Upgrading (35 page)

“Thanks,” I say.

He looks up at me in the mirror. “What for?”

“You know.”

He almost smiles. “Sorry, mate, don’t quite follow you.”

“The pictures. Of me with that girl?”

He shrugs slightly and grins. “Sorry, don’t know what you’re on about.”

“Yes, you do, you bastard.”

Still looking in the mirror he grins even more, takes off his sunglasses and says quietly, “Don’t try and get smart with me, son. I’m only making a living out of her like you are. Oh, and just remember this, you little cunt, I know plenty of people who would gladly beat the shit out of you for the price of a pint, no problem. You won’t be sleeping with any more rich old women— or men—for that matter, with a glass in your face and your balls smashed into porridge.”

“You—you’d better watch it, too,” I say huskily.

He laughs. Then he leans forward, gets out of the car, walks round and opens the rear door. One of my hands goes instinctively to my balls while the other scratches around for the door handle on my side just in case I have to make a quick exit. But he’s just opening the door for Marion.

“I’m
never
going in that—” she begins. Then she stares at me. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah, fine,” I say in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine. “I think I just need some fresh air.”

“That’s a good idea. Let’s walk a little,” says Marion. The last thing I see as I get out of the car is Chris smiling at me in the mirror.

“Chris, we’ll see you at home.”

“Certainly. Mind the traffic, madam,” he says softly.

i
tell Marion that I’m going out with Vinny that night. I’ve rung him already, given him Marion’s number and told him to ring me and suggest we go out. When he does I make a big show of saying “Hey! How are you? Yeah, I’d love to.” Of course Vinny can’t resist going slightly over the top as a piss-take but he is still quite convincing, which is particularly useful because towards the end of our conversation I hear a click on the line. I’ve already rung Jane from a phone box and arranged to meet her at seven-thirty at the Bibendum Oyster Bar. I want to eat shell fish with her—knock back oysters and pull the salt, sweet flesh of crab and lobster out of their pink shells.

“Out again?” says Marion when I tell her.

“Yes, just for a quick drink with my old flatmate Vinny.”

“But I have a reservation for two at The Ivy tonight.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure if I believe her. “Sorry.” She is lying on the bed watching
Oprah
on one of the cable channels and eating low-calorie pretzels.

“Well, what am I going to eat tonight?”

“Can’t Ana Maria get you something? We’ll go out tomorrow night.”

“Boil in the bag fish on my own in front of the TV with that peanut-brained troll to keep me company.”

I sigh. “I’m really sorry, I know I should have told you before, only …”

She looks at me for a moment. Then she picks up the phone and dials a number.

“Channing? Hi, it’s me. What’re you doing tonight? Who? That old lush! Cancel her. I’ll pick you up at eight. OK? See you then.” She hangs up and looks daggers at me again.

“There you are,” I say pleasantly. She looks back at the telly. I watch her for a moment. Women! I sit down and pick up her hand and begin to kiss it. “Oh, Marion, it’s just my old mate Vinny.” She yanks her hand back.

“Where’re you meeting?”

“A pub.”

“Near here?”

“Quite near,” I say helpfully, shit-for-brains that I am.

“OK, I’m leaving at a quarter of eight. I’ll give you a ride.”

“No! Don’t worry.” She shoots me another glance.

“Why not?” She smiles slightly. “Don’t you want a ride?”

“I’ll just walk, thanks anyway, besides I’m going a bit earlier than that.”

“OK.” She looks back to the TV again and celebrates her victory with another pretzel.

Marion does what I half-suspected she would do.

“Bye.” I say quickly, popping my head round the bedroom door. “See you later.”

“I’m ready,” she says, getting up from the dressing table. “I can give you that ride after all.”

“Are you?” Normally she takes forever to get dressed and put her make-up on and I end up pacing up and down or having a couple of drinks and watching the telly while she buggers about. Sometimes by the time we arrive somewhere I am already half-cut but after a while I’ve got used to it and, anyway, it helps me relax.

“Yes,” she says sweetly. “Isn’t that good timing?”

“I thought you were going at eight.”

“Oh, did you?” She says innocently. “Well, seven-thirty, eight o’clock. Something like that, Channing will just have to scrape off his face mask before it’s dry, that’s all.” She slips on her shoes and then looks at herself in profile in the mirror. “What do you think? Good enough to eat?” By this time the little girl voice has become quite sinister.

“Delicious,” I say quickly.

“Shame you won’t be having any then, isn’t it?” she says sweeping past me. I stare at the floor in disbelief for a moment and then follow her downstairs. Then she turns round and walks upstairs again.

“Where are you going?”

“I forgot my earrings.”

I pace around the living room and flick the telly on and then off. Then on again.

Marion returns.

“That’s better,” she smiles. “OK, let’s—oh-oh.”

“Now what?”

“Wrong shoes—that’s you hurrying me.”

Twelve minutes
—twelve minutes—
later she comes back down again with the same shoes on as far as I can see. We finally walk out to the car. I decide I’ll drop her off at Channing’s and then walk onto the Oyster Bar.

“Evening, madam,” says Chris as we get in. He looks at me in the mirror. “Evening, Sir.”

“Good evening, Chris,” says the seven-year-old Marion. “How’s your mother?”

“She’s much better now thank you, Madam.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I’m going to Channing’s and we’re dropping Mr. Collins … Where are we dropping you, Andrew?”

“Albero & Grana in Sloane Street,” I mumble.

“Where?” says Marion, innocently.

“Albero & Grana. That bar near the top of Sloane Street. I’ll show you.”

“Sounds very expensive for your friends,” says Marion.

“We don’t drink much,” I say.

“Very sensible,” says Chris. I shoot him a look. He grins again.

“Oh, my God. I forgot my pocket book,” says Marion, ferreting around in her handbag. “What is the matter with me today? Won’t be long, dear, you wait here.”

She gets out. I look at my watch. It’s already twenty to eight. I look up and see Chris staring at me in the mirror so I get out of the car. At a quarter to I go back in to shout to Marion that I’ll walk after all but she is coming out again.

“Sorry about that.”

Without saying anything I get back in the car.

“Right, Chris, to—where was it?”

“Albero & Grana.”

“Yes, to Albero & Grana and on then to Mr. Charisse’s please.”

“No. Well, we may as well go to Channing’s first,” I suggest half-heartedly.

“But you’ve got to be there at seven-thirty. Oh look, it’s nearly ten to eight now. Chris, step on it will you?”

We set off into the early evening traffic. As we move into Sloane Square Marion suddenly pipes up: “Is there an office licence near here?”

Chris is as flummoxed as I am this time.

“A what?” I say.

“An office licence. Is that what they’re called? Channing asked me to bring a bottle.”

“Bring a bottle?” I gasp. “What do you mean? Your friends never bring bottles.”

“But he’s run out of booze. He had a party last night.”

I sit back. It’s nearly five to eight. OK, Marion, you’ve won. You’ve
so
won.

“Safeway might be the best bet, madam,” says Chris helpfully. “They’ve got quite an extensive selection of wines and spirits.”

I think “Cunt” at Chris but he just smiles helpfully.

“Safeway?” says Marion. “There’s a thought. Is there one nearby?”

“In the King’s Road, madam, five minutes from here.”

“Marion, I’ll just get out and walk.”

“Bit difficult to stop here, sir,” says Chris.

“I’ll see you later,” I say to Marion and give her a peck on the cheek. But the door handle doesn’t work.

“Better wait,” Marion says quietly, without looking round.

Minutes later we’re at Safeway. Marion goes in. I debate whether to get out and run off. Instead I pick up the car phone, get the number for the Oyster Bar from directory enquiries, scribble it on a piece of paper that I’ve been sitting on, and begin to ring it. I don’t care that Chris knows that I’m not going to Albero & Grana.

“Hello, I’m supposed to meeting someone there and I’m slightly late,” I say quietly, aware that Chris is listening to every word, probably ready to relay it all back to Marion. Above the roar and clatter of the restaurant the girl at the other end doesn’t sound very hopeful.

“What do they look like?”

“She’s got dark red hair, early twenties, pale complexion … erm …”

“Hold on,” says the girl. I hear her shouting something to someone else. I look up and Chris is watching me.

“Oh, fuck off, will you?”

He laughs and looks away.

“I can’t see anyone exactly like that, listen we’re really busy, can you ring back later?”

“Oh, please, she must be there. She’s got a sort of bob and—”

There is a knock of the window which makes me jump so that I bang my head on the ceiling. It’s Marion with a Safeway guy struggling under a huge box. The door seems to be working now.

“Well, give me a hand, won’t you?” says Marion, who is not doing anything. The boot pops open and I help the Safeway assistant who is sweating under the strain of putting a box of Veuve Cliquot into it.

“Phew,” says Marion, giving him a tip. We get in. “Who were you calling?”

“No one.”

“OK, let’s go to—where was it?” Chris moves off slowly. Then Marion grabs my arm and shouts at him: “Stop! I forgot: Channing asked me to bring cigarettes.” I’m almost past caring. We reverse back into a place on the double yellow lines.

“Look, I’ll walk,” I say firmly.

“You can’t,” says Marion. “It’s going to rain.” She slams the door and immediately the central locking clicks in. Biting my lip hard, I sit back and wait. There is nothing I can do now. Marion will be ages—she’ll make sure of that. It’s nearly ten past eight. I consider giving the Oyster Bar another call but then decide against it because I can’t stand the thought of Chris listening in and laughing at me. I look at the piece of the paper I’ve written the number down on. Along the top it says: “Montague Car and Van Hire, Wimpole Street, W1—Leasing Agreement.” It’s for this car—it mentions a black BMW Seven Series and I recognize the number plate but under client it says “Kremer Holdings Ltd” with an address in the City. Suddenly there is click and Marion gets back in again.

“Sorry about that. Right, let’s go.” I slip the paper down onto the floor.

I run into the Oyster Bar at just after twenty past eight. It is busy and there is a queue.

“Can I help you, sir?” says a young waiter, assuming that I’m trying to push my way in which, of course, I am.

“I’m supposed to be meeting someone,” I say irritably, looking over his shoulder. A few people stare up at me from their tables as I look around the room for her. I push past and then wander around, wanting to believe she is still there, that I just haven’t seen her yet, that I’m just looking through her. Is that her? No, it’s a middle-aged bloke with a beard. Not quite. After what seems like half an hour, by which time I’ve disrupted the whole restaurant and made a total tit of myself, I walk out, past people in the queue who stare at me with narrowed eyes.

I look down Sloane Avenue and then the other way towards South Kensington Tube. Suddenly I see her. In the distance. It must be her. I run across the road. A taxi blows its horn and a car stops inches away from me. I can see her walking along slowly, looking up at a poster, moving out of the way to let a woman with her pushchair past, swinging her bag at one point. When I’m near enough I shout. She doesn’t turn round. I get nearer and shout again and this time she does. Thank God!

“Hi,” I say, running up to her and panting slightly.

“Oh, hello,” she says flatly, her strong intelligent mouth set determinedly.

“I’m sorry,” I gasp.

“I thought I’d been stood up.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. I just couldn’t get away.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she says and starts walking again.

“Jane.” I walk after her, sweating now. I catch her arm. She looks round angrily and shrugs my hand off her. “I’m really sorry.”

“Oh, Andrew, forget it,” she snaps. “I waited over half an hour for you, sitting there like a fucking lemon in that poncey place. Five quid for a glass of wine, for Christ’s sake.”

“Look, let me buy you another,” I say and immediately regret it because it doesn’t come out the way I meant. It sounds like I’m offering to reimburse her, not talk to her. She looks at me for a moment, face contorted with contempt.

“Don’t worry. Really, don’t worry about it.”

“Look I’m so sorry, I just couldn’t get away. I tried to ring.”

“I told you it doesn’t matter.” She starts to walk again.

I run up to her again. I’m conscious of stopping other people walking down the street.

“Marion just screwed things up when I was trying to get out.”

Jane looks at me again. “Is that her name?”

I realize I’ve never mentioned it before. “Yes.”

“Marion. Mmm.” She carries on walking.

“Jane.”

“Wasn’t that the mother in
Happy Days?”
she says casually, still walking.

“Yeah, yeah it was. She’s not very like that, though,” I add helpfully, talking to keep Jane where she is while I try and think of something to say. She takes a deep breath.

“Did she know you were coming to see me?”

“No, of course not.”

She thinks about it for a moment. “Andrew, I don’t really want to talk about her.”

“Oh, no, neither do I.” I’m looking closely at her, trying to work out what she is thinking, trying to will her to forgive me. “Shall we go and have a drink somewhere?”

She is silent for a moment. Then she looks straight ahead, avoiding my eyes. “I can’t do this. I can’t be the other woman. I’ve just got more self respect than that.”