A MARRIED MAN by A Married Man

Author:A Married Man
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-09-26T23:09:07+00:00

Chapter Seventeen

When I arrived at Jack’s location a little while later, it’s fair to say I wasn’t in the best of humours. I drove down a quiet, leafy backstreet just off Cheyne Walk, gazing up at a row of tiny mews houses of all different shapes, sizes and colours, stopping outside the requisite one, a rather dear little pale blue affair. At the top of some smart, well-scrubbed steps, a gleaming white front door with a large, shiny brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head rose up; on either side of the door, two square, Versailles planters frothed over with a delightful abundance of ivy and petunias, and in the window boxes, lacy lobelia blossomed. All of this, for some reason, made me even more cross. I stared up in grudging admiration at this exquisite doll’s house; small, but on three floors, and no doubt absolute heaven inside, all chintzy and feminine, and with a sweet little manicured garden at the back, which, I was sure, if you stood on a chair and craned your neck, would offer a splendid view of the river. It was the sort of house I would cheerfully have killed for, but then again, I thought with a sigh, how many people would kill for a beautifully converted barn in idyllic Oxfordshire? Or any sort of house at all? A cottage, a council house, a shack, a box, a – yes all right, we get the point, Lucy.

All the same, I thought, glancing back enviously as I purred past, trying to find a parking space, it was typical of Jack to have a floozie in such an exclusive location. For all his irritating, libertine ways, you had to hand it to the man, he had some style, even if I couldn’t park in this wretched, stylish road, full of wretched, stylish—

‘ARRGGH!’ I finally gave up and screeched backwards until I was bang outside the house again. I sounded the horn impatiently and glared up. No response. Damn. Where was he? I opened the window and peeped the horn again, rather more urgently this time. Two seconds later, an upstairs sash window flew up. A pretty, auburn-haired girl with dark, glittering eyes stuck her head out.

“Ello?’ she cooed.

‘Oh, hello, is Jack there, by any chance?’ I yelled. `Jacques? Yes, he here, hang on. Ja-acques!’ she called in a heavy French accent. She popped back in.

And that was another thing, I seethed, as I waited, tapping the steering wheel impatiently. They were always bloody foreign. Buxom Brazilian beauties, pneumatic Australian au pairs, and now this dusky French maiden. He seemed to conjure them up like a magician from a hat, all in national dress – or undress presumably – like a stream of silky hankies. What was wrong with a home-grown, indigenous one, for heaven’s sake? Too parochial? Too pedestrian? Too unimaginative in bed? Oh come on, Jack!

A moment later she was back at the window, and with `Jacques’ beside her. At least they were dressed.

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