‘I’ll pick you up at 3pm, I’ll choose the film.’
I like a man who takes control.
‘I’m outside your flat, come on down,’ he says at 3pm on the dot.
‘What car are you in?’
‘The little blue one that makes a funny noise.’
For some reason I imagined he’d drive a BMW or a Golf GTi – something mainstream and fast and solid and a little bit flash.
But no. No, no, no. He is, in fact, behind the wheel of a very shiny, fancy sports car.
What make is it? There is a little crown insignia at the front, but I can’t tell. I know the difference between a Porsche, a Ferrari and a Lamborghini. James does not have a small penis and clearly doesn’t feel the need to drive any of these.
But nowadays Jaguars, Aston Martins, even that Ford with the old Steve McQueen ad – all meld into one.
‘Listen to this,’ he says, and revs the engine, ‘it has the best purr of any car. And it’s shaped like a woman’s body …’
‘Sometimes you sound like such an 80s dickhead,’ I say, smiling as he leans over to open the door for me.
As I step in, I see a large Maserati logo in silver on the floor. Handy. In case you forget which of your cars you’re driving.
I am surprised and pleased to see what a tip it is inside, as bad as my Honda Accord. Boots, fleeces, mud, sweet wrappers, even an empty white mug in the drinks holder, that’s surely meant to accommodate a goblet of Krug.
I do so like this about James. He is not precious about things, he’s carefree, careless even. I had a boyfriend at college who had a three-day tantrum after I knocked his Raybans onto the floor as I handed him an orange juice at a Happy Chef on the M6. I hate people who treat generic branded goods like they’re family heirlooms; it’s just stuff.
‘So, what’s with this car?’ I say, trying not to sound impressed.
‘A little toy I bought myself when the Bonders bought 25% equity in JSA. I do like the occasional toy.’
‘How much did they pay you?’ Blunt, but I’m trying to work out just how fancy this car is.
‘Three.’
‘£300,000?’ If that’s 25%, that’s a £1.2 million pound business. Not bad for selling socks.
And a whole house in Camden must be worth a million at least.
He laughs. ‘You’re so sweet, Soph. Add an 0.’
‘Oh.’ Oh, oh, oh.
We’re driving to the Curzon in Soho. I am still in shock about his wealth.
My immediate reaction had been: my God. I’ve found a prince, the last handsome, tall, not-bald multimillionaire in London. That’s lottery ticket win money. That doesn’t happen. Well, the odds are 1 in 12 million.
But a nanosecond later the discovery has started to bother me. It has set off various small alarms that I’m trying to put on snooze:
That sort of money rockets him in to a different universe.
That sort of money lets him do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, without consequence.
That sort of money goes to a man’s head. It is power.
No one makes that much money without being ruthless and hard as nails along the way.
People want to be close to a man like that. Men, yes, but the women. The type of women who would not look at him twice if he was a regular guy. That explains the Wolford model.
I’m bloody glad I didn’t know he was rich when I first met him. I wish I didn’t know now.
Maybe he doesn’t own the whole company; maybe his dad and brother own half …
‘Play some music, would you?’ I say, stroking his thick dark hair and thinking how good his genes are, and hoping if we have kids they’ll inherit his straight, shiny locks rather than my curls.
James fiddles with his CD player and on comes the soundtrack to the inner circle of hell: Dido, Flo Rida, some vocoder crap, the sort of banging dance music they play in gyms.
‘Have you not got the Crazy Frog tune?’ I say.
He presses the forward button and on comes Sam Cook.
‘Well recovered,’ I say.
There is a queue of cars in front of us, and James suddenly pulls to the left and speeds down the bus lane.
‘Bus lane,’ I say.
‘It’s fine.’
‘It says “At any time”.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘You’ll get a ticket.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’
‘Just because you’ve got a crown on your steering wheel doesn’t mean you can act like royalty.’
‘It’s a trident, love.’
‘What about the people on buses? There are bus lanes for a reason.’
‘They’ll still get there,’ he says.
‘If I was on that bus, I’d think you were a dick,’ I say.
‘But you’re not. You’re in my car.’
He has booked tickets to see Antichrist, because he thought I’d like an art house film. The cinema is very warm, and half an hour into the film, he falls asleep. Occasionally I nudge him but he looks extremely content, and quite frankly I wish I could sleep through it too.
As the end credits roll I wake him up. ‘You missed the bit where she drills through his leg, and the bit where she wanks him off and blood spurts out of his cock,’ I say.
He shudders. ‘Thank God.’
‘What now,’ I say, ‘Chinatown for some duck pancakes?’
‘I thought you might like to have dinner at mine.’
‘You’re going to cook for me?’
‘I was thinking more like a takeaway,’ he says.
‘Why don’t we cook?’
‘You’ll see why.’
‘Are you sure your wife’s not at home tonight?’
‘She’s on holiday with the kids and my three mistresses,’ he says.
He pulls up outside a house in Fitzroy Road. That’s Primrose Hill, not Camden. It has the loveliest front door of all the houses on the street – a deep, inky blue, with a semi-circular glass window at the top, like the sun rising.
This is all too good to be true. He’s too sexy, too rich, too tall, too much fun, too interesting, too smart, that door is too perfect. You don’t get to have all this in one person. Maybe you get three of the above but the guy turns out to be a cokehead or a depressive. James is the golden ticket. Something must be wrong.
Inside, everything is homely and unpretentious. On a low wooden sideboard sits a beautiful old-fashioned globe, the countries in faded pinks and yellows and greens and blues.
‘Who are these guys?’ I say, looking at the framed photos next to the globe.
‘That’s me and Rob in Mexico.’
‘You look happy,’ I say.
‘We’d just been skydiving,’ he says. ‘I think I was still high.’
‘And in this one? That must be your grandfather … father’s side?’ I say, looking at a faded photo of a stern looking