What was written late last Friday night, and is still being edited right now.
Weakened deal (by at least four thousand miles by my calculations) not accepted, NY.
When the deal goes down indeed.
Don’t you realise I do financial dealings and wheelings for a living?
It’s gonna be hard for an alternative offer to get Lost In Translation out of me racist, small-town head.
Tokyo. The Park Hyatt.
You Scarlett.
Me Bill.
Them little Japanese fellas.
Had it all up here, in me multi-cultural, big-town fantasy.
You know I won.
But I will make some sort of concession.
Because I owe you.
Believe it or not.
About A.
You were so right.
I’ll show you why.
………….
(On the mobile)
H: Cook for me?
A: Ahuh.
H: Like a meal?
A: If you don’t want me to …
H: No, no, by all means. Can’t wait. What do you gonna cook like?
A: It’ll be a surprise.
H: Just the two of us?
A: Wouldn’t it be nice?
H: Absolutely.
A: Anything you would like me to wear?
H: What the fuck is going on, A?
A: Nothing. Just tell me.
H: Tell you what?
A: What you want me to wear?
H: You serious?
A: Black stockings?
H: You really serious?
A: Anything you like.
H: You’re drunk.
A: Don’t spoil it.
H: You know that Bob Dylan video with Scarlett Johansson I sent some while ago? Can you wear one of them classy 50’s dresses?
A: Ok.
H: Ok? Ok?? You not well?
…
You see, first of all, A does not get in touch with me unless she wants something. Mostly of the corporeal kind. Sometimes: academic. On the odd occasion: food. Odder: family matters. When it was good to have me standing next to her. Like a couple of weeks ago at her uncle’s funeral. And L was not available. But she never ever seeks romantic attention. Doesn’t want her precious time wasted by superfluous boyfriends. And boyfriendsy things. Which so totally rocks me boat. And blows up me skirt.
Secondly, you see, A knows fuck all about cooking. Couldn’t boil a potato if the wrapping didn’t mention salted water and 100 degrees. Celsius. Which it never does. Heck, you know what I mean.
Thirdly, this was last night, a Thursday night, you see, when traditionally all students are out clubbing up ‘ere. A always spends a Thursday night out with at least 30 friends. So, now she is coming to my house to cook me a meal? On a Thursday? Just the two of us?
You see?
Then I saw.
“She is gonna finish it. Whatever we had to finish.”
Husten in turmoil.
Massively.
“Or she wants something. Of the kind she has never asked before,” I tried to reassure myself. “Yeah, definitely, she is after something.”
Husten still in turmoil.
Massively.
“But she would never dress up for me, if she wants to stop seeing me. Surely.”
Husten getting turned on.
Gigantically.
No one can see this one but A has a knack for clothing herself which I had heard of and read about in magazines but never ever witnessed before I met her. A is very good with money. And also has an exquisite taste in clothes. So normally these two don’t really go together, but this is how A shops for clothes. Once a month, she takes out £20 from a cash machine and will stick to that £20. Even for shoes. She goes to bargain and/or secondhand clothes shops, charity shops often, and spends her measly budget on small, little, cheap items which won’t cost more than a pound or two, which, when shopping with her, always look dreadful to me but will then somehow symbiotically and magically come together with her other cheap clothes in her wardrobe. Overconfident knobhead that I am, I always thought I had a good taste in clothes, a fine attention to detail. A is in an entirely different league. In a class of her own. And it is the transformation in her appearance each time which completely blows my mind and those who know her. So much so that if her friends are waiting for A before going out they often start guessing which style icon will materialise this time. I showed my mum some pictures of her over Christmas and with each picture my mum thought it was somebody else.
Therefore. When A agreed to look like a 50’s Hollywood Scarlett starlet, I knew she would.
…
A arrived in a taxi. With shopping bags. And smiles. And kisses.
And a gentle nip in the nether regions.
In a blue and red 90’s outfit, going 50’s. With white hat, white shoes and red retro glasses. The whole fucking shebang.
Husten close to a total break-down.
“Would you terribly mind if I shag you right here and now in the doorway? In front of my neighbours? Before you cook me a meal. And dump me.”
(Just thinking like)
…
H: Let me get those bags off you.
A: No, because you are gonna peep inside.
H: I know into what I am gonna peep inside and it won’t be shopping bags.
A: Wait! Let me make your meal first.
H: Food is the last thing on my … actually no, of course, sorry. Go on. Go ahead. Can’t wait what you will come up with.
A: Sure?
H: A thousand percent.
A: Got some Camel Lights too!
…
Blue eyes carefully placing our soon meal-to-be on the kitchen units, then twirling around in my kitchen, blond hair and a blue and red 90’s come 50’s dress trying to follow long, muscular legs half a second later, spinning white, high-heeled ankles, white, high-ankled heels, making me eyes unfocus.
A: You like what you see?
H: If you stop looking into me eyes and aim ‘m somewhere half-way my body, you’ll have your answer.
…
H: Soo, what’s all this then?
A: Nothing. Thought I cook something for you because you always do it for me.
H: Uh-mmmmmm, okay …
A: You are not allowed in your kitchen, by the way.
H: Aren’t I really? Interesting. How long is this gonna take?
A: Don’t know. An hour maybe.
H: Anything you need?
A: I will find it. Just go now.
H: And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?
A: Here’s a bottle of me dad’s red. Put some music on. And loud enough so I can hear.
H: That bottle will last me like 15 minutes … actually no, of course, sorry. Go on. Go ahead. Can’t wait what you will come up with.
A: Don’t drink too much, I want you to be able to perform later.
H: Fucking hell, A.
…..
After a just about passable meal.
Just.
Husten getting a bit overwhelmed by it all.
Just about.
No.
Totally.
…..
H: You know by now I’m a patronising, chauvinist, pseudo-transsexual, small-town, racist, sexist, (uh-mmmmmm), ageist, and since last weekend anti-semite pornographer, right?
A: Whatever makes you feel important.
H: Fuck you.
A: Say something funny. Entertain me.
H: Weird. That’s what NY said.
A: Really?
H: Aye. I was trying to find myself a place among filthily rich Jewish New Yorkers. Supercool, mind.
A: What did you reply?
H: “You’re too young to make a comment like that.”
A: Don’t get it. It’s not funny.
H: Wasn’t meant to be.
…
A + NY + H: Pornographer?
…
A: Porn?
H: Well. Sort of.
A: You watched porn together with NY?
H: Not in the way that you put it.
A: We have never watched porn together. You didn’t like porn, you told me.
H: I didn’t use to.
…
A: I’m not exactly Scarlett Johansson, you know.
H: What do you mean?
A: She is really pretty.
H: I know. And so are you. And you know I think so. And there’s a lot more about you too.
A: Yeah, but that’s you.
H: And L.
…
H; What the flying fuck is wrong with you? What is all this anyway, phone calls, you suddenly becoming all sweet and mellow and unconfident and cooking dinner. Come on, let it all out, I want to know.
A: Nothing. … How was your weekend?
H: No, I want to know now. Did you fall out with L?
A: L is lovely as always.
H Is he now?
A: Sorry.
H: Don’t.
A: Nothing to do with L.
H: Couldn’t care less.
A: Neither do I.
…
H: You feel like crying, don’t you? Please, tell me what’s wrong.
A: …
H: Tell me. Please.
A: …
H: Don’t cry … The meal was lovely … Do you want to finish us? … I dunno … just talk to me, luv.
A: … Say something funny.
H: …
…
A: Did you like what I cooked?
H: Of course.
A: Liar.
H: Ok. Well, no. The curry sauce came out of a jar, the chicken was pre-cooked and processed. That left you with the rice. Which a 5 year-old can cook. Which was perfect by the way.
A (finally giggling, but still sobbing): Knobhead.
H: Did I leave anything on my plate?
A: I hate cooking.
H: I know. So why the effort?
…
A + H: moving onto less complicated things than cooking.
…
When sobered up and leaving the next morning A gave me a passionate kiss and ruffle through the hair and said, “Thank you for coming back to me.”
Which left me baffled.
Totally.
But with the warm, comforting, un-metal sound of my passenger’s car door closing, too loudly, everything clicked into place.
I finally saw.
You see, NY, when you visited me, I should have known.
A wasn’t crying about me.
God no.
But.
Yet.
You see, NY, when you visited me, I should have known.
Before and after.
Your visit.
Until you had to spell it out.
A had been afraid of losing me.
What a wonderful, wonderfully complex yet so simple, simply Scarlett starlet.
You were right.
I owe you more than one.
How lucky am I?
