A Brush with the High Life

 

Clapton Common is a very upmarket spot now but, in 1975, Sid and I lived in a pretty seedy basement flat, part of a row of Georgian houses which has since been gentrified and renamed Clapton Terrace.  Our neighbour in the basement next door fascinated us.  Most nights, about eight, we’d hear her high heels, click, click, click and see her legs pass our window on the metal staircase up to the pavement. She’d jump into a taxi and away she’d go.

Eventually, of course, we bumped into her on the road, got chatting and soon became friends.  Cath was a hostess at a club in the West End so, when she went out each night she was going to work.  Her job was to chat to men who came to the club and persuade them to buy huge amounts of  over-priced champagne.  What she did afterwards was her own business. She had lots of laughs with the girls she worked with, received some expensive gifts and made enough money to send plenty to her mum who looked after her young daughter.   Suprisingly, in spite of leaving hotels such as the Hilton with pocketfuls of money, she would also nick all the bogroll and the odd towel.

When I was pregnant and off work, it was great to have Cath around in the afternoons. My husband was frequently touring the world with rock and roll bands.  This didn’t make for a contented existence for the person left behind, huge and alone in a damp basement flat.  Cath cheered me up no end.  She’d crawl round, usually hungover, about 2pm and over lots of coffee she’d keep me amused with tales of rich Arabs in hotel rooms or the more outrageous doings of her pals at the club.

Once my baby son arrived, in deepest winter, I could nip next door and pop him in bed with her when I wanted to go to the shop.  So much easier than wrapping him up against the elements and battling up the basement steps with the pram. 
After this routine had gone on for a few months, Cath made a suggestion.

‘Pam, it can’t be much fun for you here with the baby, on your own half the time.  How do you fancy a night out at the club?

‘I’ve got this punter at the moment.  He’s really nice and I was telling him about you and how you didn’t get out much. I suggested we took you down to the club and maybe for a meal.’   I looked at her in horror as a headline ‘Teacher in 3-in-a-Bed Romp’ loomed into my mental view. 

 ‘Oh God! I couldn’t get into all that!’ 

Once Cath had clarified that this would be nothing more than a meal and a few drinks and that Hugo was a very civilised sort of bloke, I became quite keen.  I’d never experienced that type of West End nightlife, being more familiar with East End pubs. 

Of course the first task was to get me suitably togged up with some outfit.  The contents of my wardrobe covered ‘Daytime Art Teacher’, ‘jeans, jeans, jeans’ and ‘Occasional Backstage Bar Hippy’.  There was nothing in the ‘West End Glamour Puss’ line.  Cath and her mate managed to squeeze me into something uncomfortable with, thankfully, only a small amount of cleavage. Cath reminded me that she was always called Roxy at work.

A week later, Hugo drew up outside our flats in a massive black car. Tall, neither good nor bad looking, soberly but well dressed, the only memorable thing about Hugo was that he oozed entitlement.  He was friendly enough though and pleased to see me.  I sunk into the luxurious upholstery on the back seat as we set off west.  The students in the flat above me had been left with the baby and plenty of written instructions.

We went for a meal first.  I’d been looking forward to something a bit posh but the restaurant was much like the ones our family back in Hull would go to on a non-significant birthday.  It wasn’t that Hugo was tight.  It became obvious over the meal that he had no interest in or knowledge of food as he chomped through the blandest items on the menu.  I put it down to boarding school and possible aristocracy.  Cath/ Roxy was always on a diet and even I, an inveterate foodie, could only nibble small amounts due to the tightness of my borrowed dress.

The club was just near Berkeley Square and its entrance was a discreet doorway with a small  neon sign.  Inside it had a glittering reception area and bar before opening up into an opulent looking room with low lights, thick carpets, velvet curtains and seating in nooks and crannies. There was a small, central dance floor. 

We were shown to a discreet corner table on which a bottle of champagne appeared immediately.  A hostess’s’ job was to make sure the champagne kept coming and she advised me that, if I stirred it with a swizzle stick till it was quite flat I wouldn’t get too pissed.  I was amazed the Cath had not only changed her name.  From the beginning of the evening she had transformed herself from an interesting woman with plenty to say into a fawning half wit.  I was trying to make conversation with Hugo and repay his generosity with entertaining anecdotes while she just gazed at him wide eyed.

He was actually quite interesting.  Ancient family connections meant that he lived in a historic building in central London and he told fascinating stories of growing up in such a place where security was the main priority.  It was a lovely evening, fuelled by plenty of champagne which rendered Cath/ Roxy’s persona into the ultimate dizzy blonde.  She seemed to worship Hugo, telling us how clever he was to work in banking and how hopeless she was at anything to do with numbers or money.  Roxy obviously had an entirely different personality to Cath.

I went to the loo and, on the way back, I realised I was running out of fags so I thought I’d take a detour to see if they sold them at the bar.  My request for twenty Embassy was greeted as if I’d just delivered a massive fart.  The barmaid seemed incredulous for a while, then spoke as if to a naughty child,

‘Of course we don’t sell them here.  If you go back to your table, your gentleman will call the cigarette girl over and buy you two hundred.’

‘But he’s so generous, I can’t expect him to buy my fags too.’

‘I’m afraid there’s no choice.’

I hadn’t resumed my seat for very long before the bar girl came over and briefly spoke to Cath/ Roxy.  She looked shocked.

‘Pam, you didn’t go and ask for some fags?  I’ll get shot!  You’ve got to ask Hugo.’ 

Hugo called the cigarette girl over and I was quickly the recipient of two hundred fags.  I was so embarrassed but luckily it was time to go.  Actually, I supposed, that many fags would keep me going for over a week so, maybe it was worth the shame.

After Hugo, who seemed a jolly nice bloke, dropped me off at my flat and I had thanked him profusely for the whole evening, he and Cath/Roxy set off to wherever their night of hot sex was to be.  

As I waved goodbye to the departing car, the last thing I noticed was a little child’s mitten lying on the back shelf.