release the ball and look at him intensely.
'What's the matter?' But before I've even finished the sentence
he has rushed forward and placed the ball on the 'touch line' at the bottom of the
far wall.
'Bastard,' I say, trying to get it back again. The phone rings.
Still panting I crawl over to the table and answer it. 'Andrew?'
'Yeah?' I gasp, between breaths. 'You all right?'
'Yeah, sorry, I've been playing football.' I turn round and see
Vinny trying to spin the ball on his head. It immediately slips off onto the draining
board and takes a couple of saucepans and the colander with it. There is more banging
from downstairs. We both yell with laughter.
'Listen, she wants to see you again,' says the voice from the
phone. I sit down and wave at Vinny to shut up. 'She likes you, mate,' says Jonathan,
half proud, half jealous. 'When did you first see her? Two nights ago?'
'Er, yeah, that's right. Tuesday.'
'OK. Look, give her a ring now, she's at home. Well done, superstar.'
I can almost hear him wink down the phone. He gives me Marion's number again and
once I've got Vinny out of the kitchen I ring her. She asks if I'm free for lunch
the next day.
'Sure,' I say excitedly. Wrong answer. There is a pause. 'Don't
you want to check your schedule?' she asks.
'What?'
'To make sure you're free then.'
'Er, I know I'm free,' I say. 'Just had a cancellation, actually.'
Beautiful. But she laughs. 'Lucky me. Why don't you come to mine for a quarter of
one.'
I leave the office at 12.25pm - as late as I can. Friday is supposed
to be a quiet day in our office but somehow it never is.
'Where are you off to?' asks Sami, crossly.
'Colonic irrigation.'
'Urgh, Andrew, you are gross.'
'That's why you love me.'
Sami's expression changes. 'If you're going down there can you
see if they've got a packet from me, I'm expecting something,' she says seriously.
Either she has gone mad or Debbie, our martyr of a boss, is standing behind me.
I assume it's the latter.
'Yes, of course,' I say looking cross-eyed at Sami. I turn round
and sure enough Debbie is handing out some memos. I smile meekly and piss off.
It's grey and stormy outside but a cab comes along almost immediately
and I manage to grab it just before two senior suits from upstairs. Probably not
a good career move but frankly, I really don't care at the moment.
The cab gets to Marion's in ten minutes and shortly after that
I am sitting in the BMW with her. She is wearing a darkblue Chanel suit and carrying
a Prada handbag.
'Good morning at the office, dear?' she enquires sweetly. This
makes me laugh.
'Lovely.'
'I don't know how you do it. Sitting in a dreary room with all
those dreary people, waiting to get fired.'
I don't know whether to agree so she'll pity me and feel the
urge to take me away from all this etc. etc. or to show some youthful pride and
defend my dead-end job and my dead-end life. In the end I just say, 'Neither do
I.'
Which is probably nearer the truth.
The car sweeps up to Ciccone's in Mayfair. In one move the driver
leaps out and puts up an umbrella against the unrelenting rain. A split second later
he is opening the door to Marion. She seems mildly irritated - perhaps he wasn't
quick enough or perhaps there was too big a gap between umbrella and car. The driver
leads her to the door and comes round to pick me up. But, feeling slightly embarrassed
about sitting there like an old woman, I've already set off before he arrives. We
walk into each other like last night and this time both apologize gruffly.
When I get into the restaurant, soaked, the maitre d' is
sympathising with Marion about the awful British weather.
He is immaculately dressed in a heavy pinstripe, doublebreasted
suit and salmon-pink Hermes tie. He has whipped off the horn-rimmed half-glasses
which he was using to read the Herald Tribune and is now giving her his full attention.
'Angelo, this is Mr Collins,' she gestures towards me. Immediately Mr Ciccone gives
a slight bow and shakes
'What's the matter?' But before I've even finished the sentence
he has rushed forward and placed the ball on the 'touch line' at the bottom of the
far wall.
'Bastard,' I say, trying to get it back again. The phone rings.
Still panting I crawl over to the table and answer it. 'Andrew?'
'Yeah?' I gasp, between breaths. 'You all right?'
'Yeah, sorry, I've been playing football.' I turn round and see
Vinny trying to spin the ball on his head. It immediately slips off onto the draining
board and takes a couple of saucepans and the colander with it. There is more banging
from downstairs. We both yell with laughter.
'Listen, she wants to see you again,' says the voice from the
phone. I sit down and wave at Vinny to shut up. 'She likes you, mate,' says Jonathan,
half proud, half jealous. 'When did you first see her? Two nights ago?'
'Er, yeah, that's right. Tuesday.'
'OK. Look, give her a ring now, she's at home. Well done, superstar.'
I can almost hear him wink down the phone. He gives me Marion's number again and
once I've got Vinny out of the kitchen I ring her. She asks if I'm free for lunch
the next day.
'Sure,' I say excitedly. Wrong answer. There is a pause. 'Don't
you want to check your schedule?' she asks.
'What?'
'To make sure you're free then.'
'Er, I know I'm free,' I say. 'Just had a cancellation, actually.'
Beautiful. But she laughs. 'Lucky me. Why don't you come to mine for a quarter of
one.'
I leave the office at 12.25pm - as late as I can. Friday is supposed
to be a quiet day in our office but somehow it never is.
'Where are you off to?' asks Sami, crossly.
'Colonic irrigation.'
'Urgh, Andrew, you are gross.'
'That's why you love me.'
Sami's expression changes. 'If you're going down there can you
see if they've got a packet from me, I'm expecting something,' she says seriously.
Either she has gone mad or Debbie, our martyr of a boss, is standing behind me.
I assume it's the latter.
'Yes, of course,' I say looking cross-eyed at Sami. I turn round
and sure enough Debbie is handing out some memos. I smile meekly and piss off.
It's grey and stormy outside but a cab comes along almost immediately
and I manage to grab it just before two senior suits from upstairs. Probably not
a good career move but frankly, I really don't care at the moment.
The cab gets to Marion's in ten minutes and shortly after that
I am sitting in the BMW with her. She is wearing a darkblue Chanel suit and carrying
a Prada handbag.
'Good morning at the office, dear?' she enquires sweetly. This
makes me laugh.
'Lovely.'
'I don't know how you do it. Sitting in a dreary room with all
those dreary people, waiting to get fired.'
I don't know whether to agree so she'll pity me and feel the
urge to take me away from all this etc. etc. or to show some youthful pride and
defend my dead-end job and my dead-end life. In the end I just say, 'Neither do
I.'
Which is probably nearer the truth.
The car sweeps up to Ciccone's in Mayfair. In one move the driver
leaps out and puts up an umbrella against the unrelenting rain. A split second later
he is opening the door to Marion. She seems mildly irritated - perhaps he wasn't
quick enough or perhaps there was too big a gap between umbrella and car. The driver
leads her to the door and comes round to pick me up. But, feeling slightly embarrassed
about sitting there like an old woman, I've already set off before he arrives. We
walk into each other like last night and this time both apologize gruffly.
When I get into the restaurant, soaked, the maitre d' is
sympathising with Marion about the awful British weather.
He is immaculately dressed in a heavy pinstripe, doublebreasted
suit and salmon-pink Hermes tie. He has whipped off the horn-rimmed half-glasses
which he was using to read the Herald Tribune and is now giving her his full attention.
'Angelo, this is Mr Collins,' she gestures towards me. Immediately Mr Ciccone gives
a slight bow and shakes
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