inconceivable (you’re not in the Underground now, you know, or in the streets. ‘You can’t have a drink? You don’t
want
to have a drink? Fine, fine. Well, see you all in the morning!’). On thisoccasion, though, Jan lingered vexedly over a seized-up powder case while Anne and Muriel backed out of the office door. They were gone. All clear. Oh no.
Any gentleman would have got up from his chair and sauntered out to Jan’s table. You yourself would have leant over and offered to attempt the recalcitrant pink cask at which Jan’s long fingers pried. The next guy would surely have taken it from her hand, clenched his jaw and turned to the girl with diffident surprise when the aromatic clam split open. No one human wouldn’t have slumped with emotion when she looked up, smiled, and cried, ‘Tarzan!’
‘Fancy a drink?’ I said.
She came. We went to The Enterprise in Fox Street, a popular, cavernous, ramshackle pub with dark marble walls and sad windows. I completed my grotesque routine of standing on tiptoe several drinkers from the bar, pound-note cocked, failing to attract the attention of the fantastically slow-moving and resentful landlord, turning to Jan every few seconds to tell her things like ‘Just be a sec’ or ‘He didn’t see me’ or ‘Christ’, until, equipped with a pint of bitter, a whisky-and-lemonade for the lady, and no change, I followed Jan through the crowd of tall suited men, established her at an advantageous cornerseat, and raced down the stairs for a frenzied pee and bald-patch adjustment before rejoining her and our drinks at the table.
‘All set?’ she asked.
And I don’t care what anybody says — I think I hit bloody good form and made a really very favourable impression. I was, quite fortuitously, wearing my best (i.e. newest) clothes, and it happened also to be one of those days when I felt I could look my face in the eye: less blanched in texture, fewer munch-scars on the lips, my hair behaving itself. Nor were my hands shaking that much — why, I lit three cigarettes for her, panting in gentle appreciation as I marked the relative staticity of the flame — and my voice was without the spastictremolo it opts for in times of stress, shame or yearning. (As for Jan, by the way — she was a wet dream throughout.) And conversation? Well, it came and went. It came and went, but it seemed to be there.
God, it was so
nice
. Absurd — I felt changed almost straightaway. On the way home that night (the bridge, the Underground, the streets) I no longer stared ravenously at every girl I passed, as if their very existence were a wounding
fait accompli
directed at myself and the remains of my dignity. The pretty black lady who does the exit gate at Queensway, normally the theme of some jungly fantasy or other, accepted my ticket with an exchange of thankyous: I might have been anybody else, I might have been you. Turning off the main strip, I saw a couple canoodling in a dusty hotel porch and veered away in automatic repugnance and anger — until I slowed my pace, and thought about it, and wished them well. The streets themselves, which felt last week like a dead newsreel reshown nightly in my path, seemed softer and full of more varied shadows. I paused in the square, friendly leaves hurrying across my feet, and watched the bedsitter lights start to come on. ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘Of course she won’t. I know, I know. But still.’
I even met Gregory in the kitchen (this is real high-society); he was looking very spruced-up and places-to-go but showed willing to linger while I poured myself a drink.
‘How’s life?’ I said.
‘Busy busy busy. How’s yours shaping up?’
‘It isn’t. Everyone’s paralysed at work still. And no one’s fucked me recently, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Didn’t you try that little one with big ears again?’
‘Gita? Yes, I did. And she didn’t want to again.’
‘Bitch. Why on earth not? Who does she think she
want
to have a drink? Fine, fine. Well, see you all in the morning!’). On thisoccasion, though, Jan lingered vexedly over a seized-up powder case while Anne and Muriel backed out of the office door. They were gone. All clear. Oh no.
Any gentleman would have got up from his chair and sauntered out to Jan’s table. You yourself would have leant over and offered to attempt the recalcitrant pink cask at which Jan’s long fingers pried. The next guy would surely have taken it from her hand, clenched his jaw and turned to the girl with diffident surprise when the aromatic clam split open. No one human wouldn’t have slumped with emotion when she looked up, smiled, and cried, ‘Tarzan!’
‘Fancy a drink?’ I said.
She came. We went to The Enterprise in Fox Street, a popular, cavernous, ramshackle pub with dark marble walls and sad windows. I completed my grotesque routine of standing on tiptoe several drinkers from the bar, pound-note cocked, failing to attract the attention of the fantastically slow-moving and resentful landlord, turning to Jan every few seconds to tell her things like ‘Just be a sec’ or ‘He didn’t see me’ or ‘Christ’, until, equipped with a pint of bitter, a whisky-and-lemonade for the lady, and no change, I followed Jan through the crowd of tall suited men, established her at an advantageous cornerseat, and raced down the stairs for a frenzied pee and bald-patch adjustment before rejoining her and our drinks at the table.
‘All set?’ she asked.
And I don’t care what anybody says — I think I hit bloody good form and made a really very favourable impression. I was, quite fortuitously, wearing my best (i.e. newest) clothes, and it happened also to be one of those days when I felt I could look my face in the eye: less blanched in texture, fewer munch-scars on the lips, my hair behaving itself. Nor were my hands shaking that much — why, I lit three cigarettes for her, panting in gentle appreciation as I marked the relative staticity of the flame — and my voice was without the spastictremolo it opts for in times of stress, shame or yearning. (As for Jan, by the way — she was a wet dream throughout.) And conversation? Well, it came and went. It came and went, but it seemed to be there.
God, it was so
nice
. Absurd — I felt changed almost straightaway. On the way home that night (the bridge, the Underground, the streets) I no longer stared ravenously at every girl I passed, as if their very existence were a wounding
fait accompli
directed at myself and the remains of my dignity. The pretty black lady who does the exit gate at Queensway, normally the theme of some jungly fantasy or other, accepted my ticket with an exchange of thankyous: I might have been anybody else, I might have been you. Turning off the main strip, I saw a couple canoodling in a dusty hotel porch and veered away in automatic repugnance and anger — until I slowed my pace, and thought about it, and wished them well. The streets themselves, which felt last week like a dead newsreel reshown nightly in my path, seemed softer and full of more varied shadows. I paused in the square, friendly leaves hurrying across my feet, and watched the bedsitter lights start to come on. ‘Yes, I know,’ I said. ‘Of course she won’t. I know, I know. But still.’
I even met Gregory in the kitchen (this is real high-society); he was looking very spruced-up and places-to-go but showed willing to linger while I poured myself a drink.
‘How’s life?’ I said.
‘Busy busy busy. How’s yours shaping up?’
‘It isn’t. Everyone’s paralysed at work still. And no one’s fucked me recently, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Didn’t you try that little one with big ears again?’
‘Gita? Yes, I did. And she didn’t want to again.’
‘Bitch. Why on earth not? Who does she think she
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