I Am Gold (16 page)

Naomi seemed wonderfully different from these. She would put her arms up like that at the beginning, but, then, when things was really getting some pace going, she'd bring them down to hold him across his back, pulling him hard to her, flattening out for these excellent minutes her perky breasts under his weight. He could tell she didn't resent this. Soon, they would plump up again, to proper tit shape, the nipples bonny, uncrushed and nibbleable. Sometimes he would put his own hands in hers when she had these up alongside her head. This seemed to complete the join of her and him, like fusing. Their fingers meshed in such a perfect style that Manse knew – yes,
knew
– things would be long-term fine between them. Fingers were more than fingers once it came to something like this. Fingers could speak a bond. He craved bonds with her.

What he didn't want was for this lovely closeness to be only money calling to money – her money from selling her share in the celebrity paper, his money from the firms. He knew that some relationships
were
mainly money calling to money, and he would not deny money did matter. But not the main thing. To Manse that would seem sick and doomed, like them Hollywood weddings, or the upper classes.

When she shifted her hands to grip him across the back, he'd get his own hands down to lock around her waist, helping to maximize his depth into her. She had her eyes open and smiled all the while. He preferred this to when a woman went blank-faced, eyes closed, concentrating on her personal come or multi-comes, although Manse recognized women certainly had their needs, which should not be sneezed at. But he considered there ought to be happy communication at all levels, face and lower.

He thought: so this is how a celebrity sheet consultant looks when she delightedly opens her legs in Ealing for someone met at a Pre-Raphaelite gallery. And, to be unbiased, he imagined
she
might be thinking, so this is how a haulage and scrap merchant looks when he's giving it, in a very considerate and genuine way, to someone whose kisses probably taste of a great lunch with wine and brandy she's just swallowed. Because of the celebrity sheet, Naomi most likely had plenty of words Shale would never use, though he might know their meaning. He had noticed the word ‘diligent' lately somewhere and liked it, the quiet, very unbrassy sound. He'd looked up ‘diligent' and found, as he'd thought, it meant ‘thorough' and ‘persevering'. He hoped Naomi would consider him diligent when at it, as well as considerate and genuine and, of course, passionate.

Manse believed it was these kinds of possible discoveries about the other person in a sex situation that made the first fuck with anyone so important – sort of sacred. It answered certain interesting questions. Later fucks might answer extra questions but the first one was bound to be the most definite eye-opener, as you might call it, even if some preferred to have their eyes shut for this eye-opener. Naomi's eyes were green and her pupils would roll back during the strong shove-up movements of middle and late-stage love-making leaving only the whites. The green section disappeared. She might of been having a fit or even croaking from the joy of it, and this scared him early on.

But no. It was like the pupils had done a climb into Naomi's head to check her brain would be OK subsequent, because, at present, she was getting fucked brainless, and very nice, too, though he'd admit she had to think there'd be ordinary life afterwards, when she might need her brain as consultant on a celebrity sheet, deciding who should go on page one and the size of the picture, plus spelling the names right, many being foreign.

If some time ahead he revisited Joan Fenton to get Naomi put into the will, it would prove he did not need any longer to have horny thoughts about Joan herself, nor the juicy, arse-proud, pink-penned secretary, Angelica. Although Naomi's arse was older, there had been no great drift of the cheeks towards north-south lozenge-shape, and no galloping spread east and west. Her behind was still very neat in tightish jeans, like she had been wearing that first day in the gallery, and which had started Manse thinking. And naked today it continued to look prime, in his opinion. No question, jeans that hugged a good bum caught beautiful its ripe, jolly spirit. But these days jeans was also cut to put a fierce focus on the crotch, and sometimes this took most attention, like a destination sign on the motorway. Shale regarded this as extremely unfair to the good female arse. He had often considered writing a protest letter to one of the fashion magazines about it, such as
Vogue,
using a false name.

Naomi hadn't worn jeans to the restaurant but a long, striped skirt in blue and white with a zip on the side, and a four-buttoned white silk blouse. This blouse remained completely unstained by food during the meal, despite everything. The place was not starchy or formal or anything like that – more a cheery media flavour – but jeans would not of been right, he agreed with her on this. As far as Manse could make out, the celebrity sheet reported which eminent folk was in London this or next week, and what they would be doing. ‘Acres of lovely puffery surrounded by ads,' she said. He didn't know for sure what this meant, but thought it might be a joke and had a smile. Although she had sold her share of the business she still worked two days for it now and then in that consultancy role. The firm kept an account at the restaurant and she and Manse were eating on it, she said. ‘No attempts to pay, please.' She had decided to do nothing much for a year, ‘just look around'. He hoped she'd been looking around when she saw Manse in the gallery and considered him all right, especially after the Geoff matter.

Manse had loved the restaurant. It seemed so … well, so
positive
– the atmosphere and the furniture and the layout – yes, so positive, that even if he had been thinking of telling her about the earlier conference with Joan Fenton he would of changed his mind and stayed shtum on that topic. He decided such a discussion would be all wrong here: too weighty and historical and complicated. Besides, legal talk might remind Manse of them moments when he imagined the shared joy of having it off with Joan Fenton, her glasses put aside. It was not the type of flashback he'd want while taking a meal in this very worthwhile restaurant with another woman altogether, who did not wear glasses, namely Naomi. That would be quite untoward, in his opinion.

Manse prized decorum. He wanted as much of it as could be reasonably got. As a matter of fact, he felt pleased that he had never mentioned Naomi to Joan Fenton, despite some prying. They were very much from two different compartments. He would hate to have Naomi tainted by his dreams of making it with the lawyer – not because the lawyer was black – that would be racist and totally bad – but because she was not Naomi. This restaurant and Naomi seated opposite him struck Manse as exactly the sort of setting he'd been made for. The Tirrel and Clay suit he had on seemed totally correct for a visit to the solicitor and then for this type of restaurant. A double-breasted would of been too uptight. Manse meant to guard the delightful charm of the luncheon. This hadn't been because, if the meal went OK, he might get another invitation to Ealing. The lunch itself seemed an occasion worth taking the very best care of.

Although Manse liked restaurants, and especially this one in Dean Street, he didn't care much about food or wine. But he
was
keen on menus, printed or handwritten, in the better sort of places, where they put a country or region near the names of some of the items, such as ‘Highlands of Scotland salmon', ‘Royal Berkshire beef', or ‘Welsh coast cockles'. This helped give special scope to a list of dishes, he thought. Just to say ‘salmon', or ‘beef', or ‘cockles' struck Manse as rather crude, a belly thing and that was all. But when you had the geography, you could imagine a brave and handsome Scottish salmon doing its terrific time-and-again leaps up them specially made stone steps in a river, determined to get itself or its offspring to the kitchen here eventually. You could listen to the Berkshire cattle having a low, and spot the Welsh cockles lying under a golden surface of sand, washed time and again by tides until dug out and collected one day for boiling up.

Naomi had seemed to get at her food very well indeed and, of course, Manse made himself match her. He would hate to look picky and unhearty. Manse reckoned that if you was being fed as a treat you had a true duty to clear the fucking lot. She could chat on no trouble, even when eating awkward mixtures such as goat's cheese salad as prepared in Turin and then ‘West Country liver, bacon and onions'. He didn't know why, but he had an idea the piece of West Country would be Shepton Mallet. Most probably, she was used to not letting lunch get in the way of conversation. It must be one of them skills of a consultant.

Manse and Naomi talked about many subjects, not just art. He thought that would be too narrow and boring. If she had asked him about the haulage and scrap trade he would of told her, and some of it completely true, but she didn't. It wasn't the kind of area for this sort of restaurant, with its celebrities and executives. Although Manse knew he definitely would not rate as a celebrity himself, he
was
an executive of the haulage and scrap firm and the other bigger commercial enterprise. However, he'd admit these would not be the proper
kind
of executive posts for such a restaurant. Tone. Manse had always been very particular about the right tone for a place and for people. It didn't seem to worry Naomi whether he was an executive or not.

They had one more brandy. And then she'd said: ‘Shall we go now, Manse?' He could tell at once that this was not a question but a blessed let's-do-it signal. She put her initials on the bill, no big deal flourish, just a quick jot of the two letters, N.G. He thought some folk in the restaurant who knew her job might wonder if he
was
a celebrity giving an interview during the meal, but one they couldn't quite recognize. TV actors had to wear wigs or sunglasses or, in old-type plays, plastic warrior helmets that hid most of their face, and perhaps they'd look quite different having lunch here in a Tirrel and Clay single-breasted.

Chapter Twenty-One

2009

The negotiator's phone rang as Harpur came back into the command caravan after talking to Adrian Morrison Overdale. ‘Hello, John, how are things with you now, then?' the negotiator said. Harpur thought the greeting, regreeting, fizzed with emptiness and formula. Naturally it did. It came from the manual –
Besieging for Dummies
, or something like. And, just as naturally, this boy, this boy ‘John' in there could recognize smooth-textured bullshit. Very likely these calls would contain nothing but. In fact, perhaps ultimately there'd be so much he would get disorientated by it, half smothered by it, gently and mercilessly chinwagged into collapse and surrender by it. But, maybe he recognized this hazard and left the phone dead for spells while he got his breath back.

Now he spoke, though. ‘Things are fine, Olly. As they were. But thanks so much for asking.' The phone was on to Conference, so everyone could hear him.

‘“Fine. As they were.” Good,' the negotiator said.

‘How come you repeat everything?'

‘You ask, why do I repeat everything?'

‘Why do you repeat it when I ask why do you repeat it? That's not a conversation, it's an echo. Is it to give you time to think, or to lull, or annoy, or what?'

‘To show clearly, “Message received and understood,” John, and that the message is respected, word by acknowledged word. To show we're pleased things are fine and as they were. I'm glad you called. We're going to have to talk food and drink soon. Can we make some arrangements for bringing you, and those with you, food and drink?'

‘We're all right.'

‘Are you
all
all right, John?'

‘Yes, we're all all right.'

‘We're happy you're all all right, John.'

‘I can feel the glow of your happiness from here.'

‘You're satirical, but I assure you, John, what I say is true. We want you to be all right, and those with you.'

‘Especially those with me.'

‘There's someone particular who'd like to speak to you,' the negotiator replied.

‘Police? I mean, higher police than you?'

‘No. Not police. But special, John.'

‘Not a priest, or some other sort of holy Joe?'

‘No, not a priest or some other sort of holy Joe. That's not our area.'

‘What
is
your area?'

‘What we have here is someone who thinks he might know one of the people with you. That is, the lady who was not already in the shop, but walking by at the time of your arrival there.'

‘The one I grabbed?'

‘The one who was walking by at the time of your arrival there.'

‘Why didn't you repeat “the one I grabbed”, like you repeat everything else? Are you scared of “grabbed”?'

‘The one you grabbed, then. Our visitor thinks he might know the one you grabbed. Have you got a name for the one you grabbed?'

‘I haven't got a name for any of them. Why should I?'

‘Why should you? Yes.'

‘“Yes.” Always you agree with me, don't you, Olly? “Repeat what he says, agree with what he says.” This is how you were taught on the negotiator course, is it? What's the objective? Keep me sweet and harmless – until you decide not to, and come storming, a battalion of you?'

‘“Come storming”? That's the last thing we want, believe me, John.'

‘I do believe you, Olly. It's last, and very dicey all round, but it's on the list, isn't it?'

‘I would have thought you'd know the names, at least the first names, in case you wanted to give different instructions to one or other of the people in there with you.'

‘You'd have thought that, would you?'

‘That's what I would have thought.'