Upgrading (10 page)

“She’s just a mate,” he says over babble of the radio. “Did the same course at uni, she doesn’t know if she wants to be a graphic designer after all, though.”

“You schtump her?” I ask.

Sitting at the table in his boxer shorts, Sergeant Bilko T-shirt and thick, saggy black socks, Vinny chases some stray Rice Krispies round his bowl then he thinks about my question for a moment. “Come on, mate,” I say. “It can’t be that difficult to remember, it’s not like there’s a whole harem of conquests to think through, is there?”

“There’s a few, locked away in this card-index memory,” says Vinny, tapping the side of his head. He scratches under his arm and smells his fingers distractedly. “I was actually thinking what it would be like to schtump her.”

“Nice tits.”

“True.”

We both sit and think about them. I look at my watch.

“Christ, I’d better get a move on. She got a boyfriend, then?”

“She
did
have one.”

“Are they still together?”

“Nah, they split up after finals. He was supposed to be revising with this other girl in their tutor group but between you and me, I think some of the revising was, you know, done in a horizontal position.”

I laugh at the thought of horizontal revising. Poor Jane. I know how she must have felt. That realization that you’ve made a fool of yourself, that you were so wrong.

“What was he like, this bloke?” I ask Vinny. Why do I care? I’m strangely pleased by the reply, though.

“Good-looking bastard. She seems to go for smoothies.” He gives me a slow, sly smile.

“Don’t know what you mean by that. What does she do now?”

“She works in Paperchase in Tottenham Court Road or something.”

“Yeah, paper planes you mean?” Vinny scrapes something from under the nail of his big toe which is sticking through one sock. “She’s taking a year off, you know, before she moves out of the slip road of studentdom and into the fast lane of middle management. Nice girl, though.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say casually, examining my hand-in-work with the iron-razor sharp creases in all the wrong places.

“You interested, then?” asks Vinny leeringly.

“Oh, no. Well, I don’t know.”

“Of course, you’re a professional now,” he sniggers.

“Don’t
tell her about that, for fuck’s sake. Oh, you haven’t, have you?”

“No, I’d forgotten about it, actually.” He thinks for a moment and then adds “Just don’t mix business and pleasure, that’s all. Now, I think you’ve done enough damage to that shirt, give us the iron.”

On the bus to work I am thinking desperately how to ask Debbie for more time off. By the time my stop has come I am convinced it is my right and she cannot stop me.

“Hiya,” I say, putting my head round the door of her office. It is separated from the rest of us by glass partitioning. There are also Venetian blinds that can be closed when Debbie is sacking someone. In fact I suggested to her one day that she should just write on them “Another one bites the dust.” It would certainly serve to motivate the rest of us “self-starters.” She laughed. She used to laugh a lot at the things I said, way back when I first arrived. I was the class favourite. One of the girls told me that Debbie spent ten minutes in the ladies’ loo talking about me and wondering whether I was available. Debbie sacked her the following week.

This morning Debbie just looks up at me and says “Hiya” wearily and then goes back to some spreadsheets on her desk.

“I’m just going to take Monday morning off if that’s OK,” I say quickly.

Her eyes move off the spreadsheet but stay fixed on her desk.

There is a pause.

“Let’s see how it goes,” she says coldly.

“OK. It would just be the morning,” I say and go back to my own desk.

Sami is just sticking a yellow Post-it on my phone.

“This guy wants a repeat for next week,” she says, pulling her incredibly long dark hair away from her face. “And a discount.”

I look at the name and number on the paper, which mean nothing to me, and throw them in the bin.

“Well, he can shove it up his bum.”

“Andrew.
You can’t do that. You’re so rude.”

I laugh.
“Sami
, you’re so polite.”

“I know,” she smiles.

And so it continues—the daft, amiable banter ping-ponging between us all day long. The feigned lunacy that is the only way to stay sane in an office. We should get one of those signs “You don’t have to work here but …” Oh, never mind.

By Friday, I am feeling as excited as a kid. I haven’t been to Paris for years and even then it was a student expedition with Helen and another couple on such a tight budget that we had to sneak one of the girls into the hotel at night and have sandwiches for every meal apart from the last night when we went for the 55F menu at a little restaurant with aluminium cutlery and tables topped with chipped, yellow formica.

I first met Helen when I carried her books home from the library. It was in the third week of her first term at university, I’d already been there a year. Sweet, isn’t it? It was a cloudless, sunny day but with long, autumnal shadows and a cool breeze blowing across campus. She was walking back from the library through campus and I was strolling over to the Union to meet some friends for a lunchtime drink. I saw this girl staggering along: her arms were struggling to contain a pile of books and she was stopping repeatedly, grappling with one old hardback after another to prevent them from escaping. But her face was completely calm.

“Thank you,” she said when I made my offer. I was surprised by her cool acceptance. I had expected her to laugh and look embarrassed or to say, “Oh, don’t worry, thanks,” but she just handed over some of the books and we set off to her hall of residence.

I asked her about where she came from (South London), what she was studying (French) and how she was getting on (very well, because she had covered some of the course work at A-level). I offered my own CV and she asked some questions about it.

“That was a real help, thank you again,” she said, closing the door to her room in my face.

Does Helen sound boring? There was never a dull moment with her. She arranged for us to go backpacking, we went to the theatre, she suggested books for me to read and then interrogated me on them. She showed me her Tina Turner collection one day. I was amazed. Then she did an impression. It was really incredibly accurate—the voice, the shuddering dance across the stage. It became our running joke. She’d do it in that post-coital silliness at four o’clock in the morning or a Sunday afternoon.

That was the thing about Helen—with her pale skin, her big dark eyes and her long straight hair, she looked the picture of serenity but you never quite knew exactly what she was thinking or what was going to come next.

“This is crap,” she said quietly to the owner of a hotel in the Cotswolds when we splashed out for a weekend to celebrate our second anniversary with some money her parents had given us. He looked astonished—so did I, even after two years of knowing her.

“Sorry?”

“I said this room is crap. You think because we’re students that you can give us the smallest, noisiest, most horrible room in the place and we won’t notice.”

The guy tried to protest but Helen continued, forcefully, eloquently.

“Our money’s as good as anyone else’s. Can you show me which other rooms you’ve got, please.”

And he did. And we got a huge room overlooking the lake.

“Better,” smiled Helen proudly, as she sat on the bed, arms stretched out behind her, legs crossed, a big toe tickling the carpet.

I sit at my desk virtuously until most people have left. I ignore someone who says “see you on Monday” and when I do leave, at six-thirty, I don’t say goodbye to Debbie in case I remind her of our little conversation the other day.

At home I gulp down a cup of tea and quickly throw some stuff into a sports bag. The clothes and the bag look scruffy but I remember what Mark said: perhaps she’ll be so embarrassed by the state of my stuff she’ll buy me something new.

I head off to Marion’s, shouting, “Have a good weekend” to Vinny.

“You off somewhere this weekend?” he says, opening a bottle of Rolling Rock. He is wearing his oldest, baggiest combats, a khaki T-shirt with a big red star in the middle and tatty Nike trainers.

“Yep, Paris. Where are you off to?”

“This new club in Clerkenwell, the Laundry Room. Hang on a minute, Paris? Fucking hell!”

“Work, mate.”

Vinny looks confused, then his face brightens. “Oh,
that
work. Christ, you’re doing well. What’s the number of that agency again?”

I laugh and slam the front door behind me.

Over dinner in the tiny garden of a restaurant in Chelsea, Marion mentions that our flight back on Monday isn’t until four in the afternoon.

“Why so late?” I ask, slightly more urgently than I had intended.

Marion looks up from her rocket and parmesan salad. “I wanted to make the most of our time there. Is that OK?”

“Oh, yes, of course, sure.” I carry on eating.

Oh, God! OK, so we have more time in Paris, which will be great but I could have just about done a half-day in the office, which might have appeased Debbie a bit. Debbie, the office and, in particular, what Tuesday morning holds in store for me, have been on my mind all evening.

a
s she signs in at the Ritz, Marion fires a list of questions at the guy behind the desk. He handles it well, I think, answering “yes, of co’se” or “no problem, madame” to everything she asks him.

Apparently satisfied, but obviously annoyed that she has found no excuse to reject the suite they have given us, Marion turns away from the desk—the signal that she is ready to go upstairs.

Two porters struggle with her Louis Vuitton luggage while I pick up my tatty sports bag. Immediately a third guy, my age perhaps, takes it from me anxiously.

“OK,” I say, giving it up. “Thank you.”

The five of us walk down the hallway—all thick blue rugs and gilt doorframes. I glance in at a lounge on the left where people are sitting at small tables. I’m struck by how many of them look just as amazed to be here as me. Yes, guys, you’re really at the Ritz in Paris—except that you’re probably paying for it yourselves. A couple walking down the stairs stare at Marion so I walk on quickly to be next to her.

“It’s not a
bad
hotel,” she confides.

“Mmm,” I say mildly.

“For Europe.”

In the lift I am suddenly overcome with excitement. My stomach begins to tingle and my hands shake very slightly. I have made it! Even if she dumps me tomorrow I have stayed in a suite at the Ritz in Paris.

I try to look as bored and as mildly annoyed as Marion does. I realize that the little guy holding my bag is looking at me out of the corner of his eye, through one of the mirrored walls of the lift. You may well stare, mate. Just look and wander. Who am I? What is the deal? How have I done it? Luck? Hard work?

Our suite is every bit as vast and luxurious as I had hoped. I wander round slowly, poking at some things, looking in others, trying switches and just absorbing the fact that it’s all ours. It’s bigger than my entire flat at home. Meanwhile the porters scurry round, arranging the flowers, opening doors, double-checking that everyone is ready and unpacking Marion’s cases.

“I’ll do it,” I say quickly to the guy who picks up my holdall. That would really give the game away. One look at my Gap T-shirts, St. Michael boxers and Next trousers bundled into the bag along with my ancient, toothpaste-smeared Manchester United sponge bag would blow my cover completely.

Marion pours two glasses of Perrier and gives me one, ruffling my hair and squeezing my shoulder lightly.

“I think this’ll do,” she says, taking a drink and looking round the room. I nod and put my hand over hers. The porters have finished and look at her expectantly. She picks up her bag from the coffee table and looks inside.

“I don’t have many Euros yet,” she says. “I hope this is OK.” I try to see the note she gives one of them but I can’t. He seems very pleased with it, anyway. They bow and slip out of the room, the little guy who carried my bag giving me a final look.

Marion goes into the bedroom. I take the opportunity to look round the living room then go next door, check out the huge white marble bathroom with its telephone, fruit bowl, flowers, white fluffy towels and bathrobes and little baskets of toiletries with the hotel’s gold crest on them. I’ve been in lots of hotel bedrooms one way and another. Minimal comfort, portion-controlled guest-as-a-necessary-evil hotels. But this one is different. It stretches out before me, revelling in its own luxury and confident that it can fulfil my every desire, challenging me not to be impressed, not to fall in love with it and the fantasy world it is offering. Drunk with delight at this new experience, I go into the bedroom and bounce onto the bed where Marion is lying with her eyes closed. Enough cool sophistication—that was for the staff. Now I am just an excited kid.

I lean over, hold her gently and kiss her. She runs a long, red, nail-polished finger down my cheek and smiles wearily.

“You should rest some.”

“Oh, OK.” I say, still hyped.

She laughs. “You’re funny.”

“So are you,” I say, kissing her again. I lie down next to her for a minute but it’s no good—“resting some” is the last thing I can do. I prop myself up on one elbow and look down at her, again. She opens her eyes.

“Now
what?”

“Thank you,” I find myself saying. And I do mean it. She might have slightly more available cash than absolutely anybody I’ve ever met but she has taken me to Paris and this kind of trip can’t be cheap and I do appreciate that. My airline ticket cost over £400 and this suite must be a couple of grand per night. Helen used to give me books or CDs at Christmas and birthdays. We’d always have a limit of £15 to make things fair. That seems like a million years ago.

Marion’s eyes run over my face. “You’re welcome. I know you haven’t had the opportunity to travel much, I know that.” Haven’t I? Oh, OK. I’m about to point out that even people from Reading do go abroad sometimes, albeit not usually to five-star hotels, but I decide this sounds ungrateful so I say what I think she wants to hear.

“No.”

“Travel will develop your horizons. You’ll never see anything of the world from that office window.”

“You’re right.” Well, she is, I suppose, but I’m just glad no one else can hear this ridiculous conversation. Look, she’s taken me to Paris, so agreeing with her is the least I can do. It’s just good manners.

“I want you to see something of life,” she says solemnly. “There’s a great big world out there and there is so much to learn. It will be a great education for you.”

“I hope so,” I say truthfully.

She lies on the bed while I watch Eurosport and MTV on the telly in the living room. Some guy speaking American English with a German accent is jigging up and down and trying to convince us he’s having a good time while he introduces the next act: a Danish heavy metal band called DStrukt. I put my feet up on the settee, take a swig of beer, throw some peanuts up in the air and try and catch them in my mouth. Then I start on the chocolates they have left us.

After a while I get bored and decide to venture out—after all, the hotel may be great but we are in Paris, aren’t we? Seems a shame to waste it. I tiptoe into the bedroom to see if Marion is awake. She is still lying motionless on the bed, arms held rigidly by her sides. She must be asleep. I’ll write a note—besides, I won’t be long, just a walk around, buy a postcard or two. Just as I close the door she asks, “What are you doing?”

“Er, I was just going to go out.”

“We’ll have to get ready for dinner soon. I don’t think you have time.” Oh, come on—it’ll only take me a minute to change—if I bother to change at all.

“Just for a quick walk.”

“OK. There’s money in my purse—just go down to the lobby and change it. Get me a magazine and some aspirin.”

“Oh, all right.”

I take thirty Euros from the wad in her handbag, guessing at how much is there altogether and slip out. The corridor is silent, airless and dimly lit. The carpet is thick and the silence almost suffocating. I wonder what is going on behind these other doors. Other people lying in the bath, on the bed, with prostitutes, reading glossy magazines full of things they can buy without checking their bank accounts. Relaxing. Doing the things rich people do. I buy American
Vogue
and Anadin Extra for her and a
Vogue Hommes
for me plus some funky “Hollywood” chewing gum which I can show off with at home.

Then I go outside for a walk around and it hits me that I am in Paris. Yippee! I am in bloody Paris! So far I could have been anywhere—the plane, the hotel and the car in between them have been just nondescript international luxury—the same as London. Funny how rich people, even the ones who travel a lot, pay to make sure they only have minimum contact with any of the places they visit. On the other hand, perhaps that’s the point of business-class travel and five-star hotels.

But now I really am in Paris and as I look around I see Paris and people wandering about being French; doing ordinary things with that serious, stylish intensity. A young man, my age, carrying some fairy-tale boxes of patisserie home with him, another frowning and slouched at a café table, reflecting on his wasted life or considering the meaning of it all. Two young professional women walking quickly down the street towards me, dressed to kill, smoking seriously and locked in an indignant, passionate debate.

I wander along the rue de Rivoli for a while, breathing in the atmosphere, letting it sink in that I have got this far and then I turn off and walk slowly past the Palais Royale, along the Rue St. Honoré back to the hotel, stopping off on the way to buy some tiny strawberries because they look so good in their little wicker baskets.

Lying in the bath, I can hear Marion in the other room on the phone to a friend.

“Oh, poor you,” she is saying. “Oh you poor, poor thing. That is
so
unfair.” I can tell that the news is cheering her greatly, even before she puts her head round the bathroom door to check up on me and smile. Then she rolls her eyes and goes back into the living room, continuing her sympathetic noises.

I lie back under the sweet-smelling, frothy blanket and close my eyes. I cannot remember ever using bath foam before. Limited budget, limited time, limited imagination. I don’t know. Like most things before I met Marion. I massage my dick a bit until I get a lazy, half hard-on. Then I take a gulp of champagne, pop a couple of tiny, sweet strawberries into my mouth and begin to laugh at the whole ridiculous, fucking thing.

We eat at a restaurant on the Left Bank where, of course, the maÎtre d’ welcomes Marion like an old friend and she seems only mildly displeased to see him. He gives us a table in the corner and we order vodka and tonics while we decide what to eat. Putting on her glasses Marion looks down at the huge gold-embossed menus.

“I’m just going to have seafood,” she says. “Some oysters to start with and then maybe some lobster. You should have this veal thing, it’s their specialty. Here, third one down.”

I look over at her menu to see what she is pointing at and notice that, unlike mine, it has the prices. And what prices.

The waiters probably assume that this woman is taking her nephew or godson out for a special dinner. Perhaps they think I’m working in Paris or studying here.

Or perhaps I’m not the first young man Marion has brought here.

I suppose the food is good. And there is plenty of business—white gloves, lots of extra cutlery, people filling your glass after you’ve taken a single sip—all the kind of things that Marion likes.

During the main course Marion asks how I can spend all my day on the phone trying to sell things alongside all those other people. I explain tragically that I have to because I’ve got to pay the rent. This leads onto how can you live in Fulham. She drove through it once and it was full of people being sick all over Fulham Broadway. I admit that it can be a bit rough on Saturday night.

“This was a Tuesday morning,” she says.

She goes on about do I want to spend my life renting a little flat in Fulham? I should get on the property ladder. Real estate is the thing. “Buy land—they ain’t making it anymore,” as some friend of her father used to say.

“You’ve never invited me to your place,” she says, taking a sip of wine.

“Sorry?” I say, horrified.

She laughs at my reaction. “I said I’ve never been to your apartment.”

Apartment? I wonder for a moment what kind of place Marion thinks I live in.

“Would you really want to?”

“Sure, I’d love to come and meet your roommate.”

“Really?” I gasp in horror.

“Why not?” she says in an innocent, slightly hurt tone.

“He’s usually out—being sick on the Broadway,” I explain sadly.

After dinner we walk a bit and then take a taxi back to the hotel. The sex is good—we are both warmed and relaxed by the wine and the rich food. As we lie in bed, Marion’s head on my chest, she asks what I would like to do the next day. The thought hasn’t occurred to me, today has been so amazing. I tell her that. I would quite like to go shopping and get some new clothes but I don’t tell her that. Meanwhile, she has reached down and found my dick again.

“Andrew, will you do something for me?”

“Er, yes, what is it?”

“I don’t know why the British don’t do it immediately like the Americans.”

“Do what?” I ask.

“In America, it’s automatic with all male babies.”

I don’t want to admit to myself that I think I know what she is talking about. Is she being serious?

“D-do what?” I ask again looking down at her awkwardly to see if her face gives anything away.

“Oh, you know, get circumcised.”

“What?” I move up sharply and her head falls away from my chest. She looks surprised and then props herself up on one elbow. I can see her face properly now, she isn’t joking.

“It’s much cleaner, more aesthetically pleasing—”

“Marion, you are kidding, aren’t you?”

“No. What’s the big deal? Both my husbands were. All American men are. You’ll find it the most natural thing in the world. It’s much more comfortable.”

“How would you know?”

“It’s obvious,” she says lightly.

“Are you serious? You really think I’m going to … to … cut a bit of my dick off just because you’d prefer it.” I move further away from her in the vast bed and find that my hand has automatically moved over my willy. Poor bugger: it’s got me this far, to Paris, in this hotel. I feel I owe it something.