The Tied Man

‘Thank you,’ I mouthed to Gabriel as our host for the night – a stand-up comedian who was society’s court jester of the month – began his carefully scripted ad-libbing.

‘No worries,’ Gabriel said, now without a trace of Mockney.  ‘Pack of wankers.’

I gave him a quick hug of gratitude and he felt reassuringly solid and normal after long months of insanity.

‘Does this mean you’ve reconsidered my offer?’ Gabriel whispered hopefully in my ear.

Finn

My whole skin itched as my most recent client sprawled in post-orgasmic stupor and gave me a drunken, smug smile from the four-poster bed.  At least she’d stopped squealing like a stuck pig, and I’d already begun to imagine the harsh, welcome sting of the scrubbing brush against my arms.

Gary had sat in an armchair six feet away from the bed with his erection standing like a tentpole in his trousers for the whole show.  Now he walked over and stroked his girlfriend’s arm.  ‘Tell you what darl, why don’t you just get nice and cosy under them sheets, while I go and get myself a nightcap?’

‘You’re coming back though, aren’t you?’ she slurred.

‘Sure I am babes.  We’ve got all morning to have our fun.’

‘Thanks, Gaz.  I’ll  make it up to you.’  She squinted up at me.  ‘And thanks… God, I’ve forgotten your name, but you was brilliant.’

‘Any time.’

Gary placed a light hand on my arm.  ‘Joinin’ me for one, mate?’

‘Sure,’ I shrugged, as if socialising with an inarticulate sexual inadequate was going to be the highlight of my weekend.

*****

Gary poured us both a large Scotch from the decanter in the dining room and we stood in an awkward silence broken only by the solid ticking of the grandfather clock.

‘Listen mate, you did a great job with Kayleigh back there.  Nice one, yeah?  Made her fuckin’ year.’

‘It’s what I do.’

‘Well yeah, but you’re still pretty good, aren’t you?  Got all the moves.  Must be all the practice you get.’  Gary fell silent again, all out of conversation.

I sighed and drained my glass in one mouthful.  ‘So, how do you want me?’

Lilith

‘Wish they’d make these bastards a bit more stoner-friendly.’ Gabriel ran his finger down his embossed programme and squinted at the miniscule, fussy font.  ‘Can’t focus on my glass, never mind this bloody page.  Looks like you’re next, anyway – better make sure you haven’t tucked your dress into your knickers.  If you’re wearin’ any, that is.’

‘Kill me now,’ I whispered as the host, about as funny as Ebola, began my introduction.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, would you please welcome the deserving winner of the Helicon Award for ‘European Artist of the Year’, and join me in my prayers that she’s left her boxing gloves at home… Lilith Bresson!’

The Players’ Triptych loomed large on the screen ahead of me as I made the long walk to the stage.  I could have stared at it all night and it still wouldn’t have felt part of me; the Lilith Bresson who had created it over a long, hedonistic Italian summer no longer existed.

The applause could have belonged to anyone as I received a jagged piece of aquamarine glass on a brushed steel plinth, and a sealed briefcase.  Thanks to Blaine’s strictly rationed information, I had no idea how much it held, and I didn’t care.  I forced a smile for the cameras as I posed with a Swedish supermodel who was approximately twice my height and said a brief ‘thank you’ at the microphone, then ran from the stage and back to the shelter of Gabriel, Jay and Al.

Gabriel pulled my chair out for me and kissed me on the cheek.  ‘Well done, gorgeous.  So, you goin’ to handcuff that to your wrist?’  He nodded at the case.

‘Why?’

He gave a leonine laugh.  ‘You’re away with the fairies tonight, ain’t you?  There’s forty grand in used notes in there.  Apparently it’s more ‘hip’ than using new ones.  It’s meant to look like a bank job, yeah?’

I stared at the suitcase.  ‘Shit.’

‘No shit.  So how ‘bout you and me pool our winnings and blow it on one glorious night of champagne and libertine indulgence?’  He rested a hand in the small of my back and worked at the muscles tightened by an eight-hour drive.  He gave me a smile of such innocent expectation that I had to laugh.

‘There, see?  Knew there was a smile hiding in there somewhere.’  He patted the case.  ‘Might not get us a yacht, but I reckon there’s gotta be something in London we can buy to celebrate.  Whaddya reckon?’