Dirty Cash

DIRTY CASH

Some things in life you do purely for the money. And the moment she
agreed to it, Rose knew that this was going to be one of those things.
Which just goes to show how much Rose, at the age of 39, still didn't
know.

She had met him at a PR junket at the Hyde Park Hotel, where celebrity
chef Kevin de la Force was launching Bistro, a new scent packaged in
bacofoil. Carried along by his own free-wheeling publicity machine,
Kevin was really pushing it this time. Cookery books, TV shows,
kitchenware and condiments were all very well, but his last project -
Feel the de La Force Tantric Yoga video - had bombed. His departure
into cosmetics was doomed, but that didn't stop la toute London
guzzling his Krug and ciao-ing down on his canapes.

She usually avoided these things like the plague, knowing how
spiritually empty yet physically stuffed full of foie gras she always
felt afterwards. But this time she made an exception, giving into a
morbid fascination as to how many people would fall for a product that
made them smell of roast lamb. Also, it would be good material for her
newspaper column.

The room overlooked the verdant pastures of Hyde Park, awash with
summer rain and polyester tourists. Rose stood and gazed at it, having
attempted a couple of pointless conversations with people too coked up
or stupid to reciprocate. Really, she thought to herself, I don't know
why I come to these things any more.

Then she turned round and realised why she came to these things. He was
tall, fair and in the middle of the most jaw-breaking yawn. Their eyes
met and he managed to grin, make a self-deprecating face, apologise and
complete the yawn all at the same time.

"God I hate these things, don't you?" he said, draining his glass and
staring out at the park.
"They're loathsome" said Rose, "vintage wankers, non vintage champagne
- what's the point?"
"So let's go"
And before she knew it she was in the back of a taxi bowling towards
her flat in south London, wondering if the rain had made her hair go
curly and he'd angrily demand to be let out at the next tube station,
claiming that she'd misled him.

Rose didn't do this often, taking men back to her place literally as
soon as she met them. But she'd never met anyone who embodied distilled
temptation like him. They exchanged small talk en route, during which
she discovered that he was a wine importer who really liked to fuck
with the lights on; she told him about her career as a columnist for
the Evening Standard and her predeliction for wearing no knickers to
dinner parties. By the time they arrived at her front door, the notion
of not sleeping with him was absurd, almost surreal.

That was six weeks ago and life had become a whole lot more fun. Rose
had been single for about a year and hadn't particularly missed having
a man in her life, but being with him reminded her about all the good
things that a man could do for a woman. She found herself enjoying the
whole dating process, the getting ready, the deciding what to wear, the
being a bit late or a bit early, the element of the unknown for the
first few moments, then the warm glow of excitement and anticipated
pleasure as the third vodka curled its way down.

And of course, there was the sex. Rose had realised he was a total
filthbag right from the outset but hadn't quite appreciated what this
said about her. She was discovering another Rose, a wanton and feral
side to her sexuality that to date had been confined to shameful
fantasies on long train journeys. Nothing she said or did made him
flinch. Everything he said and did turned her on. It was the perfect
deal.

So when he mentioned that he'd like to take her to a strip club she
probably shouldn't have been too surprised. But she was and she almost
choked on her drink.

"Any particular one?" she asked, playing for recovery time and trying
to mop down her new monsoon-pink Whistles shirt at the same time.
"Well, I think it would have to be a very seedy one," he said, leaning
in closer.
"I don't really know much about strip clubs," she said, realising she
sounded like something out of E M Forster.
"You don't fucking need to, doll, that's what I'm here for" he grinned,
sounding nothing like anything out of E M Forster. And he grabbed her
hand and dragged her out of the heaving bar into the heaving street
outside.

Half an hour later and they were back on the street.
"Bored?" he said. "What do you mean you were bored?"
Rose found it hard to explain, but there was really nothing exciting or
even mildly diverting about watching a sullen Polish girl masturbate to
mid 1990s house music. She had expected it to feel strange or even
scary, but it wasn't, it was just boring.

"OK" he said, "I think I understand. Come with me."

Rose never stopped to wonder why he knew exactly where to go. The
doorway wasn't lit up with the usual tacky neon sign, nor was there a
pasty-faced drug addict in a pleather bikini standing on the step. He
just pressed a buzzer and muttered into a speaker. Then the door opened
just wide enough for them to squeeze in, before slamming shut
again.

* * * *

"Let's make it really authentic," he said wolfishly, levering his
wallet out of his back pocket.
"Does it get more authentic than this?" she asked, nodding at the
single table and chair by the side of the podium. He had already poured
himself a glass of champagne.
"Here's some up front" - he handed her a bunch of notes - "and then
we'll see how it goes."
She looked at the money. It was quite a lot, a great deal more than she
got paid for her weekly column. She kept waiting to feel scared or
shameful or stupid, but it wasn't happening. Maybe it was lurking there
in the shadows and she would hear it shuffle in the darkness when this
was over. Or maybe not. Maybe it just wasn't there. I'm going to be
forty soon, she thought blandly. I'm lucky enough to have the body of a
24 year old, the mind of a 39 year old and a lover whose eyes are
suffused with desire for me. And the money's not bad.
"Sit down baby" she said, tucking the notes into her waistband. "And
fasten your seat belt, it's going to be quite a ride."

* * * * *

Three months later and summer was on the wane, lingering on the taste
buds like strawberry ice cream but with autumn's root vegetables being
borne ominously towards the table. One of the more unsavoury specimens
was the bi-annual meeting with her accountant to sort out her tax
return. This always involved riffling through huge envelopes full of
faded receipts for ?2.27, which she spent hours trying to decode before
putting down as stationery. And as always, there were those bills that
she tried to sneak through, hoping Mr Matharu would say '?99 at Pied a
Terre? That must be a printer cartridge."

"?75 at Space NK?" said Mr Matharu, holding up a pale pink receipt
decorated with cupids. "Isn't that a cosmetics shop?"
Rose conceded that one, wondering how on earth a 61 year old Malaysian
gentleman who lived in Harrow could possibly know this.
"And ?29.99 at Bluebird - I'm assuming that's the restaurant, not the
shop."
Foiled again, thought Rose.
"And what is this? I can't read it properly ?.."
Mr Matharu was peering at a white paper napkin with a drink ring on
it.
Rose smiled and took it from him. There was his hand-writing, all
definite and strong, just like him. He'd even drawn a face in the dot
over the i and given it a huge grin, just like him.
"I'd like to that one to go through as an invoice, Mr Matharu," she
said, touching her face with it for a second before returning it to
him.
"Just put it down as Services Rendered."