I held up one of his cheap cards, said, ‘See that? I know where you live.’ The Cube’s eyes widened, like he’d been anally probed. ‘One more word from you about leaving the party, I’ll be on your doorstep with a machete. Am I making myself clear?’
Nods. Thick and fast.
‘Glad we understand each other. Now move your lardy fucking arse.’
26
I hit the bar with brass-knuckles. Wild Turkey. Pale ale. Burst of tequila slammers. Mixing like this, not a worry to me. Once, the volume of drink seemed all that mattered. As my alcoholism progressed, a different strategy became necessary.
That’s the way it is with me. Swear, other alkies will tell you the same thing. It’s not the drink. It’s not the feeling, the taste, the debauchery. It’s what Graham Greene called the battle against boredom. The need to escape yourself. After a while, any pressure from the outside world begs for the journey.
‘Do you really need me here?’ said the Cube. He watched me carefully. His shifty eyes took in the glass in my hand, then darted off to the exit.
‘What we have here is a failure to communicate.’
‘What?’ said the Cube.
‘Some men you just can’t reach, so you get what we had here.’
‘I don’t… What?’
‘It’s the way he wants it. Well, he gets it and I don’t like it any more than you.’
The Cube sat back in his seat, slowly his tongue appeared on his lips.
‘You’ve never seen Cool Hand Luke, have you?’ I said.
A shake of the head, finger in the collar.
‘Shame. It’s a classic. If you had seen it you’d know two things: one, if you move off that seat, I’ll burst you. Two, sometimes nothing’s a pretty cool hand.’
The Cube looked away. He lowered his head as if he was praying for an end to this insanity. Like I wasn’t?
I flagged the waiter.
‘Stick another in there, mate.’
‘Excuse me?’
Looked up, had sat there so long there’d been a shift change. The waiter was now a waitress. Though, you’d need a magnifying glass to spot the difference. A hefty she-male with a short back and sides, tie and trousers, builder’s arms, the lot.
‘Er, it’s Wild Turkey for me, please.’
Took a frown. My order got pushed down her ‘to do’ list, took second billing to changing the CD to k.d. lang.
‘Here, I think that’s her,’ the Cube’s voice lit up for a moment, then I heard his fear creep in, ‘Who you’re looking for.’
Nadja knew how to make an entrance. Carrying herself like royalty, she approached the front desk. Two arm- length gloves slapped on the marble. It looked like a nonverbal cue, but one I’d never had cause to decipher. To the concierge, however, it shouted: ‘Action!’ He scurried round to remove Nadja’s coat, bowing and scraping like a coolie in the presence of the Raj.
‘Take it to my room,’ she said.
A near bow. Forelock tugging. ‘Right away!’
The Cube looked at me, saw we thought the same thing: ‘So this is how the other half lives?’
I got to my feet. From nowhere the Leither in me rose up. The ghost of Burns reminded me: ‘The rank is but the guinea’s stamp… a man’s a man for a’ that.’
She took a few steps into the elevator. I followed behind her, then pressed the hold button. The indignant look on her face seemed like incitement to me.
‘Take her coat,’ I told the Cube.
The concierge flustered, ‘Really, I mean…’
‘No, it’s all right,’ said Nadja. ‘These men are… associates of mine.’
The doors closed.
The air inside the elevator felt thick with menace. A tinder-box waiting to explode. I’d happily be the spark.
‘Associates?’ I said.
‘What is this?’ said Nadja.
‘I tried to-’ said the Cube.
‘Shut your fucking yap!’ I said.
I moved towards Nadja. The closer I got, the more I became overpowered by the scent of her perfume. I looked her up and down. She recoiled from me. Guess I didn’t smell quite as good. ‘This, my dear lady, is the moment of truth.’
I stopped the elevator. Opened the door. ‘Do one!’ I grabbed Nadja’s coat from the Cube, kicked his arse on the way into the hall, he’d served his purpose now. ‘And remember — I wasn’t kidding about the machete.’
As the elevator began its ascent, I eyeballed Nadja.
She held herself motionless. Wouldn’t grant me so much as a stare. I felt a queue of my cloth-capped forebears forming behind me. Each one, prodding, demanding I do my bit for the class struggle. I fought them off as long as I could. Even after the caps came off and were trampled under tackity boots, I kept my cool.
When the elevator stopped Nadja looked through me. Something snapped.
I hit the door lock. Grabbed her face in my hand, said, ‘Lose the high and mighty pose, lady.’
She tried to turn away, raised a neatly manicured set of claws to my eyes. In a second my forearm clicked into place, pressing her by the throat to the wall.
‘This is the one and only warning you’re going to get. Go down that route and you’ll find out what a perfectly unreconstructed example of maledom I really am.’
Her face turned white. Even through the layers of expensive panstick I saw I had her beat.
‘Now, we are going to walk out of here all nicey, nicey — understand?’
She couldn’t move, but signalled her compliance with a flutter of long eyelashes.
I let her go. ‘Don’t test me. That would be a mistake you might not live to regret.’
27
I’d only one word for the way I felt about the opulence of Nadja’s room: appalled. I’m a working-class bloke, it’s in the contract.
The carpet felt so soft that it added an extra layer to the air-cushioned soles of my Docs. But I couldn’t feel comfortable here. I’d no place in my life for gilt mirrors and walnut marquetry. Tried to tot-up the cost of furnishing a room like this. Couldn’t do it — had seen nothing like it in the Argos catalogue. All I did know, I’d need several lifetimes to afford one cabriole leg of the table Nadja treated like a piece of MFI flat-pack.
‘I need a cigarette,’ she said, slamming the drawer shut.
She seemed on edge — just how I wanted her.
I let her hang. Wandered about the place. Caught sight of a Peploe on one of the walls.
‘You don’t like the picture, Mr Dury?’ said Nadja. She’d found some tabs, lit up and blew smoke in my direction.
‘Not my style.’
‘What is?’
