Sugar Mummy (10 page)

The mention of money makes me think of Jonathan. From what I
remember him saying, I should be eligible for a cheque by next Monday for my first
job for him with the mad woman. The thought of getting my hands on the dosh makes
me feel pretty good - better than waiting for that little payment slip at the end
of the month. That usual joke with Lucy from accounts that she has missed a nought
off the end here. Ha, ha!

I promised Marion that I would be first to arrive at her party
and I am, feeling decidedly shabby in my Blazer jacket, button-down-collar shirt
with its slightly frayed cuffs and Chinos which have seen better days. I'm following
Mark's advice: I have the air of faded grandeur you'd expect of an aristocratic
son of a purchasing manager from Reading.

Oh, and I'm also sick with nerves.

Anna Maria opens the door with a smirk.

'Hiya,' I say and she giggles and looks down at the floor.

'How are you?' She giggles again, still looking at the floor.
'Where is she?' I ask, trying a different tack. The room is full of the smell of
flowers. On the glass coffee table is the habitual cloud of white lilies.

'Madam is upstairs,' says Anna Maria and half-runs back into
the kitchen, laughing. I seem to be a bit of a hit here – if she had a few million
to chuck about I'd be well ahead in my new career plan.

 
I help myself to a drink
and go upstairs. My first instinct is to shout 'hello' but then I decide that we
must know each other well enough by now. I walk into the bedroom and Marion sees
me in her dressing-table mirror. Without turning round she says, 'Hello' girlishly
and smiles.

I say nothing. I walk over to her and kiss her neck very slowly.
She gasps slightly, closes her eyes and lifts her head. Something about this room,
this house, makes me feel as if I am in a movie. Being with Marion gives me a buzz
that I never had with Helen, even when we first started going out. She was more
like a comfortable pair of jeans whereas Marion is an Armani suit and every time
I see her it's like the first time I'm trying it on.

Then I go and sit in a chair in the corner of the room while
she puts on her make-up. She does it quickly and confidently, pausing every few
seconds to pout or look sideways to check the effect. Her blonde hair is already
neatly sculpted into its classic wave and she is brushing powder onto her elegant
cheekbones. She puts her hand on brushes and pencils without having to look round
for them. Then she examines her face from every angle, opening her huge dark eyes
wider every now and then.

It's funny, I've never really watched a woman get ready. Helen
hardly ever wore make-up except when we went to a wedding and she kept applying
lipstick nervously during the service and asking me if it was smudged.

I could never have sat and watched my mum put her makeup on.
I suppose for her, powdering her face and applying a bit of lipstick is a private,
furtive thing. If people notice that she is wearing it and compliment her she gets
embarrassed and says, 'Well, I thought I'd better make the effort.' Either that
or she laughs with embarrassment and tells them, 'Oh, shut up!'

I never saw any of my other girlfriends get ready to go out.
They probably didn't have the confidence to let a man observe this secret female
ritual. One of the first, Cathy, suddenly appeared at my house on a Saturday night
with dark lines around her eyes.

'Are you all right? You look ill,' I said.

'No, I'm just wearing a bit of make-up,' she explained as if
it were the obvious alternative explanation for her appearance. My older sister
sometimes wore it when she went out with her friends. I still remember the sound
of a hairdryer over the babble of Radio One and the sharp sting of Clearasil on
the landing outside her room that hit you like a sisterly slap in the face.

Finally Marion stands up, smoothes down her dress and turns to
look approvingly in the mirror at herself in profile. Then she looks round and smiles
at me. The kind of inviting smile that fills a room, the kind of smile that must
have caught the eye of her ex-husbands and ex-lovers. And trapped them.

'Whaddya think?'

'Delicious.'

She walks over to where I am sitting and I put my arms round
her hips while she buries my face in her stomach and plays with my hair. Then she
pulls back, looks at me and says disappointedly, 'We'll have to get you a new shirt.
Look at this, Andrew, you can't meet people dressed like this.' One of her long,
tapering fingers touches my neck and suddenly I imagine them wrapped round my dick
again. I pull her to me and start kissing her. She resists at first, but then gives
in, begins to run her hands through my hair as she pushes her tongue harder into
my mouth. I begin to manoeuvre her towards the bed but she pulls away.

'I've got people coming.'

'I'll say.'

'Oh, look, I'm all smudged.' Then she giggles. 'Andrew, you're
such a naughty boy.'

'I know,' I find myself whispering.

She goes back to her dressing table and repairs the damage.

Pouting and licking those lips of hers. Then she stands up again
and looks at me.

'We should get you a suit, maybe. A really good suit, the kind
you can wear to lunch and for shopping.'

'OK,' I say coolly.

Marion leads the way downstairs. Anna Maria is opening the door
to a tall, dark-haired woman dressed in black. 'Marion, my darling, how are you?'
says the woman in a thick Middle-Eastern accent, rushing in to meet her. She holds
Marion's hands in hers and they triple kiss.

 
'Good, thanks,' says Marion,
smiling gently. Still holding her hands, the woman studies her for a moment and
then says urgently, 'You're looking well, that's the main thing.'

'Daria, this is Andrew Collins.' I stick my hand out but by this
time the woman has very quickly nodded in my direction and is looking back at Marion
anxiously. I let my hand drop slowly.

Daria is already getting up my nose. I decide I'd better make
the effort, though. God knows how.

Fortunately, the door bell rings again and I go to open it before
Anna Maria can get there. Two young guys stop talking and look up at me. I think
for a moment that they must be at the wrong house. Both are in 501s and DMs, one
has a tight, white T-shirt and cut-off denim jacket, the other just a tartan waistcoat
covered with buckles and clips, a sort of post-punk Gaultier effort.

'Is Marion in?' asks the waistcoat in a French accent.

'Er, yeah, come in.' I gesture them into the house.

'I am Jean-Charles,' he says, 'and this is Philippe.' I give
them both a firm, arm's-length handshake and take them into the living room. Somehow
I didn't think Marion's friends would look like they collected glasses in a gay
bar.

'Hello, boys,' calls Marion from the settee. They walk over and
kiss her.

'Jean-Charles and Philippe work at my health club,' Marion says.
Daria is sitting next to her, staring at her intently. The boys get an even quicker
acknowledgement from her than I did. One of them makes a face to the other who tries
not to laugh. I ask them if they would like a drink. They both have Absolut and
cranberry juice.

Daria is saying something to Marion. 'I saw Judy last week in
New York. She is looking very old.'

'She should sue her plastic surgeon then,' says Marion to the
boys who are now standing by the fireplace, gazing adoringly at her and wishing
Daria would fuck off. They giggle again.

'Marion,' says one of them, 'you never come to see us anymore
at the club.'

'No, I know, I'm just too busy. I have other things to keep me
occupied at the moment.' She looks across at me, they follow her gaze.

'And to give you exercise,' says the one in the T-shirt. They
laugh and so does Marion. I don't like the tone of this conversation. I'm beginning
to feel like a strippergram. I laugh too, but slowly. Unfortunately, instead of
sounding threatening and masculine, I just sound a bit thick, like I'm slow getting
the joke.

'I'm going to Cap Ferrat next week,' says Daria, eyes wide. 'You
should come. It will do you good. I am staying at a beautiful little hotel. Very
exclusive. Exquisite service. Anouska had her breakdown there.'

'Mmm, why not? Would you like that, Andrew?' Marion asks, flirting
jointly with me and the French guys.

'Wouldn't mind,' I say.

Daria looks horrified, she obviously hadn't banked on this. 'Do
you like France?' asks Jean Charles or Philippe.

'Yeah, it's OK.'

'I am from the south, do you know Marseilles?' says the other.

'Oh, right,' I say and go over to the drinks cabinet to get some
more champagne. Perhaps I can be promoted from strippergram to barman. I refill
Marion and Daria who are having a conversation, or what passes for one with Daria.
The door bell rings again and Anna Maria shoots out of the kitchen swallowing something
quickly and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

A tall, middle-aged bloke comes into the room, enjoying a quiet,
private joke with Anna Maria. He is immaculately dressed in a double-breasted suit
with a ridiculously loud pinstripe and a watch chain in the lapel.

'Sorry, I came straight from work, hellishly busy, no time to
change. I feel horribly underdressed,' he tells everyone. His bouffant grey hair
has a definite tinge of blue. When he introduces himself to me as Christopher Maurice-Jackson
he gives me a handshake with his fingers only and I am sure he is wearing eyeliner.
He triple kisses Marion and Daria. 'Hello,' he says quickly to the boys. He takes
a glass of champagne from me, gasps, 'Oh, lifesaver!' and then throws himself down
in a chair, undoes his jacket and crosses his long, thin legs. His city brogues
are the shiniest shoes I have ever seen. Why aren't mine like that? Possibly because
mine come from Saxone, I've had them for two years and I've never polished them.

Another guest arrives, a young pretty Arab girl and a tall, lanky
young guy with a quite a tough face and what my hairdresser, Lisa, calls a 'Paul
Newman crop' when she tried to sell it to me. It actually looks pretty good on him.
The Arab girl is dressed in a complicated beige outfit and he is wearing a starched
a dark blue blazer, a white granddad shirt and a thin gold chain under it. They
are both in their late twenties.

The girl, Farrah, triple kisses each person while everyone else
watches, which takes some time. Her boyfriend, David, follows her, just shaking
hands or nodding.

'So you're Andrew,' says Farrah when she gets to me. She stands
very close and touches my arm. 'I've heard so much about you.' I smile graciously
and say something slightly funny. Farrah laughs and says to Marion, 'Oh Marion,
he's charming.'

Anna Maria is hovering. I let her do the drinks this time because
she obviously wants to.

'Oh, what shall I have? David, what do you think?' says Farrah,
obviously glad still to be the centre of attention.

'I'll have a Bud,' says David in a strong Geordie accent.

'Now I can't drink champagne, my hairdresser says nothing fizzy,
it makes my hair brittle.'

'White wine?' I suggest.

'So acidic,' says Farrah, staring at the drinks cabinet. 'Oh,
Marion, what do you think?'

'The boys are drinking Absolut and cranberry juice,' says Marion,
breaking off from Daria. I am about to point out that this is acidic as well, but
then realise that if Anna Maria doesn't get Farrah something to drink soon we'll
never eat. 'A vodka,' says Farrah triumphantly. 'Yes, why not? A vodka please, with
ice and lemon.'

Immediately Anna Maria sets about making it for her and Farrah,
clearly not wanting to lose the momentum she has built up turns round and asks,
'So what have we all been up to today?'

It is a completely unanswerable question, mainly because no one
has done anything, and it is clearly just an excuse for her to tell us about her
day, which she does. 'Marion, I went to Joe's for lunch today with Vincente. David
joined us for coffee after.' Farrah squeezes David's hand as they sit together on
a settee; she is pert and upright, he is sitting back with legs open wide and face
set in an uninterested, slightly aggressive way. 'Anna Maria, I spent this morning
throwing out old clothes I never wear and I found a couple of dresses that would
be perfect for you. David, don't you think those two dresses would look great on
Anna Maria?' David nods unconvincingly, obviously not over-exercised on the subject
of dresses.

She prattles on. Marion mildly amused, Daria fuming, Christopher
Maurice-Jackson listening politely and the boys smirking quietly. David is taking
us in one by one. 'Us'? I mean the others.

After a while, I notice that Christopher Maurice-Jackson has
moved away from everyone else. He is standing, legs apart, arms loosely folded with
one hand touching his chin. He stares intently at a section of wall beside the kitchen
door as if it were the most important thing in the world.

'Marion,' he says, measuring the space in mid-air with his hands.

She looks across.

'I have an exquisite Beidermier table that would fit in here
beautifully. The proportions are right, the width is right and it would give this
room a little lift, a touch of-'

'Yeah, like I really need some more furniture,' says Marion,
finishing her champagne. 'Three houses full and then some.'

Three houses? I'm intrigued. Christopher Maurice-Jackson pauses
for a moment. 'Just a thought,' he says, pained. Turning back to the group he sees
me smiling and begins to scowl. 'You ought to get rid of something, then,' he suggests,
still looking at me.

Marion gets up. 'Let's eat,' she says. 'I'm starved.' She squeezes
my neck gently as she walks past me to the table.

She allocates places quickly. We sit down, no one particularly
pleased to be next to anyone else. I have Farrah and David on one side, which isn't
bad, and Marion on the other.