Upgrading (26 page)

“Thank you,” she says.

On the way to the Tube station Jane tells me what she has against James Bond and his treatment of women.

“He is pretty sexist, I suppose, but everyone was in those days,” I say. Then, for good measure I add: “They didn’t know any better.”

“It’s not just the way he treats women as a bit of totty,” says Jane enthusiastically. “Of course, he smacks them on the bum and sends them away like the woman who’s been massaging him by the pool at the beginning of
Goldfinger
or the way he slaps them around to get information out of them. It’s the way women die around him.”

“Do they?”

“Yes, especially after a sexual encounter. He shags that woman in
Goldfinger
and then she is painted with gold and dies. In
From Russia with Love
he pushes the woman he is dancing with in front of an assassin’s bullet to protect himself. He’s always doing it.”

“Yeah, but women are always getting killed in action movies, even today.”

“No,” says Jane, exasperated. “The thing about Bond movies is the juxtaposition of sex and death. They’re just glorified snuff movies, really.” I suddenly feel slightly concerned that Jane is some kind of Bond anorak but I’m also impressed—she is the only girl I’ve ever met who uses words like juxtaposition without thinking about it. Her face lights up. “Actually, it’s not just sex—even with marriage,” she says. “Look at
On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.
George Lazenby and Diana Rigg tie the knot at the end and she is shot immediately after. And—and when he marries that Japanese woman in
Dr. No
she gets poisoned by having stuff trickled down that thread while she and Sean Connery are lying in their matrimonial bed together.”

“Well, they couldn’t have a
married
James Bond, could they?”

“Why go through the whole ceremony, then? Or he could ask her and she could say no.”

“How do you know so much about James Bond films anyway? You seen them all?”

“Everyone’s
seen them all. I just look at them more closely than most people, think about them more.”

“He is a bastard,” I mutter admiringly.

Jane looks at me for a moment. “Yeah, he is.”

i
ronically after my excuse to Marion and, as it happens, very conveniently for my battle-scarred conscience, I do end up seeing an old mate that night. As I walk back down Tottenham Court Road, lost in thought about Jane and how I break it to Marion, I literally bump into a guy I was at university with.

After an initial exchange of irritable muttering we recognize each other.

“Fuckin’ ’ell,” he says, by way of greeting.

“Jesus, long time no see,” I say in reply.

We end up in a pub round the corner. Pete mimes a drink.

“Oh, cheers,” I say, aware I’ve got hardly any money at all. “Pint of lager.”

He gets them in. The two girls at the bar look round at me. I smile at them but then look round quickly to see where Pete is with the drinks. I wish I could do the flirting thing better.

After the usual update of common friends, a discussion about work and how crap our bosses are, shouted above the noise, we commandeer a newly vacated table in a quieter corner and he asks me about my love life. I know he never liked Helen. None of my friends did.

“You’re well shot of that smug, dreary cow,” he told me once when we met for a drink just after I’d split up with her. Then he looked at me, frowning quizzically through an alcohol-fogged brain. “You haven’t married her, have you?”

On this occasion I find myself telling him all about Marion. Well, nearly all. I tell him we met when she was buying tea in Fortnum & Mason.

“And you were shoplifting,” he suggests. My casually being in Fortnum & Mason must sound a bit odd so I tell him I was buying a present for my parents.

“And she’s older, and rich?”

“Very rich,” I say.

“Kin’ ’ell,” says Pete, thoughtfully.

I tell him, matter of factly, a bit about our trips and the restaurants we go to. I want to reassure myself that I’ve been very lucky so far, that it might just be worth hanging in there.

“ ’Kin ’ell, mate,” he says. “You jammy bastard.” I laugh at just how incredibly wrong he is. Then he says, “How old
is
she? And what’s she like, you know, physically? It’s not …” He mimes two grotesquely low-slung breasts.

“No, very good nick.”

“You’re laughing, then.”

I am
so
not laughing. I tell him about Jane.

“So you’re shagging the rich old one but you’d like to be shagging the young one.”

“Yep.”

“Does the young one know about the other one, then?”

“She knows I’m sort of seeing someone else but she doesn’t know any more than that. I told her I wanted to finish it.”

“Then tell her you’ve finished it, see her when you want and keep the old one going on the side. Want another?” He shakes an empty glass at me, obviously abandoning the hope that I’ll offer. Wish I could, Pete.

“But that’s not really fair on either of them,” I say, desperately playing devil’s advocate. Come up with a good answer, Pete, please.

“ ’Kin ’ell, mate, life’s
not
fair,” says Pete, getting up. I watch him push his way through to the bar, a young man in a middle-aged suit and tie, the crushing burden of life, a man’s life, weighing down on his already stooped shoulders. Accepting his lot with unspoken, unthinking good grace. Poor sod.

I can’t do that. I just can’t.

We go for a Chinese which I manage to squeeze onto my one remaining credit card and spend a couple of happy hours reminiscing about university and discussing the meaning of life and whether you can have kids and live in London. We end up analysing areas of London in which you could conceivably afford to live, followed by towns and villages in the south east and relevant commuting distances as we try and identify some urban nirvana which will give us a half-decent lifestyle within our pathetic budgets.

Afterwards, we walk down to Cambridge Circus and part there, promising not to leave it so long next time. I manage to get a bus back home. I’d really love a taxi but financially that is out of the question as the cash machine confirms. “Do you require another service?” it asks very helpfully, having denied me any actual cash. Yes, I’d like to order a new cheque book and get home on that.

My eyes are closing and my head is lolling against the vibrating window when, after a couple of stops two couples get on, clambering up the stairs unsteadily, the girls squealing and falling about onto the men. Once they’ve decided who is sitting where they continue the argument they’ve been having and then one of the girls says to me, “ ’Scuse me. Can I ask you something?”

The men start to shout her down but she persists. “No, no, let’s ask him. He’s another bloke, right? OK, if you were in a relationship, yeah? And you met a girl in a bar and you really fancied her, no, no, let’s just hear what he thinks, OK? And you really fancied this girl and thought you were getting somewhere with her, would you, you know, shag her and not feel, like, guilty?” The two men start arguing again but she ignores them. “Or would you do it and tell your girlfriend and say you were really sorry?”

“It wasn’t
like
that,” one of the men tells her but she keeps looking at me expectantly.

“So, do I know the girl?” I ask, still half-asleep.

“No. Never met her before.” The others stop talking.

“Well, if I didn’t know her and I didn’t think we’d ever meet again …”

“There you go,” says one of the boys triumphantly.

“No, let him finish,” says the girl, willing me to say the right thing.

“If I didn’t think we’d ever meet again,” I say, thinking carefully, “I’d go back to hers, but then when she was in the loo or making coffee or something …”

“Yeah?” she says, beginning to smile and half-turning to one of the boys.

“… I’d steal everything I could lay my hands on and get out of there.”

The house is silent when I get back. Vinny must be in bed. I was hoping he would still be up. Knackered though I am, I could do with a quick game of One A Side Indoor Footy. Instead I fall into bed and finally get to sleep after tossing and turning for what seems like hours.

Coming from someone so sensible and, well, ordinary, Pete’s advice seems pretty sound. And it was good to have a drink with Jane, a normal date with a girl. Besides, I’m just going nowhere with Marion and Jane won’t wait forever.

But then I remember Pete pushing his way through the crowd in the pub, his life set out before him as if he were a rat in a maze. No way out. No chance of winning. Perhaps I should just stick to my plan, even if it has been modified to involve doing something in business to make some money, as Marion and Charles and I were discussing that night. Be ruthless. Anything to avoid Pete’s fate. Yeah, there’ll be other girls like Jane. If Jane and I got married we’d end up living in a tiny flat until we could afford to move to a tiny house in Woking and I’d commute until I was old enough to follow her round Sainsbury’s and fuck up the house, with unnecessary DIY.

Ruthless, Mark said. Ruthless or hopeless. Fuck it. I’ll spend a month with Marion and if she still doesn’t give me something worth having, I’ll end it. After all, she’ll find another bit of arm candy and I’ll do something with Charles or else find someone who
will
give me that tiny bit of their enormous pile of cash that will allow me to avoid Pete’s fate.

But I could never have a really relaxed evening or a boys’ night out like I had with Pete, for instance, if I was living with Marion, I realize, spreading myself out under my own duvet. On the other hand, I won’t get anything serious from her unless I do move in.

My thoughts are running on ahead of me, all over the place, like a yelping dog let off its lead in a park.

I am finally being pulled down into unconsciousness when the phone rings. There is nothing more unnerving than a phone echoing through the house in the middle of the night. I consider ignoring it for a moment and then decide to answer it, hoping it’s not my mum or dad with bad news. More likely it’s Marion ringing to tell me to come over. Or never to come over again. I stumble into the kitchen just as Vinny’s door is opening.

“I’ll get it,” I say to the silent darkness. I pick up the phone and whisper, “Hello.”

“Andrew?” says a man’s voice urgently.

Scared, I say, “Yeah. Who’s that?”

“It’s me, Jonathan.”

“Oh, right,” I say, squinting at the clock on the cooker. Quarter to three.

“I haven’t spoken to you for ages. How are you?” Jonathan says casually.

“Well, I’m asleep, since you ask.”

“Yeah, sorry about that. Listen, I’ve got a great job for you. Really easy and just round the corner from you in Chelsea.”

“What? Now?” I remember the sheer horror of the poor little rich girl a few weeks ago.

“Yep,” Jonathan gives a desperate little laugh. “This is the time people feel like it.” Feel like what? Talking? I certainly don’t. I fold my arms, the phone clamped under my chin and my eyes closed. I can almost sense already how awful I am going to feel tomorrow morning.

“Jonathan, I’m really sorry, I’ve got work tomorrow. I’m so tired—”

“Five hundred quid, Andrew,” he almost sings.

“What?”

“I said five hundred quid—and it’s in cash this time. Still feeling tired?” he asks. I’m feeling dead to the world but five hundred quid is five hundred quid. In cash, too.

“Why cash?”

“Regular client, we have an arrangement.”

I think about it for a moment. “What do I have to do?”

Jonathan’s voice changes back to its old self. “Well,” he says gently, like a careers master, “the client’s an old guy—”

“An old
guy?
Oh no—”

“Don’t worry, there’s a girl there too. He lives in Chelsea, just off Sloane Avenue, take you ten minutes this time of night in a cab, and the girl he’s got there is called, er …” I can hear him check a piece of paper. “Vivienne. And he just wants to watch you and Vivienne, you know, mess around together.”

“Mess around together?”

Jonathan’s voice changes again, “Yeah, play Scrabble! What do you think?”

Still half-asleep I take a moment to consider what he is saying. “But when we met you said, sex wasn’t—”

I hear Jonathan mutter “Jesus” under his breath. Then he hisses, “Who gives a fuck what I said back then? What are you? A fucking choir boy? Do you wanna earn five hundred quid tonight—cash—or not?”

I can’t believe this is the same guy with the ready smile and the floppy hair I met a few weeks ago in his Fulham flat.

“OK, OK.” I think quickly, wide awake now. This is prostitution, isn’t it? I’m going to be a rent boy. Like Mark. But five hundred quid. Cash. More than I have got out of Marion, more than a week’s salary. Oh, what the fuck! Just mess around. I can do that. Whatever it means. Never mind, play it by ear. Can’t be that bad. Despite my conversation with Mark, part of me always knew that this was coming. It’s a fine line which I was never going to cross. But five hundred quid. I guess I have my price. “What’s the address?”

“Good boy,” coos Jonathan. He gives it to me, tells me to get going and rings off. I press the button down and then call a cab. I put on some clean underpants, my jeans and a T-shirt and go outside to wait for it.

After about ten minutes I notice a silver Skoda drawing up, the driver peering out to check the house number. I jerk my head at him. Who else would be hanging around outside at this time of night? The car is warm and stuffy and sweet-smelling. I’m glad of the heat because for some reason I’m shivering. I slide into the furry passenger seat and say, “Hi.”

“Hi,” says the driver uncomfortably. I give him the address and we speed off. I’m trying to work out a story in case he asks where the hell I am going at this time of night but he just turns up the radio—some Greek station—and stares straight ahead. Above the overflowing ashtray, next to the “No Smoking” sign are two pictures, a pretty girl taken at a party and a fuzzy picture of a baby in its cot. Around them hangs a chain with a tiny gold St. Christopher.

We find the mews easily and crawl along it until we come to the right house. I push a five-pound note into his hand and say thanks. He says nothing and begins to reverse slowly over the cobbles.

I ring the door bell. There is a pause and I panic for a moment that Jonathan has given me the wrong address.

Fucking embarrassing to wake someone up at this time of night—especially around here. They’d probably ring the police, I’d get arrested and have to try and explain what I am doing. Name, address and phone number. Vinny answering the phone and wondering what the hell is going on …

Bolts are being drawn and the door is opened on a chain. A girl with blonde hair piled messily up high and a lot of make-up looks up at me menacingly.

“Oh, excuse me—” She slams the door in my face. Oh fuck. I turn to see if the mini cab is still here but then the door opens again, wider this time, and the girl stands back for me to enter. Despite feeling tired, ill and suddenly very nervous, I walk in, smile and say hello the way I have done before, the way I think Jonathan would expect me to.

“Didn’t they tell you to leave taxi at top o’ t’mews,” she snaps in a thick Yorkshire accent.