though.
Moving through the Park Lane traffic up towards Upper Brook Street
I begin to feel that this is what it's all about. A family in a Volvo turn to look
at us as we draw alongside them at the lights. It makes me think of our trips up
to London when we were children: shopping at Hamley's (one present each to a value
of ten pounds, according to my mum), sightseeing at Madame Tussauds or the Tower
of London, sometimes a film at the Odeon, Leicester Square and then tea at Fortnum
& Mason or McDonalds - both were equally exciting somehow back then. My sister
liked the milkshake at Fortnum's but I preferred the ones at McDonald's and besides
you could dip your chips in when Mum and Dad weren't looking.
I sensed my mum's unease in town and her general disapproval
of everything around her, which she saw as dirty, expensive, noisy and foreign.
'You never hear another English voice in London these days,' she would say - still
says. My dad still wears his discomfort like a badge bearing the inscription 'I'm
from Berkshire where we still do things properly'. God, I just wanted to get away
from them and disappear into the crowd, integrate myself into London. I wanted to
exchange my self-consciously up-in-London-forthe-day clothes for what the hip Londoners
were wearing.
When we reach the hotel a doorman opens Marion's door and I leap
out of my side and nip round to meet her on the pavement. For once the chauffeur
sits tight. Got you, you bastard. We join the throng of dinner suits and evening
gowns in the lobby. Marion is frowning, looking round for people she knows.
'What's this do for?' I ask her when I catch up.
'It's a charity thing,' she says, still looking round.
'Which charity?'
'How should I know? Some charity.'
We deposit our coats and go further in. Finally an old couple
appear through the crowd and Marion says 'Hello.'
They exchange a few 'How
are you's' and then Marion introduces us. They are old friends from New York.
We meet other old friends of Marion's. Handshakes and names and
'Nice to meet you's' merge into one another as Marion advances through the crowds,
like a whale sucking in the waves of people and filtering out the plankton she feels
it worth acknowledging.
I quickly learn that my place is just behind her left shoulder.
We encounter another older woman with a younger man, a tall dark-haired guy. The
two ladies kiss, and we men shake hands very firmly with each other. As the two
ladies talk animatedly above the hubbub we watch them. It is something of a relief
to see another couple in a similar configuration but it's also a bit unnerving.
I can't help making comparisons. He is good-looking, but better looking than me?
She is obviously rich, but richer than Marion? She clearly enjoys being on his arm,
is Marion as pleased to be seen with me?
After a while I feel a prickling of sweat around my hairline.
It is hot in here but more than that I am feeling increasingly uncomfortable, increasingly
under pressure. I realise that I am here for one thing and one thing only and everybody
we say hello to knows the score. We meet an Arab guy with his pretty, dark-haired
daughter. It would probably be more normal if she were my date not this woman old
enough to be my mother. The dark-haired girl ignores me.
Suddenly I need to get away, not just from the noise and the
crowd but from this weird situation. While Marion is listening intently to some
old dear describe a party in Venice given by another old dear, I whisper to her
that I am going to the loo, I won't be long. She nods which, I realise, means that
she is giving me permission as much as showing that she has heard me.
I push my way through people who are each paying a fortune to
stand in rush hour Tube-like overcrowding, and slip into the tranquillity of the
gents. As the door closes behind me the cool air and the gurgling of the cistern
and the squirting of water in the urinals make the room feel like some enchanted
spa. The feeling of relief is
Moving through the Park Lane traffic up towards Upper Brook Street
I begin to feel that this is what it's all about. A family in a Volvo turn to look
at us as we draw alongside them at the lights. It makes me think of our trips up
to London when we were children: shopping at Hamley's (one present each to a value
of ten pounds, according to my mum), sightseeing at Madame Tussauds or the Tower
of London, sometimes a film at the Odeon, Leicester Square and then tea at Fortnum
& Mason or McDonalds - both were equally exciting somehow back then. My sister
liked the milkshake at Fortnum's but I preferred the ones at McDonald's and besides
you could dip your chips in when Mum and Dad weren't looking.
I sensed my mum's unease in town and her general disapproval
of everything around her, which she saw as dirty, expensive, noisy and foreign.
'You never hear another English voice in London these days,' she would say - still
says. My dad still wears his discomfort like a badge bearing the inscription 'I'm
from Berkshire where we still do things properly'. God, I just wanted to get away
from them and disappear into the crowd, integrate myself into London. I wanted to
exchange my self-consciously up-in-London-forthe-day clothes for what the hip Londoners
were wearing.
When we reach the hotel a doorman opens Marion's door and I leap
out of my side and nip round to meet her on the pavement. For once the chauffeur
sits tight. Got you, you bastard. We join the throng of dinner suits and evening
gowns in the lobby. Marion is frowning, looking round for people she knows.
'What's this do for?' I ask her when I catch up.
'It's a charity thing,' she says, still looking round.
'Which charity?'
'How should I know? Some charity.'
We deposit our coats and go further in. Finally an old couple
appear through the crowd and Marion says 'Hello.'
They exchange a few 'How
are you's' and then Marion introduces us. They are old friends from New York.
We meet other old friends of Marion's. Handshakes and names and
'Nice to meet you's' merge into one another as Marion advances through the crowds,
like a whale sucking in the waves of people and filtering out the plankton she feels
it worth acknowledging.
I quickly learn that my place is just behind her left shoulder.
We encounter another older woman with a younger man, a tall dark-haired guy. The
two ladies kiss, and we men shake hands very firmly with each other. As the two
ladies talk animatedly above the hubbub we watch them. It is something of a relief
to see another couple in a similar configuration but it's also a bit unnerving.
I can't help making comparisons. He is good-looking, but better looking than me?
She is obviously rich, but richer than Marion? She clearly enjoys being on his arm,
is Marion as pleased to be seen with me?
After a while I feel a prickling of sweat around my hairline.
It is hot in here but more than that I am feeling increasingly uncomfortable, increasingly
under pressure. I realise that I am here for one thing and one thing only and everybody
we say hello to knows the score. We meet an Arab guy with his pretty, dark-haired
daughter. It would probably be more normal if she were my date not this woman old
enough to be my mother. The dark-haired girl ignores me.
Suddenly I need to get away, not just from the noise and the
crowd but from this weird situation. While Marion is listening intently to some
old dear describe a party in Venice given by another old dear, I whisper to her
that I am going to the loo, I won't be long. She nods which, I realise, means that
she is giving me permission as much as showing that she has heard me.
I push my way through people who are each paying a fortune to
stand in rush hour Tube-like overcrowding, and slip into the tranquillity of the
gents. As the door closes behind me the cool air and the gurgling of the cistern
and the squirting of water in the urinals make the room feel like some enchanted
spa. The feeling of relief is
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