Sugar Mummy (37 page)

'OK,' says Marion. 'I know this is a big decision for you, I
certainly don't much like the idea of you marrying another woman but it wouldn't
mean anything, of course, it's only for practical, legal reasons. It would be a
huge favour to me, honey, and I'd really appreciate it.'

What's she saying? If you really loved me, you'd marry another
woman?

Then she says, 'How about I triple that - £15,000?'

My head is swimming with these figures. With £15,000 I could
put down a deposit on a flat. Start a business, like we were talking about the other
day. Or just bank it.

'Think about it,' says Marion, sipping her wine. 'Don't decide
immediately.'

We finish the rest of lunch in an awkward silence. The risotto
has filled me up and I can't be bothered to eat my fish.

Marion pushes her salad round her plate and starts a story about
her friend Renata in New York who found her husband in bed with a seventeen-year-old
dog walker and shot him in the leg but got off became her lawyer convinced the jury
that she was on some diet pills that affected her judgment. We skip pudding and
coffee. Marion double kisses me again outside the restaurant.

'I thought we were going to the bank,' I say quietly, looking
down at the pavement. Marion rubs the side of my arm gently.

'That's up to you,' she says earnestly. 'Remember what I said.
Fifteen thousand pounds. Most boys would jump at the chance. Look, here's my lawyer's
number.' She takes a card out of her bag and stuffs it into the breast pocket of
my jacket. 'Call him and he'll explain all the legal stuff. It couldn't be simpler.
People do it all the time. See you tonight.'

She gets into her car and I begin to walk down the street towards
Piccadilly. I knew it was all too simple. Just let's slip into the bank together
and I'll give you a huge wad. Fifteen thousand pounds. I'll have to think about
it. Fifteen. Thousand. That's nearly a whole year's basic salary. And I'm also helping
poor, long-suffering Anna Maria. Suddenly it does sound tempting.

In the Tube station I pull out Marion's lawyer's card and go
to a phone to ring him but find myself dialling Sami's number. It rings for a while
and I decide to tease her about not picking up after the third ring as our performance
targets demand. But when someone does answer, it's not her.

'Sami?' the voice says. 'Er, hang on.' I hear the echoey squelch
of a hand going over the receiver and a conversation takes place which I can't make
out. 'She's not here at the moment. Can I help at all?'

'No, don't worry. Do you know when she'll be back?'

'Hang on.' Another muffled conversation and then the phone is
passed to someone else.

'Can I help you?' It's that former teacher. For a moment his
classroom voice freezes me in fear.

'Yeah, I just wanted to speak to Sami, but don't worry, I'll
call back later.'

'I'm not sure when she'll be back. Can I ask who's calling?'
What the fuck is going on?

'No, it doesn't matter.' I hang up.

I go back to Fulham and take my suit off and put on a pair of
shorts even though it is not very warm today. I pick up the phone to try Sami again
but then remember who I should be calling.

I dial Jonathan's number but I'm told to wait by a recorded message
while my call is being transferred then amid a noise that sounds like frying fish
Jonathan answers.

'Hi,' I say as brightly as possible, 'it's Andrew.'

'Hi, Andrew,' says Jonathan quickly. I wait for him to say something
about the other night. But in a rather disturbing Jekyll & Hyde way he is very
pleasant. 'What can I do for you?'

'It was about that cheque. It wasn't for as much as I thought
it was going to be.' I wait for him to say something but there is nothing. 'What
are all the deductions?'

'Administration and things. I have to take them out of your first
cheque, I'm afraid,' he says, unapologetically.

'But a hundred and forty quid's worth. What costs that much?'
I demand.

'Phone calls, office costs.'

'But ... well, could you give me a breakdown?' Funnily enough
the only breakdown I get is on the phone line as the frying fish reaches a crescendo
and the connection goes. Quelle surprise! as Marion would say.

So I make another call.

'Lipkin, Markby, Smythe. Good afternoon,' says a woman who obviously
didn't quite make it as a Radio 3 announcer. 'Can I speak to Mr Markby, please.'

'I'll put you through to his secretary.'

A woman with a warm, motherly voice answers. 'Mr Markby's office,
good afternoon.'

'Can I speak to him, please?'

'Who's calling?'

'My name's Andrew Collins, I'm a friend of Marion's, she suggested
I call him.' I realise I've said more than I need to. The secretary pauses for a
moment just to let it sink in to us both how pathetic and seedy this sounds.

'One moment, please.'

Mr Markby is every bit as terrifying as I had feared. 'Mr Collins?'

'Hello, Mr Markby. Er, Marion, erm, suggested I call you about
Anna Maria.'

'Anna Maria?'

 
'Her maid, you know, who
might have to leave the country.'

'Oh, yes,' he says sharply.

'Well, I was thinking of, you know, helping her and I just wondered
what it entailed.'

'Helping her?' Oh fuck off and give me a break.

'Yes, with her immigration problem.'

'Yes?' I'm tempted to put the phone down there and then.

'And, I, er, understood that if she were to marry a British person,
man, that is, she could stay in the country.'

Mr Markby takes a deep breath.

'I'm retained by your friend, Mr Collins, so when she asked me
about the law regarding this situation I naturally explained it to her.'

'Right.'

'I am sure she could explain it to you as well.'

'Oh, she has.' I decide to dive straight in, after all, it can't
get any worse. 'I was just wondering if I were to marry her, would the Home Office
let her stay in the country?'

'If she marries a British National she can apply to the Home
Office to have the residence restrictions lifted on her passport.'

'How long would I have to stay married to her?'

There is another pause, as Mr Markby, no doubt sitting at his
antique repro desk in his large, wood panelled office, silently blows a gasket.

'Mr Collins, my client asked me about this situation and she
now knows the law because I have explained it to her. What she, you and the other
woman you mention do about it is entirely your business.'

'Oh, yeah, but I just wondered-'

'I'm afraid, Mr Collins, since you're not a client I can't advise
you any further. Good afternoon.'

'But-' Pompous old fart. Fifteen thousand quid does sound more
attractive by the minute. Even he doesn't charge that per hour. I ring Mark's number
to see what he thinks. I get his answer phone and ask him to ring me.

I go back to Marion's that evening and she announces that we
are eating in. We have lobster and huge sweet juicy prawns ordered in from some
restaurant down the road.

Unfortunately Marion's friend Daria, Goddess of Doom, joins us.
She looks every bit as unhappy to see me as she was at Marion's dinner party. I
smile like a simpleton and this pisses her off even more. She spends that: whole
evening telling Marion she looks tired and talking to her about a friend of theirs
whose husband jumped into a pool on their honey moon and died of a heart attack.

'How awful,' says Marion, cracking open a lobster claw. 'I'd
have sued. Is she over it, yet?'

'Well, I saw her at a little drinks party last night and she
was making light of it but I don't know,' says Daria, shaking her head sadly. 'When
I looked into her eyes I could see deep, deep sadness. Her new fiancé says she cries
herself to sleep every night.'

I tut sadly but it must be too loud or something because Marion
and Daria suddenly look across at me. Behind them I see Anna Maria in fits of giggles.

The next morning after my coffee and croissants I set off to
Jonathan's flat in Fulham to talk to him face to face, although my fist is clenched
expectantly for most of the journey and by the time I arrive I'm ready to shake
him warmly - by the neck.

I ring the door bell and, just as I could have predicted, there
is no answer. His flat is on the ground floor so I peer into the window through
the net curtains to see if he is lurking around somewhere at the back of the room
but then I notice that there is no furniture in the flat. Where the hell is he?
No wonder his phone was diverted to a mobile again.

He'll never tell me where he is now if I ring him and there isn't
even a For Sale sign so I stare up at the house for a moment thinking about what
to do next.

I go to the house next door which is so scruffy it must be owned
by some old dear who will be at home at this time of day. Luckily she is. I see
a figure moving about behind the rippled glass panel in the front door. A cat pushes
between her legs, peers up at me and then walks back along the hallway.

'Hello?' comes a voice, itching for a fight.

'Hello,' I say, bending down to address the letter box properly.
'I wonder if you can help me. I'm looking for Jonathan - your neighbour.'

'Who?'

'Jonathan. The young man who used to live next door to you.'

'He's moved,' says the voice.

'I know,' I say, moving closer to the letter box so that I'm
almost sticking my tongue into it. I look in and see a grey puckered mouth with
coarse white hairs sprouting from above it. There is a sour, meaty smell of cat
food; I stand back a bit. 'I wondered if you knew where he'd moved to.'

'Up and left. Never said a word but they don't these days, do
they? Removal van came last week. Parked outside. Blocked the light out of my living
room. I went and complained. They told me to go to the office in the high street
but I'm not going there with my leg.'

'I don't blame you,' I say, standing up. 'Thanks, anyway.'

I set off back to the high street to find the Tube. I pop into
a shop to buy a paper and as I walk out again I see a sign on the building opposite
for a removal company. It's a thought. I go in and luckily there is a bored, teenage
girl at reception. 'Can I help you?' she says folding up a copy of the Sun. I switch
into full-on charm mode - the kind of thing that got me the job at the newspaper
and could have got me some way up the 'space' ladder if I hadn't realised quite
early on that it was all a load of crap and skilfully fucked it up. I start fiddling
with my ear lobe like a cross between Hugh Grant and Prince Charles and make a joke
which makes her laugh. I explain that I'm desperate to get hold of an old school
chum who was living nearby but he moved recently, did they have his new address
by any chance? She asks for Jonathan's surname and then takes out a file. She runs
her finger down a

page and then says: 'I'm not really sure whether we're allowed
to give out this sort of thing.'

'Oh, dear, what a shame. I really did want to get in touch.'

There is a pause and then the girl says, 'Hang on, I'll just
check with the boss.' She looks round to find him but I've already read Jonathan's
new address upside down.

He's moved to Cambridge Street in Pimlico, the little shit. So
much for Fulham being too expensive. I take a Tube along there and find that he
is now in a flat in a white stucco building. I ring the bell. Jonathan is not there,
of course. Or pretending not to be. I stand back and try and work out which windows
are for his flat or office. What the hell am I going to do now?

I hadn't really planned for this so I sit down on the step and
begin to wait.

It feels like I've been waiting for two hours at least, pondering
on my predicament, but when I look at my watch it's actually been about twenty minutes.
The smell from the bins and the drains below me is getting too much.

I walk slowly upstairs. A woman in a severe business suit is
arriving at the front door upstairs. She gives me a filthy look but I ask her anyway
whether she has seen Jonathan. She looks down at me but just ignores me. The intercom
clicks and she says, 'Hello, it's Charlotte.' The door buzzes open and walks in.

'Thanks a bunch for all your help,' I shout to the closing door.
An old man walking past in a homburg stares at me.

I get back to Marion's and decide to make myself a cup of tea.
Anna Maria is clearly not happy about this. Either Marion's told her that I won't
marry her or she just doesn't like having her kitchen invaded. Then I find that
there isn't any tea. Not proper tea, anyway, just herbal stuff and something with
a prescription label with a New York address 0:1 it.

'What the hell's this?' I ask Anna Maria. Not that I'm interested,
I just want to make the point that what kind of a house is this without any tea
in it?

'For madam's eyes,' says Anna Maria, pointing to her own just
in case I've forgotten what they're called in English.

'Her eyes? How can she have tea for her eyes?'

'Yes, bery important doctor in New York give it to madam.'

I sniff the greeny brown leaves. They smell like a hamster's
cage.

'Phwoar! Anna Maria, how can we not have any tea?' I demand.
'I just want a bloody cup of tea.' Just then the kitchen door opens and Marion comes
in.

'And what on earth is going on in here?' she says, taking off
her gloves.

'I just wanted a cup of tea,' I say sulkily and turn my back
on her and pretend to close up the foil bag of her disgusting infusion.

'Andrew, can I have a word with you?' says Marion, putting her
handbag down. We go into the living room.

'How dare you talk to my maid like that?' she asks calmly. 'Oh,
Christ. I'm really sorry, I wasn't shouting at her, I just wanted a cup of tea and
there was no tea in the house and I lost my temper because I've had a hell of an
afternoon-' I suddenly realise where this is going, so I change tack. 'I'm really
sorry, Marion. I'll go out and buy some tea from the shop. Is there anything you
want?' I put my arms around her and kiss her on the mouth. I feel her relax slightly.