Sugar Mummy (25 page)

'To drink?'

I order mineral water for us both and when the girl has gone
Sami whispers, 'Andrew, I haven't got enough money. Can I borrow some until-?'

'No,' I say abruptly. Sami rolls her eyes. 'This is on me.' I
feel in my pocket just to check that I've still got a twenty Marion gave me.

'Andrew, don't be daft, I'll pay you back-'

'No. I told you, it doesn't matter.'

'I'll have to go to the cashpoint afterwards.' She looks at her
watch. 'Actually it'd better be tonight., if that's OK.'

'Oh, shut up.'

Sami raises her eyebrows. 'Don't tell me to shut up,' she says.
She waves her tiny fist at me and pulls a face. I laugh at this naked aggression,
Samistyle.

'Sorry. I hate talking about money,' I say seriously. 'Please
let me buy your lunch, Sami.'

The Italian girl comes back with a bottle of San Pellegrino.

'Moet & Chandon for two,' she announces, banging down the
bottle of water and two small unbreakable glasses, still hot from the dishwasher.
I wink thanks at her and then carry on talking to Sami. 'Don't you ever get fed
up worrying about money? You now - a fiver for this or that and then panicking about
going overdrawn?'

'Everyone worries about money,' says Sami, frowning.

'No, they don't.'

'Well, millionaires might not but normal people do. Everyone
I know does - once in a while, anyway.'

'Don't you ever get sick of it?'

Sami shrugs her shoulders. 'It's part of life, isn't it?'

'Is it?'

She pours us both some water and takes a delicate sip. 'Well,
unless you've won the Lottery.'

'Then you wouldn't have to worry.'

'You would - what about someone scratching your Rolls Royce or
your servants stealing things?'

'At least you'd be able to have a plate of spaghetti bolognaise
without having to rush to the cashpoint, hoping it would let you have enough money.
You could go on holiday or buy new clothes whenever you wanted without having to
save up.'

'But I like saving up,' says Sami. 'It's part of the fun.'

'Really?'

'Yes. You wouldn't enjoy something if you could just buy it like
that, would you?' I think about this for a moment. The girl brings us our spaghetti
bolognaise and I savour the smell for a moment, before adding the dried, bright
yellow, sicksmelling parmesan. 'Anyway, you're not doing badly for money, are you?
Paris and now New York.'

'I just want more than this.'

'You think yourself lucky, matey,' says Sami, carefully coiling
pasta round her fork. 'I just want to be able to meet the guy I'm going to marry
before my wedding day.'

Chapter
Thirteen

On Friday morning while Anna Maria is serving breakfast, I stare
at the phone, debating whether to go through the motions of leaving a message at
the office about not feeling well. I decide not to. It's too undignified, I'll take
it on the chin when I get back.

Marion asks me why I'm so quiet and I explain that taking time
off work is worrying me.

'Well, if you want to spend time in that dreary office of yours
instead of coming to New York you're very welcome to do so,' she says over the top
of the International Herald Tribune.

'I don't want to, I'm just frightened of getting fired,' I say,
moving my knife idly around the toast crumbs on my plate. 'Well, like I told you,
you should broaden your horizons, think beyond those four walls.'

'It's all right for you. I-' I realise that I'm about to ask
her for money, straight out. Would it work? I try it. 'I'm a bit broke, Marion,
you couldn't just lend me, er, I don't know, two hundred, could you?'

She puts the paper down properly. 'Why do you need money? You
can't be short.'

'Well ...'

'I already pay for everything.'

Ouch! Point taken. 'Yeah, I know, and I'm very grateful but-'

'But what?'

'Just for occasional expenses,' I find myself saying, surprised
at this phrase.

'You've got your salary, too. What do you want more money for?
You're not doing drugs, are you?'

The honest answer is I want more money so that I can get some
freedom from her for twenty minutes or even a whole evening for a bit of normality
but I can't think of a reply that I can actually give her so I just carry on playing
with my knife.

'And stop doing that, will you? It's driving me crazy!' she snaps,
returning to her newspaper.

I'm back staring at the phone again.

'Are you ready, Andrew?' she says now, breaking my trance.

'Yep,' I say, deciding not to think about the office for the
next few days.

'Where is your luggage?' she asks. She knows that my luggage
is an old Head sports bag slumped by the front door.

'It's there.' I nod towards the door, awaiting her indignant
reaction.

'Oh, really! Not that old thing again, it's so embarrassing seeing
you with that piece of garbage.'

'It's all I've got,' I say crossly, knowing what she'll say in
reply.

'We'll have to get you something else in New York.' Yeah, yeah.

The car roars up the M4 to Heathrow and an hour later we're in
the executive lounge where I help myself to another cup of coffee that I don't want
and then catch sight of a bank of payphones. There is even a fax. Perhaps I could
fax Debbie rather than having to speak to her. Next to us three Americans in comfy
sweaters, Burberry raincoats, dark blue jeans and trainers read the Wall Street
Journal, Time and some golfing magazine. A couple who look like they have been upgraded
or won a free trip hug each other and stare at Marion who, in turn, is staring at
herself rather crossly in a tiny mirror, trying to make her hair do something it
doesn't want to.

After half an hour I've read most of the newspapers and the magazines
don't appeal. Nobody could really want to read all this business shit, it must just
be there to help people justify the fact that they are travelling business class.
The headlines on the front remind me of Dad's self-help management books. I bump
into a man in a suit while I mooch around the complimentary drinks buffet. He apologizes
but gives me a faintly enquiring look as if to ask what I'm doing in the executive
lounge, which is reserved for people like him with customized luggage labels and
membership of at least nine frequent flyer programmes. I leave my cup of coffee
on the counter and wander back to Marion.

'Bored?' she says.

I make a face which says, 'I'm afraid so.'

She roots in her bag, gives me a £50 note and says: 'Go shopping
but be back in fifteen minutes.'

Don't worry I'm not likely to leave the country on this, I think
as I wander out of the club lounge cocoon into the mind-numbing hubbub of the rest
of the airport.

On the plane, as we turn left to Business Class, I cannot resist
a backwards glance into the 'goat' class cabin. People look like battery hens, fidgeting
already, trying to pack even more bags and bits and pieces into the overhead lockers
while others start to read or stare blankly ahead - the full horror of the cramped,
dry-aired, white-noise-filled, seven-hour ordeal that awaits them slowly sinking
in.

'Good morning, Mr Collins, can I get you something to drink?'
says our perma-delighted stewardess.

'Can I have some champagne,' I say, noticing that that is what
Marion has ordered. I sit back and let the seat embrace me, shuddering slightly
at the thought of those poor bastards behind us. I remember my last trip to New
York with a couple of friends: stuck between a screaming, snotty twoyear-old and
a fat bloke who sniffed and sweated his way across the Atlantic.

'More champagne, Mr Collins?' she says, still clearly absolutely
delighted to have the opportunity to serve me. It is actually a bit unnerving and
makes me fed I should be paying her my full attention.

'Anymore and you'll have to carry me off the plane,' I tell her.

She laughs and moves on.

'Don't speak to the stewardess like that,' hisses Marion.

She turns to watch the girl who is now serving, with, apparently,
even more delight, a fifty-something businessman behind me. 'Peanut-brained slut,'
she adds.

After lunch has been cleared away, Marion opens a magazine and
starts shaking her head disapprovingly. I am going to ask her what is wrong but
then I think, sod it. Marion disapproves of most things: English plumbing and dental
work, pretty girls, anything that isn't expensive and, I'm beginning to suspect,
me.

I feel in the seat pocket for the Walkman and the cassettes I
bought with Marion's fifty at the airport. My ears fill with music and, gazing out
over the cold, clean, bright skies I feel insulated, cosy and safe for the first
time in weeks. This is how I could spend the rest of my life.

The hotel room is filled with flowers. We're staying in a hotel
because her house is rented out, apparently. Marion looks at one card after another
not with joy but with grim satisfaction. 'Hmm,' she says to some and 'Huh!' to others.

'Well, word has certainly gotten round that we're here,' she
says.

'Obviously.' I survey the foliage. 'Very nice.'

'What would you like to do?' she asks, wandering into the bedroom.

'I don't know.' I'm not sure if I feel jet-lagged or just overcome
by the fact that I'm here, in New York, in this ritzy hotel. She decides we'll go
for a walk down Fifth Avenue which is only five minutes away. The Upper East Side
is leafy and lazy and sunny as I look down the cliff faces of the buildings narrowing
down into the horizon.

'Isn't this near where you were brought up?' I ask as we walk
back to the hotel in the late afternoon sun.

'Quite near,' she says quickly.

Marion arranges for us to have dinner with her friends Charles
and Victoria. I would have preferred to taste a bit of the night life in Times Square
or the Village or SoHo but Marion tells me that all those areas are really disgusting
and are full of the kind of places that I should not be seen in, so that settles
that.

Charles and Victoria live not far from the hotel and I manage
to persuade Marion to let us walk there. We arrive at a block with a dark blue awning
and gold lettering. The doorman, a huge black guy, smiles broadly at Marion, asks
her how she is doing. He lets us into the marbled hallway and we get into a huge
lift. I begin to feel sick, partly with the motion and partly with nerves. I'm in
New York, for God's sake. I'm going to be fired on Monday - I should be trying to
enjoy myself while I'm here.

When the lift doors open Charles and Victoria are waiting for
us. He is tall and thin and she is small and almost round which is strange because
I didn't think Marion knew anyone that shape - most of her female friends are so
skinny you can almost see their insides working.

They both kiss Marion and ask how she is, as if she has suffered
some horrible accident. then they turn to me.

'You are Andrew,' beams Victoria.

'Yes,' I say, trying to match her enthusiasm.

'I am Victoria,' she explains in a strong South American accent
and offers me a cheek. I kiss it, grateful for a moment to think what I am supposed
to do next. She turns her head and I kiss the other cheek. Single kiss, double kiss,
triple kiss, miss kiss. Oh, I give up. I can't remember who does what. Fortunately
she starts talking as if we are old friends.

She is dressed in a black and gold Chanel-type suit and though
she is not very pretty, she makes the most of what she has got, as my mum would
say. Her thick black hair is scraped back and held with a huge gold slide. She has
a kind smile, probably the most genuine one I've seen amongst Marion's friends.

'This is my husband, Charles,' she says.

The tall guy bows slightly and then offers a hand but extends
it only a bit. I shake it and end up taking just his fingers which feel cold and
soft. I am sure my dad's books have something to say about this, about Charles making
me step into his territory, or something.

Victoria grabs my arm and leads me along the dark, thickly carpeted
corridor to the living room. The walls are painted dark red and hung with impressionist
and abstract paintings. I don't look too closely but it occurs to me that they are
probably originals. Victoria explains that she and Charles know Marion originally
from New York, but when Marion came to London they followed her and now, here they
are, all in New York again.

'Do you like London?' I ask, glad no one else can hear this ridiculously
banal question.

'Oh, it's lovely. So old,' she says as we sit down. A waiter
offers me some champagne and I sit back and listen to her while she goes on about
her favourite shops, the time she went to a real English pub and their visit last
summer to the country.

'Where did you go?' I ask.

Her grin fixes slightly. 'The country.'

'Er, right, whereabouts?'

Still smiling wildly, she looks to the ceiling for inspiration.
'Outside of London.'

Some other people arrive a bit later and we sit down to eat.
I suddenly want to go to sleep very badly. My eyelids weigh half a ton each. I think
about excusing myself and going to the loo but decide that not only is this not
the done thing but I will probably fall asleep on the pot and this would be even
more embarrassing.

One of the women is wittering on to us about some people I do
not know and so as to appear the slightest bit interested I ask who she is talking
about.

'Pardon me?' says the woman and looks across at Marion as if
she is supposed to be in control of me.

'Sorry,' I say, panic whipping drowsiness away from me like a
duvet on a cold morning. 'I just wondered who that woman was. I, er, think I know
her.'

I look across at Marion, who is both smiling and frowning quizzically.