Almost no one mentioned her husband, Fran. I wonder if all these financial folks are exclusively Susie’s scene. It crossed my mind that it could be she’s the one doing the investigative journalism…and Fran is writing the stuff up and getting the byline.
“How’s Fran doing?” Michael Harrington-Browne asked Susie as he walked us to the marble lobby outside Plume’s.
“Poor Fran, it’s all getting on top of him. He’s rarely home, and when he is he can’t sit still…and he isn’t coming to bed. Not that it means much to me even when he does, because he’s lost all interest in playing hide the sausage.”
Obviously, Susie and Michael have more than the usual patron and restaurateur relationship. Being the suspicious sort that I am, I wonder if they participate in the sex Fran seems to have lost interest in?
Michael shook me warmly by the hand and invited me to drop in any evening. “We close when I go home to my wife, Natasha. And that’s rarely before two a.m.”
As I saw Susie into a taxi beneath Two Exchange Square I resisted the temptation to make a pass at her. I settled for a kiss…but on the lips this time.
Throwing my blazer over my shoulder, I rambled back to the hotel. I’m feeling pleased with meself, and I didn’t notice that I’m sweating like a pig.
I spent the next few hours lying on my giant bed. At three fifty-five p.m. I got up, splashed George Trumper Bay Rum Cologne on my face, and used my new mobile phone to ring Gerry at exactly four p.m. – as requested in his note.
11
ENGLAND, AUSTRALIA and HONG KONG
I met Fran , my future husband, at the Isle of Wight Festival the year Leonard Cohen was headlining. My brother Stuart knew I was crazy about Leonard Cohen’s music, so he went to the Birdcage Club in Portsmouth to do a deal with the festival promoters, Rikki Farr and his partner Robin Best.
Stuart had had his name down for a hand-built Morgan car for two years, and he was only two weeks away from finalising the finer details of the model he wanted. His heart was set on a four by four with a British racing green body, black leather seats and bottle green trim. In exchange for his place on the waiting list for a Morgan, Stuart was able to get Rikki and Robin to give me an ‘Entry All Areas’ pass to the festival.
I never found out if either of them ever took Stuart’s place in the queue for a Morgan. Stuart was in the Queen’s own Blues and Royals Regiment, and he was killed when his horse bolted during a training exercise in Windsor Great Park. But my lovely brother hadn’t hesitated to give up his dream car so that I could make off from Cheltenham Ladies’ College for four days. I’m sure he never imagined that I’d meet a tall, skinny guy from Brighton working as a reporter on the Evening Tribune newspaper – and lose my virginity.
———
I hitchhiked to Southampton and took a ferry across the Solent. Then I made my way to a muddy field in the middle of Robert Condon’s family farm to listen to incredible music.
On the first day I was backstage thanking Rikki Farr for my pass when we were interrupted by a tall, skinny guy who introduced himself as a reporter and asked if he could interview Rikki.
“Not really my thing pal,” Rikki replied. He was looking over his shoulder at Joan Baez sipping a glass of wine and laughing with Jimmy Hendrix. And they were watching Henry McCullough who was balancing one-handed on the back of a chair. “Interview Susie here…she'll give you her perspective. Isn't that right my love?” said Rikki, before he disappeared into the chaos.
Fran had a pup tent that was just about big enough for one, and with the two of us in it his feet stuck out under the door flap. To make matters worse, the blow-up mattress we’d borrowed from some drunken Germans kept losing air.
“Fran sweetie, this isn’t going to work,” I warned him. I was completely ignored, as, at the time, Fran was straddling me with his half-stiff thing
“How’s Fran doing?” Michael Harrington-Browne asked Susie as he walked us to the marble lobby outside Plume’s.
“Poor Fran, it’s all getting on top of him. He’s rarely home, and when he is he can’t sit still…and he isn’t coming to bed. Not that it means much to me even when he does, because he’s lost all interest in playing hide the sausage.”
Obviously, Susie and Michael have more than the usual patron and restaurateur relationship. Being the suspicious sort that I am, I wonder if they participate in the sex Fran seems to have lost interest in?
Michael shook me warmly by the hand and invited me to drop in any evening. “We close when I go home to my wife, Natasha. And that’s rarely before two a.m.”
As I saw Susie into a taxi beneath Two Exchange Square I resisted the temptation to make a pass at her. I settled for a kiss…but on the lips this time.
Throwing my blazer over my shoulder, I rambled back to the hotel. I’m feeling pleased with meself, and I didn’t notice that I’m sweating like a pig.
I spent the next few hours lying on my giant bed. At three fifty-five p.m. I got up, splashed George Trumper Bay Rum Cologne on my face, and used my new mobile phone to ring Gerry at exactly four p.m. – as requested in his note.
11
ENGLAND, AUSTRALIA and HONG KONG
I met Fran , my future husband, at the Isle of Wight Festival the year Leonard Cohen was headlining. My brother Stuart knew I was crazy about Leonard Cohen’s music, so he went to the Birdcage Club in Portsmouth to do a deal with the festival promoters, Rikki Farr and his partner Robin Best.
Stuart had had his name down for a hand-built Morgan car for two years, and he was only two weeks away from finalising the finer details of the model he wanted. His heart was set on a four by four with a British racing green body, black leather seats and bottle green trim. In exchange for his place on the waiting list for a Morgan, Stuart was able to get Rikki and Robin to give me an ‘Entry All Areas’ pass to the festival.
I never found out if either of them ever took Stuart’s place in the queue for a Morgan. Stuart was in the Queen’s own Blues and Royals Regiment, and he was killed when his horse bolted during a training exercise in Windsor Great Park. But my lovely brother hadn’t hesitated to give up his dream car so that I could make off from Cheltenham Ladies’ College for four days. I’m sure he never imagined that I’d meet a tall, skinny guy from Brighton working as a reporter on the Evening Tribune newspaper – and lose my virginity.
———
I hitchhiked to Southampton and took a ferry across the Solent. Then I made my way to a muddy field in the middle of Robert Condon’s family farm to listen to incredible music.
On the first day I was backstage thanking Rikki Farr for my pass when we were interrupted by a tall, skinny guy who introduced himself as a reporter and asked if he could interview Rikki.
“Not really my thing pal,” Rikki replied. He was looking over his shoulder at Joan Baez sipping a glass of wine and laughing with Jimmy Hendrix. And they were watching Henry McCullough who was balancing one-handed on the back of a chair. “Interview Susie here…she'll give you her perspective. Isn't that right my love?” said Rikki, before he disappeared into the chaos.
Fran had a pup tent that was just about big enough for one, and with the two of us in it his feet stuck out under the door flap. To make matters worse, the blow-up mattress we’d borrowed from some drunken Germans kept losing air.
“Fran sweetie, this isn’t going to work,” I warned him. I was completely ignored, as, at the time, Fran was straddling me with his half-stiff thing
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