Sugar Mummy (34 page)

'Sorry?'

'Drugs? You boys usually 'ave 'em.'

'Sorry, no one told me,' I say like a boy scout. What 'boys'?
She tuts again and opens the fridge. 'Champagne or beer or-' She peers into it,
scrunching up her face which is quite pretty under all the powder. 'Or whatever
you want, but if you want a Bloody Mary or owt like that you'll have to make it
yourself.'

'Whatever's open.'

Without saying anything she picks up a tall, heavy glass, thrusts
it into my hand and pours champagne into it until it drips over my fingers.

'Thanks,' I say, licking some of the froth off my fingers. She
takes something from behind the cappuccino machine. It's an envelope. She half-pulls
some fifty pounds notes out of it.

'That's your five hundred plus another two,' she says, shaking
the notes in my face. 'Extra. If you do a good job.'

She puts it back and makes towards a spiral staircase, slipping
her stilettos off as she goes.

'Hang on a minute,' I say, finally catching my breath. 'It's
you and me, right?'

She tuts and rolls her eyes. 'See this house?' She nods in the
direction of the sitting room. 'Ten of 'em like this. He owns the whole bloody mews,'
she hisses, as if that is supposed to explain what we are going to do. 'Just look
as if you're having the fuck o' your life and don't worry about me - I'll make the
right noises.'

I follow her up the tiny spiral staircase trying not to trip
up or bang my head. I realise that my hand is shaking slightly on the rail. We emerge
into a bedroom which covers the whole upper floor of the house. It is lined with
black wood, mirrored cupboards and a thick, cream-coloured shag-pile carpet. The
lights are on low and the place is full of shadows. I can make out an empty champagne
bottle lying on the floor next to an ashtray and a handbag. Most of the room is
taken up by a huge bed which is covered with a white fur bedspread. It looks as
if there is a dead pig on it. In fact it is a fat bloke lying on his stomach, his
head hanging over the edge.

Vivienne strokes his scraggly grey hair and then runs her hand
down his hairy back to his huge fat bum which is also covered with grey hair.

'Wake up, love,' she says tenderly. 'Look what I've brought you.'

He grunts and stirs and then squints at her, taking a moment
to remember who she is. Then he says, 'What have you brought me, Viv, my love?'

'A young stud,' says Viv. Hang on - that's me. I try to smile
seductively but I feel more like a future son-in-law than a panting sex machine.
He stares up at me. So does Viv, giving me a look of 'Oh, put your back into it.'
His face is like the rest of his body, bulging, sagging and pink with wisps of grey
hair. His huge bloodshot eyes struggle to focus on me and as they do so his fat
fingers, with their heavy gold rings, grasp the bedcover tightly. Only a chunky
gold identity bracelet shows where the fur ends and the grey hair of his forearms
begins. He farts and belches and then his head drops down on to the bed again. I
look at Viv for guidance.

'My love,' she says to him. The old man mumbles something. 'What
did you say, my darling?'

He moves his head out of the furry bedcovers and says, 'Tell
him to take his clothes off.'

She looks up at me. 'Well, you heard what he said.' I freeze
for a moment. Obviously I knew from the start this was going to happen from the
time Jonathan first told me about the job but standing here with these two it feels
even weirder than I thought it would. 'Go on,' she says again, like I'm a bit slow.

My hands tremble even more as I pull off my T-shirt. I stop at
my underpants. Viv rolls her eyes. 'All your clothes, he wants to see what you've
got for me.' I take a deep breath and slip off my underpants with all the erotic
finesse of a man facing an army medical. The old guy is watching me now. I feel
very vulnerable, I have to stop myself from covering my dick with my hands.

'He's big,' coos the man. 'You've done well, my dear.' I'm feeling
slightly sick by now.

'Ye-e-e-s,' says Vivienne. 'He's a big boy.'

'Vivienne,' says the man, like the presenter of a 1950s TV programme
to a guest who brought a baby tiger cub in to show the children, 'will you show
me what you do to boys like this.' Viv gets up and fixes me with a mean, sneering
look. Then she kicks off her shoes, drops to her knees and takes my dick in her
mouth. I gasp more with surprise than pleasure and the client looks up at me. Then
Vivienne begins to make groaning noises. She starts to dig her long, sharp nails
into my bum, out of spite, I think, rather than desire. I decide I'd better make
an effort if I want that five hundred, no, seven hundred pounds. I say it to myself
again. In cash. I start to moan too and move rhythmically in and out of Viv's mouth.

'Mmmm,' says Viv from down below.

'Oh y-e-a-h,' I gasp, hoping it sounds genuine. But my voice
is shaking slightly.

'Oh, yes,' says the little piglet enthusiastically, as if he
were endorsing a motion at the Residents' Association meeting. It's actually the
least surreal conversation we have had all evening. After a while he seems to get
bored.

'Vivienne?' he asks politely.

She looks round at him, still with her mouth full. 'Vivienne?
What else can he do?'

She stands up. 'Shall we show him?' I look at her dumbly.

She slips off her dress, bra and panties very quickly while the
piglet and I watch. When she stands naked I notice that her pubic hair is blonde
with tiny black roots.

'There's a condom in the draw, stud,' she says. I pull open the
drawer, take out a condom, tear open its packet with difficulty (I am sure Viv rolls
her eyes at this point). For some reason I have got a hard on. It's as is my dick
is betraying me. Shouldn't it feel revolted and appalled by this whole thing? Apparently
not. I roll the condom on while they both watch. When I look up again Viv is moving
onto the bed.

'You like it doggy style, don't you, Viv?' says the piglet. This
time even I can tell that he means, 'I don't care how you like it, Viv, I'm paying.'

'Oh, yes,' murmurs Viv, moving onto all fours next to him on
the bed. She pouts and inserts a long red fingernail into her mouth. 'That's the
way I like it,' she gasps and I realise this is an invitation to me to get to work.

I move over towards her. But I can't do it. My dick has finally
got the message. This isn't right - worse, it's just disgusting. No amount of money
is worth this, in fact the idea of the money suddenly makes me feel even more dirty.

Viv looks round irritably to see why our little live show, audience
of one, has stalled. I stare at the floor, trying to avoid her eyes. But Viv, obviously
quick-thinking and resourceful, has nimbly backed on to me and is apparently enjoying
great sex, moaning and arching her back. I stand there, numb, wondering whether
it looks convincing to our client or whether he just wants it to. But then I notice
that the old git has slumped forward with his eyes closed again.

'K-e-n?' Viv whispers in ecstasy. No reaction. 'Ken?' she groans
again, louder this time. 'Ken?' Her tone changes to one of irritation. 'Ken?' She
reaches across and pokes him roughly. 'He's off at last,' she says. 'Thank fook
for that. What's the matter wi' you, anyway, you're not fooking being paid just
to stand there, you gormless twat,' she says, pulling off a false eyelash while
reaching across to the ashtray for her ciggie which is now mainly ash. She takes
a drag and picks some ash out of her pubes. Just then Ken wakes again and looks
round at us. Instantly Viv is back in position and in ecstasy again, gasping and
squealing this time. But this time I move away. I don't even want to touch her.
I stand back against the wall, breathing hard. Feeling dizzy. Feeling disgusted.
Trapped.

'Come back, my love,' murmurs Viv, giving me a furious look.

I just stare at her for a moment.

'What's the matter, young stud?' says Ken, also slightly pissed
off that his purchase isn't doing what he bought it for.

I don't say anything - what can I say? I look at them both lying
on the bed. I realise that they are almost the same colour. Pale, pink, insipid.
Ugly. So very, very ugly. Like me. We're all so very ugly. I just reach down quickly
and find my underpants.

"Ang on,' says Viv, getting up.

'We haven't finished yet,' says the piglet, as if I was a waiter
trying to take his plate away.

I open my mouth to say something - excuse, abuse – but nothing
comes out. My underpants are on at last and so is my T-shirt, distorted and wrapped
around my body in my panicked haste. I throw my trainers down the spiral stairs
and follow them, tripping and falling down the last few steps. Sprawled at the bottom,
I pull my jeans on, and without doing them up get up again and run into the kitchen.

'Oi,' says Viv from above me. I don't look up. I reach round
behind the capuccino maker for the envelope. I'm entitled to at least some of that
money.

It's not there.

Where the fuck is it? I'm sure she put it back there. I ferret
around quickly to see if it's somewhere else but then I hear the stairs start creaking
behind me. I have one last desperate thrash around on the shelf and send glass jars
of coffee and tea bags together with a full wine glass crashing onto the floor.
No good, it's not fucking there. Suddenly I feel a couple of notes, two fifties,
a hundred quid. Fuck it, that'll do. It'll have to.

I skid on the mess and then make a run for the door. 'He's taken
money, the robbin' cunt,' I hear Viv screech behind me. This brings the old man
to his feet and I hear the staircase creak as it takes his weight. I manage to slide
the bolts of the front door back and throw it open before they get to the glass-embedded
mess on the kitchen floor.

I run out into the mews still carrying my trainers. I sprint
down the empty, darkened street towards what looks like a main road. The sound of
Viv screeching pain and swearing about a cut foot reaches me but I also hear the
man running behind me. He is silent. And somehow that's worse.

I keep running long after I know the man has given up. He must
either be naked or wearing only a robe anyway so he can't go far. I just want to
keep on. I stop and sit down on the pavement, conscious of the few people around
at this time of night staring at me discreetly - intrigued but desperate not to
get involved.

I quickly put my trainers on, realizing that I must have left
my socks behind.

I start to walk back home.

Chapter
Seventeen

The next morning I lie in bed for a moment wondering whether
I dreamt the whole of last night. A cross between a nightmare and a wet dream. Even
after a long hot shower I can still smell Viv on me. I find myself wondering: do
people like that have no shame? That man presumably buys sex whenever he wants,
just as if he were buying dinner or a holiday. Last night he bought me. Do I have
no shame, anymore? Viv and I were both prostitutes last night. And if you come from
a nice middle class home and have a degree in business studies and wear a suit,
what excuse do you have for doing that?

As I stare up at the ceiling, wide awake, now more awake than
I've been for a long time, another thought dawns on me. What is the difference between
me and Marion and Viv and the piglet? There is one, isn't there? There must be.
Just what the fuck is it?

I turn over and hug the pillow as if a different position will
produce different logic. What's really funny is that however uncomfortable and disgusted
I feel, I don't feel tired this morning. It takes me a while to get used to this
new sensation. Sleepy yes, but not tired. Yesterday morning I felt more knackered
than when I'd hit the sack and today I should feel worse than ever but instead I
feel well rested and strangely relaxed. I look around the room and notice how light
it is. And it's not just lighter than normal, it's the quality of the light that
is different.

Why isn't my clock radio on? I sit up. It's very quiet. No echo
of Vinny's radio downstairs, no showers on anywhere, no cars queuing up the street
to get into the main road. The day has a sort of used feel, it's lost that early
morning rawness and got into its stride - without me.

Oh my God!

I take a deep breath and look round at the clock radio. It's
1.23 p.m.

1.23 p.m.? How the hell could it have got so late? I haven't
just overslept, I've been entombed. I leap up and look around for my clothes. Suddenly
the room is moving around me. I sit down on the edge of the bed again and put my
head in my hands. I feel better and then it occurs to me that I'm so late there
is no real point in hurrying. I may as well take my time. I breathe deeply and stretch
a bit, trying to touch the ceiling. I put on a T-shirt and wander downstairs to
make a cup of tea. There is some post on the mat but none of it is for me or Vinny,
for that matter.

I put the kettle on and try and decide what to tell the office
- I'll just have to be honest and tell them, I mean her, Debbie, that is, that I
completely and utterly overslept. She's more likely to believe that than some story
about unreliable plumbers or sudden illnesses.

I pour boiling water on a tea bag and watch it swell and surface
for a moment. Still half asleep, I dredge it out with a spoon and flick it across
the floor into the sink, where it lands with a satisfying splat, leaving a trail
of dark brown spots across the floor and up the cupboard door.

I pour in some milk and stab the wet spoon into the bag of sugar.
After a couple of sips I look across at the phone, sitting menacingly on the kitchen
table. I hate that thing. It's like an evil envoy from the outside world. If it
didn't exist I could just close the door and keep everyone out. I notice that the
light is flashing on the answer machine. I wander over, just too out of it to be
bothered with any of this and press 'play'. The first message is from Sami.