by Simon Brooke
She puts the paper down properly. 'Why do you need money? You can't be short.'
'Well ...'
'I already pay for everything.'
Ouch! Point taken. 'Yeah, I know, and I'm very grateful but-'
'But what?'
'Just for occasional expenses,' I find myself saying, surprised at this phrase.
'You've got your salary, too. What do you want more money for? You're not doing drugs, are you?'
The honest answer is I want more money so that I can get some freedom from her for twenty minutes or even a whole evening for a bit of normality but I can't think of a reply that I can actually give her so I just carry on playing with my knife.
'And stop doing that, will you? It's driving me crazy!' she snaps, returning to her newspaper.
I'm back staring at the phone again.
'Are you ready, Andrew?' she says now, breaking my trance.
'Yep,' I say, deciding not to think about the office for the next few days.
'Where is your luggage?' she asks. She knows that my luggage is an old Head sports bag slumped by the front door.
'It's there.' I nod towards the door, awaiting her indignant reaction.
'Oh, really! Not that old thing again, it's so embarrassing seeing you with that piece of garbage.'
'It's all I've got,' I say crossly, knowing what she'll say in reply.
'We'll have to get you something else in New York.' Yeah, yeah.
The car roars up the M4 to Heathrow and an hour later we're in the executive lounge where I help myself to another cup of coffee that I don't want and then catch sight of a bank of payphones. There is even a fax. Perhaps I could fax Debbie rather than having to speak to her. Next to us three Americans in comfy sweaters, Burberry raincoats, dark blue jeans and trainers read the Wall Street Journal, Time and some golfing magazine. A couple who look like they have been upgraded or won a free trip hug each other and stare at Marion who, in turn, is staring at herself rather crossly in a tiny mirror, trying to make her hair do something it doesn't want to.
After half an hour I've read most of the newspapers and the magazines don't appeal. Nobody could really want to read all this business shit, it must just be there to help people justify the fact that they are travelling business class. The headlines on the front remind me of Dad's self-help management books. I bump into a man in a suit while I mooch around the complimentary drinks buffet. He apologizes but gives me a faintly enquiring look as if to ask what I'm doing in the executive lounge, which is reserved for people like him with customized luggage labels and membership of at least nine frequent flyer programmes. I leave my cup of coffee on the counter and wander back to Marion.
'Bored?' she says.
I make a face which says, 'I'm afraid so.'
She roots in her bag, gives me a £50 note and says: 'Go shopping but be back in fifteen minutes.'
Don't worry I'm not likely to leave the country on this, I think as I wander out of the club lounge cocoon into the mind-numbing hubbub of the rest of the airport.
On the plane, as we turn left to Business Class, I cannot resist a backwards glance into the 'goat' class cabin. People look like battery hens, fidgeting already, trying to pack even more bags and bits and pieces into the overhead lockers while others start to read or stare blankly ahead - the full horror of the cramped, dry-aired, white-noise-filled, seven-hour ordeal that awaits them slowly sinking in.
'Good morning, Mr Collins, can I get you something to drink?' says our perma-delighted stewardess.
'Can I have some champagne,' I say, noticing that that is what Marion has ordered. I sit back and let the seat embrace me, shuddering slightly at the thought of those poor bastards behind us. I remember my last trip to New York with a couple of friends: stuck between a screaming, snotty twoyear-old and a fat bloke who sniffed and sweated his way across the Atlantic.
'More champagne, Mr Collins?' she says, still clearly absolutely delighted to have the opportunity to serve me. It is actually a bit unnerving and makes me fed I should be paying her my full attention.
'Anymore and you'll have to carry me off the plane,' I tell her.
She laughs and moves on.
'Don't speak to the stewardess like that,' hisses Marion.
She turns to watch the girl who is now serving, with, apparently, even more delight, a fifty-something businessman behind me. 'Peanut-brained slut,' she adds.
After lunch has been cleared away, Marion opens a magazine and starts shaking her head disapprovingly. I am going to ask her what is wrong but then I think, sod it. Marion disapproves of most things: English plumbing and dental work, pretty girls, anything that isn't expensive and, I'm beginning to suspect, me.
I feel in the seat pocket for the Walkman and the cassettes I bought with Marion's fifty at the airport. My ears fill with music and, gazing out over the cold, clean, bright skies I feel insulated, cosy and safe for the first time in weeks. This is how I could spend the rest of my life.
The hotel room is filled with flowers. We're staying in a hotel because her house is rented out, apparently. Marion looks at one card after another not with joy but with grim satisfaction. 'Hmm,' she says to some and 'Huh!' to others.
'Well, word has certainly gotten round that we're here,' she says.
'Obviously.' I survey the foliage. 'Very nice.'
'What would you like to do?' she asks, wandering into the bedroom.
'I don't know.' I'm not sure if I feel jet-lagged or just overcome by the fact that I'm here, in New York, in this ritzy hotel. She decides we'll go for a walk down Fifth Avenue which is only five minutes away. The Upper East Side is leafy and lazy and sunny as I look down the cliff faces of the buildings narrowing down into the horizon.
'Isn't this near where you were brought up?' I ask as we walk back to the hotel in the late afternoon sun.
'Quite near,' she says quickly.
Marion arranges for us to have dinner with her friends Charles and Victoria. I would have preferred to taste a bit of the night life in Times Square or the Village or SoHo but Marion tells me that all those areas are really disgusting and are full of the kind of places that I should not be seen in, so that settles that.
Charles and Victoria live not far from the hotel and I manage to persuade Marion to let us walk there. We arrive at a block with a dark blue awning and gold lettering. The doorman, a huge black guy, smiles broadly at Marion, asks her how she is doing. He lets us into the marbled hallway and we get into a huge lift. I begin to feel sick, partly with the motion and partly with nerves. I'm in New York, for God's sake. I'm going to be fired on Monday - I should be trying to enjoy myself while I'm here.
When the lift doors open Charles and Victoria are waiting for us. He is tall and thin and she is small and almost round which is strange because I didn't think Marion knew anyone that shape - most of her female friends are so skinny you can almost see their insides working.
They both kiss Marion and ask how she is, as if she has suffered some horrible accident. then they turn to me.
'You are Andrew,' beams Victoria.
'Yes,' I say, trying to match her enthusiasm.
'I am Victoria,' she explains in a strong South American accent and offers me a cheek. I kiss it, grateful for a moment to think what I am supposed to do next. She turns her head and I kiss the other cheek. Single kiss, double kiss, triple kiss, miss kiss. Oh, I give up. I can't remember who does what. Fortunately she starts talking as if we are old friends.
She is dressed in a black and gold Chanel-type suit and though she is not very pretty, she makes the most of what she has got, as my mum would say. Her thick black hair is scraped back and held with a huge gold slide. She has a kind smile, probably the most genuine one I've seen amongst Marion's friends.
'This is my husband, Charles,' she says.
The tall guy bows slightly and then offers a hand but extends it only a bit. I shake it and end up taking just his fingers which feel cold and soft. I am sure my dad's books have somethi
ng to say about this, about Charles making me step into his territory, or something.
Victoria grabs my arm and leads me along the dark, thickly carpeted corridor to the living room. The walls are painted dark red and hung with impressionist and abstract paintings. I don't look too closely but it occurs to me that they are probably originals. Victoria explains that she and Charles know Marion originally from New York, but when Marion came to London they followed her and now, here they are, all in New York again.
'Do you like London?' I ask, glad no one else can hear this ridiculously banal question.
'Oh, it's lovely. So old,' she says as we sit down. A waiter offers me some champagne and I sit back and listen to her while she goes on about her favourite shops, the time she went to a real English pub and their visit last summer to the country.
'Where did you go?' I ask.
Her grin fixes slightly. 'The country.'
'Er, right, whereabouts?'
Still smiling wildly, she looks to the ceiling for inspiration. 'Outside of London.'
Some other people arrive a bit later and we sit down to eat. I suddenly want to go to sleep very badly. My eyelids weigh half a ton each. I think about excusing myself and going to the loo but decide that not only is this not the done thing but I will probably fall asleep on the pot and this would be even more embarrassing.
One of the women is wittering on to us about some people I do not know and so as to appear the slightest bit interested I ask who she is talking about.
'Pardon me?' says the woman and looks across at Marion as if she is supposed to be in control of me.
'Sorry,' I say, panic whipping drowsiness away from me like a duvet on a cold morning. 'I just wondered who that woman was. I, er, think I know her.'
I look across at Marion, who is both smiling and frowning quizzically.
'Cin Kettner? Cin Kettner is the thinnest woman in New York,' announces the woman as if she were presenting a prize.
'Do you know her, Andrew?' asks Marion, carefully putting a piece of lobster in her mouth.
'Er, I, er, perhaps not,' I say, deciding not to risk some cock and bull story about knowing her sister or something. The woman carries on looking at me for a moment just to check that I have completely finished thank you very much and then carries on with her story.
Charles and Victoria arrange a car to take us the four or five blocks back to our hotel.
'What was your weird comment about Cin Kettner for?' asks Marion, amused.
I yawn. I just want to sleep, not relive that horribly embarrassing moment.
'Oh, I don't know, I just thought I'd better contribute something to the conversation,' I say. 'I thought I was falling asleep.'
'Sorry you were so bored,' says Marion, looking out of the window.
'Oh, I wasn't,' I say, taking her hand. 'No, I was just so tired.'
'When people invite you to dinner, even if you've just flown in from another time zone, you really should make the effort,' she says, her hand, cold and lifeless. I let go of it.
'All right, I'm sorry. I was just ...' But I'm repeating myself now.
We go to bed in near silence but when I wake up at just after seven and find Marion sleeping with her back to me I shuffle up behind her. She half-wakes up too.
'Morning,' she whispers.
I mumble something even I can't understand and then begin to bite her neck gently. She groans and lifts her head. I do it a bit more, enjoying the smell of her: sleep plus the remains of her perfume. After a moment she rolls over and looks up at me, her eyes searching my face. I stroke her cheek and then kiss her gently. We make love slowly and then I fall asleep again. When I wake the next time a waiter is wheeling in a trolley of breakfast things.
'What time is it?' I ask. The waiter, a young Hispanic guy in a crisp white jacket looks at me, wondering whether to answer. I notice him do a slight double-take. Yeah, that'll give you something to talk about downstairs, I think, lying back.
It is actually just after ten. I pull on the inevitable massive fluffy white bathrobe and knock back a glass of ice-cold, freshly squeezed orange juice.
'I hope you're hungry, honey,' says Marion, tearing off a piece of dry toast and popping it in her mouth.
'Starved,' I say, yawning and bending down to kiss her. She lifts a huge silver dome from off a plate to reveal scrambled eggs, hash browns and sausages.
'Here,' she says, handing me a cup of coffee. 'Now, hurry up or we won't have time for lunch.'
Not surprisingly, we still manage to do plenty with Marion in charge of the itinerary. We visit some shops at the top of Fifth Avenue where the staff are all delighted to see her. We go to Bloomingdales and she actually buys me some clothes. A pale grey DKNY suit, a white shirt to go with it and some trousers I would never wear but I don't dare refuse. Perhaps she took on board my remark about needing some money. Perhaps she realises that, like Mark says, if I don't look good, she doesn't look good. As we leave the store and look for a taxi back to the hotel, I feel that my luck might just be changing.
That night we go to see an opera at the Met and in the interval a woman comes up to Marion and kisses her fondly on both cheeks.
'How are you?' she says, holding both of Marion's hands.
'Good,' says Marion. 'I'm good, thank you.'
'And this,' says the woman, 'must be Andrew.'
'Hello,' I say, extending a hand.
'Andrew, it's such a pleasure.'
'Yes,' I say. 'I mean, it's a pleasure for me too.' Can't I ever get it right? The woman turns back to Marion.
'It's so good to see you back in New York. Can we have a drink, just the three of us, before you go back to England?'
'I'd really like that,' says Marion, batting her eyelids with sincerity.
'Enjoy the second half,' says the woman, walking off.
'Who was that?' I ask.
'No idea,' says Marion, still smiling sweetly.
The next day we have brunch at a cafe where normally you have to book six months in advance just for coffee, according to the people at the opera the night before. They serve a mixture of Italian and native American food.
'My name is Walter,' says a very tall, improbably thin, redhaired guy as we sit down at a table beside a huge Roy Lichtenstein-style mural of an Indian chief. 'I'll be your server this morning and I'd very much like to welcome you to the Cafe Hueva today. If there is anything I can do to make your visit just that little bit more pleasurable please just let me know. Now, let me tell you something about the specials we can offer you. Today we have-'
'Er, Walter, honey,' says a voice. I look across the table and realise it is Marion. 'Can we have some coffee and juice and then I'll be all ears for your specials.'
Furious at having his speech interrupted, Walter hisses, 'Yes, ma'am' and waltzes off.
I start laughing and Marion looks up from unfolding her napkin at me in surprise. 'What's funny?'
'You are,' I say. She shrugs her shoulders and smiles.
I push open the door of our office and stride in, hoping I look relaxed and casual, although I feel sick with depression, jet lag and nerves. Someone has hung their jacket on my coat hanger so I carefully take it off and hang it on a peg and then put my new DKNY jacket on it. I can't believe how irritated I feel - almost violated. Working in an office makes you so petty, so territorial.
My strategy has not worked. I am not the first into the office. Well somehow when I came to set the alarm last night I compromised on that one; seven seemed beyond endurance in my jet-lagged state so I set it for seven-thirty and decided not to bother trying to be the first. But, as I look round, I realise that I am not even one of the first. It's eight-thirty and this shabby little hell hole is almost full, humming with activity.
I take my seat and Sami gives me her 'Oh, Andrew' look. I make a silly face but my heart isn't really in it. She finishes her call.
'How was New York?'
'It was great, really good fun,' I say quietly.
'I'm
glad. What did you do?'
'Central Park, Fifth Avenue. We went to the Opera.'
'Wow,' says Sami gently. Then she says what I least want to hear: 'Debbie wants to see you.' I nod gratefully and smile.
'I bought you this, by the way.' It's the Statue of Liberty in a snowstorm. I bought it at JFK on the way home. Sami looks up at me and smiles sadly.
My stomach suddenly feels light and empty. A couple of people look up discreetly from their desks and watch me go towards her office. She is on the phone telling someone to leave it with her and she'll come back to them. And I know she will. I sit down and decide that sullen apology is my best bet so I stare moodily at my shoes.
'Where have you been the last two days?' she asks quietly, looking down at her desk.
'I was ill,' I say, more in the way of a suggestion than an apology. I look away - I can't meet her eyes.
'I rang, Claire rang twice. What was the matter with you?'
'I dunno, I just felt-'
'Bullshit. I don't care where you were, Andrew, and I don't care what you were doing but you're supposed to work here, remember?'
'I was ill,' I mumble again.
Ignoring me, she goes on. 'It's been really busy in this office while you've been running around. Our figures have been down over the last few months and this was our chance to catch up, to turn the corner. We've had people working twelve-hour days trying to meet the targets upstairs have set us.' She stops and then adds, 'We needed you, it's just not fair on everyone else.' That hurts.
'I'm sorry.' There is a pause, my excuse is dead and buried. 'Did you meet them?' I don't know if I really care or whether I am just being polite, trying to fill the awful heavy silence. Now Debbie seems slightly surprised and irritated by my question.
'Well, we just did it but it was tough on everyone. Paul's dad's been ill and Maria had to leave on Tuesday afternoon to pick up her youngest who'd had an accident at school or something. You know, it's just not fair.' Oh God, why did I ask?
'Sorry,' I say again, getting up to leave. I've had enough, this is beginning to piss me off. I don't know who I'm angriest with: Debbie or myself.
