Ordinary Joe

by Jon Teckman

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, when I was sure we were clear of danger, ‘London’s changed a bit since Mary Poppins’ day.’

  She turned to me and smiled. ‘Don’t worry, English, I saw a hell of a lot worse than these punks in Carolina. Even your drunks are polite compared to ours! And thanks for not making a scene. If you’d whacked that guy there might have been all kinds of trouble.’

  ‘No problem,’ I said, ‘although I’m not entirely sure it was a guy,’ which just made Olivia smile even wider.

  When we reached the safe haven of the Dorchester’s foyer, I felt a strong sense of déjà vu: the beautiful actress, the happily married man, the hotel. What could possibly happen next? But this time, there was one important difference – this time I was a little less drunk and a lot more determined not to submit to my animal instincts, whatever the provocation.

  ‘So, English, going to join me for a nightcap?’ Olivia purred, like a highly-sexed Siamese.

  Instinctively, I found myself checking my watch. As if the time and my need to get home were the most important factors in making this decision. My conscience and good sense were being bombarded from every angle by the sound, sight and smell of her. If she’d reached out to touch me at that moment – if I’d felt the illicit sensation of her skin on mine – I might not have been able to resist. But she didn’t and, thank God, I was. With a tremendous effort of will, I managed to find the strength to do the right thing this time.

  ‘No, thank you very much,’ I said. ‘It’s late. I have to get home.’

  ‘‘‘No, thank you very much!’’’ Olivia mimicked me in her excellent English accent. ‘What do you mean, “No, thank you very much”? I’m not the Queen inviting you round for a cup of tea. I am Olivia Finch, inviting you up to my hotel room for a drink and then, if you’re real nice to me, a repeat performance of our sensational New York opening.’

  ‘No, Olivia,’ I said, ‘not tonight. I’m expected home – I’ve already stayed out longer than I should have. I’m sorry.’

  I was starting to get used to Olivia’s rapid change of moods, but was still surprised at how quickly she could switch from seductive charm to chilling anger. ‘OK, English. Off you go,’ she said, her voice rising along with the colour in her cheeks. ‘You crawl off home to your wonderful family and tell them all about your lovely evening.’ Suddenly she seemed like a small child, sulking because she couldn’t have her own way.

  Alerted by the raised voices, the doorman walked over to us, glowering at me from under his rather incongruous top hat. ‘Is everything OK, Ms Finch? Would you like me to throw this gentleman out?’

  ‘No, you idiot,’ she replied, ‘I want you to throw him in! Aw c’mon, English – what harm could one little drink do?’

  She knew perfectly well, and so did I. I also knew that I had to keep her happy both for my own sake and in the interests of Askett Brown’s relationship with Printing Press Productions – the calmer she stayed, the less likely it was that she would go blurting out the whole story to Buddy. ‘I’m sorry, Olivia, I really can’t stay tonight, but, I know, why don’t we meet tomorrow? I could take you out for lunch or tea or we could go and see the Crown Jewels or take a cruise down the Thames or, well, whatever you want.’ I was gabbling now, but it seemed to be having the desired effect.

  ‘That would be lovely, English,’ she said, a faint smile appearing behind the childish pout. ‘I’d really like that.’

  ‘Great. Can you give me a rough time?’

  ‘Well, if you insist,’ Olivia said, her smile broadening into a leer. ‘I didn’t think you were that kind of a guy, but sure, why not? What did you have in mind?’

  ‘What?’ I said, genuinely confused. ‘Oh, I see! No, I meant, can you give me a rough time when you’d like me to get here. Shall we say one o’clock?’

  ‘That would be spiffing, English!’ she said, kissing me on the cheek. ‘See you at one.’ She took the arm of the bemused doorman and let him escort her through reception. I was off one hook but still caught on another. And, just as in all the best movies, with every twist and turn I impaled myself deeper.

  CITY OF LONDON

  I didn’t sleep much that night. The next morning I was in the office well before eight, bleary-eyed and too tired to think straight, the accumulated units of exhaustion stacking up like aircraft over Heathrow. Bill Davis had called me and Bennett in for an early meeting to find out how my presentation to Buddy had gone. With some of our other most important sectors in economic downturn, Bill knew we had to keep clients like PPP sweet. Nothing Happened was performing well in the States and was tipped to be one of the top three films internationally that year. There was already talk of a sequel.

  Bill visibly relaxed as I explained that Buddy had been impressed by our figures and had sent them straight to LA so his team could start working on the possibility of a major refinancing package. He was looking to raise around $100 million to develop a slate of films and build his own distribution network in the US, rather than having to share profits with one of the studios. He was also considering buying a stake in a European distributor to boost their international revenues. Askett Brown stood to earn millions in fees from these transactions if they engaged us as their principal advisers this side of the Atlantic.

  Bennett flashed me a look that could have stripped paint. Something didn’t compute for him. How could I (of all people) have produced the goods when he (of all people) had failed so spectacularly to do so. But, before he could say anything, Bill was praising me as if I had just brought home peace in our time.

  ‘Oh well done, West! Well done! That’s an excellent result. I can see a decent bonus on its way to you – to both of you – if you pull this off. Was there anything else?’

  I smiled and tried to look nonchalant about this praise. ‘Not really,’ I replied. ‘Oh, except that last night, at the party, I managed to catch a few words with Olivia Finch. I offered to take her out today and show her a bit of London. You know, take her round a few sights. Would that be OK with the two of you?’

  ‘That’s a great idea, Joe!’ Bill Davis beamed. ‘If we can keep Ms Finch happy, it should help us keep Guttenberg on side too!’ He turned to Bennett who was still gloweringly silent, like a gorilla brooding in the corner of his cage. ‘What do you think, Joseph? I tell you what, it’s a bloody shame that girl didn’t take a shine to West instead of you, isn’t it? Would have saved everyone a lot of bother.’ Davis laughed heartily and even Bennett managed to rearrange his face into some sort of a smile. ‘OK, Joe,’ he said to me with a wink, ‘you get off and plan your date. Joseph,’ he said to Bennett, ‘can you hang on a minute? There are a couple of things I need to go over with you.’

  ‘Don’t worry about all this,’ I heard him say as I lingered for a few seconds before closing the door behind me. ‘These film people aren’t like the chaps you’re used to dealing with in oil or gas. They have their own way of doing things – you’ll pick it up soon enough.’

  WEST END OF LONDON

  Olivia looked as immaculate as ever when I met her at the appointed hour. A brightly patterned, thin summer dress peeped out from under a Burberry raincoat. She was also wearing designer sunglasses and carrying a rolled umbrella, already aware that one had to be prepared for all weathers in London in early May. She showed no signs of fatigue after a tough morning of press and television interviews promoting the new film as she greeted me with exaggerated kisses to both cheeks, her expensive perfume, once again, evoking powerful memories of our earlier encounters. I found myself enjoying the sensation of being stared at by the other people in the foyer, who instantly recognised Olivia and wondered aloud who the hell was I.

  ‘So, English, what treats do you have lined up for me today?’ Olivia asked, using my nationality as a term of endearment now, rather than abuse. I was pretty sure she could remember my name by this stage – my first name anyway. ‘I don’t care what we do, as long as we get to spend some real good quality time together. We could a
lways go back inside and have them deliver a bottle of something cold and wet to my room and, well, see what happens.’

  It was an enticing thought, but not one that I, as a happily married family man could possibly entertain. I had considered all of the obvious places one might take a visitor to London: Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, a spin on the London Eye, followed by lunch at Claridge’s or an afternoon’s shopping at Harrods – but all had the significant drawback that wherever we went, Olivia would be instantly recognised and mobbed. What I had in mind was something much more quintessentially English. Somewhere we could talk without being disturbed, and which, I was sure, would be a completely new experience for Olivia.

  I took her to Lord’s, where Middlesex were batting on the opening day of a four-day county championship match against Northamptonshire in front of a crowd of perhaps 200 bedraggled pensioners, students and truants. Here, in the hallowed grounds of the home of English cricket, there was no chance of anyone paying Olivia the slightest bit of attention, unless she suddenly developed a striking resemblance to Sir Ian Botham. She could have run naked across the outfield yelling ‘I’m Olivia Finch’ through a megaphone and the crowd would have cheered the stewards who sped on to apprehend her so that play could continue. It also helped that it was the least romantic place I could think of to bring her – I was determined to kill off any idea that our relationship had a future.

  I didn’t have to go through the usual complications of trying to explain cricket’s idiosyncrasies to my American guest. Olivia displayed not one iota of interest in a single ball bowled. Apart from expressing, loudly enough for not only the sparse crowd around us but also the player himself to hear, her admiration for the taut, athletic buttocks of the thin-flannelled, jock-strapped fielder standing in front of us at deep square leg, she remained impervious to the action, content to be sipping a glass of wine, nibbling on crisps and chatting about life and other interesting subjects.

  ‘Hey, don’t get jealous, English,’ she said, ‘I bet you’d look great in a pair of white trousers and one of those funny little things for holding your nuts! Do you have any of that gear at home? Any chance you could bring it round to my hotel after the match?’

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her that the match still had another three days to run, by which time she would be safely back in Los Angeles. And I hardly had the will to resist her renewed advances as she snuggled closer to me. Without saying a word, she plucked my spectacles from my nose and started to wipe them on the hem of her dress, curling up the fabric to reveal six or seven inches of sleek, bronzed thigh. I found myself transfixed by the revelation and couldn’t help but stare as she transformed the mundane act of cleaning a pair of glasses into a tantalisingly erotic experience. I had to work hard to resist placing my fingers on the exposed flesh as if I needed physical substantiation of how immaculate Olivia’s skin could be, even without the benefit of airbrushing and CGI.

  With great effort, I eased her away and sat up straighter in my seat. She looked at me, disappointment burning in those sugar almond eyes, but smiled to let me know that everything was still all right between us. Her attention scared and confused me.

  ‘Olivia,’ I asked, twisting my neck so I could look at her properly and putting on the earnest face that I used with the kids when they’d been naughty, ‘what do you see in me? I mean, I’m oldish and fattish and baldish and Jewish. I have no money, by the standards of your usual circles. I’m not exactly Brad Pitt, am I?’

  She fixed me with a sweet smile that went all the way up from the dimple on her chin to the tiny wrinkles in her forehead. ‘I’ve got news for you, English. I’m not exactly Olivia Finch, either.’

  ‘What do you mean you’re not Olivia Finch?’ I asked. Christ, it was confusing enough that I wasn’t Joseph Bennett!

  ‘Aw c’mon, English. You know the game. Olivia isn’t really me. She isn’t me at all. My real name is Cadillac McAllister. My sonofabitch dad always wanted a Cadillac, but every time he saved up anywhere near enough, Mum would tell him she was pregnant again and bang’d go the car. Fifth time it happened he’d had enough. He reckoned that if he couldn’t buy himself a Caddy he’d grow himself one instead. So he saddled me with this stupid name and then skedaddled as soon as the shine had rubbed off the fender and the tyres had gone a bit flat. Can you imagine going through life named after a goddamn car? Putting up with all the jokes from guys wanting to take Cadillac McAllister for a spin around the block? I couldn’t wait to get to LA to trade in that name and become someone different. Someone better.’

  She sipped her wine and broke a slightly larger than average crisp in two and popped the smaller part into her mouth. ‘Don’t you see, Joe? It’s precisely because you’re not Brad Pitt – that you don’t even think you’re Brad Pitt – that I’m crazy about you. Hollywood is full of phonies who’d like to be Brad, or Olivia. People like you – ordinary people who are completely honest about who and what they are – are a whole lot rarer. Buddy’s not even really Buddy – did you know that? He’s about as Jewish as I am! His family came over from Sweden. But how many Swedes make it in Hollywood? Even Bergman struggled in Lalaland and he was a fucking genius. I mean, I’m not having a go at Buddy – he’s been like a father to me these last couple of years, helping me get established and looking after me and everything – but he’s no more genuine than the rest of those guys.’

  While we’d been talking, it had started to drizzle. Then it began to rain more heavily and the umpires led the players off to the safety of the pavilion. I envied them their sanctuary.

  ‘Oh, great, it’s finished,’ said Olivia, snuggling up to me again until we were almost sharing a seat. Her breath warmed my neck as she spoke. A faint whiff of sea salt and white wine vinegar crisps rose up and tickled my nose. ‘Hmm, London on a cold, wet afternoon – what could we possibly do now?’

  ‘Well, we could take a look at the cricket museum,’ I suggested. ‘It’s very interesting. They’ve got the original Ashes urn in there and one of W. G. Grace’s caps and …’

  ‘And I’m sure my hotel room could be a whole lot more interesting,’ Olivia said. She opened her umbrella and gathered her things together, brooking no argument that we were leaving. ‘And you can buy yourself one of those cute little ball-bag things on the way.’

  We found a taxi on the St John’s Wood Road. Olivia cuddled up to me as the cab meandered through the late afternoon traffic back down towards Park Lane. The driver looked into his rear-view mirror so often it made me feel very uncomfortable. This could have meant that he was taking care to watch the traffic behind him but, given that he was a London cabbie, it seemed more likely he was checking and re-checking that it really was Olivia Finch in the back of his cab getting all cosy with a baldy nobody. I could imagine him telling future fares, ‘’Ere, I ’ad that Olivia Finch in the back of me cab the other day and guess ’oo she was wiv? Fackin’ nobody!’ I prayed he wasn’t connected through some bizarre twist of fate to anyone I knew. What if his very next fare was Bennett? Or Natasha? Or someone who knew either of them? London’s a big place, but aren’t we all supposed to be linked to everyone else through no more than six connections? What if his next passenger happened to be a lawyer doing some conveyancing work for a friend of Bennett’s wife, who mentioned it to Sandra who asked Bennett if he’d been out with Olivia again? Bennett adds two and two together – even he can do that – and I’m busted. Or his next fare is the father of one of Helen’s friends from school who tells his wife what the cabbie told him and she tells Natasha who then does ‘the math’ and ‘Bingo!’– six degrees to separation; seven to divorce.

  Then another thought struck me, right between the eyes. What if the bastard took a picture of us on his phone and sold it to the papers? I could imagine a charming picture of Olivia and her new man appearing as an exclusive in one of the tabloids under the headline: FINCH IN CAB CLINCH, followed by speculation about who the mystery man might be. The quality of pictures taken on tho
se bloody phones was pretty good these days. My goose was, once again, being rapidly roasted in the hottest part of the oven.

  I felt cornered. Like an antelope on the African plains at the moment it realises that the documentary crew isn’t there to film him grazing but is actually focussed on the family of lions inching their way through the undergrowth towards him. Trapped by my own slow-witted ineptitude. I needed to drop Olivia back at the hotel and get away before I landed myself in any more trouble.

  ‘You’ve gone very quiet, my fascinating English friend,’ Olivia purred into my right ear, ‘what are you thinking about right now?’

  ‘Oh, nothing,’ I lied.

  ‘Aw, come on,’ she said, turning up the Southern drawl a notch, making her voice even more huskily seductive than before. ‘Y’all must be thinking about something with that huge, brilliant brain of yours.’

  ‘No really, I’m not,’ I lied again. I could sense the taxi driver straining to catch what we were saying.

  ‘Well, you know what I’m thinking?’ she asked, then told me without even giving me a chance to have a guess, ‘I was thinking what a lovely day I’ve had.’ She paused, ever the actress, waiting to deliver the pay-off line with expert timing, ‘And wondering what I could do to say thank you for showing me such a good time.’ This was followed by a couple of extraordinary suggestions breathed into my ear with such erotic fervour that I felt every hair on every inch of my body stand to attention. I doubt that anyone in the long and noble history of the beautiful game of cricket had ever received an offer quite like this one in return for a day out at Lord’s.