grandchildren. I take her in.
She has long grey hair, tinted with silver. Her face is well made-up. The subtle foundation contrasts with her lipstick, which is too deep a shade of red. I like too deep a shade of red. A colour
that deep is always a betrayal and an invitation. The daughter says:
—You have to get back. You know that.
The old woman looks at her watch.
—I’ve got an hour yet.
—But what about your medication?
—It can wait.
—How many times do you have to be told? It can’t wait.
I see Esurio standing behind them. He says:
—I feel a domestic brewing. Nothing whets a woman’s appetite for rebellion more than a domestic.
I smile at him. The old woman says:
—If I say it can wait, then it can bloody well wait.
—But what about me? I’ve got to get home too.
—Oh, I thought it might be about you. Always about you, isn’t it? One night out and you can’t wait to get rid of me.
—One night? I’ve spent more nights than I care to remember running after you, pandering to your every need.
—Then go. I’ll be just fine here.
She throws a half-smile in my direction. Esurio finishes a glass of vintage whisky and opens a half-bottle of Dornier-Tuller.
—We have lift-off, Lincoln.
The daughter snarls at the old woman.
—You’re impossible! And so stubborn! Well I have to go and I will go.
She turns to Maynard, who happens to be the closest approximation to a responsible-looking middle-aged man that she can find around the bar.
—Please will you make sure she just gets in a taxi.
Maynard says:
—Y . . . Y . . . Yes. Er . . . what’s her name?
—Fay.
Turning to Fay, he says:
—Don’t worry, Fay. I’ll get you home, wherever that is.
—It’s a long way.
—Everywhere’s easy from here.
Fay looks triumphantly at her daughter.
—Obviously not for some.
The daughter lowers her eyes, as Esurio raises his glass and says:
—Defeat is bad. Defeat coated in guilt is a prison of wretchedness.
Fay pretends not to notice as her daughter leaves and walks out into the night.
Maynard says:
—I promised I would get her home and I will.
I say nothing. I order another vodka tonic and turn to Fay.
—And what would you like?
Maynard says:
—Lincoln, I promised!
—And one for the considerate gent balancing on the bar stool.
Maynard puts his head in his left hand and keeps the right one extended. When I place a drink in his outstretched hand, the deal is done. Fay is mine. I will take her home. The next couple of
hours are a blur but some detective work I do the next day tells me that our time at the Townhouse went something like this:
I leave Fay to go to the toilets.
I take three lines.
I come back.
Maynard falls off the bar stool.
No one can be bothered to lift him.
I feel sorry for him, so I pick him up and prop him against the bar.
Esurio says: Very noble, Lincoln. You are a true gentleman!
I drink two bottles of red wine and three bottles of Stella.
Fay has two glasses of red wine.
I notice she has a limp.
She says: It’s nothing.
I think: I hope it doesn’t get in the way.
Some Wraps are hanging around.
They want a drink.
They are invisible to me.
Esurio tries to look up Fay’s dress.
He has to lie flat on the floor.
When he comes up he says: A true Victorian lady but with a twist, a real twist.
I think: I wish he’d fucking shut up.
Fay talks.
I don’t hear what she is saying.
I go to the toilet and take another line.
When I come back Esurio is dancing on the tables.
He is beside himself with excitement.
He shouts across the bar: You are a man like no other, Lincoln, a man like no other!
I think: He’s right.
I feel like the King of Soho.
I think Fay’s lipstick is a bit smudged.
Then I’m unconscious for a while.
Two doormen carry me into a taxi.
They say: Good fucking riddance!
Esurio says: How rude! And to such a good customer.
The rest of the night I remember:
I open my eyes. I hear the rhythm of the taxi. Lights
She has long grey hair, tinted with silver. Her face is well made-up. The subtle foundation contrasts with her lipstick, which is too deep a shade of red. I like too deep a shade of red. A colour
that deep is always a betrayal and an invitation. The daughter says:
—You have to get back. You know that.
The old woman looks at her watch.
—I’ve got an hour yet.
—But what about your medication?
—It can wait.
—How many times do you have to be told? It can’t wait.
I see Esurio standing behind them. He says:
—I feel a domestic brewing. Nothing whets a woman’s appetite for rebellion more than a domestic.
I smile at him. The old woman says:
—If I say it can wait, then it can bloody well wait.
—But what about me? I’ve got to get home too.
—Oh, I thought it might be about you. Always about you, isn’t it? One night out and you can’t wait to get rid of me.
—One night? I’ve spent more nights than I care to remember running after you, pandering to your every need.
—Then go. I’ll be just fine here.
She throws a half-smile in my direction. Esurio finishes a glass of vintage whisky and opens a half-bottle of Dornier-Tuller.
—We have lift-off, Lincoln.
The daughter snarls at the old woman.
—You’re impossible! And so stubborn! Well I have to go and I will go.
She turns to Maynard, who happens to be the closest approximation to a responsible-looking middle-aged man that she can find around the bar.
—Please will you make sure she just gets in a taxi.
Maynard says:
—Y . . . Y . . . Yes. Er . . . what’s her name?
—Fay.
Turning to Fay, he says:
—Don’t worry, Fay. I’ll get you home, wherever that is.
—It’s a long way.
—Everywhere’s easy from here.
Fay looks triumphantly at her daughter.
—Obviously not for some.
The daughter lowers her eyes, as Esurio raises his glass and says:
—Defeat is bad. Defeat coated in guilt is a prison of wretchedness.
Fay pretends not to notice as her daughter leaves and walks out into the night.
Maynard says:
—I promised I would get her home and I will.
I say nothing. I order another vodka tonic and turn to Fay.
—And what would you like?
Maynard says:
—Lincoln, I promised!
—And one for the considerate gent balancing on the bar stool.
Maynard puts his head in his left hand and keeps the right one extended. When I place a drink in his outstretched hand, the deal is done. Fay is mine. I will take her home. The next couple of
hours are a blur but some detective work I do the next day tells me that our time at the Townhouse went something like this:
I leave Fay to go to the toilets.
I take three lines.
I come back.
Maynard falls off the bar stool.
No one can be bothered to lift him.
I feel sorry for him, so I pick him up and prop him against the bar.
Esurio says: Very noble, Lincoln. You are a true gentleman!
I drink two bottles of red wine and three bottles of Stella.
Fay has two glasses of red wine.
I notice she has a limp.
She says: It’s nothing.
I think: I hope it doesn’t get in the way.
Some Wraps are hanging around.
They want a drink.
They are invisible to me.
Esurio tries to look up Fay’s dress.
He has to lie flat on the floor.
When he comes up he says: A true Victorian lady but with a twist, a real twist.
I think: I wish he’d fucking shut up.
Fay talks.
I don’t hear what she is saying.
I go to the toilet and take another line.
When I come back Esurio is dancing on the tables.
He is beside himself with excitement.
He shouts across the bar: You are a man like no other, Lincoln, a man like no other!
I think: He’s right.
I feel like the King of Soho.
I think Fay’s lipstick is a bit smudged.
Then I’m unconscious for a while.
Two doormen carry me into a taxi.
They say: Good fucking riddance!
Esurio says: How rude! And to such a good customer.
The rest of the night I remember:
I open my eyes. I hear the rhythm of the taxi. Lights
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