rather than my curls.
James fiddles with his CD player and on comes the soundtrack to the inner circle of hell: Dido, Flo Rida, some vocoder crap, the sort of banging dance music they play in gyms.
‘Have you not got the Crazy Frog tune?’ I say.
He presses the forward button and on comes Sam Cook.
‘Well recovered,’ I say.
There is a queue of cars in front of us, and James suddenly pulls to the left and speeds down the bus lane.
‘Bus lane,’ I say.
‘It’s fine.’
‘It says “At any time”.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You’ll get a ticket.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Just because you’ve got a crown on your steering wheel doesn’t mean you can act like royalty.’
‘It’s a trident, love.’
‘What about the people on buses? There are bus lanes for a reason.’
‘They’ll still get there,’ he says.
‘If I was on that bus, I’d think you were a dick,’ I say.
‘But you’re not. You’re in my car.’
He has booked tickets to see Antichrist , because he thought I’d like an art house film. The cinema is very warm, and half an hour into the film, he falls asleep. Occasionally I nudge him but he looks extremely content, and quite frankly I wish I could sleep through it too.
As the end credits roll I wake him up. ‘You missed the bit where she drills through his leg, and the bit where she wanks him off and blood spurts out of his cock,’ I say.
He shudders. ‘Thank God.’
‘What now,’ I say, ‘Chinatown for some duck pancakes?’
‘I thought you might like to have dinner at mine.’
‘You’re going to cook for me?’
‘I was thinking more like a takeaway,’ he says.
‘Why don’t we cook?’
‘You’ll see why.’
‘Are you sure your wife’s not at home tonight?’
‘She’s on holiday with the kids and my three mistresses,’ he says.
He pulls up outside a house in Fitzroy Road. That’s Primrose Hill, not Camden. It has the loveliest front door of all the houses on the street – a deep, inky blue, with a semi-circular glass window at the top, like the sun rising.
This is all too good to be true. He’s too sexy, too rich, too tall, too much fun, too interesting, too smart, that door is too perfect. You don’t get to have all this in one person. Maybe you get three of the above but the guy turns out to be a cokehead or a depressive. James is the golden ticket. Something must be wrong.
Inside, everything is homely and unpretentious. On a low wooden sideboard sits a beautiful old-fashioned globe, the countries in faded pinks and yellows and greens and blues.
‘Who are these guys?’ I say, looking at the framed photos next to the globe.
‘That’s me and Rob in Mexico.’
‘You look happy,’ I say.
‘We’d just been skydiving,’ he says. ‘I think I was still high.’
‘And in this one? That must be your grandfather … father’s side?’ I say, looking at a faded photo of a stern looking man with James’s nose and dark eyebrows, his hand on the shoulder of a young boy who’s trying not to giggle. ‘Your hair was so blonde!’
‘My grandad was, what, early seventies? Still smoking thirty a day and drinking a large whisky before lunch. He made me go and find ten different types of leaves in Epping Forest while he sat on that bench with a hip flask, smoking and reading the Essex Chronicle .’
‘And this one! Look at your hair! How old are you here?’
‘Ten. June 3rd, 1975, Woodford Under 11s Junior Chess Champion.’
‘Such a nerd!’ I say. ‘Do you still play?’
‘Not really. But I’ll give you a game if you don’t mind losing,’ he says.
‘I love losing. So, why can’t we cook?’ I say, as we head downstairs to his kitchen.
‘You’ll see.’ And I do. His kitchen is like a student dig. He has a double electric hob, a microwave and a tiny, none-too-clean oven. I open one cupboard and see three Pot Noodles and two tins of tuna. In the next cupboard is some Tesco own brand pasta. ‘I need a wife,’ he says.
James fiddles with his CD player and on comes the soundtrack to the inner circle of hell: Dido, Flo Rida, some vocoder crap, the sort of banging dance music they play in gyms.
‘Have you not got the Crazy Frog tune?’ I say.
He presses the forward button and on comes Sam Cook.
‘Well recovered,’ I say.
There is a queue of cars in front of us, and James suddenly pulls to the left and speeds down the bus lane.
‘Bus lane,’ I say.
‘It’s fine.’
‘It says “At any time”.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You’ll get a ticket.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Just because you’ve got a crown on your steering wheel doesn’t mean you can act like royalty.’
‘It’s a trident, love.’
‘What about the people on buses? There are bus lanes for a reason.’
‘They’ll still get there,’ he says.
‘If I was on that bus, I’d think you were a dick,’ I say.
‘But you’re not. You’re in my car.’
He has booked tickets to see Antichrist , because he thought I’d like an art house film. The cinema is very warm, and half an hour into the film, he falls asleep. Occasionally I nudge him but he looks extremely content, and quite frankly I wish I could sleep through it too.
As the end credits roll I wake him up. ‘You missed the bit where she drills through his leg, and the bit where she wanks him off and blood spurts out of his cock,’ I say.
He shudders. ‘Thank God.’
‘What now,’ I say, ‘Chinatown for some duck pancakes?’
‘I thought you might like to have dinner at mine.’
‘You’re going to cook for me?’
‘I was thinking more like a takeaway,’ he says.
‘Why don’t we cook?’
‘You’ll see why.’
‘Are you sure your wife’s not at home tonight?’
‘She’s on holiday with the kids and my three mistresses,’ he says.
He pulls up outside a house in Fitzroy Road. That’s Primrose Hill, not Camden. It has the loveliest front door of all the houses on the street – a deep, inky blue, with a semi-circular glass window at the top, like the sun rising.
This is all too good to be true. He’s too sexy, too rich, too tall, too much fun, too interesting, too smart, that door is too perfect. You don’t get to have all this in one person. Maybe you get three of the above but the guy turns out to be a cokehead or a depressive. James is the golden ticket. Something must be wrong.
Inside, everything is homely and unpretentious. On a low wooden sideboard sits a beautiful old-fashioned globe, the countries in faded pinks and yellows and greens and blues.
‘Who are these guys?’ I say, looking at the framed photos next to the globe.
‘That’s me and Rob in Mexico.’
‘You look happy,’ I say.
‘We’d just been skydiving,’ he says. ‘I think I was still high.’
‘And in this one? That must be your grandfather … father’s side?’ I say, looking at a faded photo of a stern looking man with James’s nose and dark eyebrows, his hand on the shoulder of a young boy who’s trying not to giggle. ‘Your hair was so blonde!’
‘My grandad was, what, early seventies? Still smoking thirty a day and drinking a large whisky before lunch. He made me go and find ten different types of leaves in Epping Forest while he sat on that bench with a hip flask, smoking and reading the Essex Chronicle .’
‘And this one! Look at your hair! How old are you here?’
‘Ten. June 3rd, 1975, Woodford Under 11s Junior Chess Champion.’
‘Such a nerd!’ I say. ‘Do you still play?’
‘Not really. But I’ll give you a game if you don’t mind losing,’ he says.
‘I love losing. So, why can’t we cook?’ I say, as we head downstairs to his kitchen.
‘You’ll see.’ And I do. His kitchen is like a student dig. He has a double electric hob, a microwave and a tiny, none-too-clean oven. I open one cupboard and see three Pot Noodles and two tins of tuna. In the next cupboard is some Tesco own brand pasta. ‘I need a wife,’ he says.
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