into Richard's mouth, he would feel it bringing with it a more real, more tangible world than the febrile machinations of Bell and the clique. There would be turkey for Christmas dinner, and plenty of stuffing.
This vision came to him in the urinals beneath Notting Hill Gate, and when it cleared Richard found that he had toppled forward so that the side of his face and his shoulder were pressed against the slick jaundice of the splashback. The toilet attendant was shaking him. ‘Don't leave yer cock dangling out of yer flies ‘ere, mate,’ he advised. ‘Some cunt ‘ll have it off you an’ it'll be on sale in the Porterbeller before you can say Errol Flynn!’
Richard resolved to quit London the day after the Rendezvous office party. But before he did so he would make one last assault on Mount Ursula. If he failed
he would accept it, move on, break with Bell, turn his attention to higher things, dust off his ideals and reignite his ambition.
He phoned her in the dead hour after what would have been his lunch break, had he made it into the office that morning. ‘Ursula?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It's Richard.’
‘Richard – how nice to hear from you. Are you coming out to Kelbum's country place at the weekend? Apparently he's got some MDMA fresh from Sandoz in Switzerland, we're all going to go bacchanalian.’
‘I dunno. I thought I might go to my dad's place on Friday. Christmas you know.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you're right, I ought to think about that – ‘
‘And frankly, Ursula, I think I've had enough of Kelburn.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Ursula.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I'd like to see you before I go.’
‘I'll be in the club this evening, I'm meeting – ‘
‘Alone, Ursula, I want to see you alone.’ He couldhear her breathing on the other end of the phone. He imagined the warm curvature of her breast rising and falling, pressing into its fabric mould.
Then she replied, ‘I'd like to see you alone as well, Richard.’
‘Shall we have dinner, then? On Thursday, just the two of us?’
‘Yeah, OK, pick me up from here and we'll avoid the Sealink altogether. I was meant to be having dinner with Bell and some TV producer in from LA, but they can just do without me.’
After hanging up Richard went to the gents’ toilet, locked himself into a cubicle, confronted the commode, voided himself, then sprinkled three-quarters of a gram of cocaine on top of the excreta. He prayed over this powdery, maculate offering, prayed for success with Ursula, and wagered his soul as the stake.
Three days later it was a very different Richard Hermes who rang the entryphone outside Ursula Bentley's flat. The cocaine had fallen away from him like a conning tower blown off the side of a Saturn Five. Without Pablo extending dining privileges, Richard's psyche soared. He had put on a spurt of work, tidied up hisflat, renegotiated his overdraft, and telephoned both of his parents. He felt as virtuous as a nonagenarian nun, nodding away her virginal life in some closed order. He felt – somewhat paradoxically – ready for love.
They ate at the Brasserie St Quentin, opposite the Brompton Oratory. Ursula was demure to begin with, in her lunching mode. There was no talk of Bell, of the clique. Richard was nervous but steady. He acquitted himself well with the waiters and the wine list. By the time they got on to the main course (or at any rate he did – Ursula had confined herself to an entrée of Parmesan shavings atop rocket leaves, and was going for more of the same), he felt he was hitting his stride. She was laughing at his jokes, making her own conversational sallies; once or twice her knee brushed against his beneath the table.
Ursula was more beautiful than ever this evening. She was wearing a velvet variation on the little black dress, black suede high heels, and sepia-toned stockings. Richard knew they were stockings because of the seams he had followed into the Brasserie, seams he wanted to follow to their
This vision came to him in the urinals beneath Notting Hill Gate, and when it cleared Richard found that he had toppled forward so that the side of his face and his shoulder were pressed against the slick jaundice of the splashback. The toilet attendant was shaking him. ‘Don't leave yer cock dangling out of yer flies ‘ere, mate,’ he advised. ‘Some cunt ‘ll have it off you an’ it'll be on sale in the Porterbeller before you can say Errol Flynn!’
Richard resolved to quit London the day after the Rendezvous office party. But before he did so he would make one last assault on Mount Ursula. If he failed
he would accept it, move on, break with Bell, turn his attention to higher things, dust off his ideals and reignite his ambition.
He phoned her in the dead hour after what would have been his lunch break, had he made it into the office that morning. ‘Ursula?’
‘Yeah?’
‘It's Richard.’
‘Richard – how nice to hear from you. Are you coming out to Kelbum's country place at the weekend? Apparently he's got some MDMA fresh from Sandoz in Switzerland, we're all going to go bacchanalian.’
‘I dunno. I thought I might go to my dad's place on Friday. Christmas you know.’
‘Yeah, yeah, you're right, I ought to think about that – ‘
‘And frankly, Ursula, I think I've had enough of Kelburn.’
‘I know what you mean.’
‘Ursula.’
‘Yeah?’
‘I'd like to see you before I go.’
‘I'll be in the club this evening, I'm meeting – ‘
‘Alone, Ursula, I want to see you alone.’ He couldhear her breathing on the other end of the phone. He imagined the warm curvature of her breast rising and falling, pressing into its fabric mould.
Then she replied, ‘I'd like to see you alone as well, Richard.’
‘Shall we have dinner, then? On Thursday, just the two of us?’
‘Yeah, OK, pick me up from here and we'll avoid the Sealink altogether. I was meant to be having dinner with Bell and some TV producer in from LA, but they can just do without me.’
After hanging up Richard went to the gents’ toilet, locked himself into a cubicle, confronted the commode, voided himself, then sprinkled three-quarters of a gram of cocaine on top of the excreta. He prayed over this powdery, maculate offering, prayed for success with Ursula, and wagered his soul as the stake.
Three days later it was a very different Richard Hermes who rang the entryphone outside Ursula Bentley's flat. The cocaine had fallen away from him like a conning tower blown off the side of a Saturn Five. Without Pablo extending dining privileges, Richard's psyche soared. He had put on a spurt of work, tidied up hisflat, renegotiated his overdraft, and telephoned both of his parents. He felt as virtuous as a nonagenarian nun, nodding away her virginal life in some closed order. He felt – somewhat paradoxically – ready for love.
They ate at the Brasserie St Quentin, opposite the Brompton Oratory. Ursula was demure to begin with, in her lunching mode. There was no talk of Bell, of the clique. Richard was nervous but steady. He acquitted himself well with the waiters and the wine list. By the time they got on to the main course (or at any rate he did – Ursula had confined herself to an entrée of Parmesan shavings atop rocket leaves, and was going for more of the same), he felt he was hitting his stride. She was laughing at his jokes, making her own conversational sallies; once or twice her knee brushed against his beneath the table.
Ursula was more beautiful than ever this evening. She was wearing a velvet variation on the little black dress, black suede high heels, and sepia-toned stockings. Richard knew they were stockings because of the seams he had followed into the Brasserie, seams he wanted to follow to their
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