The Blue Guide (4 page)

I kept my promise to myself, or mostly. A lot of my customers were older American couples – all pink rinses and silly camera lenses – so temptation didn't even arise. Or I was quite often hired by American parents to take their wayward teenagers off their hands for a couple of days. I saw a lot of the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum then, but also a lot of the Trocadero games arcade and Hamley's toy shop, and I ate a lot of burgers in the Hard Rock Café. But the money was good, and I was kept so busy I gradually found myself spending less time thinking about Daniel. Or was it the exhaustion that made me numb?

There were times, I won't deny it, when I thought,
To hell with it all,
and sat down and composed a cheery email asking him how his film was going and when he thought he might be in London next. Or when I brought up his number on the screen of my phone and let my thumb linger over the green ‘Call' button. Mostly I'd been drinking when I did this. But I was never drunk enough to go through with it, to send the message or dial his number. My dreaded pride wouldn't let me chase after him.

A couple of months after meeting him, I took a booking from an Australian pilot called Kip Marsh, who wanted, he said, a straightforward day's tour of the main sights – St Paul's Cathedral, the Tower of London, the Houses of Parliament. We met, and though my stomach didn't flip over the way it did when I thought about Daniel, I found myself attracted by his brawny physique and his pleasant, regular features arranged above an impressively square jaw. He didn't have the conversational sparkle of Dan, but he was pleasant
enough. We spent an enjoyable day seeing many of the historical sights, and then I went home, settled down in front of a classic movie –
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane
? with Bette Davis and Joan Crawford – and didn't think much about him again.

Not long before midnight, when I was already in bed with a herbal tea and a gossip mag – my weapons against the insomnia that had beset me since Daniel went away – my mobile rang and I was surprised to hear Kip's voice on the other end of the line.

‘Sorry to disturb you so late,' he said, ‘but I really wanted to find a way of thanking you for today. I was talking to the concierge at my hotel and he was telling me you can book a capsule on the London Eye to yourself, so I thought I'd treat you. Are you free for lunch tomorrow?'

As it happened, I was, and though I'd been on the Eye countless times with different clients, I'd never experienced the luxury of a private ride. The idea was seductive – normally twenty or more people occupied a pod, and at busy times you sometimes had to fight for a bit of the view.

We met at the giant wheel at noon the following day, and I was delighted to find that Kip had ordered us a bottle of champagne to take with us on our ‘flight'. I was equally struck by the fact that he was already in his pilot's uniform: he explained that after our lunch he was catching a cab directly to the airport.

‘I'm Kip, come fly with me,' he couldn't resist saying as we boarded, and for a change I was in good enough spirits to repay him with a bright smile.

We began to ascend, at a pace almost imperceptible, and watched as the vista grew gradually more spectacular as we gained height. When we were about quarter of the way up, Kip turned and cracked open the bottle
of Laurent Perrier. I listened to the satisfying fizz of the golden liquid as he poured just one glass for me, reminding me that he was to fly later that day. I should have realised then that he had an ulterior motive.

‘Cheers,' I said, and looked back out over London. We were almost at the top now, and could see, as well as Buckingham Palace and Tower Bridge in the foreground, the distant landmarks of Windsor Castle, Alexandra Palace and the new Wembley Stadium arch. I pointed them out to Kip as he passed me a chocolate and refilled my glass.

‘Here's to awesome views,' he said, and his eyes held mine. It was then that I finally realised – naïve little me – that he wasn't just there for the sights. I smiled nervously.

‘I like you a lot, Alicia,' he said, frowning a little as if he, too, had suddenly been beset by unexpected nerves. Placing my glass on the wooden seat in the centre of the pod, he put a hand on either side of my waist. I didn't pull away; I'd been lonely since Daniel, and I longed for the feel of a warm, pliant body against mine, for the adrenalin rush of desire. I didn't want just anybody's body, mind; it helped that Kip was such a fine physical specimen.

By now his hand had slipped inside my flimsy blouse, inside my balcony-cup bra, and I felt the tips of his fingers, sure but gentle on my puckering nipples. I glanced around, concerned that we could be seen by people in other pods, but because we were about two-thirds of the way round, we couldn't be seen by anyone from above or below, while people in the capsules opposite were too far away, with their view obscured in any case by what I took to be the support struts or mechanism by which the wheel rotated. Our invisibility couldn't last long though.

‘
Quick
,' I urged, but Kip appeared not to hear me as he fell to his knees before me and slipped my skirt up and my knickers down. Keeping one hand on my hip to steady both him and me, he began to explore my pussy with two fingers of the other, running his fingers all over my lips before encircling my hole.

‘We don't have much time,' I panted, shooting anxious glances toward the neighbouring pods to see if we were overlooked. Kip turned his head from side to side, but I guessed from the expression on his face – utterly lascivious – that he might actually be hoping that someone could see us. The thought gave me an odd little thrill. Unfortunately for Kip, though, those people who were now coming within our orbit of vision were directing their attention firmly at the views of London unfolding beneath them.

Inflamed, desperate now for a man inside me again, I pulled down his boxer shorts and lapped at his cock, giving it little nips with my teeth that, to judge by his groans, seemed to drive him crazy.

We were almost right around now, and time was of the essence. From our position I calculated that we had roughly seven minutes. I wasn't sure what the staff would do if we were caught
in flagrante delicto
, but I wasn't keen to find out, especially given that I was bound to be coming back here with future clients. Stepping back, I lowered myself to the central bench of the pod and presented myself to Kip, splaying myself for him with my fingers. He smiled, sank once more to his knees and plunged himself into me with a yell of pleasure. Bringing my knees up almost to my chest, affording him even greater depth within me, I reached around myself with one hand and kneaded his silken balls in my palms. With the other I wiggled my clit
convulsively. An irresistible tempo built up between us, inside us, and I lay off my clit in my struggle to stave off an orgasm that I knew would bring his on, all the while conscious that if we didn't finish soon we would be providing a hell of a floor show for everyone stationed at the landing stage.

On the point of saying words to that effect, I noticed that Kip's eyes were raised to the right. Excitement flickered in them like fire. We were very near to the ground by now. I followed his gaze and saw a man standing above us in the pod that followed ours, palms pressed against the glass carapace as he stared down at us. I repressed a cry, but it was too late: the stranger's presence and the look on Kip's face had unleashed my climax.

Fuck you, Daniel
, I remember thinking as I gave myself over to its ravaging might. It reminded me of being caught in a rip tide on a beach in south India a few years before: there was the same sense of losing control, of struggling against a greater force than me as wave after wave sucked me under.

I was so preoccupied with my own orgasm that I felt strangely detached from Kip's rapture as he pulled out of me, stood above me, and, prick in fist, let a froth of sperm rain down on me. We were just in time: the pod was about to land, and we had scant moments in which to pull together our clothes and neaten our ruffled hair.

As we walked away from the Eye and the river, a rather uncomfortable silence insinuated itself between us. There certainly wasn't that cosy sense of companionship that I had felt with Daniel in the hotel, after our passionate fuck on the old boardroom table, or the morning after our second night together, when he had rolled over and just slipped inside me as if he belonged
there. And as I saw Kip into a black cab and wished him a safe flight, I found myself suddenly missing the American with renewed force, just when I had started to think I was getting over him.

THREE DRY MARTINIS
and a couple of hours' maudlin reminiscing at Claridge's Bar and the alcohol has started to dilute the pain again and I'm ready to brave my dinner with Paco Manchega. He wanted to go somewhere discreet, unsurprisingly given the pararazzi's interest in him, so Fenella and I discussed the various options and finally agreed on the Krug Room, a private dining space at the Dorchester Hotel. It's obviously not the kind of place a lowly tour guide gets to experience more than once in a blue moon, and I'm almost as excited about seeing it as I am about meeting Paco.

It's a short walk from Claridge's to Park Lane, through the sedate streets of Mayfair and across Grosvenor Square in front of the imposing bulk of the American Embassy. I live not so far north of here, in a snug top-floor flat near Marylebone Station, with a view over surrounding rooftops from its wide balcony. It's a good area, too, but somewhat scruffier than Mayfair. I'm constantly thinking about moving, developing crushes on places I've gone to check out for my work – from Little Venice to Docklands. But property inertia always gets to me in the end. It's easier just to stay put.

I'm outside the Dorchester now, looking up at its glittering facade. The trees in front are covered in fairylights year round, as if it's Christmas all the time. I guess it is, in a way, for the people rich enough to stay here. I remember coming down to London with my family when I was a child, or rather passing through
London on the way to the airport, before the M25 was built. We'd drive down Park Lane, and I'd press my nose up against the window, positively tingling with the longing to be grown up and able to participate in all this glamour. The Dorchester, I already knew, was where Taylor and Burton had lived together and subsequently spent their honeymoon – or one of them. Vivien Leigh had come here with Laurence Olivier, and everyone from Marlene Dietrich to Brigitte Bardot, from Duke Ellington to The Beatles, had made it their London base at some point.

And here I am now, partaking of some of that glitz, and still I feel like an awestruck kid looking in on life from the outside. I swallow back my stagefright and walk towards it. A uniformed doorman welcomes me and directs me to the subterreanean Krug Room, which – as I am shortly to discover – is actually located within the master kitchens, though sealed off from all the steam and fumes and bustle by a glass wall. There, an immaculate receptionist takes my jacket and leads me through to the private room, explaining that Signor and Signora Manchega are already waiting for me.

I look at her askance, then decide she must be mistaken. Paco Manchega is, I know from the gossip mags I've become addicted to, a resolute bachelor – in fact, something of a playboy. In the last year alone, I recall him being linked with two supermodels and a Brazilian diva. Just two months or so ago, I saw a picture of him on the arm of Lauren Slater, star of the latest Tarantino offering. No, he's certainly not married: the receptionist has got it wrong somehow.

She opens the door of the room and my breath catches in my throat as I look over at Paco Manchega, sitting smoking a cigar at a glass oval table in the centre of the room. He's as relaxed as you could be
without being flat-out unconscious, one arm draped over the back of his red leather chair. A slim-fit green shirt unbuttoned at the neck – to my untrained eye it looks like a Thomas Pink – reveals a chunky silver necklace. His hair is shoulder-length – he's had it cut, I think, since the last photo I saw of him.

‘Alicia,' he says with a genuine-looking smile, gesturing me into the room without getting to his feet. He draws out the ‘i':
Aleeeecia
. ‘How nice to meet you. Do come in. And please –' he waves his free hand across the table ‘– meet my wife, Carlotta.'

I step forwards, and in the part of the room hitherto obscured by the open door, I see a girl who can't be long out of her teens looking at me from the chair opposite Paco's. Her complexion, like his, is a rich Mediterranean olive-brown, but her mid-length hair is bottle-blonde and she has startling blue eyes. She looks more like a Russian mafia chick than a Spaniard.

‘Delighted to meet you,' I say, composing myself, stepping forward to shake first Carlotta's hand, then Paco's. When the formalities are done, Paco wags his hand at the chair next to Carlotta's and invites me to take a seat.

‘What would you like to drink?' he says, and it is all I can do to look him in the face now those smouldering brown eyes are trained on me. I remember, at the same moment, that I'm half-cut from the cocktails I knocked back at Claridge's, and remind myself that I'm working and need to be on the ball.

‘I'll just have a mineral water to start with,' I say to the waiter who has appeared, soundlessly, at my side. He nods, hands me a menu and explains that the chef is personally on hand for us should we wish to discuss the philosophy and preparation of the food. I suppress a chuckle as he disappears, closing the door behind him.
I imagine Jean-Paul Sartre here with Albert Camus, discussing the existential implications of omelettes as they lay into the red wine.

‘So,' I say, turning to Paco, knowing that I ought to leave him to get the conversational ball rolling but suddenly feeling nervousness bubble up in me like fizzy wine, exacerbating the tongue-loosening effects of the martinis. ‘Welcome to London. Is this your first trip?'