unruly barnet. Unfortunately this has
the effect of bringing me back to something like reality. I go to find my dress
shirt and trousers, which have been neatly folded and placed on a chair. My DJ is
on a hanger behind the door. My watch is lying on top of my trousers. 8.40 a.m.
Fuck! I rip off the bathrobe and begin to chuck my clothes on.
I take the stairs two at a time.
'Marion, I'm really late for work. I'll have to go.'
'What? Already?'
'Yeah, I'm supposed to be there at nine. I didn't notice the
time. I've got to go home and put my work suit on.'
'OK.' She offers a cheek. I'm too panicked to aim for her lips.
I give her a quick peck. Then I fumble around to check that I've got my house keys.
I'll also need a taxi.
'Marion, I-'
'Don't worry,' she says, still looking at her letter. 'The driver
should be outside. He can take you on to work.'
'Oh, OK. Thanks. Bye, then.'
I stand there for a moment. A car. That'll be nice. Then it occurs
to me. Of course, I've been dumped. I've given her what she wanted, now I've been
dumped. Fuck' em and forget' em. Never very nice, not even when there is a chauffeur-driven
car chucked in by way of consolation.
Marion looks up from her paper and says, 'I'll give you a call
later at the office. I want to take you shopping.' She looks down at my suit. 'Get
you some new clothes.' Oh! Phew - not dumped then! The idea of her buying me clothes
stops me in my tracks for a moment. What kind of clothes? Can I choose them? Which
shops? If you eat at Ciccones and Claridges you can't shop at Blazer and Next. The
idea thrills me suddenly. Perhaps I'll get paid for tonight with a little something
from Bond Street. I feel the lapel of my rented DJ absent-mindedly before coming
round to more pressing issues - like getting to work before Debbie fires me.
'Great, urn, see you later,' I gasp.
'OK, honey.' She rubs my arm gently and then picks some dust
off my sleeve.
Sure enough, the car is waiting. The driver says nothing, just
opens the door and lets me in. I ask if we can go to Fulham please. He nods and
sets off. As we move slowly along the King's Road I slide down in the seat so that
people can't see that I'm still wearing my dinner suit.
By the time we get as a far as Fulham Broadway it's already past
nine. I ask the driver to hang on and take me to work. 'Er, come in for a cup of
tea or something while you wait.' He looks as if this is the stupidest thing he's
ever heard and then says, 'Thank you, sir, but I'd better look after the car.'
'OK, I'll be five minutes.'
I belt into the house, have a quick and dangerous shave, throw
on the only ironed work shirt I can find and then run out of the door still tying
my tie. We set off again and I reach for the mobile phone. I'm just about to ask
the driver for permission to use it and then I realise that it's Marion's phone,
not his, and she won't mind. He takes no notice as I grab the handset and dial Sami's
direct line.
'Good morning. Classified. Samira speaking.'
'Hi, it's me.'
Her tone changes, 'Andrew! For goodness' sake, where are you?'
'I'm on my way, I got a bit held up'.
'You're hopeless. Debbie's already asked where you are.'
'Oh, shit.'
'When will you be in?'
'About twenty minutes. Listen, will you do me a favour? Just
grab some papers, photocopy them and meet me in reception in fifteen minutes.'
'Oh, OK.'
'You're a star.'
'And you're a retrograde.'
I laugh. 'Sami, where do you get them from? See you in a minute.'
Of course it takes longer than I had hoped and it's nearly ten
by the time I get to the office. Sure enough, Sami is waiting, lurking behind a
potted plant, in reception.
'Ooooh, blimey, all right for some,' says Ted from behind his
desk. 'I was saying to young Sami, here, all right for some. Wasn't I, Sami? Their
very own welcoming committee.' I smile at Ted. Oh, not now, you mad old wanker.
'Here you go,' says Sami, thrusting a pile of papers at me.
'You go first, I said I had to go to Accounts about
the effect of bringing me back to something like reality. I go to find my dress
shirt and trousers, which have been neatly folded and placed on a chair. My DJ is
on a hanger behind the door. My watch is lying on top of my trousers. 8.40 a.m.
Fuck! I rip off the bathrobe and begin to chuck my clothes on.
I take the stairs two at a time.
'Marion, I'm really late for work. I'll have to go.'
'What? Already?'
'Yeah, I'm supposed to be there at nine. I didn't notice the
time. I've got to go home and put my work suit on.'
'OK.' She offers a cheek. I'm too panicked to aim for her lips.
I give her a quick peck. Then I fumble around to check that I've got my house keys.
I'll also need a taxi.
'Marion, I-'
'Don't worry,' she says, still looking at her letter. 'The driver
should be outside. He can take you on to work.'
'Oh, OK. Thanks. Bye, then.'
I stand there for a moment. A car. That'll be nice. Then it occurs
to me. Of course, I've been dumped. I've given her what she wanted, now I've been
dumped. Fuck' em and forget' em. Never very nice, not even when there is a chauffeur-driven
car chucked in by way of consolation.
Marion looks up from her paper and says, 'I'll give you a call
later at the office. I want to take you shopping.' She looks down at my suit. 'Get
you some new clothes.' Oh! Phew - not dumped then! The idea of her buying me clothes
stops me in my tracks for a moment. What kind of clothes? Can I choose them? Which
shops? If you eat at Ciccones and Claridges you can't shop at Blazer and Next. The
idea thrills me suddenly. Perhaps I'll get paid for tonight with a little something
from Bond Street. I feel the lapel of my rented DJ absent-mindedly before coming
round to more pressing issues - like getting to work before Debbie fires me.
'Great, urn, see you later,' I gasp.
'OK, honey.' She rubs my arm gently and then picks some dust
off my sleeve.
Sure enough, the car is waiting. The driver says nothing, just
opens the door and lets me in. I ask if we can go to Fulham please. He nods and
sets off. As we move slowly along the King's Road I slide down in the seat so that
people can't see that I'm still wearing my dinner suit.
By the time we get as a far as Fulham Broadway it's already past
nine. I ask the driver to hang on and take me to work. 'Er, come in for a cup of
tea or something while you wait.' He looks as if this is the stupidest thing he's
ever heard and then says, 'Thank you, sir, but I'd better look after the car.'
'OK, I'll be five minutes.'
I belt into the house, have a quick and dangerous shave, throw
on the only ironed work shirt I can find and then run out of the door still tying
my tie. We set off again and I reach for the mobile phone. I'm just about to ask
the driver for permission to use it and then I realise that it's Marion's phone,
not his, and she won't mind. He takes no notice as I grab the handset and dial Sami's
direct line.
'Good morning. Classified. Samira speaking.'
'Hi, it's me.'
Her tone changes, 'Andrew! For goodness' sake, where are you?'
'I'm on my way, I got a bit held up'.
'You're hopeless. Debbie's already asked where you are.'
'Oh, shit.'
'When will you be in?'
'About twenty minutes. Listen, will you do me a favour? Just
grab some papers, photocopy them and meet me in reception in fifteen minutes.'
'Oh, OK.'
'You're a star.'
'And you're a retrograde.'
I laugh. 'Sami, where do you get them from? See you in a minute.'
Of course it takes longer than I had hoped and it's nearly ten
by the time I get to the office. Sure enough, Sami is waiting, lurking behind a
potted plant, in reception.
'Ooooh, blimey, all right for some,' says Ted from behind his
desk. 'I was saying to young Sami, here, all right for some. Wasn't I, Sami? Their
very own welcoming committee.' I smile at Ted. Oh, not now, you mad old wanker.
'Here you go,' says Sami, thrusting a pile of papers at me.
'You go first, I said I had to go to Accounts about
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