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I stretch in the bed, feeling the coolness in my legs, and twist to flush out the last spasm of my frustration. Turning away from him, I bring my knees up to my chest.

— I know it may seem like a cliché, but this genuinely has never happened to me before. It’s like . . . this year the bastards have given me four extra hours of seminar groups and two extra hours of lecturing. Last night I was up all night marking papers. Miranda’s giving me a hard time, and the kids are so fucking demanding . . . there’s no time to be
me
. There’s no time to be Colin Addison. Who cares anyway? Who the fuck cares about Colin Addison?

I can vaguely hear this whining lament to erections lost as I begin to stumble down the ladder of consciousness into sleep.

— Nikki? Can you hear me?

— Mmm . . .

— What I’m thinking is that we need to normalise our relationship. And this isn’t just a spur-of-the-moment thing. Miranda and I: it’s run its course. Oh, I know what you’re going to say, and yes, there have been other girls, other students, for sure there have, he says, now letting a satisfied air slip into his tone. The male ego may seem fragile, but it doesn’t, in my experience, take too long to repair itself, — . . . but they’ve all been teenagers and it’s just been a bit of daft fun. The thing is, you’re more mature, you’re twenty-five, there’s not
that
much of an age difference between us, and it’s different with you. It’s not just a . . . I mean, this is a real relationship, Nikki, and I want it to be, well,
real
. You know what I’m saying? Nikki? Nikki!

Having joined the assembly line of Colin Addison’s student shags, I suppose I ought to be pleased to be elevated to the status of bona fide lover. But somehow, no.

— Nikki!

— What? I groan, turning around in bed and sitting up, pulling my hair from my face. — What are you going on about? If you can’t shag me, at least let me get some sleep. I’ve got a class in the morning and I’ve got to work at that fucking sauna again tomorrow night.

Colin’s now sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing slowly. As I watch his shoulders move up and down, he seems to me like a peculiar wounded animal in the dark, unsure of whether to counter-attack or beat a retreat. — I don’t like you working there, he exhales in those petulant, possessive tones that have become so
him
recently.

And now I’m thinking, this is it, this is my time. The weeks of deference finally building up into that couldn’t-give-a-toss critical mass, where you know you’re finally empowered enough to just tell them to fuck off. — That sauna probably represents my best chance of getting properly fucked right now, I coolly explain.

The cold silence in the air and the stillness of Colin’s dark contour tells me that I’ve hit the spot and finally got through. Then he suddenly moves, jerky and tense, over to the armchair where his clothes sit. He starts scrambling into them. There’s a thud of a foot on something in the dark, a chair leg or maybe the edge of the bed, and it’s followed by a cat’s spit of a ‘fuck’. He
is
in haste to depart as he normally showers first, for Miranda, but this time no fluids have been spilt so he may be okay. At least he’s had the decency not to put on the light, for which I’m grateful. As he tugs himself into his jeans, I admire his arse, probably for the last time. Impotence is bad and clinginess is awful, but the two in tandem simply can’t be tolerated. The idea of becoming a nurse to this old fool is repulsive. Pity about that arse, I’ll miss it. I always did like a good, firm arse on a man.

— There’s no reasoning with you when you’re like this. I’ll call you later, he puffs, pulling on his jersey.

— Don’t bother, I say icily, pulling up the quilt to cover my tits. I think about why I feel the need to do this as he’s sucked them, had his cock between them, fondled, groped, mashed and eaten them with my blessing and in some cases instigation. Why then is such a casual glance in semi-darkness so violating? The answer has to be that my essence is telling me that we are history, Colin and I. Yes, it
is
that time.

— What?

— I said don’t bother. Calling me later. Don’t fucking well bother, I tell him, and I’m wishing I had a cigarette. I feel like asking him for one but it somehow seems inappropriate.

He turns round to face me and I can see that silly moustache which I always begged him to shave off and his mouth under it, again illuminated by a glimmer of silver light through the blind, with his eyes above concealed in darkness. The mouth is telling me: — Right, fuck you then! You’re a silly wee lassie, Nikki, an arrogant little cow. You think you’re it at the moment, girl, but you’re going to have big fucking problems in your life if you don’t grow up and join the rest of the human race.

There’s a battle going on in my soul between outrage and humour, with neither prepared to concede supremacy to the other. In this dissonant state it’s all I can do to cough out: — Like you? Don’t make me laugh . . .

But Colin’s off and the bedroom door slams, followed by the front door. My body starts to unravel in relief till I irksomely remember that it needs to be double-locked. Lauren is very security-conscious and in any case she’ll be far from amused as our row must have interrupted her sleep. The varnished floorboards in the hallway are cold under my bare feet and I’m happy to turn the mortise and head back to the bedroom. I think about going to the window to see if I can see Colin emerging from stair door into empty street, but I think we’ve both made our positions clear and that the link is now severed. That word seems particularly satisfactory. I’m thinking, in a playful way, of course, about his penis in that state, sent through the post to Miranda. And her not recognising it. They’re all the same really, unless of course you’re a big, sloppy, slack old cow. If your walls have any power, you can fuck round anything, well, almost anything. It’s not the penises that are the problem, it’s the attachments; they come in varying sizes alright, varying sizes and degrees of annoyance.

Lauren comes through in her sky-blue dressing gown, her eyes blinking with sleep, hair tousled, as she rubs her glasses and pulls them on. — Is everything okay? I heard shouting . . .

— Just the sounds of an impotent menopausal man bellowing piteously into the night. I thought it would be sweet music to your feminist ears, I smile cheerfully.

Approaching me slowly, she extends her arms and wraps them round me. What a fundamentally lovely woman she is; always prepared to read me more sympathetically than I deserve. She believes that I use humour to hide hurt, sarcasm to deflect vulnerability, and she’s always looking searchingly and earnestly at me as if to find the real Nikki behind the façade. Lauren thinks I’m like her but, for all her affectations, I’m a colder cow that she’ll ever be. In spite of the strident politics she’s adopted, she’s a sweet kid, smelling wonderful, lavender-soapy and fresh. — I’m sorry . . . I know I told you that you were mad having an affair with a lecturer, but I only said it cause I knew you’d get hurt . . .

I’m shaking, physically shaking in her arms and she’s going: — There, there . . . it’s okay . . . it’s awright . . . but she doesn’t realise I’m shaking with
laughter
at her assumption that I care. I raise my head a little and laugh, which I regret instantly as she
is
a sweetheart and now I’ve humiliated her a bit. Sometimes cruelty comes by instinct. One can’t be proud, but one can strive to be aware.

I rub the back of her slim neck placatingly, but I still can’t stop laughing. — Ha ha ha ha . . . you’ve called it wrong, honey. He’s the one who’s been chucked, he’s the one who’s hurt. ‘Having an affair with a lecturer . . .’ ha ha ha . . . you sound just like him.

— Well, how else could you put it? He
is
married. Youse are having an affair . . .

I shake my head slowly. — I’m not having an affair? I’m shagging him. Or rather I was. But no more. The histrionics you heard was the sound of him
not
shagging me any more?

Lauren gives a happy, but slightly guilty, little smile. The girl’s too decent, too well mannered, to overtly wallow in the misfortunes of others, even those she dislikes. And it was one of Colin’s least endearing features that he didn’t like her, saw only the superficial image she wanted him to see. But that’s him, he’s not astute at all.

I pull back my duvet. — Now come under here and give me a proper cuddle, I say.

Lauren looks at me, averting her eyes from my naked body. — Stop it, Nikki, she says bashfully.

— I only want a cuddle, I pout, and move towards her. She senses that there’s her thick dressing gown between our naked flesh and that she’s not going to be raped and she gives me a stiff reluctant hug, but I won’t let go and I pull the duvet over us.

— Och, Nikki, she says, but soon I can feel her settle and I drift off into a beautiful sleep with the smell of lavender in my nostrils.

In the morning I wake up to a space in the bed and can hear busy kitchen sounds. Lauren. Every woman should have a sweet young wife. I rise, wrapping my dressing gown around me and head to the kitchen. Coffee hisses and spits from the filter into the pot. I can hear her in the shower now. Back through in our front room, the red flickering light on the answer machine tells me to check the messages.

I either overestimated or underestimated Colin. He’s left quite a few messages on the machine.

Beep.

— Nikki, call me. This is stupid.

— Well, hello, stupid, I say in the direction of the phone, — this is Nikki.

He gives good phone, Colin does, but only in the comedic sense.

Beep.

— Nikki, I’m sorry. I lost my head. I really care about you, honest I do. That was the whole point I was trying to make. Come up to my office tomorrow. C’mon, Nik.

Beep.

— Nikki, let’s not end it like this. Let me take you for lunch at the staff club. You liked it there. C’mon. Call me at the office.

Age makes most girls into women, but men never really stop being boys. That’s what I envy about them, their ability to wallow in silliness and immaturity, which is something I always strive to imitate. It can be tiresome though, if you are constantly on the receiving end of it.

3

Scam # 18,733

I
t’s the last shit-arse section of Soho; narrow and sleazy with the reek of cheap perfume, fried food, alcohol and kerbside rubbish from split black bin liners. Rasping banks of neon slowly, almost defiantly, crackle to listless life through a twilight of frail drizzle, proffering those ancient and barren pledges.

And you only occasionally glimpsed the agents of these sublime pleasures, the square-jawed, shaven-headed, suited and coated wideos in the doorways, or the worn crack hoors hanging in a stair whose faces flashed sick naked-lightbulb-yellow at weary punters, nervous tourists and drunken, sneering youths.

For me though, this is the closest to home I’ve ever felt. Swaggering past the brawny chappie of my acquaintance at the drinking-club door, his expensive overcoat flapping in the wind, this to me is a sign that I’ve come a long way from when I worked with sauna rejects in Leith, pimping out smackhead lassies who fucked for fixes.

And Henry the Bus was nodding. — Alroight, Si mate, and I’m smiling and trying not to let my nostrils flare that slight involuntary way they always did when I’m confronted with brainless, ten-a-penny muscle – cause you needed them and these boys always knew when they were being patronised. So my coupon crinkles into a wincing smile. — Awright, Henry? I’m a bit dazed right now, mate. Sticking my cock in all the wrong faces.

Henry nods grimly, and we rap away for a bit, as I watch his cold eyes set in that troglodyte head occasionally flick over my shoulder in concern at something happening behind me. Firing a gaze raptorish enough to put out small fires before they grow into bigger ones.

— Is Colville in today?

— Nah, thank fuck, Henry tells me. Safe ground that one; we both hate our boss with a passion. I’m thinking of Matt Colville’s wife as I go in and say ta-ta to Henry. While the cat’s away . . . I should get Tanya down here to start punting. I bell her on the mobby but surprise, surprise, hers has been disconnected, the voice tells me. It’s hard to maintain both smack and crack habits and remember to keep up mobile-phone payments. It spells minor opportunity lost and I feel my soul frost over slightly as it tends to do when I’m indirectly inconvenienced by the careless actions of others.

But minus Colville, and with Dewry in the office, I’m the man. And Marco and Lenny are on today, both good, keen grafters, which means that my role is purely social. I sit mainly on the right side of the bar, and hold court, only getting up to serve and show attentive respect if a face, footballer, villain or a very sexy lady (every one of them) enters the establishment. At the end of my shift I stop off at Randolph’s shop and pick up a load of gay pornography, which will be an anonymous gift to an old buddy of mine. Then I head for a beer in a nondescript café-bar. I always like to get the fuck away from the club when I finish, the social equivalent of having a good bath. This bar fits the bill, an Ikea-bland monument to our lack of imagination. It’s Soho, but it could be anywhere that has no character any more.

I’m a bit run-down and therefore surprised that I seem to have pulled quite easily. I thought that the timing was way off. I was even starting to feel stupid and weak once again. Weak to end up destroyed with Croxy, as if the use of the cunt’s van and gaff and muscle to help me move entitles him to poison me with chemicals. He’s useless, they all are fuckin useless. That fuckin dippit little hoor Tanya, hanging around King’s Cross when I set it up for her to go to the club and pull some punters with proper cash. Weak. And the older you get, the more of an expensive luxury that type of weakness becomes.

But enough of the self-loathing, cause I got through the shift okay and now I’m in a Soho bar with an enthusiastic and pretty lassie in a suit called Rachel, who works in advertising and has just done an important presentation and is a bit pished cause it went well and who says ‘oh gosh’ a lot. I caught her eye up at the bar, the pleasantries and smiles were subsequently exchanged and I’ve separated her from her drunken pack. Of course, my own place in Islington is being renovated and I’m forced to stay at a friend’s crummy bedsit. Thank God for that Armani suit, worth every penny. And when I suggest hers at Camden, she says: — Oh gosh, my flatmate’s having some people round.