Upgrading (16 page)

Channing finishes his call and puts the phone back. He looks me up and down, smiles coquettishly and asks what I would like to drink. For some reason I say beer, which he does not have, so I settle on Scotch with ice but without water. He has a vodka martini. Then he gestures me to take a seat. Like Marion’s house, there is nowhere to sit comfortably, you can either perch on a tiny, hard doll’shouse chair or collapse into a cottonwool settee. I go for the perch option and immediately feel ridiculous. He, of course, knows which is the only sensible seat in the room and takes it.

We sit facing each other for a moment like one of us is going to draw and shoot and then, still smiling, he says, “Well, I’m so glad you could make it.”

“So am I,” I lie.

“Nice of Marion to let you out of her sight for an evening,” he smirks.

“Oh, she does from time to time,” I say blandly.

“Marion usually keeps her boys on a short leash.”

“Perhaps I’m not one of her boys, then,” I say coolly. He laughs loudly and sweeps off to refill his glass. Grimacing with discomfort, I take the opportunity to swap seats onto the soft settee and sit bolt upright, my hands on my knees. He sits down again and smiles broadly. God, I wish he wouldn’t do that. I’m beginning to recognize expensive dentistry when I see it.

“So, you from London originally?” he asks. Oh, Christ, we’re not going to go through all this, are we? On the other hand, at least it is quite a safe topic so we do the whole thing and then move on to him.

He is originally from Georgia but had moved to New York City when he was about eighteen to escape his small-town parents and their small-town ideas. He worked in a clothes shop or “couturier,” as he calls it, on Fifth Avenue and ended up living with the owner. He then did the same thing with an interior designer, a night club manager and finally, an antiques dealer, where he learnt his trade. But he had got bored with New York and then went to Rio where he had some wild years and met Marion. Now he is giving London a shot.

Lucky London.

And it’s OK. A bit quiet and a really early town, you just can
not
eat anywhere decent after midnight except Joe Allen’s but it will do him for a while. I agree and say that it is a bugger that the Tube finishes at midnight. He laughs and I realize that he has probably never been on the Tube in his life.

Then he announces that we had better go or we will miss our reservation and he dashes off to get ready. I suddenly feel a lot more relaxed—partly at the thought of a short break from him and partly at the thought of some nice food somewhere.

I leap out of the horrible settee and have a good stretch, discovering that I can nearly touch the ceiling. I help myself to another drink and wander around the room, tripping up on a huge leopard skin rug. There is a lot of leopard skin now I that I come to notice it. His friend Irena, he tells me later, gave him the idea—she has a whole room decorated in leopard skin. “Most of it real,” he says enthusiastically.

All over the little tables and the huge mantelpiece are hundreds of picture frames. He is in most of the pictures: with Joan Collins, with Fergie, with Princess Diana (ignoring him in a receiving line), with Elizabeth Taylor, with models, male and female, and other people with lots of blond, blow-dried hair, with some other old queen in a black tie, on a white sandy beach with a young guy who is laughing, underneath a flowery umbrella drinking long drinks with a lady in sunglasses and a big hat. More and more pictures of him and his friends in party mode, glamourous and fun, tanned and blond and blowed-dried and beautiful. Yes, I’ve got the message, Channing: you’re a glamorous, attractive person with lots of glamorous, attractive friends and life is just fab. No dreary suburban lifestyle, no bored wife or fat kids staring at the box and demanding to be fed.

A shriek of “Coco! Bad dog!” and a waft of Georgio of Beverly Hills aftershave announce his return. I quickly pick up a picture and pretend to glance at it casually. Channing appears behind me wearing a huge coat with fur collars despite the heat. He takes the photograph out of my hand. It is of him and a young guy at a black-tie do.

“Nice guy. Real shame,” he says and hands it back to me. “Come on, you know San Lorenzo, you’re not
pronto, pronto
you losa that
tavola.”

His black Merc drops us off outside San Lorenzo and some waiting paparazzi relax as they see it is no one famous.

“It’s such a relief coming here with somebody nobody’s ever heard of for a change,” says Channing, gathering his coat around himself and leading the way into the restaurant.

The maître d’ feigns delight to see Mr. Charisse and sizes me up in the split second it takes for him to arrange for a girl to take Channing’s coat.

We are shown to what I suppose is a reasonably good table. I look around for celebrities. Lots of pony tails, more blond blow-dried hair and honey tans. Lots of older guys, some with blue blazers, some just with white shirts. Thick dark hair, flecked with grey erupts from unbuttoned shirt fronts or sweeps down from neatly turned back cuffs. Big, thick, hairy hands, big, thick gold jewellery are everywhere. Bits of Versace splashed here and there. Except on me, of course.

“My God, look at that shirt,” says Channing, shaking out his napkin.

“Where?”

“To your left. It looks like a cat fight between a beach towel and a roll of psychedelic wallpaper.”

I look round and see what I think he is talking about. I laugh politely. Then I look back and realize I can’t see the difference between it and his. He is looking at me taking the place in.

“I can’t believe that Marion has never brought you here before,” he says, biting the end off a bread stick and chewing furiously.

“Erm, I don’t think she has,” I say, as if it is difficult to keep track of all the places we go to.

“It’s best for lunch, of course, but I can go for it any time,” he says, looking past me and smiling at someone. A waiter comes over.

“Can I get you gentlemen some drinks?”

“I’ll have a vodka martini. What you will have? Scotch?”

“Er, yes, please.”

“OK.” The waiter smiles knowingly. I realize that he probably thinks we are “together.” God! Marion, why are doing this to me?

“Cute, huh?”

I realize that while I’m thinking, I’ve been watching the waiter walk off. I decide to ignore this comment and look at the menu. Channing consults his with the same bored, weary look that Marion reserves for menus.

“I should have something light, I guess I’ll just have the grilled sea bass,” he sighs, finishing the last of the bread sticks with a flick of the wrist. “You should have their linguine. To
die
for.”

“I’ll have the steak,” I say firmly.

We order from the same waiter and to my horror I find myself blushing deeply. Channing smiles and starts talking; he compares British boys (smelly, bad teeth) to Brazilians and Americans. He tells me about how awful Concorde is (so cramped you can’t swing a hair dryer), what his house in Brazil was like and how you could gaze down onto Ipanema beach and choose whatever you wanted.

“Well, why don’t you fuck off back there, then,” I find myself thinking but I decide to be polite and just eat some bread and sit and listen. Besides, behind his head I spot a very pretty blonde girl, French or something, who is with what looks like her grandparents. She notices me look at her and looks back, then, the second time, she half-smiles and looks away as the old lady says something to her.

Channing does not seem to notice. Our first course arrives and he carries on, pausing every now and then for a reaction. He makes various references to my sex life with Marion and hints that I am just one of many worthless young men she has got herself mixed up with over the years he has known her but I just let it go.

“She’s an incredibly attractive woman—you should think yourself very lucky,” he says.

“I do,” I say quickly.

“I’ve never known her take such a liking to one of her escorts.” I’m beginning to hate that word. Someone at a nearby table turns round. “Do many of your clients see you as much as Marion?”

“I don’t have
clients
, I just met Marion and we started going out,” I say.

“Going
out?”

“Yes.” Channing smiles and concentrates on his food. “What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing.” I watch Channing eating for a second.

“Has she seen many es—I mean, people like me, of my age.”

“Sorry? People of your age? No. I mean, she has paid guys to take her out to dinner a couple of times in New York. Quite a few young actors who haven’t had a break yet or models. You know. Why not? She’s a rich woman. She has the money.”

“I see.”

“I’ve introduced her to a few as well. She likes young people. So do I—that’s what keeps us young and there are always young people around who’ll accept a free dinner.”

Like tonight, I think, but I don’t say it. He looks enquiring at me but I still say nothing so he adds, “I must say, though, you’re certainly the youngest yet.”

“I see. How old is she?”

Channing looks shocked. “You never ask a woman that question.”

“I’m not asking a woman, I’m asking you.”

“I can’t tell.”

“Go on, I won’t say you’ve told me,” I say, enjoying making the running for a change.

“No, I mean I can’t tell, she hides it very well.”

“Oh, I see.”

We both eat in silence for a moment. Then I ask, “How many husbands has Marion had?”

“You mean how many has she married, or how many has she, you know,
had.”
He raises his eyebrows wickedly.

“Let’s start with married.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I think it’s two.”

“Two? Not three?”

“Two is not three, that’s true.”

“Very clever. All rich, though?”

“Well, of course. Is there another kind? Why do you wanna know? Feeling a little
insecure?”

“No.” I pay some attention to my food. Channing is obviously not going to play ball.

“That’s probably why she likes you,” he says, obviously trying to regain the initiative.

I look up from my plate. Having got the reaction he wants, he immediately looks down at his.

“How do you mean?”

“Mmm?”

“I said, ‘How do you mean?’ ”

“Well, you’re different. Young, unsophisticated, fresh.” He pauses. “You’re kinda naive, proud but without a cent to scratch your ass with.”

I take another mouthful of food and chew it thoughtfully.

“Go on,” I say, although I’m not sure I want him to. This is fascinating but distinctly unnerving.

“Let me see,” says Channing, clearly sensing my discomfort and relishing it. “You’re a bit like … a blank canvas, someone for her to develop, to mould. There is something about your gauche immaturity that she finds, what’s the word? Refreshing.” He purses his lips and opens his eyes wide, in an exaggerated version of something I’ve seen Marion do so often. “Besides, you’re so British. She likes that.”

“British?” I spit.

“Oh, you know. Quiet, reserved. Kinda macho in an understated way.” Just in case I might possibly think he is paying me a compliment, he sniggers slightly.

“I see.” I think perhaps I do.

I notice that the blonde girl is looking again. I smile at her and so Channing seizes his moment to take charge of the conversation.

“Seen someone you know?” he says loudly, with sarcastic excitement. “Someone from Fulham make it over here? Where? I want to see, let’s go say hello.” He is almost shouting by now.

“Oh, shut up,” I groan.

“Well, hoi there, how are
you?”
hisses a strangled voice from above us. It is not exactly loud but somehow theatrical enough for most of the nearby tables to turn and look. This guy certainly knows how to “project.” He is short and very slim with a dark tan and immaculate, shiny dark hair and long, dark eyelashes. Eyeliner again. He wears dark blue jeans with black velvet slippers, a crisp white shirt and a loud red tie. His aftershave begins a fight with Channing’s.

“He
llo,” he says seriously, extending a hand. He is also American. I stand up for some reason and tower over him clumsily, drawing even more attention to us. I notice that his suspiciously single-tone hair is scraped over a bald patch on top.

“Hi,” I say.

“Oh, sweet,” says Channing.

We both look at him.

“You stood up. I love that—so well behaved. Friend of Marion’s,” says Channing to the other guy.

“Oh, OK,” says the guy, smiling to Channing.

“Who are you with?” asked Channing, looking to see the guy’s table.

“Oh, just Carolyn, Lauren and a bunch of fashion people,” yawns the guy. They talk some more, the other guy saying, “And so I said to Carolyn, Judy would not say a thing like that, I know Judy, she is my best friend and she would not say a thing like that.” I look across the room at the girl with blonde hair. She is absorbed by something the old lady was telling her. I realize that she has probably decided that she has made a mistake, and that I bat for the other side, and am just a prick tease or a fanny tease, or whatever girls call it.