Upgrading (29 page)

“Sami?” the voice says. “Er, hang on.” I hear the echoey squelch of a hand going over the receiver and a conversation takes place which I can’t make out. “She’s not here at the moment. Can I help at all?”

“No, don’t worry. Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“Hang on.” Another muffled conversation and then the phone is passed to someone else.

“Can I help you?” It’s that former teacher. For a moment his classroom voice freezes me in fear.

“Yeah, I just wanted to speak to Sami, but don’t worry, I’ll call back later.”

“I’m not sure when she’ll be back. Can I ask who’s calling?” What the fuck is going on?

“No, it doesn’t matter.” I hang up.

I go back to Fulham and take my suit off and put on a pair of shorts even though it is not very warm today. I pick up the phone to try Sami again but then remember who I should be calling.

I dial Jonathan’s number but I’m told to wait by a recorded message while my call is being transferred then amid a noise that sounds like frying fish Jonathan answers.

“Hi,” I say as brightly as possible, “it’s Andrew.”

“Hi, Andrew,” says Jonathan quickly. I wait for him to say something about the other night. But in a rather disturbing Jekyll & Hyde way he is very pleasant. “What can I do for you?”

“It was about that cheque. It wasn’t for as much as I thought it was going to be.” I wait for him to say something but there is nothing. “What are all these deductions?”

“Administration and things. I have to take them out of your first cheque, I’m afraid,” he says, unapologetically.

“But a hundred and forty quid’s worth. What costs that much?” I demand.

“Phone calls, office costs.”

“But … well, could you give me a breakdown?” Funnily enough the only breakdown I get is on the phone line as the frying fish reaches a crescendo and the connection goes. Quelle surprise! as Marion would say.

So I make another call.

“Lipkin, Markby, Smythe. Good afternoon,” says a woman who obviously didn’t quite make it as a Radio 3 announcer.

“Can I speak to Mr. Markby, please?”

“I’ll put you through to his secretary.”

A woman with a warm, motherly voice answers. “Mr. Markby’s office, good afternoon.”

“Can I speak to him, please?”

“Who’s calling?”

“My name’s Andrew Collins, I’m a friend of Marion’s, she suggested I call him.” I realize I’ve said more than I need to. The secretary pauses for a moment just to let it sink in to us both how pathetic and seedy this sounds.

“One moment, please.”

Mr. Markby is every bit as terrifying as I had feared.

“Mr. Collins?”

“Hello, Mr. Markby. Er, Marion, erm, suggested I call you about Anna Maria.”

“Anna Maria?”

“Her maid, you know, who might have to leave the country.”

“Oh, yes,” he says sharply.

“Well, I was thinking of, you know, helping her and I just wondered what it entailed.”

“Helping her?” Oh fuck off and give me a break.

“Yes, with her immigration problem.”

“Yes?” I’m tempted to put the phone down there and then.

“And, I, er, understood that if she were to marry a British person, man, that is, she could stay in the country.”

Mr. Markby takes a deep breath.

“I’m retained by your friend, Mr. Collins, so when she asked me about the law regarding this situation I naturally explained it to her.”

“Right.”

“I am sure she could explain it to you as well.”

“Oh, she has.” I decide to dive straight in, after all, it can’t get any worse. “I was just wondering if I were to marry her, would the Home Office let her stay in the country?”

“If she marries a British National she can apply to the Home Office to have the residence restrictions lifted on her passport.”

“How long would I have to stay married to her?”

There is another pause, as Mr. Markby, no doubt sitting at his antique repro desk in his large, wood panelled office, silently blows a gasket.

“Mr. Collins, my client asked me about this situation and she now knows the law because I have explained it to her. What she, you and the other woman you mention do about it is entirely your business.”

“Oh, yeah, but I just wondered—”

“I’m afraid, Mr. Collins, since you’re not a client I can’t advise you any further. Good afternoon.”

“But—” Pompous old fart. Fifteen thousand quid does sound more attractive by the minute. Even he doesn’t charge that per hour. I ring Mark’s number to see what he thinks. I get his answer phone and ask him to ring me.

I go back to Marion’s that evening and she announces that we are eating in. We have lobster and huge sweet juicy prawns ordered in from some restaurant down the road. Unfortunately Marion’s friend Daria, Goddess of Doom, joins us. She looks every bit as unhappy to see me as she was at Marion’s dinner party. I smile like a simpleton and this pisses her off even more. She spends the whole evening telling Marion she looks tired and talking to her about a friend of theirs whose husband jumped into a pool on their honeymoon and died of a heart attack.

“How awful,” says Marion, cracking open a lobster claw. “I’d have sued. Is she over it, yet?”

“Well, I saw her at a little drinks party last night and she was making light of it but I don’t know,” says Daria, shaking her head sadly. “When I looked into her eyes I could see deep, deep sadness. Her new fiancé says she cries herself to sleep every night.”

I tut sadly but it must be too loud or something because Marion and Daria suddenly look across at me. Behind them I see Anna Maria in fits of giggles.

The next morning after my coffee and croissants I set off to Jonathan’s flat in Fulham to talk to him face to face, although my fist is clenched expectantly for most of the journey and by the time I arrive I’m ready to shake him warmly—by the neck.

I ring the door bell and, just as I could have predicted, there is no answer. His flat is on the ground floor so I peer into the window through the net curtains to see if he is lurking around somewhere at the back of the room but then I notice that there is no furniture in the flat. Where the hell is he? No wonder his phone was diverted to a mobile again.

He’ll never tell me where he is now if I ring him and there isn’t even a For Sale sign so I stare up at the house for a moment thinking about what to do next.

I go to the house next door which is so scruffy it must be owned by some old dear who will be at home at this time of day. Luckily she is. I see a figure moving about behind the rippled glass panel in the front door. A cat pushes between her legs, peers up at me and then walks back along the hallway.

“Hello?” comes a voice, itching for a fight.

“Hello,” I say, bending down to address the letter box properly. “I wonder if you can help me. I’m looking for Jonathan—your neighbour.”

“Who?”

“Jonathan. The young man who used to live next door to you.”

“He’s moved,” says the voice.

“I know,” I say, moving closer to the letter box so that I’m almost sticking my tongue into it. I look in and see a grey puckered mouth with coarse white hairs sprouting from above it. There is a sour, meaty smell of cat food. I stand back a bit. “I wondered if you knew where he’d moved to.”

“Up and left. Never said a word but they don’t these days, do they? Removal van came last week. Parked outside. Blocked the light out of my living room. I went and complained. They told me to go to the office in the high street but I’m not going there with my leg.”

“I don’t blame you,” I say, standing up. “Thanks, anyway.”

I set off back to the high street to find the Tube. I pop into a shop to buy a paper and as I walk out again I see a sign on the building opposite for a removal company. It’s a thought. I go in and luckily there is a bored, teenage girl at reception.

“Can I help you?” she says folding up a copy of the
Sun.
I switch into full-on charm mode—the kind of thing that got me the job at the newspaper and could have got me some way up the “space” ladder if I hadn’t realized quite early on that it was all a load of crap and skilfully fucked it up. I start fiddling with my ear lobe like a cross between Hugh Grant and Prince Charles and make a joke which makes her laugh. I explain that I’m desperate to get hold of an old school chum who was living nearby but he moved recently, did they have his new address by any chance? She asks for Jonathan’s surname and then takes out a file. She runs her finger down a page and then says:

“I’m not really sure whether we’re allowed to give out this sort of thing.”

“Oh, dear, what a shame. I really did want to get in touch.”

There is a pause and then the girl says, “Hang on, I’ll just check with the boss.” She looks round to find him but I’ve already read Jonathan’s new address upside down.

He’s moved to Cambridge Street in Pimlico, the little shit. So much for Fulham being too expensive. I take a Tube along there and find that he is now in a flat in a white stucco building. I ring the bell. Jonathan is not there, of course. Or pretending not to be. I stand back and try and work out which windows are for his flat or office. What the hell am I going to do now?

I hadn’t really planned for this so I sit down on the step and begin to wait.

It feels like I’ve been waiting for two hours at least, pondering on my predicament, but when I look at my watch it’s actually been about twenty minutes. The smell from the bins and the drains below me is getting too much.

I walk slowly upstairs. A woman in a severe business suit is arriving at the front door upstairs. She gives me a filthy look but I ask her anyway whether she has seen Jonathan. She looks down at me but just ignores me. The intercom clicks and she says, “Hello, it’s Charlotte.” The door buzzes open and walks in.

“Thanks a bunch for all your help,” I shout to the closing door. An old man walking past in a homburg stares at me.

I get back to Marion’s and decide to make myself a cup of tea. Anna Maria is clearly not happy about this. Either Marion’s told her that I won’t marry her or she just doesn’t like having her kitchen invaded.

Then I find that there isn’t any tea. Not proper tea, anyway, just herbal stuff and something with a prescription label with a New York address on it.

“What the hell’s this?” I ask Anna Maria. Not that I’m interested, I just want to make the point that what kind of a house is this without any tea in it?

“For madam’s eyes,” says Anna Maria, pointing to her own just in case I’ve forgotten what they’re called in English.

“Her eyes? How can she have tea for her eyes?”

“Yes, bery important doctor in New York give it to madam.”

I sniff the greeny brown leaves. They smell like a hamster’s cage.

“Phwoar! Anna Maria, how can we not have any tea?” I demand. “I just want a bloody cup of tea.” Just then the kitchen door opens and Marion comes in.

“And what on earth is going on in here?” she says, taking off her gloves.

“I just wanted a cup of tea,” I say sulkily and turn my back on her and pretend to close up the foil bag of her disgusting infusion.

“Andrew, can I have a word with you?” says Marion, putting her handbag down. We go into the living room.

“How dare you talk to my maid like that?” she asks calmly.

“Oh, Christ. I’m really sorry, I wasn’t shouting at her, I just wanted a cup of tea and there was no tea in the house and I lost my temper because I’ve had a hell of an afternoon—” I suddenly realize where this is going, so I change tack. “I’m really sorry, Marion. I’ll go out and buy some tea from the shop. Is there anything you want?” I put my arms around her and kiss her on the mouth. I feel her relax slightly.

“Nothing for me, thank you. Andrew, I know you’re not accustomed to servants and that if you’re not brought up with them like I was they can take a bit of getting used to, but please don’t treat them like that.”

“I wasn’t. I’m sorry, I just lost my temper.”

Marion looks at the kitchen door and drops down to a whisper.

“I know Anna Maria isn’t very bright. Believe me, a clever servant is a real liability—but you must be patient with her.”

“I am—normally. Anyway, she’s in a really bad mood. You, er, you haven’t mentioned to her about this marriage thing, have you?”

Marion is quiet for a moment. “Well, she knows that I’m look-ing for someone to help her out … I haven’t mentioned you in particular but …”

“But what?”

“Well, she knows that you would be an ideal candidate so she must be wondering why you don’t help her.”

“Why I don’t break the law for her?”

“It’s not breaking the law, Andrew, I told you, there is nothing illegal about this. People do it all the time.”

“Oh, I don’t want to get into that again.”

“Well, just look at it from Anna Maria’s point of view. From Knightsbridge to Nowhere in twenty-four hours.”

“I spoke to your lawyer today.”

“Oh, yes?” Marion brightens slightly.