Eat My Heart Out by Zoe Pilger Page B

to the left and he tried to get that tongue in my mouth. I pulled back.
    He looked sad, so I said: ‘But how rude of me! I haven’t asked you what you do?’
    â€˜I am in the pussy business.’
    â€˜Oh? That’s not what I meant.’ I was slurring. ‘I mean – this is for free.’ I opened my arms wide. ‘I am here for free. Because I like you.’
    â€˜Why, thank you, my wild orchid.’ He touched the tip of my nose. ‘I like you too.’
    â€˜And I’m lonely.’
    He pulled a BlackBerry out of his waistcoat pocket. ‘Look.’ He showed me a picture. It was a cat with orange eyes and blue-grey fur.
    â€˜That looks like a cute alien!’ I cried. I gestured to the bartender for two more martinis. He was wrapping the spirit bottles in layers of cling film; they looked like silkworm cocoons. I told him so. He ignored me.
    I hitched my pencil skirt up shorter.
    â€˜That’s Lola,’ said James. ‘She is a chartreuse. I breed. One is not supposed to breed chartreuse on English shores according to the blasted CFA.’
    â€˜CFA?’
    â€˜Cat Fanciers Association. But to hell with them!’ His face became angry. ‘They are the most sumptuous pussies in all the world as far as I’m concerned! In all of Europe. I’ve been obsessed with them ever since I came across one while backpacking through the Chartreuse Mountains, from whence they derive their name.’ He stared into my eyes. ‘I was a young man then. That was before I met Margaret.’
    I reached for the tiny green balls but they had all gone.
    â€˜There, the mountains are blue,’ said James. ‘The monks make blue liqueur. Everything is blue.’
    â€˜I want to go there,’ I said.
    A white statue wearing nothing but a pair of jazzy speedos and Ray-Bans was standing in the corner of the lift, reflected a million times in the mirrors that fenced us in. James and I were reflected too: we looked hideous together. The statue was made of porcelain, not marble. Its hair was slicked back, American Psycho style.
    â€˜He reminds me of my father,’ I slurred, pointing to the statue. We were heading up to the seventh floor: good luck. ‘’Cept my father was taller and looks more like Tom Cruise in Risky Business . Have you seen that film?’
    James shook his head.
    â€˜Me neither. But I’ve seen the posters. There’s a photo of my mother and father on a cruise ship in 1984. That was the year they met. Actually, they met on the cruise ship. Because my father was making a noise in cruises. A big noise. And my mother was just … there. It was sailing from Portsmouth to Bilbao.’ I looked at my million weathered faces in the mirrors. ‘They fell in love.’
    There was a ding. The doors opened. The corridor was long and pale and candy-coloured. It was making me seasick. I touched the wall, and found that it was made of leather.
    â€˜Was your mother selling croissants on the cruise?’
    â€˜No,’ I said. ‘That was in her muffin phase. She was selling muffins.’
    James laughed heartily and grabbed my hand. He kissed my knuckles. I balled my fist. He prised my hand open and put my index finger in his mouth. He sucked it very slowly. I watched him, fascinated.
    â€˜I love a girl with imagination,’ he said to my finger.
    â€˜But that bit about the cruise ship was true,’ I told him.
    James was doing his toilette. The bathroom door was closed. I sat on the end of the king-size bed and stared at the cupboard containing the TV for a long while. Then I shouted loud enough for him to hear: ‘I love you!’
    â€˜I love you too!’ he shouted back.
    I opened the cupboard and stared at the blank TV screen inside. I opened the mini-bar and uncorked a bottle of champagne. It hissed. I filled two flutes.
    A collage of insects hung over the candy-coloured leather sofa, which matched all the