowledgement from her than I did. One of them makes a face to the other who tries not to laugh. I ask them if they would like a drink. They both have Absolut and cranberry juice.

Daria is saying something to Marion. “I saw Judy last week in New York. She is looking very old.”

“She should sue her plastic surgeon then,” says Marion to the boys who are now standing by the fireplace, gazing adoringly at her and wishing Daria would fuck off. They giggle again.

“Marion,” says one of them, “you never come to see us anymore at the club.”

“No, I know, I’m just too busy. I have other things to keep me occupied at the moment.” She looks across at me, they follow her gaze.

“And to give you exercise,” says the one in the T-shirt. They laugh and so does Marion. I don’t like the tone of this conversation. I’m beginning to feel like a strippergram. I laugh too, but slowly. Unfortunately, instead of sounding threatening and masculine, I just sound a bit thick, like I’m slow getting the joke.

“I’m going to Cap Ferrat next week,” says Daria, eyes wide. “You should come. It will do you good. I am staying at a beautiful little hotel. Very exclusive. Exquisite service. Anouska had her breakdown there.”

“Mmm, why not? Would you like that, Andrew?” Marion asks, flirting jointly with me and the French guys.

“Wouldn’t mind,” I say.

Daria looks horrified, she obviously hadn’t banked on this.

“Do you like France?” asks Jean Charles or Philippe.

“Yeah, it’s OK.”

“I am from the south, do you know Marseilles?” says the other.

“Oh, right,” I say and go over to the drinks cabinet to get some more champagne. Perhaps I can be promoted from strippergram to barman. I refill Marion and Daria who are having a conversation, or what passes for one with Daria. The door bell rings again and Anna Maria shoots out of the kitchen swallowing something quickly and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

A tall, middle-aged bloke comes into the room, enjoying a quiet, private joke with Anna Maria. He is immaculately dressed in a double-breasted suit with a ridiculously loud pinstripe and a watch chain in the lapel.

“Sorry, I came straight from work, hellishly busy, no time to change. I feel horribly underdressed,” he tells everyone. His bouffant grey hair has a definite tinge of blue. When he introduces himself to me as Christopher Maurice-Jackson he gives me a handshake with his fingers only and I am sure he is wearing eyeliner. He triple kisses Marion and Daria.

“Hello,” he says quickly to the boys. He takes a glass of champagne from me, gasps, “Oh, lifesaver!” and then throws himself down in a chair, undoes his jacket and crosses his long, thin legs. His city brogues are the shiniest shoes I have ever seen. Why aren’t mine like that? Possibly because mine come from Saxone, I’ve had them for two years and I’ve never polished them.

Another guest arrives, a young pretty Arab girl and a tall, lanky young guy with a quite a tough face and what my hairdresser, Lisa, calls a “Paul Newman crop” when she tried to sell it to me. It actually looks pretty good on him. The Arab girl is dressed in a complicated beige outfit and he is wearing a starched a dark blue blazer, a white granddad shirt and a thin gold chain under it. They are both in their late twenties.

The girl, Farrah, triple kisses each person while everyone else watches, which takes some time. Her boyfriend, David, follows her, just shaking hands or nodding.

“So you’re Andrew,” says Farrah when she gets to me. She stands very close and touches my arm. “I’ve heard so much about you.” I smile graciously and say something slightly funny. Farrah laughs and says to Marion, “Oh Marion, he’s charming.”

Anna Maria is hovering. I let her do the drinks this time because she obviously wants to.

“Oh, what shall I have? David, what do you think?” says Farrah, obviously glad still to be the centre of attention.