by Simon Brooke
All over the little tables and the huge mantelpiece are hundreds of picture frames. He is in most of the pictures: with Joan Collins, with Fergie, with Princess Diana (ignoring him in a receiving line), with Elizabeth Taylor, with models, male and female, and other people with lots of blond, blowdried hair, with some other old queen in a black tie, on a white sandy beach with a young guy who is laughing, underneath a flowery umbrella drinking long drinks with a lady in sunglasses and a big hat. More and more pictures of him and his friends in party mode, glamorous and fun, tanned and blond and blow-dried and beautiful. Yes, I've got the message, Channing: you're a glamorous, attractive person with lots of glamorous, attractive friends and life is just fab. No dreary suburban lifestyle, no bored wife or fat kids staring at the box and demanding to be fed.
A shriek of 'Coco! Bad dog!' and a waft of Georgia of Beverly Hills aftershave announce his return. I quickly pick up a picture and pretend to glance at it casually. Channing appears behind me wearing a huge coat with fur collars despite the heat. He takes the photograph out of my hand. It is of him and a young guy at a black-tie do.
'Nice guy. Real shame,' he says and hands it back to me. 'Come on, you know San Lorenzo, you're not pronto, pronto you losa that tavola.'
His black Mere drops us off outside San Lorenzo and some waiting paparazzi relax as they see it is no one famous.
'It's such a relief coming here with somebody nobody's ever heard of for a change,' says Channing, gathering his coat around himself and leading the way into the restaurant.
The maitre d' feigns delight to see Mr Charisse and sizes me up in the split second it takes for him to arrange for a girl to take Channing's coat.
We are shown to what I suppose is a reasonably good table. I look around for celebrities. Lots of pony tails, more blond blow-dried hair and honey tans. Lots of older guys, some with blue blazers, some just with white shirts. Thick dark hair, flecked with grey erupts from unbuttoned shirt fronts or sweeps down from neatly turned back cuffs. Big, thick, hairy hands, big, thick gold jewellery are everywhere. Bits of Versace splashed here and there. Except on me, of course.
'My God, look at that shirt,' says Channing, shaking out his napkin.
'Where?'
'To your left. It looks like a cat fight between a beach towel and a roll of psychedelic wallpaper.'
I look round and see what I think he is talking about. I laugh politely. Then I look back and realise I can't see the difference between it and his. He is looking at me taking the place in.
'I can't believe that Marion has never brought you here before,' he says, biting the end off a bread stick and chewing furiously.
'Erm, I don't think she has,' I say, as if it is difficult to keep track of all the places we go to.
'It's best for lunch, of course, but I can go for it any time,' he says, looking past me and smiling at someone. A waiter comes over.
'Can I get you gentlemen some drinks?'
'I'll have a vodka martini. What you will have? Scotch?'
'Er, yes, please.'
'OK.' The waiter smiles knowingly. I realise that he probably thinks we are 'together'. God! Marion, why are doing this to me?
'Cute, huh?'
I realise that while I'm thinking, I've been watching the waiter walk off. I decide to ignore this comment and look at the menu. Channing consults his with the same bored, weary look that Marion reserves for menus.
'I should have something light, I guess I'll just have the grilled sea bass,' he sighs, finishing the last of the bread sticks with a flick of the wrist. 'You should have their linguine. To die for.'
'I'll have the steak,' I say firmly.
We order from the same waiter and to my horror I find myself blushing deeply. Channing smiles and starts talking; he compares British boys (smelly, bad teeth) to Brazilians and Americans. He tells me about how awful Concorde is (so cramped you can't swing a hair dryer), what his house in Brazil was like and how you could gaze down onto Ipanema beach and choose whatever you wanted.
'Well, why don't you fuck off back there, then,' I find myself thinking but I decide to be polite and just eat some bread and sit and listen. Besides, behind his head I spot a very pretty blonde girl, French or something, who is with what looks like her grandparents. She notices me look at her and looks back, then, the second time, she half-smiles and looks away as the old lady says something to her.
Channing does not seem to notice. Our first course arrives and he carries on, pausing every now and then for a reaction. He makes various references to my sex life with Marion and hints that I am just one of many worthless young men she has got herself mixed up with over the years he has known her but I just let it go.
'She's an incredibly attractive woman - you should think yourself very lucky,' he says.
'I do,' I say quickly.
'I've never known her take such a liking to one of her escorts.' I'm beginning to hate that word. Someone at a nearby table turns round. 'Do many of your clients see you as much as Marion?'
'I don't have clients, I just met Marion and we started going out,' I say.
'Going out?'
'Yes.' Channing smiles and concentrates on his food. 'What's wrong with that?'
'Nothing.' I watch Channing eating for a second.
'Has she seen many es- I mean, people like me, of my age.'
'Sorry? People of your age? No. I mean, she has paid guys to take her out to dinner a couple of times in New York. Quite a few young actors who haven't had a break yet or models. You know. Why not? She's a rich woman. She has the money.'
'I see.'
'I've introduced her to a few as well. She likes young people. So do I - that's what keeps us young and there are always young people around who'll accept a free dinner.'
Like tonight, I think, but I don't say it. He looks enquiring at me but I still say nothing so he adds, 'I must say, though, you're certainly the youngest yet.'
'I see. How old is she?'
Channing looks shocked. 'You never ask a woman that question.'
'I'm not asking a woman, I'm asking you.'
'I can't tell.'
'Go on, I won't say you've told me,' I say, enjoying making the running for a change.
'No, I mean I can't tell, she hides it very well.'
'Oh, I see.'
We both eat in silence for a moment. Then I ask, 'How many husbands has Marion had?'
'You mean how many has she married, or how many has she, you know, had.' He raises his eyebrows wickedly.
'Let's start with married.'
'Oh, I don't know. I think it's two.'
'Two? Not three?'
'Two is not three, that's true.'
'Very clever. All rich, though?'
'Well, of course. Is there another kind? Why do you wanna know? Feeling a little insecure?'
'No.' I pay some attention to my food. Channing is obviously not going to play ball.
'That's probably why she likes you,' he says, obviously trying to regain the initiative.
I look up from my plate. Having got the reaction he wants, he immediately looks down at his.
'How do you mean?'
'Mmm?'
'I said, "How do you mean?"'
'Well, you're different. Young, unsophisticated, fresh.' He pauses. 'You're kinda naive, proud but without a cent to scratch your ass with.'
I take another mouthful of food and chew it thoughtfully. 'Go on,' I say, although I'm not sure I want him to. This is fascinating but distinctly unnerving.
'Let me see,' says Channing, clearly sensing my discomfort and relishing it. 'You're a bit like ... a blank canvas, someone for her to develop, to mould. There is something about your gauche immaturity that she finds, what's the word? Refreshing.' He purses his lips and opens his eyes wide, in an exaggerated version of something I've seen Marion do so often. 'Besides, you're so British. She likes that.'
'British?' I spit.
'Oh, you know. Quiet, reserved. Kinda macho in an understated way.' J
ust in case I might possibly think he is paying me a compliment, he sniggers slightly.
'I see.' I think perhaps I do.
I notice that the blonde girl is looking again. I smile at her and so Channing seizes his moment to take charge of the conversation.
'Seen someone you know?' he says loudly, with sarcastic excitement. 'Someone from Fulham make it over here? Where? I want to see, let's go say hello.' He is almost shouting by now.
'Oh, shut up,' I groan.
'Well, hoi there, how are you?' hisses a strangled voice from above us. It is not exactly loud but somehow theatrical enough for most of the nearby tables to turn and look. This guy certainly knows how to 'project'. He is short and very slim with a dark tan and immaculate, shiny dark hair and long, dark eyelashes. Eyeliner again. He wears dark blue jeans with black velvet slippers, a crisp white shirt and a loud red tie. His aftershave begins a fight with Channing's.
'Hello,' he says seriously, extending a hand. He is also American. I stand up for some reason and tower over him clumsily, drawing even more attention to us. I notice that his suspiciously single-tone hair is scraped over a bald patch on top.
'Hi,' I say.
'Oh, sweet,' says Channing. We both look at him.
'You stood up. I love that - so well behaved. Friend of Marion's,' says Channing to the other guy.
'Oh, OK,' says the guy, smiling to Channing.
'Who are you with?' asked Channing, looking to see the guy's table.
'Oh, just Carolyn, Lauren and a bunch of fashion people,' yawns the guy. They talk some more, the other guy saying, 'And so I said to Carolyn, Judy would not say a thing like that, I know Judy, she is my best friend and she would not say a thing like that.' I look across the room at the girl with blonde hair. She is absorbed by something the old lady was telling her. I realise that she has probably decided that she has made a mistake, and that I bat for the other side, and am just a prick tease or a fanny tease, or whatever girls call it.
Finally our main course arrives so the guy says goodbye and goes back to his own table, stopping for a bit of gladhanding on the way.
'Dear old Auntie David,' sighs Channing, 'she's such a dizzy queen.' I nod in agreement, which makes Channing laugh. 'Don't you think?' he asks. Whatever you say, mate.
As we get up to leave, just before midnight, I realise that I am actually pretty pissed but I am still aware of being observed by the waiters, the girl who gives Channing his coat, and the door man. I quite enjoy this experience when I'm with Marion, people guessing what the score is, but with Channing it is just plain embarrassing.
We step outside. While the car moves down the street towards us, Channing notices two girls in the street examine a lipstick, and then each use it, puckering their lips up at each other.
'Don't share lipsticks, girls, you could catch gonorrhoea,' he tells them as he gets into the car. They look at each other in disbelief and then burst out laughing. I just can't think of anything to say so I smile meekly as if to endorse Channing's unusual healthcare advice and then follow him into the car as soon as I can.
The journey back to his house is quite uneventful apart from Channing opening his window when we stop at traffic lights and shouting 'Cute ass' at a policeman.
'Nightcap?' he asks, dropping his coat on the settee back at his place.
'No thanks, I'd better be going in a minute,' I say, suddenly overcome with tiredness and alcohol.
'No problem,' he says, pouring himself one. 'Siddown.'
'Don't mind if I do,' I say groggily.
What happens next is something of a blur. I slump down on the settee and put my feet up on the arm. Not the best of manners, Marion would have been furious, but she isn't there, is she? I am just thinking I should drag myself up and make a move when I feel a strange stirring in my crotch which is, well, not all of my own making. I open my eyes, Channing is standing over me, a drink in one hand, the other very gently unzipping my fly.
'Oh, get off,' I groan, more in irritation than in shock. I push his hand away and swing my legs round to get up. My head is swimming and I can hardly even guide it into my hands. I nearly stab myself in the eye with my thumb. How much have I drunk this evening?
'Just trying to find out exactly what Marion does see in you,' smiles Channing, walking back across the room. 'It's certainly not your conversation.'
'I've - I've got to go,' I say, getting up.
'Wasn't that part of the deal tonight?' I hear him say.
'No,' I say, feeling that I should make something more of it, be a bit angry and threaten to punch him or something, except that I just can't be bothered. Let alone aim. Why the hell had I lain down on the settee in the first place? I can't really blame him for getting the wrong idea.
'Oh, I'm sorry, but quite a few of Marion's other boys have been, you know, more than happy to oblige.'
'Well, I'm not.'
'Never mind. It's just a little game Marion and I have.'
'A little game?' I ask, putting my head between my legs for a moment.
'Oh, you know, share and share alike. Brother and sister.'
He knocks back his drink and goes to get another. 'You're disgusting.'
He laughs. 'Oh don't be so upset. Let's face it, if I offered you enough money, you'd do it.'
'Oh, fuck off.'
He laughs again. 'Oh, Andrew,' he says quietly, 'where do you get off with this high and mighty stuff? What have I offended? Your honour? Your machismo? Your great British pride? Come on, you're sleeping with Marion to get what you can out of her. I don't have any quarrel with that. I've done the same thing myself,' he says, pausing for effect. 'That's what people do when they are young. You see all this luxury, this ... opulence-' he gestures round the room '-and you want a piece of it. OK, that's understandable, but don't get so upset and give me all that English gentleman bullshit when someone comes on to you. I don't really fancy you anyway,' he says putting his head on one side and looking me up and down again, 'quite nice buns but I prefer shorter hair and bigger tits.'
Pleased with this final comment he turns to get another drink.
'Thanks,' I say, not sure whether to be angry or not. I can't be bothered to come up with a witty put-down.
'I've really enjoyed this evening,' he says with wide-eyed sincerity, leaning against the fireplace. 'The driver will take you home if you want.'
'Don't worry, I'll walk.'
'No problem,' says Channing graciously. 'Oh, here.' He reaches into his jacket, takes out a Louis Vuitton wallet, opens it and pulls out a note, snapping it in his fingers to check that there is just one. It's a fifty. 'Go on. Take it. For your taxi.' We both know I don't need fifty to get home and that no cab driver would even change one.
I look at it for a moment, planning a proud, defiant gesture but I'm too tired and drunk - and poor. So, like a man in a dream, I reach out and take it.
I walk quite a long way to try and clear my head. Did I take that money for letting him take me to dinner or just for a taxi home? Or because he's got lots of it and I haven't any and it seems only fair? Or did I take it because I let him have a quick grope? I think what he enjoyed about touching me up was less to do with sexual gratification and more to do with just casually insulting me. I shudder at the thought and turn to look at my reflection in a shop window. My face, a ghostly apparition amongst the expensive black suits on display, appears older and thinner than it did a few weeks ago.
Or did I just take that fifty because I'm used to taking cash from people now without even thinking about it?
Chapter Twelve
I don’t ring Marion on Sunday, just to make the point but when I get back from buying the papers and some bread there's a message from her on the machine telling me that she is unable to see me tonight because some old friends are in town and she has arranged to take them to Wiltons in Jermyn Street. She will call me tomorrow.
She sounds like she is talking to an idiot.
Perhaps she is.
I am actually quit
e relieved. Rolex aside (and it now seems to smell of Channing's aftershave, like my hair and all my clothes), I'm pretty pissed off with her at the moment. I'm also absolutely knackered: the prospect of a quiet evening in on my own without meeting new people, going to new places and having to rise to the challenge of yet more artificial social intercourse is very welcome. Having mooched around all day, at about six I go and take a cold Rolling Rock out of the fridge, find the controller down the side of the settee and put the telly on.
It's not just my exhausting social life - the tension in the office has worn me out too. Avoiding Debbie, judging her mood whenever I have to talk to her, thinking up skives for the next few days and rehearsing my arguments for the rows we're going to have is more tiring than working.
It's not even like I've got much cash to show for it. It's all very well having Marion pay for everything and I am grateful to her, but it means that she's always involved and always calling the shots. The idea was for me to have money to spend as I want to. Being Marion's lap dog is harder than working for a living.
Making a mental note to ring Jonathan first thing Monday morning, I am almost nodding off in front of the early evening news, when I hear Vinny's key in the lock.
'All right?' says Vinny, falling into the living room.
'Hiya,' I say unenthusiastically and sink further down into the armchair - not difficult since it only has one spring left. Never one to take a hint, he ploughs on. 'What's this?' he asks, gawping at the telly, hands on hips.
'Nothing,' I say and switch over. Upstairs the loo flushes and a moment later, Jane bursts in.
'Oh, hiya,' she says, slightly surprised to see me.
'Hi,' I say, sitting up a bit. 'How are you?'
'Fine. How are you?'
'I'm all right.' I wonder whether to stand up then decide against it. She looks at Vinny so I look back at the telly. Vinny starts to say something about what we're watching so I switch over again.
