Last Saturday night I had dinner with Stephanie Flanders at The Ivy. She called me in the afternoon, said she was desperate to see me, said she was feeling desolate and lonely. She asked me to bring some of my latest work. I grabbed a copy of The Gate and made my way into town. When I turned up at the restaurant she walked over, oozing sensuality, put her hands either side of my head and buried her face in my chest. She was dressed in a black blouse, a tight black skirt, stockings and heavy black heels. She kissed me twice on the lips, delicately, and we dined.
I ordered the Sea Bass Sashimi with warm sake and wild ginger dressing and she ordered the Sweet Pear and Pancetta Salad with gem hearts and macadamia nuts. She kept the talk rational, level, but I knew that just beneath the surface there was something else. Halfway through the Hors d'Oeuvres I felt her stockinged foot press up against my crotch. There was a faint, musty, feminine odour. I stroked it and she reached across the table and touched my free left hand, running her fingertips over the back.
Our talk was subdued, as I say...but the undercurrent grew more necessarily intense. To a casual onlooker it might have looked like a professional tryst. She talked about Washington briefly and the economic collapse. I talked about my latest article for an international journal. She laughed when I told her the title.
Her eyes were moist and glittering. I knew what she had in mind, what she wanted and I was growing more and more eager to get my hands on her, to be with her. By now I was nursing a stubborn erection. I imagined her sliding around on top me. Her foot was working my crotch under the table and I came a little close to coming.
We had oiled ourselves on a bottle of Chevalier-Montrachet Grand Cru and then ordered a bottle of Château Léoville-Las Cases, 2ème Cru Classé, for the main course. I ordered a Black Gold Rump Steak with sauce Bordelaise and she asked for Crab Linguine with Chilli & Garlic. We polished off the meal and took Espresso. She picked up the tab with her black American Express card and her limo picked us up at the door.
We had to stop by Jeremy Paxman's Regency place in Belgravia on the way back - to pick up a USB stick which contained some alleged 'confidential documents'. Jeremy had been unable to email them with PGP. He was afraid his PC was hacked - and in any case, computers were not his forté.
I didn't want to go in, but Steph insisted.
"Please, we won't be long."
"How is he?"
"The same as ever." She lowered her eyes, "Maybe a bit worse."
She held my hand, "Please Chris, just a few minutes."
A Hispanic-looking woman answered the door. She waved her hands in the air:
"¡No hay nada aquí!"
Steph walked past her to the stairs. I followed her up.
We found him in a den on the second floor. He was standing in the middle of the room holding a broom handle, looking at us wildly. He was wearing a grey baggy t-shirt covered in grease splotches and baggy green combat trousers soiled in the groin area with white and dark stains. He lowered his head, sat down on a leather chair behind a messy desk and began typing on an old iMac.
"I was concerned it might be them: The Oxford Crew. They've been playing Maria Matrem Virginem at low volume next door, as a prelude to the end, I think. When it comes I know it will come with violence." He looked up imploringly, with bloodshot eyes. "I think they plan to take the head. To kill the numen. It will be like Kurtz in Apocalypse Now. They were playing it on DVD the other night - for the subtexts. I could hear them. It was released the same year I moved to Panorama."
"Jeremy," said Steph, in a soft yet firm tone.
"But I can hold them off with the caduceus" (touching the
broom stick on the desk). "It's been blessed by a Voodoo Preist. The same
one who sold me the brown powder. Who is this?"
"Jeremy, don't you remember? This is Chris, Chris Light, my friend who
you met before..."
"Oh...yes, the blogger..."
I smiled wanly and sat down on a sofa - so as to appear less threatening.
"Jeremy..."
His eyes were now darting around the room gimbal-like, as if he was following
the flight of a panicked sparrow but afraid to physically move lest he spook
it further.
"Jeremy!"
His settled his eyes on Steph.
"We need the stick."
He held up the broom stick.
"No, the USB stick, with the documents..."
He began to poke around absentmindedly on his desk.
I looked down at the coffee table in front of me. It was a mess too: Half-filled coffee cups and wine glasses, magazines, old copies of broadsheets, scraps of paper. I found a torn piece of note paper. On it had been written a poem - in what looked like red felt-tip...
I believe in Porno
I believe in pr0n
Kiss my arse you black bastardo
Let's get it on.
I flipped over the paper, as if I hadn't read it. On the back was another ditty...
Down, down, down at the fuck-down, down at the Old Bull and Id...
He found the USB stick and held it out at arms length without a word. I stood up quickly and said that we had better be going. I told him to get some sleep.
We sat in silence for a while in the back of the limo - driving towards Mayfair. Steph said:
"Don't let it worry you."
I didn't respond.
"I've got something for you."
When we got back to her bedroom Steph excused herself. She seemed to have so much forgotten about Jeremy it crossed my mind she was ruthless - acting like an animal. Fifteen minutes later, when she came back into the bedroom, I could smell Draw. She was wearing nothing but stockings and suspenders. She handed me the joint. It was already lit. I toked on it as we sat there in silence on the bed, then ditched it in a crystal ashtray on the bedside cabinet. She put a foot on my lap. I pulled it up and rubbed my face into the sole. I could see her cleft out of the corner of my eye. It seemed angry. I pushed her back on the bed and went down on her, licking her mound like a hungry wolf. She began to breathe deeply...
Next week; Kirsty Wark and the Five Dried Grammes