Seven Women

'Just tell me where and when,' she said.

Jamie met her at The Strawberry Alarm Clock, just off Paddington Street. 'So ... graphic designer for hire,' Jamie said. And he nodded knowingly. 'And how's business?'

'Not great,' Lisa admitted. 'I'm just getting started. It's a lot more difficult than I expected it would be. When you're at art school, they don't tell you how difficult it is going to be.'

Jamie smiled. 'Don't take it personally,' he said. 'It's the same for everyone. Once you're established, you'll have plenty of opportunities to demonstrate how good you are. But, in order to get established, you'll need plenty of opportunities to demonstrate how good you are. Is that your portfolio?'

'Would you like to see it?' she asked.

'That's what I'm here for. Well ... that and a soothing glass of red.' Jamie flicked through her 'book'. It was clear that Lisa had talent. But everything was very 'art school'. She didn't really have anything particularly commercial. 'How badly do you need the money?' he asked. (From her dress and her jewellery, she didn't look as if she was on the bones of her bum.)

'It's not the first consideration,' she said.

Jamie smiled. 'I know a chap who is trying to establish his own studio,' he said. 'I don't think that he'll be able to pay you much. But it might give you the chance to put some real work in your book. I'll call him in the morning. You two should probably meet.'

'Thank you so much,' she said.

'It's difficult,' he told her for the third or fourth time. 'You have talent. No question. But you need opportunities. And I think that we both need another glass of wine.'

The Strawberry Alarm Clock was one of those surprisingly ordinary places that nevertheless attracted the rich and famous. Jamie had seen Tom Tucker there on a few occasions. And Patrick Perriman was something of a regular. And, that night, while he was waiting at the bar, he spotted someone else who looked vaguely familiar. It wasn't until a couple of days later that he realised that it had probably been the girl who had been tempting at Mackenzie-Marshall a couple of years earlier. Louise? Was that her name?

Jamie honestly didn't expect that he and Lisa would end up in bed that night. But they did. 'Did you not say something about a boyfriend?' he said, giving her a last chance to back out.

'Richard? Oh. Did I say boyfriend? More of an ex-boyfriend really,' she said. 'But I wave his name around. It helps to keep the predators at bay.'

'Am I a predator?' Jamie asked.

Lisa smiled. 'Not as far as I'm concerned. Are you a backdoor bandit?'

'A backdoor bandit?'

'Yes. I like a bit of anal. I like to be fucked in my arse. Up to you though. I'm just letting you know.'

'You might have to give me instructions,' Jamie said. 'But I think that you will find that I'm a fast learner.'

Jamie did better than just telephone Angus, the guy he knew who was trying to set up a new graphic design studio. He took him to lunch at The Green Parrot. And gave him the full sales pitch. 'The girl has talent,' Jamie said. 'And she'll work for peanuts. She just needs an opportunity. As I see it, it's win-win.'

'Peanuts is about what I can afford right now,' Angus said.

'She's not in it for the money. Well ... not yet. Just have a look at her book, and I think you'll like what you see.'

Angus agreed that he would. And he did. And, a week later, Lisa had a proper job -- albeit with a start-up.

'My parents would like to invite you to dinner,' Lisa told Jamie after she had been working at Angus Cameron Design for a couple of weeks.

'Oh?'

'Yes. They'd like to thank you for helping me to get the job.'

'Well, all I did was have lunch with a bloke.'

'Yes, but at least you knew which bloke with whom to have lunch.'

'And when are they thinking? Your parents, I mean.'

'Saturday.'

'What do you think?'

'It'll be OK. I think you'll like Mother. And Dad's playing golf on Saturday, so he'll probably be three-quarters pickled by dinnertime. But you'll cope.'

'Well ... if you think so.'

Lisa's parents place was a large early-Victorian house not far from Hampstead Heath. Jamie arrived at six-thirty for seven. Lisa greeted him at the front door and took him to meet her mother. Lisa was right: her mother was nice. In fact, her mother reminded Jamie of an older version of Lisa.

'Dad's running a bit late,' Lisa said.

'Darling, your father's always running late,' Lisa's mother said -- although not in an unkindly way. 'He knows no other way.'

'What can I get you?' Lisa asked. 'Gin and tonic?'

'Thank you,' Jamie said.

'It was very kind of you to help Lisa,' Lisa's mother said. 'She was starting to get a bit desperate.'

'Lisa did all the hard work,' Jamie said. 'But when you're just getting started, it often comes down to who you know rather than what you know. I just spoke to the right person.'

Lisa's mother smiled and nodded.

When Lisa's father arrived home, he seemed a bit confused. 'Are you Lisa's manager?' he asked when Lisa introduced Jamie to him.

'No, dear. Jamie is the person who helped Lisa to get the job,' Lisa's mother said.

'Jonny?'

'Jamie.'

'That's what I said,' Lisa's father said. 'Look, have I got time for a quick stiffener before dinner?' (Not that he needed one.)

'Maybe bring it to the table,' Lisa's mother said, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece. 'Mrs Brown will be getting anxious. I told her seven, and it's almost half past.'

Lisa's parents' dining room was as big as Jamie's entire flat. And the dining table had seating for twelve. Possibly more. It was set for four at one end. On the adjacent sideboard, there were two bottles of wine: a Sancerre in a silver ice bucket and a Cotes du Rhone Village standing on an ornate silver coaster.

For a starter they had chicken liver terrine with spiced cherries, mango chutney, and toast. This was followed by slow-roasted shoulder of lamb, with caper sauce, crisp roasted potatoes, and steamed asparagus. And for dessert there was a sort of rum baba with orange syrup and homemade vanilla ice cream. The meal was delicious. But Lisa's father still seemed confused as to who Jamie was.

'You don't sound like a Londoner,' he said.

'No. Probably not. I grew up in Dorset.'

Lisa's father nodded. 'Near the sea?'

'Yes.'

'Do any sailing?'

'Yes. My father has a boat. An S and S forty-footer.'

'Oh.' And Lisa's father nodded again. Jamie thought that he may even have nodded approvingly. 'Well, that's useful to know. I can sometimes use an extra pair of hands.' He eyed Jamie up and down. 'Forward hand?'

'Headsail trimmer when we're racing,' Jamie said. 'Freddy's boat has a high aspect ratio rig. In light airs, the headsail needs constant tweaking.'

'Freddy? Who's Freddy?'

'Father.'

Lisa's father nodded a third time. 'Make sure that Lisa has your telephone number.'

About halfway through the dessert, Lisa announced that The Timbermen were playing at the Black Orchid Ballroom. 'Jamie and I thought that we might see if we could catch the last set,' Lisa said.

'Oh ... yes ... what a good idea,' Lisa's mother said.

Jamie had never heard of The Timbermen. But it didn't matter. When they flagged down a passing cab, Lisa gave the cabbie Jamie's address.

'Well ... that all went very well,' she said. 'You know ... all things considered.'

'I'm not sure that your father approves of me,' Jamie said.

'Oh, he's like that,' Lisa said. 'And Mother thought that you were cute.'

'Is cute good?' Jamie asked.

'Take it,' Lisa said. 'Take it with both hands.'

Within the hour, it was Lisa who Jamie was taking with both hands. Lisa was on her hands and knees on Jamie's bed, and Jamie was hanging onto her by her broad-but-bony hips and thrusting his hard cock into her arse. 'Oh, fuck, yes!' Lisa said. 'That feels perfect. Oh yes. Absolutely perfect.'

'I told you that I was a fast learner,' Jamie reminded her.

A bit over a year after Jamie and Lisa started their little 'relationship' they were at an art gallery just off Campden Hill Road, at the opening of an exhibition of paintings by one of Lisa's former art school friends. The paintings seemed to have been strongly influenced by the New York School of Abstract Expressionists. 'What do you think?' Lisa asked, as they stood in from of a large red, blue, and beige painting.

'I like it,' Jamie said. 'I like most of that New York School stuff. But you're the expert.'

'I might move to New York,' Lisa said.

'New York?'

'I'm thinking about it. Yes.'

'Oh?'

'Dad's on the board of Bilbray's.'

'The antiques and fine arts people?'

'Auction house. Yes. They've a bought a business in New York. Steinberg's, I think it's called. Something like that. They're going to rebrand it as Bilbray's. They want to have Bilbray's of London and New York. Dad thinks that they need some British faces over in New York. Well ... British accents anyway.'

'Does this mean that you're giving up graphic design?'

'For the moment. I don't think that I have the patience to make so many compromises. The clients don't really want good design, do they? They just want what they want.'

Jamie laughed. 'He who pays the piper calls the tune.'

'Would you miss me?' Lisa asked. 'You know ... if I went.'

'Miss you? Of course.'

Lisa nodded. 'Well ... that's nice to know.'

Lisa did move to New York. But not before she introduced Jamie to her sister: Josie. Josie had just returned from doing a liberal arts degree at St Andrews. 'You know ... just in case you need some female company,' Lisa said.

'Does Josie like it up the arse?' Jamie asked.

'Funnily enough, it's not something that we have discussed. But I expect so.'

Josie was a like a clone of Lisa -- although a year younger. Jamie took her to dinner at Marconi's, the same restaurant at which he had met Maggie. And, afterwards, they had gone back to his flat where he discovered that, yes, Josie did like it up the arse. But somehow, fucking Lisa's sister just didn't feel right. It was like fucking Lisa -- except that it wasn't. Jamie wasn't sure if he should explain his lack of enthusiasm to Josie, or whether he should just let things fizzle out before they had a chance to really get started.

And then Christina phoned. 'I'm moving down to Cornwall,' she said.

'Oh?'

'Yes. Funny how things work out, isn't it? I'm going to work for a small publisher who specialises in books on art pottery and art potters.' (Christina had always been keen on art pottery.) 'I still have some of your books,' Christina said. 'I thought that you could come and get them, and I could make you supper.' They agreed on Saturday night, and Christina gave him an address out near Heathrow.

'How's David?' Jamie asked when he arrived at the flat, above an estate agent's office, and sensed that Christina was on her own.

'David? Not sure to be honest.' And then she said: 'He's gone back to his wife.'

'Oh. I didn't realise that he had a wife.'

Christina just shrugged her shoulders.

'I brought some wine,' Jamie said. 'Rioja. I hope that's OK.'

'Yes. Great. I'll get some glasses,' Christina said.

Jamie thought that Christina had filled out a bit. But she still looked great. She still had her permanent hint of a smile. 'I've made a cassoulet,' she said when she came back with a corkscrew and the wine glasses. 'I hope that's OK. You haven't gone vegetarian or anything? I suppose that I should have asked.'

'Sounds perfect,' Jamie said. 'And, no, I haven't gone vegetarian.' He opened the Rioja, poured a couple of glassfuls, and passed one of them to Christina. 'Well ... here's to new adventures,' he said.

For a moment Christina frowned. But only for a moment. 'Oh ... yes. My new adventure,' she said. 'Yes. Well ... fingers crossed. It'll be nice to have more than a few hours -- or a few minutes -- to make every decision.'

For the next 20 minutes or so, they sipped their wine and chatted. At first their conversation was a bit stiff, but they soon slipped back into their old ways.

'How is the wonderful world of advertising?' Christina asked.

'It has its moments,' Jamie said. 'Like most jobs, I suppose. But, on the whole, it's pretty good.'

'And do you have anyone special in your life? Or shouldn't I ask?'

'Special? No. Not really. In fact not really anyone at all. All on my Todd. There was someone. Well ... sort of. But she has moved to New York. She's gone to work for a fine art auction house that needed someone with a British accent.'

Christina laughed. 'Seriously?'

'Seriously. A British accent. You should add it to your CV. You never know ....' And then Jamie laughed too.

As the level in the wine bottle went down, Christina decided that perhaps they should eat. 'I normally eat in the kitchen,' she said. 'But since it's such a cold night, it might be nice to eat here, in front of the fire.'

'Sounds perfect,' Jamie said.

And Christina's cassoulet was perfect too. Jamie's mother sometimes made cassoulet, but she always let it dry out too much (in Jamie's opinion). Christina's cassoulet was wonderfully moist. The rich, almost soupy lower level contrasted perfectly with the crunchy herb and breadcrumb topping.

For pudding, Christina had made delightfully thin crêpes, which she served with a lemon and brandy sauce. Again, they were perfect.

'That's the last of the wine,' Jamie said as he poured out the final few dribbles. 'If I had known it was going to be that good, I would have bought two bottles.'

'I have some white wine,' Christina said. 'Or I have some brandy. It's not fine cognac. In fact ... I don't think it's even French. But ... hey!'

'Sounds good to me,' Jamie said.

They didn't actually make it as far as the bedroom. The rug in Christina's little sitting room was a thick hand-crafted creation made from lambs' wool (among other things). And it was perfectly satisfactory.

Afterwards, they lay there, more or less naked, on the rug; in front of the open fire; just holding hands.

'I wondered if we would,' Christina said.

'Oh?'

'Yes. About halfway through the cassoulet.'

'And?'

'And I'm glad that we did.'

'Yes,' Jamie said. 'Me too.' And he leaned over and kissed her.

Over the next few days, Jamie found himself thinking -- on several occasions -- about how things might have been. Or, maybe, how they still could be. Maybe Jamie could move back West. Maybe he could start a small advertising agency. Maybe he could write a novel. Maybe he could start a film production company. They were all ideas. But they weren't particularly good ideas -- especially now that Jamie was fast becoming one of London advertising's 'stars'.

And then Jamie got the call from Peter Gould.

Patterson, Gould & Partners had been going through a golden patch; winning every bit of new business that they pitched for. But now they needed the talent to deliver what they had promised.

'I wonder if I could persuade you to join me for a glass of something,' Peter Gould said. 'I'm thinking somewhere not too public. We could have a bit of a chat. And then if you don't like what I have to say, we could decide that the whole thing never happened. On the other hand ....'

They agreed to meet in the bar of Durrants Hotel, an old-fashioned Georgian establishment just off the lower end of Marylebone High Street. 'Six o'clock?'

'I'll be there,' Jamie said.

Jamie arrived almost on the dot of six. Peter Gould was there already.

'This place is interesting,' Jamie said. 'Although the lack of a possessive apostrophe worries me just a little.'

Peter Gould laughed. 'Perhaps I can distract you with a glass of Pauillac's finest.'

'Thank you,' Jamie said.

Peter Gould raised a finger and a steward, who didn't appear to have been paying attention to anything, nodded and disappeared behind the small bar, returning moments later with a bottle of Chateau Lynch-Bages and two glasses. Peter Gould glanced at the label, sniffed the cork, and nodded. 'Another thing I like about this place,' Peter Gould said, when the steward had left, 'they aren't greedy. I really do object to wankers who multiply the price that they pay for a bottle of wine by their telephone number. I know that London rents aren't cheap, but still ....' Jamie had no idea what Durrants charged for a bottle of Chateau Lynch-Bages, but after just one sip, he decided that, whatever it was, it was probably worth it.

'As you probably know,' Peter Gould said, 'we're enjoying good growth. But we're in danger of outgrowing our capacity. We need to beef up our creative team. Everyone tells me that you should be working for Patterson Gould. Here's what we can offer.'

Of course Mackenzie-Marshall trundled out the treasure chest when Jamie told them that he was leaving to join Patterson Gould. He was, after all, their star creative. 'Thank you,' Jamie said. 'I've enjoyed my time here. I really have. And I've learned a lot. But now I think it's time for a change,'

For the first three or four months that Jamie was at Patterson Gould, things were really busy. In fact, things were so busy that Jamie didn't really have time to realise that, for the first time in several years, he was without regular female company. But then things at work started to get a little more under control. His seven-day work week eased back to five or six days. And he found himself wondering how Lisa and Christina were getting along. And wondering if he had, perhaps, he been a little hasty in letting Josie get away?

And then, late one afternoon, Jamie was wandering around The Wallace Collection, looking for inspiration. (These were pre-Google days.)

'Have you found whatever you're looking for?' a well-modulated woman's voice asked.

'Maggie! What are you doing down here in The Big Smoke?'

'I live here,' she said.

'Oh? Since when?'

'Since Sunday. Well ... since late Saturday night, I suppose. But what are a few hours between friends?'

Jamie laughed. 'So you moved south. Not quickly. Obviously. But you moved south.'

'I did. Is that OK?' Maggie asked.

Jamie smiled. 'Depends,' he said. 'Did you come with a devoted husband and six kids in tow?'

'No. Just me,' Maggie said.

Jamie nodded. 'We should go and find a glass of something,' Jamie said.

'That would be nice. But I'm afraid that I'm going to be tied up until about 10:30. We're doing an event.'

'What about tomorrow?'

'Yes. That's a possibility. I'll call you. Are you still at Mackenzie-Marshall?'

'No. I've moved. I'm at Patterson Gould these days.'

'Oh, yes. I think I saw that somewhere. In one of the trade papers. You won some award, I think. And are you still living ...?' And she wafted a well-manicured hand in the direction of Paddington.

'Umm ... no. I've bought a place in Notting Hill. A bit of a renovation project.'

'Oh. Right,' Maggie said. 'Notting Hill. Yes. That's where I am. Just renting at this stage. It's quite handy though, isn't it?'

'Maybe we could meet up at The Yellow Dog.'

'I think that I might have seen that on my way to the Tube.'

'You probably did. It has that bit of a courtyard in front of it.'

Jamie took a business card from his pocket and handed it to Maggie. 'Call me,' he said.

'I will.'

Maggie did call. But only to say that she wasn't going to be able to make Friday night either. 'Look, why don't you come around to the flat on Sunday,' she said. 'I'll make something for lunch. Not sure what at this stage. OK?'

'Sunday? OK,' Jamie said. 'You had better give me an address.'

'Oh, yes.'

The address that Maggie gave was only a short walk from Jamie's place. When he arrived there, shortly before one o'clock on Sunday, Maggie answered the door dressed in just a towel. 'Oh ... I didn't realise that it was formal,' Jamie said. 'You should have told me.'