To me she said, “Walter, get the mobile and I’ll phone the Chief Inspector at home, we’ll get to the bottom of this immediately.”
The old scalded-cat effect. Boy did the copper pull back, even removed his cap. I knew then why they sometimes call apologies “profuse”. He was back in the panda and outa there in jig time. I don’t even think he’d had time to notice that Lisa was black. She handed me a bundle of chips and vinegar. The smell you feel your childhood should have been.
As we got back in the van I said, “Chief Inspector Falls?”
“Oh, that was the first name that popped into my head... I nearly said Cloiseau.”
“You mean there isn’t such a person?”
“Oh, there’s always a Chief Inspector Falls... only the name changes.”
She held up a long chip and tilted her head back, let the vinegar drip into her mouth, then, slow, took the chip down, sucked and swallowed it. Turning to me she said, “I so like it slippery and wet, to tease a moment before I bite down.”
“Where to?” I asked and tried to hide my physical reaction. I didn’t know if her last description was a threat or an embellishment... I do know it sounded like heat.
She lived in Kensington Church Street and asked me in for a drink. The elevator was one of those narrow Gestapo jobs with a gate. It was a tight squeeze. How did I feel. I felt me all over her. She was smiling, said, “Remember that song ‘If you don’t know me by now’?”
Fairly heavy perspiration was rife on my forehead. She added, “You’re probably thinking of that elevator scene from Fatal Attraction.”
Why deny it?
As we fumbled from the horror chamber she said, “It proves one thing.”
I dreaded to know.
“What’s that?”
“You white boys is smaller.”
The apartment was like a shoot for Roots. I couldn’t resist a Meryl Streep line... which I mangled, “And I remember, Africa.”
She poured whiskies into heavy cut-glass tumblers and drank. She asked my name.
“Nick.”
“Which rhymes with...? Let’s see now.”
I looked around the room at all the tribal artefacts and said, “Touching base with yer origins... is it?”
She leapt up.
“Yo’ white boy, don’t sass me, wot chew know about colour.”
I finished my drink, said, “Listen lady. I’ve put up with your jive-arse shit all evening... yer street-cred rap and the knowing-hooker attitude. Wot do I know, you probably grew up in Milton Keynes. I grew up in Brixton, it’s where I know and it’s what I know. OK... you fucking got that soul sister?”
She moved right up to me, dropped to her knees and put her hand on my crotch.
“I’m going to blow you right back there baby.”
I pushed her away, said, “I don’t on a first date... can I use the bathroom?”
She recovered fast and said in a husky voice, “But of course, you run along and powder your tush.”
The bathroom had every medication known to man. I checked my wallet and extracted a condom. Took ages to fit and I near did serious damage. I took a deep breath, said, “Let’s rock and roll.”
Outside the bathroom, I wrote down my address and phone number, handed them to her.
She said, “You think I wouldn’t last spit time in Brixton?”
And she turned to walk away from me. I asked, “Remember that scene from Basic Instinct?”
And slammed her against the wall. I tore her tights and knickers down and pushed right into her. It didn’t take long. As I zipped up she said, “Thanks for coming.”
Outside I forego the lift and was heading for the stairs. A neighbour’s door opened and an elderly lady looked out. The face of the perennial eavesdropper, the pinched eyes of the nosy-fuckin’-fucker. She said, “Nobody’s in.”
I said, “Oh, I’ve been in. I’ve definitely been that.”
I wanted to leave Bonny out of this telling. But if I’m going to tell it all, then I can’t omit her. She’s the only person of warmth I’ve ever known. To have met even one might be bonus enough. I use a simple question about people, how do I feel after I’ve left their company. With Bonny it was always a warm feeling. She made me feel like the person I would have wanted to be.
I know who I am and, most vital, I know what I’m capable of. Bonny just shed light on other possibilities. I used to be a heavy gambler and a time there I hit a golden streak. I was following Pat Eddery and he was following the sun. I had wads, literal wedges of cash I didn’t know what to do with. I gave up washing my shirts, I’d buy new ones. And not even look at the price. I bought a suit in Jermyn Street. So... I’m talking serious crazy money. Then it began to go wrong. And me and Pat lost our edge. Before I faded, I managed to get hold of my house in Clapham... and I hung Pat’s picture in the toilet. I was going to print “Almost” beneath it but it smacked of melodrama and sourgrapes.
I was a little bitter though.
So so close.
There’s a transport caff near by and I took to having late breakfast there. The owner was what they used to call a blousy woman.
Blonde.
Buxom.
Plump.
Near fifty.
But she had a wonderful laugh. Like Dyan Cannon.
The place was always packed. But my appearance usually gathered a space for me. Eventually it kinda got to be my seat. I always ordered the same.
Double egg over easy.
Black pudding.
2 sausages.
Bacon.
Tomatoes.
Thick white bread.
And lashings of tea.
The cholesterol nightmare... in neon.
Boy I enjoyed it.
One morning the owner pulled up a chair and said, “You eat as if you mean it.”
“I do.”
“I’m Bonny.”
“What, by nature?”
A slow smile from her.
“Do you mind if I smoke?”
“Well, Bonny. I couldn’t give a toss if you mainline heroin but I’d prefer you not to smoke across my food.”
She held a cigarette mid air then tucked it behind her ear, said, “That’s what they call clear and direct communication.”
“Funny thing. They used to call it manners.”
And we went from there. Got together twice a week and sometimes slept together. The sex was comfortable. I didn’t have to try and prove anything and she liked it enough not to analyse it.
She could drink and not get silly or is that vice versa. What I’m trying to say is, we had fun.
Then along came Lisa.
The day after our frisson in Kensington Church Street, I was in the bath when the doorbell rang. Throwing on an old robe, I stormed to the door. There she was in black leather pants and a red cotton jacket. A white T-shirt boasted her breasts. She was half pissed and looked at my robe.
“Fetching.”
She told me to finish my bath and she’d make coffee. I’d just climbed in when she opened the door... and began to take her clothes off...
She had me in the bath
then on the floor
in the kitchen
and finally she had me exhausted.
I was lying on the floor reckoning I was going to die, just peg out there and then. At least I had washed for it.
She said, “Is that it?”
As I said, I’m near forty, I’m not able for these marathon sessions. I’m grateful for a shag and a sleep. But I was feeling smug... I felt I’d done brilliantly and oh mortification, I went looking for flattery.
“So how was it Lisa?”