Jew.'
Treslove seemed almost crestfallen in the face of so much philosophic certainty.
THREE
1
'Hi, Brad.'
The speaker was a strong-jawed woman in a waterfall of blonde curls and a limp Regency dress that showed her breasts off to impressive effect. This was the third time that evening that Treslove - on his first night back working as a lookalike - had been taken for Brad Pitt. In fact, he'd been hired to look like Colin Firth in the part of Mr Darcy. It was a lavish birthday party in a loft in Covent Garden for a fifty-year-old lady of means whose name really was Jane Austen, so who else could he have been hired to look like? Everyone was in costume. Treslove, in tight breeches, a white hero shirt and silk cravat, affected a sulky manner. How then he could be taken for Brad Pitt he didn't know. Unless Brad Pitt had been in a Pride and Prejudice production he'd missed.
But then everyone was drunk and vague. And the woman who had accosted him was drunk, vague and American. Even before she opened her mouth Treslove had deduced all that from her demeanour. She looked too amazed by life to be English. Her curls were too curly. Her lips were too big. Her teeth too white and even, like one big arc of tooth with regular vertical markings. And her breasts had too much elevation and attack in them to be English. Had Jane Austen's heroines had breasts like these they would not have worried about ending up without a husband.
'Guess again,' Treslove said, flushed from the encounter. She was not his kind of woman. She would too obviously outlive him to be his kind of woman, but he found her forwardness arousing. And he too was growing vague.
'Dustin Hoffman,' she said, inspecting his face. 'No, I guess you're too young for Dustin Hoffman. Adam Sandler? No, you're too old. Oh, I know, Billy Crystal.'
He didn't say Why would Billy Crystal be at a Jane Austen party?
She took him back to her hotel in the Haymarket. Her suggestion. She was lewd in the taxi, sliding her hand up into his hero shirt and down into his tight Mr Darcy breeches. Calling him Billy, which it occurred to her, as they swung past Eros, rhymed with willy. Strange how impure Americans could be, Treslove thought, for a people puritanical to their souls. Prim and pornographic all at once.
But he was in no position to be judgemental.
Gratitude and a sense of relief overwhelmed him. He was still in the game; he was still a player. In fact, he'd never been a player but he knew what he meant.
He slid his tongue behind her dazzling panorama of teeth, trying without success to distinguish one tooth from another. He had the same trouble with her breasts. They didn't divide. They constituted a bosom, singular.
She was so perfect she needed only one of everything.
She was a television producer, over in London for a few days to discuss a joint venture with Channel 4. He was relieved it wasn't the BBC. He wasn't sure he could sleep with anyone with BBC connections. Not if he was to manage a decent erection for any length of time.
In the event he didn't manage a decent erection for any length of time because she bounced up and down on him in a flurry of nipple and curl which embarrassed him into prematurity.
'Wow!' she said.
'It's the dress,' he told her. 'I shouldn't have asked you to keep the dress on. Too many hot associations.'
'Such as?'
'Such as Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park. '
'I can take it off.'
'No. Keep it on and give me twenty minutes.'
They talked about their favourite Jane Austen characters. Kimberley - of course she was called Kimberley - liked Emma. That was who she was being. Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, rich, 'And with her tits out,' she laughed, putting them back in. Or, rather, Treslove thought, putting it back in.
Taking it back out again, he said he found some of Jane Austen's heroines a touch effervescent for his taste - not Emma, of course not Emma - preferring Anne Elliot, no, loving, really loving Anne Elliot. Why? Not sure,
Treslove seemed almost crestfallen in the face of so much philosophic certainty.
THREE
1
'Hi, Brad.'
The speaker was a strong-jawed woman in a waterfall of blonde curls and a limp Regency dress that showed her breasts off to impressive effect. This was the third time that evening that Treslove - on his first night back working as a lookalike - had been taken for Brad Pitt. In fact, he'd been hired to look like Colin Firth in the part of Mr Darcy. It was a lavish birthday party in a loft in Covent Garden for a fifty-year-old lady of means whose name really was Jane Austen, so who else could he have been hired to look like? Everyone was in costume. Treslove, in tight breeches, a white hero shirt and silk cravat, affected a sulky manner. How then he could be taken for Brad Pitt he didn't know. Unless Brad Pitt had been in a Pride and Prejudice production he'd missed.
But then everyone was drunk and vague. And the woman who had accosted him was drunk, vague and American. Even before she opened her mouth Treslove had deduced all that from her demeanour. She looked too amazed by life to be English. Her curls were too curly. Her lips were too big. Her teeth too white and even, like one big arc of tooth with regular vertical markings. And her breasts had too much elevation and attack in them to be English. Had Jane Austen's heroines had breasts like these they would not have worried about ending up without a husband.
'Guess again,' Treslove said, flushed from the encounter. She was not his kind of woman. She would too obviously outlive him to be his kind of woman, but he found her forwardness arousing. And he too was growing vague.
'Dustin Hoffman,' she said, inspecting his face. 'No, I guess you're too young for Dustin Hoffman. Adam Sandler? No, you're too old. Oh, I know, Billy Crystal.'
He didn't say Why would Billy Crystal be at a Jane Austen party?
She took him back to her hotel in the Haymarket. Her suggestion. She was lewd in the taxi, sliding her hand up into his hero shirt and down into his tight Mr Darcy breeches. Calling him Billy, which it occurred to her, as they swung past Eros, rhymed with willy. Strange how impure Americans could be, Treslove thought, for a people puritanical to their souls. Prim and pornographic all at once.
But he was in no position to be judgemental.
Gratitude and a sense of relief overwhelmed him. He was still in the game; he was still a player. In fact, he'd never been a player but he knew what he meant.
He slid his tongue behind her dazzling panorama of teeth, trying without success to distinguish one tooth from another. He had the same trouble with her breasts. They didn't divide. They constituted a bosom, singular.
She was so perfect she needed only one of everything.
She was a television producer, over in London for a few days to discuss a joint venture with Channel 4. He was relieved it wasn't the BBC. He wasn't sure he could sleep with anyone with BBC connections. Not if he was to manage a decent erection for any length of time.
In the event he didn't manage a decent erection for any length of time because she bounced up and down on him in a flurry of nipple and curl which embarrassed him into prematurity.
'Wow!' she said.
'It's the dress,' he told her. 'I shouldn't have asked you to keep the dress on. Too many hot associations.'
'Such as?'
'Such as Northanger Abbey and Mansfield Park. '
'I can take it off.'
'No. Keep it on and give me twenty minutes.'
They talked about their favourite Jane Austen characters. Kimberley - of course she was called Kimberley - liked Emma. That was who she was being. Emma Woodhouse, handsome, clever, rich, 'And with her tits out,' she laughed, putting them back in. Or, rather, Treslove thought, putting it back in.
Taking it back out again, he said he found some of Jane Austen's heroines a touch effervescent for his taste - not Emma, of course not Emma - preferring Anne Elliot, no, loving, really loving Anne Elliot. Why? Not sure,
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