something.'
'Brilliant. Thanks, Sami.' The idea, of course, is that I walk
upstairs and pretend that I've actually been in the building since before nine photocopying
down in the basement and delivering things around other departments. Debbie has
missed me, that's all. See?
'Tell her the copier kept getting stuck, that's why you were
so long.'
'Good thinking.'
Sami presses the lift button. 'Why are you so late? And whose
car was that? Of course! Last night!'
'Oh, don't ask.'
There is a ping and the lift doors open. We throw ourselves in
- just as someone else is coming out. I get an eyeful of expensive pinstripe suit
and the impact sends my papers flying into the air. Under the snowfall of A4 I see
that I have hit Ken Wheatley, the dreary yet remarkably smug director of finance.
'Oh, Christ, sorry,' I gasp. He regains his balance and looks
at the papers floating down around us.
'Someone's in a hurry,' he mutters with the quick wit you'd expect
of senior paperpusher.
'Bit of a rush on upstairs,' says Sami quietly.
'I see,' says Wheatley. He picks up a couple of pieces while
I get the rest.
'There you are,' he says, handing them to Sami very slowly and
looking her in the eye. She says nothing but lets him past and then gets in the
lift. I follow.
I spend most of the day drifting off, thinking about Marion,
our night together, our very enjoyable sex, her house, her champagne, her car. I
find myself visualizing the way she pouts, her soft lips, the way she opens her
eyes wide when she is surprised or amused by something I've said. I smile to myself
as I think about her strange questions, her interest in my ordinary life. I'm probably
as alien to her as she is to me. Am I falling for her? I've almost forgotten what's
that like.
But, shuffling my papers around my desk, as I'm paid to do, I
realise that perhaps I am.
Chapter
Six
Harvey Nicholls shimmers in the heat like a mirage over the Knightsbridge
traffic as thousands of horsepower throb and fume impotently. I look across at
Marion, who is sitting next to me on the back seat. She is furious. I touch her
hand and she looks round quickly. I smile and her face softens slightly.
'Can you believe this fucking traffic?' she hisses.
'There's not much I can do, madam,' mutters the driver.
Marion says nothing. His neck looks very exposed, for a moment
I wonder if Marion is about to leap forward and rip a chunk out of it like a lion
at a gazelle. I'm sure she doesn't mean to take it out on us, it's probably just
her frustration at being kept from consuming.
'We could get out and walk,' I suggest and immediately realise
that this is not an option.
'Just what the fuck do these people think they're doing?' she
snaps. 'And look at all these fucking buses. They should keep buses out of town.'
After a couple of lurches and a little rolling forward up to
the bumper of the car in front, we get within a hundred yards or so and Marion decides
we can walk.
'Try and park as near as you can, like Reading or someplace and
I'll call you when I want you,' she tells the driver.
We get out and head for Sloane Street. Walking quickly past a
couple of shops, she suddenly looks in the window of one, mutters something and
ducks inside with me following closely behind. The arctic air-conditioning hits
me like a cold shower. A heavy, dark-haired woman in black moves forward and says
in a thick foreign accent, 'May I help you?' It sounds as if she is guarding her
territory rather than offering any assistance.
Without looking at her, Marion counters with, 'I don't know yet'
and begins to look at the only rack of clothes in the shop. I find a chair by the
front door under a blast of cold air and sit down.
Marion called me on Sunday night and asked if I wanted to go
shopping on Monday. She didn't specifically say she would be buying anything for
me, but why else would she invite me? I was actually quite nervous about this. The
last woman who took me shopping for clothes was
'Brilliant. Thanks, Sami.' The idea, of course, is that I walk
upstairs and pretend that I've actually been in the building since before nine photocopying
down in the basement and delivering things around other departments. Debbie has
missed me, that's all. See?
'Tell her the copier kept getting stuck, that's why you were
so long.'
'Good thinking.'
Sami presses the lift button. 'Why are you so late? And whose
car was that? Of course! Last night!'
'Oh, don't ask.'
There is a ping and the lift doors open. We throw ourselves in
- just as someone else is coming out. I get an eyeful of expensive pinstripe suit
and the impact sends my papers flying into the air. Under the snowfall of A4 I see
that I have hit Ken Wheatley, the dreary yet remarkably smug director of finance.
'Oh, Christ, sorry,' I gasp. He regains his balance and looks
at the papers floating down around us.
'Someone's in a hurry,' he mutters with the quick wit you'd expect
of senior paperpusher.
'Bit of a rush on upstairs,' says Sami quietly.
'I see,' says Wheatley. He picks up a couple of pieces while
I get the rest.
'There you are,' he says, handing them to Sami very slowly and
looking her in the eye. She says nothing but lets him past and then gets in the
lift. I follow.
I spend most of the day drifting off, thinking about Marion,
our night together, our very enjoyable sex, her house, her champagne, her car. I
find myself visualizing the way she pouts, her soft lips, the way she opens her
eyes wide when she is surprised or amused by something I've said. I smile to myself
as I think about her strange questions, her interest in my ordinary life. I'm probably
as alien to her as she is to me. Am I falling for her? I've almost forgotten what's
that like.
But, shuffling my papers around my desk, as I'm paid to do, I
realise that perhaps I am.
Chapter
Six
Harvey Nicholls shimmers in the heat like a mirage over the Knightsbridge
traffic as thousands of horsepower throb and fume impotently. I look across at
Marion, who is sitting next to me on the back seat. She is furious. I touch her
hand and she looks round quickly. I smile and her face softens slightly.
'Can you believe this fucking traffic?' she hisses.
'There's not much I can do, madam,' mutters the driver.
Marion says nothing. His neck looks very exposed, for a moment
I wonder if Marion is about to leap forward and rip a chunk out of it like a lion
at a gazelle. I'm sure she doesn't mean to take it out on us, it's probably just
her frustration at being kept from consuming.
'We could get out and walk,' I suggest and immediately realise
that this is not an option.
'Just what the fuck do these people think they're doing?' she
snaps. 'And look at all these fucking buses. They should keep buses out of town.'
After a couple of lurches and a little rolling forward up to
the bumper of the car in front, we get within a hundred yards or so and Marion decides
we can walk.
'Try and park as near as you can, like Reading or someplace and
I'll call you when I want you,' she tells the driver.
We get out and head for Sloane Street. Walking quickly past a
couple of shops, she suddenly looks in the window of one, mutters something and
ducks inside with me following closely behind. The arctic air-conditioning hits
me like a cold shower. A heavy, dark-haired woman in black moves forward and says
in a thick foreign accent, 'May I help you?' It sounds as if she is guarding her
territory rather than offering any assistance.
Without looking at her, Marion counters with, 'I don't know yet'
and begins to look at the only rack of clothes in the shop. I find a chair by the
front door under a blast of cold air and sit down.
Marion called me on Sunday night and asked if I wanted to go
shopping on Monday. She didn't specifically say she would be buying anything for
me, but why else would she invite me? I was actually quite nervous about this. The
last woman who took me shopping for clothes was
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