The Perfect 10 (21 page)

Cagney raises his eyebrows – I see it – but carries on staring at the table. It’s a look that spells surprised, but not impressed. But Christian smiles broadly.

‘What do you think of that, Mr James? Do you think it’s wrong? Do you think it’s just what the world has come to, hmmm? I would like you to know that I care for an answer …’ I lean forward and stare at his forehead, my chin perilously close to the table, my cheek dangerously close to my wine glass.

‘The world is pornographic these days,’ Cagney mutters.

I sneer and roll my eyes. I feel my head roll at the same time, around on my shoulders, and loll back into my neck, my chin in the air, my eyes closing.

‘You run a sex site in Kew? In the Village?’

I look up, and around quickly to place the strange voice. It is Peter Gloaming. I had forgotten he was here.

‘It’s not a sex site,’ I say. ‘You can buy underwear on it.’ I sit back and smile, as my chin rolls back around and rests on my chest, before I rock my head back to look directly at anybody who can manage to meet my tottering eyes.

‘But not just underwear,’ Cagney says to his napkin, as he folds it into tighter squares.

‘You can buy other things as well. This is true,’ I say. ‘Although it’s not an agency,’ I whisper to Christian across
the table. He puts his finger to his lips and makes a loud shush noise at me. I tut loudly, and close my eyes.

‘You shouldn’t be ashamed, if it’s your business,’ Cagney says. He throws his napkin down in front of him and looks up at me.

I widen my eyes to keep them open. ‘I’m not ashamed … of anything. And especially not my business, James, I mean Cagney. Now tell me, what is your business again? Sorry, your
Agency
!’ I laugh a short snort of derision, and look around for somebody to join me, but I am out on a derisive snorting limb, all on my lonesome.

Cagney sighs but doesn’t answer.

‘So there isn’t any prostitution? You’re not a madam?’ Christine asks sweetly.

Christian spits out the mouthful of drink he has just gulped down, and it immediately stains the tablecloth, as he shouts, ‘Hurrah!’

Adrian’s mobile phone rings its ridiculous theme downloaded from a website that sells comic books and Japanese animated pornography.

He checks the number, and declares to the table, ‘Sorry, I have to take this, I’m on call …’ and pushes back his chair from the table. I don’t hear him say hello until he reaches the hallway, and then it is hushed and intimate, and not at all what I take to be businesslike, or professional. Maybe it is his fiancée, or maybe he is just really unprofessional, or maybe he is shagging half of the office. Either way, I have just decided I hate him. I prickle with hatred, and pray it will pass.

‘You’re drunk, darling,’ Christine suddenly accuses Peter. He wasn’t saying anything. I don’t know how she guessed.

‘Just a little, darling,’ Peter says.

‘We’re all a little drunk, darling,’ Christian says, laying his palms flat on the tablecloth and stretching his fingers out, long and thin. He has old hands.

‘Yes, but Peter can’t form a logical argument when he is drunk. Can you? Peter? You’re no good to the conversation,’ Christine sighs, let down again.

‘Socrates could drink anybody under the table,’ Peter shouts, and I blink quickly five times in succession, to stop the noise from hurting me. ‘And then he could convince them to sleep with him … drunk … and at the same time.’

‘But you aren’t Greek, darling,’ Christine says, as if she were talking to a child.

‘What in fuck difference does that make, darling?’ Peter demands of his wife, who flinches when he swears.

‘They can handle their wine, of course. They nurse them on it.’

‘They nurse babies on wine in Greece?’ Christian asks, confused. I shake my head in what I think is his direction, and mouth ‘no no no’ and hope he understands that they don’t.

I turn round slowly to see where Adrian is, if he is still on the phone, if he is still here. I can hear him, but he has moved into the other room.

‘So you sell sex,’ Cagney says. I look up to see who he is speaking to. And then realise it’s me.

‘Excuse me?’ I point at him.

‘You sell sex,’ Cagney says again.

‘No! No, I sell sex toys. There is a huge vast really big difference – not that I’d expect you to understand.’ I sigh heavily. I think I should go home soon.

‘I understand perfectly. You sell plastic cocks to women so they don’t need a man.’

‘You’re a crazy man,’ I say, and look around for support. But nobody else speaks, so I have to again. ‘I think that is quite a blinkered view, Mr Cagney. I mean, society,’ I make speech marks with my fingers and regret it instantly – maybe I am starting to sober up. I push my wine glass away from me slightly. ‘Society is a lot more open these days, to women,
young and old, finding out what they like, exploring their sexuality … I’m not replacing anything.’

‘I’m sorry, did you not see me just eating?’ Cagney asks me.

‘I don’t understand … we all ate … we just had dinner …’ I look around with a bewildered smile for backup, at Peter and Christine, Christian, the politely terrible Turnballs, but none comes. And then I realise that Cagney is being sarcastic.

‘Oh, I get it – what is wrong with saying that exactly? It makes you sick that women explore their sexuality?’ I rest my head in one hand, so tired I may fall asleep in seconds, so ready for a fight I might spring to my feet and karate chop Cagney James like Cato.

‘What really makes me sick, little plucky Sunny, is if I, as a man, decided to stay home on a Friday night and explore
my
sexuality I would be accused of being a sad lonely wanker.’

‘If the cap fits …’ I say, but I don’t even get a giggle from Christian. I am sobering up now.

Cagney ignores me and continues, ‘But a woman does it and everybody wants to give her a Nobel. It’s hypocritical, and it’s disturbing – a nation of women lying around on their own every night with their fingers buried inside themselves, egging that elusive orgasm on, ignoring life in favour of a quick slick fix.’

‘You paint it sordid, Mr James, but you are right – the female orgasm is traditionally elusive. Men get the most amazing natural high easily, and by chance, whereas if we as women want to make permanent and recurrent friends with it, we have to seek it out. And in doing so, we learn a little bit about ourselves. We learn how to be sexual beings, and embrace our sexuality, and … it’s a way to understand ourselves better.’

That has exhausted me, and I can’t remember what point I was making, or what I said at the start of the conversation, or frankly, what I said only moments ago. I hope he doesn’t ask questions.

‘What’s so hard to understand?’ Cagney asks me evenly.

Nope. Nothing. Did I say understand? I cough once.

‘Sorry?’ I ask, confrontational, attempting to disguise the fact that my mind is a blank. All those strongly held convictions that just sung from me moments ago have slipped from my mind and are floating down my neck in my bubbly boozy bloodstream to infuse the rest of me.

‘Why do you need to understand yourselves better? I understand perfectly.’ Cagney’s chin is jutting out, and I almost do an impression of it, before stopping myself at the last second, getting a handle on how very wrong that would be. I answer instead, hopefully the question that he asked.

‘Do you? Do you really?’ I reply. I don’t know what else to say, but I know I still want a fight.

Christian attempts to cut the right wire and diffuse the situation. ‘Women are very complex, Cagney,’ he says earnestly, and smiles at me.

Cagney raises his eyes and smiles at Christian. Christian smiles back. I can’t tell whether the joke is at my expense or not. But I feel paranoid. Enough! Enough of this woman-baiting and bashing by a couple of old queens. It’s not my fault they don’t fancy me, and I’m not going to bear the brunt of Cagney’s attitude, nor his need to dismiss anything without a dick as substandard.

‘Just because you aren’t attracted to women, Mr James, that doesn’t mean we aren’t complex. I mean, how would you like it if –’ I blurt it all out, slurring, half shouting, drunk again, on red wine and pent-up aggression. I feel giddy.

Cagney interrupts me before my argument trips over its own feet, and falls flat on the floor.

‘Because I’m not what?’ he demands.

‘It’s men like you that give homosexuals a bad name!’ I shout suddenly, banging my fist on the table, trying to stand up, getting to my feet, standing/crouching, then realising it’s too much effort and lowering myself slowly back down, and leaning back, relieved to be safely in my chair.

‘Hey, who says homosexuals have a bad name?’ Christian sits up and asks me seriously.

‘Oh no, Christian, I didn’t mean you. You’re one of the nice ones.’ I smile and wink, and feel like I have just slipped into a very big hole, and my skirts are blowing up around my ears, and I can’t see for my own big fat conversational mistakes. But it doesn’t stop me going on, ‘What I meant was … I mean … the ones with the bad name are the ones that hate women …’ I say.

‘The ones that hate women?’ Christian asks, incredulous.

‘I don’t mean you, Christian!’ I raise my voice at him slightly to make him understand. In my head I think I hate myself too. A tiny little sober part of me is kicking back there, kicking at my skull, trying to get at the soft squidgy parts of my brain that control what I say out loud.

‘No, Christian, she is right.’ Cagney looks at me evenly, seriously, with a trace of contempt. ‘I am the kind of man who gives homosexuals a bad name. Given that I actually have sex with women.’

The table falls silent. I wince at him, and replay what he just said in my head, to understand it. When the penny drops I don’t have the capacity to stop myself saying what I think aloud. ‘Oh Christ, not a bisexual!’ and I throw up my hands.

‘Sunshine, who said I was gay?’ Cagney tosses the accusation at me, and I drop it.

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. But
if he isn’t gay, why is his date a man? Why is he wearing a gay jumper? Why am I so drunk? How did this happen? Who let it happen? I look around to find the culprit. Nope, nobody here but little old wine drinker me to blame for this one. Time to make amends then.

‘I just thought … because you are with Christian … you guys were a couple …’

Christian gasps in not so mock horror.

‘So what you are saying is that you don’t believe that a straight man can be friends with a gay man, because sex gets in the way? You, Supergirl, believe that I can’t bring my male friend, who happens to be gay, to a dinner party without assuming we’re lovers? That’s just ignorance. And it’s petty. And it’s certainly very disrespectful of Christian.’

Christian claps his hands at the sound of his name. ‘Don’t be spiteful, Cagney. You know she didn’t mean anything by it … really … even if it did all come out a little wrong.’ Christian grimaces at me and I mouth ‘I’m sorry’ and frown at myself.

‘Christian, I think you are forgetting that she just accused you of sleeping with me.’

Christian turns to speak to Cagney, but then turns back to address me instead. ‘That is actually very hurtful, Sunny. My feelings are officially a little singed.’

‘I’m really sorry, Christian,’ I blurt out, as I feel myself blushing.

‘What about me? Don’t I deserve an apology, for being the victim of your rather unpolitically correct assumptions? For the accusation that I, Cagney James, give homosexuals a bad name. That’s just mean, Sunny.’

I know that he is mocking me. I hear a clock in the hallway chiming midnight. I feel my feet in my high-heeled shoes beginning to ache. I feel the drunken dizziness being replaced by tired nausea. I am worn out with fighting, but
I’m not a quitter, or a loser, and Cagney James certainly hasn’t won.

‘Well, no matter what your sexuality, Cagney, I can’t imagine you have ever even got close to understanding a woman, which is all any woman really wants. Which is why it was so easy to mistake you for a middle-aged bachelor … alone.’

‘You don’t think I understand women. That’s interesting, given that I’ve spent one long evening with you and I understand you completely. Utterly. You are transparent.’

‘Oh, you understand nothing.’ I dismiss him with a wave of my hand, and search the table for a bottle of water that I might pillage. I can feel Cagney boring holes in my forehead, but ignore him, and the table falls silent.

‘Is somebody wearing Aqua Di Gio?’ Christian asks.

‘I’m wearing Anaïs Anaïs,’ Christine replies.

‘I just sprayed oven cleaner in the kitchen,’ says Deidre.

‘Hmmm,’ Christian says, nodding.

I hear Cagney mutter something, and I inhale sharply. I can’t believe he has said what he has just said, in polite company. OK, so I might not have been that polite, but none the less …

‘I’m sorry, what did you say?’ I ask him directly, staring sharply in his direction, hoping my eyes aren’t dilated.

‘You’re greedy,’ he repeats.

Christian gasps a little gasp, and I gulp. I feel the tears spring to my eyes straight away. Here come the fat jibes, and I will always deserve them.

‘I’m what?’ I ask, and I know I sound pathetic. Not strong, or composed, or any of the things I want to be, or at least seem. I sound like a girl about to cry, who has drunk too much red wine in front of strangers. Adrian is still on his phone. I’m on my own again. As usual. ‘I have barely eaten anything …’ I start to say.