Sugar Mummy Read Online Free PDF Page A

good seafood,' she says. She pauses and then narrows her eyes slightly as
she peers across at my jacket. 'It's actually gone down your sleeve.' She smiles
gently. 'Now, what are the chances of that?'
    We talk about London and the weather and a bit about politics,
for some reason. I make all the running to begin with, thinking that I'd better
try and earn my fee after my disastrous performance with the olive. She looks uninterested
for most of the time and only takes any interest in me when she is taking the piss:
asking about media sales, about reading, about my 'roommate', about my work as a
'gigolo'.
    She asks whether I have a girlfriend and looks unsurprised when
I say 'No'.
    'Had one before?'
    'Yeah, a few.' I'm just a bit insulted.
    'Oh, I wasn't suggesting you were a virgin,' she smiles.
    There is a pause. That sex thing again. I'm trying to think of
something clever to say that implies in an understated way that I'm actually highly
proficient horizontally.
    Instead all I say is, 'No.'
    She insists I have some pudding and orders me zabaglione, which
she helps herself to a couple of times, sticking her licked spoon back into the
warm, sweet, alcoholic mucus and occasionally pushing mine gently but firmly out
of the way. But then she refuses to eat any more and just watches me finish it.
    I find myself wondering how old she is. She must be fifty. Mind
you, my mum is fifty-something and she doesn't look as good as Marion. On the other
hand, my mum is not rich and exotic. People in Belgravia don't necessarily age less
than people from Reading, just differently. She becomes quite flirtatious and laughs
unexpectedly a few times, asking me to say what I look for in girls and telling
me that I am quite good looking, really. 'Nice teeth,' she says, 'for an English
guy,' and dabs her immaculate mouth with an immaculate starched napkin.
    By the time we leave at eleven-thirty I feel that I have entertained
her a bit and probably performed quite well, once I relaxed. The air outside is
warmer than the air-conditioned restaurant but there is a bit of a breeze.
    She takes my arm in her hands and says, 'Shall I send the car
away? We can walk from here.'
    'OK.'
    'Goodnight,' she says apparently to no one and then from across
the street I see the headlights of the BMW flash an acknowledgment before it moves
off. She puts her head on my shoulder. Christ, I am making progress here suddenly.
Progress towards what, though? I'm not on my way back from the pub with a twenty-year-old.
We walk along in silence for a while and I'm wondering whether we'll end up having
sex. Does she want to? Do I want to? Could I? Fifty? If her body is as good as her
face then ...yeah, why not? I'm just hoping she can't read my thoughts in some way
when I see a small group coming towards us. They are talking and laughing loudly.
    'Irena,' calls Marion.
    'Marion, daaaarling,' says a woman in a heavy foreign accent.
She and Marion miss kiss and then ask each other how they are and reply 'Good' in
unison.
    'Irena, this is Mr Andrew Collins. Andrew this is my best friend,
Irena.'
    'Pleased to meet you.' She holds out a hand and at the last moment
I decide to kiss it rather than shake it. I do the same with an older American lady
standing next to her. The women laugh.
    'He's charming,' says the older woman to Marion. I shake hands
with Irena's boyfriend who has an unnecessarily long Italian name and with the American
woman's husband whose name is Moose (or is it Mousse?) for some reason. While Irena
and Marion chat the rest of us look on, laughing and agreeing like an appreciative
audience.
    Finally Irena says, 'Vill heff larnch next veek.' She smiles
girlishly as she says goodbye to me.
    'Sweet girl,' says Marion as we walk away. 'Thick as pig shit.
She is doing the old "I live just for my kids number" at the moment because
her first husband wants to get custody. Since she got dumped by him she has had
to make her own living. I mean she's taken up with that slimy