An hour later I escort her downstairs to a cab with a buss on the rosy cheek and a farewell wave. I leap the stairs upwards three at a time and climb, unwashed, into bed with a smirk on my lips. All parts appear to be in good working order, would you believe? I have taken, as my father prescribed, ‘some crude satisfaction, purely for oneself’. Was this what he meant? I wonder, as satiated sleep descends. No matter. It’s a token of things to come. Simmonds are back in the music business, back with a taste for the takings.

Chapter 10

10

Time for Action

The bedside telephone rips me from the smugness of sleep.

‘Martin, major disaster, you must come home right now.’

‘What time is it, Myrtle?’

‘Half past seven. I had to get you before you left the room. The thing is, Lord Brent has cried off for tomorrow night. Tonsillitis, Joyce says. She’s coming, which is really nice of her, but that leaves two spare women at table. What are we to do? Martin, are you awake?’

‘Just thinking, Myrtle.’

‘No time for that. I need action.’

‘All right. Phone Dr Rodriguez. He’s usually free for a meal at weekends and can be good company if you keep him off golf. Doesn’t eat much, either. Then there’s that South African lawyer we met at the Solti concert. His card is on a pile at the right hand of my desk. He’s definitely single, probably gay. Pity. I’d like to see someone make a pass at prissy Joyce in the absence of his pompous lordshit.’

‘Martin, that’s unforgivable. No wonder nobody of any consequence will accept my invitations.’

‘Try Doc Birdie and the Queen Boer, Myrtle, but at a more civilised hour than this if you want them to accept.’

‘Is something the matter with you?’ my wife twigs, her suspicion snaking through the telephone line. ‘You’re sounding very frisky for the fourth day of a sales trip. I’ll book you in for a check-up with Rodriguez first thing Monday morning.’

‘That’ll be nice, dear. See you tomorrow.’

After replacing the receiver, my fingers trail a cheering odour of stale sex, stranger’s sex, past twitching nostrils. I savour the conquest and prepare for the next. Quickly out of bed, I shower, shave, select a vivid green tie and flip through the under-door Telegraph until it is time to go down. Sandra Adams is due for breakfast at eight thirty, and my mouth is watering.

‘Mr S, I’m not late, am I?’ she greets me effusively, in a snazzy pink two-piece, an inch too tight for her amplitude.

‘Mrs Adams,’ I protest. ‘I thought we were on first-name terms.’

‘Oh, you can call me Sandi, but I’m sticking to “Mr S”. Martin’s so dusty, not at all your kind of name.’