“I can’t speak for anyone else down here, but what I get out of this dressing-up malarkey, as you so charmingly put it, is that when a fanciable young man like you comes along and obviously finds me attractive, that’s very gratifying. And that’s how I get my satisfaction.”
“You mean you, er —?” Blushing again. He couldn’t say it.
“Come?” Christine supplied the word. “No, not that kind of satisfaction, pet, we can get all that at home. I mean mental satisfaction. You’re a conquest, don’t you know that?”
Yeh yeh yeh yeh. He hazily knew what Christine was on about. He’d known cock-teasers like this one.
But he plodded on, for he was beginning to suspect that it was cut-your-losses time.
“Very pleased to hear it, but I’m a bit hazy about these things, Christine. When you speak of getting all that at home, where do I fit into it exactly?”
“I’m afraid you don’t, David,” said Christine, not without sadness. “This is one of those cases where it only takes one to tango.”
So thank you and good night, Christine. Forty smackeroos down the pan. Pity. Still, between meeting Christine and not having met Christine, he was glad he had chosen the former course.
7
Gerry’s Club, when it was finally located for him at the foot of Dean Street by a drunk who wanted to go in with him but whom he had the intelligence to shake off, was everything that Alex Singer required of So-oh.
It was babbling with noise and at two in the morning bubbling with people. A shit-hot jazz pianist in a spade hat benignly told him, after he had fought through the room to request “When The Saints Go Marching in”, that he would sooner play the failed Icelandic entry for the Eurovision Song Contest. Every second person was a celeb, major to minor. It was like the Christmas number of the fookin Radio Times. Sitcom stars. Soap actors. Wunner the cast of that new film release, what was it called? got a good mensh in What’s On In Leeds. That black guy outer that soccer-quiz prog. That DJ with the teeth. Jesus.
But because James Flood had drilled it into him three times over before departing for the Groucho, he knew enough not to speak to any of them unless he was spoken to and definitely not to ask for autographs. Didn’t mind that at all. It was cool, in fact, mingling with this lot and pretending he rubbed shoulders with this classer personality every nighter the week.
One person, though, was entitled to his attention, or rather, he was entitled to hers. Jenny Wise was perched at the very end of the bar, the preferred position, as Alex was beginning to realise, for women of, how should he put this, an adventurous disposition. She was alone and, sipping coffee, seemed sober again. Remarkable. Alex could no longer remember where he had last seen her during this long night, or what condition she’d been in, but she was evidently one of those women — not that he had previously encountered many, or indeed any, of the breed — who when it came to alcoholic damage were perpetually self-healing, like what the fook was that mythological beast that crawled out of the flames unscathed? Or grew another head was it? At this timer night he couldn’t remember which. Anyway, that.
No sign of James Flood. Alex edged his way back through the thronged little room — why couldn’t they make these Soho joints bigger, to accommodate the demand? — until he was alongside Jenny.
“How you doing, Jen?” he asked cockily. He could be well in here, it seemed to Alex. Quick shag back at her place then a kip down for the night. Sorted. No chance of breakfast, he supposed, Jenny being Jenny, but even so it was still two birds with one stone.
“Who the fuck are you, darling?” asked Jenny evenly, with an off putting stare.
Not so sober after all. But Jesus Christ almighty, did they all suffer from collective blurry amnesia in So-oh? It was only — well, he didn’t know how many hours, but it wasn’t all that long ago since he’d got his leg across with Jenny, and she didn’t know him from fookin Adam.
“We have met,” he said helpfully, adding with a wealth of meaning: “Round at your place.”
“When was that, darling?”
“Earlier today. We went on from the New Kismet Club.”
“Everything’s on from the New Kismet. Narrow it down.”
“You said you liked my accent.” In point of fact she’d said it was cute, but he didn’t want to bring that up again.
“Oh, right. You were from Lancashire.”
“Yorkshire.”
“Same thing. Don’t tell me, don’t tell me — it’s Adam, isn’t it?”
“Alex.” Or had he been calling himself Adam? It was so long ago he couldn’t remember. But since she couldn’t either, it made no difference. “Would you like a drink?”
“They won’t serve you, honey. Not a member. Besides, the Old Bill’s in.”
“I meant round at your place, if there’s any of that Scotch left.”
“What Scotch is that, Alan?”
“What we were drinking earlier.”
“When was that?”
Alex decided on the big bold approach. “Look, Jenny. We had a good time a few hours ago. Or at least I thought we did. Why don’t we go back and have a good time again?”
“’S time?” slurred Jenny.
“Just after two.”
“Sorry, honeybunch,” said Jenny, not without regret. “You were yesterday. I’m looking for tomorrow.”
And bollox to you too, Jen-Jen. She picked up her cup of coffee and moved away, either to talk to a friend or make a new one. The guvnor of the club, as James assumed him to be, a grey-haired, distinguished, bearded type who looked as if he could have made a living posing for the Player’s cigarette packet, came into the bar from the tiny kitchen. He’d evidently been asked to look out for Alex. “Your friend James is over there,” he said. “He needs cheering up.”
Not the only one, thought Alex, feeling unaccountably depressed after his exchange with Jenny.
He found James Flood at a corner table sharing a bottle of wine with a youngish, dark-suited man of athletic build who could have been either a footballer or a copper. He would prove to be the latter.
He was introduced to Alex as Benny Wills. “And what do you do, Benny?” asked Alex chattily. After a few hours in London, the social graces were coming more easily.
Wills glanced a query at James, who nodded reassurance and supplied the information: “Detective inspector, Clubs and Vice Squad.”
Yeh yeh yeh yeh, heard of it. Read about it in the News of the Screws. Opportunity for a wisecrack here: “Well, Benny, we’ve found the clubs, but where’s the vice?”
“One hundred and forty-five,” said Detective Inspector Wills, deadpan.
“Wossat, then?”
“Number of times he’s heard that joke,” explained James.
“Tonight,” added the detective, glumly.
Lead balloon time. Change subject. “How did you get on at the Groucho, James?”
“Pissed on from a great height,” said James.
“Yeh yeh, I got caught in it too.”
“I’m not talking about the rain, I’m talking about my stupid pissballing editor. I’ve given that fucking paper three stories today and what did she say?”
“I dunno, what did she say?”
“Chewed my bollox off. Said I wasn’t paid to sit around in Soho clubs getting pissed all day.”
“I thought you were. Sounded just the job to me.”
“If it is, there’s about to be a vacancy. If I don’t get something in tomorrow’s paper, that’s it. Finito.”
“Well, I suppose there’s other papers,” said Alex vaguely. Didn’t claim to know much about these things.