short-lived as I realise that there is someone else
in here with me. I turn round quickly and see the tall guy who was with one of Marion's
friends. He is leaning up against the far wall, smoking. He looks me up and down
for a moment and then offers me a cigarette, which I take.
'This is about the only place you can get away from them,' he
says, tapping ash into the sink.
'From ... ?'
'Them.'
'Oh, yeah.'
He is certainly good-looking but, in the hard fluorescent light,
older than I thought at first. Early thirties, maybe. His dinner jacket is actually
slightly shiny. I am not sure if I'm talking to a rival or learning from an expert.
He takes a long drag and puffs out smoke rings.
'She behaving?' he asks after a moment.
'Behaving? Oh, yeah.' I don't want to sound too enthusiastic
so I add, 'She's OK.'
'How long have you two been together?'
'Oh, not long,' I say vaguely. What was his name? Mark, I think.
He takes a little pill box out of his jacket pocket.
'Do you ... ?' I think about it for a moment but he laughs when
he sees me hesitate. 'Please yourself.' He taps a bit onto the back of his hand
and snorts it quickly. Mark, I realise, is in another league. If I'm at the lowest
rung of this weird ladder, just thrilled about getting to Claridges and knocking
back a couple of glasses of champagne, Mark is sitting at the top of it, looking
round, elegantly bored and blasé. I realise that I haven't been this keen to impress
someone since I was at school.
But then Mark says, 'You know it's a fucking mug's game.'
'Is it?' I look at him in the mirror.
He laughs. 'You haven't been doing it long, have you?' he asks,
scratching something off the sleeve of his jacket.
'Er, no. Not very long,' I say casually, wondering whether I
should be honest if he does ask me.
'Mind you, it beats working for a living,' is all he says.
'I know,' I add, glad to hear him sound at least slightly positive.
He sniffs and then looks at me in the mirror for a moment. 'Just
one word of advice, young man. Make sure there's more give than take on their part
and make sure that the give is in cash wherever possible.' He turns to look in the
mirror. 'Like the song says, "Get that ice or else no dice!'"
He checks his tie, runs his hands through his thick, dark hair
and wipes his nose quickly with a finger. 'OK? Shall we join the ladies?'
I had a feeling that I had been to Claridges before that night.
The next day, at work, it came to me. I hadn't been there myself but, in an alcove
in their living room, my mum and dad have a large ornamental brandy glass. For years
they've been putting into it boxes of matches from hotels, boats and restaurants.
If you dig down deep into the little envelopes and boxes you can find matches from
the Canberra, the Negresco, the Moulin Rouge or the Ritz. Once when I was young
I reached up and took one off the top. It was from Claridges where my mum and dad
had attended some industry awards ceremony. It was a Sunday afternoon and there
was nothing else to do so I took the box out into the garden and lit every match,
watching it burnt down as low as I could bear the pam.
My mum was furious. Looking back, it wasn't just the fact that
I could have set light to myself that upset her so much. The thing was that now
she would have to wait until they went to Claridges again before she could get another
one and that might not be for years to come. These silly little cardboard boxes
were her only connection with a world of glamour and wealth, proof that they had
been to these places, that in their own little way they had made it.
Fortunately I don't have to dance with Marion, something that
had caused me huge anxiety and even prompted me to tiptoe around my bedroom, arms
held aloft in an imaginary embrace, because she announces immediately after dinner
that we are leaving. On the way out, we pass Mark and date. The women kiss and the
old dear spends so much time telling Marion to take care of herself that you'd think
she was
in here with me. I turn round quickly and see the tall guy who was with one of Marion's
friends. He is leaning up against the far wall, smoking. He looks me up and down
for a moment and then offers me a cigarette, which I take.
'This is about the only place you can get away from them,' he
says, tapping ash into the sink.
'From ... ?'
'Them.'
'Oh, yeah.'
He is certainly good-looking but, in the hard fluorescent light,
older than I thought at first. Early thirties, maybe. His dinner jacket is actually
slightly shiny. I am not sure if I'm talking to a rival or learning from an expert.
He takes a long drag and puffs out smoke rings.
'She behaving?' he asks after a moment.
'Behaving? Oh, yeah.' I don't want to sound too enthusiastic
so I add, 'She's OK.'
'How long have you two been together?'
'Oh, not long,' I say vaguely. What was his name? Mark, I think.
He takes a little pill box out of his jacket pocket.
'Do you ... ?' I think about it for a moment but he laughs when
he sees me hesitate. 'Please yourself.' He taps a bit onto the back of his hand
and snorts it quickly. Mark, I realise, is in another league. If I'm at the lowest
rung of this weird ladder, just thrilled about getting to Claridges and knocking
back a couple of glasses of champagne, Mark is sitting at the top of it, looking
round, elegantly bored and blasé. I realise that I haven't been this keen to impress
someone since I was at school.
But then Mark says, 'You know it's a fucking mug's game.'
'Is it?' I look at him in the mirror.
He laughs. 'You haven't been doing it long, have you?' he asks,
scratching something off the sleeve of his jacket.
'Er, no. Not very long,' I say casually, wondering whether I
should be honest if he does ask me.
'Mind you, it beats working for a living,' is all he says.
'I know,' I add, glad to hear him sound at least slightly positive.
He sniffs and then looks at me in the mirror for a moment. 'Just
one word of advice, young man. Make sure there's more give than take on their part
and make sure that the give is in cash wherever possible.' He turns to look in the
mirror. 'Like the song says, "Get that ice or else no dice!'"
He checks his tie, runs his hands through his thick, dark hair
and wipes his nose quickly with a finger. 'OK? Shall we join the ladies?'
I had a feeling that I had been to Claridges before that night.
The next day, at work, it came to me. I hadn't been there myself but, in an alcove
in their living room, my mum and dad have a large ornamental brandy glass. For years
they've been putting into it boxes of matches from hotels, boats and restaurants.
If you dig down deep into the little envelopes and boxes you can find matches from
the Canberra, the Negresco, the Moulin Rouge or the Ritz. Once when I was young
I reached up and took one off the top. It was from Claridges where my mum and dad
had attended some industry awards ceremony. It was a Sunday afternoon and there
was nothing else to do so I took the box out into the garden and lit every match,
watching it burnt down as low as I could bear the pam.
My mum was furious. Looking back, it wasn't just the fact that
I could have set light to myself that upset her so much. The thing was that now
she would have to wait until they went to Claridges again before she could get another
one and that might not be for years to come. These silly little cardboard boxes
were her only connection with a world of glamour and wealth, proof that they had
been to these places, that in their own little way they had made it.
Fortunately I don't have to dance with Marion, something that
had caused me huge anxiety and even prompted me to tiptoe around my bedroom, arms
held aloft in an imaginary embrace, because she announces immediately after dinner
that we are leaving. On the way out, we pass Mark and date. The women kiss and the
old dear spends so much time telling Marion to take care of herself that you'd think
she was
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