‘Good night. I love you,’ I whisper.
‘I love you,’ she slurs.
‘Have a good time, Noni.’ The bass player smiles at me. And I shake my head with an exaggerated nervous face, all teeth, flexing the muscles in my neck with a throaty ‘holy shit’ sound.
‘You treat my friend good, you hear me, dude? YOU. TREAT. HER. WELL!’ Naz yells over my shoulder and I look at Jeremy standing by the door with his jacket on, his trumpet in its case in one hand, and a smile on his face.
I discover two things during my evening with the fetching young American trumpet player:
1. I am too old to be having sex with someone who thinks having a mattress on the floor is an acceptable sleeping arrangement. I am, in fact, too old to sleep on a mattress on the floor. I am at the age where lumbar support and ensemble bases are actually not just a nice suggestion but a necessity.
2. When you do the maths on the amount of time that brass players spend exercising their mouth muscles, you will be astounded. My clitoris is astounded. Quiet and shy Jeremy had tricks with his tongue, and fingers, that I was unprepared for. I thought I’d have to take charge, but I didn’t. The second the door closed to his tiny bedroom it was on. Or he was on me. Hands and lips and his tongue all over my body. He went down on me straight away and I assumed I’d let the polite amount of time pass before kicking things up a notch, but once he was down there, his tongue moving and pressing and doing things I couldn’t actually comprehend, I let him stay there because it was so good. I didn’t want him to stop. If I’d had a computer and a printer I would’ve made him a certificate because he fucking deserved it.
Welcome back to London, Noni.
14
After the eventful welcome-back-to-London shag and hangover, I hibernate and settle into a life that looks nothing like my normal. I read a whole book in a sitting. I lay about my tiny, rented studio flat in flannelette pyjamas, eating marmalade on thick, buttery white toast and reading. I don’t talk to anyone, or go anywhere, unless it’s from the couch to my bed, to the kitchen or the bathroom. There’s a large floor-to-ceiling window next to the bed that I happily look out at the dreary London winter, feeling giddy whenever a black cab or double-decker bus goes past. I wear replenishing face masks, paint my nails and binge watch shit TV for hours at a time. It all feels so indulgent. After a couple of days I venture out and buy a new winter coat and scarf because I’m finally ready to think about beginning my life here. On the way home I crave pasta in the way that only cold weather and a deep sense of self-satisfaction can inspire. I decide to wander and see what I can find, exploring side alleys and happily getting lost. When I see the large blue neon sign in scrawling Italian, I don’t even look at the menu on the wall outside, I just walk in. Inside there are white walls, dark-wood furniture, a shining polished concrete floor and an open kitchen where staff members shout to each other with perfect musical accents that make my ears happy.
‘Do you have a reservation?’ the moustached maître d’ asks.
‘Nope. Just for one, please,’ I say, looking around. Shit. This place is fancy.
The waitstaff all have straight backs, and there are far too many men in tweed perched at tables alongside their perfectly coiffed wives, who all have giant diamonds on their fingers. The soundtrack is loud, slow, smooth jazz, all piano and snare drum. I’m shown to a seat by a handsome waiter who pulls out my chair and places a napkin on my lap in one swift movement.
‘Still or sparkling water?’ he purrs.
‘Sparkling,’ I say with a smile, because this is modern day foraging at its finest, and I am going to spoil myself. I’m not going to look at my phone, I’m going to sit here and pretend that I’m a fancy, confident woman who is absolutely unruffled by solo meals in fancy restaurants. I am going to lean into this experience and toast this whole wild ride.
I pore over the menu like there’ll be a test later and I order the things that make my mouth water. Starting with something called a mojito spritz, which I drink slowly, as a personal declaration to savour every part of this meal, and every part of this trip.
Except when the handsome waiter asks, ‘Do you want shaved black truffle on top of that?’
I laugh and shake my head. ‘What? No.’ I’m all for spoiling myself, but a lady has got to draw a line.
After I devour a delicious entree I decide I can read my book for distraction, because I feel like I’m too deeply invested in the stories of the other customers around me. I’ve built whole narratives for each of the tables. A first date. They met online. He used old photos and now she’s not as interested. He’s trying to be as impressive as he can, and he’s a nice guy, but she’s spending the whole meal looking forward to leaving and hate-fucking her ex.
Next to them is a buttoned-up young couple who I’m convinced have been together for a long time, because every glance just looks like a plea for a proposal. She fears that everyone in their lives has stopped wondering when it will happen, and they’re now curious about whether it will happen at all. She’s planned their whole wedding via a secret Pinterest board and as each of her friends’ weddings come and go her desperation climbs. She wants to be married, damn it. But will she ever say anything? Hell no. She’s not one of those women. I laugh loudly at this thought and she glances at me, so I smile. She does not smile back.
Next to them are an elderly white-haired couple who I’ve decided have been married for sixty years and who sustain their relationship by reading the newspaper to each other and start drinking each night at 5 p.m. They look happy. And that makes me equal measures of happy and lonely at once.
I order a dessert with lavender in it, drink my third mojito spritz and finish my second book for the week. When I finally look up, the restaurant has almost entirely cleared out around me and I haven’t even noticed. I breathe in deep, the kind of breath that expands with possibility. Because that’s what all of this is—the last few days, this meal, this trip—it’s about what is possible. And right now, what’s possible is absolutely anything.
Except seeing Molly. After I pay, I look at my phone and there’s a message from her. So sorry to do this but something has come up. I can’t come to London this weekend after all. Soon, though.
I’m gutted. I was so looking forward to seeing her, to see if anything would happen, to see if she still liked me, and if I still liked her. The anticipation is a lot. I want to reply straight away, I want to tell her I’m disappointed, that I want to see her, to ask her where she’ll be and tell her that I’ll come to her. But I don’t. I don’t want her to know any of this.
Instead I message Naz. I’ll come with you on Saturday, if the offer still stands.
She replies straight away. Fucking Molly.
And then again. You’ll need a frock.
And then again. Yes, babes!
‘You look fucking delicious.’ Naz is smiling as wide as her face can stand and I do a spin.
I’ve bought a dress that made me think If I was ballsier I’d totally wear this when I tried it on, as a kind of forced exposure therapy. It’s an off-the-shoulder structured number, with a flamenco vibe but with more boning, in black. The night before, when I’d hung it up on the back of the door, my faked nonchalance mocked me and I felt stupid for thinking I could pull it off. But I’d persisted, and when I’d sent Molly a photo of me in the dress she’d replied with a photo of a fire. Which made me blush.
Naz was running me through everything I might need to know about the function we were off to. Her company had booked two tables at a fancy fundraiser in order to schmooze some of their bigger clients.
‘The stakes are not that high, but if we’re charming it’ll make my job easier in the coming months, you know? So just don’t call anyone a cunt or talk about Brexit and we’ll all be grand.’
‘Got it,’ I said. Look good. Be charming and inoffensive. Make Naz look good. This last point felt a bit moot, since Naz has enough charm for the whole fucking universe.
‘Let’s g
et sloshed,’ she says as we walk through double doors into a dimly lit ballroom. Instantly I know these are not my people, all branded suits and cascading jewels, botoxed foreheads and professional blowouts. Naz introduces me to the people at our two tables with a running commentary whispered in my ear. They’re mostly all old, white men with varying degrees of hair on their heads.
She points at the first guy. ‘Big money, like personal-butler big. Martin, hi!’ she says, squeezing him in a hug. The next is a man with black hair plugs. ‘The bill for his secret non-disclosure-agreed children would be more money then you will earn in your entire fucking lifetime.’ She pats him on the back as he stays seated. ‘Rick, great to see you, this is my friend, Noni.’ He kisses my hand. ‘Wash that immediately,’ she whispers to me as we get to the next couple, a broad-set woman with an eighties Diana haircut and a royal-blue pantsuit with huge shoulder pads, and a slight man with a thin Walt Disney moustache. ‘Rachel, Jerry, good to see you. This is Noni.’ We say hello and Naz keeps her hand on my waist, ushering me forward. ‘I’m sure she’s a big lesbian. Husband is dull as fuck.’ I smile as Naz waves at the other table and quickly gives me the rundown on each person sitting at it. ‘He is sure he knows Banksy. Rumour is that they went to emergency in the same ambulance after they stabbed each other during an argument. His fourth wife is nineteen.’ I wave and smile politely. ‘His kid is on one of those reality shows about wealthy fuckwits. And their house was on Grand Designs.’
My eyes pop wide and I stare at Naz. ‘Which means they’ve met Kevin McCloud?’
Naz laughs. ‘I do not understand your wide-on for Kevin McCloud.’ She looks at the woman, ‘Sheila, Noni here wants to fuck Kevin McCloud, so don’t ruin him for her, okay?’
Sheila laughs. ‘Oh, really Noni? Well, he’s very lovely.’
‘I think I’d be devastated if he wasn’t,’ I tell her, and the rest of the table pipes in with anecdotes about celebrities they’ve met who are lovely, or more interestingly are complete fuckwits, which is how Naz describes one of the D-grade pop singers from the early 2000s who she met in an elevator and who told her to give him a blow job.
‘I did.’ Naz shakes her head, disgusted. ‘But I mean, don’t be a dick about it, you know?’
I follow Naz over to a couple who are sitting next to two empty chairs, which by the look of it are ours. ‘She’s the only one I genuinely like here. She runs a huge non-profit and her wife is some famous art curator. How chic are they? Bonnie, Roberta, babes! Good to see you. This is Noni—she’s my lush, Aussie friend here on a quest to pleasure herself through Europe.’
I whack her and smile. ‘It’s not like that at all,’ I say.
Bonnie or Roberta, I don’t know which one is which, smiles. ‘I wish it were true. Sounds divine.’ Her sharp, black bob swishes as she talks.
The wine is free and good, and young waiters keep pouring it. I don’t know how many glasses I’ve had because technically I’ve only had one, as it has never been empty. We get through our entrees without a hitch and by the end of the main course Naz and I are a wise-cracking comedy duo, landing jokes and witty repartee with the ease that comes with eighteen years of friendship. Naz is regaling the table with an anecdote about the time we accidentally stole someone’s houseboat, when a short, fashionably stubbly guy with a nice suit and a sweet smile approaches our table. We make eye contact and he smiles, saying ‘Hello’ just as he trips over his own feet.
There is a tightening in the air around us, and I’m sure someone gasps. He instantly looks down at his feet and then back up. ‘Nice entrance that was, yeah?’ He is rattled and it makes me laugh too loudly. We make eye contact, he blushes, and I try to turn my smile to consolation. ‘I’m Billy,’ he says.
‘Hello! Billy!’ Naz bellows loudly.
‘I’m a magician and I’m here—’ He stops abruptly. ‘Sorry, I’m still stuck on the entrance.’ Everyone laughs politely and Billy blushes again. I think he’s cute. ‘Right, you guys up for some magic?’
‘I am so ready for some magicianing!’ Naz exclaims.
‘Yes!’ I cry. ‘Magish us immediately.’
Billy looks at me, laughing slightly. ‘I’ve not heard that before. Magished. Good. I might get it on a t-shirt.’
‘Trademark that immediately then, Noni,’ one of the old white men says, chortling.
‘Shall I do some?’ the magician offers.
Everyone agrees gleefully, boozily, and so he pulls out a pen from his pocket and a deck of cards. He makes Naz choose a card and draw something on it, without showing him. Naz draws a dick and I laugh loudly. With some sleight of hand, and good gags, he impresses us by moments later pulling the right card from the deck.
He glances at the card. ‘The dick of clubs. Great.’
I giggle.
He does some more magicianing, cards get put away, someone else at the table is holding them, there’s a whole spiel. ‘So what I need you to do now is put your hand in my pocket,’ he says to me. ‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ I flutter.
He’s now hit a charming rhythm and has shaken off his entrance, he’s very comfortable, he’s very good. ‘It’s not a trick pocket. Check.’ I put my hand in. ‘Feel around. Check that there are no secret zips or holes.’ I do and I shake my head, it’s empty apart from a playing card. ‘Can you feel anything?’
‘There’s a card,’ I say.
‘Just the one?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay, pull it out,’ he says. Naz and I snort and Billy blushes again. ‘I’ve been oblivious to the innuendo in this act for years now, but this table has completely undone me.’ We all laugh.
I pull out the card from his pocket and squeal. ‘It’s your dick, Naz.’ I’m a mouth-agape giddy girl. I don’t care that there is a logical explanation for all of this trickery, or that I’ve fallen for sleight of hand and distraction and speed. I want to believe that he made this card fly from that pack in the old man’s hands across the table into his pocket and then into my hand. I want to believe so badly that this man is magic that I find myself purposely placing myself in his eyeline for the rest of the night. Making sustained eye contact. Thinking powerful, sexy thoughts so that I’m radiating ‘come and fuck me’ energy in his direction. It works. He brings me a glass of champagne and tells me his shift is over, and I ask him if he has any other tricks he’d like to show me. He nods.
An hour later I find myself in my hotel room and my vagina is being magished…badly. In bed, the magician is a one-trick pony. One position. One speed. One move. There is no sleight of hand at all, his hands just kind of paw at my body clumsily. If I’m honest I probably don’t even need to be there, he could’ve just shagged a damp pillow and it would’ve been exactly the same. I pull a weird face, accompanied by a strange sound, when he gets naked—still visually perplexed by real-life penises and all—but I cover it up by pretending to moan, turned on. I am not. Not really. The whole thing is quick and disappointing and I watch the ceiling as he hammers in and out of me, willing him to finish. Bored. I refuse to fake it out of feminist principle, of course. And then I feel mature and grown-up, because twenty-something Noni would’ve absolutely faked it for him and his ego.
‘How was that?’ he asks, throwing the condom onto the floor next to the bed, which feels gross.
‘You’re a very good magician,’ I say, drunkenly.
I wake up to an empty bed and my phone ringing next to me. I am so hungover. I feel instantly nauseous at the tinging sound, at the light, at the weight of my own limbs, sweaty on the bed. I look at the clock. 9.55 a.m. Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I’ve got five minutes till check-out. I launch myself around the room, gathering all my belongings into my bag. There is no time to shower. I wee, clean my teeth, get dressed and get in the lift in four minutes. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirrored glass of the elevator and audibly whimper. I look like a crumpled version of myself. Like a rough draft. Like the bit of paper you scrunch up and throw in the bin because you can
do better. I rummage around my bag for a packet of wet wipes to try to get some of last night’s mascara off my cheeks. Finally, I grab my phone to check who had been calling, knowing it will be a punctual Naz wondering where the fuck I am. But it wasn’t Naz, it was Molly. There’s a voicemail message. I hit play immediately.
‘Hi darlin. So, I’m shit, I know, work is mental right now, so, as it turns out, I’m around for one night only tomorrow if you haven’t made plans, and you don’t hate me. I’d love to see you.’
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
Tomorrow? Tomorrow is only one sleep away. Yes, I want to see her, of course. But I’m still pissed off at her for cancelling. And tomorrow is so soon.
Naz is across the lobby staring at me as I exit the lift. ‘Did he make his dick disappear?’ she says, smiling happily. She does not look like a rough draft, she looks like the good copy. The final copy. The polished copy made by a fucking world-renowned artist.
‘Morning,’ I mutter, stealing the water bottle from her hand and glugging it violently.
‘Pull an orgasm out of your hat?’
‘How many more do you have?’ I grumble.
‘Cum you in half?’
‘What?’ I ask, hunting for my sunglasses in my bag.
‘A riff on cut you in half. Admittedly not my best work,’ she says. ‘That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.’ She looks me up and down. ‘You look how I feel,’ she chuckles, putting her large, gold sunglasses on.
‘He disappeared.’
‘What?’
‘No sign of him this morning or the hundred quid I had in my clutch.’
‘Shut up! That scumbug. Was he at least any good?’
‘A one. At best.’
‘Oh, babes. So disappointing. Come on, I’ll buy you breakfast.’
We sit in a proper workman’s café and order full-English fry ups and eat for a solid ten minutes before we say another word to each other. All I’m thinking about is Molly. And hash browns. But Molly mostly.
It's Been a Pleasure, Noni Blake Page 9
