Isnt that right? she challenged, fixing him with a sultry stare, full of pornographic promise. Then, just as quickly, she removed it.
(Hot, cold, scalding, freezing; here was a girl who knew how to hook a man.)
Arnaud couldnt believe his luck. This sexy young woman wanted him! In a few seconds shed managed to obliterate months of self-doubt.
Hed obviously been oversensitive about the business with the mirror.
Leaning back casually against the counter, he dug his hands deep in his pockets, grinning. When he was younger, hed possessed a pair of captivating dimples; he did his best to flash them now. I think youre too cynical.
No. Im a realist. So. What do you think? She licked her lips, slowly zipping up the front. I want a mans opinion.
He held her gaze. I think that you are too beautiful not to have exactly what you want.
She laughed, tossing her mane of black hair over her shoulder. (Heres what I look like in the throes of passion, she signalled.) Easy to say, but hard to do!
He had a vision of her, writhing above him, dark hair across her bare chest.
Out came his wallet. Allow me.
Her eyes widened.
On one condition, of course, he handed his credit card to the stunned assistant, you must allow me to drive you home.
A Stranger at the Garrick Club
Jonathan Mortimer Esq. of the solicitors Hawes and Dawson, paused at the bottom of the stairs and rubbed his eyes.
It was late.
Hed struggled through another supper with his most important client, Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray and one of his yes men, Jack Pollard, securing a private dining room at the Garrick Club at short notice. Arnaud had insisted on bringing some Russian escort along. What shouldve been an hour or two at most discussing yet another merger, dragged into three while they groped and pawed one another. It was so tedious; rich people were like toddlers with their constant demands for attention.
Now all he wanted to do was go home. But the thought of climbing the stairs, his wife Amys back turned pointedly towards him as he got into bed, made him hesitate.
Why was being married so bloody difficult?
Theyd had yet another argument this morning. He couldnt even remember what set it offonly that it had escalated into dangerous territory too quickly. There was only one scene they played out nowadays. He was unsure exactly what it was about, only that it was bitter and full of tension.
So instead he wandered back into the bar of the Garrick Club and, slumped into one of the decrepit leather armchairs, began working away on his fourth Scotch.
All around him the comforting noises of men acting like men lulled him, tugging away at the frazzled threadbare edges of his soul. That was what gentlemens clubs were for; a last refuge from any form of female-ridden reality.
Swallowing a thick, amber shot in one, he reflected on the state of his life. If hed bought it in a shop, hed demand a refund immediately; it was clearly not as advertised.
And it was all Amys fault.
He remembered the plans theyd made, when there were only two of them, tucked into bed in his Chelsea bachelor pad; the picture Amy painted of a large, comfortable family house filled with song and laughter, like The Sound of Music; the discreet, grateful army of cheerful nannies, demure cleaners, and cheeky au pairs serving delicious meals round the dining table where adults and children would share a quiet hour of civilized conversation
Then he thought of the mouldly Marmite sandwich and Stickle Bricks hed discovered wedged into his briefcase this morning by one of the boys. Of the pokey, overpriced house they were all crammed into in the less fashionable environs of South London. Of the sullen Spanish au pair who regularly ate all the ice cream.
This was not that vision.
You only had to look at Amy and she conceived again. Three children under nine and now another one on the way! Of course he loved the children. That wasnt the issue. The real crime was Amys. Shed abandoned him; the delicate, devoted woman hed married had evaporated early on in the first pregnancy. Overnight shed been replaced by a wisecracking, middle-aged Shakespearean wet nurse, complete with the matching body of cartoon proportions.
Hed been left to fend for himself; relegated to a marginalized authority figure, endured for his only useful qualityhis ability to fund this extravaganza.
It was unfair.
And he was lonely.
He tried to focus on his watch.
Just time for one more drink.
The bar was still quite full, despite the late hour. Jonathan was having trouble attracting the waiters attention. He stood up, legs unsteady. Lurching forward, he tumbled straight into a fellow member reading a copy of the Financial Times.
Terribly sorry! he gushed, trying to rebalance himself, smooth his tie down and uncrumple the mans paper all at once, all unsuccessfully.
The gentleman smiled, brushing off his exquisitely cut Savile Row suit with quick strokes. He led Jonathan back to his own chair, where he collapsed gratefully.
Really I cant apologize enough. Jonathans cheeks were flushed from embarrassment and effort. Stupid of me. Clumsy. Im really terribly, terribly sorry His voice faded. It was all turning into a nightmare. The porter would end up calling him a cab and Amy would have a field day. Consequences stretched out before him, predictable and unavoidable.
He sighed.
The man tilted his silver head to one side, then sat down next to Jonathan and crossed his legs. I hope youll forgive me, but it seems to me as if you have a great deal on your mind.
Jonathan looked up into his still, grey eyes. They were so calm, so friendly, so non-judgemental.
Yes, he nodded. Yes. You see, I do. I really do.
The man smiled. Its very difficult sometimes. No one really understands.
Jonathan leant forward eagerly, clutching his empty glass. Yes, thats true! he agreed.
Just because were the stranger paused, men of the world, shall we say? Everyone assumes we can handle things on our own. He raised his arm and almost instantly a waiter appeared. May I buy you a drink?
And in that moment, there seemed to be more kindness than Jonathan had felt in a long time. Thank you, he said gratefully. Thank you very much!
The waiter took their order, moving soundlessly away, and Jonathan settled back into his chair. Almost unconsciously, he checked his watch and frowned.
Late? the stranger ventured.
Jonathan laughed stiffly. Not yet. No, no. Not yet. He was aware of how henpecked he sounded. You see, my wifes pregnant. Again. Doesnt like to be alone in the house at night, he lied.
Ah! Married life! The man smiled knowingly.
Jonathan felt the stiffness in his shoulders relax; he smiled too. It should come with a warning, shouldnt it? Like they put on packets of cigarettes: marriage kills! He felt instantly guilty. Or at least, all the best bits diethe sex for starters! This time his laugh sounded hollow and forced.
The waiter returned and, armed with a fresh glass of Scotch, Jonathan rallied. I mean, everyone has bad patches, right?
The waiter returned and, armed with a fresh glass of Scotch, Jonathan rallied. I mean, everyone has bad patches, right?
The man was still.
Its just, my wife has been pregnant for so long! One kid after anotherIt changes a girl. Shes not the same, he added, staring into his glass.
Yes, everything changes, the man agreed, gently.
It was a simple enough comment, but the mans voice had a wistful quality. In his drunkenness, Jonathan imagined this stranger understood, with greater subtlety, a whole range of experience none of his other married friends would admit.
Thing is, Jonathan leant in closer, lowering his voice, I dont actually fancy her any more!
There. At last, hed said it out loud. To a complete stranger, but perhaps that was for the best. He felt a mixture of relief and panic. I mean, I love her. Of course I love her
Did he?
Was it love or just habit that kept them together now? A sharp burning sensation filled his chest; the question was too painful even to contemplate.
Yes, the stranger tilted his head thoughtfully to one side. You see, my view of marriage is that its an extremely delicate thing. Resilient, yes. But more like a finely made Swiss watch than, say, a huge, muddy piece of farm equipment. Sometimes, when its all come to a grinding halt, whats really required is a little fine tuning rather than a large, clumsy repair job. As he spoke, the man re-crossed his legs. Jonathan was aware of the glossy black sheen of his handmade shoes and the way his dark navy silk socks matched the shade of his pinstripe suit perfectly. Elegant silver cufflinks flashed as he drew his elbows up, pressing the tips of his long fingers against one another. From what youve said, its possible that both sides are feeling neglected, perhaps a little unappreciated. Does that sound like an accurate appraisal to you?
He made it sound so light, so normal.
Jonathan nodded. Yes, I suppose so.
These situations can so easily get out of hand. Snowball, so to speak. But, he held his finger up promisingly, if one of you were to make an effort, the whole thing could easily be reversed, dont you think?
Jonathan imagined a large snowball barrelling towards him, then suddenly swerving, heading in the opposite direction, growing smaller and smaller until it disappeared.
Perhaps
The man sensed his hesitation. But when a dynamic has been allowed to grow unchecked for so long, one doesnt always have the emotional resources to make the effort required, he concluded.
Thats right! Jonathan had never heard anyone describe his particular malaise so succinctly or accurately.
Yes, yes, of course! the man nodded. Ive seen it a thousand times!
Have you? Jonathan leant forward.
Absolutely! Dont despair. This whole difficult chapter of your marriage can be behind you in a week, the man assured him breezily. In place of a distant, sullen wife whos given up on herself, you can have a delightful, confident creaturewithout the time, expense or distress of resorting to long-drawn-out discussions where intimate details are dragged out in front of third parties.
Really? But whats to be done?
The man took something out of his breast pocket; a thin silver card holder. And moving with no particular speed or urgency, he removed a card and handed it to Jonathan. I might be able to help you.
The card read:
Valentine Charles.
Procurer of Rare Domestic Services.
Satisfaction Absolutely Guaranteed.
111 Half Moon Street
Two days after the advertisement appeared in the Stage, 111 Half Moon Street was inundated with responses and the postman had to ring the bell because all the thick envelopes wouldnt fit through the letter box.
Valentine Charles couldnt quite decide if he enjoyed this bit of the proceedings; it was time consuming and exhausting sifting through all the letters, but also thrilling when one happened upon that rare gem. This morning, the deluge had been particularly heavy and as he sat there, in his cashmere dressing gown, with his morning coffee, he looked upon the pile with satisfaction. In there, somewhere, was a budding new apprentice and an answer to the staff difficulties that had plagued him for the past months.
He considered diving straight in but then dismissed the idea. He was a creature of habit and married to the inflexible, set routine of his daily life. One of the pleasures of living by yourself is the privilege of being able to practise, day after day, in whatever order you wish, the rituals that define your tastes and aspirations without any threat of disruption. And at fifty-eight, Valentine was deeply grateful for his solitude.
He had loved, a few times briefly but only once seriously. The love wasnt returned and so he made peace with all the aspects of single life that many people find so abhorrent. Now he valued them above all else. Over time hed mutated from a lonely, watchful person into a completely self-sufficient one, treating himself with the same affection a lover would. The older he was the more he realized that few people were given the time and means to be as completely indulged as he was. He hadnt had to accommodate another human being on any matter of significance for years. He was entirely, unapologetically selfish and grateful for the opportunity to be so. Now, when he thought of the woman who broke his heart (which was rare), he viewed it as a narrow escape.
No, hed finish his coffee, glance at the crossword, then have his bath. And while he was dressing, his assistant, Flick, would arrive.
Flick had been sent from an agency twelve years ago. Shed turned up, a rather dour middle-aged Irish woman in a beige Marks and Spencer twinset, shortly after her husband died. Her full name was Mary Margaret Flickering, but Valentine had christened her Flick early on. At first she was horrified. But gradually, Mary Margaret Flickering began to fade and Flick took hold. The beige twinset disappeared; her actions became sharper, her tone confident and Valentine learnt the power of re-framing someone. Flick was more daring and resilient than Mary Margaret Flickering had ever been. And she was funnier too. Now she was invaluable to him.
Half Moon Street wasnt a traditional office. It was an old-fashioned bachelor pad. It had last been refurbished in the late fifties and still had some of the plumbing features from the thirties that are so popular now. There was a large reception room, a tiny office, a single bedroom and the kind of kitchen only a man would find adequate. It was furnished like a set from Brideshead Revisited; a look of luxurious, old moneyed antiques shoved into students quarters.
There had been a time when Valentine had toyed with the idea of having a separate office but in truth he enjoyed having Flick about. She provided just the right touch of domesticity to his life. He liked the fact that he could emerge from his bedroom to find her rifling through the post; more often than not shed make some small adjustment to his tie in the same casual way a wife would. It was all the intimacy he required without any of the emotional turmoil.