Thursday, June 29, 2006
London, 1985 (Pt.3)
One of the enjoyable things I learned about in working for S was how the world treats you. Especially when you are rich and famous. It was amusing to see and hear how people reacted. Sometimes it drove S around the bend.
"You know," she starts fuming to me one day, "Just because you earn some money, people out there think you've suddenly forgotten the price of light bulbs." They think that, in amongst all your dinero, you won't miss one or two bucks here and there. Wrong. S was smart with her money, in spite of the efforts of others to separate her from it. And they come at you from out of the woodwork.
Take her plumber, for instance. S had trouble during the winter with the pipes in her house; they ruptured during the cold weather. The guy tried to fix things, but it just wasn't quite....proper. Then he has the nerve to sit down and write S a three page letter, basically saying that, because she had lived in many places and was used to a higher standard of living, she should not expect quite the same when she was at home in London. Well, please forgive me for breathing. She gave me the letter to read. It was rather amusing, in part because you would not expect plumbers - in the States at least - to write such nice English. OK guy, maybe you should not have become a plumber. But you are. So fix the stuff already and quit whining.
Even when you have money, it seems life is still not perfect. I poke fun at the Brits in general, and London life in particular. It's like living in the Third World, I joke to S. Except we don't get the fruit and the great beaches. Sadly, S is inclined to agree with me. The Brits are a monumentally inefficient bunch. In spite of Margaret Thatcher's best efforts at the time to whip them into shape. I am pleased to think of the fact that S did not pick one of her own, she picked me, the American.
Most evenings S relaxed at home, but on several nights she would go out to visit friends or some other activities. She had a cab service to pick her up. Out front S had her own car parked, but we never used it. Not once. And this after she had me put onto the insurance policy, just in case S and I went somewhere.
I meet T, S's long-time boyfriend. He is some ten years younger than S. Good for you, woman. T works at the British Museum. And he looks like he does: neatly trimmed beard, nice looking guy. He seems like a really straight shooter who enjoys S's company, rather than her money. I compliment S on her choice. She is pleased with that. Some weekends he stays over.
It's midway through by three month stay with S in London, and I plan some shopping sprees. I rarely shop at home, other than thrift stores, which I enjoy mightily and make out like a bandit in. I can navigate through them easily. Malls are not my thing. But London is the place for clothes horses, so out I went, determined to replenish my wardrobe for some time to come. When I get home S wants to inspect my loot. She is impressed I've managed to pick up a white tuxedo jacket for $25.
Near the end of my stay I get a chance to wear the finery. S and T and I go out to the current posh restaurant downtown, a French place. While there S has to say hello to people she recognizes. One dark-haired guy at the corner table with the horn-rimmed glasses looks vaguely familiar. It's Harold Pinter, one of my long-time culture heroes. S says hello to him. He's divorced now from Vivien Merchant, and is seated tonight with his current love, Antonia Fraser.
Over dinner S suggests I take a vacation when I finish my work with her in London. Where would you suggest I visit, I inquire. She ponders for a long moment, then says, "Tunisia."
We've talked a lot about the Middle East, S knows I have spent time there and seen most of the countries. After a summer of rain in London, I am more than ready for the late summer heat of North Africa.
So I book a package and fly into Sous, then by bus to the resort I am staying at. Not many Americans here at all, and the one or two I do meet seem like ripe CIA material. Instead I find three groupings: the Brits, the Germans, the French. Separately housed of course.
When I head out to the beach on day one, I make a rather surprising discovery. The women are all running around topless. My mouth drops open. S had told me ahead of time that she did not think foreign women did this, not in north Africa even at a resort. But lo and behold, they're doing it now, and not to be the odd man out, I yank my top off in nothing flat. Now we're living!
The Brits are the most forlorn-looking creatures on the beach, they look sadly out of place. Like very unhappy white bunny rabbits. For some reason, they just don't tan. The French are behaving in their usual animated and stuck-up fashion. They're just crazy. The Germans I probably feel most at home with, even though I don't speak the language. Give them a ray of sun and they're there. As naked as they can get. They LOVE the sun, and they have the tans to prove it. Real outdoor babes. Funny thing though, after healthy exercising and a bit of sunshine, what do they do? They light up cigarettes when they're taking the elevator up to their rooms. Amazing. I ask them politely if they could refrain, but they look at me as if I were crazy. Only recently do I hear that the Europeans are finally starting to crack down on smokers. It's taken them far too long.
It feels good being back in a hot Muslim country. And Tunisia is a Muslim country, no doubt about it, but Muslim light. They are a good-looking people, and I like going into the town of Sous and threading my way through the souks. I know enough French to get around and enjoy myself.
Near the center of town I stop for a cold drink, and happen to spot a really beautiful Tunisian woman making her way down the street. She is an absolute stunner, and she's dressed in western clothing. Her long dark hair is pulled up, she's wearing chic sunglasses. No veil for this little darling. No one seems to care what she's wearing.
I have a sudden impulse to follow her, to see where she goes, maybe to speak to her. But it's too bloody hot, I am enjoying the shade too much and the cold drink is irresistible. This part of the world is too hot to chase women. Were I on the other side of the Mediterranean, it might be different. But here the climate drives everything.
Tunisia concludes a wonderful summer. I fly back to England, rendezvous with S and getting my final paycheck before I fly home.
S heads off to her little studio apartment in Monte Carlo, where she will write the book itself. I get a postcard from her a few months later, showing a dinghy resting on the beach. It reminds us both of an episode from the book.
And that lesbian scene? Well, it did happen when the women are holed up on the island. S gave me no hints as to how it would progress. But when my copy of the finished novel came, I got to see for myself.
Why is it lesbians are always hotter on the page than they are in real life?
- - - - - -
"You know," she starts fuming to me one day, "Just because you earn some money, people out there think you've suddenly forgotten the price of light bulbs." They think that, in amongst all your dinero, you won't miss one or two bucks here and there. Wrong. S was smart with her money, in spite of the efforts of others to separate her from it. And they come at you from out of the woodwork.
Take her plumber, for instance. S had trouble during the winter with the pipes in her house; they ruptured during the cold weather. The guy tried to fix things, but it just wasn't quite....proper. Then he has the nerve to sit down and write S a three page letter, basically saying that, because she had lived in many places and was used to a higher standard of living, she should not expect quite the same when she was at home in London. Well, please forgive me for breathing. She gave me the letter to read. It was rather amusing, in part because you would not expect plumbers - in the States at least - to write such nice English. OK guy, maybe you should not have become a plumber. But you are. So fix the stuff already and quit whining.
Even when you have money, it seems life is still not perfect. I poke fun at the Brits in general, and London life in particular. It's like living in the Third World, I joke to S. Except we don't get the fruit and the great beaches. Sadly, S is inclined to agree with me. The Brits are a monumentally inefficient bunch. In spite of Margaret Thatcher's best efforts at the time to whip them into shape. I am pleased to think of the fact that S did not pick one of her own, she picked me, the American.
Most evenings S relaxed at home, but on several nights she would go out to visit friends or some other activities. She had a cab service to pick her up. Out front S had her own car parked, but we never used it. Not once. And this after she had me put onto the insurance policy, just in case S and I went somewhere.
I meet T, S's long-time boyfriend. He is some ten years younger than S. Good for you, woman. T works at the British Museum. And he looks like he does: neatly trimmed beard, nice looking guy. He seems like a really straight shooter who enjoys S's company, rather than her money. I compliment S on her choice. She is pleased with that. Some weekends he stays over.
It's midway through by three month stay with S in London, and I plan some shopping sprees. I rarely shop at home, other than thrift stores, which I enjoy mightily and make out like a bandit in. I can navigate through them easily. Malls are not my thing. But London is the place for clothes horses, so out I went, determined to replenish my wardrobe for some time to come. When I get home S wants to inspect my loot. She is impressed I've managed to pick up a white tuxedo jacket for $25.
Near the end of my stay I get a chance to wear the finery. S and T and I go out to the current posh restaurant downtown, a French place. While there S has to say hello to people she recognizes. One dark-haired guy at the corner table with the horn-rimmed glasses looks vaguely familiar. It's Harold Pinter, one of my long-time culture heroes. S says hello to him. He's divorced now from Vivien Merchant, and is seated tonight with his current love, Antonia Fraser.
Over dinner S suggests I take a vacation when I finish my work with her in London. Where would you suggest I visit, I inquire. She ponders for a long moment, then says, "Tunisia."
We've talked a lot about the Middle East, S knows I have spent time there and seen most of the countries. After a summer of rain in London, I am more than ready for the late summer heat of North Africa.
So I book a package and fly into Sous, then by bus to the resort I am staying at. Not many Americans here at all, and the one or two I do meet seem like ripe CIA material. Instead I find three groupings: the Brits, the Germans, the French. Separately housed of course.
When I head out to the beach on day one, I make a rather surprising discovery. The women are all running around topless. My mouth drops open. S had told me ahead of time that she did not think foreign women did this, not in north Africa even at a resort. But lo and behold, they're doing it now, and not to be the odd man out, I yank my top off in nothing flat. Now we're living!
The Brits are the most forlorn-looking creatures on the beach, they look sadly out of place. Like very unhappy white bunny rabbits. For some reason, they just don't tan. The French are behaving in their usual animated and stuck-up fashion. They're just crazy. The Germans I probably feel most at home with, even though I don't speak the language. Give them a ray of sun and they're there. As naked as they can get. They LOVE the sun, and they have the tans to prove it. Real outdoor babes. Funny thing though, after healthy exercising and a bit of sunshine, what do they do? They light up cigarettes when they're taking the elevator up to their rooms. Amazing. I ask them politely if they could refrain, but they look at me as if I were crazy. Only recently do I hear that the Europeans are finally starting to crack down on smokers. It's taken them far too long.
It feels good being back in a hot Muslim country. And Tunisia is a Muslim country, no doubt about it, but Muslim light. They are a good-looking people, and I like going into the town of Sous and threading my way through the souks. I know enough French to get around and enjoy myself.
Near the center of town I stop for a cold drink, and happen to spot a really beautiful Tunisian woman making her way down the street. She is an absolute stunner, and she's dressed in western clothing. Her long dark hair is pulled up, she's wearing chic sunglasses. No veil for this little darling. No one seems to care what she's wearing.
I have a sudden impulse to follow her, to see where she goes, maybe to speak to her. But it's too bloody hot, I am enjoying the shade too much and the cold drink is irresistible. This part of the world is too hot to chase women. Were I on the other side of the Mediterranean, it might be different. But here the climate drives everything.
Tunisia concludes a wonderful summer. I fly back to England, rendezvous with S and getting my final paycheck before I fly home.
S heads off to her little studio apartment in Monte Carlo, where she will write the book itself. I get a postcard from her a few months later, showing a dinghy resting on the beach. It reminds us both of an episode from the book.
And that lesbian scene? Well, it did happen when the women are holed up on the island. S gave me no hints as to how it would progress. But when my copy of the finished novel came, I got to see for myself.
Why is it lesbians are always hotter on the page than they are in real life?
- - - - - -
