Upgrading (23 page)

“You’ve got to hate where you came from and love where you’re going to.”

“Heh?”

“That’s what Marion said to me once.”

“Sounds like her. It’s probably good advice. I wonder where Marion does come from.”

“I think she fell out of the pages of a glossy magazine like one of those perfume samples.”

Laughing at the thought, “Probably.” I stretch my neck and look into my glass. Somehow it feels like it’s been a long day already. “What do
you
think I should do?”

“Well,” says Mark, getting up and standing by the fireplace like some Victorian father giving advice to his wayward son. “You’ve got to decide what you want. Marion will probably give you a bit of cash, cufflinks, a watch, something like that. You can sell them after a while, I know a jewellers near Victoria station—great for that sort of thing. Never asks questions. Mention my name, they won’t rip you off. Then Marion will get bored of you after a while—”

“I thought you said she liked me.”

“Yeah, but she’ll still get bored, like your favourite Christmas present when you were a kid. Were you still playing with that in February?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Course you weren’t.”

“But if she really likes me won’t she give me things?”

“Little bits and pieces, yes, but she’s not going to shell out a huge great wad so that you can go off, do your own thing and leave her, is she? She wants to keep you on a short lead, just a little bit at a time.”

“Oh, Christ.”

Mark laughs and refills our glasses. “Marion’s not stupid, she knows a gold-digger when she sees one.”

I’m suddenly really offended by that phrase. “I’m not a gold-digger, it’s just that if they—Marion or any of her friends—have got all that money and they want to spend it on me, why shouldn’t they? Anyway, what am I saying this to
you
for?”

“I know exactly what you mean. I’m just saying Marion isn’t going to pay out and let you run off, she wants something for her money.”

“I do like Marion,” I say, looking into my drink. “She’s funny and she has been very kind, taking me to Paris and New York. It’s just that—well, like you said, there’s no long-term future in it, is there?” I remember Channing’s words over dinner.

“She knows that too.”

“It’s just a bit of fun. To be honest I’m just beginning to go off her a bit. She’s starting to drive me mad at the moment—always picking, always complaining. And we always do what
she
wants to do.”

“But that’s the deal—she’s paying,” says Mark, laughing at my naivety.

“I can’t do this much longer,” I mutter, almost to myself.

“Well, then what’s a better bet? Let me think. You might get something off some other old dears I know. I’ll introduce you, you’ll have no problem. But the thing is if you really want to earn some decent money and see the world …”

I look up at him. “Yeah?”

“If you really want to earn money to live on, you know, comfortably, it’s going to have to be sex—with men buying.”

“What? Oh, I don’t know about—” I’m startled.

“Hang on, I didn’t say sex
with
men, although if you can put up with it there’s always work there. No, it might mean sex with their wives or girlfriends or with a hooker while they watch or something.”

“What? Do you, you know, do a lot of that?”

“Bread and butter, mate.”

“Why do they want to watch?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “Derr! They get turned on by it. Like having a porno movie live in their bedroom.”

“Weird.”

“It’s a weird world, mate.”

I try and imagine the scene but give up when it all becomes part of a movie I saw at a friend’s house when I was sixteen and the video got stuck and I panicked thinking I heard the police downstairs and we’d been raided and what would I tell my parents?

“And you don’t have any problem with that?” I ask.

“No, not at all.”

“And you don’t ever find that you can’t, you know, get it up?”

“Hardly ever. It’s quite a turn-on, really. Especially having those crisp fifties pressed into your hand afterwards.”

I nod uncertainly and look up at the ceiling. I don’t want to meet his eyes. And I really don’t want to hear what he’s saying. I certainly don’t want to hear what comes next.

“Truth is that women will buy you little presents, let you live in their house or something and give you enough cash to tide you over but it’s men that actually pay up,” he says. It sounds as much as if he’s confessing as giving advice. “When I met you in Knightsbridge a few weeks ago, you didn’t think it was a woman that I’d been seeing, did you?”

“Wasn’t it?” I say rather unnecessarily. I look across at him; for once he looks slightly off his guard.

“You’ve got a lot to learn, mate.”

“That I do know. But with men?”

“It pays cash, it pays the bills,” says Mark urgently. “Dinner with a woman might be fun but look at the balance sheet: four, five hours and a hundred, a hundred and fifty quid. Big deal. I can earn more in just one hour with … other clients.” He regains his composure slightly. “Oh, don’t look so shocked, you must have known it happens. It’s the ultimate fantasy for them—a Hugh Grant they can actually have sex with.”

“I can’t do that, sorry, I just couldn’t.”

Mark laughs. “Up to you, I’m just saying that’s what makes money. Refill?”

I leave Mark to his beautiful, off-white minimalist world just after eight because he has to be somewhere by nine. I thank him and he says he’ll try and introduce me to some other people. But it’s been a pretty depressing conversation especially when Mark refilled my glass and admitted that not only did he get turned on by the feel of those crisp fifties—“very flat, very smooth, just out of the bank, with that slight roughness where the print is”—but that these days he couldn’t really get turned on
without
them.

m
y cheque arrives from Jonathan on Tuesday morning as I’m dashing out of the front door. By my calculation it should have been for £160 but it’s just £23. The accompanying photocopied note just says, rather mysteriously, “Deductions for administration: £137.” What the hell does that mean? Funnily enough I get the answer phone when I ring. I leave a message but somehow I doubt he’ll call back.

Marion rings me at work in the afternoon to tell me what a crap time she’s having in Paris and that she’ll be back by dinner time.

“Where do you want to go tonight?”

“Don’t mind, whatever you think,” I say, already lifted by the thought of good food and wine. That I
can
do. The idea of dinner in a smart restaurant sounds sort of pleasant and familiar and comforting after my conversation with Mark. I find myself visualizing, yet again, the tall, dark, handsome guy I met at Claridges in his dinner jacket and later padding round his drop-dead elegant flat, having sex with an ageing American man in a hotel bedroom. The American has a dodgy wig for some reason in my little fantasy. Is Mark enjoying this? No, impossible, surely. Participating? As little as possible, I suppose. Then picking up his clothes off the floor and getting dressed as quickly as he can. Taking a wad of cash off the old guy, telling him it had been fun and promising to see him again soon.

One thing’s for sure, I might have a lot to learn about persuading women to buy me clothes and dole out cash but I’ll never, never do that.

“I don’t want too much,” Marion is saying.

“What?” I snap.

“I just I said I don’t want to each too much, just a Caesar salad or something,” she says. “I thought maybe just grab a bite at Le Caprice.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, sounds great. I’ll come over to yours at about seven-thirty then.” I look up and see Sami roll her eyes. “Out again?” she mouths.

I smile but Marion is off, “Oh, one other thing, Andrew. I think you should start thinking about moving in.” I can’t quite believe I heard that. What is she talking about?

“What? With you?”

“No, with Charles and Camilla,” she sighs. “Of course with me. It’s crazy you trying to live in two places and besides I can’t bear to think of you in that slum in Fulham.”

“It’s not a slum,” I mutter distractedly as the whole terrible scenario opens up slowly before my eyes.

“Doing your own ironing in the kitchen is not the kind of lifestyle I want for you.” Christ! What a thought. I would never see my friends, never have any privacy, never be able to slob in front of the telly. It might improve my chances of getting more presents and even some serious income but I could probably kiss goodbye to my sanity. Besides, what could I say to my parents? They would understand that I’d moved, but to Belgravia? With an older woman? Oh my God, they might want to meet her. She might want to meet them!

“Andrew?”

“Erm …”

“Well, think about. It’s only sensible, I’m sure you’ll agree. See you at seven-thirty. Don’t be late.”

She hangs up and I stare down at my desk for a minute. Perhaps this was the downside of having her fall for me that Mark was on about. He’s right—again. I’ll end up being a poodle, not a gigolo. And a cash-poor poodle at that.

“Everything OK?” It’s Sami.

“Yeah. Fine … fine.”

I feel in need of another coffee—and a lot of drugs.

Thinking about it from Marion’s point of view, it does make sense: she’d have me on tap. Never late for dinner, never out when she phones. Less likely to be seeing anyone else. Perfect.

Getting a cup of coffee from the disgusting machine by the lifts I decide that I can stall her for a while—say something about deposits and tenancy agreements or I can half-move in, take some clothes over in a bag and spend some nights there and some nights in Fulham. After all, I am already staying at her place two or three nights a week. I’ll just increase it to four or five. On the other hand, if I gave up Fulham completely I’ll save a fortune on rent. And food. And just about everything else. My salary would be all mine for spending.

But what about when I want a bit of time on my own? Or if I want to have some friends round? If Marion wasn’t there it would be great: “Come round to dinner,” I could say. But not for the old lasagna and salad off assorted Habitat and John Lewis plates courtesy of the landlord or previous tenants. No running between the kitchen and the living room to check everything is all right. No finding the pan has boiled dry and the place is filling with black smoke. No dragging it all home from Sainsbury’s on the bus and getting back four minutes before the first guest arrives. Do it properly for once. Whatever I want, whenever I want, served by the maid from big china plates and solid silver cutlery. Pretty impressive, eh?

Suddenly I see Jane’s face. Bloody hell. That would completely end it. As soon as she found out she’d never want to speak to me again.

I decide to put off making a decision for a bit and perhaps ask Mark for his advice.

“Move in?” he says over an early evening drink at a bar near his. I want to exorcise our last conversation, assure myself that although this guy is basically a rent boy, he is still Mark, still pretty cool. Wearing a dark suit, one button done up and an immaculate white shirt without a tie, he does look pretty cool. “That’s a big commitment.”

“Telling me.” He turns away from the bar, looks across the room and smiles devastatingly. I carry on, “I mean it would save me rent and food money and things but talk about a bird in a gilded cage.”

“Yeah,” says Mark slowly. I turn to where he is looking and see two teenage Sloanes in polo neck pullovers giggling and whispering to each other over bottles of Michelob.

“Don’t get too excited, they’re probably still getting pocket money,” I tell him, turning back to the bar.

“Think so?”

“You’re too old for them, mate, face it.”

Mark turns back to me and laughs. “Oooh. You’re not supposed to get this bitter for a least another couple of years.”

“Mark, I’m sorry, I just want some advice.”

He sighs, looks into his drink. “OK. If you move in you will save a lot of money and you will increase the chance perhaps of her giving you something decent in the long term. On the other hand, she
will
keep you on a very tight lead.”

“No social life.”

“No
life.”

“So what would you do?”

But now Mark is distracted by someone at the other end of the bar.

“Mark?” No reaction. I’m wasting my time here—again. I take another swig of beer and stand up. He stands up and catches my arm.

“Look, I’m sorry, mate,” he says.

“You just can’t help it, can you?”

“No,” he says seriously. “I can’t.”

I take a deep breath. “Sorry, I lost my rag. I just don’t know what to do.”

“Hang in there,” he says without hesitation.

“Really?”

“Marion’s a tough one to crack but I suppose you’ve invested quite a bit of time with her already.” Mark stands with his arms folded, staring down at the floor, frowning with concentration. He looks like a model advertising a suit. “She just wants you around, not at the end of a phone line. Yeah, that’s good—move in. Like I said, Marion really likes you and she’ll look after you. Where did you go the other weekend? New York? Hey, why not? At least you’ll travel a bit. Work at the clothes thing, like I told you.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, and in the meanwhile, I’ll introduce you to some other people—less, you know, control freaky. Can’t do any harm.”

I suddenly feel a strange pang of remorse for Marion. I’m moving in but with the option of dumping her in favour of someone else. Am I really such a shit? Mark senses my concern.

“It’s a tough business,” he says. “You don’t think when she was with each of her husbands she didn’t have her eye on the bigger chance, a better catch? You’ve got to grab the opportunities as they come along—all of them.”

“I suppose so.”

“Look, do you want to go to New York business class and wear that Rolex or not?”

“Yeah but do I have to—”

“If you want get some money out of these people you’ve got to be ruthless about it. The truth is, Andrew, that two seconds after Marion gets bored of you she’ll be looking for someone else.”

“You said.”

“Exactly. Hot brick!” He looks at me. “You don’t get it, do you? The reason why Marion has all that money is that she’s worked for it—rich husbands didn’t rush up to her with cheque books in hand. She went out and got it.

“You want to make serious money, not just pocket money, you say? Yeah? You want more than just a couple of hundred for dinner—and you don’t want to do the sex thing—if that’s the case you’ve got to be tougher than me, more determined, more ruthless.”

Ruthless? Me? Debbie said in my last appraisal that I could be “quite determined” but “ruthless”? That’s another story. Even if I could be as hard and money grabbing as … well, Marion, there is still one other little complication.

Jane.

I’m still horribly embarrassed about her reaction to my stupid stunt with the car. How would she feel if not only am I driving Marion’s smart expensive car, but I’m living in her smart expensive house too?

“Look,” says Mark. “Set yourself a deadline.” He points a finger at me thoughtfully. “A month, say. If you still feel you’re pissing about for pocket money and not a lot else, then knock it on the head. Like I said, I can introduce you to some other people.” That sounds reasonable. Somehow a time-limit makes it more bearable.

“OK.”

“Good man,” says Mark, punching me on the arm. I still can’t decide, though, if I feel dirty and immoral at the end of this conversation or just a berk, a smooth operator with an unscruplous master plan or just a media sales executive from Fulham with delusions.

“Thanks, mate,” I say.

“You’re welcome.”

I think about it all for a moment longer while Mark watches me digest his words. Then I look across at the girls and say to him, “Go on, go and talk to them.”

I arrive at Marion’s at just after seven-thirty. She asks where I’ve been, she rang me at home and the office and no one knew where I was. I tell her I was having a drink with someone. Someone she doesn’t know. Then we kiss and and go upstairs. We begin to make love slowly while a warm breeze blows in through the windows. But I’m not really into it. We lie back halfway through and let the sweat on our bodies evaporate.

I can’t help wondering now whether Marion was meeting someone in Paris. Someone younger, better in bed, more innocent and emollient. A blanker canvas. A cuter, blanker canvas.

“How was Paris?” I say after a while.

“It was boring.”

“Boring? How come?”

“It just was.”

“Why was it boring? Who did you see there?”

“Oh,” she says dismissively. “Well … Let me see.” She takes a deep breath and looks around the room. “I had boring things to do. I had to visit with some old friends who you would have hated and I had to get some clothes for the Fall. There’s just nothing in London, I’ve looked.”

“OK.” She looks across at me without moving. I do the same.

“It’s true. Everyone says London is great for shopping but frankly I’ve been appalled at the choice. It’s an absolute scandal—your newspaper should do an article about it.” I think the Home and Style section already has.

“I see …” What do I see? Marion has obviously had enough of this conversation.

“Fix me a drink, will you?”

Without saying anything I get up and walk over to the tiny fridge in one corner of the room. I remember my dad coming home from work one day in a foul mood. Quarrelling with my mum, picking on me and my sister. It turned out that some management consultants had advised the company to cut costs by removing the executive fridges from the offices of his level of management.

“What d’you want?” I say, opening the fridge.

“There a bottle of champagne in there?”

There is. I take it out and bring it back to the bed with two glasses. I open it and pour. We both take a sip and lie back.

“Buy me anything?” I ask.

“There’s some aftershave in one of those bags,” she says, closing her eyes and squeezing the top of her nose. Aftershave. Duty free. Great. Forgot about me until the last minute. Mark is right, I’ve got to keep any eye out for something better.

Marion is having a dinner party. We’re eating some dark brown stew. I haven’t touched mine but around me the others are tucking in, talking and laughing. Anna Maria and another girl are serving salad. I know I’ve got to leave the room to do something but I can’t remember what. Someone next to me is talking non stop and I’m dying for them to pause a moment so that I can make my excuses and get up. I know I haven’t got much time. Desperately I look round in search of the door which, for some reason, is not where it usually is. To my left is Channing, who is holding a champagne glass in one hand and a fork full of food in the other. He is smiling lecherously at me and some of the stew is dripping down his chin. The person on my right who keeps talking is not a woman, as I had first thought, but Ted the security guard from work. Ted, shut up, I’m thinking. I look around to see who the hell else is here and directly opposite me is Jane.