The Year of Dangerous Loving. John Davis Gordon

Miss Romalova for you, sir,’ said Miss Ho.

      ‘Put her through! Olga! Are you all right?’

      She chuckled. ‘I am very well, except for my poor pussy. And my heart, my heart is very sore also.’ Hargreave was blushing. ‘Will my heart get better on Friday?’

      ‘Yes.’ Oh yes, he could not wait for Friday. ‘So your work-permit is okay?’

      ‘Yes, the police have extended for three months. And the big boss has agreed also.’

      Oh, yes. ‘Well, I’ll be there on the seven o’clock ferry.’

      ‘Lovely! Which hotel do you want to stay in?’

      ‘The Bella Mar.’

      ‘So expensive. Why not another hotel, not so much?’

      ‘No, the Bella Mar.’ He had to have her in one of those airy, exotic suites, beauty like hers deserved the Bella Mar.

      ‘Shall I reserve? Maybe if I reserve I can get a small commission.’

      ‘Fine.’ Hargreave grinned.

      ‘I will give it back to you.’

      ‘No, you keep it,’ he laughed.

      She seemed to accept that as reasonable. ‘I cannot meet you at the ferry, darling, because I must be at the club. But do not come there because then you must pay entrance, and the drinks are so expensive. Telephone me there when you are ready, and I will come to the hotel. But you will have to pay the bar-levy, I’m sorry.’

      ‘That’s all right.’ Talk of money made him uncomfortable.

      ‘But I will give you a discount for me, darling, don’t worry. And we will have a lovely weekend, I promise.’

      Hargreave grinned, blushing: ‘And I promise you.’ He wanted to tell her about his health-kick but he felt silly.

      ‘Oh darling, I am so excited. I thought about you all last night at the club.’

      Hargreave didn’t want to hear about the club. ‘I thought about you too.’

      ‘Did you really? I am very pleased. Okay, I must go to sleep now, I have to work tonight.’

      Work. He did not want to think about it.

      After he hung up he slumped back in the chair, and tried to make himself think about it. Lord, what am I doing, feeling like this about a …? Say it – a whore? Feeling possessive … romantic … smitten. Feeling … over the moon about her. Aren’t you making a bit of a fool of yourself? Don’t forget she’s a whore.

      But I wouldn’t be the first man to get smitten by a whore. Whores can be fascinating. Exotic, romantic, even, you wouldn’t be the first man to fall in love with a whore.

      Fall in love? What are you talking about, man? You’re not in love, you’re just in lust You’ve had a bit of a tough time with Liz, unloved, sex-starved, so it just feels like love, you just feel sorry for yourself. Whores are for fun, not love …

      Okay, so have fun. Enjoy it, stop analysing it. Stop thinking about her ‘work’, and her ‘customers’, stop flinching about ‘discount’ and be grateful for it, grab every discount she gives you because this fun is going to cost you plenty if you keep it up. A three-month extension on her visa? How can you keep up with this for three months? And you won’t want to, you’ll burn the whole thing out soon and she’ll go back to Russia and you’ll be relieved. So be cavalier, just enjoy …

      But cavaliers were fit, cavaliers could keep up with their lovers, they did not fall by the wayside just because they were forty-six. He felt tired when he got home from chambers, and he wanted a stiff whisky, but he made himself go out to jog again. But he only managed two kilometres before his heart and his knees told him to stop: the image of her nakedness could not beat the ache in his legs today. So, you gave yourself a workout at lunchtime, don’t overdo it. He walked back to his apartment block on Mansfield Road. He had one beer, one whisky, two boiled eggs, and went to bed. He was asleep before eight o’clock.

      The next morning he could hardly stand. His knees were not swollen but they were giving him agony.

      ‘Cartilage inflammation,’ Ian Bradshaw said cheerfully on Wednesday. ‘From jogging – told you not to do it. Buy a bicycle, I said. Or an exercycle, one of those stationary things that executives use. And buy yourself a pair of proper running shoes – but don’t run, go for walks. Get the best, with springy soles. And for the next week that’s all you can wear on your feet.’

      ‘But I can’t wear running shoes to chambers.’

      ‘You’re the boss, aren’t you? Get a black pair, to go with your pinstripe suit, I’ll give you a medical certificate saying you’re a stretcher-case without them. Wear them to court, to cocktail parties, or you’ll have a cartilage removal operation – want that?’

      ‘No,’ Hargreave said sincerely.

      ‘Otherwise you’re in good shape,’ Ian said. ‘Heart fine. Got some colour again. Let’s look at my scar?’

      Hargreave peeled back his shirt. Ian peered.

      ‘You’re healthy. Getting older, that’s all. I did a good job on that bullet, what’s left is pretty sexy. Tell the girls it was a jealous husband, makes them feel protective.’ He sat back. ‘What news of Liz?’

      Hargreave pulled his shirt back on. ‘We’re getting divorced.’

      Ian nodded. ‘Still in San Francisco?’

      Hargreave buttoned his shirt. ‘I think so.’

      ‘No truth in the rumour she’s coming back to town?’

      Jesus. ‘Who told you that?’

      ‘Yacht club. Don’t know the source.’

      Hargreave’s heart sank. Just when he was going to have some fun. ‘I’ve just received her lawyer’s letter. If she’s coming back it’s just to pack the rest of her things.’

      ‘You can come and stay in my guest room while she does,’ Ian offered. ‘You don’t want any more scars. Did you marry under Californian law?’

      ‘Yes.’

      Ian shook his head. ‘Same with me and Janet. Community of Property, half of everything you own. If Janet divorced me I’d be in trouble. Okay!’ He slapped Hargreave’s arm and stood up. ‘Just remember you’re forty-something, not thirty-something, come back for another vitamin B jab next week, and eat your wheaties. And whoever-she-is should have a smile all over her face. But no jogging. Buy an exercycle if you don’t want a bicycle.’

6

      He ended up buying both. He went to Lane Crawfords for the super sports shoes – they didn’t have his size in black, he had to take a white pair – then he went to buy an exercycle. There were all kinds. Hargreave went for the most expensive model, with various speedometers and clocks and mileometers and calorie-counters. State-of-the-art. Made in America. And expensive, compared to similar machines made in China, Korea, Hong Kong, Japan. ‘But much better everything.’ Hargreave wanted much better everything. For Olga? No – for himself. About time he spent some money on himself. He arranged to have it delivered to his apartment, and he was about to go back to his chambers when he spied the mountain bicycles.

      They were impressive. So gleaming – all the colours of the rainbow, all the gear, all the variations. Hargreave spent another hour with the salesman, asking searching questions. ‘What about knee-impact?’ He ended up buying the latest Canadian lite-weight fibre-glass super 36-Shimano-gears job, a machine which, judging by the salesman’s account, would take him over the Himalayas with ease. Nothing but the best for Hargreave! Then he