Upgrading (9 page)

“Veronica del Luzio has a new apartment in Cadogan Square on three floors, which I am
dying
to get my hands on. Divine!”

“Veronica’s always moving. I saw her in La La last month and I said what are you doing here? She said ‘real estate.’”

“She buys apartments the way most women buy handbags.”

“I’m going to buy another apartment, somewhere near here. I hate my apartment.”

“You shouldn’t buy in London. The economy here’s going down the tubes. The rich people will get the hell out and then where will London be? You know what the British are like, they just sit there waiting for someone to give them some money. Then they look at you like
they’ve
done
you
a favour.”

And so it goes on, people, cities, sex, money, good times, clothes, personal recommendations and utter condemnations. But all of them could be sitting at home talking to thin air.

By eleven-thirty we have finished our ice cream and coffee and I am feeling tired and slightly pissed. David has tried to sell Christopher Maurice-Jackson some of his half-price Versace crap. Now Christopher Maurice-Jackson is trying to sell Marion a chaise longue or something. She is picking some bits of fluff off her skirt and saying “Uh, huh” in a quiet, noncommittal way.

David is talking to the other French guy. “I do ten reps for biceps every other day but I never do me abs. No, never, don’t have to.”

“Tell us about the Marines,” he says, “that must have been fun.”

“Well, they certainly look after you. I learned to ski, to snorkel . . .” Then he starts showing how you fall on the ground correctly after a parachute jump so that you don’t hurt yourself. Farrah looks on and asks questions helpfully. Well, it could be useful next time she has to bail out of Harvey Nics in a hurry.

When the two French guys leave to catch the last Tube back to Brixton the others make a move as well. Daria’s almost tearful farewell makes it appear like she is leaving a wake except that Marion hardly looks like a grieving widow. I find myself promising to call David for some reason. Ostrich farming, I think. Farrah makes me promise to look after Marion. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Christopher Maurice-Jackson tells Marion that they will “do lunch” next week and then gives me such a frosty goodbye that I can’t help laughing as soon as the door is closed.

Marion flops down into a chair and asks for another drop of champagne. “It’s all gone,” I say, picking up the most recent of the bottles. Just then Anna Maria comes out of the kitchen with a tray to clear the table.

“Open another bottle of champagne, will you,” Marion tells her.

I sit down next to her and she puts her head on my shoulder.

“Well, do you like my friends?”

“Yeah,” I say, “they’re fun.”

There is a pause.

“They bore me to death,” says Marion and we both burst out laughing.

I stay over again that night. We don’t wait for the champagne but go upstairs where I unzip Marion’s dress and let it fall to the ground. She stands there for a moment in just her bra, panties and high shoes, looking up at me wide-eyed. Then I kiss her breasts and pull her towards me roughly. She gasps, almost like she’s indignant, and I push her down onto the bed.

t
his time I remember to set the alarm. Marion is not pleased: “It’ll wake me up too.” I apologize but explain that I really need to be in time for work once in a while. I could also point out that she is usually up before me anyway but I don’t want to make things worse. She sulks a bit and then goes off to have a shower. I can’t decide whether it’s a little bit insulting that she wants to wash me off her before she goes to sleep. I’ve always enjoyed falling asleep, slightly sweaty and sticky.

The next morning, Thursday, I look hopefully out of the window just to see if the car is there again. It isn’t.

“You’ll have to take a cab home. Chris isn’t coming by until later,” says Marion’s sleepy voice from behind me.

“Oh, OK,” I say, trying not to sound too disappointed.

“Get my purse from the dressing table and I’ll give you some cash.” She slips off her eye pads, opens her bag and hands me a twenty as I try to see how much else she’s got in there. “I’m going out with a girlfriend tonight,” she says, turning over again. “But I’ll call you this afternoon at your office.” I kiss her goodbye and she slips her eye pads back on.

If she had given me just a bit more money I could have kept the taxi waiting while I got dressed and used it go on to work and been on time. But she didn’t and, just for a change, I’m not.

I fall into a light, tense sleep in the taxi on the way home and so I feel particularly crap when we finally get to the flat. On the way to work I get a large cappuccino and two slices of toast and marmalade from the café near the office in the hope that this injection of caffeine and sugar will keep me going until lunchtime. It also makes me even later.

I sit down at my desk with my breakfast and go cross-eyed at Sami, who is already on the phone, by way of a hello. She giggles and then waves me away crossly. I take a gulp of creamy, hot, sweet cappuccino followed by a bite of butter-drenched toast. I savour it for a moment and then, looking back at Sami, I open my mouth. She winces and then looks away.

Then I pick up my phone and dial 9. But instead of ringing a client, I find myself dialling Jonathan’s number. On the second ring he picks up.

“Oh, hi, Jonathan? It’s me, Andrew.”

“Hello, mate,” he says as if I was his best friend ever.

“Hi. Erm, I was just ringing to see whether I could pick up a cheque from you.”

“Oh-oh. Chasing me up, eh?” laughs Jonathan. Is that funny? I laugh anyway.

“Well, no, I just wondered—”

“Andrew, it’ll be a couple of weeks or so.”

“Oh, right, sure.” Then I say quickly, “Well, listen, I’m around if you get any other calls.”

“Fine. No problem. Listen, gotta go, other phone’s ringing. Cheers, mate.” He hangs up.

“Bye,” I say.

God, I’m glad Marion and I have cut him out of our little arrangement. I suddenly feel like quite an entrepreneur. I start to make a cold call from a list Debbie gave me yesterday, determined to sell this bastard some space in the paper whatever it takes.

By mid-afternoon my eyes are heavy and I’m beginning to drift off.

“Andrew? Andrew, are you all right?” asks Sami.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, closing my eyes for one gorgeous moment and breathing deeply.

“Ah, ha. Been burning the candle at both ends,” says Sami, pleased with this phrase.

“Yeah, I have. I’m going to get a coffee. Do you want anything?”

“No, thanks, I’ve had a strawberry yoghurt,” says Sami, as if it were an alternative.

“Sami, you’re so good.”

“Andrew, you’re so bad.”

I get up and walk into Debbie, which is rather embarrassing. We avoid each other’s gaze and I mutter something about going to get a coffee and being right back.

I go out to the vending machine by the lifts and watch the machine as it buzzes and gurgles. The temp from Reception comes out from another door and checks me out while she waits for a lift. I’m so tired that I end up giving her a convincingly cool reaction. When the lift arrives she holds my gaze until the doors close. Funny how hot you can look when you feel like shit.

Suddenly the door to our office swings open and Maria puts her head out. I’ve always had a soft spot for Maria, a dark-haired thirty-something, because of what you might describe as her direct manner.

“Christ,” she once said to me in the back of a taxi after a very rare excursion to see a client. “I’ve got such an itchy vag today.”

“Oh, how … I mean … that must be …”

She fidgeted a bit more while I kept my eyes dead ahead and then she said, “Oh, for God’s sake. I’m not asking you to scratch it for me, I’m just saying.”

If you ever wanted advice on anything from personal finance to what tie to wear with what shirt, Maria will give it to you, without hesitation. She will break off a phone conversation with a client to tell one of the girls to chuck her boyfriend and find another.

“There
you are,” she says. “Some American woman on your phone. Bloody rude, wouldn’t leave a message, insisted on speaking to you. You’re a dark horse, Andrew, and no mistake. I want the full story when you’ve finished. Oooh, I’m dying for a fag, I haven’t had one since Friday. You haven’t got one, have you?”

“No,” I laugh. “Sorry.”

I leave Maria hunting for ciggies and go back to my desk, taking the long route round the office to avoid Debbie, who is talking to someone.

“Where were you?” says Marion.

“Just outside the office having a coffee.”

“Do you wanna go shopping?”

“When?” I ask.

“Now, silly boy.”

“Marion, it’s the middle of the afternoon. I can’t just get up and leave.”

“Why not? Just tell them you have a doctor’s appointment or something.”

I laugh. “I don’t think they’d believe me.”

“Such a shame. I’ve just been to Bond Street and they have such nice jackets in Ralph Lauren this season.”

Oh, God, it’s tempting. I look around the office for a moment. Phones are ringing, the place is buzzing and Debbie is talking to someone across the room. No, I can’t, it would be madness.

“Why not Saturday?”

“Oh no, I’ve done Bond Street for one week and besides I’d like us to do something at the weekend.”

“OK.” Sounds promising.

“I thought we might go to Paris. Would you like that?”

“God, yeah.”

“OK, I’ll call the airline and make some reservations. We can do better shopping in Paris than here. We’ll go Saturday morning and come back Monday.”

“Great,” I say with feeling. Paris this weekend would be brilliant. Coming back on Monday would be catastrophic but I can’t think about that now.

“Listen, I’m out tonight but I’ll call you later.”

“OK. Love you,” I say, getting slightly over-excited by the thought of our little trip but she has clicked off.

When I put my key in the lock I find that the front door isn’t chubb-locked as well. Another evening in with Vinny. We usually have a laugh with One Aside Indoor Footy or just taking the piss out of the crap that’s on telly but why doesn’t he ever go out? The boy really should get a social life. I let myself in and drop my stuff in the hall.

Suddenly a girl’s voice shouts, “About bloody time and all. I could’ve made them quicker. You’re missing it.” She is sitting cross-legged in front of the telly, reddy brown hair in a bob, boot-cut jeans, bare feet and a huge white T-shirt with a sort of Warhol print on it. She looks at me as if
I’ve
just walked into
her
sitting room. “Oh. Hi. Sorry. I thought you were Vinny.”

“I’m not, I’m Andrew, his flatmate.”

“Hello, I’m Jane,” she says in a gentle Liverpool accent.

She looks at the teapot and mugs in front of her and then says, “Like a cup of tea? You can have Vinny’s mug. He was supposed to be getting me some chocky bickies but I think he’s left the country.”

“Thanks.”

I throw my jacket on the settee and sit down. She pours me a cup and says, “I hope you like it strong. I can’t abide weak tea.”
Abide.
Who says abide?

“Love strong tea,” I say, determined not to be intimidated by this sensible, tea-making intruder. “Is that our teapot?”

“Yes. Why? Do you mind me using it?”

“No, ’course not. I just didn’t know we had one.”

“Yes, it did take quite a bit of cleaning,” she says, looking at it critically. At that moment Vinny comes in with the biscuits.

“Right, what mouth-watering smorgasbord of broadcast entertainment awaits us tonight?” he asks, collapsing on the settee dangerously near my jacket. He bowls a packet of milk chocolate digestives across the floor to Jane. “Oh, sorry. Jane, Andrew. Andrew, Jane.”

“We’ve done that one,” says Jane, handing me my tea purposefully.

We spend quite a pleasant evening, drinking tea, followed by a couple of glasses of whisky each while we watch TV and take the piss out of it. When the news comes on Jane tuts at a government minister and says, “Christ, slimy bastard” under her breath. Later in the programme, when there are scenes of sea birds wallowing helplessly in crude oil I remark that it is probably a good thing because otherwise they just crap on your windscreen. Vinny grunts in agreement. Jane shoots me a look, wondering whether I am serious. I smile back but she is still not sure. Keep them guessing.

At eleven, after we’ve finished watching a wildlife programme about the Australian bush by night, Jane gets up from her cross-legged position on the floor, yawns, stretches and asks, “Time for another brew?”

Slumped across the settee Vinny and I reach for our mugs and hand them to her.

“So I’m making it, am I?”

“Woman’s work,” explains Vinny kindly.

Jane laughs sarcastically.

“And you did a great job with our teapot,” I add.

“Was that our teapot?” asks Vinny. “Blimey, I didn’t know we had one.”

“Jane cleaned it for us.”

“Right, one of you had better give me a hand,” says Jane, putting the mugs back on the tray. I get up—just a bit too quickly. “No, Vinny, you can help me. Andrew can stay here, he looks knackered.”

I worry that Vinny will tell Jane about my new “job.” He doesn’t, apparently, but probably not because he realizes it will embarrass me, I think he’s just forgotten or he simply can’t believe that I have actually gone and done it. Not that it’s any of her business but somehow I don’t think she’d approve. She would either condemn it as a form of prostitution or fall about laughing at the thought of a “gigolo,” a moustachioed smoothie in a smoking jacket. “Well, hell-eau!”

I think the latter would be more painful. In fact other than my little conversation with Malc about my new role, I realize I don’t want anyone else to know about it. How would I explain it to Sami? Sami, who thinks not putting the lid back on a pen is pretty decadent. What on earth would Debbie say?
Saint
Debbie. “Hi, Mum, guess what?” I don’t think so.

It’s dawning on me that I’m about to devote a huge amount of time and effort to something that, depending on which way you look at it, is either laughable or disgusting. Taking a quick side-ways glance at Jane, who has her feet curled up underneath her on the settee, and then looking down into my half-empty cup while she and Vinny watch the telly, I decide to keep this a secret. They’ll laugh on the other side of their faces when I’m off that office treadmill and not relying on a monthly financial fix.

After we’ve finished our tea the phone rings and I go into the kitchen to answer it. It is Marion to ask what I am doing. I know she likes to hear that without her my life is a drab, impoverished grind so I am tempted to say something about clubbing together for a take-away but I think that’s pushing it a bit. She tells me that she has booked us on a flight for Paris on Saturday morning and coming back Monday morning. I hope I sound pleased without being too desperately keen.

It’s only when I put the phone down that I remember that I’ll need another morning off work.

Jane brings the cups back into the kitchen while I’m considering how exactly to phrase this hopeless request. She shoots me a look. A disapproving look. I’m just standing here, minding my own business in my own kitchen, for God’s sake.

She begins to fill the washing-up bowl, squirting detergent in from a height and rolling up her sleeves. I get the feeling a point is being made here.

“I’ll do that if you want,” I say, as much to break the silence. She looks across at me quizzically. “I said I’ll wash the mugs up.” Now she looks at me as if I’ve offered to wipe her nose for her or wash her knickers.

“No, I’ll do it,” she says. Too tired to move, I find myself watching her. After a moment she looks across at me. I look back at her, holding her stare. Her smooth white skin is slightly flushed by the hot water. “Can’t imagine you washing up.”

“Why not?”

She doesn’t answer. I ask again but I know the answer.

“Oh, just too cool,” she says, turning to look at me and rolling her shoulder almost imperceptibly. I smile at this seductress with soapy hands.

She stays over that night. She has Vinny’s bed and he sleeps on the settee. The next morning she has gone by the time we are up. While we rush round, ironing shirts, gulping at mugs of stewed tea, scraping margarine onto charcoal toast, I ask Vinny about her.