Sugar Mummy (27 page)

Neither can I do the Marion thing properly. How come Mark can
'get that ice' and I just get - what do I get, apart from into trouble at work?
I decide to tell her that I just can't carry on our life together and put in so
many hours at this awful sweatshop. Perhaps she'll feel guilty and tell me just
to quit that ridiculous, demeaning job and give me enough money to be able to step
off the treadmill for a few weeks or months and decide what I do want to do with
my life. I've never had a gap year and unlike the girls upstairs, those junior fashion
assistants who go to the South of France for the weekend, I've never had the opportunity
to do anything without paying for it with my own hard-earned money or £50 at Christmas
from my parents. I just want some money so that I've got a bit of freedom to come
up for air for five minutes.

Why can't Marion just go the whole hog, be done with it and just
set up a comfortable trust fund for me? It would be nothing to her.

Of course, when I ring her, she is completely unsympathetic.
She just suggests I get another job.

'Better still,' she says, crunching pretzels. 'Start your own
business. Why be a wage slave? You'll never get rich working for some corporation.
My father didn't and neither did either of my husbands.'

'That's a possibility,' I say. It is, actually.

'That's the problem with you Brits, you have no get up and go,'
she adds. 'Someone pointed it out to me on Concorde last month - you go to the best
schools, the best colleges and then you all go and work for some big corporation,
like rats on a wheel. It's crazy. Start your own business - that's the only way
to do it, Andrew.'

'I've got a degree in Business Studies. For God's sake, I should
be able to do something with it, shouldn't I?' I'm quite warming to this idea. I
hope she is too. But it's never quite that simple. 'I just need the capital.'

'Sell things,' she says absentmindedly. 'Sell things to rich
people. Antiques, cars ... what else? Horses. Rich people love horses. You should
meet my friend Carla who lives in Argentina. She has a stack of horses. And those
other things...er, cattle. Loves them.' She is distracted for a moment and then
continues. 'Sell things. Sell things to rich people, they'll always be buying whatever
the economy does,' she adds with a flourish.

I sometimes wonder whether Marion lives in the real world. Then
I realise she doesn't - which is the whole point of her.

'Thanks, very helpful,' I say but my sarcasm is wasted on her
as usual.

'It's the only way to develop yourself professionally.'

 
I decide to go for broke
- after all I've got nothing to lose. 'Marion,' I say, trying the little-boy thing.
'I've just got no money.'

'I know, you mentioned it before. We'll sort something out. Do
you know where I can get one of those plug things?'

'What?'

'You know by the bed I've got a lamp and a radio and an ionizer
and now I've got this humidifier. I want one of those things to plug them all in
together.'

'You mean an adaptor,' I say miserably.

'What's it called?'

'An adapter.'

'Yeah, that's right - an adapter. Where can I buy one from?'

'Oh, I don't know - Peter Jones across the way from you.'

'In Sloane Square?'

'Yeah, they'll have one.'

'OK.' I hear her throw some more pretzels into her mouth and
shout to Anna Maria. 'Peter Jones - that big store in Sloane Square has them, Andrew
says. Oh, and take these goddamn pretzels away from me before I eat the lot.' There
is a pause while she hands Anna Maria some stray pretzels and I decide for the umpteenth
time to jack it in with her and find another rich woman. I'm beginning to wonder
if anyone with money is as reluctant as Marion to actually give any of it out -
even to their lover. I pull the telephone cable out straight, distractedly, while
I ponder that must be worth one last try. I could spend my life on the phone talking
column inches and discount rates, if I'm not careful. Anyway, if Mark can do it
so successfully, why can't I? I just can't believe that every rich divorcee or widow
can be so fucking mean and plain exhausting to go out with as Marion. She is talking
again. 'Listen, honey, I'm going away this weekend to Venice to see an old, old
friend. Do you want to borrow the car while I'm away?' Do I?

'Gosh that would be great,' I say sweetly. (Gosh? When do I ever
say 'Gosh?')

'That's good. I don't want that asshole racing around London
in it while I'm away.'

'Sure.'

'You know he still lives with his mother? The back seat of my
car is the only place he can fuck in peace and quiet.'

'Bloody hell.'

'Makes me sick just thinking about it. OK, come by any time and
pick up the keys from Anna Maria. I'm going Friday. What do you want?'

'How do you mean?'

'From Venice. What do you want from Venice?'

'Oh, whatever.'

'Oh, you. I'll find you something nice.'

I have to stifle a contemptuous laugh.

Vinny arrives back with Male just as I put the phone down. 'Evenin'
all,' he says. I nod hello to Male.

'Where have you been?' I say absentmindedly, flicking around
between channels.

'Have you missed me, darling?' says Vinny.

'Been counting the seconds.'

'Jane's just on her way over,' he mutters, watching the telly.
'Christ! Hasn't this woman got a big mouth? Imagine snogging that! You could bloody
fall in.'

I sit up and find myself looking down at what I'm wearing. Navy-blue
polo shirt and faded 501s - neither of which seem to have anything spilt down them,
strangely enough. I check that my collar isn't turned in and then mutter, 'Oh, OK.'

'OK, is that all?' he says, surprised.

'Whatever,' I say coolly.

'Whateve-e-e-r,' drools Vinny. 'What does that mean?'

'I saw that discreet wardrobe check.'

'What are you talking about?'

'I'm talkin' about lurrve!' He gives me a sideways look through
narrowed eyes. 'I think you find Jane strangely ...'

'Oh, leave it out, will you?' I say, laughing with embarrassment.

'Male's a mate of hers,' he says, savouring this information.

'Oh, right,' I say quickly. 'So?'

'Just saying.'

'Knew her at college,' says Male, scratching his shaved head.
'Nice girl.'

'Yeah, she is,' I say. 'And did you go out with her? Did you
have sex with her? What was it like? Was it any good? Were you any good?' I ask.
Well, I don't, of course, but I'd like to.

Vinny hasn't given up.

'Is that the beginnings of a blush spreading across those chiselled
features?'

'Look, mate, your nose will be spreading across your features,
if you don't shut up,' I tell him.

'Oooh, be like that,' says Vinny. 'Just thought Male might be
able to fill you in.'

'I don't need filling in. Now piss off'.

 
'OK,' says Vinny, enjoying
my discomfort.

Just then the door buzzer goes. Suddenly Vinny screeches theatrically
and throws his hands into the air. 'Argh! Panic. She's here and I haven't a thing
to wear. Quick! Mouthwash! Cologne! Moisturiser.'

'Oh, blow it out your arse, will you.'

'Your hair's sticking out at the back,' he says seriously as
he gets up to let her in. Discreetly I spit on my hand and attempt to press down
the disobedient locks.

When they're not drinking lager out of smeary glasses, Vinny
and Jane's idea of an evening's entertainment consists of making pancakes, I discover.
Male has gone to meet some friends in the West End so Vinny and I sit at the table
and drink the cans Jane has bought while she gets to work with the pancakes: whisking
up batter, carefully checking the consistency and tutting at us about the state
of our frying pan. Just as I could have predicted, Jane is thorough and conscientious:
flipping each yellow and brown blistering disc while balancing herself with one
hand and then carefully sliding the finished product onto a plate which she keeps
warming in what we discover is the upper oven.

'We've got two ovens?' asks Vinny, intrigued.

'Didn't you know?' says Jane disapprovingly. 'It's for cooking
light meals or keeping plates warm.'

'Oooh, can't wait to drop that into conversation at the golf
club,' says Vinny.

Finally Jane has used all the batter and the pile of pancakes
is dripping with lemon juice and sugar. My mouth is literally watering as she puts
them on the table and hands out our knives and forks.

'Deeelicious,' I say as I carefully lift on off the top.

'What are you doing?' says Jane indignantly.

'Erm, taking a pancake.' I wonder if we're supposed to say grace
or whether I just appear horribly greedy which, of course, I am.

'We don't do it like that,' says Jane. 'We cut it like a cake.'

'You idiot,' hisses Vinny melodramatically. 'Sorry, he's just
got no savoir faire,' he says to Jane but she just mutters, 'It's much better this
way' and carefully serves me a syrupy, slithery portion.

We eat quickly.

'Lovely,' I say to Jane by way of apology.

'Thanks,' she says quickly, concentrating on her food.

After we've finished Vinny knocks back his beer and then burps
loudly.

'I see those deportment lessons are finally paying off,' I observe,
helping myself to more lemony syrup from the bottom of the plate.

'Daddy'll be delighted,' says Vinny in a cut crystal accent.

Jane is laughing, half-choking on her last mouthful. 'Ooops,
sorry,' she says, putting her hand over her mouth and regaining her usual composure.
'You're quite funny.' I look up at Vinny, who is smiling too and then realise that
Jane is talking to me.

'What? Me?'

'Yeah, that was rather witty,' she says, as if stating the obvious.
'You can be rather droll for a ... er ...'

'For a stuffed shirt?' I offer.

'I was going to say for a smug yuppie twat,' she says sweetly.
Now it's Vinny's turn to laugh.

'I'll hold her and you hit her,' he suggests.

Chapter
Fourteen

On Friday I nip round to Marion’s after work and drive the BMW
home with all the windows open and Oasis's Wonderwall blaring out through the warm
dirty air.

Saturday morning, after a sleepless night wondering whether it
has been nicked every five minutes, I show the car to Vinny because he is walking
out of the door for his copy of the Guardian and to have the fry-up at the greasy
spoon down the road that we often have together. He is not as impressed as I had
been hoping he'd be.

'Porkin' hell,' he says, peering at it from every angle. 'She
give you this?'

'I wish. She's just lent it to me for the weekend.' 'Mean old
trout. Still, you could always sell it.'

 
'That's true. You wanna
lift?'

'No, thanks. I think I can walk to the end of the road.'

'Go on,' I say, clicking the remote at the object of my affection.

'Frankly, I'd feel like a bit of a tit in that,' he says, kicking
one of the rear wheels.

'As opposed to feeling a tit everywhere else.' It comes out less
funny and more unkindly than I'd intended.

'Very witty, Damon Hill,' Vinny laughs sarcastically.

'Oh, go on, mate,' I say. I realise that I genuinely want Vinny's
company more than I want to show the car off to him. 'We can drive down to the cafe.'

'It's only down the road.'

'Yeah, I know, but it would be a laugh.'

'What you going to have? Double egg, chips, beans and valet parking?'

I smile. 'Might do.'

He thinks about it for a moment and says quietly, 'No, you're
all right' and sets off down the road whistling. I open the car door and he turns
round. 'Is this what you want?'

'Heh?'

'This. This big snazzy car.'

It's a funny thing to say and Vinny is now a good ten feet away
from me so it doesn't help that this odd, unexpected comment is coming to me long
distance.

'Er, yeah,' I say. 'Well, it's a bit of a laugh, isn't it?'

'Is it?' He thinks about it for a moment. Then he laughs and
shrugs his shoulders. 'What you doing?'

'How do you mean?' I say, by now completely phased.

Vinny starts to walk back towards me.

'I mean, what's going on, mate? Borrowing this ridiculous motor
- are you insured for it?' Am I? Christ, I never stopped to think. I suppose I am
otherwise Marion wouldn't have lent it to me. On the other hand Marion's consciousness
of little domestic details like motor insurance is probably pretty sketchy. 'Going
to posh restaurants with a bunch of old farts. Flying all over the world like a
member of a Fulham jet set.' Somehow Vinny makes it all sound like shit. My desperate,
unconvincing, wannabee high life. 'How old is this woman? Where did she get her
money from?' I'm about to say 'from her ex-husbands' as if to defend her and emphasize
the fact that, huh, actually, Vinny, she is very rich but then I realise that this
makes it all sound even worse. 'Just wondered. Cheers, mate.'

He carries on down the road. I think about joining him for a
moment but instead I decide to go to Sainsbury's so that I can stock up things I
can't carry home on the bus. Very sensible, except that I can't think of anything
to stock up on now that I'm eating with Marion all the time so I buy some boxes
of bottled beer, some crisps, a pound of grapes and six family packs of toilet rolls.
I wonder whether the girl at the checkout thinks I must have a really bad stomach
problem to need so much bog roll - if she ever notices what she's scanning.

Driving back I pass Vinny's greasy spoon. Fucking hell, Vinny.
Every Saturday morning you go that cafe, have the same breakfast, read the paper,
come back and then just lie on the settee and watch telly. The most you might stretch
to is the pub with your mates. Which makes me think about Jane. Which gives me an
idea.