Sugar Mummy (42 page)

'You no write it like that.'

'How do you mean?'

'Like this'. She reaches forward to the screen and covers up
half her name with her finger.

'Sorry?' Irritably, she snatches a pen from off the desk and
writes her name on one of the leaflets we've been given. 'Ana Maria' One 'n'.

'Of course, darling, I forgot.' Yeah, forgot how to spell my
fiancée’s name - as you do. 'Sorry, can you just delete that extra "n",'
I say. The clerk looks at me for a moment and then very slowly and meticulously
moves the cursor over one 'n' in Ana and presses the backspace button. He swivels
round in his chair prissily and picks up a huge diary.

'When would you like to book the ceremony itself? You can do
so any time from the day after tomorrow,' he asks, skimming over pages and avoiding
looking at us. My stomach twists further at the thought.

'Let's do it this week, shall we, darling?' I say, looking down
at the book, as if we just can't wait. Impassively, the clerk turns the page and
Ana Maria and I both stare at the week spread out before us in little lines and
boxes - ready for me to make the worst mistake of my life. I wait a while for the
clerk to suggest something but he just shrugs his shoulders dismissively and looks
up at me.

'Erm.' My heart is racing and I know I've got to get out of here.
'Friday. Shall we?' I don't wait for Ana Maria to reply. 'Yep, Friday, what's that?
10.30? OK, let's do it then.'

'Ah, my husband,' laughs Ana Maria hysterically as we leave.
I want to tell her never to call me that but instead I smile at her.

'Where are you going?' says Marion. 'Just out for a drink with
a friend.'

'Which friend?' she says from the bath. 'And don't get shaving
foam and stubble all over the sink, will you, it's not very nice for Ana Maria to
have to clean up. Your poor wife.'

 
I exchange a glance with
myself in the mirror, which Marion might or might not see. Then I carefully sluice
the sink and taps down with water. 'Which friend?'

'Just an old college friend.'

'This is new - what's his name?'

'Jack.'

'Jack who?' she says, soaping a shoulder.

'What does it matter? You don't know him.'

'So what am I going to do tonight on my own?'

'I thought you were going out tonight?' I lied. 'You've usually
got something planned.'

'Only to entertain you.' Eh? Never mind. Marion's World.

A bit like Wayne's World only slightly less anchored in reality.
Marion soaks and I shave in silence for a moment. Then I rinse my face and sit on
the side of the bath.

'Look, I won't be late.'

'It's not that, Andrew, it's just that I really hoped you would
take up with a slightly more prestigious set now that you're dating me. You should
raise your game a little, that's all.'

'Well, I could cancel.' She sighs painfully.

'No, don't worry. Luckily I've arranged to have dinner with my
Personal Shopper. She's going to do a Wardrobe Audit for me so that we can plan
for the Fall.'

'Oh, good,' I say. 'I mean, that's a good idea.'

Marion still manages to make me late by asking me to zip up her
dress, tell her which brooch goes best with it, which chain goes best with the brooch
and whether she should go darker for the winter. Her new organic colourist says
that everyone is doing it. Finally, just as I'm tearing out of the front door she
tells me that I must get some new shirts because mine are so last year but I don't
bother responding to that one.

Jane is looking slightly annoyed as I stride up to her. For one
awful moment I'm reminded of our first meeting outside Paperchase in Tottenham Court
Road.

'Christ, sorry I'm late,' I say kissing her on the cheek. 'You
look lovely.' And she does - navy blue and white summer dress, red cardigan. Her
hair is up and I can see her ears properly, the smallest, whitest, most perfect
ears I've ever seen.

'Thank you,' she says. 'I was a bit early.' Good on two counts:
a) she is taking the blame herself and b) she is keen.

'Where shall we go?'

'I don't know. This is your manor, isn't it?'

'Right. Well, there's an Italian place right down the other end
where you can sit outside.'

'Sounds lovely. It's not too expensive, though, is it?'

'This is on me.'

'Andrew, you're the one who's out of a job.'

'Yeah, but ...' Hang on, we don't want to go down this avenue,
do we? She is looking at me expectantly. 'Yeah, but I've still got my credit cards.
Come on, we can get that number 22'.

We run and just catch it. 'Upstairs,' says Jane. 'At the front.'

We go to a little Italian restaurant at the end of the King's
Road and the manager, a huge man with suspiciously black hair and radiant body odour,
makes a great play of finding us the last table in the garden. As we wait I realise
how good it feels to be like a normal couple - girlfriend and boyfriend, husband
and wife, rather than being surreptitiously scrutinised by other people as they
try and decide whether we're mother and son, aunt and nephew, boss and young exec,
or something more exotic.

Finally seated amidst great ceremony with napkins and jolly laminated
menus, we have oily, garlicky bruschetta and then pasta with tomato salad.

'It's like being on holiday,' says Jane, looking round. Then
she adds, 'Christ, that's just the sort of thing my mother would say.'

'Oh, oh. That's the first sign. You'll be dressing like her next.'

'I am. This is her dress.'

'Really? Shows how much I know about women's clothes.' Actually
I've learnt quite a lot recently, following Marion from shop to shop but I don't
want to think about that now. 'She's got great taste,' says Jane, stabbing a piece
of penne.

'Except in boyfriends.'

 
'Yeah?'

'Nothing outrageous like drug dealers or toy boys,' I catch my
breath but she continues unaware. I hope.

'But they never seem to work out and it's so obvious why to everyone
except her.'

'I think that's quite fun. My mum and dad are depressingly happily
married.'

'Oh mine only got divorced ... what was it? Five years ago? Up
to then everything was blissful. I remember thinking how boring it was when everybody
else's parents were splitting up and going off with other people. I used to make
up stories about them having rows and throwing pots and pans around the kitchen.
I told my friends they had a very tempestuous relationship - they hated each other
but were yoked together by some deep-seated passion like the couple in Private Lives
or something.'

'Bloody hell, that's a good one.'

'Mm, I might write it up as a film script.'

'In the last scene they make love and then she dies.'

'Why not? Horribly.'

'Eaten alive by their pet piranhas.'

'Accidentally shot by one of his collection of eighteenth
century muskets.'

'Strangled by her scarf as she sets off in her sports car.'

'Anyway, then what happened? To your parents, I mean,' I ask,
gesturing subtly but successfully (thank God!) to the waiter for another bottle.

'I came back from my first term at university and they said they
were getting a divorce. They'd only stayed together for me and my brother and now
we'd both left home they were going to go their separate ways.'

'That's awful.'

'I was more surprised than upset. Anyway they seemed quite happy
about it. We went out for a Chinese that night. Weird, like a celebration. They
don't live far away from each other now so it doesn't make that much difference.'
The waiter brings another bottle over and she watches him open it, smiling up at
him when he refills her glass. I realise how nice it is to be sitting opposite someone
who doesn't feel the need to treat the waiter like shit. 'My mum said she wanted
to spread her wings so she moved three streets away.' We laugh and Jane shakes her
head. 'She's hardly ever been away from Birkenhead in her life. She's went to Malta
three years ago and didn't like the food. She's only been to London twice and once
was to stay with me last Christmas. She just walked around open-mouthed and kept
talking about the price of everything and how many foreigners there were.'

'Just like my mum and dad,' I say. 'It's so embarrassing.'

'I thought you were from London,' says Jane, eyeing me suspiciously.
Why do I always feel I'm on trial with her?

'No, who told you that? Vinny again?'

'Oh, I thought you said.'

'Vinny said, didn't he?'

'No,' says Jane, opening her eyes wide. 'Anyway, he said you'd
been asking questions about me.'

'God, he's a gossip, that boy.'

'He's had a bit to gossip about.'

I'm not sure what she means by this so I plough on. 'No, I'm
from Reading. But if you come from Birkenhead, anywhere in the south counts as London,
I suppose.'

'Patronizing bastard,' says Jane gently.

'It's true. Reading's about as cool and metropolitan as-'

'Birkenhead?'

'Well ...'

Jane has mock hysterics and then leans back in her chair and
sighs contentedly. She looks around the restaurant while I look at her. Her smooth
pale cheeks are slightly flushed with wine. She turns back to me.

'What you looking at?' she says, smiling slightly.

'Not much,' I say, smiling too.

'London's mad, isn't it?' she says.

'Mad?'

'Yeah, just like so different from where I grew up. It's not
just those twenty million pound houses you read about in the Standard and seeing
famous people in the street - the kind of thing my mum loves to hear about, it's,
well ...' Her voice drops to a whisper. 'Look at those girls over there.' I take
a casual glance around the garden and pause to see two pretty average Sloanes sitting
behind us, talking about a wedding they've both been to. I look back at Jane and
shrug my shoulders. She leans over to me and I catch a whiff of her perfume again.

 
'If those two went into
the pub at the end of our road in Birkenhead people would think they'd come from
Mars,' she hisses. 'Those accents, the pearls, the Alice bands,' she looks over
my shoulder again to get a proper look, frowning with curiosity, 'the stripy shirts
with up-turned collars and I bet ...' She drops her napkin on the floor and then
leans down to pick it up very slowly. 'I knew it - Gucci loafers on one and navy
blue pumps on the other. If you've grown up in Birkenhead and you suddenly see them
they're like creatures from another planet. If they tried to order a drink I don't
think the landlord would even understand them.'

'Is that why you moved to London?'

'Sloane spotting?' She freezes for a moment and then grimaces
with embarrassment.

'What's the matter?' I mouth.

'Shit, how embarrassing,' whispers Jane, trying not to giggle.
'She turned round. Never mind. No, it's just what Scousers do - move to London.
It's Liverpool's biggest export, isn't it? Its population.'

'So you came to London to make some money?'

She looks at me for a moment. 'Er, no! Why do you assume everyone's
obsessed with money just because you are?'

'I'm not obsessed with it. I just want to-'

'Do anything you can to make a fast buck?'

'No, I'm just ...' Yes, I suppose I do, that's exactly it. Make
some money quickly while I'm young enough and free enough to enjoy it. What's wrong
with that? Why is it worse than making a slow buck? But then I'm suddenly back in
the Registry Office with Ana Maria. Poor Ana Maria, who just wants to stay in a
country where they'll let her clean toilets and scrub floors six days a week. I'm
just doing Marion a small favour and in return she's giving me a small amount of
her money so that I can get a bit of leg up.

Jane is looking at me, curious, expectant. 'Well I'm just fed
up with being poor,' I say, exasperated at the simple prosaic truth. 'With having
to save up for things, do without things, feel guilty if I buy something, eat out,
go on holiday. Work out if I've got enough to buy a new shirt. I'm fed up with watching
the pennies. I want to have enough money so I don't have to think about it.' OK,
fifteen grand won't do that but it's better than nothing.

 
'And that's the most important
thing to you?' asks Jane. 'It's not money itself, it's what it can buy.'

Jane laughs loudly. 'That old one. I don't believe you just said
that.'

'And perhaps like most clichés, it's true. I want the freedom
money brings you.'

'And a BMW and a house in the Cotswolds is freedom?'

'Not those particular things necessarily. But I want to just
be able to go out and get them if I want them.'

'A very materialistic type of freedom.'

'Not at all.' A potent mixture of passion and two bottles of
Frascati means that we're both talking loudly now but I don't care. 'I might just
buy a small house somewhere warm and sit under a tree all day.'

'Very ambitious.'

'Oh, right. A moment ago you were accusing me of being a shallow,
materialistic yuppie and now I'm a slob.'

'You certainly sounded like it, Mr BMW. Perhaps I was wrong,
though - perhaps you just aspire to being one of the idle rich. Much grander!'

'Fuck off.' She stares at me, surprised but not offended. 'It's
all right for you being a woman.' At this her jaw drops in horrified amusement.
'Oh, shut up. You don't have to work. You don't. Even these days, it's perfectly
acceptable for you to marry some bloke and let him pay for you.'

'Ha! While I lie on the settee watching Richard and Judy or having
coffee mornings.'

'If you want to.'

'Oh, thanks.'

'Or you could concentrate on bringing up the children, or go
to art classes or write a novel or do gardening or work for a charity-'

'While my husband provides for me?'

'Yeah, because at the end of the day he has to. Don't you see?
Even now, you've got the choice, I haven't. I'm going to have to sell space or do
something equally soul-destroying and brain-rotting in an office until I'm sixty-five
and then watch telly in the afternoon and follow my wife around Sainsbury's carrying
the shopping bag and telling her to hurry up.' I have to say it: 'Like my dad.'
This last comment takes the wind out of her sails.