Upgrading (17 page)

Finally our main course arrives so the guy says goodbye and goes back to his own table, stopping for a bit of glad-handing on the way.

“Dear old Auntie David,” sighs Channing, “she’s such a dizzy queen.” I nod in agreement, which makes Channing laugh. “Don’t you think?” he asks. Whatever you say, mate.

*   *   *

As we get up to leave, just before midnight, I realize that I am actually pretty pissed but I am still aware of being observed by the waiters, the girl who gives Channing his coat, and the door man. I quite enjoy this experience when I’m with Marion, people guessing what the score is, but with Channing it is just plain embarrassing.

We step outside. While the car moves down the street towards us, Channing notices two girls in the street examine a lipstick, and then each use it, puckering their lips up at each other.

“Don’t share lipsticks, girls, you could catch gonorrhoea,” he tells them as he gets into the car. They look at each other in disbelief and then burst out laughing. I just can’t think of anything to say so I smile meekly as if to endorse Channing’s unusual healthcare advice and then follow him into the car as soon as I can.

The journey back to his house is quite uneventful apart from Channing opening his window when we stop at traffic lights and shouting “Cute ass” at a policeman.

“Nightcap?” he asks, dropping his coat on the settee back at his place.

“No thanks, I’d better be going in a minute,” I say, suddenly overcome with tiredness and alcohol.

“No problem,” he says, pouring himself one. “Siddown.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say groggily.

What happens next is something of a blur. I slump down on the settee and put my feet up on the arm. Not the best of manners, Marion would have been furious, but she isn’t there, is she? I am just thinking I should drag myself up and make a move when I feel a strange stirring in my crotch which is, well, not all of my own making. I open my eyes, Channing is standing over me, a drink in one hand, the other very gently unzipping my fly.

“Oh, get
off,”
I groan, more in irritation than in shock. I push his hand away and swing my legs round to get up. My head is swimming and I can hardly even guide it into my hands. I nearly stab myself in the eye with my thumb. How much
have
I drunk this evening?

“Just trying to find out exactly what Marion does see in you,” smiles Channing, walking back across the room. “It’s certainly not your conversation.”

“I’ve—I’ve got to go,” I say, getting up.

“Wasn’t that part of the deal tonight?” I hear him say.

“No,” I say, feeling that I should make something more of it, be a bit angry and threaten to punch him or something, except that I just can’t be bothered. Let alone aim. Why the hell had I lain down on the settee in the first place? I can’t really blame him for getting the wrong idea.

“Oh, I’m sorry, but quite a few of Marion’s other boys have been, you know, more than happy to oblige.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Never mind. It’s just a little game Marion and I have.”

“A little game?” I ask, putting my head between my legs for a moment.

“Oh, you know, share and share alike. Brother and sister.” He knocks back his drink and goes to get another.

“You’re disgusting.”

He laughs. “Oh don’t be so upset. Let’s face it, if I offered you enough money, you’d do it.”

“Oh, fuck
off.”

He laughs again. “Oh, Andrew,” he says quietly, “where do you get off with this high and mighty stuff? What have I offended? Your honour? Your machismo? Your great British pride? Come on, you’re sleeping with Marion to get what you can out of her. I don’t have any quarrel with that. I’ve done the same thing myself,” he says, pausing for effect. “That’s what people do when they are young. You see all this luxury, this…opulence—” he gestures round the room—“and you want a piece of it. OK, that’s understandable, but don’t get so upset and give me all that English gentleman bullshit when someone comes on to you. I don’t really fancy you anyway,” he says putting his head on one side and looking me up and down again, “quite nice buns but I prefer shorter hair and bigger tits.”

Pleased with this final comment he turns to get another drink.

“Thanks,” I say, not sure whether to be angry or not. I can’t be bothered to come up with a witty put-down.

“I’ve really enjoyed this evening,” he says with wide-eyed sincerity, leaning against the fireplace. “The driver will take you home if you want.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll walk.”

“No problem,” says Channing graciously. “Oh, here.” He reaches into his jacket, takes out a Louis Vuitton wallet, opens it and pulls out a note, snapping it in his fingers to check that there is just one. It’s a fifty. “Go on. Take it. For your taxi.” We both know I don’t need fifty to get home and that no cab driver would even change one.

I look at it for a moment, planning a proud, defiant gesture but I’m too tired and drunk—and poor. So, like a man in a dream, I reach out and take it.

I walk quite a long way to try and clear my head. Did I take that money for letting him take me to dinner or just for a taxi home? Or because he’s got lots of it and I haven’t any and it seems only fair? Or did I take it because I let him have a quick grope? I think what he enjoyed about touching me up was less to do with sexual gratification and more to do with just casually insulting me. I shudder at the thought and turn to look at my reflection in a shop window. My face, a ghostly apparition amongst the expensive black suits on display, appears older and thinner than it did a few weeks ago.

Or did I just take that fifty because I’m used to taking cash from people now without even thinking about it?

i
don’t ring Marion on Sunday just to make the point, but when I get back from buying the papers and some bread there’s a message from her on the machine telling me that she is unable to see me tonight because some old friends are in town and she has arranged to take them to Wiltons in Jermyn Street. She will call me tomorrow.

She sounds like she is talking to an idiot.

Perhaps she is.

I am actually quite relieved. Rolex aside (and it now seems to smell of Channing’s aftershave, like my hair and all my clothes), I’m pretty pissed off with her at the moment. I’m also absolutely knackered: the prospect of a quiet evening in on my own without meeting new people, going to new places and having to rise to the challenge of yet more artificial social intercourse is very welcome. Having mooched around all day, at about six I go and take a cold Rolling Rock out of the fridge, find the controller down the side of the settee and put the telly on.

It’s not just my exhausting social life—the tension in the office has worn me out too. Avoiding Debbie, judging her mood whenever I have to talk to her, thinking up skives for the next few days and rehearsing my arguments for the rows we’re going to have is more tiring than working.

It’s not even like I’ve got much cash to show for it. It’s all very well having Marion pay for everything and I am grateful to her, but it means that she’s always involved and always calling the shots. The idea was for me to have money to spend as I want to. Being Marion’s lap dog is harder than working for a living.

Making a mental note to ring Jonathan first thing Monday morning, I am almost nodding off in front of the early evening news, when I hear Vinny’s key in the lock.

“All right?” says Vinny, falling into the living room.

“Hiya,” I say unenthusiastically and sink further down into the armchair—not difficult since it only has one spring left. Never one to take a hint, he ploughs on. “What’s this?” he asks, gawping at the telly, hands on hips.

“Nothing,” I say and switch over. Upstairs the loo flushes and a moment later, Jane bursts in.

“Oh, hiya,” she says, slightly surprised to see me.

“Hi,” I say, sitting up a bit. “How are you?”

“Fine. How are you?”

“I’m all right.” I wonder whether to stand up then decide against it. She looks at Vinny so I look back at the telly. Vinny starts to say something about what we’re watching so I switch over again.

“Shall I give them a call, then?” asks Jane excitedly.

“Yeah, the phone’s in the kitchen,” says Vinny, collapsing onto the settee and staring at the box. Jane is still buzzing for some reason.

“All right then, Libby, Vicky, Seth … Paul?”

“OK,” says Vinny. Jane leaps out of the room, saying she’ll put the kettle on.

“What’s happening?” I mutter.

“Er, we’re off to the pub. Wanna come?”

I think about it for a moment. It would be good to see Jane again but I’m just not in the mood. “No thanks.”

But somehow I end up coming with them.

The others arrive pretty quickly after Jane has summoned them, and so the six of us—me, Jane, Vinny, a grungy student called Seth who introduces himself as a musician, his drabby girlfriend Libby, and Vicky, a rather sexy Australian, walk to the pub in a ragged crocodile. Once inside Jane grabs a table in a corner by the cigarette machine. Five of us slide round onto the bench seat and Vinny finds a stool. It’s a while since I’ve been in a pub. I savour the warm, musty smell for a moment. The thick fog of voices and thump of music from the jukebox is punctuated by electronic squawks and bleeps from the games machines and the till. Two fat blokes in T-shirts and tracksuit bottoms leaning over the bar look round contemptuously at us but then return to their half-drunk pints and carry on mumbling irritably at each other. It feels good to be doing something ordinary, something familiar.

Jane puts her hands on the table, and looks round, making a joke about a Ouija board. We all laugh. Then she starts talking finance. I have forgotten the financial negotiations involved at the start of a group pub visit on a limited budget. Jane has elected herself chairperson of the board. There is a discussion about rounds or a kitty. We vote on it with me abstaining. The kitty proposal is passed by the board but Jane is not pleased.

“You haven’t voted,” she says accusingly.

“That’s because, I don’t mind what we do,” I say.

“Loadsa dosh,” says Vinny, “he’ll just put it on his Gold Amex.”

They laugh and I have mock hysterics. Actually, I am seized with panic that Vinny will tell her about Marion and my new “job.” I shoot him a look. He smiles goofily—is the bastard just playing with me? God, I’ll foul him so badly in the next round of Indoor One A Side Footy.

“Right,” says Jane, “five quid each should see us through. Everyone give me five quid.” People obey, unzipping leather jackets and pulling notes from the back pockets of their jeans. There is some discussion between Libby and Seth and finally she puts a tenner into the middle of the table, explaining that this is for both of them. Jane takes it matter of factly but I notice her exchange a little look with Vicky.

It occurs to me that that’s the fun of going out with a group of people you don’t know, it’s like eavesdropping on a conversation on a bus—you get the entertainment and intrigue without any of the obligations that come with having to contribute. There is no need to get involved in tensions and disputes since Vicky and Jane are obviously full of righteous indignation that Seth the slob was taking Libby, who seems a bit wet, for a ride.

I lift my bum off the seat a bit and feel in my jeans for the notes I stuffed into them as we went out. I take out a fiver and chuck it onto the table with the rest. Except that it isn’t a fiver. It’s a fifty. The one Channing gave me. Jane picks it up slowly just to check and then puts it back disdainfully. The others look on amazed. Vinny breaks the silence. “See?” he laughs. “Drinks on you tonight, Andrew, mine’s a pint—of Bollinger, that is.”

“Sorry,” I say, embarrassed, and snatch it back. “Here, I’ve got a ten if you’ve got change, Jane.”

“Never seen one of those come out of the cashpoint,” she says quietly as she gives me my change.

“Oh, Andrew doesn’t use the cashpoint,” says Vinny.

“OK, Vinny,” I say quietly. But that makes it worse. I realize I should have let him run on until everyone got bored with him as they undoubtedly would. Jane and Vicky go up to the bar with our order. I know they are talking about me because out of the corner of my eye I see Vicky look round at me. To change the subject I ask Seth about his band.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding. His dreadlocks make him look like a burst mattress with its stuffing sticking out. There is a pause as he waits for me to interview him about it. What the hell am I doing with these people?

“What’s it called?” I ask at last.

Libby, who I notice is now hugging his right arm, and wearing a T-shirt which says “Why Should I Tidy My Room When the World is Such a Mess?”, answers for him: “It’s called the Leisure Complex. They used to be called the Consumers, that was my idea, but Seth felt it sounded too
flippant.”

“Oh, right. You don’t want to sound flippant,” I say.

“Not
too
flippant, anyway,” adds Vinny for good measure. “Oh no, people might accuse you of being, you know, jejune or something.”

“I’d hate to be thought jejune,” I say, shaking my head and playing with a beer mat.

“No,” agrees Libby, not sure whether we are taking the piss. She turns her gentle, trusting eyes on Seth for some support. He just carries on nodding, either in agreement, or to the beat of the juke box or because that’s what Neanderthals do.

“What kind of music is it?” I ask.

“Erm,” says Libby, looking up at the brim of the ridiculous hat she is wearing as if trying to find the words to adequately describe Seth’s output.

Seth decides he can handle this one himself. “Mainly rock. Some might see elements of grunge or even R&B in it but we don’t want to be labelled.”

“No,” says Libby gratefully.

“Oooof, you don’t want to be labelled,” says Vinny, as if it’s a problem he’s frequently suffered from in his career.

“Oh, no,” I add, “I
hate
being labelled.”

“Detest it,” says Vinny with feeling. Libby looks at us both for a moment.

“Where have you played?” I ask. Seth gives it some thought. Libby also looks quizzical, taking her cue from him after a quick, sideways glance.

“Well, er, Christ, it’s not easy in London at the moment. My drummer’s got a contact at the Dublin Castle so we’re hoping something’ll turn up there but, er, you know it’s difficult. We gigged at North London Poly last month, that was OK.”

“They have a battle of the bands, once a month,” explains Libby sweetly. Seth stiffens slightly and Libby realizes that she has rather given the game away on that one.

“Do you do birthdays and bar mitzvahs and the like?” asks Vinny.

Fortunately at that moment the girls come back with our drinks. Pints all round. I would have preferred a Bud or a Scotch but after the fifty-pound-note episode I decide to play it safe and try to fit in. Even then I haven’t got it quite right: they have bitter, I have lager. Suddenly I have a longing for ice-cold champagne served in one of Marion’s heavy cut crystal glasses.

In his usual gloomy, deadpan way, Vinny tells a story about being in the kitchenette at work and reaching up to the cupboard for the coffee jar and accidentally grabbing this fierce old bag’s tit or “ample bosom,” as he describes it on the third retelling. Vicky and Jane are in hysterics. But I don’t think that it is just Vinny’s story that is making them giggle so helplessly, that’s just an alibi for a private girly joke.

After a while Jane suggests we check out the jukebox. I volunteer to go with her. We squeeze out and cross the crowded, smoky bar to the machine. A bloke in a blue blazer knocks into me and then gives me a scornful look by way of apology.

“Hope you don’t mind the pub,” she says above the noise.

“Mind
it? Why should I? It’s fine.”

“I thought it might be a bit of a come-down for you. I’m sure you’re used to something slightly more upmarket.”

“Not at all,” I mutter, wondering how much she knows then ask, “Has the board allocated resources for this little extra, then?”

“Heh?”

“Have you budgeted for the jukebox?”

“No, I haven’t, actually. Give us some money,” she says, leading the way.

“Oh, OK,” I say.

“And it doesn’t take fifty pound notes, I don’t think.”

“Ha, ha.” Better to make a joke of it. She consults the list. I find two pound coins and she takes them silently.

“Now, what would you like?” she muses.

“I don’t mind, what are you into?”

“Well …” she says, still looking down the list, beginning to frown with concentration and then disappointment that nothing leaps out at her.

“Let me guess,” I say, “nothing too mainstream, too commercial.”

“Well, not Boyzone, I don’t think.”

“And not Abba.”

“Wrong! I like Abba, actually.”

“Oh, that’s interesting.”

“And what about you? Something nice and safe and yuppie. Have they got any Dire Straits, I wonder—” I laugh indignantly and try to interrupt but she carries on “—or Enya.”

“Wrong on both counts.”

“What do you like, then?”

I consult the list. “Erm. Brand New Heavies?”

She pulls a face and mulls it over. “A bit self-consciously trendy. I don’t quite believe that.”

“Don’t, then. Look, here’s one for you—Radiohead.” I point to it on the list and immediately my Rolex peeks from under my sleeve, its face catching a stray spotlight. Jane doesn’t notice—or at least pretends she doesn’t.

“Not bad. A bit overexposed now, though. Even my mum’s read about them in the
Daily Mail.
I bet they’ve got some of those old early eighties dance tracks for you—Kool and the Gang or, er, oh look, Randy Crawford. Perfect for dancing with the secretaries from work on a Friday night when they’ve dragged you off to a club.” She begins to sway about, rolling her eyes and smiling insanely. I can’t help laughing.

“Well, you can’t like Madonna,” I say. “What about the Cranberries? I can see you
almost
dancing to them at the Students’ Union.”

“Ha, ha. I do like Madonna, actually. She’s such a strong woman, a postfeminist role model.”

“Right on, sister.” She gives me a sarcastic smile.

“What’s that?” she says, pushing my hand gently away. I feel a slight thrill as we touch but if Jane does too she doesn’t give anything away.

“Blimey, Morrissey,” I say. “A bit before your time.”

“No, quite like him, actually. Even though I don’t know what ‘before your time’ means, you patronizing bastard. How old are you?”

I think about it for a moment and I realize that, actually, I don’t have to lie this time.

“Twenty-four—and you?”

“Twenty-two. There’s nothing in it.” Still looking down the list, she hesitates for a moment as we both realize what that sounds like. “No, I used to listen to my older sister’s tapes all the time.”