Tim Connor Hits Trouble Page 22

  ‘Wake up young man, you’re in dreamland,’ Brad gave Tim an over-the-top shove causing him to knock his glass across the table.

  ‘Whoops, apologies,’ Brad quickly retrieved the glass carefully replacing it the right way up. ‘Good job it was empty.’

  Annoyed, Tim glared at Brad who continued in his usual auto way.

  ‘Listen, you guys, I like this Soho part of town. How about we spend a few hours here and take in a club or two?’

  ‘Not for me thanks,’ answered Tim. He felt he had paid his dues to Brad by chaperoning him so far. He thought again of Erica and concluded he was definitely in the wrong place.

  Brad turned to Cal.

  ‘How about you Cal? C’mon we could have some fun.’

  Tim was surprised when Cal agreed, but less so when he explained why.

  ‘Sure Brad, I’ll spend some time with you in the fleshpots. I’m not going back to the conference anyway. I’m only paid up to today. I’m off to Spain in the early hours of tomorrow morning for a break. So I have a few hours to kill before I make my way to Stansted.’ He gave Brad a considered look, ‘Mind you Brad I’m not looking to do anything too exciting or tiring.’

  ‘That’s going to cut your options down around here but it’s great that you want to come along.’

  Tim was glad to get rid of Brad. He always felt more comfortable as a social outrider than as ‘one of the boys’. A parting of the ways wrapped up things nicely and left him free to get back to the conference and search out his colleagues. With luck he might prise Erica away from the others.

  Outside the restaurant Tim and Brad exchanged contact details with Cal. The three of them shook hands and said their farewells.

  ‘Be careful how you go, then,’ warned Tim, ‘keep tight hold of your wallets and your trousers.’

  There was an odd postscript to the jaunt. As it turned out Brad failed to take Tim’s parting advice, at least as far as his wallet was concerned. In circumstances he was strangely reluctant to explain, he ‘lost’ it along with credit cards and a return ticket to Wash. Later he touched Tim for a bridging loan but adamantly refused to take his advice to report the incident – whatever it was - to the police.

  Chapter 19

  Ladies Evening

  Tim returned to the university via the Strand; celebrated location of several theatres and top hotels, including the Savoy. For Tim this was a familiar stretch of London, although it would never mean as much to him as the streets of Whitetown. As a student the Strand meant no more to him than a crowded walkway between the London School of Economics and King’s at one end and the myriad bookshops of Charing Cross Road at the other. Strangely his most personal memory of the Strand was linked to his hometown. He had walked along the famous street with his mother on her only visit to the big city in the mid nineteen nineties. She had behaved like an elderly Alice in Wonderland ‘ooing and aaing’ at the legendary sights from Nelson’s Column down to Waterloo Bridge. He had kept several photographs of her trip, taken at a time when ‘family snaps’ reflected meaningful selection rather than automated habit. They served to connect the person to the place: ‘look, I’ve been there.’ His favourite was of his mother standing proudly at the entrance to King’s where, as she frequently told her neighbours, ‘our Tim passed his degree.’

  She had no wish to venture past the college and into Fleet Street although she was happy enough to return along the Strand, oblivious to the frustration her slow pace caused. Stretching his long arm around her back, Tim steered her close to the walls of the Strand’s massive buildings to protect her from being jostled. The walk back prompted her to recall a forgotten link with the Strand, the Irish émigré folk song, The Mountains of Mourne. The song featured a policeman, Peter O’Loughlin, who had risen from humble origins to direct the traffic ‘at the head of the Strand.’ The song tells how despite London’s glamour the homesick singer ‘might as well be where the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea.’ She had sung the song to Tim when he was a child and now he sang it for her. She was a flutter of pleasure and embarrassment wondering ‘what people might think’ as he serenaded her down the mighty thoroughfare. He gently pointed out that they were most unlikely to meet any of these people again. And in any case, it wouldn’t matter if they did. Had they been walking down the main street in Whitetown she would have rejected these arguments, but in the Strand she could see Tim’s point. Released from her inhibitions she joined in the song’s chorus harmonising a still serviceable alto with his bass. The incredulity of others passed them by. As Teresa commented ‘the further you are from home, the dafter you’re prepared to be.’ Tim agreed that in general that had been his experience.

  He had little time to savour these memories as he hurried back from his jaunt with Brad and Cal. Well juiced up, his attempt to weave his way between knots of evening pleasure seekers and tourists drew the occasional irritated rebuke. Spraying apologies with boozy abandon he waltzed on. Once back at the university he headed for the leisure and bar area provided for conference delegates. He was feeling edgy now that he was about to commit himself to an evening with his women colleagues. He was still sober enough to appreciate that he would not be at his sparkling best but too drunk to realise that he ought to forget about the whole thing. There was more than one way in which it could go wrong.

  The room was large and punctuated by thick support pillars, making it difficult to see where the women were. He scanned it as best he could but failed to spot any of them. He decided to get himself a beer before resuming his search. Easier said than done. The area in front of the bar was crowded. Most people already seemed half canned and were energetically jostling for the bartenders’ attention. Whoever coined the stereotype of the politely queue-forming British had clearly not observed them at the trough. He didn’t feel like joining in the barging about and had resigned himself to a lengthy wait when he noticed a figure at the front of the queue apparently waving in his direction.

  ‘Tim, Tim… Let me get you a drink. Otherwise you’ll be here for ages.’

  It was Rachel, in a mood expansive enough to stretch to buying him a drink. He put aside the ungenerous thought that she must be pissed.

  ‘Rachel, yes, it’s you,’ he observed pointlessly, ‘thanks. That would be good. Let me buy. After all I’m the gatecrasher.’

  ‘Forget it, this is my round. Is it just you or are you with someone?’

  ‘Just me Rachel, and it’s a pint of whatever bitter they’ve got on.’ He noticed a bartender move in Rachel’s direction. ‘Hey, don’t miss your turn, you can order now.’

  Rachel turned quickly and got her order in just as the bartender was about to turn his attention elsewhere.

  Revitalised at the thought of a pint, Tim pushed forward and helped Rachel gather up the drinks and several packets of nuts and crisps, dropping a couple of them as he did so.

  Rachel quickly picked them up. ‘I’ll carry these you look like you’ll have your work cut out getting over to our table as it is.’

  ‘Bossy bugger,’ he thought, feeling his virility had been impugned.

  There were four drinks: his pint and three shorts. Two of the shorts were presumably for Rachel and Erica but he was unsure about the third. It would not be for Aisha who as far as he knew didn’t drink. Perhaps she had not yet arrived. He guessed it must be for Annette.

  He just about kept up with Rachel as she bundled her way towards a far corner of the room. The group had found a niche behind a large pillar that partly shielded them from the surrounding hubbub. Both Aisha and Annette were there as well as Erica. They gave him a friendly welcome, only Annette striking a questionable note suggesting that Rachel’s ‘pick up’ was ‘a bit on the youthful side.’ Relishing the irony, Rachel riposted that this was ‘the best she could do.’ Tim decided to let the jibes pass: he was not in the mood for lightly gendered piss taking.

  Annette and Aisha were sat a couple of feet apart at a table already heaving with bottles and glasses. Aisha, a beaco
n of self-possession among the bacchanalia, had placed a large bottle of Buxton mineral water in front of her. It stood out as a statement of sober intent. Erica was sat alone on a faux leather couch. Once they had passed round the drinks and cleared a space on the table for the nibbles, Rachel plumped down next to her. Erica checked out Tim with a quick glance and a half smile. Masking a frisson of insecurity, he responded with what he imagined was a nonchalant wink.

  Drawing up a chair he ignored the space between Aisha and Annette and instead squeezed in between Aisha and the sofa. He was within touching distance of Erica. Looking straight at Tim, Rachel stretched her arm round Erica’s shoulders. Erica slightly shifted her body, Tim couldn’t tell whether in welcome or discomfort at Rachel’s possessive gesture.

  There was a moment’s awkwardness. Sensing Tim’s unease Aisha tried to shift away from edgy personal dynamics by starting up a broader conversation.

  ‘Our final session today was on the interplay of domestic and economic relations between the genders. It was interesting. You would have enjoyed it.’

  Annette chipped in again, still sounding sardonic. ‘Yeah, why don’t you join us for the next session Tim? I believe your stream has got stuck in a generational debate with the young ones blaming the older ones for all sorts of things. Doesn’t that leave you as piggy in the middle?’

  Annette was already needling Tim. It was beginning to get to him, her innuendoes falling like piss disguised as rain. It crossed his mind that even if Henry was a mess of his own making a less spiky character than Annette might have handled him better. But maybe she hadn’t always been this way. Probably the difference in their ages had played out badly over time as she wised up to his flaws. Something had soured her. He attempted a low-key response.

  ‘I doubt if I need to change streams to discuss feminism. I’m sure you guys can tell me all I need to know? Anyway, what did you talk about today?’

  It was Rachel who answered. ‘We were discussing whether heterosexual partnerships break up so often because women no longer see it as their role to look after men while most men still expect them to. I believe you’ve been married and separated, Tim, what do you think?’

  In his semi-addled state Tim had been hoping for a light conversation. This was not it. He was beginning to regret the amount of alcohol he had taken on board. He made a non-committal reply. ‘That’s probably a fair proposition although it’s not particularly original. There are other reasons for the high rate of divorce and partnership break-ups, although I’m not sure I’m in the mood to discuss them now.’

  ‘But don’t you think men’s dated expectations are part of the explanation?’

  Rachel persisted.

  ‘Yeah, it would explain some break-ups.’ He decided to throw the question back to Rachel. ‘But why do you think so many women have made paid work their priority. I believe about one in five women in this country now opt not to have children?’

  Now Aisha intervened. ‘It’s obvious, really. They want independence. They realise it’s not enough to live their lives only through others. They need something for themselves, something for their own fulfilment.’

  Annette broke back in. ‘Right but is most work that fulfilling? Especially the kind of work most women still end up doing? I don’t see much chance of self development in cleaning or shop work or even routine white collar work which is still the kind of stuff most women do.’

  ‘Agreed but it’s a hell of a lot better than being stuck in the home waiting to service a man,’ interjected Rachel. ‘Anyway more women are getting decent jobs these days, despite being blocked for promotion at the top end.’

  Tim was about to bring Erica into the conversation when he noticed that she appeared preoccupied with her mobile. As his attention was distracted, Annette took up the conversation again. ‘The truth is that capitalists don’t care about the gender of labour as long as they have a steady supply. My benighted husband is right in that respect. It’s a vicious circle in which we’re all involved. But Rachel’s also right - things are better for women than they used to be. We’re on much more even terms with men even if the system itself is unfair.’

  Tim was surprised that Annette offered even a grudging compliment to Henry. He was on the point of responding when his mobile sounded the arrival of a text. Apologising for the interruption he was about to ignore the message and switch off when he noticed Erica adopt an oddly contorted posture. She had leaned forwards and slightly sideways, apparently to shield her actions from Rachel. Without turning her head she was slowly and repeatedly shaking her mobile up and down behind her back.

  Tim stared in puzzlement. His first guess, feeble, but all he could come up with, was that she wanted to express her irritation at his noisy mobile. He switched it off just as she gave a quick glance in his direction. She raised her eyes in frustration as he did so. He had misread the script.

  Realisation dawned. He recalled that a couple of minutes ago Erica had been fiddling with her own mobile. Suppose she had sent him a message that for some reason she wanted to keep from the others? If so it might not be too clever to open it now. There was an obvious alternative.

  ‘Will you guys excuse me for the moment? I need to pop to the loo. Can I get anybody a drink on the way back?’

  ‘It’s certainly more sensible to get them on the way back than on the way there,’ jibed Annette. Nobody laughed. Sensing she was over-doing the put-downs she attempted a more friendly tone: ‘Thanks Tim, we all seem to be ok for now.’ The effort proved too much and she added, ‘you seem to have timed your round rather well as far as your wallet’s concerned.’

  Tim got to his feet. He hesitated, searching for a quick retort before heading for the gents. It was an unwise delay. He had begun to feel distinctly queasy. His gallop across central London had churned up several pints of beer, a couple of glasses of wine and a profoundly spicy chicken vindaloo. The effort of coping with the women had further bamboozled him. The gas was massing in his stomach. Control had passed from his brain to his baser self. It was either a belch or a fart. He prayed for the former.

  As he battled with nausea he managed a befuddled smile to his colleagues. Bemused they stared blankly back.

  There are moments when a belch can speak louder and more meaningfully than words. Tim surrendered to the moment.

  Timing is all.

  He let rip massively. And then again.

  Rachel stared at him as though she had just received definitive proof that he was a moron. Annette’s face was a mask of rigidity as she struggled not to react, Erica was laughing albeit with a hint of disapproval and Aisha, her lips parted in a faint smile, stared at him in wondrous disbelief. Surveying the effects of his gaseous interjection Tim decided that it would be a good idea to go missing. As he made his speedy exit he blurted an apology of extravagant insincerity.

  No longer merely a convenient alibi, the trip to the loo had become an urgent necessity. Oh Lord, give us relief!

  Once in a toilet cubicle he was comprehensively sick and soon felt much better for it. Within a few minutes he had recovered sufficiently to check his messages. The top one read: ‘See you after twelve tonight. My room. Be there!’

  He breathed the sigh of a man for whom affairs, having for some time been adverse, had at last taken a turn for the better. He decided not to return to his colleagues. If he was in for an all-nighter he would need a kip first. He texted Erica, asking her to explain to the others that he was too embarrassed to return. They might just buy that. He tapped out his message and then leant back on the pot, happy with the thought of what lay ahead.

  Shortly before mid-night he made his way across the few blocks between his room and Erica’s. He felt refreshed after a rest and shower. He stopped to pick up a bottle of champagne from a local pub. Take-away booze of any kind is nearly always more expensive in pubs than elsewhere, except in the bars of posh hotels but he was not about to mess around for the sake of saving a few quid. He was eager to get to Erica. The image of her
vibrant body and the depthless blue light of her eyes shimmered in his mind. It wasn’t just the sex he was looking forward to. Now that he lived alone he missed the emotional warmth and polymorphous closeness that he once could take for granted. Or so he had assumed. He could almost smell the scent of Erica’s lean body. As he quickened his step his cock began to move in synchronicity with the swinging bottle of champagne. His heart beat faster… faster…

  Erica welcomed him with a wide grin and the huge hug he had been looking forward to. He tossed the champagne onto a chair and as they hugged again swung her off her feet.

  ‘Put me down macho man, you’ll give yourself a hernia just where you don’t want it. That’s if you haven’t already sprung one through mega-belch strain. That was really pushing the limit.’

  ‘Erica, Petaldust, I haven’t come here to discuss my belches.’ He returned her gently to the floor. ‘But you’re right, it would be a pity to put myself out of action.’

  ‘And what action are you referring to?’ She teased him.

  ‘Well I assume you haven’t invited me here to give me lessons in social etiquette.’

  ‘No, not now perhaps, but I might give you a few tips some other time. You are a bit of an uncut diamond.’

  Tim looked slightly taken aback and she added hastily, ‘But a diamond nevertheless.’

  ‘I thought you liked a bit of rough.’

  ‘Tim don’t be so crass. I’m not referring to your performance in the sack. It’s your behaviour in public that lacks, how can I put it? A certain finesse.’