really so bad, so awful?”
Archie pursed her lips. “Look. For a week we fucked each other’s brains out. Now what? What is there between us?”
“Physical intimacy?”
“No. When you met me you thought me wonderful. You said so to Jimmy. You admired me. Now I’m no longer any use to you. You don’t even like me particularly.”
“I do like you perfectly well, Archie. But it’s all been a bit impersonal, hasn’t it?”
“Chuck, I don’t think you’ve ever felt for any woman what you feel for me. You have to be much more honest emotionally if you want to avoid the fate of millions of your fellow Englishmen. You know, all those sad blokes down the pub drinking bitter
and pretending they care about the cricket scores.”
That was the last meaningful conversation we had for a long time. The only tangible result of the week was that my stomach seemed flatter and I had to take my belt in a notch.
Soon I was packed and gone. London received me in its cool, disinterested embrace. I was back on Pudding Island, eating muffins and drinking Darjeeling with acquaintances all apparently eager to discuss David Hare’s latest play. There were chestnuts roasting outside the British Museum and, on every street corner, free newspapers stuffed with information about those fascinating princes Harry and Will, the rigors of Afghanistan and Robbie Williams’s Ferrari collection.
Oh dear, oh fuck! What a load of second-hand nonsense.
I always wanted the world to be a little wilder than this.
IX
The trouble with sexual experiments, however consensual, is that they tend to destroy friendships.
I didn’t see Jimmy and Archie for about a year and a half after the events I have related. Then I bumped into Jimmy in Berlin, at an art fair. By then Jimmy and Archie had divorced, and Archie had spent several months living in Sai Baba’s ashram in India, before coming back to Europe, weighed down by dubious spiritual baggage.
Jimmy’s attitude to me was vaguely hostile, but not as much as I’d expected. I ate a hell of a lot of humble pie, while he stood there smiling at me then cut me off in the middle of my apologetic ramblings.
“I knew what she was planning all along, Chuck. She’d already told me she liked you.”
“She had?”
“Yeah. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her. She said you were perfect because you wouldn’t get too involved. Or pester her afterwards. The perfect English gentleman. She had you figured, Chuck.”
“So you really knew?”
“Kind of.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Who cares? It’s all old hat now.”
Nothing had changed, in fact. There was still me in my moleskin trousers and scuffed brogues, and there was Jimmy, the great glittering pretend-shark, with a bloodless wound somewhere about his person.
“Were you very disappointed when it all messed up?”
He looked at me, an astonished smile on his face. “Me? Of course not! I was fucking relieved, man! I was sick of all the games, the whole mental sex thing. Women are players. They analyze the game stats. Men just want to win and get it over with. I’m no different from all the rest.”
“How is Archie?”
“Oh. Fucking crazy, of course! The divorce has been a hell of a ride.”
“Must have cost you a bit?”
“It did. I had to give her the house in Sardinia. She’s living there now. I’m still picking up the tab. She’s pretty well going nuts, I reckon.”
“Poor Archie,” I said, surprising myself. “So do you miss your life there in Sardinia?”
“To be honest I couldn’t stand the place. All that stinky old cheese, peasants on mopeds. Fucking creepy, wasn’t it?” I sensed his wound again, carefully hidden under his crumpled linen Armani suit. “What about you? Any last thoughts about Archie?”
His question set me off. At once I was back in that bed by the window, the low sunlight pouring in: Archie, her honey-colored skin, the little soft hairs round her belly-button. I felt myself
Archie pursed her lips. “Look. For a week we fucked each other’s brains out. Now what? What is there between us?”
“Physical intimacy?”
“No. When you met me you thought me wonderful. You said so to Jimmy. You admired me. Now I’m no longer any use to you. You don’t even like me particularly.”
“I do like you perfectly well, Archie. But it’s all been a bit impersonal, hasn’t it?”
“Chuck, I don’t think you’ve ever felt for any woman what you feel for me. You have to be much more honest emotionally if you want to avoid the fate of millions of your fellow Englishmen. You know, all those sad blokes down the pub drinking bitter
and pretending they care about the cricket scores.”
That was the last meaningful conversation we had for a long time. The only tangible result of the week was that my stomach seemed flatter and I had to take my belt in a notch.
Soon I was packed and gone. London received me in its cool, disinterested embrace. I was back on Pudding Island, eating muffins and drinking Darjeeling with acquaintances all apparently eager to discuss David Hare’s latest play. There were chestnuts roasting outside the British Museum and, on every street corner, free newspapers stuffed with information about those fascinating princes Harry and Will, the rigors of Afghanistan and Robbie Williams’s Ferrari collection.
Oh dear, oh fuck! What a load of second-hand nonsense.
I always wanted the world to be a little wilder than this.
IX
The trouble with sexual experiments, however consensual, is that they tend to destroy friendships.
I didn’t see Jimmy and Archie for about a year and a half after the events I have related. Then I bumped into Jimmy in Berlin, at an art fair. By then Jimmy and Archie had divorced, and Archie had spent several months living in Sai Baba’s ashram in India, before coming back to Europe, weighed down by dubious spiritual baggage.
Jimmy’s attitude to me was vaguely hostile, but not as much as I’d expected. I ate a hell of a lot of humble pie, while he stood there smiling at me then cut me off in the middle of my apologetic ramblings.
“I knew what she was planning all along, Chuck. She’d already told me she liked you.”
“She had?”
“Yeah. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist her. She said you were perfect because you wouldn’t get too involved. Or pester her afterwards. The perfect English gentleman. She had you figured, Chuck.”
“So you really knew?”
“Kind of.” He slapped me on the shoulder. “Who cares? It’s all old hat now.”
Nothing had changed, in fact. There was still me in my moleskin trousers and scuffed brogues, and there was Jimmy, the great glittering pretend-shark, with a bloodless wound somewhere about his person.
“Were you very disappointed when it all messed up?”
He looked at me, an astonished smile on his face. “Me? Of course not! I was fucking relieved, man! I was sick of all the games, the whole mental sex thing. Women are players. They analyze the game stats. Men just want to win and get it over with. I’m no different from all the rest.”
“How is Archie?”
“Oh. Fucking crazy, of course! The divorce has been a hell of a ride.”
“Must have cost you a bit?”
“It did. I had to give her the house in Sardinia. She’s living there now. I’m still picking up the tab. She’s pretty well going nuts, I reckon.”
“Poor Archie,” I said, surprising myself. “So do you miss your life there in Sardinia?”
“To be honest I couldn’t stand the place. All that stinky old cheese, peasants on mopeds. Fucking creepy, wasn’t it?” I sensed his wound again, carefully hidden under his crumpled linen Armani suit. “What about you? Any last thoughts about Archie?”
His question set me off. At once I was back in that bed by the window, the low sunlight pouring in: Archie, her honey-colored skin, the little soft hairs round her belly-button. I felt myself
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