Sugar Mummy (8 page)

Sure enough, the car is waiting. The driver says nothing, just
opens the door and lets me in. I ask if we can go to Fulham please. He nods and
sets off. As we move slowly along the King's Road I slide down in the seat so that
people can't see that I'm still wearing my dinner suit.

By the time we get as a far as Fulham Broadway it's already past
nine. I ask the driver to hang on and take me to work. 'Er, come in for a cup of
tea or something while you wait.' He looks as if this is the stupidest thing he's
ever heard and then says, 'Thank you, sir, but I'd better look after the car.'

'OK, I'll be five minutes.'

I belt into the house, have a quick and dangerous shave, throw
on the only ironed work shirt I can find and then run out of the door still tying
my tie. We set off again and I reach for the mobile phone. I'm just about to ask
the driver for permission to use it and then I realise that it's Marion's phone,
not his, and she won't mind. He takes no notice as I grab the handset and dial Sami's
direct line.

'Good morning. Classified. Samira speaking.'

'Hi, it's me.'

Her tone changes, 'Andrew! For goodness' sake, where are you?'

'I'm on my way, I got a bit held up'.

'You're hopeless. Debbie's already asked where you are.'

'Oh, shit.'

'When will you be in?'

'About twenty minutes. Listen, will you do me a favour? Just
grab some papers, photocopy them and meet me in reception in fifteen minutes.'

'Oh, OK.'

'You're a star.'

'And you're a retrograde.'

I laugh. 'Sami, where do you get them from? See you in a minute.'

Of course it takes longer than I had hoped and it's nearly ten
by the time I get to the office. Sure enough, Sami is waiting, lurking behind a
potted plant, in reception.

'Ooooh, blimey, all right for some,' says Ted from behind his
desk. 'I was saying to young Sami, here, all right for some. Wasn't I, Sami? Their
very own welcoming committee.' I smile at Ted. Oh, not now, you mad old wanker.

'Here you go,' says Sami, thrusting a pile of papers at me.

'You go first, I said I had to go to Accounts about something.'

'Brilliant. Thanks, Sami.' The idea, of course, is that I walk
upstairs and pretend that I've actually been in the building since before nine photocopying
down in the basement and delivering things around other departments. Debbie has
missed me, that's all. See?

'Tell her the copier kept getting stuck, that's why you were
so long.'

'Good thinking.'

Sami presses the lift button. 'Why are you so late? And whose
car was that? Of course! Last night!'

'Oh, don't ask.'

There is a ping and the lift doors open. We throw ourselves in
- just as someone else is coming out. I get an eyeful of expensive pinstripe suit
and the impact sends my papers flying into the air. Under the snowfall of A4 I see
that I have hit Ken Wheatley, the dreary yet remarkably smug director of finance.

'Oh, Christ, sorry,' I gasp. He regains his balance and looks
at the papers floating down around us.

'Someone's in a hurry,' he mutters with the quick wit you'd expect
of senior paperpusher.

'Bit of a rush on upstairs,' says Sami quietly.

'I see,' says Wheatley. He picks up a couple of pieces while
I get the rest.

'There you are,' he says, handing them to Sami very slowly and
looking her in the eye. She says nothing but lets him past and then gets in the
lift. I follow.

I spend most of the day drifting off, thinking about Marion,
our night together, our very enjoyable sex, her house, her champagne, her car. I
find myself visualizing the way she pouts, her soft lips, the way she opens her
eyes wide when she is surprised or amused by something I've said. I smile to myself
as I think about her strange questions, her interest in my ordinary life. I'm probably
as alien to her as she is to me. Am I falling for her? I've almost forgotten what's
that like.

But, shuffling my papers around my desk, as I'm paid to do, I
realise that perhaps I am.

Chapter
Six

Harvey Nicholls shimmers in the heat like a mirage over the Knightsbridge
traffic as thousands of horsepower throb and fume impotently. I look across at
Marion, who is sitting next to me on the back seat. She is furious. I touch her
hand and she looks round quickly. I smile and her face softens slightly.

'Can you believe this fucking traffic?' she hisses.

'There's not much I can do, madam,' mutters the driver.

Marion says nothing. His neck looks very exposed, for a moment
I wonder if Marion is about to leap forward and rip a chunk out of it like a lion
at a gazelle. I'm sure she doesn't mean to take it out on us, it's probably just
her frustration at being kept from consuming.

'We could get out and walk,' I suggest and immediately realise
that this is not an option.

'Just what the fuck do these people think they're doing?' she
snaps. 'And look at all these fucking buses. They should keep buses out of town.'

After a couple of lurches and a little rolling forward up to
the bumper of the car in front, we get within a hundred yards or so and Marion decides
we can walk.

'Try and park as near as you can, like Reading or someplace and
I'll call you when I want you,' she tells the driver.

We get out and head for Sloane Street. Walking quickly past a
couple of shops, she suddenly looks in the window of one, mutters something and
ducks inside with me following closely behind. The arctic air-conditioning hits
me like a cold shower. A heavy, dark-haired woman in black moves forward and says
in a thick foreign accent, 'May I help you?' It sounds as if she is guarding her
territory rather than offering any assistance.

Without looking at her, Marion counters with, 'I don't know yet'
and begins to look at the only rack of clothes in the shop. I find a chair by the
front door under a blast of cold air and sit down.

Marion called me on Sunday night and asked if I wanted to go
shopping on Monday. She didn't specifically say she would be buying anything for
me, but why else would she invite me? I was actually quite nervous about this. The
last woman who took me shopping for clothes was my mum when I needed a new school
blazer. And that wasn't a very pleasant experience, needless to say. Will it be
easier with Marion? Or will I get bored and look like a berk hanging round rails
of women's clothes? Or like a shop window dummy as she holds things against me and
says, 'That's so you!'

Even more unnerving is the situation at the office. I've told
them that a water pipe had burst in the roof (they do have pipes in the roof, don't
they?) and that during the night I've been up and down stairs with buckets and the
plumber hadn't turned up so now I was waiting for another plumber but the place
was absolutely soaked and didn't know whether it would ever be the same again. I
tried to make it sound funny, you know, sort of farcical, with me at one o'clock
in the morning drenched and covered in plaster, but the little turd who picked up
the phone when I rang - new guy, I don't know his name - didn't laugh and just said,
'OK, I'll tell Debbie.'

When I got to Marion's she let me kiss her quickly on the lips
and then told me I was late. I began to apologize but the door bell rang again and
she just told me to sit down.

Anna Maria introduced a camp little bloke with a white Tshirt
and a Tintin quiff who turned out to be a flower consultant. ('Do you know what
this room says to me?' he hissed in a South London whine. 'It says classic opulence
combined with a lightness of touch.' Marion looked round her living room and said,
'Three hundred pounds max and nothing that leaves pollen stains on my clothes.')
Then she sent him away and gave Anna Maria a list of things to do while I waited
patiently in the corner of the room flicking through French Vogue.

We move on to Prada and then down a bit to Gucci. Marion sends
the women in Gucci scurrying to find some jacket she'd rung up about earlier in
the morning. Finally one of them is deputised to say very apologetically that they
can't find the jacket in question. Marion's eyes narrow and she gives the women
a long look.

'Well, when I speak to Miuccia next week I'll ask her about it,'
she says. The woman looks confused and even more terrified but Marion turns and
walks out with me following as fast as I can without looking too much like a lap
dog. I probably ought to practise this - even a man having clothes bought for him
by an older woman must have some dignity.

'Prada has really gone off,' she says, irritably.

I look back at the shop, just to make sure I'm right and then
say, 'That was Gucci.'

'Pardon me?' she says, making for the zebra crossing. 'I said
that was Gucci, not Prada.'

Marion turns and stares for a moment, then looks along to Prada.

'These cheap stores all look the same. Gucci, eh? Well, I'll
certainly give Tom Ford a piece of my mind when I see him next. Copying Prada like
that.'

We go into Armani and I linger over some rather nice navy blue
jackets. Marion seems not to notice so I try one on. It fits perfectly. I wonder
about the etiquette here: do I ask? Or just drop hints? £350. Bloody hell - I've
never bought any clothes in my life for that amount of money. I walk around a bit,
hoping Marion will see me. One of the assistants, a young Italian guy, comes over
to me.

'Hey, that looks really good on you,' he says.

'Thanks,' I say, wondering where Marion is. He watches me as
I walk around in it a bit more. 'What's it made of?' I'm really beginning to like
this thing. Will she buy it? Should I try and persuade her? How do I try and persuade
her?

'It's all cotton,' says the guy, checking the label of another
jacket on the rack to make sure. 'Why don't you try the trousers?'

Finally I see Marion at the other end of the shop checking out
some dresses. Would it be too presumptuous to put on the trousers too?

'OK,' I say. 'Marion, what do you think?'

She looks up distracted. 'You can't wear navy blue in the summer.'

'Can't I?' I mumble. What about later? The assistant looks at
her and then at me, obviously wondering for a moment what is going on here.

Marion looks at me again, more closely this time, but then she
says, 'We'll get you some summer suits. Take that off. Let's go. I'm getting a headache.'

The assistant helps me off with it, saying nothing. Yes, Iwould
have liked to earn you some commission too, mate, but the lady with the cash is
obviously not bothered - either that or I'm just not very good at this sort of thing.

We leave and Marion stomps off to another shop. There is one
rail of black clothes in the middle of the shop. The rest is white limestone. A
Japanese girl steps forward as Marion works her way down one end of the rack and
I mooch around by the front door, enjoying the air conditioning.

'Hi, can I help you?' says the assistant in a tiny voice.

Marion ignores her so she turns to me.

'Just looking, thanks,' I say smiling. She smiles back, a fixed,
bored smile. Suddenly I decide that I need some fresh air. I tell Marion that I
am just stepping outside.

'Oh, OK,' she says. 'But don't go far, I don't want to be here
too long.' I see the assistant exchange a glance with her colleague - offended or
relieved?

Despite the heat it feels good to get outside. Two Japanese girls
with Chanel bags walk past me, as if they were carrying Sainsbury's plastic carriers.
I walk down the street and then turn into Knightsbridge. People on the top decks
of the buses gaze down at me or point things out to their uncomprehending children.
I tell myself that this is better than work. It is ten to three on a Monday afternoon.
Normally the street is out of bounds to ordinary working people like me at this
time of day. What, I wonder, are all these people doing? Don't they have jobs to
go to?

As I look across to the Hyde Park Hotel I see a tall, darkhaired
guy in a leather jacket and jeans walk out of the front door and slowly down the
steps. He stops to light a cigarette and as he takes a drag, he looks up and sees
me. After a moment's recognition he smiles, waves and hops across the street, playing
matador with the cars. It's Mark from the Claridges do.

'Hey!' He shakes my hand firmly. 'How are you?'

'I'm OK. How are you?'

'Good. You have fun the other night?'

'Erm, not really.'

"Orrible, wasn't it? I really hate that place. Still, you
got her to Knightsbridge, then?'

I got her? He obviously doesn't know Marion. 'She wanted to do
some shopping.'

'For you?' he says, as much suggesting as asking.

I remember my clumsy attempt to interest Marion in an Armani
jacket for me. What must that assistant have thought? A kept man? Well, they probably
get them all the time but I'm just a rather crap example of the species.

'Yeah, yeah, we've just been to Armani,' I say casually.

'Very nice,' he says looking around for a bag.

I consider making up some story about the chauffeur taking it
or yelling 'oh my god, it's been miked', but then decide to come clean.

'She didn't like the jacket I tried.'

Mark laughs at my pathetic failure. I realise he would probably
have had half the shop if he wanted it.

'You've got to lead them to it subtly. Embarrass her into it.
She wants you to look good because it makes her look good, right? So you make sure
you look scruffy until she buys you something new and then wear it a few times and
then find something else old and scruffy so that she has to buy you something else
new. No problem.'

'If you say so.'

'Tried Harvey Nics?' I shake my head.

'Take her to the men's department downstairs. Clown around a
bit. Pick up some stuff. Ask her what she thinks, what she likes. You're here to
entertain her, don't forget.' I laugh but he says, 'No, really, you've got to lead
her by the nose but make her think she's in charge.'