When he was younger, he’d possessed a pair of captivating dimples; he did his best to flash them now. ‘I think you’re too cynical.’
‘No. I’m a realist. So. What do you think?’ She licked her lips, slowly zipping up the front. ‘I want a man’s opinion.’
He held her gaze. ‘I think that you are too beautiful not to have exactly what you want.’
She laughed, tossing her mane of black hair over her shoulder. (Here’s what I look like in the throes of passion, she signalled.) ‘Easy to say, but hard to do!’
He had a vision of her, writhing above him, dark hair across her bare chest.
Out came his wallet. ‘Allow me.’
Her eyes widened.
‘On one condition, of course,’ he handed his credit card to the stunned assistant, ‘you must allow me to drive you home.’
A Stranger at the Garrick Club
Jonathan Mortimer Esq. of the solicitors Hawes and Dawson, paused at the bottom of the stairs and rubbed his eyes.
It was late.
He’d struggled through another supper with his most important client, Arnaud Bourgalt du Coudray and one of his yes men, Jack Pollard, securing a private dining room at the Garrick Club at short notice. Arnaud had insisted on bringing some Russian escort along. What should’ve been an hour or two at most discussing yet another merger, dragged into three while they groped and pawed one another. It was so tedious; rich people were like toddlers with their constant demands for attention.
Now all he wanted to do was go home. But the thought of climbing the stairs, his wife Amy’s back turned pointedly towards him as he got into bed, made him hesitate.
Why was being married so bloody difficult?
They’d had yet another argument this morning. He couldn’t even remember what set it off—only that it had escalated into dangerous territory too quickly. There was only one scene they played out nowadays. He was unsure exactly what it was about, only that it was bitter and full of tension.
So instead he wandered back into the bar of the Garrick Club and, slumped into one of the decrepit leather armchairs, began working away on his fourth Scotch.
All around him the comforting noises of men acting like men lulled him, tugging away at the frazzled threadbare edges of his soul. That was what gentlemen’s clubs were for; a last refuge from any form of female-ridden reality.
Swallowing a thick, amber shot in one, he reflected on the state of his life. If he’d bought it in a shop, he’d demand a refund immediately; it was clearly not as advertised.
And it was all Amy’s fault.
He remembered the plans they’d made, when there were only two of them, tucked into bed in his Chelsea bachelor pad; the picture Amy painted of a large, comfortable family house filled with song and laughter, like The Sound of Music; the discreet, grateful army of cheerful nannies, demure cleaners, and cheeky au pairs serving delicious meals round the dining table where adults and children would share a quiet hour of civilized conversation…
Then he thought of the mouldly Marmite sandwich and Stickle Bricks he’d discovered wedged into his briefcase this morning by one of the boys. Of the pokey, overpriced house they were all crammed into in the less fashionable environs of South London. Of the sullen Spanish au pair who regularly ate all the ice cream.
This was not that vision.
You only had to look at Amy and she conceived again. Three children under nine and now another one on the way! Of course he loved the children. That wasn’t the issue. The real crime was Amy’s. She’d abandoned him; the delicate, devoted woman he’d married had evaporated early on in the first pregnancy. Overnight she’d been replaced by a wisecracking, middle-aged Shakespearean wet nurse, complete with the matching body of cartoon proportions.
He’d been left to fend for himself; relegated to a marginalized authority figure, endured for his only useful quality—his ability to fund this extravaganza.
It was unfair.
And he was lonely.
He tried to focus on his watch.
Just time for one more drink.
The bar was still quite full, despite the late hour. Jonathan was having trouble attracting the waiter’s attention. He stood up, legs unsteady. Lurching forward, he tumbled straight into a fellow member reading a copy of the Financial Times.
‘Terribly sorry!’ he gushed, trying to rebalance himself, smooth his tie down and uncrumple the man’s paper all at once, all unsuccessfully.
The gentleman smiled, brushing off his exquisitely cut Savile Row suit with quick strokes. He led Jonathan back to his own chair, where he collapsed gratefully.
‘Really I can’t apologize enough.’ Jonathan’s cheeks were flushed from embarrassment and effort. ‘Stupid of me. Clumsy. I’m really terribly, terribly sorry…’ His voice faded. It was all turning into a nightmare. The porter would end up calling him a cab and Amy would have a field day. Consequences stretched out before him, predictable and unavoidable.
He sighed.
The man tilted his silver head to one side, then sat down next to Jonathan and crossed his legs. ‘I hope you’ll forgive me, but it seems to me as if you have a great deal on your mind.’
Jonathan looked up into his still, grey eyes. They were so calm, so friendly, so non-judgemental.
‘Yes,’ he nodded. ‘Yes. You see, I do. I really do.’
The man smiled. ‘It’s very difficult sometimes. No one really understands.’
Jonathan leant forward eagerly, clutching his empty glass. ‘Yes, that’s true!’ he agreed.
‘Just because we’re…’ the stranger paused, ‘men of the world, shall we say? Everyone assumes we can handle things on our own.’ He raised his arm and almost instantly a waiter appeared. ‘May I buy you a drink?’
And in that moment, there seemed to be more kindness than Jonathan had felt in a long time. ‘Thank you,’ he said gratefully. ‘Thank you very much!’
The waiter took their order, moving soundlessly away, and Jonathan settled back into his chair. Almost unconsciously, he checked his watch and frowned.
‘Late?’ the stranger ventured.
Jonathan laughed stiffly. ‘Not yet. No, no. Not yet.’ He was aware of how henpecked he sounded. ‘You see, my wife’s pregnant. Again. Doesn’t like to be alone in the house at night,’ he lied.
‘Ah! Married life!’ The man smiled knowingly.
Jonathan felt the stiffness in his shoulders relax; he smiled too. ‘It should come with a warning, shouldn’t it? Like they put on packets of cigarettes: marriage kills!’ He felt instantly guilty. ‘Or at least, all the best bits die…the sex for starters!’ This time his laugh sounded hollow and forced.
The waiter returned and, armed with a fresh glass of Scotch, Jonathan rallied. ‘I mean, everyone has bad patches, right?’
The man was still.
‘It’s just, my wife has been pregnant for so long! One kid after another…It changes a girl. She’s not the same,’ he added, staring into his glass.
‘Yes, everything changes,’ the man agreed, gently.
It was a simple enough comment, but the man’s voice had a wistful quality. In his drunkenness, Jonathan imagined this stranger understood, with greater subtlety, a whole range of experience none of his other married friends would admit.