Sugar Mummy

by Simon Brooke

  'I thought her father worked on Wall Street,' I say. Davina cackles, boy am I ever stupid! Anna Maria comes back again with the champagne. Davina swipes another glass. I smile at Anna Maria and help myself as well. She beams back, unaware that her mistress is being ripped apart and her guts left out for carrion on the sun-scorched hill tops of Manhattan society. On the other hand, if she did know, would she care?

  Davina is off again, half-finishing her glass in a single slurp. She ignores my contribution - obviously I am too dumb to bother with.

  'And do you know why she has no children?'

  Oh Christ! I hope this is not going to be too gynaecological. Women's things always make me feel slightly sick. I want Davina to stop but at the same time I desperately want to hear more. Thing is, I know that Marion will be able to tell with one quick glance at my innocent face that I know all.

  I look around the room quickly to check that she isn't looking. Nowhere to be seen. Probably upstairs adjusting something.

  'Well do you know?' Davina punches my arm. 'No,' I gasp, in some pain.

  It is the answer Davina is looking for. She raises her painted eyebrows slightly and looks shocked. 'She doesn't want the competition.'

  'Competition?'

  'Sure. She doesn't want to have to compete with anyone. What if she had a daughter and what if the daughter was pretty and popular? What if she outshone Marion? What then? Or worse still-' Davina stares even more fiercely- 'but what if she didn't? What if Marion had a kid that was plain and boring - you know, mousy hair, bottle-bottom glasses and braces like a railway siding. OK, she could have a little surgery. Oh sure, a little cutting and tweaking here and there, we've all had it but if you ain't got the raw materials in the first place, bone structure and all, no: even the best surgeon in the world can do anything and don't tell me he can.

  'No, she doesn't want the competition so she figures it's much better to use surrogates. Surrogate children. Like you. Choose them, parade them around like a poodle and then, if they fail to impress, or, if they impress too much you can always ditch 'em and get another. Oh, yes,' she says, shaking her head, 'Marion has had plenty of those.'

  Nice to hear.

  'Of course, I don't suppose you've heard about the husbands.' She doesn't wait for an answer. 'Now, I must confess, I did like the first. You couldn't help liking Edward. A bit dumb, a bit of a bore but basically a nice guy. What he did have going for him, though, was potential. You know? Potential. And that's what Marion liked about him, his potential. He was potentially very rich. His father had made a fortune as an oil broker, well, he was a broker in anything. He was the complete opposite of Edward - a devious little scheister. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, in business. But the problem was that he hated Marion. God, he hated her.' Davina takes another great slurp of champagne and, for some reason, hands me her empty glass. I look around for a passing tray and then put it down between us. There is a pause while Davina's intense stare draws over another waitress with more champagne.

  'Hated her, absolutely hated her.' 'Why?'

  'Why?' She takes another gulp. 'He thought she was stuck up and had airs and graces. But cheap all the same. Which is what she is. But what Edward's father really hated about her was that he thought she was a gold-digger. And she thought he was rude and vulgar and rough as a stevedore's ass, which he was. What really got him, though, was when Marion tried to ban him from the wedding. She figured she needed her father, who was not exactly smooth as a kid glove, to give her away but she sure as hell didn't need Edward's.'

  'This was the wedding at Saint Patrick's Cathedral?' I say, hoping this will earn me some credibility. Wrong. Davina looks at me in disbelief.

  'Saint Patrick's? Saint Patrick's Fifth Avenue? Not exactly, sugar. They couldn't exactly afford that. It could have been their local church, but Marion figured that didn't look none too good so she broke her family's heart and found a hotel. Sure, it was a pretty hotel but Fifth Avenue it was not. Anyway, however pretty the goddamn hotel is, if the atmosphere is ugly, the wedding is ugly.'

  'Ugly atmosphere?' I ask a little unnecessarily.

  'They needed Henry Kissinger to negotiate the table plan.'

  'How long did the marriage last?'

  'Oh, a couple of years and then she realised that he was going no place and didn't have a nickel to scratch his ass with and so she dumped him.'

  'I thought he, er, committed adultery,' I say, trying not to sound too suburban about it. I needn't have bothered.

  'He never got chance. She beat him to it. But one thing's for sure, if he had of, she'd have been juggling his balls.'

  'So who was Marion's second husband?' I mention her name in the hope that we have been talking at cross purposes and this is not Marion I have been hearing about. She takes a long breath. 'He had more going for him than Edward. At least, he did till Marion got hold of him. He was rich, goodlooking and had a sort of savoir-faire, know what I mean? Josef. He was Colombian. They gave the best parties.' She looks disparagingly around her. 'Their apartment in New York was so beautiful it had a swimming-pool in the dining room. Models, actors, fashion designers. Drinking, fucking, snorting coke off each other. God, it was beautiful.'

  'Beautiful,' I say, trying to imagine this little splosh 'n' nosh love nest.

  'And then they had the apartment on Ipanema Beach.'

  'Sounds lovely.'

  'Honey, it was,' says Davina, looking up at me longingly. 'It was beautiful. And she used it to very good effect. She met her third husband there.'

  'Third? I thought there were only two.'

  'There were four altogether. Plus a little snacking in between meals, you know what I'm saying.'

  'So who was the third?'

  'Henry somebody. He was an English lord. Looked a bit like you, sugar, only a bit older.'

  'What was he like?'

  'Boring, boring, boring. I think someone must have told him to go to Rio to loosen up a bit, you know? Learn to have a good time.'

  'Did he?'

  'Oh, sure, he learned to take off his tie on the beach. Rio is where Marion developed her taste for younger men. Unfortunately so did lordie.'

  'He left Marion for a younger man?'

  'Some beach bum.'

  'Oh, God. And then she married someone else?'

  'Yep. Lordie was boring and, fatally, not as rich as Marion first thought. He had this cold, draughty old pile miles from anywhere in the English countryside which didn't appeal. Ten bedrooms and only two bathrooms. Not only that, it seemed almost everything the family owned would go in tax when his father checked out. So then she met Carlos. He was probably the best of the lot: nasty, ruthless but great fun to be with. And he was the richest. Used to sleep with a Smith & Wesson under his pillow at night. What a guy!'

  'Sounds like quite a character.'

  'Oh, he was. They gave even better parties than when she was with Josef.' Her face hardens. 'The only bad thing was that she met that bitchy little fag Channing there and they've been together ever since. Marion says he's more faithful than a husband.'

  'I met him just now.'

  Davina is staring across the room at Channing, hatred screwing up her face as much as her surgery will allow.

  Intrigued, I ask, 'You've crossed swords in the past, then?'

  'Crossed swords'? I sound like my dad.

  'I'd like to cross his fat neck with a sword,' says Davina.

  Just then Marion appears.

  'Marion!' I gasp.

  'Are you guys having fun?' she says.

  Before I can think of something to say and say it innocently, Davina says, 'Beautiful party, Marion', and smiles warmly. I do the same except that I must look like a grinning idiot. Marion looks at us both for a moment and then touches my arm. I get up and she tells me there are some other people she wants me to meet.

  'See you later,' I say to Davina. She just smiles knowingly.

  'Was Davina boring you to death?' asks Marion.

  'Oh no,' I say cas
ually. 'Just chatting.'

  'She's getting on a bit. Sometimes I think she's losing it - too many heated rollers when she was young. I only invite her to things out of pity.'

  Just after one o'clock people start to leave and within a few minutes the room is empty. Some woman with heavy eye make-up comes up to me and says: 'Andrew, there you are. We never got a chance to talk all evening.'

  'No,' I say. 'We'll have to do it next time.' By which time I might have worked out who she is and thought of something to say to her. Everyone triple kisses Marion and thanks her so much you'd have thought she'd saved their lives.

  When we are alone together I put my arms round Marion and look into her eyes. 'Nice party,' I say softly.

  'Thanks. I throw better ones in New York but there's just no room in London.' She kisses me on the lips and runs her hand through my hair. 'Let's go to bed.'

  I look at her carefully for a moment, wondering if what Davina said was true. 'I'm just going for a quick walk to clear my head,' I say, already thinking about the hangover I'm going to have the next morning.

  'Oh, must you?'

  'Just quickly.'

  I wonder out into the mews trying to avoid any last guests in case they think I have been chucked by Marion. At the gateway I take a deep breath and stretch my arms above my head and bring one of them down on Louise, the Australian girl.

  'Oh, sorry, I didn't see you standing there,' I say, wondering what she is doing lurking around by the gatepost.

  'No problem,' she says. There is a pause. 'Hi.'

  'Hi,' I say, remembering what she is like at conversation. There is a pause. 'Could you see me home?'

  'Er, well ...'

  'Look, here's a cab.'

  Before I can say anything more she has rushed over the street and thrown herself at a taxi which stops just inches before it makes contact with her. She turns and yells across to me to come on. I run over as well and get in.

  'Where do you live?' I ask, trying to make it sound like a casual opening line of conversation rather than a panicked enquiry about where the hell we are going.

  'Kensington High Street,' she says and suddenly yells with laughter. 'It's not far.'

  Louise leads me along a silent, empty corridor of her block in West Kensington. The whole place has probably not changed much since the seventies – brown swirly carpets, groovy orange lightshades, some of them slightly melted. She is giggling and breathing heavily. Suddenly she throws herself against a front door and says, 'Home sweet home.'

  'OK,' I say, hopelessly. 'Well, good night then.'

  'No,' she squeals in protest, and lets us both in, flinging the door wide open and rushing over to switch on a small table lamp. The room is empty apart from a large scruffy sofa bed. Everything else is lying on the floor: the phone, some magazines, a CD player and CDs, clothes and a horribly ugly, terminally ill house plant.

  'Look, Louise, I must be getting back.'

  'One quick coffee,' she says, so I close the door behind us and walk round the flat while she goes into the tiny kitchenette. I look down on the headlights of the traffic moving slowly below us and open one of the creaky metalframed windows for a moment to get some air but the noise is deafening so I close it again. She asks what I want to drink. 'Whatever,' I say, moving over to the dividing unit. I can guess what is in her fridge: a few cans of beer and diet coke, a bottle of champagne and perhaps some cottage cheese (probably with smoked salmon or prawns), well past the sellby date. What's called a 'tart's fridge'. On the wall is a notice board with cards for a mini-cab service, a Pizza Hut discount leaflet and a flyer for a club I have never heard of, although Vinny probably has.

  Louise leaps up from the behind the counter with a bottle of champagne in one hand and two glasses in the other. 'Look what I found,' she says and collapses laughing on the floor.

  'I'd love to but I'd better not,' I say.

  She pouts. 'You've been drinking all night. Why stop now? Just one.'

  'Well-'

  'A nightcap.'

  'Oh, well, thank you,' I say. 'But just one glass'.

  'OK,' she says as the champagne cork shoots off and hits the polystyrene ceiling tiles. 'Wow! That's what I love about champagne.' I can't help laughing at her delight. I sit down on a squashy leather settee and say 'Nice place' for some stupid reason.

  'No, it's not,' she says. 'It's a shit hole but at least it's quite central and doesn't cost anything.'

  'Why's that?' I ask. Not very cool but I genuinely want to know. There is supposed to be no free lunch but somehow I begin to suspect that everyone else is queuing up with their trays ahead of me.

  'Oh,' she winks. 'An arrangement.' Then she howls with laughter again and falls over, almost doing the splits. I help her recover. Suddenly she is serious.

  'Ow! Oh, no, I think I've done something to my leg.'

  'Ah you all right?'

  She puts her arm round my shoulder and I lead her over to the settee and help her sit down, me beside her. She is squeezing her inner thigh and wincing slightly. She gets up and walks round, stretching it.

  'That's better.' Then she comes back and stands over me, one hand on her hip, the other still on her inner thigh, legs apart: 'Finish your drink.'

  I open my mouth to say something but she tuts and takes the glass out of my hand. Then she straddles me and starts kissing me deep and hard. She tastes of booze and ciggies. I try to resist, pushing away.

  'Lou ... ise,' I hiss through squashed lips but she ignores me. Her tongue explores my mouth and her hands run through my hair. She pulls at my ears, at first gently then so hard it almost hurts but the force of her tongue and the gentle rubbing of her crotch against mine take my mind off it. Suddenly she gets up, unbuttons her shirt and takes it and her bra off. She looks at me as she touches her breasts.

  'Louise, for God's sake I-'

  'Shut up.'

  I feel my dick pressing against my underpants and a second later she has released it and is sliding my trousers down. I try to stop her but she bats my hand away. She works at my dick with her mouth. She is serious, determined, driven. I close my eyes and let my head fall back slightly. I'll give her two minutes then I'll stop, really. Two minutes. Well, perhaps five.

  Oh, what the fuck! I put my hand on the top of her head and run my fingers through her hair. Then suddenly she stops and is gone. A second later she is walking back from the bedroom, tearing at a tiny package. Skilfully she forces a condom down over my cock in a split second and slips off her jeans, eyeing it hungrily.

  'Shall we go to the bedroom?' I ask, my heart pounding, but she mutters something about it being a mess and then climbs on to my legs and eases herself down onto me, moaning softly. I gasp as the feeling washes over me. For a second I think I am about to come but I pause for a moment, think of Vinny in his dressing gown and I'm OK. Louise begins to move up and down. Slowly I reach out to touch her left breast. She grabs my hands and forces them onto both breasts, pressing hard. I crane up and take one in my mouth.

  For what seems like hours we destroy the remaining springs in the settee, knock over a glass, bang my head against the wall countless times, rip the buttons off my new shirt, oh God, my brand new shirt and rub my legs raw against the zip of my fly.

  Then suddenly she begins to move faster and starts gasping, 'Ow, ow, ow.' Suddenly I feel myself coming as well. She slows her rhythm and I wait. For a moment I don't think I'll do it after all and I have to push myself into her harder. As a result, my orgasm is extra good. I shout out with the pleasure and exquisite pain.

  'Hey! A screamer,' says Louise. She rolls down onto the floor panting and pushing her long blonde hair away from her face and her damp forehead. I laugh and catch my breath. She sits up, looks at me for a moment and laughs again. 'Ooh, animal!' Before I can stop her she gently but firmly pulls the condom off my dick and goes into the bathroom to throw it away.

  Meanwhile, I'm trying to put my clothes back together.

  Sweaty and still weak, I manage to do
up my fly and belt but decide that my shirt is a bit of dead loss and so I just tuck it in as best as I can. Fuck, what a mess. What a waste, too.

  The toilet flushes and she comes back from the bathroom still naked. She has a beautiful, bronzed, athletic body which I wish I'd had time to get to know a bit better. Funny to have sex and then check out her bod afterwards. She laughs, kisses me lightly on the lips and collects the glasses to refill them.

  'Er, no thanks,' I say. 'I must be getting back.'

  'Oh, no worries then,' says Louise. 'You can get a cab out in the street - dead easy.'

  In my state of post-coital exhaustion and sogginess I suddenly feel guilty about Marion - and more than a little nervous about what she'll do if she finds out what I've been up to. That was a hell of a long breath of fresh air. I'll have to get undressed downstairs or something. I'll have to take the suit to the dry cleaners and buy a new shirt tomorrow. 'It'll be OK,' says Louise, knocking back half a glass of champagne in one mouthful and eyeing it disdainfully.

  'I suppose so,' I mutter, guilt and embarrassment really kicking in now.

  'Hey, cheer up, mate, I wasn't that bad, was I?'

  'No. I mean, you were very good. I enjoyed it,' I say, but somehow it doesn't sound very complimentary, more like I'm saying goodbye to a prostitute and somehow I don't like thinking about prostitution at the moment.

  'Well, what's the matter then?' She looks at me suspiciously. 'You in a relationship at the moment? That it?'

  'Yes,' I say quietly.

  'Don't tell me she was there - at the party?' says Louise, more intrigued than troubled.

  'Yes,' I tell her. 'It was her party.'

  'Christ,' giggles Louise. 'I didn't even know whose party it was. Who was she?'

  'Marion.'

  'Marion,' she says pensively. 'Oh, her. That old American woman with the blonde hair? Looked like she'd got a poker up her ass all night?'