Sugar Mummy (12 page)

Chapter
Eight

This 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 cafe 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 realises 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 Male about my new role, I realise 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 sideways 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.

'She's just a mate,' he says over babble of the radio. 'Did the
same course at uni, she doesn't know if she wants to be a graphic designer after
all, though.'

'You schtump her?' I ask.

Sitting at the table in his boxer shorts, Sergeant Bilko Tshirt
and thick, saggy black socks, Vinny chases some stray Rice Krispies round his bowl
then he thinks about my question for a moment. 'Come on, mate,' I say. 'It can't
be that difficult to remember, it's not like there's a whole harem of conquests
to think through, is there?'