Seductive Viennese Whirl (2 page)

I'm laying across his lap and his fingers are stroking my hair. I'm pleasantly drunk, quivery and full of longing, until abruptly he breaks the mood, gets up from under me and starts measuring out a line of coke on the coffee table. I didn't mind him doing it with his mates at the party, but now, as I watch him hoovering up the powder with greedy abandon, I suddenly feel bereft, like he no longer knows or cares I'm there.

"You want some?" he says, fingers raking more powder out onto the table.

"No thanks," I say, taking a mouthful of brandy and holding it in until my gums start to burn.

He gets up. Big, thick candles are the only illumination. The candles throw huge shadows up the wall as he walks over to a poster of Mick Jagger's mouth screaming into a microphone. The poster is about as tall as the Weasel, who I'm guessing is maybe five foot ten.

He's walking back and forth in front of the poster, his hands going round like windmills. I slip off the sofa into the frond-like embrace of what looks to me, in my drunken state, like a giant purple sea anemone on the floor, but which turns out to be a deep shag pile rug.

He's got the Stones on the stereo, up at high volume, so I only catch the occasional snatch of what he's saying.

"Got this at auction … pop memorabilia … whaddya think?" he says, pointing at the poster.

"It's very, um, groovy," I say, for which I get a blank look, like my reply hasn't satisfied him. Which leaves both of us unsatisfied, or three if you include Mick, who right now is singing, ‘
I Can't Get No Satisfaction.'

With the rug tickling the back of my neck I murmur, "Take me, Will," while rubbing my foot up and down the rug impatiently. I'm thinking this is going to be so, sooo good. But he's chattering again, so maybe I only said it in my head, or maybe he didn't hear me.

At some point he switches down the music. "I've got quite a collection, actually," he's saying. "There's a great one of Eric Clapton in my bedroom."

"Now that, I would love to see," I say, trying to leap up. I don't give a stuff for his poster collection, but someone needs to make the first move and it doesn't look like it's going to be him. However, getting up proves difficult because I'm stuck to the rug via a blob of chewing gum attached to my elbow.

Eventually I disentangle myself and we're lying on his bed with Eric Clapton looking down at me. And then we're kissing. He's a damn good kisser. A little hesitant, but that's so much better than a guy who tries to have a wrestling contest with your tonsils.

Then he's pulling my pants down over my hips, slowly, slowly. We're melting into each other, skin against skin, tongue against skin. And then all of a sudden we're doing it and it's great, it's wonderful, it's heaven. It's … hang on a minute. Something's wrong. Something's terribly wrong. Not to beat around the bush, he's asleep. Can you believe it?

Awkwardly I roll off him and start to crawl around the floor trying to tell by feel which are my clothes and putting them on. However, there is a problem. I cannot find my knickers. Not wanting to put on the light in case I wake him I end up crashing into a chest of drawers and pushing over a pile of CDs. He continues his slumber. Unable to locate my knickers I leave the flat knickerless (but otherwise clothed), and as I enter the street it's almost morning and I find I am in Clerkenwell. My emotions feel numb as I wait for the night bus.

It being the dawn of New Year's Day everyone is still blind drunk. I have no choice but to squeeze into the last free seat beside a pimply youth reeking of Pernod who keeps snaking his arm around my shoulders and saying "Give us a kiss love." I keep shrugging him off until I think he's lost interest. Then, to a rousing chorus of "Tonight we're gonna party like it's 1999," the relevance of which escapes me, since we are now well into the twenty first century, Pimpleboy ends up puking a delightful cascade of purple goo onto my new coat.

The following morning

Oh Egg,

I've just woken up and I'm lying here huddled under my duvet. What a waste of money, is all I can think as I look at the brand new outfit I bought for the Weasel's benefit, now strewn on the floor (Jigsaw turquoise wraparound top, Whistles suede skirt, Hobbs thigh-length cashmere mix coat – covered in Pimpleboy's dried vomit, black Gossard plunge bra without matching pants).

I wonder if Eva had a better time of it than I did last night. I can hear movement in her room so I go out and investigate. She's not in the kitchen but, since I've a craving for caffeine I decide to make coffee. I soon realize there's a problem. I'm unable to fully coordinate my limbs (something to do with the aftermath of several tequilas, a bottle of wine and three brandies methinks) and end up jamming the plunger of the French Press down at a funny angle. Coffee flies into the air in two jets of boiling liquid. One of them soaks the yellow wall. The other blasts my scalp, prompting some heavy duty screaming. While I'm screaming, Eva wanders in and gives me a puzzled look. It's while I'm attempting to wipe the coffee stain off the wall with a sponge, that a deep cough from the bathroom alerts me there's testosterone in the house.

I freeze. Eva's dates are invariably drop dead gorgeous, and look at me like I'm something that's just crawled out from under a stone. And while this morning my appearance has hit an all-time low, I'm willing to endure all manner of dirty looks in exchange for a good ogle.

"Who is it?" I whisper, eager to see this new Adonis, who Eva will toy with for a few weeks, like a cat with a mouse, pawing it and throwing it in the air before walking away with a look of disdain on her face.

"You'll find out soon enough," she says, shaking back her liquorice black hair and putting a Pop Tart into the toaster. "What about you? Was your date with the Weasel, like, totally cool?"

"Um, ahh," I run my tongue around my mouth, trying to think what it tastes like. The bottom of a bird cage?

I hear the toilet being flushed several times.

"It must have been pretty exciting, finally getting down to it?" she says, stretching her long slim arms over her head and giving a big yawn.

I shake my head. "You know what? I don't think we're exactly compatible."

"Being crap in the sack isn't the be all and end all you know," she says, grabbing the Pop Tart from the toaster and biting into it.

"Eva, he fell asleep in the middle of it."

"Oh no," she says, clamping her hand to her mouth to stop Pop Tart crumbs and her giggles from escaping. "Maybe it was the drink or the coke. He was on coke wasn't he?"

"Well, yes, but I don't think that was it." What I want to say is, It's me. I disgust him. I mean, honestly Egg, what's wrong with me? Turns out that our mutual interest in wasps and phone sex couldn't ignite his passion, once he was faced with the reality of my derriere, which Ben once compared to two overflowing bowls of blancmange.

"Don't worry about it," says Eva. "The guy's a cokehead. I thought you knew. And you know what Charlie does to men's appendages?"

"He is not a cokehead," I snap, not sure why I'm defending him.

"All right, all right, keep your knickers on."

"I wish I had. Right now my fancy silk Gossard knickers are somewhere in his apartment. They set me back twenty-five quid. Twenty-five quid I don't actually have. And a fat lot of good they did me in the end."

"You can always ring him up and get them back."

"I never want to speak to him again."

"Lighten up. Plenty more fish and all that." She leans forward and bites her pillowy lower lip. "Oh Kate, I can't cope with not knowing. What happened, exactly? Did you end up trapped? I assume you were under him?"

"Actually, I was on top."

Then, before Eva can quiz me further there's more flushing of the toilet, and the sound of bare footsteps padding down the hall.

In walks Mark McManus, a client of ours at the agency. Six foot four of ruddy, not very toned flesh. A big jutting out nose. Sandy hair sticking up in all directions. The pink dressing gown he's sporting, which ends mid thigh isn't doing his complexion any favours either. He looks like an ostrich in a tutu.

He comes up to me and in a heavy Scot's accent booms, "Good God woman, you scared the life out of me, wailing like a banshee."

"Actually, I burnt myself on some coffee," I reply, relieved that he is very far from being another Carlos. The Spanish flamenco dancer was Eva's most recent lay, who I spent last Saturday morning with, a gibbering wreck (me) intimidated by his hard naked chest as he stretched out at the breakfast table, looking at me lazily from under lashes so long and thick I thought they must be false. Eva later told me that while they didn't even know the days of the week in each other's languages, they were fluent communicators in the language of love. I too had been a reluctant pupil of that language the night before, as I listened to his primeval groans and her dog like yelps, to an accompaniment of her headboard slamming against the wall, making sleep impossible. At least her new paramour is a quiet lover, I think, although I'm still confused to see his face outside the Canter Agency where we work. In fact, it's downright weird to watch one of our biggest clients sit down at the table and start to wipe yellow clumps of sleep dust out of his eyes.

I'm sitting there expectantly, waiting for Eva to turn crimson with embarrassment at her disastrous looking date. Instead, she plants a kiss on his cheek and says, "It seems that Kate used up the last of the coffee. Fancy a cup of tea?"

"I'll shove off shall I?" I say, suddenly feeling like the third wheel on a bicycle. "Leave you love birds to it."

I leave them staring at each other, oblivious to my existence and head off to the bathroom. I've just put two Alka-Seltzers in a glass of water (from the looks of the almost overflowing toilet it looks like McManus has just blocked it. I'll leave Eva to unblock it for him). After swilling the bubbling liquid down, my head has cleared a little, but I still feel drained. Forget about the Weasel and concentrate on the New Year I tell myself as I go back to my room and settle down under my duvet, hoping it'll make me feel all warm and cosy, but the feathers coming out of a hole just make me sneeze, so I reach over to my desk to grab a handful of tissues and blow my nose. Having a room as big as a cupboard means I can reach everything I need from the comfort of my bed.

Now I'm beginning to feel scared. Scared of our eviction, which is hanging over our heads, I'm suddenly convinced of it. I wonder if I should go and talk to Eva about it right now. But then I remember that I can't. McManus is in the kitchen. Yes, that Mark McManus, in case you were wondering, purveyor of game pies, currently the trendy food of choice with every celebrity from Kate Winslett to Jude Law. I was surprised at the time when, after only one meeting with myself and Eva, McManus had immediately signed to us. At the time I'd put it down to my brilliant pitch. I now realize that McManus chose the agency, less for my copywriting flair, and more for Eva's lips and hair.

I'm trying so hard not to think about that terrible Weasel business and not doing very well. I wonder if he even remembers what happened last night.

I think my best bet is to go back to sleep for a while.

Yours,

Gherkin

The Canter Agency

28 - 32 Greek Street

London W1 5UJ

England

2 January 2011

Dear Egg,

Now I'm hunched at my desk wondering what exactly is wrong with me that I turned the Weasel off so badly? I mean, am I really that unattractive? On second thoughts don't answer that. I said I wouldn't mention Ben but I will just say this: we did have a blissful four year relationship until he ran off with his secretary, and he never gave me any reason to think he didn't fancy me (apart from comparing my bum to blancmange, but that was just the once). But it turns out I am really really unattractive. To make myself feel even more unattractive I bought myself two Danishes on the way to work and scoffed them both. And I know I said I wouldn't talk about Ben, and I won't, but he was just… How shall I put this? He was just so alive. He was so into everything. It was so sweet the way he'd punch the air when Manchester United scored a goal on the telly and roar like crazy and even on a couple of occasions lift me clean off the floor and swing me round. And when we went to a restaurant he didn't just gobble down the food like most men, he'd savour every mouthful and nibble bits off my plate and make sure we had at least two different wines, one for the main course and one for dessert. And he'd moan Egg, he'd actually moan if he tried a sliver of something particularly delicious. When I was around him I felt like I was experiencing things on a deeper level, do you know what I mean? And yet, there's nothing to be said about it because one day he decided he'd actually had quite enough of me, thank you very much. He was so totally perfect and so totally wrong for me and …

Shit, Sandra, the Haddock's PA just went past and as she gave me a good-natured slap on the shoulder, tiny sparks flickered up my arms.

It's how she got her nickname, Sparky. Because of her propensity for wearing '70s garb bristling with manmade fibres, any physical contact with her carries the risk of mild electric shock. It's a kick the first time it happens, and just plain unnerving after that.

"Wow!" I say, shaking my fingers to get the circulation going.

"What?" she says in her Liverpudlian accent. To spare her feelings, no one's ever told her that her excessive indulgence in polyester generates electricity.

"Wow, I was just thinking how great you look in that maroon trouser suit."

Leading me over to her desk she unwraps a Murray Mint, hands me one, and while I start crunching on it I can feel myself being scrutinized. Just a hint of movement outside my line of vision that tells me the Haddock's in the office and there's trouble afoot. This floor has circular walls (the Haddock's idea, naturally), is done out in aqua hues and was designed to cause maximum discomfort to her minions. Account managers and directors are sectioned off in their own glass cubicles that run along the wall, while the lower ranks, account execs and copywriters, huddle in the centre. We're tiny minnows in a fishbowl, under constant scrutiny.