“London, half the year, but which half is problematic. I go where the firm needs me: Scotland just now.”
Ask where he is staying in Glasgow.
“I’m a guest of people who called in my firm. It’s one of the ways I learn things, so I run away to you whenever I can.”
Ask about Systems Analysis.
“We unstick thing in businesses where things have got stuck. We also advise on mergers and acquisitions. It’s all perfectly honest and above board. We’re a registered company. Look us up in the directory if you don’t believe me.”
Ask what he does.
“At present I work mainly with newspapers — not for them, with them, because papers involve advertising, hence marketing. All very complicated.”
Sigh, hating to be treated as an idiot. Ask if he works in accountancy, computer programming or time management.
“Yes, these are all part of it, but what I do best (and with considerable aplomb) is kick bums.”
Ask if that means he sacks people. He chuckles and says, “Of course not, this is England! — I beg your pardon, Britain. Above a certain income level nobody gets sacked in Britain. My kicking simply shifts the bums to where they don’t block things. If you want the details you should take a course in business management at London University, where I’ll end up as a visiting lecturer if I’m not careful. My work pays a lot more than yours does, but in the long run is just as disgustingly boring. Perhaps more so.”
Yet he is never short-tempered or depressed, always gentle, considerate, amusing, apologetic, letting no harshness or dulness appear, though it must exist. All folk have a nasty side which usually appears at the second or third meeting, if not the first. His appears on the fourth.
He calls at the bedsit between seven and eight and says with his usual humorous apologetic smile, “That dress won’t do, I’m afraid.”
Ask why.
“It looks cheap — doesn’t suit you. Wear what you wore at the wedding. I insist.”
Angry and cheapened, find no words to say no. While undressing, redressing he sits watching closely. Know you are exciting him. Grow slightly excited. Before dressing is finished he stands and comes to you, makes love at once fast. Don’t enjoy it much. He sighs and says, “That was our best time yet, I suppose you noticed?”
Agree. Finish dressing. Resignedly display yourself.
“Perfect! You suit the Cinderella look. Let’s be different tonight. Where would you go for fun if you didn’t know me? A disco?”
Take him to a disco where he dances a bit stiffly but well, considering his age. Like it that others (especially Tall Jenny) see him twisting before, around, beside in that well-cut suit, perfect shirt, tie flapping, fine blond hair flapping, and still the modest amused little smile.
“I’m whacked — need to stand still for a bit. But you’re young — please go on dancing. I’m not a jealous type, I’ll enjoy watching you dance.” Smile at him, pleased. Dance with a handsome gay in biker leathers. This is more fun as gay is better dancer and now have the pleasure of two partners, this Hunky Harry and him watching. Suddenly see him dancing nearby with Tall Jenny, most obviously attractive woman in the room. Are a little hurt but don’t show it. Smile at them, twice, though they seem not to see. Never mind. Please go on dancing. Thanks mister, I will.
And suddenly enjoy it! For being with him (only notice this now) is a strain when not loving. Can never forget he is posh English, knows more about everything, is keeping a lot back so must think himself superior. Dance with boys who like dancing, like life without feeling superior. Have no shortage of partners, hooray for the ordinary! But while drinking a lime juice with a girl friend at the bar see him talking to Hunky Harry and laughing in a way that makes him look ordinary too, and much nicer. Stare at him, wanting him. He notices, stops laughing, comes over with his usual little smile and says, “Time to leave.”
Are delighted. Truly delighted. Feared had lost him.
But both are quiet in the car as he drives to the Central Hotel, so something is wrong. Both are quiet because he is quiet, for it is always he who directs the talk or deals it out. Is he angry? Have done nothing wrong, unless it was wrong enjoying dancing with someone else. He is probably tired. Nearly midnight, now. Surprised the Central is still open.
Without a nod to the doorman he leads up broad shallow carpeted stairs to a lounge empty but for an elderly American-looking couple in a far corner. He tells a waiter, “This place seems quiet enough. Could you serve us a meal here?”
“Certainly sir, I’ll fetch a menu.”
“No need. This young lady wants nothing but a goodly selection of sandwiches and I will have**********.” (French words.)
“I’m afraid the last is not available sir. The menu will show you what we can provide just now. We have …”
“Get me the manager.”
“The manager is not available sir.”
“Don’t pretend to be stupid. You know I want whoever is in bloody charge here just now.”
He has not lost his temper, has not raised his voice, but it has grown so distinct that the Americans look alarmed. The waiter leaves and returns with another man in a black dinner-suit who says, “I’m sorry sir but the situation is this: the day chef retires at 10.45 and the night chef…”
“I did not come here for instruction in the mysteries of hotel management, I came because this used to be a good hotel, I happen to be hungry, and have a taste for **********, whose ingredients are now dormant in your kitchen. I mean to pay what it costs to have them expertly prepared. There is nothing to discuss. I am not going to explain, plead or bully you, so please don’t use those tactics on me. Understood?”
He has not lost his temper. He looks at the head-waiter or under-manager or whoever this man is with a fixed half-smile containing no amusement or apology. The head-waiter or under-manager, his face paler than it was, says after a pause, “You are not a resident here sir?”
“No, nor ever likely to be. I promise this is the last time you will see me here, so do the wise thing and send up what I order?”
He says this softly, cooingly, teasingly, smiling almost sleepily as if at a joke the man before him is bound to share. The man before him, looking very pale, suddenly nods and walks away.
“One moment!” cries the Englishman — the head-waiter or under-manager turns — “I will have a bottle of ********** along with it.”
Keep silent, though he watches sideways now. Was all that done to impress? Are chilled, embarrassed, disgusted, only glad the Americans have stopped staring, are leaving. Sigh. He looks away. A long silence happens. He murmurs as if to himself, “Sometimes one has to be firm.”
The barman pulls down a grille over the bar, locks it and leaves. He murmurs, “They’ll probably take hours, just to be awkward.”
The waiter brings the selection of sandwiches. Have no appetite but nibble half of one, then leave it. Later, from boredom, slowly finish it and then all the rest. Eventually the waiter serves him with a plate containing slips of meat half sunk in reddish gravy with a sweet heavy sickly smell. He looks hard at it, murmurs, “I don’t think they’ve spat in it,” and eats. After some forkfuls he says, “Yum yum. Well worth waiting for.”