RICHARD PARKER

1

DON'T TELL MY MOTHER

BY RICHARD PARKER

© Katz Entertainment Holdings Limited 2009. Copyright. All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying or otherwise, without the express permission of the author.

RICHARD PARKER

2

SYNOPSIS

DON'T TELL MY MOTHER can best be described as a comedy that is a cross

between Californication, Sex and the City and Bridget Jones. The novel's main character is Toby Willis. Toby has every man's dream job. It is 2001 and he works in London as the editor of an adult entertainment magazine called Thruster. There is only one problem. Toby is too embarrassed to tell anyone what he does; especially his mother and prospective girlfriends. All of which poses a problem when Toby falls in love with Charlotte Fisher, a beautiful American working as a lawyer in London for a large US law firm, and tells her he's the editor of an architectural magazine.

Toby's life is further complicated by the fact that Thruster, a 3rd-tier porn mag at best, is facing declining sales and advertising revenue. Unless Toby can turn it around he won't have a job to be embarrassed about. But Toby has ideas about how he can win the love of Charlotte and turn around the magazine.

Toby Willis, like David Duchovny’s Hank Moody in Californication, isn’t a perfect person but he has a good heart. He makes mistakes and does things he knows his mother wouldn’t be proud of. But readers will find that they can’t help rooting for him and praying he wins the heart of Charlotte and turns around the fortunes of Thruster.

AUTHOR’S NOTE Writing any book necessitates some research and so it was with this novel. In

an effort to try and encapsulate the true spirit of the novel's central character Toby Willis I decided that it was necessary for me to travel to London, New York, Paris and Florence; to read hundreds of back issues of Playboy and Penthouse; to review more hours of footage of adult entertainment films than I care to remember; to smoke dozens of cartons of Marlboro and Dunhill cigarettes; to drink copious litres of Stella Artois and Heineken beer; to listen to the music of Kylie Minogue, Dido, Britney Spears, Geri Halliwell and S Club 7; to be made redundant within 6 weeks of starting a job; to lie and conceal things from my mother and friends; to visit synagogues in Hampstead Garden Suburb and South Hampstead; to witness a bris or two; to watch Ally McBeal and The Practice; to fantasise about Helen Gamble; and to eat as much butter chicken (mild) and naan bread as possible.

RICHARD PARKER

3

Search THR new s

Go

Nov. 24, 2003 'Mother' joins MGM's family MGM has picked up Richard Parker's manuscript "Don't Tell My Mother" for studio-based producer Jennifer Klein, who recently signed a first-look deal with the studio. The project, brought into the studio by MGM creative executive Pete Chiarelli, centers on an acclaimed magazine editor who is forced to work for the third-rate porn mag Thruster. He then must find a way to turn the magazine around in order to save his career but in the process keep the scandalous career a secret from his family and the woman of his dreams. Klein will produce through her Apartment 3B Prods. MGM executive vp production Elizabeth Ingold is overseeing for the studio along with Chiarelli. The manuscript, which has yet to sell to a publishing house, is out to writers to adapt for the big screen. Parker's deal was brokered by agent Scott Miller at the Trident Media Group. Before her MGM-based production company, Klein was co-president of Mutual Film Co. "Mother" marks the first project for Klein to produce for MGM under her 3B banner. (Chris Gardner) April 30, 2004 Kondell adapting MGM's 'Mother' Kate Kondell, who penned the screenplay for "Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde," has signed on to adapt "Don't Tell My Mother" for Jennifer Klein's MGM-based Apartment 3B Prods. Klein, who set up a two-year, first-look deal at the studio in October, acquired the Richard Parker novel in November. The story revolves around a first-rate magazine editor who is forced to work for a lowly porn mag while keeping the fact from his mother and the love of his life. Pete Chiarelli, who brought the project to the studio, and Elizabeth Ingold are overseeing for MGM. Other projects in the works at 3B include "F+," an urban classroom comedy, and "Truce," a World War I drama that Klein will produce for Warner Independent Pictures. Kondell also was one of the writers on 20th Century Fox/Regency Enterprises' upcoming "First Daughter," starring Katie Holmes and directed by Forest Whitaker. Kondell is repped by UTA and Management 360. (Liza Foreman) Sep. 01, 2006

MORE FILM NEWS A mild late-summer forecast (09-01-06) Telluride peeks at Oscar (09-01-06)

RICHARD PARKER

4

Jackson on mission for 'Dambusters' (09-01-06) Bush pic heads to Toronto fest (09-01-06) 'Bond 22' will 'stay course' for Nov. '08 (09-01-06) Styler firm top dog for 'Grk' books (09-01-06) Understated Ford a rarity (09-01-06) Ward is no 'Stranger' to Rogue film (09-01-06) Cineplex part of NCM digital plan (09-01-06) U.S. pics take stage at Venice fest (09-01-06) Sony sponsors vid podcasts for CNN Ent. (09-01-06) German blonde notable set for Princess Di pic (09-01-06) PwC out as accountant for Carmike (09-01-06) Glenn Ford, actor with storied film career, dies at 90 (08-31-06) Rome friction downplayed at Venice opener (08-31-06)

RICHARD PARKER

5

1

Too embarrassed to tell my own mother

"Misogynistic individuals like you, who propagate filth and degrade women, make me

sick. What would your mother think of you?"

[Excerpt from letter to the editor of Thruster – UK Edition, from the President of

Women Against Pornography]

"You need to get out more often – and get laid. PS My mother is very proud of me."

[Response from the editor of Thruster – UK Edition]

'And what do you do?' It seems such an innocuous little question and yet I

can't help but feel the most palpable hatred towards anyone who utters those words to

me these days. 'What do I do?' 'None of your business you nosy prick,' is what I want

to say. But I don't of course. And you know why? Because I've accepted, albeit

reluctantly, that I live in a society where such a question is an integral part of our

daily vernacular – as common as 'hello', 'how are you?', 'nice to meet you', 'what's for

dinner tonight?' - and that trying to resist it is pointless. I know too that the problem

is mine. Asked by the right sort of person, in a genuinely inquisitive way, it is an

RICHARD PARKER

6

acceptable question. I admit that. But in the wrong hands, and said to the wrong

person, those words can cause irreparable damage.

It’s 2001 and those five words are responsible for a lot of the angst currently

in my life. Most worrying of all is that those five words are threatening to ruin any

chance I have of finding true love and happiness. For the only thing more difficult

than telling your mother or girlfriend that you work for a porn magazine is telling

your prospective mother-in-law. Trust me when I say, nothing will ensure ruining

your relationship as certainly as saying, 'Mrs Smith I work for a porn mag' – not even

admitting you’re a Jehovah's witness or have a highly contagious and lethal strain of

small pox. Utter the word 'porn' to a mother-in-law, and you're history; you're toast.

'Your father and I will not have you marrying some filthy little pervert. We simply

won't,' she'll say to her daughter. Your girlfriend might try to stick up for you

initially, but eventually she'll cave in. And while your prospective father-in-law

might secretly support you, even ask you to slip him a few back issues, he'll never

admit it in front of his wife. Those five words will destroy any relationship.

If I'm honest, I hate people who ask me that question because I'm embarrassed

about my job. I'm embarrassed that I like it and want to succeed at it. I'm

embarrassed it pays so little and I'm embarrassed that it seems to disgust so many

people – self-righteous and puritanical people especially, and that seems to be just

about everyone I meet. What I want to know as I sit waiting for my friend Josh,

doodling on a napkin in a bar-cum-coffee house called Larry's, is whether other

people feel the kind of insecurity and embarrassment that I do. Josh doesn't, but he's a

lawyer and I've never met an insecure one yet. Most of them are arrogant gits as a

matter of fact. I should know, I was one for two months. I think I'll ask Josh when he

arrives; if he arrives that is. He's running late, and not for the first time in recent

RICHARD PARKER

7

weeks I hasten to add. He's been working his arse off in truth and has cancelled three

of our last four lunches. He even postponed our 12.30 p.m. lunch today for a quick

coffee at 3 p.m. It's now 3.20 p.m.

As usual, my doodling is not proving fruitful. I'm desperately trying and

failing to come up with some fresh ideas for the next issue of Thruster, the adult

entertainment magazine of which I am editor of the UK edition.

It is a job, I must confess, I applied for and accepted only out of a fit of

desperation. A fit which, to the best of my knowledge, has occurred only once before

in my life. It was during my first year at law school at Edinburgh University when I

shagged, in a canine-like frenzy, an anthropology student, born and raised somewhere

in Wales, and who had absolutely nothing in common with the angelic Charlotte

Church, except perhaps for her undeniably powerful vocal chords, which she used to

full effect when screaming, or should I say squawking, "oh, ohhh, I'm gonna, I'm

gonna…" She never did finish her sentence. I came just after the second "I'm gonna"

– about two minutes into the act (not bad for a first timer I was subsequently told). I

immediately collapsed, thanked every deity I could conjure up that I was no longer a

member of that class of society we pejoratively call virgins, and fell asleep within

seconds, no doubt with a dirty big grin on my face, before drifting off into some

ethereal post-shag, post-virginity wonderland.

The last thing I remember was the ugly slapper saying ‘is that it?’, and then

muttering some unintelligible anthropological references to Neanderthals and Cro-

Magnon man. I regretted the act immediately on waking the next day but took solace

in the fact that I was now one of the club – the 'I'm-not-a-virgin-can't-you-tell club'.

Josh, at Oxford University at the time, was one of my friends I rang first. He

congratulated me heartily. On hearing the details he quickly pronounced that losing

RICHARD PARKER

8

your virginity doggy style, and lasting two minutes, was a feat equivalent to climbing

Mt Everest unaided by oxygen and thermal clothes. Buoyed by Josh's obvious

admiration, I proceeded to prance around the Old College for the rest of the term.

Anyway, back to my second fit of desperation some 10 years later. My

appointment as editor of Thruster – UK Edition, might suggest that my fits of

desperation are intertwined with acts of depravity. Whether it was a depraved

decision depends on your particular mores I suppose. If my desire to lose my

virginity led me to shag Cro-Magnon woman from Wales, then it was my desire to try

to make something of my career that led me to take up the reigns at Thruster.

Before moving to Thruster I had worked in a variety of roles for several

magazines in the News Corp and Time Warner media empires. Despite being great

companies, and great magazines, my impatience to get ahead, to really stamp my

mark on the magazine world, saw me leave both companies in search of something

bigger and better. By anyone's reckoning Thruster is the antithesis of bigger and

better relative to some of the magazines I worked for at News Corp and Time Warner.

Although owned by one of the world's biggest multi-media conglomerates, Thruster

was, at the time of my hiring, on life-support, and in danger of PGP Head Office in

London, slapping a DNR order on it.

But life's all about gambles I told myself; and I if could make Thruster

succeed, I could make anything succeed. The PGP executive who hired me said,

'Toby – this magazine is six to nine months from going under. No one at Head Office

likes it. No one even wants it to succeed if the truth be known. With the boom of

internet porn we don't even know if magazines like these have a future. Despite all

that, I'd like to see what you can do with it. You're obviously bright and ambitious,

and you've got some great editorial experience under your belt. I want you to see this

RICHARD PARKER

9

assignment as your own Mission Impossible. If you pull it off, you'll be able to go

anywhere you want in PGP. People in Head Office will know about Toby Willis. Of

that I can assure you.’ That in the end swayed it for me.

And so it was my desperation to succeed and make a name for myself that led

me to take the job at Thruster. A job I thought I would never have to take. The real

issue I realised when I took the job was how I would tell my mother. My mother, you

see, is so proud of the fact that I studied law at Edinburgh. 'Peter would have been so

proud,' she says all the time, in reference to my late father. But all I can see her

saying now, as I could see her saying then, is 'what will people think?' Not about me

of course. Don't be stupid. About her!! What will people think about her! A mother

who raised a son to peddle porn to dirty old men in raincoats. I still haven't resolved

if, or how, I will tell my mother. I even tell my friends on a regular basis not to tell –

'don't tell my mother whatever you do, okay?' I continue to carry feelings of guilt

over the fact that I wantonly deceive the woman who brought me into this world and

toiled so hard to put me through school and university. It was hard enough when I

told her I resigned [read : made redundant] from my first job at the law firm Rogers,

McKinley & Ludbrook after only two months. So telling her that I am not in fact a

sub-editor for the legal publishers Butterworths, but in fact an editor of a porno

magazine (and a third-tier one at that), is likely to induce cardiac arrest, and I just

won't be responsible for that.

***

RICHARD PARKER

10

"Toby, sorry I'm late," exclaims Josh, who looks like he's been running.

"Shapiro hauled me into his office just as I was walking to the lifts. I told him I was

late to see a client and he said he didn't give a shit. You can't reason with the man.

What can I get you?"

"Another Heineken thanks. And a pack of cigarettes. Dunhill Reds or Marlboros.

Whatever they've got. So how's Lisa?" I ask, as Josh returns to the table with beer

and cigarettes.

"Great. Getting bigger by the day."

"How's her rediscovery of religion going?"

Josh rolls his eyes. "I'm hoping it's a phase; and a short one at that. It better be

anyway."

"It's probably the hormones," I proffer hopefully, in reference to the impending birth

of their second child. Hormones is, of course, my standard explanation for almost all

irrational, unpredictable, inexplicable and inappropriate female behaviour. But when

women rant and rave, break down and cry, and try to make me feel guilty for

something I haven't done, I know it usually has nothing to do with their hormones.

I've never told Josh how I feel about Lisa. What would I say? 'Josh buddy. There's

something I've been meaning to tell you [pause for dramatic effect]. Lisa, your wife,

well, she's a COW.' The worst thing is that I must, as all best friends must, pretend I

like her. It's a silly façade. I know she despises me and she must sense how I feel

about her. But in the name of friendship the pretence goes on.

"I don't think it's the hormones," says Josh. Well done Einstein. How very perceptive

of you, I scream. I'm conscious I shouldn't be too snide but I'm finding it increasingly

difficult not to be. "It's a misguided sense of familial responsibility that some Jewish

women miraculously discover after giving birth," he continues. "It all started with

RICHARD PARKER

11

Jonathan's bris I think. Most mothers run a mile. They don't want to be in the room

when half their son's knob is chopped off. Not Lisa though. Oh no. Lisa was the

complete opposite. She loved it. She's got it all on film. To her, the bris was some

deeply religious experience symbolising the new covenant between Jonathan and

God. When I questioned her what kind of covenant requires penile surgery she went

nuts. Claimed it was clear that I was going to abdicate my paternal responsibilities to

educate Jonathan about his people and his faith and it was just one more burden she

would have to assume."

'I can't stand it any longer Josh. Your wife is a neurotic cow. Surely you can see that.

Get rid of her now before it's too late. While you're still young and have the rest of

your life ahead of you.' That's what I should have said. Instead I quip, "Oh well,

you're the one who wanted to get married. Want one?" I say holding up the pack of

Marlboros.

"Thanks," says Josh taking a cigarette. "So what's news at PGP?"

"Well the latest news is Jeremy Mandel has been made MD of North American

operations."

"The guy you worked with at News Corp?"

"Yeah. It's amazing. He was always a star at News, but MD of PGP North America

at 38 isn't a bad achievement. As for Thruster, I'm still working on Nick Hornby for

the cover."

The dilemma I've faced since taking over Thruster is how I can differentiate

the magazine from its competitors. How do I convince readers that Thruster, and not

Playboy, Penthouse or Hustler, is the magazine for them? It's no easy task. I mean

how can I compete with the tits and arse of celebrity centrefolds like Pamela

Anderson, Kylie Bax, and that 'who wants to be a millionaire' chick? Those babes are

RICHARD PARKER

12

big bucks. Bucks Thruster doesn't have. But I still need celebrities. The appetite for

them is insatiable. Sex sells. But celebrity sex sells even better.

Given that I can't afford to pay celebrities to take their clothes off, I've decided

to try to persuade some to write for me and to be written about – celebrity authors.

Thruster, the intellectual man's porno. Top of my list is Lord Jeffrey Archer. His

incarceration is somewhat of a setback, however. He's the only celebrity author I've

actually met (I met him at a signing of Honour Among Thieves). I've tried desperately

to contact him but the prison authorities are proving extremely obstructive. With

Lord Archer an unlikely starter I also approached Philip Roth to talk about Portnoy's

Complaint and John Irving about The 158 Pound Marriage. Both said no. I'm a little

disappointed in Roth quite frankly. Anyone who has chapters in his books called

'Whacking Off' and 'Cunt Crazy' seems ideal for Thruster. And then there is all that

stuff in The Human Stain about how Clinton should have fucked Lewinksy in her

American ass. I haven't ruled out Salman Rushdie either – I'm sure he has an

encyclopaedic knowledge of Indian love-making techniques. Last, but certainly not

least on my list is the inimitable Bret Easton Ellis. I just watched American Psycho

on video the other night. I made a note to go and buy the book. Although violent

erotica isn't Thruster's scene, nor mine, the scene of Patrick Bateman and the two

hookers on the futon and the felching is truly top shelf. Nothing like a bit of lesbian

arse-licking to drive the readers wild.

Regrettably Easton Ellis has not returned any of my calls. Fortunately, a few

weeks ago, just when I was despairing of finding a celebrity author, a man named

Rodney rang out of the blue. He said he was Nick Hornby's new PR manager and

agent and that he'd heard through the grapevine that I was looking for celebrity

RICHARD PARKER

13

authors to profile and write for me – would I be interested in Nick Hornby? Would I

ever I said.

Despite my enthusiasm, everyone I spoke to thought it was a daft idea.

Actually they weren't even that charitable. They said it sucked – the surest way to

ensure no one ever read the magazine. Josh, the eternal sceptic even questioned

whether Rodney was legit – talked about people impersonating celebrities' agents. I

told him Rodney was the real deal.

"I'm getting quite excited about the whole idea – Thruster – the intellectual

man's porno – what do you think?" I ask Josh.

"I think people who buy porno magazines couldn't give a toss about writers like

Hornby, Roth and Irving, but what do I know? You're the expert Toby. Do you

really think Hornby will go for it?"

"Well, if he's like any other normal male with a pulse I think he'll go for it. Doesn't

matter if he refuses though. I'll still run with the same title – 'Nick Hornby's Top Five

Porn Films in Chronological Order' – if he sues the magazine great – a law suit might

boost our profile and bolster sales."

"How do you know he's even seen five pornos?" Josh asks, "or will admit to it

anyway," he adds.

"What man hasn't?" I reply.

The subject of men and the alacrity with which they embrace pornography is

one well worth exploring. John Gray may think men are from Mars and women are

from Venus but when it comes to the prickly topic of pornography I don't think men

and women are even in the same solar system. Most men I know, men with a pulse

and penis that is, love pornography, or at the very least are somewhat partial to it.

RICHARD PARKER

14

Most women, on the other hand, seem to find it utterly repugnant. You'd think they

were watching the Texas Chainsaw Massacre or some other gruesome horror flick the

way some of them carry on.

There is no doubt in my mind that women's disdain for the art has forced men

underground (to hide their magazines, videos and CD roms under the floorboards in

the attic and to risk life and limb retrieving the god-damned things when the missus

slips out for an hour to visit a friend) which in turn has only reinforced the view that

pornography is somehow dirty and in need of being hidden.

The thing I find so puzzling is that the only thing I ever hear women say is that

it's disgusting, offensive, distasteful, repugnant, vile, loathsome, revolting, repellent,

abominable, nauseous, sickening, odious, foul, immoral, debauched, contemptible,

filthy, evil, gross, smutty, lewd, obscene, abhorrent, and despicable. But what do

women really mean when they say those things? I'm not sure to be honest. What's so

obscene? What's so odious and smutty? It's just a couple of people, three if you're

lucky, enthusiastically having consensual sex. What could be less objectionable than

that? Nothing I would have thought.

"Not everyone is like you Willis."

"True, but look at you – you're a geeky lawyer married to a pseudo-orthodox Jew and

you've seen at least a dozen, so I'm feeling confident Mr Hornby won't let me down.

Besides, I couriered him 20 the other day. I told him they were my desert-island, all

time, top 20 most memorable pornos and if he would be kind enough to select his top

five, he was free to keep all 20. In addition, I promised to do a rave review on his

next book and to introduce him to the voluptuous Ms Lucie Sinbad, one of the hottest

talents in the adult film industry."

RICHARD PARKER

15

"Lucie Sinbad!" exclaims Josh, his interest suddenly pricked. "Not the same Lucie

Sinbad we watched last weekend when Lisa was up in Bath? How the hell did you

manage that? I thought you said you only got to interview the second-and-third-tier

stars and the has-beens – that Thruster wasn't big enough to attract the real stars."

"Well it's not definite yet and it all kind of depends on Nick Hornby. But apparently

Ms Sinbad has a brain along with her other more obvious attributes. She has a MA in

English from Princeton no less and Mr Hornby is her favourite English author

according to Penthouse – UK edition. When I found out, I rang her agent and said I

was running a story on Nick Hornby and his top five adult entertainment films, and

would the delightful Ms Sinbad be interested in meeting the author as well as doing

an interview with Toby Willis, editor of Thruster? She seemed to think Lucie Sinbad

would be interested and that she'd get back to me. She got back to me yesterday. She

said Lucie Sinbad was more than interested but wanted confirmation from Mr Hornby

himself that he was willing to meet her. I said that wouldn't be a problem."

"So how can you be sure that Hornby will agree?"

"I sent him an advance copy of Lucie Sinbad's new film Courtney's Complaint.

According to Lucie Sinbad it's a play on Philip Roth's iconic book Portnoy's

Complaint, one of Lucie Sinbad's favourites. Courtney's actual complaint not

surprisingly is her inability to find a man with a big enough schlong to satisfy her

insatiable libido. Anyway, I'll be gob-smacked if Hornby decides he doesn't want to

meet Lucie Sinbad after watching that performance. She was unbelievable. I can't

fathom any man not wanting to meet her in the flesh. I'm salivating at the thought.

I'm sure I'll have to be shackled to the interviewing chair."

"Thanks for sharing that with me Toby," says Josh facetiously.

"Don't mention it."

RICHARD PARKER

16

To this day Josh is still rather embarrassed that I conned him into subscribing

to five copies of the magazine on behalf of Kolberg & Sonneschein on the pretext that

he would provide the magazine legal advice. In the end it was Josh's partner, Max

Shapiro, who agreed to K&S acting for Thruster with a few additional perks thrown

in. On the day I agreed to those perks I couriered a large parcel marked, 'Private And

Very Confidential - To Be Opened By Addressee Only'. I, of course, refused to tell

Josh what I had sent and the only thing Shapiro said to Josh was, 'that guy Willis – tell

the marketing department to put him on our newsletter list and make sure he's on my

table for the client Christmas function.'

"So what's news at K&S?" I inquire, changing subjects to more sedate matters.

"Not a lot. I'm probably off to New York for a few weeks next month. We've got a

couple of clients thinking of doing IPOs and listing both here and in New York."

"Cool. Let me know when you confirm the dates. I've been meaning to get over to

our New York office. I could make it a working holiday. The editor is a real hoot.

He thinks I'm Mother Fucking Theresa or another anally retentive Pom. He hasn't

quite worked out which yet. I tried telling him that I went to a public school and I am

as perverted as any of the other editors of Thruster, but he doesn't believe me.

Anyway make sure you let me know the dates," I say again.

"Sure. I should know by the end of the week. Lisa's going to be thrilled She'll be

playing the abandoned, pregnant wife act for all it's worth. Even my own family has

been giving me a hard time about work recently. You can't win I'm telling you."

"Well it’s your life Josh. No-one is forcing you to be a hotshot M&A lawyer earning

£130,000 working for some fancy American law firm. And no one forced you to

marry a beautiful, albeit religious girl, have a kid and buy a fabulous house in

RICHARD PARKER

17

Hampstead. I mean you don't know how lucky you are. You need to get some

perspective."

"Yeah, I suppose," is all he says.

Josh's propensity to indulge in self pity infuriates me. He's been like this for

as long as I've known him. He's a textbook sufferer of OAS – over-achievers

syndrome and needs to indulge in some CMA – comparative misfortune analysis.

Take me for instance. Compared to Josh's life, my life is unmitigated crap. I'm single

with no prospects, the editor of a third-tier porno mag, paid a paltry £35,000 a year,

living in some squalid flat in the upmarket Chelsea (which only makes it worse), and

too embarrassed to tell my own mother what I do for a living. I pretend to Josh that

my life is fab. But I know it's not. I'm desperately envious of everything he's got, and

so it bugs the hell out of me when he whinges.

The other thing that irks me about Josh's success is my belief that I deserve

success, if not more than him, then at least as much as him. I always did better than

him at St Paul's. I was in the top five in my class at Edinburgh Law School. Josh just

scraped through Oxford. I was always better looking and more popular with the girls.

In short, I was everything Josh wasn't. So why is he the one with the great job, lots of

money, the house, the wife and kid? Tell me that. In some ways I'm not sure whether

it's jealousy of Josh or disappointment in myself. Whatever it is, self pity isn't going

to solve my problems.

As I light another cigarette Josh announces that needs to get back to the office.

"I'll give you a call tomorrow," he says, stubbing out his cigarette.

"Say hi to Lisa for me," I say as he gets up.

"Will do. See you later Tobs."

RICHARD PARKER

18

***

It's quarter to four on Friday. My thoughts suddenly return to Nick Hornby

and Lucie Sinbad. "You better come through for me Rodney," I mutter, bowling out

the door of Larry's into Friday night rush hour. The offices of Thruster are in Covent

Garden, a brisk 15 minutes walk from Larry's. I contemplate the tube and then decide

the autumn air and carbon monoxide fumes will do me some good. Dialling the office

number I quickly get hold of Thruster's receptionist-cum-PA-cum-part-time

researcher-cum-heart-breaker.

"Samantha. It's me. Any word from Hornby's PR Manager?"

"No, nothing sorry. But we got another call from Lucie Sinbad's manager. She's

getting a little antsy about us not confirming Lucie Sinbad's meeting with Mr

Hornby."

"Okay." I don't admit it to Sam but I'm starting to worry whether Rodney is the real

deal. I made a few discrete inquiries and no one seems to have heard of him. "Look

I'll be back in the office in 10 minutes. Ring Linda back and tell her I'll confirm by no

later than lunchtime tomorrow. Okay?"

"Okay Toby. See you soon."

Thruster is on the third floor of Rosen House, a recently refurbished office

building, a couple of streets away from the Covent Garden central market square. I

chose Rosen House for a number of reasons, including its strategic location to Covent

RICHARD PARKER

19

Garden tube station, and a few of my favourite pubs; its relative proximity to

Hatchards in Piccadilly (one of my favourite book stores); and the fact that it's only

100 metres from the now infamous Indian restaurant Delhi Belly, owned by one of my

best friends, Ravi Maharaj..

Although I wouldn't describe the internal fit-out of our office as salubrious, it

is functional and business-like. Frosted windows and doors protect the other

inhabitants of Rosen House from being tainted by the sordid goings-on of Thruster.

Bounding out of the lift my Nokia begins to vibrate. It's Linda Lawless, Ms Sinbad's

agent and PR manager. A former darling of the big blue screen herself, Ms Lawless'

persistence is beginning to aggravate me.

"Linda babe. How are you?"

"Cut the babe shit Toby. Has Hornby confirmed or not? Lucie has a shoot in LA next

week and she'll bring it forward and cancel your interview if you don't confirm

today."

"Okay. Give me an hour." "Shit," I cuss after I hang up.

"Samantha!" I yell, as I pull open the frosted door and enter the inner sanctum of

Thruster.

Sitting behind a large mahogany desk with the words THRUSTER embossed

on the wall behind her, Samantha looks a picture of professionalism. She's 26, five

years my junior, and attractive in that I'm-great-in-bed kind of way. When you first

notice her it is difficult not to feel utterly captivated. Well endowed, excruciatingly

curvaceous, the tightest arse I have ever seen, and with brunette hair tucked cutely

behind her ears, Samantha bless her soul, has the entirely agreeable habit of wearing

incredibly short skirts and three inch stilettos. What I call her Fran Fein outfits.

Those outfits make me weep. Did I mention that she also happens to be a lovely

RICHARD PARKER

20

person? A truly lovely person. As I conjure up a rather saucy image of Sam in her

stilettos, and not much else, Cro-Magnon woman inexplicably pops into my head.

Get out of there you ugly cow, I yell, as the alluring image of Samantha starts to

evaporate. It's too late though. Samantha and her stilettos are gone.

"Samantha," I repeat composing myself. "I assume we've heard nothing from

Hornby."

"No Tobs," she says almost apologetically.

"Thanks," I say, storming off to my office. My office fronts onto the road and is the

only one with a door. I recently had curtains installed to allow me to concentrate on

my work. 'Work' in this case means preparing for my interview with Lucie Sinbad

which, in turn means reviewing all of her work. Some 60 movies and 72 orgasms

later I feel ready to interview the sex siren and I even have my first question.

Collapsing in my chair I check some recent e-mails. "Come on," I mutter, shifting my

gaze from my computer screen to the phone. Suddenly it rings.

"Toby Willis speaking," I bark down the phone.

"Tobs, it's Josh. What are you doing tonight?"

"Um, nothing."

"Do you want to come around for dinner?"

"For Shabbas?"

"Yeah. I've got a few work colleagues and friends of Lisa coming over too. There's

someone who I think you might like."

"She's not Jewish is she?" I inquire.

"No. As goyish as JC himself."

"JC was a Jew in case you've forgotten."

RICHARD PARKER

21

"Good point. Well don't worry, she's definitely a shiksa. She's good looking,

intelligent and sophisticated. She's one of the stars of K&S."

"So why's she single?"

"Beats me. Maybe she's picky."

"Oh great and that's supposed to make me feel better. Yeah fine. Count me in. What

time?"

"Sevenish."

"Great. See you then."

I hang up and start to wait again. Now I don't have anything against Jewish

women. I've loved more than my fair share in my short life. But Josh has set me up

with a few JAPs as he likes to call them and, to cut a long story short, all of the

relationships, without fail, ended in tears. The last one proved to be the low-point of

my excursion into the complicated world of interfaith courtship. For the sake of the

poor girl's privacy I shall simply call her Jessica. Jessica, apart from one minor flaw,

was everything a man could want. Sexually rapacious from the get go, I am proud to

say I shagged Jessica, on her insistence I might add, up against a wall off St John's

Wood Road; a wall I was only to discover driving along the road the next day was

attached to a structure called a synagogue. Jessica's local synagogue in fact. When I

asked her about it she simply replied, "Yeah, I know. I even had my bat mitzvah

there." That was Jessica for you.

But all good things must come to an end and Jessica taught me a lesson I will

never forget – too much good sex is not always good for you. I know it seems

ridiculous, but it's true. Sex with Jessica simply overpowered all my other

sensibilities and obscured the glaring reality of our relationship. The reality being that

the only thing I liked about Jessica was her sexual prowess and rapacity. Once I

RICHARD PARKER

22

accepted that, I knew I had to break it off. It would be painful. I would have regrets.

I would suffer withdrawal symptoms. But it had to be done. Besides, Jessica began

talking about upping the stakes and 'doing it' inside the synagogue – on the bimah no

less. No, it had to stop. My first few attempts were unmitigated disasters. My final

scheme to break up with her was hatched by Josh over a few drinks at Larry's.

Thankfully it worked.

***

At 6.37 p.m. my phone rings. I am the only one in the office. Samantha was

the last to leave at 5 p.m. She and Steve are off for a romantic weekend somewhere in

Portugal or Spain, I can't remember which. The voice on the other end of the phone is

Rodney. About bloody time. Rodney tells me Hornby has agreed to do the interview

for Thruster and to meet Lucie Sinbad provided I sign an 11-page contract in arial

font size three, effectively giving Mr Hornby complete editorial control over what we

say about him, and pay Rodney £5,000. What the hell, I think. Since I have been at

the helm of Thruster sales have dropped 6% and advertising revenue by 8%. My

superiors at PGP Head Office are starting to get impatient. I'm starting to get worried.

I need to turn the figures around and the explicit endorsement of a celebrity is

just the ticket. I tell Rodney that I need my lawyer to review the contract but that

should be fine. As soon as I get the contract I track down Max Shapiro and fax it to

his home number. Max promises to ring me by no later than 9.30 p.m.

It is quarter to seven. I'm due at Josh's in 15 minutes. I don't even have time

to change. I'm dressed in my dark-navy denim jacket I purchased from the new Levi

RICHARD PARKER

23

Strauss Mega Store on Oxford Street and a pair of camel-coloured cargo pants. Not

exactly shabbas attire. Lisa will be impressed.

***

Covent Garden Square is packed full of Friday night revellers as I duck and

weave my way through the crowd. I don't have to wait long to get a lift to take me

into the bowels of the London underground. At Leicester Square I swap from the

Piccadilly line to the Northern line. Only too aware of the vagaries of the Northern

line I fret that I'm going to be hopelessly late. When we get to Camden Town the

train sits there for what seems an eternity. "Come on, hurry up," I say to myself

trying to avoid eye contact with this crazy-looking freak sitting straight opposite me.

When I'm having a bad day I find public transport, and the tube in particular,

both demeaning and intolerable. Without fail I seem to find myself stuck in carriages

seated next to, or adjacent to, some complete freak, like the one eye-balling me right

now. I'm going to count to three and if he doesn’t break eye contact there's going to

trouble. Big trouble. The freak won't know what hit him. I do wonder how in God's

name the NHS, or whoever looks after these people, can allow them to just wander

freely like this. Why should decent-tax-paying-porno-mag editors like me have to

share public transport with the likes of Mr Freak who has at last started leering at the

woman next to me? I think he just farted too. Christ that's disgusting. Unbelievable.

I need to get a car. I don't care about carbon monoxide poisoning and the ozone layer.

I just can't stand being asphyxiated by other people's farts in the tube. I'm at a loss as

to why these mentally-deficient people pay scant regard to the most basic rules of

RICHARD PARKER

24

public transport etiquette - namely don't fart, use a deodorant and don't leer at people.

I hate public transport.

It's 7.40 p.m. already. At 7.46 p.m. the train lurches forward spasmodically a

few times before departing Camden Town. When we leave Belsize Park station I feel

a surge of optimism. When we arrive at Hampstead station I heave a sigh of relief.

I've made it. Fortunately Josh's place is only a five minute walk from the tube station.

At just before eight I ring the front door bell.

***

"Tobs, glad you could make it," jests Josh, who seems unconcerned by my late

arrival. His flat is on the third floor of a beautiful four-storied Georgian building, the

entrance of which is protected by a large black wrought-iron gate. With three

bedrooms, the apartment is positively palatial by my standards. As I pass through the

foyer I quickly glance in the hallway mirror. I look awful. When I enter the dining

room I feel even worse. I'm surrounded by suits. I hate suits. Three women and two

men, plus Lisa. All strangers. Oh God why did I agree to come? Sitting at home

with a pizza and porno would have been much more fun.

"Okay everyone," announces Josh. "This is Toby. He's not a lawyer in case you're

wondering." There is a stifled laugh from the jury.

"Hi," I say, grinning stupidly at the five suits. Christ lawyers in suits are intimidating.

"Now," continues Josh, "this is Matt, Fiona, Charles, Stephanie and Charlotte. You're

down the end Tobs next to Charlotte and me.

RICHARD PARKER

25

"Thanks," I say, "nice to meet you all," I add before proceeding to kiss Lisa. "Good

shabbas Lisa. Sorry about the clothes. I got stuck at work."

"Don't be silly Toby. You look fine," she replies in a tone that fails to convince me.

As I take my seat next to Charlotte I feel hopelessly inadequate. She's stunning.

Absolutely stunning. No one this attractive can be single, surely? I wonder how

much Josh has told her about me? For someone who is supposedly a shiksa she looks

remarkably Jewish. Large alluring brown eyes, unruly thick shoulder-length brown

hair, olive complexion and ample bosom – I think, I hope – it's a bit hard to be certain

but it looks pretty ample from side on.

"Do you need a yarmulke?" Josh yells.

"Yes thanks," I reply. Josh throws me a yarmulke he's pulled from a drawer in the

sideboard.

"So you work with Josh do you?" I ask Charlotte.

"Yes. I'm an attorney in the M&A department."

"You're American," I say picking up on her accent. "Where in America are you

from?" I inquire enthusiastically.

"Brooklyn, New York." Before I can interrogate her further Josh starts kiddush, the

blessing over the wine. Following Josh's cue I throw back the cup of sacramental

wine in one gulp.

"So what brought you to London?" I whisper.

"My boyfriend," she replies. I fail to mask my look of surprise and disappointment. I

thought she was single I yell at Josh who just smiles at me and winks. Again Josh

interrupts as he says the blessing over the bread.

"Your boyfriend?" I inquire, regaining a degree of composure.

RICHARD PARKER

26

"Ex-boyfriend," Charlotte adds, seemingly sensing my disappointment. "So what do

you do Toby?" she asks changing the subject for no apparent reason. I start to reply,

only to find the words sticking in my throat. I don't know if I can tell her? Can I

admit to this gorgeous woman that I'm the editor of a lewd magazine that, according

to its detractors, exploits and degrades women by publishing intimate and unseemly

photographs of their breasts and genitalia? Of course I can't. Make something up I

tell myself, and quickly.

"I'm the editor of an architectural magazine," I finally reply.

"An architectural magazine?" she says intrigued.

"Now can I offer anyone some wine?" asks Josh. A chorus of 'yes pleases' emanates

from the table.

As Josh turns to head to the kitchen I seize my opportunity. "Let me help," I yell

hurriedly.

"Excuse me a minute," I add, turning to Charlotte. Sprinting across the room, I grab

Josh's elbow as we both enter the kitchen.

"What have you told Charlotte about me?" I inquire panic stricken.

"What?" he says.

"What have you told Charlotte about me?" I repeat in hushed tones.

"Nothing, why?"

"She just asked me what I did. I panicked and I told her I'm the editor of an

architectural magazine."

"An architectural magazine?" says Josh incredulously. "What were you thinking

Willis?"

"I don't know. She caught me off-guard for some reason. And I just couldn't tell

her."

RICHARD PARKER

27

Jesus Willis you've outdone yourself this time. Why an architectural magazine of all

things?"

"Because of George Costanza."

"George Costanza? What do you mean?"

"You remember all those times on Seinfeld when George said he was an architect.

Well I've always kind of fantasised about doing something like that – I thought it

would be kind of fun. I don't know what I was thinking. And the thing is, I think I

like Charlotte. I mean she's gorgeous."

"What did I tell you Willis?"

"What do I do? I mean, I can hardly tell her the truth."

"Why not?" Josh asks. "It's just going to get harder to tell her later if it goes anywhere.

You should tell her."

"You're right. I'll tell her. Okay wish me luck." I take a deep breathe, grab one bottle

of wine, and head back into the dining room.

"Now who was it that wanted some wine?" I ask. Charles, Fiona, Charlotte and Matt

raise their hands.

"So Charlotte was just asking me about your job Toby – as the editor of an

architectural magazine," says Lisa in a tone laced with contempt. "She was asking

what the magazine was called and I said I couldn't remember."

Suddenly everyone has turned to face me. Shit shit shit.

After babbling some incoherent rubbish and gulping down a glass of wine, the

room goes silent. Charlotte bless her soul seems to detect my unease and starts

talking about Popstars. Thank Christ. I've never been a very convincing liar and I'm

sure they all saw through me. Charles makes a few derogatory remarks about the

RICHARD PARKER

28

female band members which evoke a sharp response from Charlotte. Charles tells

Charlotte to get a sense of humour and suddenly the tension in the room rises.

Before I can lend my support, my Nokia starts to vibrate again. I excuse myself from

the table, incurring yet another look from Lisa as I head off to Josh's study.

"Max. Thanks for calling back. What do you think?" I ask, referring to the Hornby

contract.

"Well provided you're happy that Hornby can tell you what to write word for word,

it's fine. Most of it is pretty standard stuff."

"No that's fine. I'll sign it and fax it off. Can you send off our standard contract to

Linda Lawless tonight for signing as well."

"Sure," he replies. After I hang up I pull the contract out of my satchel, scrawl my

signature on it, and feed it through the fax. Leaning back behind Josh's desk I gaze

around the room admiring the large mahogany bookcase lining one wall, his degrees

from Oxford University and Boston University on another, his exquisite Regency-

style desk with the green library-styled reading lamp, and the framed photos of Lisa

and Jonathan that preside over one corner of the desk. Josh really seems to have his

shit together I think to myself. I feel like the kid who never grew up.

"What are you doing Tobs?" asks Josh, easing back the study door and breaking my

trance.

"Sorry?" I say somewhat incoherent.

"We were starting to worry about you."

"Yeah sorry. I was tidying up the Hornby deal. Max just called to confirm it was

okay to sign."

"Well come on. I think we're going to need a peace maker. Charles and Charlotte

look like they're about to go to war."

RICHARD PARKER

29

"Charles is a fucking prat Josh. You do know that don't you?"

"Give me some credit will you."

"So why do you have him around?"

"Because Lisa likes Stephanie and unfortunately Charles is part of the deal. Besides, I

work with him. When you're an old married fart like me you'll understand."

"God help me," I say.

As I take my place next to Charlotte again she leans in close and whispers to me.

"Thank God you're back. That Charles is a complete tosser," she says, flicking her

hair to one side.

"You're preaching to the converted," I say.

"What are you two whispering about?" asks Josh.

"Oh nothing," I respond, before glancing at Charlotte who gives me a look that causes

both of us to break into convulsions. There's something about the way she laughs.

The way her forehead crinkles and her luscious lips curl, that makes me awash with

lecherous thoughts. Charlotte is suddenly in a red-oops-I-did-it-again-Britney-Spears'

bodysuit purring in my ear and licking my face. Britney and her bodysuit have

somehow become imbedded in my subconscious. So imbedded in fact that I'm

contemplating seeing a Britney-bodysuit exorcist so my life can return to normal. The

other night for instance I dreamt I won an international competition to be the man

who would make Britney 'a woman'. The competition rules required that I was a

virgin as well. Naturally, I told a small fib in my application and passed the virginity-

lie-detector test with flying colours. As I am being interviewed by the competition's

host at the Millennium Dome in front of a global audience of millions cogitating over

Britney's bodysuit and how I will tear it off, Cro-Magnon woman suddenly appears

from out of nowhere and runs onto the stage screaming, "Disqualify the lying bastard!

RICHARD PARKER

30

Disqualify him! He's not a virgin! Disqualify him!", whereupon she proceeds to tell

millions of people that, although I'm not a virgin, I deserve to be since I'm such a

lousy lover. Naturally, I profess never to have seen the deranged woman in my life.

But I'm so unconvincing I eventually break down and confess, and then throw my

dignity completely out the window, by falling to my knees and imploring the host to

still let me make Britney 'a woman', or at least to help the first runner-up take the

bodysuit off.

I start to sweat. Can Charlotte sense what is going through my mind? I hope

not. I need help. I know I do. I'm going to see a shrink. It's my job. You can't

expect someone to do my job and not reduce all women to objects of sexual desire.

Suddenly Charlotte is back in her Britney bodysuit and she is licking my stomach. I

quiver.

***

At a little after 11 p.m. I say goodbye to the guests and thank Josh and Lisa

profusely for their hospitality. Charlotte agrees to share a cab as she lives in South

Kensington and I live in Chelsea. When the cab drops her off, she scrawls her home

number on the back of her business card and tells me to call her. I look at her

business card – 'Charlotte Fisher'. What a beautiful name. I tell her I will and I mean

it. I also promise myself that I will tell her about the real Toby Willis – once I've told

my mother, and that involves a small detour to Edinburgh.

RICHARD PARKER

31

2

Atoning for my sins

"Filthy perverts like you Toby Willis deserve to burn in hell for an eternity."

[Excerpt from letter to the editor of Thruster – UK Edition. Source anonymous]

"I can't work out from your handwriting whether you're a half-wit, a moron, a child

molester, or a happy-clappy born-again disciple of the big man upstairs (please write

in again and tell me which – the suspense is killing me), but I have no more intention

of burning in hell than I have of giving up masturbating."

[Response from the editor of Thruster – UK Edition]

I am about an hour into my train trip to Edinburgh admiring the thigh-

high black leather boots, tanned buttocks and voluptuous breasts of Jodi, the

centrefold in the March issue of Playboy – US Edition, when I get the first urge to go.

Now I should point out that I'm not in the habit of perusing pornographic

magazines simply for recreational purposes. No time for that. It's work; research.

That's all. I make it my job to keep current with what my competitors are doing –

Playboy is just one of the magazines that is part of my regular monthly reading. Now

I must add that when I decide to read on public transport I try to be discreet.

RICHARD PARKER

32

Regrettably it has not yet become entirely acceptable to read Playboy openly in

public, lest the sensibilities of the faint-hearted are offended. So to avoid upsetting

the easily upset I have established strict protocols when reading in public. I almost

always insert the pornographic magazine inside a plastic cover and then insert a more

'acceptable' magazine, such as The Economist or Time, in the outside pocket of the

plastic cover.

As the train rattles along the tracks I realise I can no longer procrastinate about

whether to visit the bathroom. I've been busting for about the last hour; I have to go.

On the loo I decide to call Sam and get some advice on Charlotte.

"Sam, it's Toby. How are you?"

"Good thanks. Where are you more to the point? The reception is terrible."

"I'm on the train."

"Oh."

"Actually I'm on the loo in the train having a dump but I guess you didn't want to

know that?"

"Not really."

Sam is one of those rare individuals with whom I want to share everything. And I

mean everything. Nothing is off limits. And I call her any time, any place. She

doesn't mind. I'm sure Steve, her current boyfriend, hates it.

"Where are you anyway? Portugal or Spain?" I ask.

"Portugal. Lisbon actually."

"How's the weather?"

"Great."

"And Steve?"

"He's great too thanks."

RICHARD PARKER

33

"Look, I won't hold you up. I'm sure there's lots to do in Lisbon but I need some

advice. About a girl."

"I'm listening."

"She's gorgeous Sam. Really gorgeous. I met her last night at Josh's. She's American

and works with Josh. I don't know why she's single, but she is."

"So ask her out."

"I want to. I mean I will. She gave me her number so she's expecting me to call but

I'm not sure when. She's a bit out of my league you see and I don't want to look too

desperate. What should I do?"

"You mean if I were you, what would I do?"

"Yeah."

"I'd call her today."

"You don't think that's too soon?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe? Maybe is no good to me Sam. I want yes or no."

"Alright then, no."

"Then why did you say maybe?"

"Look Toby. Just call her. If it's today, tomorrow or next week it doesn't really

matter. If she likes you, she'll be pleased you called."

"You think so?"

"I know so. God you're a worry. When did you become so insecure?"

"Since I met Charlotte."

"She must be some girl. I can't wait to meet her."

"She is. Trust me. Look I better go. Thanks for the advice. Enjoy Lisbon."

"You're welcome and thanks."

RICHARD PARKER

34

As I sit on the loo I realise that the single biggest threat to Thruster is not our

magazine competitors like Playboy, but the internet. Stealing market share from

Playboy will not ensure our success, let alone survival. Through the internet, porn has

become accessible like never before. The net has quite simply revolutionised porn

and not necessarily for the better I would say. Porn can now be downloaded anytime,

anywhere, and by anyone. While various do-gooder, hairy armpitted, tree-hugger

interest groups continue to spend every spare moment beating up on the likes of

Thruster, in reality a computer-savvy 13 year old with no chance of being sold a

Playboy or Thruster magazine, can download for free, video footage of people

engaged in graphic sex acts. How can Thruster compete with that? More

importantly, what can I do to make Thruster a more appealing alternative to the

internet? I’m not sure, but I know I have to find a way.

Sitting on the loo I’m interrupted by a knock on the toilet door. I quickly

finish up my business, flush the loo and open the door to find a queue of five irate and

pained-looking people.

"You're quite finished are you?" says some old biddy at the front of the line.

"Yes ma'am. Sorry about that. Constipation. I'm sure you know what that's like," I

reply.

***

Thirty minutes later the train pulls into Waverley Station, Edinburgh. My

anxiety levels immediately start to rise. The train trip from London to Edinburgh was

RICHARD PARKER

35

intended to give me some time to contemplate exactly how to tell my mother about

Thruster. In that respect the train trip is a failure.

It's been a stressful week so I'm looking forward to four days of R&R. Mum

will wait on me hand and foot, as she always does. She lives alone in a little two-

bedroom apartment in the New Town area of Edinburgh. She's lived there since I was

16 when my father died, and she moved to Edinburgh to be near her brother and

sister. Despite her protests, I convinced her that I should stay in London to finish

school, and live with Josh's family.

Pushing my way past some Asian tourist group, I see Mum waiting for me at

the usual place. Although I'm not a great sentimentalist, I find it hard coming back to

Edinburgh now because it feels like coming home in many ways and I realise that I

will have to leave again in a few days. Whenever I leave my mother I'm reminded

that, whatever her faults, her judgemental nature in particular, I love her dearly. I

worry too that she's lonely. I worry she's not happy. And with the worry comes the

guilt. Maybe I should move to Edinburgh to be near her. Maybe, but who knows.

There seem to be so many maybes in my life at present. Josh tells me I'm not a

Jewish mother or Catholic so stop feeling guilty. Maybe he's right.

"Toby darling," she says, embracing me.

"Hi Mum. How are you?"

"Oh you know. Same as always – can't complain. How was the trip?"

"Great," I reply.

"Well, come on. Uncle Geoffrey is waiting for us."

RICHARD PARKER

36

***

In the afternoon I call Josh to see if he's heard anything from Charlotte and get

a second opinion on Sam's advice.

"Thanks for last night," I say.

"Don't mention it."

"No I mean it. If things work out with Charlotte I'll owe you. So what time did

everyone else leave?"

"Nearly midnight."

"Now I don't suppose you've heard anything from Charlotte?"

"Not a peep sorry." Damn. We then debate whether I should call her today. Josh

says no and I say yes. "You'll look desperate Willis," he says. "But I am desperate," I

retort. "Yeah I know that, but she doesn't need to know that," he replies. "Leave it

until you get back. That way you'll look keen but not desperate." After hanging up

from Josh I spend the next hour procrastinating on whether to call. My instincts tell

me to call, but I've lost confidence in my instincts. Like my mentor George Costanza,

I'm contemplating doing the complete opposite of what my instincts tell me. It can't

hurt, I decide. I resolve not to call her. Ten minutes later, I realise Josh Rubin and

George Costanza are not the best people to guide me on major life decisions. So I

call. I get the answerphone and I panic. My message sounds harried and garbled. I

sound desperate. Bugger.

For a moment I contemplate ringing back and leaving another message.

Fortunately good sense prevails. What's done is done. To try to forget about

RICHARD PARKER

37

Charlotte, I pull out my work-in-progress article on Lucie Sinbad. I find cogitating

about porno stars a wonderful way to take my mind off things. The article so far

reads as follows :

LUCIE SINBAD: ON LIFE, LOVE, GOD AND THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS

Maybe it's just me, but I still associate sin with God. To sin, in my mind, is to

transgress some religious law decreed by God. What is one to make then of Lucie

Sinbad who, while professing a profound religiosity, has just completed the third of

seven films in the Seven Deadly Sins series? Of the seven deadly sins - pride,

covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy and sloth - Lucie has so far written,

directed and starred in LUST, COVETOUSNESS and ENVY.

At 22 she has been an adult film actress for the last four years and has some

60 films to her credit. Ms Sinbad, however, defies stereotyping. By reputation, off-

screen she is a beguiling and engaging woman. On-screen she is ravishing and

captivating. Yet to allow oneself to be mesmerised by her beauty and raw sexuality

is to do Ms Sinbad a grave disservice. There is much more to this self-proclaimed

lust addict. She is as interesting as she is enigmatic. In the process of making her

name synonymous with sexual sin, she has become a sexual icon with an

unprecedented following and popularity.

To better understand her it is worth exploring her work. Her ground

breaking film, COVETOUSNESS, is most insightful. In an interview with the New

York Times, Ms Sinbad espoused the view that in all of her films sex was simply a

vehicle to explore other more important themes. Sex, far from being gratuitous,

served the higher purpose of providing a greater understanding of human nature.

RICHARD PARKER

38

In COVETOUSNESS, Ms Sinbad finds herself coveting married men. It is indeed

ironic that Ms Sinbad should covet others, when she is arguably the most coveted

woman in the world – her website receives millions of hits every year, and her

videos are stashed under the beds, on top of the wardrobes, and in the basements of

countless married men.

In the film, interspersed between her four carefully choreographed lust-

packed liaisons, her character challenges the viewers to question society's message

that, for women, marriage is a prerequisite for true happiness and self-fulfilment. If

the viewer lacks the cerebral sophistication to take up the challenge, then they still

have the benefit of watching one of the most alluring woman in the adult film

industry being rogered senseless by four very well-endowed and horny married

men.

A self-proclaimed reader of the works of many leading feminists, Ms Sinbad's

proclamations have not surprisingly been called into question by a few. In the eyes

of her critics, feminism and pornography are mutually exclusive concepts. One

cannot call oneself a feminist and at the same time condone pornography, let alone

participate in it. Ms Sinbad defends her stance…

It needs a bit of work but I'm confident the interview will give me some good

material. Staring out the window of the spare bedroom I let my mind wander into the

heavenly world of adult entertainment. For a few brief moments I manage to put

Charlotte, my desperation, and my garbled phone call out of my mind, all thanks to

the gyrating hips of Lucie Sinbad.

***

RICHARD PARKER

39

Do I or don't I? Dinner is almost upon me and I've thought about it all

afternoon. I could just say, 'Mum can you pass the potatoes and by the way I haven't

got my girlfriend pregnant but that job at Butterworths Legal Publishers I told you

about – I made it up – I've never worked there – I am in fact the editor of third-tier

porno mag, what do you think?' I'm sure I won't have the guts to say that, but I've

decided if I'm going to tell my mother anything, I should do so in the company of my

Uncle Geoffrey, Auntie Kate and my cousins, Paul and Mandy.

Paul you see, bless his soul, is a school drop-out, degenerate and major

underachiever. Every time I meet Paul I feel instantly better about myself. Paul is a

great benchmark whenever some CMA is called for. Even Uncle Geoffrey calls him a

boorish lout who more through good luck than talent has found employment as a

bouncer at a local nightclub. Despite his faults, I feel confident Paul will be a useful

ally and advocate if I break the news and confess. I want to end the lies; to come

clean. It's all a matter of timing.

Regrettably it's also a matter of maternal and familial pride, and that's the one

thing holding me back. Children, whether they like it or not, are either a source of

tremendous pride or terrible humiliation. I only need to look at the way Auntie Kate

cringes every time she discusses Paul. She becomes evasive, reticent, and quite

frankly fucking rude, every time you dare to ask how Paul is, or god forbid ask, 'so

what exactly is Paul up to these days?'

I have a certain amount of empathy for Auntie Kate on this thorny topic but

my mother never fails to ask after her nephew. She claims she's merely showing an

interest, and that if she didn't ask, Auntie Kate would take offence too. You can't win,

she says. But I believe there's much more to it than that. She’s point scoring with her

RICHARD PARKER

40

sister-in-law, pure and simple. For Mum, my sister Juls (who lives in New York), and

I, are superstars. We hold down 'high-powered' jobs in two of the most important

cities in the world. We're in another league to poor Paul and Mandy, who are clinging

to the lower rungs of Edinburgh society. I'm certain, in my mother's eyes, that

somehow makes her better than Auntie Kate. Her children are successes, and ipso

facto she is. I understand the way she thinks, but it doesn't help my situation.

Dinner will be the usual roast lamb, potatoes and vegetables followed by

dessert. Mum will spend the whole day preparing and I'll feel compelled to stay up

into the early hours of the morning helping her do the dishes. I hate doing dishes;

almost as much as cooking, which kind of makes me worse than useless in the

kitchen.

***

At 7 p.m. the Gibson entourage arrives. Uncle Geoffrey and Auntie Kate lead

the way, with Mandy and Paul in tow. I'm in charge of drinks, and I'm determined to

ensure everyone's glass is full to the brim. Inebriation is the only way the Willis and

Gibson families get along.

"Lovely to see you again Toby," gushes Auntie Kate as she embraces me. "What a

pity Juls isn't here too. It would be just like old times." I give her a cheesy grin

before greeting Paul.

"How are you Paul?" I say, grabbing his chunky, callused and workman-like hand.

"How's the bouncing business?" I inquire. Auntie Kate shoots me a slightly caustic

RICHARD PARKER

41

glance, as if to say, just because he's a bouncer and you're some bigwig legal-

publishing editor in London, doesn't make you better than my Paul.

After the introductory niceties are over, my mother beckons us to the dining-

room table. I'm seated between Mandy and Uncle Geoffrey. Whatever their

shortcomings, I must admit I feel at ease around them. They're solid, down-to-earth

people. No pretence. No bullshit. And most importantly, less successful than me.

That sounds shallow and mean-spirited no doubt, but there's nothing worse than being

related to overachievers.

As Mum serves dinner I try to think of something to say to Mandy.

Something not completely banal. Mandy is a 25 year-old telephonist at an accounting

firm. Mandy is also someone not entirely happy with her life. With Mandy, I don't

feel I can ask her how work is going because I already know the answer. She told me

last time I asked, 'How do you think Toby? I'm a fucking telephonist – I answer

phones for a living for miserable tight-arsed bean counters. Jesus Christ what a stupid

fucking question.' What can you say to that?

"So how's your love life?" I ask.

"Better than yours."

"Really? What makes you so sure?"

"Because you're a geek Toby. You edit nerdy law books for a living. Nerds like you

don't get laid. At least I hope not."

"Thank you Mandy. It's nice to know my cousin holds me in such high esteem. And

I suppose you're getting rogered senseless every night of the week are you?"

"What was that Toby?" interjects Uncle Geoffrey.

RICHARD PARKER

42

"I was just asking Mandy about her boyfriend Uncle Geoffrey. I didn't realise he was

Nigerian." Apart from being deaf as a door post, Uncle Geoffrey has absolutely no

sense of humour. None whatsoever. And God knows I've tried to find one.

"Kate. Did you know Mandy's seeing a black chap?"

"What!?" screeches Auntie Kate almost dropping her fork.

"A black chap," yells Uncle Geoffrey, seemingly oblivious to the fact, that unlike

him, everyone else at the table has perfect hearing.

"There's no need to shout Geoffrey. I can hear you perfectly well. Toby is just

pulling your leg again. You know what an offensive sense of humour he has.

Mandy's boyfriend is as white as a lily."

I'm not sure whether to be more offended that my aunt has just called my humour

offensive or the fact that she's demonstrated yet again, what an out-of-the-closet-neo-

nazi-KKK racist she is.

"You wouldn't mind if Mandy was dating a Nigerian chap though, would you Auntie

Kate?" It's a provocative question but it needs asking.

"Of course not Toby. What a silly question. I'm not some small-minded bigot. you

know."

"No, of course not," I say. My mother gives me a please-don't-cause-trouble-Toby

look and I decide to shut up.

It's not until dessert is served – apple crumble and ice cream – that Auntie

Kate finally asks after me. She's spent most of the evening asking about Juls in New

York, and then crapping on about her and deaf Uncle Geoffrey's trip around Spain.

"So are you still with those legal publishers Toby?"

"Afraid so," I say.

RICHARD PARKER

43

"Oh!" Auntie Kate says, sensing something in my response. "Are you not enjoying

it?" She's not asking out of concern that I might in fact be desperately miserable.

Inwardly I can see her giddy with delight – Toby, superstar son of Jane Willis, doesn't

like his job – a victory for the Gibsons. Before I can answer she says, "Because I do

feel it's so important that people enjoy what they do. No point in getting paid lots of

money if you can't stand your job. Life's too short for that. Don't you agree

Geoffrey?" Brilliant advice Auntie Kate. Why don't you tell it to that fucking

telephonist daughter of yours.

"What?" says Uncle Geoffrey.

"Oh Geoffrey I do wish you'd wear your hearing aid," she yells.

By 10 p.m. I'm exhausted. Paul, Mandy, Uncle Geoffrey and I are staring at

each other saying nothing, as Auntie Kate and Mum rabbit on, oblivious to the fact

that no one else at the table is talking to one another. When the silence becomes

unbearable I decide to opt for the lesser of two evils and clear the dessert bowls and

head for the kitchen to start the dishes. The kitchen for once in my life becomes my

sanctuary. When I finish the dishes I poke my head out the kitchen door. Mum and

Auntie Kate are still going strong, Uncle Geoffrey is resting his forehead in his lap

and snoring like a pig, while Paul and Mandy are on the couch watching TV. "Good

night," I whisper, before slinking off to bed. As I wander up to bed, I feel satisfied

that I’ve done one good deed for the night. I told Paul that a friend of a friend told me

Kylie Minogue was looking for some bouncers/security guards for her upcoming

European tour, and my friend could put in a good word for him. Paul looked thrilled.

Even Auntie Kate was nice to me for a few minutes.

RICHARD PARKER

44

***

I leave my mother's house in New Town shortly after 10 a.m. I've arranged to

meet an old varsity buddy at a café near the law school, at Old College. Wandering

through the central city streets, along George Street, Princes Street, past the West

Princes Street Gardens I realise how much I enjoyed living and studying in

Edinburgh.

Just before 11 a.m. I catch up with Jeremy Watts, Edinburgh Law School

graduate, husband, solicitor and as I soon discover, complete tosser and about to

become ex-friend. Jeremy, I learn about 10 minutes into our coffee and blueberry

muffin, is suffering from that most unpleasant of legal ailments – rampant careerism

and social elitism. His whole godforsaken life is consumed by belonging to the right

club, arse licking the right partners and clients, and talking about trips to exotic and

foreign places.

Must we all become nauseating sycophants (my new word for brown noser or

arse licker – a bit more upmarket I thought) to get anywhere in this world? I'm

sounding bitter and twisted I know. I'm conscious also that the source of my

contempt for many of my friends and acquaintances is probably jealousy – a bit of the

old green-eyed monster.

I'm not actually sure whether Jeremy is a friend or an acquaintance, and

therefore whether I'm about to lose a friend or an acquaintance, and does it really

matter? Certainly having more friends than acquaintances is better – you just need to

attend any funeral and listen to the eulogy to know that 'Toby Willis had many good

friends' sounds much better than 'Toby Willis had many good acquaintances'. But

let's face it, many people we call friends are really just acquaintances. We call them

RICHARD PARKER

45

friends to make ourselves feel better; to feel popular and loved; and to feel important

and God knows nothing is more important than that.

As I listen to Jeremy crap on about some big deal he's working on, I manage to

determine my friendship criteria. I decide you can only call someone a friend if you

can identify with one or more of the following five statements: (1) you feel

comfortable telling them about your haemorrhoids; (2) you can do loud, bubbly,

smelly farts in front of them and then groan and say how good it felt; (3) you feel

comfortable exchanging rectal examination stories with them; (4) you feel pissed if

they forget your birthday; and (5) you talk to them because you actually want to and

not because you feel you should to boost your number of 'friends'. The list is a bit

anally-focused, and probably needs some refinement, but it's only a first draft.

It does, however, confirm that Jeremy is definitely an acquaintance, and one I

intend to cut loose; to amputate before gangrene sets in and things get really

unpleasant. The sad thing is that Jeremy was a friend once – a good one – almost as

good as Josh, and yet somehow along the way he became an acquaintance and the

scary thing is I don't really know why, because if I'm honest, he's always suffered

from rampant careerism and social elitism. Maybe it's me who is changing.

"Anyway Jeremy I better shoot. It was good to catch up again. I'll give you a call

next time I'm up here."

"Yeah that'd be good. Say hi to your Mum for me Tobs."

"Will do." We shake hands outside. "See you later," I say again. There won't be a

later though. Of that I'm sure.

***

RICHARD PARKER

46

It's a beautiful day as I head off towards the department stores in Princes

Street for some clothes shopping with a new lease on life, my amputation of Jeremy

feeling most cathartic. I'm enjoying being away from Thruster; away from London;

away from my crummy flat. Trying not to fret about the next issue is not easy though,

when I still have 10 pages of advertising to fill. Ten whole pages. One of our

aftershave advertisers took offence to us placing an article on some new felching

technique opposite his aftershave – claimed we were associating his aftershave with

homosexual practices. Apparently placing their aftershave next to titanium dildos is

fine, but not next to felching articles. Go figure. I tried to say that heterosexuals

indulged in arse licking too, but he refused to believe me. I even offered to send him

some videos to prove it but he declined. Sanctimonious, hypocritical bastard! In the

end I told him his shitty aftershave smelt like cat piss and I wouldn't advertise such a

product in a quality magazine like Thruster.

But I must stop thinking about work because I'm here to relax. Bounding out

of GAP in my new pair of navy cargo pants I suddenly hear my name.

"Toby Willis. I don't believe it. I thought I'd never see you again." Turning around I

give the person one of those shit-you-look-familiar-but-I-can't-quite-remember-your-

name looks.

"You don't remember who I am do you?"

"Of course I do," I lie. Just keep talking. It'll come to you.

"Sure," she says.

"I do," I protest.

"What's my name then?" she asks.

RICHARD PARKER

47

"What's my name?" I reply.

"I just told you. Toby Willis."

"Of course you did," I say sensing a smidgen of hostility in her tone. She has her

hands on her hips now. People are beginning to stare. And then it all comes flooding

back: Charlotte Church, Wales, anthropology, screaming, groaning, panting, virginity

– everything that is, except her name.

"I'm sorry I have forgotten your name but I know who you are. I think I'm getting

Alzheimers or something."

By the way I think to myself, if it's any consolation I do remember rogering you

senseless, and if you don't mind me saying so, you are still one of the most

memorable shags I've ever had. I even had a dream about you the other night. Not a

very good one mind you. More of a nightmare actually. You said I was crap in bed

and blew my chance to sleep with Britney Spears, so I wanted to kill you. But you

were in my nocturnal subconscious nonetheless, so there is always hope. Did I

mention that fucking you was a seminal moment in my life? Well I suppose losing

one's virginity is a seminal moment in every virgin's life, so there's no logical reason it

should be more seminal in mine. But I feel it was.

"Would you like to have dinner tonight?" she says. "Just to catch up. You can tell me

what you've been up to." There's an uneasy silence.

"Sure," I finally say.

"Great I'll book us a table at George's. You remember where that is?"

"Yeah. Of course I do," I reply. "Shall we say 7.30 p.m.?"

"See you then," she says. "By the way it's Suzie. Suzie Saunders." She then spins

around on one leg and marches off down the street leaving me looking stranded and

speechless.

RICHARD PARKER

48

Why is it that every time we see an old girlfriend we automatically wonder

what it would be like sleeping with them again? It doesn't matter how acrimonious

the break up, the thought still crosses our mind. Well, my mind anyway. I don't want

to be accused of making sweeping generalisations. Suzie, however, can't even be

called an ex-girlfriend. She's an ex-one-night stand. And to be honest I've no

yearning to learn what she's been up to. I don't even have a yearning to find out what

she'd be like again in bed. She was a one-night stand for a reason. She was bloody

ugly. But the longer I keep staring at her, as she disappears from sight, the more I

realise that she isn't nearly as ugly as I remember her. In fact she's reasonably

attractive. Well, kind of. In the space of 10 years she (Cro-Magnon woman) has

achieved what evolutionists proclaim took man thousands of years. Charles Darwin

and all those natural selection adherents would be proud of her, I think to myself.

Shit, I'm proud of her. I'm proud of myself too – for not shagging a complete dog

after all.

Regaining a little composure I begin to walk down the street. The chance

encounter has stirred something in me. I soon recognise what it is - that one-night

stand or not, I want to explain my actions to Suzie. I want to explain why I wanted to

shag her so badly and why I never rang her again. I want to atone for my sins.

***

RICHARD PARKER

49

"Auntie Carolyn, how are you?" I gush warmly getting up from the couch.

Auntie Carolyn is Mum's older sister. With no children of her own she has always

treated me as her own.

"I'm wonderful thank you Toby. It's so good to see you again."

"Let me make the tea," says my mother leaving us alone.

"So tell me how you've been? How's London?"

"Noisy, grey and dirty. Same as always."

"So why don't you leave and move up here?"

I smile wryly. Auntie Carolyn asks the same question every time.

"One day."

"Don't wait too long. Your mother and I aren't getting any younger."

"I know."

"So have you got a girlfriend?"

My mother comes back into the room with a pot of tea.

"Afraid not."

"A good looking boy like you? I can't believe it? Anyone you fancy then?"

The thought of Charlotte makes me blush momentarily.

"Ahh! There is someone isn't there?"

"Maybe."

"It's like getting blood out of a stone Janie."

"Tell me about it. I've given up asking," says Mum.

"So what's her name? Come on."

I shake my head.

"Come on Toby. You can tell Auntie Carolyn."

RICHARD PARKER

50

"Charlotte. We met only on Friday and nothing has happened. Don't hold your

breath. With my luck it's bound not to work out."

"Don't be such a pessimist. Honestly I don't know where you get it from Toby. Okay

I won't ask you any more about girls. How's work going?"

Oh great!

"Work is good thanks."

"Are you editing anything interesting at the moment?"

"Not really. It's pretty dry stuff really." Lying to Auntie Carolyn feels as bad as lying

to Mum. But I have to do it. Although she's not judgemental she'd be terribly

disappointed with the truth.

For the next hour we reminisce about old times when Auntie Carolyn used to

look after Juls and me, when Mum and Dad went away, and the mischief we got up

to.

***

I get to the restaurant five minutes early. George's is a university restaurant

for liberal-art students, with self-righteous do-gooder, save-the-world inclinations.

No self-respecting law student, except me, ever went to George's. It is a well-known

fact that belonging to Greenpeace or chaining yourself to nuclear reactors and

working weekends at battered women's shelters is a prerequisite for getting a

reservation or being served a pint. For a moment I contemplate doing a runner. What

the hell am I trying to prove? She thinks I'm an arsehole and one dinner isn't going to

change 10 years of simmering hatred.

RICHARD PARKER

51

At 8.15 p.m. I have serious doubts she's coming. I should have known she'd

stand me up. It's what I deserve. Suzie Saunders has every right to hate me.

"Excuse me," I say, grabbing the waiter's attention.

"Yes."

"I think I might get the bill. Looks like my date has stood me up," I add, trying to

look good humoured about it.

"Yes I know."

"You know?"

"Yes. Suzie asked me to give you this note when you left."

"You knew all along she wasn't coming? Why didn't you tell me?"

The waiter doesn't answer me. He simply hands me the note and wanders off to get

the bill. I open the note.

'How does it feel ARSEHOLE!!!!!!!!!!

FUCK YOU!!!!!'

Ouch. That's what 10 years of simmering hatred leads to, I think to myself.

***

It's close to midnight when I get home after wandering the streets. I'm too

wired to sleep. I flick on the TV and light up another Marlboro. Suzie's note has

unsettled me in ways I wouldn't have thought possible. I feel genuine guilt and

RICHARD PARKER

52

remorse. Guilt and remorse which, until a few hours ago, I wouldn't have

comprehended. I've always considered myself such an unfortunate sod, when it

comes to women, that every time I've been laid I've considered it a bloody miracle - a

serious-New-Testament-JC-walking-on-water-winning-lottery miracle. Suzie was the

first of many such miracles. Nineteen miracles in fact. The frequency has never

lessened the impact and surprise. I don't know why I'm surprised because I'm not bad

looking. I've even been told that I'd be quite a catch for a girl (my Mum and Auntie

Carolyn told me actually, but that still counts in my books).

As I analyse her note, my mind turns to others I've mistreated. I grab a pen

and paper. I need to make a list. I need to atone. To apologise unreservedly. Of my

19 miracles there are at least three miracles, including Suzie, who really deserve an

apology. The first on my list is Katrina - a lovely lass – a librarian in the Edinburgh

Law School library.

Katrina was a librarian's librarian. Cerebrally advanced, well-read and a

photographic memory for return dates and people who had overdue library books.

Despite outward appearances, Katrina fell into that most desirable of female

categories. Katrina was a CDB – a closet dirty bitch. Closet because in her normal

librarian regalia (horn-rimmed glasses and frumpy ankle-length skirts) she had

absolutely no sex appeal whatsoever; not even a scintilla. She was a sweet, clean and

demure girl. Fastidious about her personal appearance. She looked no more likely to

put out than the Virgin Mary herself. There's nothing more serendipitous than

discovering a CDB. It's like getting a bank statement and finding you've got twice as

much money in your bank account than you thought you did. That's what makes

CDBs so great; so exciting. Needless to say I didn't do right by dear Katrina and I

intend to make it up to her somehow.

RICHARD PARKER

53

At 1.30 a.m. I collapse from exhaustion. After a quick belch and a rip-snorter

fart I review what I've written. The first draft of my apology to Katrina is nearly a

page. But it's rubbish. I screw it up into a ball and hurl it at the TV.

***

I wake on Monday a little early for my liking. A little early because I was

engaged in a rather compromising position with Britney whose zip on the catsuit has

got stuck. Yeah I know it's only a dream but it just seems so real. So unbelievably

real, and coitus interruptus, even in the dream state, is no laughing matter.

"Toby," my mother calls out through the closed door. I groan and mutter something

unintelligible into my pillow.

"Toby," she says again.

"What is it?" I groan.

"It's the phone. There's a lady from your office – Samantha – she says it's urgent."

Shit.

"Can you bring the phone in Mum?" After she leaves the room, I dive under the

duvet with the phone.

"Sam what is it?"

"It's the police. They want to speak to you. You need to go down to New Scotland

Yard."

"What about?"

"It's about Nick Hornby." Samantha is being very odd. Almost evasive, as if she

doesn't want to tell me something.

"Nick Hornby? Why the hell do they want to talk to me about him?"

RICHARD PARKER

54

"Well, not about him exactly Tobs. It's do with someone they've arrested. Someone

who has been pretending to be Nick Hornby's manager and agent. Someone called

Rodney."

"Ohhhhhh shiiitttt," I cry from under the covers. It's a long agonising guttural groan.

"What?" she says.

"Nothing Sam. What time is it?"

"Nine."

"When's the next train to London?"

"In about an hour. I've booked you a ticket."

"Thanks Sam."

"By the way, your birthday present for Mike turned up today."

"Great – is it all there?"

"Looks like it."

"Excellent. Oh well, I'll see you soon."

"Okay."

The line goes dead. My mind is struggling to focus. All I can see is another five

empty pages (15 in all) and one very angry Chinese condom manufacturer that paid a

premium to place its advert next to the Hornby article. Trust me - pissing off Chinese

condom makers is not something I recommend. When I eventually haul myself out of

bed, I have visions of a very irate Mr Chang, sales manager for my Chinese condom

maker and premium advertising payer, chasing me with a meat cleaver and

threatening to make my testicles and pet cat the special of the day at his local Chinese

takeaway.

"I pay big dolla for Mr Hornyby Mr Willy. Biiiggg Dolla!! Yoo understand?"

"Loud and clear Mr Chang! Loud and clear."

RICHARD PARKER

55

***

Ten minutes later I'm packed and apologising profusely to my mother for

leaving a day early.

"Sorry Mum. It's an emergency at work. I'll try to come back soon. I'm really sorry."

With that I'm gone. Back to Waverley station and back to disaster and mayhem in

London.

RICHARD PARKER

56

3

My least favourite person

"Thruster – UK Edition's YTD sales and advertising revenue figures are 25% and

22% below budget respectively. I expect them to be at or above budget by the end of

this quarter – or else."

[E-mail from Julian Smythe, PGP Managing Director - European Operations to Toby

Willis, Editor, Thruster – UK Edition]

"Understood you ARSEHOLE!!!!!"

[1ST draft of reply e-mail from Toby Willis]

"Understood."

[Final reply sent by Toby Willis]

"Okay everyone. Listen up. We've got five days before we have to send this

magazine to print and we're 15 advertising pages short. If we don't fill those pages,

I'm screwed. I've forwarded you the e-mail from our dear friend Julian, so you know

the deal. Julian wants my head on a platter and I'm not going to give it to him."

RICHARD PARKER

57

The room is silent. We're in the main meeting room adjacent to my office. In

attendance are Sally Mitchell – Production Manger, Mike Wilkinson – Sales &

Advertising Manager, and Samantha James – PA. Absent is Art Director and Senior

Writer, Rachel Porter.

I'm feeling angry today. Angry that life isn't turning out how I imagined.

Angry that I might end up being an underachiever. None of the team knows the kind

of pressure I'm under to make Thruster a success. They probably think I'm in it for

the sexual kicks. There's a bit of truth in that I suppose. I wouldn't be male if I didn't

admit that. But the real reason is proving to myself that I've got what it takes to

succeed against the odds. And that if I succeed against the odds, doors will open at

PGP and I will be able to edit any magazine I want.

Apart from being angry, I'm also frightened that I've nearly reached that point

in my life, when you realise that, 'this is as good as life gets and quite frankly it’s not

all I thought it would be'. I'm almost there but not quite. Some small kernel of hope

keeps me from that abyss. A kernel that makes me believe I could be an overachiever

again, as I was at school and university. But an overachiever who, unlike Smythe,

isn't smug, overbearing and scornful of the less able and fortunate.

I'm out of my seat and pacing now. Julian's e-mail is replaying in my mind.

Julian Smythe is a conceited git who is loathed by most. My predecessor's resignation

letter which I found on my computer is testament to that. It reads :

"To : Phil Myers (CEO – PGP)

From : Dave Jacobs (Editor, Thruster – UK Edition)

cc : All Staff PGP European Operations; Gillian Smythe; Julian Smythe, MD

European Operations

RICHARD PARKER

58

Dear Phil

It is with much regret that I hereby tender my resignation as Editor of

Thruster – UK Edition. In my three years as editor, sales and gross revenue have

continued to climb and readership has more than trebled. I can also say with some

degree of pride that Thruster-UK is fast becoming the preferred magazine for

advertising by the manufacturers of vibrators, flavoured condoms and edible

underwear. For some inexplicable reason Mr Smythe seems oblivious to these

achievements. There are a number of reasons for my resignation, but the one that

really sticks out is that I have to take instructions from some pompous ignorant git

called Julian Smythe who knows as much about running a magazine as he does

cheating on his wife – Oh I'm sorry that should make him an expert. In telling you

this I don't wish to sound flippant or vindictive. I tell you out of a fervent belief in

the future of Thruster, out of an admiration for the dedication of its staff and out of

a refusal to let the folly of one ruinous individual destroy what PGP has spent so

much time and money building up.

The other main reason is my inability to stomach the hypocrisy of a man who

feels it perfectly acceptable to pay me a salary so paltry that even the most

parsimonious of Scottish accountants would feel the sum insulting, and to give me a

budget so miserly that I'd be lucky to afford a couple of has-been hookers from the

streets of Basildon, while he cavorts around on company time in private jets,

consuming champagne and caviar, smoking Cuban cigars on the company account

and screwing the office trollop from the New York office at a retreat in the

Hamptons while purporting to do some "work" – no doubt trying to work out how he

can get away with paying me even less.

Anyway, those are my reasons. I trust you understand. In the right hands I

believe Thruster can become one of the leading adult entertainment magazines, both

RICHARD PARKER

59

here in the UK, and in the US. I implore you to take action in respect of Mr Smythe.

He's bad for morale and bad for business.

Yours truly

Dave Jacobs"

I have a lot of time these days for Dave Jacobs, who is a straight shooter and

no bullshit kind of guy. I didn't initially though. His less than forthright disclosure

of what he thought of PGP and Julian Smythe during my interviews with him for the

editorship at Thruster, still rankles me somewhat. Julian Smythe you see, remains my

single biggest obstacle to making Thruster the success I need it to be. Everything he

told me in the interview about saving the magazine appears to have been a load of

crap. Dave Jacobs must have known that. But back to his e-mail. When Smythe got

Jacob's little missive he went nuts – screamed blue murder, threatened law suits,

denied everything (3rd on the list please note), and made various anti-Semitic slurs.

According to Jacobs, he simply laughed as Smythe blew his stack. In the end

Jacobs played it safe – he was a little short on concrete proof about Smythe's infidelity

and expense account improprieties, and so after a mediation with PGP's European HR

director, Smythe and Jacobs mumbled insincere apologies to one another and agreed

not to say anything further on the matter. Jacobs was, however, asked to find a

replacement before leaving.

I stumbled across Jacob's 'Smythe File' only two days into the job. I didn't

realise at the time what a fortuitous discovery it was. The only communication I'd

had from Smythe at that stage was a short e-mail saying, 'Good to have you on board

RICHARD PARKER

60

Toby. I'm looking forward to working with you. I believe Thruster has great

potential.' I actually liked the guy after that e-mail.

But I digress. I stop pacing and turn back to Mike and Sam.

“Where was I?”

Mike, Sal and Sam shrug their shoulders.

"Oh, yes. Now I remember. Mike, while Sam and I go down to Scotland Yard this

afternoon, I want you to phone all of our advertisers. And give Mr Chang a call – tell

him we're changing the Hornby article."

"He hasn't paid us yet Toby."

"Well make sure he pays us today – tell him we'll bump him for someone else if we

don't get his money today. Then ring him tomorrow and tell him we're changing the

Hornby article."

"He'll kill me Toby! And he'll probably take his business elsewhere."

"Tell him he can do what he likes with his business but I don't see anyone else

advertising his snakeskin condoms - let alone wearing them. Oh yeah - just on the

off-chance he does decide to kill you, can you make sure you have an up-to-date job

description – in case I need to advertise your job."

"Very funny Toby."

"I'm sorry Mike. Look, he'll be pissed as hell, but we just have to do it. I appreciate it

Mike. If you get him to do it you can have Friday afternoon off okay?"

"Okay. Deal."

Our advertisers are a delightful bunch – drug companies that sell products for

impotence, tobacco and alcohol conglomerates, sex toy manufacturers, porn film

distributors and gentlemen's clubs. But what do you expect? I've been sent more

RICHARD PARKER

61

packets of cigarettes, crates of beer, packets of viagra and porn films than I care to

remember. At first I was thrilled – the perks of the job I told myself. So what if I

only get £35,000 a year. With perks like this, it's more like £60,000. But I soon

reached saturation point and wished I could trade my perks for pounds.

Another thing I hate is the condescending way some of those media buyer

upstarts at the wanky advertising firms treat us. Schmoozing the likes of Thruster is

evidently beneath them. 'You're not Playboy’, they tell us on a daily basis, as Mike

and I try to negotiate advertising rates that will keep the magazine afloat. ‘I know that

Thruster’s a third-tier mag you miserable bastards’ I want to scream at them, but I

don't. I can't bite the hand that feeds me.

"Sally, I want you to call the printers – see how far we can push out the print date

without getting the magazine out late – I don't want Smythe to have any more reason

to fire me than he already has."

"Sure Toby, but I can tell you now it'll probably be two days max."

"Fine, but double check thanks."

"Rachel," I say, who has just joined the meeting late yet again, "so glad you could

make it. I hope I didn't interrupt anything important. Now I need you to come up

with some new articles – five pages worth – I'm going to speak to Ms Lawless today

but I have to assume she'll can the interview with Lucie Sinbad."

"Thanks Toby. Can I ask what you'll be doing by any chance?"

"No you bloody can't," I yell caustically. I make a mental note to talk to Samantha

about Rachel. Rachel it seems has aspirations for my job, which makes her my least

favourite person in the office. I would get rid of her, if she wasn't one of Julian's

favourites.

RICHARD PARKER

62

"Let's meet again at about 5.30 p.m. to see where we are at," I say, ending the

meeting. Edinburgh seems a million miles away now.

***

Sam and I decide to take the tube. Due to budgetary constraints, I've banned

everyone including myself from using taxis and I have to lead by example – I refuse

to become a poxy hypocrite like Smythe. Thankfully Scotland Yard isn't too much of

a walk from St James’s Park station.

"So how was Edinburgh?" asks Sam, as we exit the station.

"Good while it lasted. I was lucky enough to run into the girl who stole my virginity.

She wasn't exactly thrilled to see me, but then surprisingly she asked me to dinner –

go figure."

"Not Cro-Magnon woman?" laughs Sam.

"Yeah, the one and only. Actually her name's Suzie Saunders. She's improved, you'll

be pleased to hear."

"Improved?"

"Yeah – in the looks department. I wouldn't go so far as to say she's hot, but she's not

too bad. Certainly not the dog I remember."

"Gosh you're charitable. I hope you told her. I'm sure she would have been thrilled,"

says Sam. "So how was dinner?" she asks.

"She stood me up."

"Stood you up?" says Sam, almost laughing.

RICHARD PARKER

63

"Yeah. And she left the waiter a rather unpleasant note to give me. I guess I deserved

it. I've been trying to see the funny side."

"Poor Toby," she says, rubbing my arm.

One hour later we're standing outside New Scotland Yard. I feel the onset of a

headache. I tell Sam I have to swing by Boots to get some painkillers and that I'll

need a shoulder, neck and scalp massage when I get back to the office. Nothing feels

quite as nice as Samantha's sensual fingers digging deep into my shoulders.

The cause of my headache is my meeting with the police inspector, who must

have thought I came down with the last shower. So much for Toby Willis, street-

wise, commercially-savvy, porno editor. I'm a schmuck. How can I have been so

stupid to believe Nick Hornby would associate himself with a magazine like

Thruster? I can't even get porn stars like Lucie Sinbad to associate with it, so what

am I thinking believing that literary superstars like Hornby, Irving or Roth will agree?

I collapse into a deep depression.

"Don't worry Tobs. Things will work out – you'll see."

"Yeah right, I say." My eyes are glued to the pavement and my hands are dug deep

into my jeans pockets as we make our way back to St James’s Park tube station.

Samantha links her arm around mind and pulls herself in close.

"Come on Tobs. Depression isn't your style. You'll laugh about this later you know."

I say nothing. "Let's go and get pissed somewhere," she suggests next.

"No. I'm not in the mood," I say sombrely. Feelings of genuine despair start to seep

through me. I'm a failure; a loser; an underachiever; a future Paul Gibson. Thruster

was supposed to make my career, not destroy it. I want to go to bed and lie there for a

week.

RICHARD PARKER

64

"Tobs, come on," urges Samantha, who refuses to give in and bumps me in the

shoulder in a playful way. She leans in close and whispers in my ear, "how about I

show you my tits when we get back to the office?"

I try to fight off a smile but I can't help myself. "There you go," she says. I shake my

head. "Thanks for the offer but I don't think Steve would approve." I say nothing for

the next few stops.

"How about I give you the best blow job you've ever had?" she suggests purring into

my ear as we approach Covent Garden. This time I manage to pull my eyes away

from the floor and look directly at Sam. I screw up my face and say rather

pathetically, "SERIOUSLY?"

"If you think it'll make you feel better. Sure," she replies.

"You're a good friend Samantha James, but I can't."

"Charlotte?"

"Yeah."

"You really like her don't you?"

"Like you wouldn't believe."

"Good for you, Toby."

***

We get back to the office just after 5.30 p.m. Everyone is there beavering

away. Everyone that is, except Rachel.

"Does anyone know where Rachel is?" I ask.

RICHARD PARKER

65

"She said she had a prior engagement she couldn't get out of," says Mike.

"What kind of engagement?"

"Dunno," says Mike. "But I saw her getting into Smythe's car." Mike, Sally and Sam

stare at me, as I stand next to Mike's desk pondering my response.

"Sam, tell Rachel to see me as soon as she gets into the office tomorrow. I don't give

a shit what she's got on. I've got a magazine to run and I expect her to pull her weight

like everyone else." Changing topics, I turn to Mike, "Have we got our money from

Chang yet?"

"I banked it 20 minutes ago – all in cash as usual."

"Great work Mike."

"What did the printers say Sally?"

"Two days max – otherwise the magazine will have to go out late."

"Good work Sal – does anyone know whether our industrious colleague Rachel

managed to do anything in my absence?" The room is silent. "I'll take that as a no.

Okay everyone, in the meeting room now. We need something to replace the Hornby

story and we need it today."

Twenty minutes later, thanks to Samantha, we have the genesis of an idea –

'Move over Nick Hornby – Thruster staff reveal their desert island, all time top 10

shags.' After another 10 minutes of listening to Sam I realise what a wealth of raw

material we have to work with – I decide on 10 shags because five seems so paltry.

Anyone could be lucky enough to get laid five times – but 10, hell, that takes a little

skill. Although I've always attributed my 19 to a lot of luck, deep down, I know there

was some skill involved.

Our real problem, I soon discover, is Mike has been laid only twice (God help

the poor sod) and Sally eight times. Mike's a decent chap. Alright he's not the

RICHARD PARKER

66

world's biggest shagger, but I don't see why I should hold that against him. At 37, he

lives a simple shagless life: work (Thruster); football (Arsenal); booze (beer); and no

doubt a lot of masturbating (baby oil and Lucie Sinbad videos). Despite his decency

and simplicity, or perhaps because of it, I find myself feeling sorry for Mike. Sorry

that his life is even more shite than mine. Sorry, because he is a damn nice guy, who

deserves a break.

In terms of our problem, Sam on the other hand, is finding it hard to narrow

down her 34 to a top 10. "What about a ménage à trois?" she asks. "Does that count

as one or two shags?" Sam then regales us with the time she had a threesome in the

back of a cab, with her then current boyfriend and a rather cute cab driver.

"So what do you think Toby?" asks Sam. "Is it one or two?"

"I'm not sure Sam. Perhaps we should vote on it. All in favour of a threesome

constituting one shag raise your hand."

"Um, before we vote. I have one more question," continues Sam. "Does it matter if

it's two guys and one girl or two girls and one guy?" I glance at Mike, who looks like

he's going to wet himself. Sally pipes up and says we're only interested in

heterosexual encounters and so a threesome with two girls and one guy counts as one

only for the girl. Sam takes issue with Sally and says that in her two-girl-one-guy

encounters she was more sexually fulfilled by the female party than the male. Mike

says we're talking about shags and girls don't shag girls. This drives Sam and Sally

wild. "And you'd fucking know wouldn't you Mike?!!" screams Sam.

"Okay calm down everyone. I think we should vote on the original question of

whether a threesome is one shag or two. If we decide it's two, we can then consider

Sam's second question more fully," I insist, exacerbated by this excruciating

conversation.

RICHARD PARKER

67

"All in favour of a threesome constituting one shag raise your hand."

Mike, Sally and I raise our hands.

"Sorry Sam. Three to one."

We then turn our minds to what to do about Mike and Sally. I'm loathe to make stuff

up. I want this to be real – although I haven't always prided myself on my veracity,

on this occasion I feel deeply uncomfortable about lying.

"I think we should just tell people how it is – Sam and I have more than enough shags

to give the story some legs. I think the story will be more honest – more authentic – if

we admit that Mike and Sal have slept with only two and eight people respectively."

"No fucking way Toby. I'm not admitting I've only slept with two people. I'm 37 and

I've never been married. It's too humiliating – I won't do it. I won't."

"Okay, okay. Just think about it at least."

"There's nothing to think about."

"What do you think Sal?" I can tell she thinks eight is a good number – not too

virginal and not too slutty.

"It's a good idea Toby."

"Thanks Sal. Let's aim to have our stories done by the end of tomorrow." At 6.30

p.m. the meeting concludes.

***

I get home about quarter to eight. My flatmates are nowhere to be seen. As

usual the flat looks like a bomb site. It's a certifiable shithole really, made worse by

RICHARD PARKER

68

being inhabited by three undomesticated male slobs, who are allergic to cleaning, and

too skint to afford outside help. I find a note pinned to the fridge saying they're both

out for the night. I'm alone. I check the phone for messages. There's one.

"Hi it's Charlotte calling for Toby. I got your message. I'd love to catch up some time

this week. Give me a call. Bye."

I grab a beer from the fridge and collapse on the couch. I replay the message –

three times. She likes me – I can't believe it. Euphoria sweeps over me. I try

Charlotte at home. After a couple of rings she answers.

"Charlotte speaking."

"Charlotte. It's Toby. I just got your message. How are you?"

"Great."

"I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time?"

"No. I was just getting into the bath actually. Hard day at work. Thanks for your

message from Edinburgh. It was very sweet. How was your mother?"

"She was good thanks. Pleased to see me as always. Ever since Dad passed away,

she gets very lonely. And it doesn't help with my sister Juls being in New York and

me here. How was your weekend?"

"Good. Very busy actually. I had dinner with some friends at this new French

restaurant not far from my place on Saturday night, and then the gym and work on

Sunday. Work's been absolutely hectic recently. I might have to go to New York

with Josh in the next week or two for some IPOs we're working on."

"Yeah Josh was telling me he might have to go over. I said I might go over too for a

holiday and to catch up with my sister." I can't tell her about visiting the New York

office. That will have to wait until I see her in person. "Anyway what are you up to

this week? Are you keen for a drink and then perhaps dinner?"

RICHARD PARKER

69

"I'd like that."

"How does Wednesday sound?"

"Wednesday. Umm. Yeah, Wednesday is fine."

"Shall I meet you outside K&S at say 7.30?"

"Sounds good."

"Well, I'll let you get back to your bath and I'll see you Wednesday then."

"See you then Toby. Bye." She hangs up.

I think I'm in love. This really could be the one. I light a cigarette and start

pacing the room. I feel it's time that something good happens in my life.

***

There's a chill in the air as I wait outside Kolberg & Sonneschein's offices not

far from the Barbican Centre. I'm wearing my lucky black leather jacket purchased in

Rome and my wire-framed Dolce & Gabbana glasses. Feeling nervous as hell, I light

another Marlboro. I switched to Lights today. I'm watching my health. It sure as hell

beats going to the gym.

"Toby how are you?" says Charlotte, as she leans in and kisses me on the cheek.

"Wow, your hair looks fantastic!" I gush. Charlotte's beautiful long brunette locks

have disappeared – replaced with a much shorter, yet more sophisticated auburn cut.

"I thought we might have a drink in Covent Garden. There's this great new bar not far

from my office," I say.

"Fine by me. Maybe we could swing by your office afterwards. I'd love to see where

you work."

RICHARD PARKER

70

"Yeah, maybe. We'll see how we go." We decide to tube it to Covent Garden.

Charlotte looks ravenous once again in a beautifully cut French-grey suit. Oh to be so

sartorial and sexy.

"I like your glasses," she says as the train rattles along the Piccadilly line.

"Thanks," I reply.

"Can I try them?”

"Sure," I say, handing them to her.

"I've always fancied myself with glasses. What do you think?" she inquires in a sultry

and playful tone.

"They suit you. We should go shopping for you this weekend," I suggest.

"You're on," she replies. Ahhh! Fifteen minutes into date number one and she's

already agreed to see me again. Thank you God. As she glances around the carriage,

she soon decides I might be a fraud.

"They're not very strong you know. You're sure they're not cosmetic?" I can tell she's

teasing but I'm still a little sensitive. I don't want her to think I'm some namby-pamby

try-hard.

"I think you should give them back now," I state in a mock sulk.

"No, they're mine," she retorts. I try to grab them but she fights me off.

"You win. But you'll have to hold my hand and guide me – I'm blind without them."

We arrive at MK's bar just after 8 p.m. Josh has advised me it is one of the

latest hangouts for lawyers, investments bankers and up-and-coming porno mag

editors. I'm one of a handful in the bar not in a suit. The bar reeks of pretentiousness

and money as I push my way through the crowd in search of a drink.

RICHARD PARKER

71

"What would you like?" I ask Charlotte, who lets go of my hand and adjusts my

glasses.

"Glass of chardonnay thanks." I nod.

"Two chardonnays," I yell, holding up two fingers to the barman.

"So you like these kinds of places?" I yell.

"Sorry?" says Charlotte, cupping her ear. I lean in a little closer.

"I was just asking whether you like these kinds of places?"

"Not really. At least not when they're this busy."

"We'll make it just the one drink. I know this great little restaurant in Chelsea – you'll

love it," I insist, bristling with anticipation of what the evening holds in store. When

the bartender gives me the glasses I fight our way into another corner of the bar.

"So tell me more about your family?" I ask.

Charlotte takes a contemplative sip of wine. My pupils are fixed on her lips. I sense

myself leering and hurriedly avert my gaze.

"What would you like to know?"

"I'm not sure. Anything. Where your parents live. Have you got any siblings? What

do they do?" Terrible question! God I'm a hypocrite!

"They live in San Francisco now. Dad transferred there a couple of years before he

retired. They loved it so much they decided to stay. I see them about twice a year,

which isn't enough. I have two brothers – both older – one is a doctor in Boston and

the other works for a management consulting firm in Sydney."

"The international family eh?"

"Something like that. So do you mind if I ask how your father died?" asks Charlotte.

"No that's fine. It was a heart attack. He was only 49, which makes me worry a bit."

RICHARD PARKER

72

"Well then – you should stop smoking for a start," she retorts, grabbing my cigarette

and stubbing it out. Charlotte's right of course. I seem to have learnt nothing from

my father's death. I smoke and drink to excess, I never exercise and I'm in a job that

I'm in constant danger of losing, which only causes my stress levels to go through the

roof. At this rate I'll be lucky to make it to 39.

"I'm touched by your concern for my wellbeing," I tease. "Would you like me to give

up drinking as well or join the gym?"

"No, drinking is fine but I think exercise is a good idea. You're coming to the gym

with me on Sunday."

"Not the gym – I haven't been in five years. Last time I failed the fitness test – I hate

those places."

"No arguments I'm sorry."

I decide not to argue. The chance to see Charlotte in lycra is not to be passed up.

After draining the rest of my chardonnay, I excuse myself to visit the

bathroom. Five minutes later I'm back relieved to see Charlotte is still there, and has

struck up a conversation with some woman who looks vaguely familiar from a

distance. As I get a little closer I realise the vaguely familiar woman is none other

than Rachel Porter.

Oh shit! I'm in trouble. Big trouble. For a moment I contemplate hiding until

the conversation ends, but then Rachel sees me and waves in a most sinister manner.

That bitch I cuss. I don't care if she is sleeping with that sanctimonious arsehole

Smythe, I'm going to fire her. Charlotte sees me too, but she isn't smiling.

"Rachel, what a lovely surprise," I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. I glance

at Charlotte. Nothing.

RICHARD PARKER

73

"I was just telling Charlotte about our little crisis at the magazine and your incredible

brainwave that we tell our readers about our top 10 shags, and how you're spoilt for

choice having shagged, how many was it again? 19? Will Charlotte be lucky enough

to make it into your top 10?" says Rachel. I'm incensed. I'm seething with a visceral

loathing for the woman. Until tonight I didn't realise just what hate is. Until tonight I

thought I hated Michael Jackson music, peas, pumpkin, overachievers, the

unemployed, parking wardens, Judge Judy, the French, Ally McBeal, and rap music.

Rachel Porter has changed all of that. I will never hate any of those things again.

From tonight Rachel Porter has the exclusive rights to my hatred. Grabbing

Charlotte's arm, I pull her in the direction of the exit. She resists as first, and then

decides that coming with me is probably preferable to being left with Rachel.

"I'm really sorry," I whisper. "She's a psychotic bitch. She's like Glenn Close from

Fatal Attraction and Demi Moore from Disclosure rolled into one." Outside

Charlotte gives me a please-explain-and-it-better-damn-well-be-good look.

"I can explain but I'd rather do it over dinner. It's a long story and I'd like you to hear

it." She's not looking convinced. Her eyes are darting everywhere but she refuses to

make eye contact with me.

"Come on," I repeat, starting to move towards the tube station, imploring her to agree

with me.

"Pleeassse. Come on. I'm terrible at grovelling. Give me half an hour. If you've

heard enough and don't want to stay I'll understand."

"Half an hour Toby – that is your real name isn't it?"

"Of course."

"Here you better have these back," she says coldly, handing back my glasses. She

looks seriously pissed off.

RICHARD PARKER

74

***

When we get to the restaurant in Chelsea, I'm in urgent need of a drink. We've

said almost nothing to each other on the way there. From such a great beginning our

date has gone seriously awry. There are few things more painful than a date gone

awry. They can make a tooth extraction or rectal examination seem thoroughly

pleasant. The worst thing about them is the protracted suffering. For whatever reason

people lack the gumption to say, 'I'd rather eat my own eyeballs than spend one more

minute with you – let's call it a night and save both of us a lot of misery.'

Prolonged suffering, it seems, is mandatory. Like honourable sea captains,

people feel this perverted sense of duty to go down with the ship. Take me for

instance – tonight Rachel Porter has ripped a 30 foot gash in my side. If I had any

sense I would be trampling over women and children to make it to a life raft. But I

don't. I continue on, forever hopeful that the inevitable won't happen – that this date

will stay afloat.

The waiter can sense the tension between us as he takes us to the table. It's a

boutique sort of restaurant, seating about only 30, so I pray fervently that Charlotte

doesn't cause a scene. She doesn't look the scene-causing type admittedly, but then I

barely know the woman. I order some wine and light up another Marlboro. Charlotte

says nothing. Her concern for my health seems to have disappeared.

"Well, I'm all ears," she says.

"Let me explain why I lied to you the other night. As Rachel told you I'm not the

editor of an architectural magazine. I never have been. I'm the editor of an adult

entertainment magazine called Thruster – you may have heard of it?"

RICHARD PARKER

75

"Can't say I have sorry – I must be reading the wrong kinds of magazines," she says

sarcastically.

"When I turned up the other night at Josh's and saw everyone I suddenly felt insecure,

so when you asked what I did I panicked. It was stupid. I'm sorry. Extremely sorry.

But I like you. Really like you – and I didn't want you to think I was some dirty old

pervert before you really got to know me." Charlotte sips her wine and says nothing.

Silence permeates our table for what seems an eternity.

"Christ, I haven't even told my mother. She'd die. I was going to tell her during the

weekend in Edinburgh but I chickened out."

"So is what Rachel said about you sleeping with 19 women true?"

How the hell do I answer that? I can't lie. My lack of honesty has gotten me into this

mess and I'm not going to compound the problem with more lies.

"Basically."

"Great," she sighs heavily.

"But I've changed. I really have," I plead.

"And I suppose you were hoping I'd be number 20?"

No I was hoping you'd dress up in a Britney Spears' red catsuit, smother me in honey

and lick it all off.

"Not at all," I profess as forcefully as I can. "Look, I'm trying to get my life back on

track. I've done some things I regret – who hasn't? But I'm changing – ask Josh if

you want." I pause for a minute. "By the way, do you mind me asking how you

started talking to Rachel?"

"She just bowled on up to me and said she couldn't help but notice that I was talking

to Toby Willis. She then launched into some diatribe about Thruster. I had no idea

what she was talking about."

RICHARD PARKER

76

That little bitch.

"I think I'd like to go Toby."

"What? Come on. You haven't even eaten yet."

"I've lost my appetite." With that, she stands up and makes her way to the door.

Scrambling to find some money to pay for our drinks, the sympathetic waiter who

obviously thinks we're having a lovers' tiff, gives me some unsolicited love advice, as

I scramble out the door in pursuit of Charlotte.

"Can I at least walk you home?" Charlotte stops dead in her tracks.

"Look Toby. If you don't mind I'd rather you didn't. And please don't call. I think it's

better if we just forget tonight ever happened." Before I can respond, she's off.

Fifty metres in front of me I see Charlotte hail a cab. I can't give in this easily.

I give chase and flag down a cab.

"Follow that cab," I bark.

"What?" says the driver.

"That cab in front of us. Don't let it out of your sight."

Ten minutes later, I'm outside Charlotte's flat. I hit the intercom buzzer.

"Hello."

"Charlotte, it's Toby."

"It's Lauren actually. Charlotte's flatmate."

"Oh sorry. Is Charlotte there?"

"She is but she doesn't want to talk to you."

"Look I just need a minute to explain. If you let me in I promise I won't stay long."

"Tell him I'm not interested in talking to him," I hear Charlotte yell out in the

background.

"Look, I'm not the sort of person you think I am," I retort, somewhat indignant.

RICHARD PARKER

77

"But you're the editor of some smutty porn mag aren't you?"

"Yeaaahh. But it's not that simple."

"I think it is that simple," says Lauren. Bugger. Leaning up against the wall, I notice

one of the residents exiting the building. I make a run for the door but miss it. Damn.

I go back to the buzzer.

"Charlotte. I'm really sorry I lied. It was really dumb. If I hurt you I'm sorry."

"What about the 20 women you've shagged?" Lauren barks. "What do you have to

say about that?"

"Well, without wanting to be picky, it was actually 19. But that was a long time ago.

Most of them were at university. I haven't slept with anyone in nearly a year."

"You're not gay are you?" suggests Lauren. Jesus, you can't win with this woman.

Before I can respond the intercom from another apartment lights up.

"Let the bloody guy in Charlotte. So he lied about his job. So he's slept with 20

women. He's a guy. We lie. We sleep with women. That's what guys do. Now get

over yourself and let him in or I'll let him in for you."

Thanks. Whoever you are.

"Hey listen arsehole. I don't know who you are but there are laws against listening

into other people's conversations," yells Lauren through the intercom. After a few

minutes of heated debate between Lauren and my mystery supporter, I decide to call it

a night.

"I'm going now. Tell Charlotte I'm sorry Lauren. Will you do that?"

***

RICHARD PARKER

78

Sometimes miracles do happen. Just when I thought Lucie Sinbad would

never do the interview something serendipitous happened. Something that made me

chastise myself for being such a pessimist.

Actually, if I'm honest serendipity had nothing to do with it. I simply did what

I do best; make the most of bad situations. My bosses at News Corp and Time

Warner were the masters of managing the fallout when the shit hit the fan. First, I

asked Linda for a drink at MK's. There's nothing like meeting people in the flesh and

I hoped some of my boyish charm might rub off on her. Next, I lied; I told Linda that

Hornby had cancelled at the last minute – a clash with his book tour according to his

agent. And finally I broke one of my golden rules and actually paid her a lot of

money, money Thruster doesn't have, and agreed to devote three pages to back issues

of Lucie's videos for free. I also promised to make some introductions for her to

various bigwigs at News and Time Warner. As we left MK's I told her I couldn't offer

her Hornby but what I was offering was pretty bloody good. She agreed thank God.

***

Excitement pulses through my body as I enter the lobby of the hotel. A large

swanky five-star hotel near Hyde Park. I haven't conducted an interview with a porn

star before. I psyche myself up by trying to imagine myself as Larry King or Mike

Wallace. When I get to Room 5217 I knock. I'm in a black Boss T-shirt and my

favourite Levi jeans. Linda answers the door.

RICHARD PARKER

79

"Toby darling. How are you?" she gushes in a most disingenuous way and then kisses

me on both cheeks.

"Follow me," she instructs. Attired in black PVC pants and a tight breast-hugging

top, I follow her buttocks as she walks down the corridor to the living room, where

Lucie Sinbad is sitting. That would have been quite an arse in its day and no doubt

has seen a fair bit of action I tell myself.

"Toby! How are you?" enthuses Lucie, as she rushes over to greet me with two more

kisses.

"Lovely to meet you Lucie. You don't mind if I call you Lucie?"

"Not at all. Please have a seat." She seems genuinely affable. Not nearly as

contrived as Linda.

The first thing I notice about her is how tall she is. She's looking straight into

my eyes. Dressed in a chocolate brown skirt stopping several inches below her knees,

black blouse and black leather boots she looks stylish but not cheap – the exact

opposite of what I expected. Her blouse fails to cover her breasts, however. Each

breast appears bigger than my head and scream ‘grab me’.

"They're not real you know," she proffers, catching my not too subtle inspection of

her chest. "Well, real or not, they're quite impressive," – candidates for the 8th and 9th

wonders of the world.

"Would you like to feel them? I've just had them redone by this great plastics guy in

LA," she says.

Would I like to feel them? Is the Pope Catholic? Did Bill and Monica have

sexual relations? Is the earth round? Is Arsenal a bunch of girls? Is Man U the best

football team ever? Of course I want to bloody feel them. I have to dig deep into my

reserves of willpower not to leap across the coffee table, grab them with both hands

RICHARD PARKER

80

and slobber all over them. "Why sure – if you don't mind?" I reply in as nonchalant a

manner as possible. As she whips off her blouse and bra, fear of getting a huge

erection grips me. Think of something quickly! – rectal suppositories; rap music –

anything! Rap music does the trick. How does one fondle a porn star's breasts? Do I

squeeze them? Poke them? Prod them? Cup them or grope them?

Grope them you fool! Grope them for as long as possible! After 10 seconds

of excruciatingly pleasurable groping, Lucie casually suggests that I compare them to

Linda's. God forbid – this can't be happening! Before I have time to say, 'what an

excellent idea,' Linda has taken her top and bra off and has sidled up to Lucie,

imploring me to compare. "Linda's were done by the same plastic surgeon a year

ago," they tell me. After another 10 seconds of groping Linda and then regroping

Lucie, and then groping both with one hand, I conclude that they're remarkably

similar.

"Well he's done an excellent job whoever he is."

"Dr Rutherford did them. He's amazing." Dr Rutherford is a lucky man I think to

myself.

For a brief moment, I tell myself I wouldn't change my job for anything in the

world – no matter how little Julian Smythe paid me – shit I'd pay him for that matter,

for the privilege of groping.

"Do you mind if I leave my bra off? I find it a bit constricting," says Lucie.

"Whatever makes you feel comfortable. After giving a short spiel on the proposed

angle of my article about Lucie, I begin the interview, trying desperately to direct my

questions at her face and not her very gropable breasts.

RICHARD PARKER

81

"So Lucie. What does your mother think of what you do?" I think it's an excellent

first question – hard hitting and emotive with a 60 Minutes edge to it. Lucie,

however, looks genuinely taken aback by the question.

"The reason I ask is because I haven't even told my mother what I do – I'm too

embarrassed," I add hastily, in case I've offended her.

"She hasn't spoken to me ever since I told her what I do. She's a devout Christian.

Pornography is abhorrent to her beliefs."

"Do you regret telling her then?"

"I regret the effect telling her has had on our relationship, but I don't regret telling her.

I don't believe in keeping secrets."

"Have you ever had second thoughts or doubts about what you do?"

"Never," she shoots back emphatically.

"How did you get into the business?"

"Through a mutual friend. I was trying to make it as an actor, first in New York and

then in LA, but I wasn't having much luck. A friend of mine and fellow actress had

just shot her first porn film and suggested I might like it. I went and watched her next

film, decided I liked it, and have never looked back."

"Why does someone as gorgeous as you stay in the industry? You're educated – an

MA from Princeton I understand. Surely you could get a job doing anything?"

"Because I'm an exhibitionist who loves acting and who loves sex. I couldn't imagine

doing anything else."

"How long do you think you'll keep doing this?"

"Hmmm. I haven't really thought about it. I'm only 22 now, so I think at least

another 10 years."

"Why do you think men love pornography so much?"

RICHARD PARKER

82

"You tell me," she jokes. "I'm just glad that they do."

"Are you flattered or appalled that at any one time there are probably hundreds, if not

thousands of men around the world, masturbating over one of your films?" I detect

the hint of a blush at this question.

"A bit of both. Have you ever masturbated over one of my films?" This time it's my

turn to blush.

"Possibly," I reply.

"Which film?"

Can I say all of them?

"All of them." This time she blushes.

"Did you have a favourite?" she asks regaining her composure.

"Probably Covetousness, followed closely by Lust. Speaking of which, when is the

next of the Seven Deadly Sins films going to be released?"

"I would hope by the end of the year. Shooting starts in about a fortnight actually.

You're more than welcome to come and watch the shoot." Thank you God. Thank

you.

"I'd like that," I reply a little too enthusiastically causing Linda, who is lurking in the

background, to laugh.

"Now some slightly more banal questions which you’ve probably been asked a

thousand times before." I adjust the cushion behind my back.

"What's your favourite book?"

"A Widow for One Year by John Irving," she replies.

"That's a great book. Why do you like it?"

RICHARD PARKER

83

"I'm not sure really. I just do. I suppose I identify in some way with Ruth Cole."

Personally I fail to see any similarities between Lucie Sinbad and Ruth Cole, but I

decide not to point that out, least I lose my invitation to the shoot of her next film.

"What's your favourite line from a book or film?"

"That’s easy. It's a line from Philip Roth's The Human Stain – "If Clinton had fucked

her in the ass, she might have shut her mouth." A great line I must admit and one that

certainly caught my attention.

"Any particular reason you're so fond of that line?"

"Not really – I suppose it just conjures up images of being fucked in the ass by the

President and that turns me on." Fancy that I think to myself.

"Your favourite singer?"

"Michael Bolton," she replies.

"Really???"

"Really," she says.

"Your favourite film?"

"Anything with Woody Allen in it?" Ever fantasised about being fucked in the arse

by Woody Allen I nearly ask.

I spend the remaining 15 minutes, asking similarly inane questions such as her

favourite food and colour as well as her star sign, which my readers with an average

IQ of 85, seem to lap up with so much alacrity. It dawns on me as I put the questions

to Lucie Sinbad that my readers couldn't imagine anything worse than me trying to

make the magazine more cerebral.

When the hour is up I thank Lucie for her time. After a quick chat with Linda

to get details of the time and place of Lucie's upcoming shoot, I leave the hotel room a

relieved man.

RICHARD PARKER

84

I think about calling Charlotte. I realise she told me not to, but I can't leave

things as they are at present. It doesn't feel right. After procrastinating about what to

do on my way back to the office, I decide to give Josh a call instead.

4

Machinations in Manhattan

"You know I love you but I just can't go on living like this. You promised me! You've

got one week to leave her, or it's over."

[E-mail from Melanie Trotter to Julian Smythe, PGP Managing Director - European

Operations]

"I need irrefutable proof – Colonel-Mustard-and-Miss-Scarlet-naked-in-the-dining-

room-with-the-candlestick kind of proof."

[excerpt from conversation between Toby Willis editor of Thruster – UK Edition and

Dave Jacobs, former editor of Thruster – UK Edition]

"Excuse me." No response.

RICHARD PARKER

85

"Excuse me, sir," I repeat, a little more forcefully, yet politely.

"Do you mind moving so we can get past?" Again nothing. It seems to be the story

of my life these days – people ignoring me. I glance back down the cabin,

encountering the irate glances of my fellow economy class travellers.

"Hey, asshole! The gentleman asked you to move. What are you deaf? Now move

your ass, so we can get past," yells some brash American. The aisle-blocker stirs into

life. Pirouetting on one foot, he turns to confront the rowdy masses. He looks angry.

I smile meekly, "it wasn't me," I want to say. "It was that loud obnoxious Yank

behind me. Please don't hit me, pleeasse."

"Sorry," he mutters, moving aside. And then I click. The seemingly deaf aisle-

blocker is actually deaf. I feel terrible. Really, genuinely terrible. You hear about

these things of course, but you never actually think they'll happen to you. Quickly

word goes back down the aisle that the deaf aisle-blocker is actually deaf. The Yank

turns crimson and then instinctively yells, "sorry mate, I didn't realise," and then goes

crimson again, when he realises the stupidity of what he just said.

"Thanks," I say to the aisle-blocker, moving past him. My anger then turns to the air

hostesses. Where the hell are they? What do the bloody airlines pay them for? Deaf

people shouldn't be left to their own devices on planes.

Clutching my boarding pass I continue down the plane scanning the seat numbers,

seething. When I get to my row number, I'm dumbstruck. Someone is in my seat. I

glance at the row and seat numbers and my boarding pass several times – no mistake.

Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the air hostesses.

"Hi," I say, with a big cheery smile. "There seems to be a mistake with my seat."

"What kind of mistake sir?"

RICHARD PARKER

86

"When I checked in I requested an aisle seat and was told I was given one. As you

can see I haven't been given one."

"Well there's nothing I can do right now sir. The flight is full. Once we're airborne

and the seatbelt sign is off, I'll see if someone will swap seats."

"Great," I snap back, fuming.

"Excuse me, sir," I say. "I don't suppose you would mind swapping seats. I get a bit

claustrophobic unless I have an aisle seat."

"Sorry, me not be helping you sir," he replies in a thick Indian accent.

‘Me not be helping you? What the fuck kind of language is that? Why don't you

speak English you stupid selfish curry muncher?!!’

That's what a bigoted, frustrated person may have said in my predicament. Not me

though. Not Toby Willis.

"That's fine. Thank you for considering my request sir. I really appreciate it."

Resigned to my fate, I clamber over Mr Patel into my designated seat - a seat

I'm quickly reminded was designed by an anorexic double-leg amputee. Mr Patel's

hands are unusually white, as he clings to his seat's armrests for dear life, petrified no

doubt, that I will try and wrestle him out of his seat.

Sandwiched between Mr Patel, who I quickly discover has not one, but two,

suitcase-sized carry-on bags (one of which is conveniently stowed under my seat), no

doubt containing his wife and 10 children, and some snivelling, pathetic girl, who is

clutching a photo of what I presume is her ex-boyfriend, I decide things can't get any

worse. That is until Hans or Fritz or Adolf – the non-English speaking Nazi arsehole

in front of me, decides he’s feeling a little tired and his seat needs reclining. I find

myself having the most un-Christian of thoughts.

RICHARD PARKER

87

Now I assume Fritz is non-English speaking because he is remarkably

unresponsive to my polite request to put his seat up, "or else". Even Mr Patel seems

to comprehend my threat to Fritz. What ‘or else’ will constitute I'm not quite sure,

but it sounds suitably threatening. Like Smythe's little missive to me, I know those

two words are so effective, simply because they convey so much while saying so

little. "Or else" is serious – it means trouble.

The flight from London to New York allows me to brood about my situation.

My monetary situation more specifically. Now I don't care what people say – being

poor isn't fun. It isn't character building. It isn't noble. It's made even worse when

your friends are rich. Rich and poor just don't mix very well from my experience.

And although poverty is a relative thing, (and I'm conscious that I'm no pauper

compared to those unfortunate sods in Rwanda and Bangladesh), relative to Josh I'm

poor, so I'm going to brood about it.

In an effort to take my mind off Charlotte and Josh, who are ensconced in

business class, no doubt sipping champagne and reflecting on how great it is not to be

as poor as me, I pick up my book. Until the cataclysm that was my date with

Charlotte the other night, I had been thoroughly enjoying Kapka Kassabova's novel,

Love in the Land of Midas, about the Greek Civil War and love. Now it's proving too

depressing. My attempt to read isn't aided by the snoring of Mr Patel, who looks

unfairly comfortable in his aisle seat, and the banging coming from one of his

suitcases. I contemplate opening it, and then decide if it is one of his family they

deserve what they get. I give up my book, close my eyes and try and fantasise about

RICHARD PARKER

88

Kylie Minogue, Geri Halliwell, Dido, a spa bath, shaving foam, a razor and me. I'm

asleep in minutes.

***

We arrive at JFK early in the evening. Josh and Charlotte are staying in some

swanky Philippe Starck-designed hotel in Midtown not far from Kolberg &

Sonneschein's New York office. I'm staying at a friend's apartment on East 51st Street

between 2nd and 3rd Avenue. I've agreed to meet Josh in the hotel bar at 9.30 p.m. so

he can give me the low down from Charlotte on our datus horribilis.

The bar is almost deserted when I arrive. Josh is nursing a beer in one hand

and a cigarette in the other.

"Let me get you a beer. On the firm of course," says Josh.

"Thanks," I reply, taking one of his cigarettes. A few minutes later he is back. "So

what did she say?" I blurt out impatiently, as he hands me the Heineken.

"Not much, I'm afraid."

"Care to expand on that?" Josh just shrugs. "Come on tell me what she said," I

demand. "I don't care if it's bad, I just need to know."

"Well, I asked her how the date went with you. She asked whether I'd spoken to you.

As agreed with you, I said yes we had spoken, but not about the date. She said the

date was awful – that she was relieved she hadn't made a terrible mistake."

"That's it?"

"More or less."

"You better be telling me everything Rubin."

RICHARD PARKER

89

"I am. Look she knows we're good friends. She was pretty reluctant to talk about it.

I sense she was holding back out of respect for our friendship."

"Gee that makes me feel better."

"You've only yourself to blame quite frankly."

Josh is right of course. I've got to stop blaming others for the things that go

wrong in my life. It's a recurring theme for me regrettably.

"Do you think 19 women is a lot?" I ask Josh.

"Look, what I think is irrelevant. It's what Charlotte thinks that counts and obviously

she thinks 19 is a lot."

"Can you ask her for me?"

"Ask her what?"

"Whether the fact I've slept with 19 women is the reason she doesn't want to see me?"

"You mean as opposed to pretending to be the editor of an architectural magazine,

when you really work for a porno magazine?"

"You're supposed to be my friend Rubin, or have you forgotten?"

"Just trying to be honest. That's what friends are for, aren't they?"

"Can I get you guys another drink?" asks the waitress in a slightly Southern drawl.

"You sure can. Another two Heinekens thanks. While you're here, do you mind if we

ask you a hypothetical question?"

"Sure," she replies. She is very attractive in that American-beauty-pageant-I-look-

easy-but-I'm-really-frigid kind of way – lots of blonde hair, tanned skin and big

squeezable hooters.

"It's of a slightly sexual nature – I hope that's okay." You can never be sure with

Americans. They can be a remarkably puritanical lot for a nation that churns out

more pornography than it does Big Macs.

RICHARD PARKER

90

"Not a problem. Fire away," she insists, genuinely intrigued.

"If you were on a date with a guy and you started talking about your sexual histories

would you be turned off if he said he'd slept with a lot of women?"

"How many is a lot?"

"Let's say, hypothetically of course, 19."

"19?"

"Yeah 19," I repeat.

"It depends."

"Depends won't do I'm afraid – we need a yes or no."

"Well I'm sorry but it's not really a yes or no question. You see it would depend on a

number of things – such as whether the person in question was 85 or 25 – there's a bit

of a difference."

"Good point," I concede sensibly, taking a moment to contemplate her rather luscious

hooters. "What about me for instance?" I glance at Josh who rolls his eyes skywards.

"If I'd just asked you out on a date and you found out I'd slept with 19 women, would

you still want to go out with me?"

"If he was as good looking as you, yes." I blush. I don't know what to say.

"Now why did you have to go and say that? He's got a big enough head as it is?" says

Josh.

"It's true though," she says winking, before wandering off.

"God I love American women," I reply triumphantly.

A few minutes later Charlotte arrives in the hotel bar.

"Charlotte why don't you have a drink with us?" Josh says. Charlotte hesitates for a

moment and then appears to decide that she isn't going to let me make her feel

uncomfortable. "Thanks," she says.

RICHARD PARKER

91

"I'll get you a drink. What would you like?" I ask, deciding to be mature about the

situation. It's a peace offering. A small gesture to say no hard feelings, we can still

be friends, or at least civil to each other.

"No, it's fine Toby. I'll order one myself."

"Look, it's no problem – K&S are paying – it's Josh's tab."

"Well in that case, okay. I'll have a rum and coke."

Charlotte sits in the couch next to Josh.

"Did you know Simon Elworthy is working on this deal?" Charlotte asks Josh.

"Yeah I did."

"Thanks for telling me," she snaps.

"Who's Simon Elworthy?' I inquire.

"A junior partner at K&S," replies Josh. "He's not Charlotte's favourite person."

"Why?" I ask.

"Look I'd rather not talk about it if you don't mind." Charlotte certainly looks in no

mood to discuss it. I decide not to push it.

Half an hour later, Charlotte calls it a night, and retires to her room. I wish I

could retire with her.

"So what's the story with Simon Elworthy?” I ask.

"There's not much of a story. I think he fancies Charlotte. He's been coming onto her

pretty strong. Sending her suggestive e-mails and that sort of thing. Charlotte claims

he tried to grope her the other week."

"Grope her?"

"Touched her arse or something and said she had nice tits."

"You're kidding me? Did she complain?"

RICHARD PARKER

92

"Look, that's just Simon. He doesn't mean anything by it. Besides, if she complains,

all that would happen is that Simon might get reprimanded and her career at K&S

would be over."

I shake my head in disbelief. "I can't believe law firms of all places tolerate that kind

of shit in this day and age. Why don't you report him?"

"Me? I'm not risking my career just because Simon Elworthy touched Charlotte's

arse. Besides, Charlotte's a big girl. She can look after herself."

An hour later we call it a night. Back in the apartment on East 51st Street I

find it impossible to sleep. I flick on the TV and replay our conversation about

Elworthy. I feel disappointed by Josh's blasé attitude. I feel anger and enmity

towards Simon Elworthy. But above all I feel the need to protect Charlotte. I feel the

need to do something. Although what, I'm not sure.

Lying in bed at 2 a.m. watching CNN and sucking back a Dunhill I continue to

obsess over Charlotte. It's silly really but for some inexplicable reason Charlotte

already feels like an ex-girlfriend with whom I've had a nasty break-up. To hold such

feelings, when I've never even kissed her, let alone groped, fondled or shagged her, is

unsettling to say the least. I also feel like I've been dumped, when I know I shouldn't.

Dates reject you, girlfriends dump you, and it definitely feels like Charlotte has

dumped me.

My reaction to being dumped in the past has been shock, numbness, denial,

self-pity, sorrow, anger, hate and finally indifference. With Charlotte I'm in-between

the numbness and denial stages. I'd like to fast forward to the indifference stage but

it's not that simple. It never is, unfortunately.

RICHARD PARKER

93

Sitting in bed, it finally dawns on me that 19 is a lot; that it's too many. And

worst of all, I regret at least half of them. They were cheap meaningless shags. Shags

for the sake of shags. And the ridiculous thing is, I knew before I even shagged them

that I'd regret it, but for whatever reason I just couldn't stop myself. If I could un-shag

all 19 of them to get back with Charlotte, I'd do it in a second. But I can't. It's done

and I can't undo it.

***

Plotting the demise of someone is no easy task. You need to be Machiavellian

for starters, which I'm not. What's more, plotting to bring someone down is one thing

– actually doing it is another thing altogether. Dave Jacobs taught me that lesson. To

bring someone down as powerful and well-connected as Smythe, you need more than

innuendo, suspicion, gossip and circumstantial evidence – you need hard facts –

irrefutable proof – Colonel-Mustard-and-Miss-Scarlet-naked-in-the-dining-room-

with-the-candlestick kind of proof. Dave Jacobs is the only person I can think of at

present who might be able to help me get that kind of proof.

I've arranged to meet Dave at 11 a.m. for a coffee at this new café in Soho, not

far from where Dave works. Dave is now the editor of a New York City lifestyle

magazine. A bit of a change from the porn mag business.

"How are you Toby?" he enthuses, grabbing my hand.

"Great. Thanks for agreeing to meet me," I say.

RICHARD PARKER

94

"It's no problem. Shit I was the one who got you the job – it's the least I can do."

Dave is dead right. He owes me. We grab a table away from the street and the

incessant noise that is New York's trade mark.

"New York looks like it's been treating you well," I say, admiring his expanded girth

and tan. Jacobs is one of those swarthy, short individuals with spectacles, receding

hairline, and large schnoz. He is also a bit of a hard-arse; an Eastender who supports

Arsenal and has nothing in common with his more refined North West London Jewish

brethren.

"So where are you living these days?" I ask.

"I'm actually house-sitting a fantastic two-bedroom place on the Upper West Side.

Great views of Central Park. The owner is a friend of a friend and has been

transferred to London for six months."

"Fantastic."

"What about you?" he asks.

"Still in Chelsea I'm afraid. Nice area, grotty flat – you know how it is?"

"Sure do."

As I sip my coffee, I ask Dave why he took the job at Thruster, and why he

stayed so long.

"I have no idea. Actually that's not true. I took the job because of the porn. Back

then I loved it – couldn't get enough of it. And what other job in the world legitimises

watching porn films all day and going to photo shoots to see half-naked women,

scantily clad in latex writhe all over each other? Not many let me tell you. The

reason I stayed so long was because I couldn't get another job – people pigeon-holed

me – said my editing skills were too specialised. It's surprising how many magazines

seem to think male editors of porn mags aren't the most suitable of employees.

RICHARD PARKER

95

They're probably right of course. You should have seen the editor at Thruster before

me. The only other jobs I could get were with other porn magazines and I just

couldn't face that. Because believe me, sooner or later, you will get sick of it. You

might find that hard to believe but take it from someone who's been there and thought

that day would never come."

"Want one?" I say, offering Jacobs a cigarette.

"No thanks. Trying to cut back. My doc says I could be headed for a coronary."

"Suit yourself," I say.

"So how can I help, Toby?"

"I want to finish the job you started. I want to nail Smythe once and for all – and

Rachel Porter too. What I need is some hard evidence. I've gone through your file

and I want to get your insights into the man." I explain to Jacobs that for reasons I

can't understand, Smythe has become an impediment to Thruster becoming a success,

and that I cannot, absolutely cannot, afford it to fail.

"Look let's go for a walk down to Battery Park." As we walk towards lower

Manhattan, Jacobs tells me that Smythe is one of the most mercurial and

Machiavellian people he knows. Everything's a game to him. Everything has a

hidden agenda. You never know what he's thinking and what he's going to do next.

One day you're his best friend and the next you're persona non grata.

"So how are you enjoying New York anyway?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Loving it. The place is unbelievable Toby – it makes London feel like a sleepy old

town. It has this amazing vibrancy and intensity."

"So I take it you're not going to be rushing back across the Atlantic?"

"Not if I can help it. But I'll just have to see how the magazine goes. It's a fickle

business as you know, so I'll go where there's a job at the end of the day."

RICHARD PARKER

96

When we get to Battery Park the place is bustling with tourists. Long lines

wait for a ferry to take them to Liberty Island and the Statue of Liberty, while buskers

and musicians keep them amused. We find a seat and stare out across the harbour.

"It's a bit nicer than the bloody Thames wouldn't you say?"

"I won't argue with you but it's not quite Sydney Harbour either is it?" I reply.

"I think I might have one of your cigarettes now," says Jacobs. It's a statement, not a

request. I give him one.

"Julian Smythe," he begins, taking a deep drag on one of my Marlboro Lights, "is

quite possibly the most odious individual I have ever had the misfortune of working

with. If you want a synonym for philanderer, anti-Semite, arsehole, fuckhead, and

two-faced backstabber, then look no further than Smythe."

"Let's start with the philandering bit. Is he still cheating on his wife?"

Jacobs gives me one of those what-a-stupid-question looks. "Is he ever," he finally

says.

"Okay," I say. "Who is he screwing at the moment?"

"As far as I know – according to my sources should I say – he's still bonking Mel

Trotter here in New York; and someone in Paris apparently."

"So who are your sources?" I press.

"Can't say sorry."

"Can't or won't?"

"Both – look you know the deal Toby – honour and integrity are everything when it

comes to sources. If people think you can't keep your mouth shut you're history."

"Spare me the lecture Dave. The only reputation you've got is as someone who can't

keep schtum about anything for more than five minutes."

RICHARD PARKER

97

Dave loves gossip more than life itself – and he loves it because of the thrill he gets in

telling others. Telling Dave Jacobs, much like telling me I admit, to keep something a

secret is like telling a pyromaniac not to light fires or a serial killer not to kill people.

It's an exercise in futility. It's like Hannibal Lecter announcing to you in a most pious

way that he's not going to kill anyone any more. It's ridiculous. Dave Jacobs tells

secrets and Hannibal Lecter kills people. That's just the way things are. That's why it

irks me so much when Dave decides he can't tell me something because it's a secret.

"Spit it out Dave. I'll find out anyway, so you might as well tell me." Dave flicks his

cigarette onto the grass and grinds the butt into the ground.

"Melanie Trotter – she's Smythe's favourite. She's also decidedly unhappy that

Smythe refuses to be exclusive with her – exclusive outside the marital bedroom that

is."

"Is she prepared to talk?"

"Prepared to talk? Maybe. But only to me. She trusts me." Jacobs intuitively senses

my next question. "Don't ask me why okay. She just does. But if you want dirt on

Smythe no one is in a better position to give it to you than Mel. What kind of stuff

are you after anyway?"

"Something that will shock Mrs Peacock and Reverend Green to their very cores. I

want on film, Colonel Mustard in the study with the rope, pants around his ankles, and

Miss Scarlet spread eagled across the desk, naked. That's not too much to ask is it?"

Dave doesn’t answer me.

"Give me another cigarette and let's take a ferry ride to Liberty Island," says Dave,

finally responding.

"Why?"

"Because I want to." There's no point in arguing.

RICHARD PARKER

98

I give him his cigarette and 20 minutes later we're sitting on the top deck looking back

across the city and all its skyscrapers. The wind is whipping across my face and with

the sun reflecting off the water, the smell of the sea and another Marlboro Light, I feel

genuinely relaxed for the first time in weeks.

"Trotter is the key to getting Smythe. If you were to ask me right now, I'd say she'd

do whatever you want to nail Smythe. She can be fickle though. She's a flip-flopper

at the best of times. So tell me what you're thinking? Secret videotaping of her and

Smythe doing it – and then an anonymous parcel to Mrs Smythe?"

"Something like that. But I also need to catch him out on work improprieties – Mrs

Smythe might feel pissed that her husband is rogering someone else but I suspect she

already knows and is just playing the stoic corporate wife, and PGP isn't going to act

on it – no, what I also need is something that will ruin his career – something that will

force PGP into action – falsifying expense claims; sexual harassment maybe – would

Trotter go for that?"

"Unlikely."

"Hmmm," I say.

Liberty Island is swarming with tourists when we arrive.

"I might get a Coke. You want anything?" I ask.

"Yeah. Get me a Coke as well thanks." As the mid-afternoon sun beats down, I take

off my sweater and tie it around my waist. After getting our Cokes, we stroll around

to the southern end of the island, find a patch of grass to lie on, and stare back at

lower Manhattan.

RICHARD PARKER

99

"The only way you'll get him is to find some whistle-blower in PGP Corporate –

probably in the Finance Department. There's a guy I know who used to work for PGP

who might still have some contacts. I'll sound him out first – we obviously want

someone who isn't particularly fond of him. I'm sure we won't have to look too hard."

"I appreciate the help," I say again.

***

I get back to my apartment at 4 p.m. exhausted from all the walking. Dave

isn't a big subway fan, so we ended up walking everywhere. I call my sister Juls.

Julianne, or Juls to me, is 29 and a corporate head-hunter specialising in lawyers. She

used to do bond traders, and before that accountants, but she's onto lawyers now.

She's a tough cookie and incredibly ambitious. She's also highly successful. One of

those people I pejoratively call overachievers. It never ceases to amaze me how much

some head-hunters make – I tell Juls she's a used car salesman of people – that what

she earns is obscene. She just laughs. I dial her office number.

"Julianne Willis speaking."

"Juls. It's me. How are you?"

"Toby, hi. When did you get in?"

"Yesterday."

"And you've only just called?"

"Yeah, I'm sorry. I got a little caught up."

"When are you free?" she asks.

RICHARD PARKER

100

"Tonight's no good. How about tomorrow night?"

"Fine by me. Where are you staying?"

"A friend's apartment on East 51st Street." I give her the address.

"I'll swing by at 8 p.m. By the way I spoke to Mum the other day. She said you'd

been up to see her."

"Yeah, she was good. Seemed very happy. I had to leave early though – a small

crisis at work which I'll tell you about later."

"Well I better go. See you tomorrow at eight," she says and hangs up.

***

"Jeremy. It's Toby Willis. I'm in New York so I thought I'd give you a call. I just

heard about your great new job."

"Thanks Toby. How are you? Where are you working these days?"

"I'm working for you actually."

"For me?"

"Well indirectly. I'm part of the PGP empire now. I'm the editor of Thruster-UK."

"Thruster! Jesus Toby. I thought we were going to pull the plug on that magazine."

Not exactly what I want to hear.

"Julian Smythe is giving it one last chance and I've been given the unenviable task of

trying to save it."

RICHARD PARKER

101

"Smythe! Hmmm. Well if anyone can save it, you can Tobs. Look, sorry to cut you

short but I've got to dash to a meeting. Why don't we catch up for lunch or

something? When are you free?"

"How about today?"

"Yeah fine. Say 1 p.m.?"

"Fine." Jeremy gives me the name of this new restaurant and bar on Lexington Ave.

"I've got a small favour to ask. But we can talk about it at lunch."

"A favour eh? Not a problem."

***

When I left News Corp, I promised to keep in touch with Jeremy. He was my

role model. My teacher. He was everything I aspired to be and he was a damn nice

guy too. Before News Corp, he'd worked in New York as an attorney at Skadden

Arps and then as a consultant for McKinsey & Co, before heading to the west coast to

do an MBA at Stanford. We became friends at News Corp almost immediately. In

corporate parlance Jeremy was a BSD – a big swinging dick. I was an aspiring BSD.

Together we were going to take on the media world and rise to the top of News Corp.

As I sit at a corner table at The Lex, nursing a Stella, waiting for Jeremy, I start

to question my BSD aspirations. I still have them, and I'm determined I will be one,

but with the move to Thruster, I feel like, well, that I've just jumped into an ice cold

pool and there is nothing big or swinging about me. I have shrunk to almost

embarrassing proportions.

RICHARD PARKER

102

Shortly after 1 p.m. I see Jeremy, striding confidently across the bar.

"Toby good to see you," he enthuses, grabbing my outstretched hand.

"Good to see you," I reply. After 20 minutes of reminiscing about old times I broach

the subject of Simon Elworthy, Charlotte’s arse grabber.

"Let me call Mary Newman. She's a good friend of mine. She worked at Skadden

with me. She then landed a job at PGP as General Counsel – Europe, and has just

been made Group General Counsel. K&S does a truck load of work for PGP.

Millions and millions of pounds I think. I'm sure a quiet word from Mary will sort Mr

Elworthy out."

"Thanks Jeremy. I really appreciate that. Please don't mention my name to Mary, if

you can. I don't think Charlotte will necessarily thank me for interfering."

"Not a problem. So what on earth made you want to leave Time Warner for Thruster?

Or want to work with Julian Smythe?" inquires Jeremy, changing the subject.

"I'm not sure really. Smythe convinced me that if I could turn Thruster around, doors

would open for me at PGP."

"He's probably right, but the porn mag business is on a hiding to nothing these days.

The internet is killing it. Turning it around will require a miracle."

"Tell me about it," I say somewhat despondently.

Half an hour later lunch is over. Jeremy promises to call me, once he has

spoken to Mary. I promise to make a better effort at keeping in touch.

***

RICHARD PARKER

103

I find one of New York's thousands of yellow cabs within a few minutes of

leaving my apartment on East 51st Street. I make a note to find out how many black

cabs London has because I can never find one of the damned things. I give the

immigrant driver the address on Manhattan's Upper West Side, repeat it 13 times and

then give up and pray to Allah or Jesus or whoever, that he knows where he is going.

He does seem to flick up a little when I mutter something about useless immigrant

taxi drivers.

Feelings of anticipation and nervousness are circling around my head, as I

gaze out the window, listening to the honking and cursing as my cab driver weaves

his way through the early evening traffic. The apartment is on the top floor of a block

overlooking the centre of Central Park.

I get to the apartment a little after 8 p.m. Linda Lawless had told me that

shooting would start at 8.30 p.m. sharp and to make sure I was there no later than 8.15

p.m. I wasn't going to be late. It's my first ever porn shoot. I've been to live sex

shows in Amsterdam and Bangkok, but this is different. The performers there were

skanky. Lucie Sinbad is gorgeous and anything but skanky. As hard as I try to

remain calm I feel nothing but panic. Panicked about the most silly things. Like what

are the protocols for watching the shooting of a porn film? Because let's face it, it's

not quite like going to the opera, the movies or a Britney Spears' concert.

For instance what is the dress code – casual or formal? Are a raincoat and

sunglasses appropriate or will they arouse suspicion? Should I clap at the end? Do I

look nonchalant or interested? What do I do if I get an erection? Can I ask for an

encore? Not trivial issues by any means.

"Toby, glad you could make it," says Linda, as she ushers me into the foyer of

the penthouse.

RICHARD PARKER

104

"Nice place," I say. It's positively palatial. As we move into the living room, I

spot Lucie talking to someone who looks like the director. Several cameras are set up

around the room, as well as lighting tripods.

"Can I get you a drink?" offers Linda.

"Sure. Do you have vodka?"

"I'm sure we do. Feel free to look around but don't touch anything. The owner is a bit

temperamental."

"Who's the owner?"

"I can't say sorry. Let's just say he's also in the entertainment business." With that,

Linda disappears leaving me alone. I take up her advice and give myself a tour of the

apartment. Lucie gives me a wave from across the room. I wave back. She's looking

stunning. Five minutes later I'm back to get my vodka.

"So what part of the entertainment industry is the owner in?" I inquire of Linda as she

hands me my drink.

"Film and music. Now come on, let me introduce you to the director." We wander

over to one of the three large sofas.

"Harry, this is Toby Willis. Toby, this is Harry Schwartz."

"Nice to meet you. I'm a great fan of your work. Particularly Covetousness – that

was a true masterpiece."

"Thanks," says Harry.

"Toby is the editor of Thruster in London, Harry. He's just done a feature on Lucie,"

Linda advises.

Harry Schwartz is a squat, somewhat grizzly man. Hiding behind an unruly

beard and thick glasses, he doesn't immediately strike me as the porn industry's

equivalent of Spielberg or Scorcese. But I'm all too aware that in the porn business he

RICHARD PARKER

105

is held in very high esteem. I must say that trying to draw parallels between E.T. and

Schindler's List and Ass Bandits I and II and Do It To Me One More Time is a difficult

task. To be honest, I'm dying to watch Schwartz in action. My mind boggles as to

what a porn director could possibly do or say that would really make a scrap of

difference to the artistic merit of a porno. But I'm loathe to prejudge the man.

"So Harry – what are you shooting tonight?" I ask.

"It's the opening scene of the new film in the Seven Deadly Sins series."

I nod intelligently. "Lucie's character is a doctor who is making a house call to one of

her patients. Lucie has been treating him for erectile dysfunction." I want to groan

but something inside me tells me to behave. What a tacky storyline. Then again,

aren't all porn storylines tacky? – the high-class call girl; the bored housewife; the

nurse; the secretary; or the nymphomaniac. When you think about it, a story about a

doctor treating a man with erectile problems is frighteningly original.

"I assume Lucie cures him?"

"You'll have to wait and see," says Harry with a wink. "Now please excuse me I need

to speak to Lucie and Randy before we start shooting." Randy is Randy Holmes – not

his real name of course. In the porn business the name Randy and Holmes are a bit

like John and Smith – common as dirt really – but Randy Holmes wanted to be named

after two of his heroes; Randy West and John Holmes – if that made him sound

common, then so be it.

I leave Harry Schwartz to go and say whatever he needs to say to Randy and

Lucie. I sip my vodka and survey the set. If my mother could see me now, I think to

myself. I cringe momentarily.

"Are you excited?" purrs Linda.

"Should I be?"

RICHARD PARKER

106

"It depends I suppose. Do you get turned on watching others do it?" I ponder this

question ever so briefly.

"Yeah."

"Me too. It makes me want to do it." What do I say to that? Is that an invitation to

come on to Linda? Taking another gulp of vodka I glance at Linda’s tits. At only 33,

she is a veteran of the porn business. She has a worldly demeanour about her that

belies her age. She makes me feel like a kid. And tonight, like a kid in the candy

store. As we talk, and as I continue to analyse her increasingly suggestive comments,

I catch my reflection in the large gilded mirror overseeing the living room. Am I on

the slippery slope? Has my moral compass gone awry? Are bisexual orgies and

paedophilia around the corner? Will I start flashing schoolgirls or grey-haired

retirement-home inhabitants? Because I have this gut instinct that those things aren't

that far away. In the next few hours I'm going to be a spectator in a rather animalistic

sexual ritual we euphemistically call adult entertainment, and, if I'm lucky, I'm about

to screw a still attractive ex-porn star, who according to her resume, has had more

shags than I've had hot dinners.

One day I will tell my mother about Thruster, but there ain't a chance in hell I

will ever tell her about tonight. Tonight, I'm also breaking my golden rule –

everything in moderation including pornography. Dave Jacobs had told me if

entertainment was food, pornography would be junk food – greasy, fatty, high-

cholesterol takeaways. You need some balance in your diet – some fruit and veges.

If all you have is junk food, you'll become sick he warned me. Coming here tonight I

realise it is like having Pizza Hut and Wendy's for dinner, after having McDonalds for

breakfast and KFC for lunch. It just can't be good for me.

RICHARD PARKER

107

"Okay everyone. Randy needs some peace and quiet, so give us 20 minutes and then

we'll start shooting," announces Harry.

"Peace and quiet?" I say to Linda confused.

"Yeah. I'll tell you about it outside."

I follow Linda outside onto the enormous balcony that runs the length of the

apartment. Staring across Central Park to the lights of Manhattan's Upper East Side, I

find myself lost in thought. The vodka has finally started to kick in.

"Would you like another?"

"Thanks," I say, handing Linda the glass. "Not too much ice though."

She smiles. A few minutes later she eases the glass back into my hand. We both lean

up against the large stone pillars of the balcony.

"It's beautiful isn't it?" she says.

"Sure is. I could stay here all night."

"How's the vodka?"

"Great thanks. Just the right amount of ice." I take another sip. As I do, she sidles in

close to me, slides her hand onto my stomach and then down onto my big fella. If the

big fella wasn't so sloshed I think he would have lost it on the spot.

"I want you Toby."

‘Okay.’ That's what I want to say except the words won't come out.

"Now," she says.

"Now would be good," I mumble.

"Right here," she orders.

"Right here?" I whisper almost inaudibly. At this stage Linda's hand is firmly in

control of my big man. "Right here sounds great. Whatever you want."

"I want you to take me from behind so we can both watch Central Park."

RICHARD PARKER

108

"Sure." Thank you God.

As Linda tugs at her jeans and slides them to the ground, I suddenly feel like a

teenager. "What about protection?" I blurt out. Suddenly the allure of shagging a

porn star is overwhelmed by a fear of HIV or some other nasty disease. Thoughts of

the big fella turning green and falling off, pop into my head. Before those ruinous

thoughts spoil the moment, Linda miraculously produces a condom and swears her

vagina is a disease-free zone. Seeing that I can't exactly ask her vagina whether she's

lying, I decide to trust her. Who wouldn't?

Ten minutes later, Linda ties a knot in the condom and hurls it off the balcony.

We watch it closely, and in silence, as it spirals towards the pavement. And then, as

always, I start to have regrets. To question just how judicious my actions were. Don't

get me wrong. It was one of the most erotic and spontaneous moments of my life.

But that doesn't mean I should have done it.

On the other hand, my little sexual tete à tete with Linda has fulfilled a

lifelong dream – like every young man, from the moment I watched my first adult

entertainment film I have spent countless hours imagining what it would be like to

shag a porn star. I need imagine no longer. Despite that achievement, I feel I have

taken the first step down the slippery slope. The door to the den of iniquity has just

been opened and I can hear Linda calling my name. And the scary thing is, I'm

tempted to join her and slam the door shut behind me.

Twenty minutes later and shooting is ready to begin. Linda tells me to be

patient. The first one to two hours will be spent shooting and reshooting the

introductory dialogue – you know those scenes where all that implausible

RICHARD PARKER

109

conversation takes place that leads to the two actors ripping their clothes off and

humping each other senseless. In this case, Randy will tell Lucie, aka Dr Penelope

Fox, that the pills she prescribed for his erection problems have had an unexpected

side effect. This is what happens.

The doorbell rings. Matthew Lowe (Randy), an investment banker, rushes to the door

and looks through the peep hole. He opens the door and greets Dr Fox.

"Dr Fox. Boy am I glad you're here. Thank you for coming so quickly."

"Please call me Penelope. The door was open in the lobby, so I just let myself up. I

hope you don't mind?"

"No, that's fine Penelope."

Just then Harry Schwartz yells cut and calls a huddle with Lucie and Randy.

Over the next 15 minutes Schwartz reshoots the scene six times. Each take with

subtle changes to dialogue and movement.

"Isn't Harry masterful?" says Linda.

"Masterful? Yes you're right. Masterful. That's just what I was thinking," I say,

deadpan. Once Harry is happy with the door-opening scene, he moves on to the next

sub-scene.

"Please have a seat," gestures Matt, as he leads Dr Fox to the sofa. Dr Fox and Matt

take a seat next to each other. Dr Fox suddenly notices the large bulge in Matt's pants

and the pained grimace on his face. No explanation is provided as to how she failed

to notice Matt's unusual condition when she answered the door – an oversight I want

to point out to Harry Schwartz in the next break.

"So what exactly is the problem Matt?" Dr Fox asks the question in such a way that it

seems pretty clear she already knows the answer but wants Matt to tell her anyway.

"Well, I'm not sure what you would call it – in medical terms I mean."

RICHARD PARKER

110

"Just describe it in lay terms Matt. I'm the doctor – I can translate it into medical

mumbo jumbo."

At this point Matt pauses to contemplate his lay explanation for Dr Fox. Then

once again Harry screams out "cut!!" Oh shit. I glance at my watch. It's 9.30 p.m.

now. An hour and a quarter and still no sex. This is not why I came here. I excuse

myself and go in search of the bathroom – both to relieve myself and check the big

fella hasn't turned green or broken out in small pox. When I get back, Harry Schwartz

is in a heated debate with Randy and some guy called Simon, who apparently is the

script writer. Harry wants changes, but Randy and Simon aren't happy. Lucie and

Linda are on the balcony sharing a cigarette. I seize the opportunity to have a word to

Harry.

"Harry," I interrupt. Randy and Simon turn to me with a and-what-the-fuck-do-you-

want look.

"Yes," Harry snaps.

"I wanted to say something about the last scene – something that didn't quite make

sense."

"What?"

"Why does Dr Fox only notice the bulge in Matt's pants when they get to the sofa? It

seemed pretty obvious to me when he answered the door." Harry doesn't look happy.

He looks like he wants to punch me. So does Simon for that matter. And Randy.

"What?" I say, somewhat indignant. All three turn around and ignore me. ‘You know

I'm right arseholes,’ I mutter under my breathe. I go and join Lucie and Linda

outside.

"You're looking gorgeous this evening Dr Fox," I say flirtatiously.

"Please, it's Penelope," replies Lucie, leaning in and kissing me on both checks.

RICHARD PARKER

111

"What were you talking to Harry about?"

"Just pointed out a few things about the door-opening scene. He didn't seem that

receptive though." Lucie gives a very knowing laugh.

"Harry's very focused when he's shooting. He gets stressed very easily." I'm tempted

to comment on this statement because I am somewhat flabbergasted that anyone could

get stressed directing a porno film. It's laughable. But I bite my tongue, once again,

lest Lucie and Linda feel I'm belittling their profession.

I also meant it when I said Dr Fox was looking gorgeous – she really looks

stunning – she's wearing a red figure-hugging mini-skirt, black blouse and red stilettos

(what else!), plus some spectacles to make her look 'doctorly'. I suddenly feel a little

envious of Randy Holmes.

"Okay everyone," yells Harry again. "Back to work." Linda and I make our way

back into the living room and take our position behind the cameras.

"Hi Simon," says Linda.

"Nice to see you again Linda." Simon and Linda then proceed to completely ignore

me, while simultaneously lavishing praise on each other for being the best porn

screen-play writer and porn actress respectively. It's sickening stuff. Slowly but

surely Linda is resuming that trollop status I had assigned her before shagging her

tonight. I'm starting to have major regrets. When Linda finishes ignoring me and

failing to introduce me to Simon, she turns to me and says, "he really is an

unbelievable talent – it's only a matter of time before some big Hollywood studio

signs him up for a mainstream project."

I want to say, ‘you've got to be kidding me, I've seen more talent in one of my

haemorrhoids,’ but once again I hold back.

RICHARD PARKER

112

The film business I'm quickly discovering, like many businesses, is all about

schmoozing, only more so. Arse licking and back slapping (in the porn business this

can obviously be taken literally and figuratively) is a prerequisite to getting anywhere.

I suppose I better start playing the game.

"He sure is – truly unbelievable. Actually I'm thinking of writing a porn screen-play

myself," I lie. "It would be great to get some advice from a talent like Simon."

"I'm sure he'd be only too happy. We'll have a word to him after the shoot."

"Okay and action," commands Harry whose right paw scratches his beard in a manner

that looks like a nervous tick. Dr Fox and Matt are back on the sofa, itching to rip

their clothes off. Well that's what I'm hoping. It's 10.15 p.m. – two hours after my

arrival and thus far not a naked body in sight, excluding Linda of course. Matt picks

up from where he left off.

"Maybe if I just show you what the problem is?"

"Sure Matt – if that would make it easier."

Matt then stands up and drops his trousers revealing one of the most impressive

appendages I think I have ever seen. Dr Fox displays a look of shock, but also a little

mischievous intrigue.

"It's been like that for three days – ever since I started taking those pills – nothing I do

will make it go down."

"What have you tried?" asks Dr Fox.

Matt, the investment banker looks a little coy at this point before finally admitting to

screwing two secretaries at work three times, as well as masturbating five times.

RICHARD PARKER

113

"I think I know something that might work. Come a little closer." Matt follows Dr

Fox's instructions without hesitation. Dr Fox then takes Matt in two hands and the

action begins.

***

I get back to my apartment on East 51st Street at nearly 2 a.m. There's a

message on the machine. It's Jeremy Mandel. He's spoken to Mary Newman, and she

assured him she'll sort out Simon Elworthy. Apparently she knows all about Simon

Elworthy and his antics.

Despite the late hour, sleep is impossible. Thoughts swirl around my head –

Lucie, Randy, Linda and most of all Charlotte. I give Josh a call. The phone rings for

an eternity. Eventually a groggy voice comes on the line.

"Hello."

"Josh, it's Toby."

"Do you know what time it is?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"So you thought you'd wake up someone who could?"

"I didn't know who else to call."

"What do you want?"

"To talk."

"Can't it wait until the morning?"

"Not really."

"What do you want to talk about? No, let me guess – Charlotte. Am I right?"

"Yeah."

RICHARD PARKER

114

"Oh God. I'm sorry I ever introduced you two. I'll never match-make again. I

promise."

"Have you spoken to her today?"

"Today? Today is two hours old. No I haven't."

"Thanks for your support Josh." I hang up.

A few minutes later the phone rings. I let it ring. After several minutes of

ringing I decide to answer it.

"Hello."

"I'm sorry Tobs. I'm just tired. If you want to talk, let's talk."

For the next 10 minutes I rant and rave incoherently about my desperate love for

Charlotte. Josh listens patiently.

"Look I don't know what I can do Tobs but I'll have a word to her if you want. It

probably won't do much good though."

"Maybe not, but I'd appreciate that. Thanks Josh."

"Don't mention it. Now go to bloody sleep will you."

"Okay. Thanks again."

RICHARD PARKER

115

5

A second chance

"I think you're in there buddy."

[observation from barman to Toby Willis, in a bar on Massachusetts Ave, Boston]

"You've got nothing to lose except what little dignity you still have left – I'd go for it."

[advice from Josh Rubin to Toby Willis, in a hotel room in Back Bay, Boston]

"He's here," Jacobs barks down the phone.

"Who?" I say.

"Who do you think? Smythe," he yells, exacerbated.

"So?"

"So? Smythe comes to New York for only one thing – to 'see' Mel Trotter. We need

to meet."

"What's the time?"

"You're not still in bed are you?"

"What do you think? Give me a break – I'm on holiday."

RICHARD PARKER

116

"It's nearly 11 a.m. Do you think you'll be able to get out of bed and meet me by 1

p.m.?"

"Probably. Where do you want to meet?"

"What about that deli near you?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Okay, I'll see you there. Don't be late. I won't wait."

"Don't worry, I'll be there."

I hang up and let out a deep sigh. I feel like crap. I flick on the TV. At 11.30

a.m. I hurl off the duvet and roll onto the floor with a thud before crawling across the

bedroom to the bathroom.

When I get out of the shower the red light on the answerphone is flashing. I

hit the play button. "Toby, it's Sam. Call me. It's urgent."

I try calling Sam but get her voicemail. I try her cellphone and get the same

thing. What the hell could be so urgent? On my second call I leave a message.

"Sam, it's Toby returning your call. I'm still in the apartment. Give me a call."

It's only when I hang up again that I start to worry. I'm a worrier. I don't look

or always act like one, but underneath it all, I am one. I fumble around in my jeans

for my cigarettes. I replay Sam's message to try to understand the intonation in her

voice. It sounded tense, I think. Well sort of. Tensish anyway. I pick up the phone.

"Sam, it's Toby again. Just checking if you got my message returning your

call. Was it urgent? Because it sounded urgent and you said it was, so I'm assuming

it was. So call me." I take a deep drag. What could be so urgent? I play through the

possibilities. The problem with Sam is urgent in her terms could mean anything from

some anti-pornography campaigner has blown up Rosen House to her cat looking

RICHARD PARKER

117

depressed. It's that uncertainty, that liberal interpretation of urgent, that makes me

worry.

"Sam, me again. I'm about to go out and would be grateful if you could ring

back and leave a message confirming that (a) no one has blown up the office; (b) no

one I care about has died – I care about Rachel Porter dying if you are wondering; and

(c) Smythe hasn't closed the office and fired me, without telling me. I'll dial in and

check my messages later. Bye."

I hang up. It's just after midday. I flick through the channels before stopping

at CNN. There, staring right back at me, is Mr Patel. I'm sure it's him. I grab the

remote and turn up the volume. 'Mr Khan from Pakistan, who was travelling on a

false passport was arrested by authorities at JFK after trying to smuggle out of the

country two suitcases of python snakes. Mr Khan claims the snakes are for medicinal

purposes to help his ailing mother-in-law.'

So, Mr Patel is Mr Khan. Well, well. Well Mr Khan, me not be helping you

now, you non-proper-English-speaking-python-smuggling-selfish curry muncher.

That's what happens to people like you! I know I shouldn't make racial slurs but it's

so easy to take cheap shots. I make jokes about everyone: Jews, Catholics, Blacks,

Asians, Yanks, the French, the Irish, the Serbs; Eskimos; everyone. It's not right I

know. I shouldn't do it. I will try to stop. And the ridiculous thing is I love Indians.

Really love them. Three out of my 19 shags were with Indian women – beautiful

potential Miss India's from Bombay, Delhi and Calcutta. No I really love them, so I

can't be bigoted can I? Come to think of it I'm not even sure I can call Mr Khan a

curry muncher. Is that a racial slur reserved for people of Indian origin? Do

Pakistanis even eat curry? I presume so, but I might be wrong. I shall get Sam to call

Jemima Khan. I'm sure she'll know. It's an odd slur when you think about – why not

RICHARD PARKER

118

butter chicken or tandoori muncher? It's also a bit like calling a Pom a bloody

cucumber-sandwich muncher come to think of it or a Yank a hot-dog muncher; odd

indeed.

***

Jacobs is busy stuffing the remnants of a pastrami on rye sandwich into his

mouth when I arrive. It's 1.10 p.m. and Birnbaum's Deli is packed full of people.

More remarkable is that Jacobs has actually waited for me. Josh recommended

Birnbaum's to me on our last visit – the best traditional Jewish delicatessen in

Manhattan he said – better than Katz's, better than the 2nd Ave Deli, better than

anything in New York in fact. On that visit Josh did his best to make me fall in love

with pastrami sandwiches New-York style.

"Hungry are we?" I inquire.

"I was just about to leave actually. You're late. Go and order. And get me another

coffee while you're at it." Ten minutes later, I sit down with my pastrami on rye

sandwich and our two coffees. Jacobs seems particularly surly.

"Being 10 minutes late isn't a crime in New York you know. What's yanking your

chain anyway?"

"Nothing," he mutters, grabbing his coffee. "Where's the sugar?"

"You didn't ask for sugar."

"You know I take sugar. Go and get me some."

"Get it yourself," I snap.

RICHARD PARKER

119

"Jesus," Jacobs cusses. He is determined not to move. Leaning back in his chair, he

catches the eye of one of the staff, "can we have some sugar over here!" Miraculously

the waiter obliges.

"It's pretty clear something has pissed you off – so what is it?"

"My girlfriend dumped me. Something about her parents not approving of me."

"Gee I'm sorry. Were you serious?"

"We were shagging. Is that serious enough for you?" I don't know if it is really but

I'm not about to argue the point.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have asked." It was a silly question. Whether one is serious or not

is besides the point. Being dumped is traumatic; end of story.

"So what are her parents like?"

"Arseholes!" yells Jacobs screwing up his face. "Total arseholes," he adds for

clarification. "You remember Robert De Niro's character in Meet the Parents – well

her father is a squillion times worse than that. He's a prick, and as for her mother, shit

don't get me started – I've never met someone so uptight."

In an effort to cheer Dave up I tell him about my date with Charlotte. I've

always felt it's comforting to know someone else's love life is as rooted as yours. It

makes you realise that God or fate hasn't unfairly singled you out. Having said that, I

do wonder about the arbitrariness of life sometimes – what would have happened if I

hadn't gone to MKs that night and never run into Rachel Porter? – What would have

become of Charlotte and me? Would I have shagged Linda Lawless?

***

When we finish our coffees we hit the streets again.

RICHARD PARKER

120

"You don't mind if we swing by Banana Republic on 5th Avenue do you? They've

got some cool new trousers and shoes I want to try on." Dave glances at his watch.

"As long as you make it quick – you don't shop like a woman do you?"

"More like an SAS operation actually; in and out as quickly as possible."

"Sounds like my approach in bed," chuckles Jacobs.

"So how did you hear about Smythe?" I inquire.

"I saw him in fact. I was dropping a friend off at JFK when I caught a glimpse of him

sauntering through the terminal looking as smug as ever. I paid my cab driver an

extra $50 to follow him. He's staying at the Plaza. One of the first things we should

do is find out whether the Plaza is an approved PGP hotel. Last time I checked it sure

as hell wasn't."

"Tell me the last time any corporate gave a stuff that the MD breached the company's

travel policy. That's what travel and procurement policies are for aren't they? For

senior executives to breach – he'll just say the approved hotels were fully booked."

"Look, do you want to get this prick or not? Okay, so staying at the Plaza isn't a

capital offence but every little thing counts. For all we know PGP hates Smythe as

much as we do, and something like this could be just the ammunition it needs. Just

remember catching Smythe screwing Trotter is not going to achieve our objective. It

might piss off Mrs Smythe if we're lucky. If we're really lucky, she'll wise up and

dump him. But that's all. He'll still have his job and God help you if he finds out you

were involved in telling his wife about Mel Trotter. There won't be a rock small

enough for you to hide behind. He'll crucify you."

"Smythe doesn't scare me," I say boldly.

"Well you're an idiot; he should. He scared the shit out of me when I was at Thruster;

still does."

RICHARD PARKER

121

"Why?"

"Because people like Smythe destroy people like you and me. David may have

beaten Goliath but that was just Old Testament bullshit – in the real world Goliath

always wins – don't forget that."

"I thought you were on my side. Why all this sudden pessimism?"

"I am on your side. I simply want to make sure you're aware of what you're getting

yourself into and that you're doing this for the right reasons. Because the smart thing

to do would be to quit Thruster, forget about Smythe and Rachel Porter, and get a job

that doesn't involve looking at vaginas all day – it's not good for you; a friend of mine

is a gynaecologist and can't stand the things now. Trust me." Dave is saying 'trust

me' a lot these days. It concerns me.

"Thanks for the advice." I don't mean it though. I'm cheesed off that Dave Jacobs –

who has always proclaimed that the underdog can triumph; that he isn't afraid of

anyone or anything; that pornography is great; and that quitters deserve nothing – is

all of a sudden suggesting I throw in the towel. His sudden change in attitude feels

like a betrayal.

***

I'm in and out of Banana Republic in 10 minutes as promised.

"What next?" I inquire.

"Let's go to the Plaza and find out what room Smythe is in. Once we know that, I'll

brief you on Operation Colonel Mustard."

"I can't wait to hear the details," I reply. "I want credit for the name though."

RICHARD PARKER

122

Making our way back up 5th Avenue to Central Park South and the Plaza, I get

the urge to tell Dave about Linda Lawless. I mean the whole point of shagging a porn

star, or ex-porn star, is so you can run around telling people like Dave that you

shagged one – it's not something you're supposed to keep to yourself. Because for

mortal men like me, non-porn star men that is, shagging a hard-core adult-

entertainment actress is like being the 278th non-astronaut person to land on the moon

– you may not have been the first to do it/her, but it's a remarkable achievement

nonetheless.

Shagging Linda for some reason feels like a major accomplishment, like my

first snog at a U2 concert at the age of 12 or 13 with Annabelle Hooper. Getting to

first base with Annabelle changed a lot in my life for a brief period of time – for a few

days I felt like the Fonz on Happy Days; I felt cool. I thought snogging someone like

Annabelle was something to brag about. That was until Mark Lawrence asked me if I

'poked her'. 'Poked her? What with? A stick?' I asked.

Looking back, my naiveté still makes me cringe. Ever since then, the word

'poke' has sent shivers down my spine. Lawrence and his cronies wouldn't let me

forget it. They soon got to Annabelle Hooper and before I knew it she wouldn't talk

to me either. The humiliation of snogging someone who didn't know what poking

meant, was, it transpired, more than she could bear. Not that she would have let me

poke her of course. Don't be silly.

It's not surprising then, that whenever I'm tempted to brag about my sexual

exploits, Annabelle Hooper and Mark Lawrence give me reason to pause.

"Piss off," cusses Dave, as some homeless man lurches at us from out of nowhere.

"Get a job like the rest of us arsehole," he adds. I quicken my step as we pass West

56th Street.

RICHARD PARKER

123

"Guess what?" I say, grinning like a Cheshire cat. Dave looks over at me.

"What's so funny?"

"Nothing. I was going to tell you what happened to me last night." Dave doesn't look

in the mood for guessing games and huffs deeply.

"What did you do last night?"

"Have a guess," I insist.

"You jerked yourself off."

"Nope. Better than that."

"Better than that. God forbid. I give up. Tell me."

"Do you know who Linda Lawless is?"

"Sure. Who doesn't?"

"Well, I was at the shoot of Lucie Sinbad's new film and one thing led to another and

before I knew it I was on the balcony of this amazing apartment overlooking Central

Park holding her booty and rogering her senseless."

"You shagged Linda Lawless?" yells Dave, stopping dead in his tracks. "You gotta be

shitting me?" I pinch the bridge of my nose and glance back down 5th Avenue.

"Why don't you say it a bit louder? Just in case someone in Manhattan didn't hear."

"You shagged Linda Lawless?" he repeats in a hushed and disbelieving tone.

"Afraid so."

"Jesus. There really is no justice in the world."

***

RICHARD PARKER

124

When we get to the Plaza, we discover to our dismay that Smythe has already

checked out of the hotel. After some subtle persuasion on my behalf, I discover that

he has gone to another hotel in Midtown. The same hotel that Josh and Charlotte are

staying in.

"I don't think I can walk back down to Midtown," I say, hoping like hell Dave will

agree.

"Well I'm not catching the subway," replies Dave.

"Let's split a cab. Hell, I'll pay for it myself."

"Okay."

I quickly hail a cab and half an hour later we are standing in the foyer of the

hotel with Smythe's room number. It is time for Phase 1 of Operation Colonel

Mustard to begin.

***

"What time did he say he'd get here?" I ask Dave.

"He said 30-40 minutes."

"Is he good?"

"The best."

"Do you mind me asking how you met him?"

"Look, the less you know about him the better."

"Why, is he a crim or something?"

"Can't say, sorry."

"What'd he do? Murder? Armed robbery? What? You have to tell me." Dave

shakes his head and asks for a cigarette. "Look if I'm going to risk going to jail for

RICHARD PARKER

125

breaking and entering, conspiracy and God knows what else, I have a right to know

this guy's background."

"Okay, okay. He served some time for aggravated assault but claims he was framed.

I believe him."

"That's it?"

"That's it. I promise."

Sitting in the luxurious leather chairs in the hotel foyer, I start to have second

thoughts. I don't think I'd be very good in jail. Knowing my luck, instead of sharing a

cell with Lord Archer where we could shoot the breeze on literary matters, I'd be

stuck in a cell with some Russian Mafioso called Boris the Bollocker and become his

little plaything; he'd cause havoc with my piles. I just know it.

"Don't be such a bloody girl, Willis. Just relax would you. This guy is an expert.

Nothing will happen. Trust me." I don't trust Dave but what choice do I have?

"So what's Mel Trotter supposed to be like in bed?"

"A real fire-cracker apparently."

"Lucky Smythe," I say.

"He is that, if nothing else. I don't envy Trotter though. He's certainly no Russell

Crowe or Tom Cruise."

"Ain't that the truth," I reply.

"He's here," interrupts Dave, easing out his chair. "Okay just follow me. Don't say a

thing." Without a word being spoken the three of us head to the bank of elevators

adjacent to the reception desk. Once in the lift, Dave hits level 32. Once out of the

lift we follow the arrows for rooms 3210-3229. Smythe is 3226.

Dave's anonymous acquaintance sure looks like an ex-con and a potential

recidivist quite frankly. He also looks like someone I wouldn't want to share my cell

RICHARD PARKER

126

with. Mr No-Name is squat, though muscular in that steroid-user kind of way, with a

Number One haircut and George-Michael-pre-coming-out-of-the-closet stubble.

"Stay by the lift. If you see Smythe and Trotter stop them. Understood?"

"Stop them? How the hell do I do that?"

"You'll figure something out," says Dave. Great advice!

Fifteen minutes later Dave and Mr No-Name emerge. Mission accomplished.

According to Dave, Mr No-Name installed four hidden surveillance cameras. What

they'll show only time will tell. Dave thanks Mr No-Name who disappears down the

stairwell.

"Let's go get some pizza and porn," pronounces Dave jubilantly.

"I'm meeting Juls in three hours."

"That's alright. There's plenty of time."

"I don't think I'm in the mood for porn," I respond.

"Well I am. I'm not talking any porn. I'm talking Linda Lawless porn. I still can't

believe you shagged her you know." Neither can I.

As Dave and I leave the hotel, I realise there's something very blokish about a

couple of guys sitting around eating a pizza, sinking a few beers, and watching a

porno. It's a ritual that must be utterly perplexing to females and some social

anthropologists. When was the last time you heard two women say to one another,

'hey, why don't we just grab a porno and pizza tonight?' It simply doesn't happen. It

never has and it never will. But two blokes; that's a completely different story. No

other social ritual, not even football, has so successfully bonded the male sex. Throw

two guys in a room, who have absolutely nothing in common, give them a porno and

pizza, and they'll be friends for life. Trust me. The power of porn should not be

underestimated.

RICHARD PARKER

127

***

Back out on the street, Dave leads the way to one of the less salubrious video

stores in Manhattan's Theater District. Blockbuster it ain't. The video store is empty

when we arrive, staffed by a girl who looks in the middle of puberty but must be

older. Her braces and ponytail don't help matters.

"I bet she goes off like a fire-cracker," quips Dave, as he leers at her. I can't tell if he's

serious or not. Fire cracker is his latest word. Before that he used to say, 'I bet she's a

real goer/rooter/moaner/screamer/nympho.'

"Get a grip Jacobs," I retort, jabbing him in the back. Making our way to the rear of

the shop, I suddenly feel acutely self conscious. As the pubescent gum-chewing girl

watches me, I detour to the new releases section, leaving Dave to find his Linda

Lawless video.

"Pssst." I turn around. "Willis get over here."

"What's wrong?"

"I can't see any of her videos can you?" I scan the shelves.

"When did she hang up her stilettos?" asks Dave.

"Five years ago I think."

"Go and ask the girl at the counter if she has any of her videos."

"Piss off. You do it."

"Fine," huffs Dave. "But you have to come with me."

Jacobs approaches her, while I keep a safe distance.

RICHARD PARKER

128

"Excuse me," he says.

"Hi, how can I help?" she asks enthusiastically.

"I was looking for a video with a specific actress in it?"

"Not the new film with Britney Spears in it? Everyone has been asking for it." The

girl is much much dumber than I thought. Jacobs has just spent the last 15 minutes in

the porn section of the shop and she asks him if he's looking for the new Britney

Spears film. This chick has worse observation skills than Helen Keller.

"No," says Dave.

"Oh," she replies, looking genuinely stunned. She blows a bubble. Must be some

form of stress relief. "Do you know the name of the video?"

"Hmm. Can't say I do sorry. Toby, I don't suppose you can recall the title to any of

her films?"

"Nope," I reply, shuffling off to the comedy section near the front of the store.

"What's her name?" asks the girl.

"Linda Lawless."

"What sort of films was she in?" Dave pauses.

"Adult entertainment."

"Adult entertainment?" she says, as if Dave has just spoken Chinese to her. "Oh, you

mean porn. She does pornos," she shouts across the shop. I grab the new Ben Stiller

comedy, "Hey what about this Dave?" Dave gives me a you're-a-big-bloody-pussy-

Willis look. I put it back.

"Yeah porn," says Dave. I start to get the giggles.

"Let me see." She starts tapping away at the computer. After a couple of minutes she

shakes her head. "I'm sorry, nothing. But that doesn't mean we don't have any of her

videos. Our system doesn't record actresses' names for that genre of films."

RICHARD PARKER

129

"Oh," responds Dave, turning to me for suggestions. I don't have any. I've already

told him I'm not really in the mood.

"What about Amazon? Don't they do a one-hour delivery service in Manhattan?

Why don't we go on-line and buy one of her videos?" I suggest, suddenly in a moment

of inspiration.

"I think you'll find Amazon doesn't sell porn videos Einstein, although it might start

making a profit if it did," retorts Dave.

"I can call my boyfriend if you like. He's watched just about everything in the store,"

says the sales girl, breaking into an embarrassed giggle. "He might remember what

she's been in."

"Sure. If that's not a problem," enthuses Dave.

"No problem," she insists, blowing a big bubble. Dave wanders over and joins me in

the comedy section. A few minutes later the girl hangs up.

"You're in luck. We have a couple of her films." She walks around the counter and

back towards the adult entertainment section. Dave and I follow her, like a couple of

school kids. She grabs three videos off the shelf. "We've got Back Door Bandit,

Lusty Lawless, and Pump Me Big Boy. What would you like?"

"We'll take all three," says Dave instantly, without consulting me.

"I thought you were sick of the stuff?" I whisper to him, as we head back to the

counter. "I am, but I'm having withdrawal symptoms. You can't just go cold turkey.

It's not healthy."

At 6 p.m. we're back out on the street headed for my apartment on East 51st Street for

some pizza and porn.

RICHARD PARKER

130

***

We get to the restaurant in TriBeCa a little after 8.30 p.m. The restaurant is

cheap and cheerful by New York standards and the food is Malaysian which is

palatable enough.

"God, you've really changed," remarks Juls, pouring me a glass of water. "A few

years ago I'd never have got you anywhere near a Malaysian restaurant."

"I know. I like to think I'm expanding my horizons."

"It's taken long enough."

Juls is right of course. At 31, I've only just agreed to start frequenting

Japanese and Chinese restaurants, though Chinese takeaways are still off limits. I

don't know why I don't like them – it's just that the food is so bland. It's like eating

grass. Indian food is a completely different story. Indian food I love. Indian women

I love even more. I could live in Calcutta, Delhi or Bombay any day, if it weren't for

the flies, the filth, the heat, and all those scabby poor homeless people.

"Well, you're looking good. How's Tony?" Tony is Jul's on-again, off-again lover of

the last two years. He hails from San Francisco but has been living in New York for

about three years. He's a lawyer. He was a candidate Juls placed at one of the big

New York firms. It was lust at first sight according to both of them.

"He's good thanks. We've decided to call it quits though. For good this time."

"Where have I heard that before?"

"Look, don't be mean. It's not easy breaking up with someone you felt you were

going to spend the rest of your life with." I shake my head. There's no point in

RICHARD PARKER

131

arguing with her. They will get back together. Of that I'm sure. Even if it's simply

for a casual shag in the Hamptons one weekend.

"What about you? What's the story with that girl Charlotte you mentioned in your e-

mail?" The day after Josh's dinner party I had sent Juls an e-mail saying I was in love.

That this was the one. That she was from Brooklyn and maybe we could hang out in

New York if it went anywhere. I don't think I have the strength to relive the whole

sordid disaster.

"Nothing. Well sort of nothing. We went out once but it all went to custard. It's a

long story."

"Do you still like her?"

"Yeah. But it's a one-way street at present, and as much as I want to, there doesn't

seem a lot of point in pursuing it. Unrequited love has never been my thing."

"What could go so wrong in one date?"

"A lot, trust me." When I fill her in on the gory details, Juls shakes her head in

disbelief.

"What do you think I should do?" I ask, almost desperately.

"Don't give in so easily for starters. She obviously liked you initially for a reason.

You need to remind her why."

Although several years younger, I've always viewed Juls as my older sister. Someone

I could turn to for sage advice when things were going wrong. She's rarely let me

down.

The waiter soon arrives with our entrées - some seafood noodle concoction

with a Malaysian name I can't pronounce, so which I call No# 39. That's the other

thing with Asian restaurants – your food is a number. I'll have No#6 for my entrée,

RICHARD PARKER

132

15 for my main, and 22 for my dessert, no make that 26. Why all the numbers?

That's what I want to know. When you have to hide behind numbers or names no one

can pronounce, something is wrong.

"So what have you been up to since you got here?" Can I tell her? 'Oh, just the usual

– a bit of voyeurism, shagging, hidden surveillance and porn video watching.'

"Not much. Caught up with Dave Jacobs today."

"Dave! How is he? Did I ever tell you I ran into him a couple of months ago at some

new exhibition at the Guggenheim? He was very friendly. He even remembered who

I was. Anyway, how are things at Thruster? Have you told Mum yet?"

"No. I nearly did but I wimped out."

"You have to tell her, you realise."

"I know, I know. It's not easy though. You know what she can be like. Here come

our mains," I say, catching sight of the waiter out of the corner of my eye.

What I'm still hoping is that I won't have to tell her at all. If my ideas for Thruster

come off and it becomes the success I so desperately need it to be, I'll be promoted to

a more respectable part of the PGP empire, and my days of deceit will be over.

"So you got any nice friends you could set me up with?" I ask, changing subjects.

"Hmm. There's a couple of single ones but they're not really your type. They're very

Hamptons."

"Yeah, you're right, Hamptons's girls aren't my thing."

"What about your friend from school, Genevieve? Whatever happened to her? I used

to think she was really hot."

"You don't say," smirks Juls. "She's married with two kids and living in Manchester

I'm afraid. But if she's looking for an extra-marital affair I'll let you know."

"Thanks."

RICHARD PARKER

133

I used to spend hours fantasising about some of Juls' friends. I would dream

about them having a slumber party and being invited along and ending up with three

or four of them in my sleeping bag. Ahh, those were the days.

We finish up at 11 p.m. and I promise to call Juls again before the weekend.

***

"Richard Fish or Bobby Donnell?"

"Fish without a doubt," says Josh. Josh idolises Fish. He knows almost every

Fishism. He has Fishisms all over his wall at work. How can you not worship a man

who possesses such wisdom he says? His current favourite Fishism goes something

like, 'in strict anthropological terms, mankind is about propagation of the species.

Without procreation mankind would become extinct. To procreate the male species

must become aroused. Watching two women take their tongues to each other arouses

the male species, which fosters the urge to procreate, and accordingly ensures the

survival of the human race. To the contrary, watching two butt-pirates go at it could

make a man limp, for a week – the species would become threatened.'

"Hmm. Yeah Fish is pretty cool I have to admit. But Bobby is very smooth," I

continue. "A tad intense, if not self-righteous, but smooth. I think I'll go with Bobby.

I like his taste in women too."

"Ally McBeal, Ling Woo or Helen Gamble?"

"Easy. Helen Gamble every time. She is so hot. If I ever got arrested in Boston I

pray to God she'd be the prosecuting ADA. I'd do anything to be interrogated by her."

RICHARD PARKER

134

"Me too. She's a total fox. I'd insist she keep my handcuffs on throughout the

interrogation – for her own protection of course."

"Do you two mind?" says Charlotte from the front of the taxi, as we head into

downtown Boston from Logan Airport.

"Come on Charlotte. Be a sport. Who do you prefer?" asks Josh. "Fish or Bobby?"

"Neither. Now can we please change the subject. I didn't come to Boston to talk

about Ally McBeal and The Practice."

"Hormones," Josh whispers to me.

"I heard that Josh," says Charlotte snappishly.

It's my third visit to Boston. My first two visits were during Josh's post-grad

year at Boston University. Both were drunken affairs and my memory of them is

rather poor. Though I quickly fell in love with Boston I realise now my appreciation

of the city was, and is, very superficial. Boston to me is the Boston Celtics, the

Boston Redsoxs, Fenway Park, the Charles River, Ally McBeal, The Practice and, of

course, last but not least, Helen Gamble, ADA, in one of those short skirts ruthlessly

cross-examining some no good miscreant. There must be a lot more to Boston and in

the next couple of days I'm determined to find out. But if the unexpected happens and

I run into Helen outside the courtroom and spend the weekend locked in my hotel

room with her and her short skirts, then so be it.

"Do they actually shoot Ally McBeal and The Practice in Boston or is it some

Hollywood set?" I ask, as we get out of the cab at our hotel.

"Beats me. Probably LA," says Josh. I make a mental note to follow this up when I

get back to London.

Our hotel is in the historic Back Bay area and is handy to almost everything.

I'm sharing a suite with Josh in our four star hotel. Charles the plonker has his own

RICHARD PARKER

135

room, with Charlotte and Vanessa sharing another suite. Notwithstanding the

Charlotte situation, the we're-not-really-talking-to-each-other-at-least-not-properly

situation, I'm determined to make the most of our time together.

***

"Wow, awesome room," I exclaim, admiring the views of Boston and the Charles

River.

"So what do you want to do?" Josh asks.

"Ditch Charles and go and find a bar with Charlotte and Vanessa." Josh rolls his eyes.

"Look, you agreed if you came along you'd make an effort to get on with Charles."

"Yeah yeah. I was just joking."

I grab a Bud from the mini-bar and take a big swig. It's 5 p.m. We're due in reception

in an hour.

As I suck back my Bud, the phone rings. Josh grabs it. I catch only the odd word but

he is clearly talking about Simon Elworthy, Charlotte, PGP and Mary Newman.

When he hangs up, he looks shocked.

"Who was that?"

"Shapiro."

"Shapiro? What did he want?"

"To tell me Simon Elworthy is toast."

"Toast? As in fired?"

"As in about to be chucked out of the partnership."

RICHARD PARKER

136

Yeah!! Go Jeremy Mandel!! Go Mary Newman!! Go me!! Fuck you Simon

Elworthy!! That's what happens when you mess with my Charlotte.

"Why?"

"This is top secret okay? Do not repeat a word of this okay?"

"Sure. You can trust me."

"Yeah right Mr Loose Lips."

"Apparently Mary Newman, PGP's new Group General Counsel, who by all accounts

is a real piranha, called Andrew Davies, K&S's senior partner in London and said

PGP would pull all of its business and issue a press release as to why, unless Simon

Elworthy was dealt with."

"Dealt with? What does that mean?" I ask, taking another swig and moving over to

the window.

"She didn't say, but the implication was she wanted him chucked out of the firm."

"Did she say why?"

"Yeah. For sexually harassing staff – in particular Charlotte."

"You're kidding?" I say, playing dumb. "Well, I guess he deserved it. He sounded

like a real arsehole if you ask me. How much business does PGP give K&S anyway?'

"The London office alone billed PGP over £10 million last year."

"Shit. Does Charlotte know?"

"No. Shapiro has asked me to tell her and to get her to call him."

"Why didn't Shapiro call her direct?"

"He seemed to think it would be better coming from a close friend initially."

"So what do you think it will do to Charlotte's career?"

"I don't know to be honest. It might actually help. If the partners think she has BSDs

like Mary Newman batting for her, it might actually help. But then again."

RICHARD PARKER

137

"You don't honestly think Charlotte spoke to anyone at PGP about Elworthy do you?"

"She must have. Who else would have?"

I shrug my shoulders.

"I need a beer," says Josh, heading for the minibar.

"This is unbelievable you know," he remarks, sitting down on the bed with his beer.

"Absolutely unbelievable."

"I told them."

"You what?"

"I told PGP. I met Jeremy Mandel in New York and asked him if he could do

anything. He said he'd speak to Mary Newman."

"You what? Jesus Toby. You just ruined a guy's career."

"So? He deserved it. He was a fucking arsehole Josh. And quite frankly your whole

attitude to his behaviour disgusts me. You're as bad as him."

"Oh bullshit. Simon is a bit of a sleaze but it's just harmless fun. That's all."

"Well Charlotte didn't think it was harmless fun and that's all that matters."

"I can't believe you Toby. Why'd you do it?"

"It's pretty obvious isn't it?"

"Charlotte! Christ. She doesn't even like you! You've ruined someone's career for a

girl who doesn't even like you!"

"I did it because it was the right thing to do and because no one else had the guts to do

it." That's partially true. The real reason is because I'm still besotted with Charlotte.

"She's going to be seriously pissed when she finds out what you've done."

"You can't tell her I had anything to do with this."

"Why not?"

"You just can't."

RICHARD PARKER

138

Josh glances at his watch.

"Look, I better go and speak to her and give her some time to call Shapiro. I'll see

you in the lobby at 6 p.m.

"Okay."

I hope I haven't made a terrible mistake.

***

At 6.05 p.m. I make my way to the lobby. Josh is already there.

"Did you speak to her?"

"Yeah."

"How'd she react?"

"She looked stunned at first. Wanted to know who at PGP and K&S were involved.

Denied black and blue she had anything to do with it. Wanted to know what I knew."

"You didn't tell her about me and Jeremy Mandel did you?"

"No. But I was bloody tempted."

"So how was she when you left?"

"Good. She spoke to Shapiro. Told him she had said nothing to PGP but that Simon

Elworthy was a pig and he got what he deserved. She mentioned something about

sending Mary Newman a big bunch of flowers."

"You haven't told Chas have you?"

"No. Vanessa knows of course. But Chas will have to wait until he gets back to the

office to hear about it."

RICHARD PARKER

139

A bit after 6.15 p.m., Chas, Charlotte and Vanessa arrive.

"Okay Josh, you're the expert on Boston. Where should we go?" asks Chas.

"Well, there's a cool little bar on Massachusetts Ave. It's a bit of a local haunt for BU,

MIT and Harvard students but it's great fun. I say we go and check it out first. After

that there's a great restaurant in Beacon Hill Toby and I went to last time we were

here. Otherwise there's a couple of good places in Chinatown. Let's see how we go."

"I agree. Although if we could avoid Chinatown I would really appreciate it," I

implore. "Chinese food and I aren't the best of friends." Charles rolls his eyes, as if

to say, 'what a fussy prat.'

"There a problem Chuck?"

"Excuse me?" he replies.

"I said, is there a problem Chuck?"

"It's Charles actually, and no there isn't a problem."

"Great. It's just that you looked like you were going to say something."

"Well, actually I was. Quite frankly if everyone else here wants Chinese, and you

don't, then tough. I don't see why one person should ruin it for everyone."

"Come on children, let's go," jokes Josh, trying to diffuse the situation.

"Look, I'm not a huge Chinese fan either," says Charlotte, "so maybe we should just

try Beacon Hill first." I have to slap myself. Did Charlotte just come to my aid?

What's got into her? Even Josh looks surprised.

When we get to the bar on Massachusetts Ave, it is pretty full. Within

minutes I'm having flashbacks to MK's in Covent Garden.

RICHARD PARKER

140

We grab a table close to a window on the street side of the bar. I sit as far

away from Charles as possible. As soon as we sit down, they start talking shop. I

didn't come to Boston to listen to Josh, Chuck, Charlotte and Vanessa prattle on about

IPOs, M&As, how many frigging hours they billed last week, and how much they will

make if they make partner. I came to Boston to talk about why Charlotte and I belong

together. 'Now please change the subject,' I yell at them. None of them seem to

listen.

Snatching my beer, I go in search of some more interesting conversation. Josh

gives me a look I don't appreciate. Charles rolls his eyes yet again in his usual

condescending manner. After a few failed attempts to ingratiate myself with some of

the local students, I prop myself up against the bar.

"Have you got a light?" I ask the bartender. He gives me some matches. I light up

and inhale deeply.

"Britney Spears, Kylie Minogue, or Dido?" I turn around. It's Charlotte.

There's a naughty glint in her eye.

"Hmm. Tough. Probably Kylie, but Dido would be very close behind." What's going

on I ask myself?

"I'd go for Britney myself," proffers Charlotte. "Sorry about all the shop-talk," she

adds, apologetically. "I was pretty bored myself if it's any consolation."

"Don't worry, I'm used to it," I reply.

"Do you mind?" she asks, reaching for my cigarette.

"No, go for it." She takes a long drag.

"I thought you didn't approve of smoking?"

"A girl can change her mind can't she?"

RICHARD PARKER

141

"Sure. You won't get any arguments from me. So, you prefer Britney do you? Was

that from a male perspective or a female one? I mean, if you were me or were you

talking from your perspective. I'm not making myself very clear am I?"

"From my perspective. The female one. I think she's hot." Is she shitting me?

"So what are you planning to do tomorrow?" I ask.

"I'm not sure. I had been planning to catch up with my brother, but he's out of town

which is a pity. I'll probably do some shopping on Newbury Street, a run along the

river – just try to relax. Work has been pretty full on. What about you?"

"Josh is pretty keen to take a trip down memory lane and wander around BU. I was

hoping to go over to Cambridge and have a wander around Harvard. I might do a

little shopping and exercise myself if I find the time."

"Well, I'll be in my running shoes by 8 a.m., so if you want to come make sure you're

in the lobby by then."

"I might take you up on that."

"Hey you two. Stop being so bloody anti-social," yells Charles from across the bar.

Charlotte and I decide to ignore him. After several more failed attempts to get our

attention, Charles gives up.

Twenty minutes later he's by our sides, slapping me on the back, before sidling

up to Charlotte in a rather lecherous manner. He looks trolleyed. Charlotte looks

squeamish as Charles invades her personal space.

"Hey Chuck. I don't think your wife would be too pleased if she saw you now. Why

don't you leave Charlotte alone and go back to your new buddies?" I say, in reference

to some BU and MIT students Chuck has latched onto.

"I told you, it's Charles to you arsehole." I don't like being called an arsehole,

especially by an arsehole like Chuck. I slide off my bar stool and stand in front of

RICHARD PARKER

142

Chuck ready to do battle. Charlotte leaps out of her seat and squeezes herself between

us.

"Come on Toby. Let's not be silly." She grabs my arm and pulls me back to the

barstool. At the same time, some little floozy, in a MIT sweatshirt, comes to the

rescue of Charles and grabs his arm. A few minutes later Josh comes over. He

shakes his head. "Having fun over here are we?"

"We were until your friend Chuck tried to make a pass at Charlotte." Josh doesn't

look impressed. "You're looking pretty cosy yourselves. I thought you two weren't

talking to each other? What happened?"

This is really Charlotte's question because I have no idea why she's started talking to

me again. I say nothing.

"We weren't, but given the rather limited choice between Toby and Charles, I decided

on Toby."

It's not quite the answer I'm expecting.

"Well, we're off to Chinatown for dinner. Are you going to join us?"

"No thanks," I say.

"I'll pass too Josh," adds Charlotte.

"Great. Thanks very much," he snaps back, before storming off. I feel guilty, sort of.

I am being selfish I realise but I don't see why I should ruin my night hanging out

with a plonker like Chuck.

"So where would you like to go?" asks Charlotte.

"I don't mind. You decide."

"Well, there's a really fab Indian place in Beacon Hill. I've been there a few times

with my brother and his wife."

"Let's go."

RICHARD PARKER

143

I fix up our tab, and we grab a taxi a few minutes later. As we head through

Back Bay, and then into Beacon Hill, Charlotte tells me how much she loves Beacon

Hill, one of Boston's wealthiest suburbs, with its amazing brick houses and narrow

cobbled alleyways.

"I'm not really as bad as Charles am I?" I plead in the back of the taxi.

"No, you're not, but that's not saying much I'm afraid."

"Gee thanks."

***

Nearly an hour later our meals arrive. I stick to my usual - butter chicken.

Charlotte has gone for something slightly more exotic.

"It's hard to believe we're sitting at the same table at the same restaurant – just the two

of us. I mean, after Chelsea I thought we'd never see each other again." I'm reluctant

to talk about it. To dredge up such bad memories of that God awful evening. But I

can't ignore it. I can't pretend it didn't happen.

"Look Toby. My feelings haven't changed since that night. Well they have, but not in

the way you're probably thinking." What is she talking about? My Adam's apple

bobbles, as I gulp, sensing what is to come next.

"I'm not looking for a relationship with you, or anyone for that matter. Not right now

anyway. I like you. I really do. But I realised the other night, I barely know you.

Can't we just be friends?" I don't know how to answer that. I made a New Year's

resolution that the next time a girl I liked said that, I'd kill her with a blunt axe-like

instrument. I also want to launch into my sure-we-can-just-be-friends-but-can't-we-

RICHARD PARKER

144

be-friends-who-also-shag-each-other-occasionally diatribe. I don't say or do any of

the above.

"Friends? Sure. Why not." That's all I say, and not very convincingly. I feel utterly

crushed.

***

"I was just about to leave without you," says Charlotte, as I come bounding up

to her in the lobby. It's 8.05 a.m.

"I overslept sorry. Thanks for waiting."

"Now are you sure you're going to be able to keep up?"

"Don't worry about me I'll be fine," I say.

Much to my dismay Charlotte appears to be a lycra free zone. Instead of the

tight-breast-and-buttock-hugging lycra outfit I so desperately hoped for, she is

wearing track pants, a baggy white t-shirt, and a Boston Redsox cap. It's cute but it

ain't lycra.

"When we get down to the river we'll do some stretches," she pronounces.

"Okay, whatever you recommend."

As I jog alongside Charlotte in a worn-out pair of Adidas tennis sneakers, an

old pair of rugby shorts, and a Nike t-shirt, I steal a couple of glances at her breasts

which are bobbing up and down in a most distracting manner. I nearly run into a

lamppost on Massachusetts Avenue. When we get down to the Charles River and the

Esplanade we start our stretches.

"So what do you think of my tits?"

"Sorry?"

RICHARD PARKER

145

"My tits. You were gawking at them all the way down here."

"I was, wasn't I?"

"You were."

"I thought I was being subtle."

"You weren't I'm afraid."

"They're lovely if you must know." Charlotte blushes slightly and looks away.

After our stretches we continue along the river heading towards Beacon Hill.

"I enjoyed last night," I say, breaking the silence.

"Me too. So how was Josh this morning?"

"He's talking to me. Only just though. I don't think he was too impressed with us."

"Us?"

"Okay me. Thanks again for not going with them. I don't think I could have stood

another few hours with Charles."

"Don't mention it."

Thirty minutes into our run I collapse in a heap in front of Charlotte.

"I'm stuffed. I can't go any further," I splutter, exhausted.

Charlotte comes to a stop. Hands on hips, she looks down on me with a look of

bemused disbelief.

"Stay here. I'll be back in 20 minutes."

"Sorry," I mutter feebly.

She shakes her head and then strides off. I roll onto my side and watch her bounce

along the Esplanade. Being friends isn't going to be easy.

RICHARD PARKER

146

6

How do you convince people smoke is good?

"As far as I'm concerned pornography is like cigarette smoke. It's insidious and it's

filthy. Worst of all it is polluting the hearts and minds of our children. It's a cancer

on our society. Why can't you see that?"

[Excerpt from a letter to the editor of Thruster – UK Edition]

"I've smoked and watched porn since I was 15 and it hasn't done me any harm. The

only cancer on society is self-righteous do-gooders like you."

[Response from Toby Willis, editor of Thruster – UK Edition]

I arrive at the chic little restaurant Le Cirque in Holland Park nearly 15

minutes early. It's run by a Parisian and his Portuguese wife, and serves French and

modern international cuisine. The restaurant is my suggestion, and I hope Lucie and

Linda like it. I order a glass of wine, light up a Marlboro, and wait.

Half an hour after my arrival they turn up. Heads turn as the maitré d guides

Lucie and Linda to the table. I can't tell whether the turning heads and gaping mouths

are signs of recognition, or simply lust. There are certainly a few stares at me, as if to

say, how does an average-looking bloke like you manage to have lunch with two

RICHARD PARKER

147

women like that? When they get to the table the two blonde bombshells lavish me

with kisses. Linda gives me an extra one on the lips.

"I think a few people recognised you," I remark. "Nice to know your fan base extends

to Holland Park."

"Not that they'll admit it," retorts Linda. She has a point of course. Pornography,

desperately as it tries, still hasn't quite managed to become mainstream. To achieve

acceptability. Admitting that you recognise a porn star isn't quite the same as

admitting you recognise Julia Roberts or Meg Ryan. One involves admitting you

watched Pretty Woman and When Harry Met Sally, the other that you watched Anal

Annie and Bored Housewives Bonk Their Brains Out – III. People won't think you're

a filthy pervert for watching a film about a hooker, who falls in love with a handsome

millionaire, who then bonks her brains out, but they will think you're a filthy pervert

for watching Bored Housewives Bonk Their Brains Out - III. Go figure.

Lunching at an establishment like Le Cirque, in the company of two

glamorous porn stars, is not an everyday occurrence for me. It's not even an annual

one. My client lunches are normally at less salubrious places with the likes of Mr

Chang. Mr Chang isn't a bad chap, but his idea of entertainment is chopsticks, goat

scrotum noodles, pig testicle wontons, followed by a couple of lap dances at his

favourite strip club. I always make sure Mike comes with me. There are only so

many lap dances one man can take.

No sooner have we ordered our entrées, than none other than Julian Smythe

bowls up to the table.

"Toby, old chap. Jolly good to see you. I just wanted to congratulate you on the

latest issue. Super stuff. Rachel tells me sales are up a staggering 31% on last month.

We must catch up. Have you been to PGP's new offices? No, of course you haven't.

RICHARD PARKER

148

Well you must. I'll get Diane to ring you and make a time." He stands there beaming,

waiting for a response. Not for the first time in recent weeks, I'm speechless.

"Please excuse my rudeness. I haven't even introduced myself to your two simply

delightful friends here. I'm Julian Smythe, Managing Director of PGP – Europe,

delighted to meet you," he fawns, extending his hand to Lucie and Linda. The lechery

in his eyes is palpable. He looks like he wants to leap across the table, wrestle them

to the ground and tear their clothes off.

"Lucie Sinbad, nice to meet you," says Lucie.

"Linda Lawless. Likewise," follows Linda.

I'm hoping at this point that Smythe will piss off back to his table. But he

doesn't. He lingers like a sifty fart in a packed carriage on the Piccadilly line.

"And how do you know our young superstar editor, Toby? We headhunted him from

Time Warner you know?" Superstar! Headhunted! Oh please! Lucie and Linda look

at each other slightly bemused.

"Toby did a piece on me in the latest issue. It was wonderful. He was fabulous to

deal with."

"I'm sure he was. I'm sure he was," oozes Smythe, slapping me on the back in an

overtly friendly gesture.

"A piece you say. How wonderful. So what do you do, if I may be so bold?" Oh

great. I turn slightly pink and glance at Lucie.

"I'm an actress," she replies. An actress? Well, yes I suppose she is. Not an actress

in the way most people think of one. Not an actress in the conventional sense of

having lines to say. Not an actress in the sense of being nominated for an Oscar or an

Emmy. But technically she's probably correct. She is an actress, albeit an actress

RICHARD PARKER

149

who is also a public fornicator. I can't tell whether her failure to specify just what

kind of actress she is stems from embarrassment, or is due to something else.

"An actress! How wonderful!" If he says ‘how wonderful’ once more, I will have to

thump him. I just will.

"So what kind of acting do you do? Theatre, film, TV?"

"Film," replies Lucie. Smythe can't seem to get enough of her.

"Film! How wonderful." I'll give you one more chance. "Anything I would have

seen?" he adds.

"I hope so."

"Well, I'll leave you to enjoy your meals. I've taken enough of your time. It was

lovely to meet you both. This is a fabulous little restaurant, isn't it? I've known the

owners for years. They're a wonderful couple." We all nod in agreement.

And then he disappears. Finally. Thank God.

"I'm sorry about that," I say apologetically, once Smythe is out of ear shot.

"He seemed really nice," replies Lucie. "You're lucky to have a boss like him."

If only she knew. "Tell me about it. I'm blessed."

I'm feeling a little disconcerted about the encounter with Smythe. Disconcerted that

he was so nice, bordering on obsequious even. I know he is unstable, mercurial and

Machiavellian bit it still doesn't make sense. I'm worried. I need to go to the

bathroom and ring Samantha.

"Excuse me for a moment will you," I say, before making a dash for the Gents. I

punch in Thruster's number.

"Sam, it's me."

"Toby? Is that you? The reception isn't very good. You're not on the loo again are

you?"

RICHARD PARKER

150

"Yeah it's me and yes I'm on the loo."

"Oh, I was just joking."

"Look I'm at Le Cirque in Holland Park with Lucie and Linda. You'll never guess

who I ran into."

"Who?"

"Smythe."

"And?"

"And! He was trying to be my best bloody friend. Said I was a superstar editor. Said

he's going to invite me to PGP's new offices."

"And?"

"What do you think it means? Should I be worried?"

"Yes I'd be worried. Smythe isn't nice to anyone without a reason."

"What do I do?"

"Don't ask me." Great.

When I get out of the cubicle I decide my bladder isn't quite empty, so I wander

over to the urinal. Seconds later Smythe comes in and bowls up next to me. Bugger.

Trying to make small talk with your boss isn't easy at the best of times. Trying to do

it while both of you are holding your dicks is even harder.

"So, Mr Smythe. How's business in PGP's other operations?"

"Please, it's Julian." Standing at the urinal I remind myself of the one and only rule of

urinal etiquette – never ever stare at your neighbour's penis. There's no legitimate

reason. There's one other problem too. I've got stage fright. Thirty seconds pass and

still nothing. Smythe is pissing like a horse and bleating on about PGP's recent

expansion in Eastern Europe. I pretend to be fascinated. I'm worried. I'm cautious.

A minute later, Smythe zips up. As for me, not a thing. Not even a drop.

RICHARD PARKER

151

"Prostate problems, I'm afraid."

"Really? Aren't you a little young?"

"The doctor says even men my age can get it."

"Shit. Well if you need a second opinion let me know. I know a couple of good

urologists."

"Thanks. I appreciate that."

"Anyway, your friends seemed delightful. Have you seen any of Lucie's films?"

"All of them actually."

"All of them? How many has she done?"

"Sixty or so."

"Really but she only looks in her early 20s. How has she had time to star in 60

films?"

"Her kind of films take only a couple of days. She's an adult entertainment actress." I

feel like I've betrayed Lucie. Disclosed some confidence, but bugger it. Smythe will

find out sooner or later.

"You're kidding me?"

"Nope. Actually I was in New York last week at the shoot of her latest film."

"You weren't!!"

"I was." A perplexed, intrigued frown consumes Smythe's face. We move to the

handbasins. Smythe runs his hands through his hair and straightens his tie.

"Do you like your job Toby?"

Do I like my job? How the hell do I answer that?

"Yeah, I love it."

"Why?"

RICHARD PARKER

152

Why? Christ I don't bloody know. You tell me. More importantly, why all the

questions? What are you playing at?

"Because I get to watch people like Lucie have sex. And the intellectual challenge of

course." Smythe snorts with laughter. He seems to find my response highly amusing.

"Well at least you're honest. I like that. I'll get Diane to call you. Maybe we could

do lunch, or dinner even, with Lucie and Linda. Do you think they would be

interested?"

"I don't see why not."

"Wonderful." With that he's off again. With Smythe gone I return to the urinal. This

time everything works fine.

***

"I can't believe I'm going to my first football game. And at Highbury too," gushes

Charlotte with genuine excitement. Charlotte is wearing a Gunners's shirt, which I

bought her for the occasion, and a pair of faded and very figure-hugging Levi jeans.

She looks hot. Really hot.

"Where are we meeting Mike and the others?"

"On Avenell Road, outside the East Stand."

"Thanks for inviting me Toby."

"You're most welcome."

"Next time we're in New York I'll take you to a Yankees's game."

"You're on."

RICHARD PARKER

153

"I bet Mike was pleased with his birthday present," she says.

"I hope so." For Mike's birthday I got him an Arsenal shirt, a football signed by the

team, a scarf, and tickets to Arsenal's next six home games. I've never seen him look

so stoked.

When we exit Arsenal station we find the streets are bustling with Gunners's

fans. I keep an eye out for Nick Hornby – just in case. He's supposed to go to all

their games. What I'll say to him I have no idea. Probably nothing. I wonder if he

has his own corporate-authors’ box now? When we turn into Avenell Road we scan

the throngs of people for Mike, Sally and Sam.

"There they are," points Charlotte.

"Well spotted."

"Hi Toby, Charlotte," says Mike, when we reach him outside the front of the East

Stand.

"Hi Mike," we both say.

"Thanks again for the present Tobs. It's the best present I've had in a very long time.

"Don't mention it mate. Let's just hope the Gunners don't spoil it by losing. Seaman

hasn't been in the best of form."

"Seaman?" queries Charlotte, incredulously. "That isn't really his name is it?"

"Afraid so. David Seaman. He's the goalie. But he is the S E A kind," I advise.

"Wait till you see his moustache and ponytail," adds Sally. "He'd been an ideal porn

actor, if he got sick of football."

When the game is over, Arsenal has prevailed over Man U. Mike is ecstatic,

and a little hoarse. We all are actually. Chanting 'Beckham is a wanker, Beckham is

wanker' for an hour and a half can do that to you.

RICHARD PARKER

154

"What about a drink at the Horse & Trap, near my place? Drinks are on Thruster," I

pronounce.

"Count me in," says Mike.

"And us," say Sam and Steve.

"Me too," adds Sal.

As we head off to Arsenal station, I turn to Charlotte.

"I hope you're going to come. Mike would be very upset if you didn't, since it's his

birthday and all."

"And what about you?" How do I answer this?

"As your friend, I'd love it if you came too, but it's up to you. No pressure."

Charlotte laughs and runs her hand through her hair.

"I'll come for one drink."

"Great," I beam. As we walk back down Avenell Road towards Arsenal station, a

group of hysterical Gunners's fans run past us screaming, 'Beckham is a loser,

Beckham is a loser'.

At the Horse & Trap, I order the first round of beers.

"So how did you enjoy your first game?" I ask of Charlotte.

"It was fun. I felt sorry for David Beckham though. It can't be fun having 25,000

people calling you a wanker."

"No, I can't say it would. I suspect he's used to it though. English football fans aren't

known for their manners."

"Well wanker or not, I think he's cute."

"You think so?"

"Oh yeah." I try not to look jealous.

RICHARD PARKER

155

"A toast to the Gunners and to Toby Willis, the best boss in the world," yells Mike,

who is onto his third pint, and well on the way to getting very pissed.

"What are you up to tonight?" Charlotte asks me.

"Tonight? Nothing."

"You don't want to catch a movie by any chance?"

"I'd love to."

"There's this Swedish film I've been meaning to see for a while."

"Sounds fun. When's it on?"

She glances at her watch. "In about an hour and a half. I wouldn't mind going home

and getting changed too."

"Okay. Let's have one more drink, so Mike doesn't think we're too rude and go."

"Sure."

***

"Are you finding this as boring as me?" whispers Charlotte.

"How boring are you finding it?"

"Excruciatingly boring."

"Me too."

"Shall we go?"

"Lead the way."

After stumbling and tripping over the legs of the other people in our row, most of

whom appear asleep (one or two are definitely snoring), we finally exit the movie

theatre with much relief.

RICHARD PARKER

156

"That was awful," I exclaim.

"I'm sorry about that," apologises Charlotte. "The shorts I saw last week made it look

really good."

"Yeah, well never trust the shorts. Hell, never trust Swedish sub-titled films."

Today is our second outing as friends since getting back from Boston and,

contrary to all my predictions, it's actually getting easier. As a friend I can be myself.

I don't need to put on any act to try to impress Charlotte. She can take me as I am.

"What would you like to do?" I say. Why don't we go back to my place and have a

shag – just a suggestion.

"How about a bite to eat?"

"Sure. There's a neat little Italian place around the corner. The owner is a real hoot."

"Okay, let's go."

When we get there we find a table by the window and order a bottle of cheap

red wine.

"What are you going to have?" asks Charlotte.

"Pepperoni pizza I think. What about you?"

"Same. Shall we share? I don't think I could eat a whole one."

"Sure." I beckon the waiter and we order a pepperoni pizza.

"So are all Swedish films that boring or was it just me?"

"It was pretty bad, wasn't it?" she giggles. "The last one I saw was great so I wouldn't

write them off totally."

"Okay, they can have one more chance."

"So have you been for any runs since we got back from Boston?"

"Not yet. But I've bought a new pair of running shoes. Does that count?"

RICHARD PARKER

157

"Afraid not. You really are a lost cause Toby Willis. I think we should go for a run

this weekend, okay? I'll call you Saturday. No excuses. No, ‘I'm feeling tired’. No,

‘I've got a hangover’. Okay?"

I take a sip of wine. "Okay."

"Toby. You know in Boston?" says Charlotte, before stopping abruptly.

"Yes," I say.

"Actually, don't worry."

"No tell me. What?"

"It's nothing honestly. Forget it."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure. Tell me about your job?" orders Charlotte, sipping her wine and changing

topics. Boston, it seems, is off limits. "Actually tell me how a guy who comes near

the top of his class at law school ends up editing a porn magazine?" Although things

have improved dramatically since Boston, the topic of what I do for a living each day,

and why I tried to cover it up, is not something we have discussed.

"I'm not quite sure to be honest. I hated law from Day One. Then I got this great job

at News Corp working for this sports' magazine and 18 months later I found I was the

assistant editor. I realised then that I loved the magazine business. Or probably the

publishing business really. I'd be just as happy with books or newspapers."

"So why Thruster?"

"Because I’m the editor for starters. Because it's different. It's a challenge. It's a risk.

The magazines I worked for at News and Time Warner were well established, safe

and had fairly stable readerships and loyal advertisers. I enjoyed working for them,

but I felt I needed to have a go at something that would enable me to really make a

name for myself in the business. Look I know Thruster is a crappy magazine, but I

RICHARD PARKER

158

really believe I can turn it around. And it's just a stepping stone. That's all. PGP has

promised that if I can turn the magazine around, doors will open for me."

I'm finding it impossible to read Charlotte as I spout forth my justification.

"And what if you do make the magazine a success? Wouldn't you want to stay?

Wouldn't PGP want you to stay on?"

I shrug my shoulders.

"I hadn't really thought about that actually."

"Look it's a free world and it's your career Toby. You should do what you think is

best for you."

I can tell Charlotte doesn't understand why I do what I do. I can explain to her

that it's a stepping stone. I can explain that it's only temporary. I can tell her it's a

means to an end. But at the end of the day, the only thing she really cares about is

that I've chosen, of my own free will, a job which involves looking at pornography all

day. In her eyes I'm a volunteer pornographer. And for most women that's a little

hard to swallow.

***

When I get back to the office in Covent Garden, there is a message from

Diane, Smythe's PA. I have received only three previous messages from Diane, all of

which sent me scurrying to the bathroom for a dump. Real ankle-grabbing dumps

too; the kind that require half a roll of loo paper to wipe up the damage and a hard-

bristled scrubbing brush to clean the porcelain. I make the call from reception.

RICHARD PARKER

159

"Diane. Toby Willis returning your call."

"Toby. Thank you for calling back so quickly. I understand Julian has told you he'd

like you and your staff to come over for drinks tonight at PGP. How does 5.30 p.m.

sound?"

Tonight? 5.30 p.m? The staff?

"Five thirty sounds great. We'll see you there."

I glare at my watch. It's 4.45 p.m. already. Typical Smythe. Expects people to drop

everything to suit him. Stuff him.

"Sam. Ring Diane back and tell her something has just come up and I can't make it

after all. Okay?"

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

I storm off to my office. I refuse to be Smythe's lackey. I slam the door shut and

collapse into my chair. Maybe I'm making a mistake. I open the door.

"Sam!" I yell. "Have you called Diane yet?"

"Not yet," she yells back.

"Hold fire will you."

"Okay."

Mike and Sally are both staring at me.

"How was New York?" asks Sally.

"Great thanks," I reply, feeling almost disorientated. Something about the office

doesn't seem right.

"Where's Rachel?" I ask.

"Rachel?" says Mike.

"Yes, Rachel."

RICHARD PARKER

160

"Didn't Sam tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

"She quit. She's gone to work at PGP Corporate with Smythe I think."

"She quit?"

"Yeah."

"When?"

"Yesterday."

I feel like I'm fielding at silly mid-off and Sachin Tendulkar has just cover driven a

ball straight into my nuts and I'm not wearing a box. I retreat back into my office and

gently sit down again. I need an ice pack. A minute later, I'm back at the door again.

"Okay you two, we're off to PGP – hope you didn't have plans. His Highness has

asked us for drinks and I really need you there okay?"

***

The four of us are greeted by Diane and taken to a conference-cum-

entertainment room.

"Julian won't be long," Diane advises. Mike, Sally and Sam look seriously pissed. I

don't blame them.

"What the hell is this all about?" bleats Sally. "I've worked at Thruster for six

frigging years, and PGP, and that arsehole Smythe, have acted like we don't exist.

Even worse, like we've got leprosy or something."

"And I don't appreciate having my plans for the evening wrecked on 45 minutes’

notice," she adds.

RICHARD PARKER

161

"I'm sorry guys. Look I don't want to be here anymore than the rest of you but…"

Before I can finish, the door is flung open and in strides Smythe. He is all smiles.

"My goodness, where are your drinks? I thought Diane was looking after you."

"Diane!" he yells down the hallway. "Can you sort out the drinks. Our guests are

dying of thirst in here." A few minutes later a dozen or so PGP executives file into

the room, looking decidedly unhappy to be there, and wearing very false smiles.

Smythe seems genuinely friendly however. After I introduce the team Smythe takes

over.

Ever the host and diplomat, Smythe also appears to have brought along his

very own resident feminist, who quickly bails up Sam and Sally.

"So as women, how do you live with yourselves? I mean, I'm appalled that PGP even

owns such a magazine." Sally and Sam stare at each other, as if to say, ‘who the hell

does this butch, carpet biter think she is?’

"I bet you've never even been laid. What'd you reckon Sal?" replies Sam. Before the

gobsmacked carpet biter can respond, I see Rachel Porter walking past the room.

"Rachel," I yell, moving to the doorway. She is either ignoring me or audibly

handicapped because she continues down the hallway. I give chase.

"Rachel," I yell again. This time she can't ignore me. She stops dead in her tracks.

"Toby. What a pleasant surprise," she spits sarcastically.

"I bet you didn't expect to see me so soon?"

"You could say that. So how's that girl I ran into at MK's the other night? What was

her name?" she replies snidely.

"It's Charlotte as I'm sure you know. She's great. In fact I just spent the weekend

with her in Boston." Rachel seems slightly taken aback about the weekend in Boston.

Round One to Toby Willis.

RICHARD PARKER

162

"She obviously has even less judgement and taste than I gave her credit for." Before I

can berate Rachel for failing to tell me she had quit, Smythe spots us in the corridor.

"There you two are. Come on," he orders, beckoning both of us to rejoin everyone.

When we get back to the doorway, Smythe puts his hand on my shoulder and guides

me into the corner of the room. "We need to have a chat," he whispers. I glance over

at Rachel, who looks somewhat bemused at Smythe's hand.

"I just wanted to say again what a fabulous job you've been doing at Thruster."

"Thank you." I don't know what else to say and so I say nothing. As much as I

pretend Smythe doesn't scare me, that I'm above cow towing to rich and powerful

people, I find myself thinking the most degrading thoughts.

"How much do we pay you?" Bugger all; next to nothing; a pittance. Take your pick.

"£35,000."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"That's shocking," he says, shaking his head. Yep.

"Why don't we double it? What do you think?" I think I'd be prepared to grab my

ankles for that. Shit I'd even shag Rachel Porter for you.

"Sounds great. It's about in line with the market. Thank you Julian." I try to look

calm. If I look too happy he'll think he's making a mistake and paying me too much.

With people like Smythe, it's never how much they should pay you, it's how much

they can get away with not paying you.

"Not at all," says Smythe.

"What about your entertainment account?" he asks next.

"£10,000 a year."

"You're kidding?"

RICHARD PARKER

163

"I wish I was."

"Hopeless. Utterly hopeless. Let's make it £100,000 but make sure you budget for a

few trips for me to LA and New York. I have a feeling I might be seeing a bit of

Linda and Lucie. If Thruster is ever going to compete with the big boys, it needs a

decent schmoozing budget, don't you think?"

"Absolutely!" I raise my glass. "To Thruster," I say spontaneously. "To Thruster,"

says Smythe.

Looking back across the room, I see Sam and Sal, still locked in a heated

debate with the carpet biter. For a split second, I contemplate asking for pay rises for

them too. We're a team after all. It's what they deserve. It would be the right thing to

do. But I don't want to jeopardise my increase. Maybe I'll just slip them a few extra

grand from the schmoozing account.

"I was extremely impressed with that article you did on Lucie Sinbad. I read it after I

got back from Le Cirque. She's quite breathtaking, don't you agree?"

"Stunning."

"Hard to understand why someone as obviously intelligent and beautiful as her stays

in that kind of business?" ponders Smythe.

"Apparently for the sex."

"Yes, I know she says that. But do you really believe her?"

"I do. I honestly do. She loves it. Trust me." Smythe smiles. It's a wicked smile and

then he takes another sip of wine.

"I've thought about Thruster a lot recently," he continues, as he swishes the remnants

around in his glass, "and I'd be keen to get together next week to bounce some ideas

around with you. How are you placed next week?"

"Next week," I say. "Sounds fine."

RICHARD PARKER

164

"Wonderful. I'll get Diane to call you to arrange a time."

"So what kind of ideas have you got in mind, because we've got some focus groups

planned towards the end of next week? Perhaps we could run your ideas past the

participants. See what they think. They've been very helpful in the past."

"A focus group. Yes I think that would be wonderful. Let Diane know the time and

place. I'll make sure I'm there." I should be wary of Smythe. I realise that his actions

make no sense. No sense at all. Scanning the room, I spy Rachel cavorting with

some young PGP execs. What a tramp. I wonder what her role is in all of this is?

She's been bagging me to Smythe for months. That's what makes Smythe's actions so

strange. I need to find out.

"Well Toby I better be off. It was good to see you again."

"Likewise Julian."

If I didn't hate her so much, I might be able to admit to myself that Rachel is

actually attractive. Foxy even. She's just so goddamned superior. That's what makes

her so loathsome. This evening, she has her raven black hair pulled off her face, and

tied tightly at the back with a gold clip. She is wearing a turtle-neck sweater with a

navy thigh-hugging skirt, stopping well above her knees. Her breasts look pert, yet

not overwhelming. They look gropable I think. Definitely worth a feel anyway.

"Toby Willis, pleased to meet you?" I say, introducing myself to the PGP exec

standing next to Rachel. "Nice to meet you," he replies offering me his limp hand.

"So how's the new job going Rach?" I inquire, genuinely curious.

"Better than the last one, though that wouldn't be hard," she retorts cuttingly, running

her talons through her raven hair. I let me eyes run up and down her body and then

settle on her tits.

"Do you mind?"

RICHARD PARKER

165

"Mind what?"

"Gawking at my breasts. I'm not some cheap slut in one of those filthy porn films you

watch."

"No you're not. You're quite right. Please accept my apology." I want to say

something nasty, or do something inappropriate, for I know of few people more

deserving of inappropriate and nasty treatment than Rachel Porter. But I don’t.

"Nice arse don't you think?" I suggest, checking out her backside as she storms off.

"Great arse. But she's still a bitch," retorts the PGP exec.

"Sorry I missed your name before."

"Jonathan. Jonathan Miles."

"What do you do here Jonathan?"

"I work in the Finance Department. I'm a beanie."

"How long have you been with PGP?"

"Too long."

"You don't like it?"

"My job sucks. Smythe is a prick. And I recently discovered that that bitch Rachel is

paid twice what I am, for doing bugger all, as far as I can tell." Well, well.

"What about you? You enjoy working at Thruster?" inquires Miles, suddenly looking

embarrassed by his little tirade.

"Yeah, love it. I get paid to look at naked women all day – wouldn't you?"

"It'd get a bit boring after a while wouldn't it?" A remarkable response.

"What job doesn't?" I reply politely.

"True."

"So if your job really sucks that much why don't you leave?"

"I'm looking. I have a few interviews next week with some head-hunters."

RICHARD PARKER

166

"My sister works for Williams Seymour in New York. I could get her to pass on your

details to the London office."

"Really? That would be great. I've spoken to someone from there before but they

didn't seem very interested." Jonathan Miles looks genuinely appreciative. He also

looks like he needs all the help he can get.

"So Jonathan. You're not a big fan of Smythe? He seems alright to me."

"The guy is a fuckhead and a crook." No need to sugar coat it for me Johnny. Just

tell me how you really feel.

"Really?" I say. Miles glances at his watch. "Look, I better be off. My wife will be

wondering where I am. Nice to meet you. And thanks for the offer of help."

"Not a problem. I'll e-mail her details tomorrow." It's time to go too I think. After

rounding up Mike, Sam and Sal, we make our exit. I wonder if we'll be invited back?

***

"Charlotte. It's me. Toby."

"Hi, how are you?"

"Great. You feel like celebrating?"

"Depends. What's the occasion?"

"I'll tell you when I see you."

"Does it have to be tonight? I'm actually feeling exhausted. I wouldn't mind just

collapsing into bed with a glass of wine." What about collapsing into bed with a

RICHARD PARKER

167

bottle of wine and me? It's wishful thinking and I don't want to strain our new-found

status as friends so soon, so I don't suggest it.

"Yeah, that's fine. It was just a spur of the moment thing. I might give Josh a call and

see what he's up to." I don't intend to make Charlotte feel guilty with the comment

about Josh, but as soon as I say it I can tell she starts to feel bad. That having spurned

me, she is now not honouring her new duties as a friend.

"I'm sorry. I'm not much of a friend am I?"

"Don't be silly. You're a great friend."

"I'll see you soon. I'm just leaving the office now."

"Look, we can make it another night if you want?"

"No, I'm coming over."

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

"Great. I'll put some wine in the fridge. See you soon."

It's never going to work. Charlotte and me being friends that is. She's simply

too desirable. She's smart; she's funny; she's intelligent; she's sartorial; she's self-

deprecating yet confident; she's gorgeous and she has the cutest Brooklyn accent I've

ever heard. No man will ever want to be just her friend. They'll pretend they do, like

I'm pretending now, if that's what it takes to be near her, but they'll be kidding

themselves. Maybe I shouldn't go on being her friend. Because I won't be able to

take it if she starts seeing someone else. It'll kill me. I'll be gutted. I'll end up strung

out on Prozac or Zoloft, playing with razor blades. Our friendship will be over.

Forty five minutes later the doorbell rings. After an emergency tidy up, the

flat looks almost presentable.

RICHARD PARKER

168

"Hi," I say, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek. She looks a bit startled by my sudden

lunge towards her, and ends up head butting me, as she pulls away, and then lurches

forward. I grab onto my nose and reel back.

"Oh my God. I'm sorry. I just wasn't expecting you to kiss me. I'm so so sorry."

"It was my fault," I mumble through my hand, as I search for a mirror to check the

damage.

"Here. Let me look," she orders. I stop and turn around to face her.

"Well I won't be able to see much unless you take your hand away." I do as I'm told.

Her eyes study my face intently, as she runs her hands up and down my nose.

"Tell me if it hurts," she orders, as she gently applies pressure to various parts of my

nose.

"There!" I yelp in agony.

"Hmmm. It might be broken I'm afraid. Have you got any ice?"

"Should do."

"You sit down and I'll go and get some ice." She soon emerges from the kitchen with

a bag of ice.

"Now lie back and be a good patient," she instructs. Once again, I do as I'm told.

"There's some wine in the fridge. Cork screw is in the top drawer," I advise.

"Would you like one?" I nod my head. When she returns with two glasses of wine, I

remove the ice pack and sit up.

"So what's the big news?" asks Charlotte.

"PGP has decided to double my salary."

"Double it? That's fantastic Toby. Well done." She leans over and kisses me on the

cheek.

"Thanks."

RICHARD PARKER

169

"How's that nose?"

"Sore."

"I really am sorry. I wasn't quite sure what you were doing."

"I was only going to kiss you on the cheek. Friends do that you know. I wasn't

intending to stick my tongue down your throat." That will come later.

"I know." She starts to giggle, which sets me off. Then she spills her wine on her lap

and the couch.

"Oh shit," she cusses and then bursts into more hysterical laughter.

"Here, hold this," she says, handing me her glass. "I'll go and get something to clean

it up." I watch her disappear into the kitchen. When she finishes cleaning up, she

surveys the apartment.

"Interesting décor," she pronounces.

"Tell me about it. Now that I can afford something a little more upmarket I think I

might move out. What do you think?" She looks around the room again. "I think

that would be a very good idea."

"Well, if you hear of anything going let me know."

"Actually, there might be something. I should know for sure tomorrow. It's a great

place and the flatmates are awesome."

"Cool."

Maybe it can work. Maybe. My problem is I don't know how to be friends

with girls. Sooner or later I start thinking of them in sexual terms. Once that itch

starts it either has to be scratched or I have to stop being their friend.

"Have you eaten yet because I'm starving? I wouldn't mind ordering something in,"

suggests Charlotte.

"No I haven't. What do you feel like?"

RICHARD PARKER

170

"Pizza."

"Pizza sounds good. There's a pizza place just around the corner that does deliveries.

Its card and menu is by the phone I think." I put the ice pack back on my nose and let

Charlotte do the ordering.

"How does the Tandoori sound?"

"Fine with me."

"Do you mind if I put some music on?" she asks, as she cups the receiver.

"No go for it."

"Yes, hi. I'd like to order a large Tandoori pizza but not too hot," she says. I take the

pack off my nose, and catch Charlotte hunched over the CD player scrutinising my

collection. She's wearing another exquisite French grey suit. Regrettably it's an ankle

length skirt, but I detect some black knee-high leather boots underneath.

"It'll be 20 minutes," she says, once she hangs up.

"Great," I mumble from behind the ice pack.

"Westlife, S Club 7, Britney Spears. Pretty impressive collection you have here

Toby."

"They're not mine, they're my flatmates’," I lie embarrassed.

"Sure, whatever you say." Eventually she settles on the new Travis album. She pours

herself another glass of wine.

"You really look like a Westlife fan you know."

"And what do they look like?"

"Just admit it! They're your CDs!" I start to smile. I take a big gulp of wine and say

nothing.

"I knew it," she teases. She crosses her legs, revealing the split in her skirt and her

boots. I seize my chance.

RICHARD PARKER

171

"Nice boots."

"Thanks. I picked them up in Italy earlier in the year," she replies, hitching up her

skirt, to show the full boot. My heart flutters. I think she's flirting with me. For a

brief second I picture her standing in front of me, naked, except for the boots. I need

some more wine. I'm really struggling with this friend business. I'm also struggling

to read Charlotte's body language.

There are four kinds of women in the world when it comes to body language;

those who flirt with you but don't like you; those who flirt with you and do like you;

those who don't give you any signals and don't like you; and those who don't give you

any signals and do like you. How men are supposed to read the signals and then

know what they mean is beyond me? For instance, does Charlotte hitching up her

skirt constitute flirting? If so, does it mean she likes me? Who the hell knows? Now

she's told me she doesn't want a relationship with me, but that doesn't necessarily

mean she doesn't like me. Or does it? I'm not sure.

As Travis blares in the background, the doorbell rings. It's the pizza delivery

man. He bears a remarkable resemblance to my old friend Mr Patel.

"So, how did you manage to wrangle such a huge pay rise?"

"That's the ridiculous thing. I didn't do anything. The MD of PGP invited us over for

drinks and then pulled me aside, asked me how much I got paid, said that was terrible,

and then said he'd double it. He also increased my entertainment budget ten fold. It

was all a bit surreal."

"It sure sounds like it. So what's your boss like?"

"Until yesterday I thought he was a complete prick. Now. Now he's not such a bad

guy."

"So you're someone who can be easily bought are you?"

RICHARD PARKER

172

"Pretty much." We both laugh. "How's your pizza?"

"Delicious. Not quite the same as a real Brooklyn pizza but pretty good."

"So I never got to hear what actually happened with your boyfriend?" I ask, changing

subjects.

"Which one?"

"There's more than one?"

"I am 30, and besides you can hardly talk. At least I didn't sleep with all of them."

Ouch. I guess I deserved that.

"Okay. Point taken. The one that persuaded you to come to London. I assume there's

only one of him?"

"We'd been going out for three years, when he was offered this great job here. I

wasn't keen at first, but we talked it through and I changed my mind."

"Were you serious? Like were you planning on getting married?" I need to know the

answer to this. It might change everything. Women who have nearly gotten married

are serious business. They're looking for things other women aren't – commitment for

one. And then there's your career and earning potential and then kids of course.

"We were fairly serious but we never talked about marriage. I suppose, in the back of

my mind, I thought we would, but I didn't want to be the one who raised it. I didn't

want to be one of those girls who everyone thought pressured her boyfriend into

marrying her."

"Fair enough. Now do you want some more wine? Or tea or coffee?"

"Actually coffee would be great thanks."

"Do you mind if I put something else on," Charlotte says, as I disappear into the

kitchen.

RICHARD PARKER

173

"No, go for it." When I return with our coffees, Dido is playing and Charlotte is lying

on the couch with her jacket and boots off.

"Make yourself at home," I jest playfully.

"Sorry, I'm just zonked." I almost offer her my flatmate's bed for the night but then

decide against it. Too much too soon. She'd interpret it the wrong way. And besides

my flatmate's bed is a pigsty. Covered in stains and God knows what else.

"I'll call you a cab."

"Thanks."

Forty minutes later I help Charlotte into the cab. I give the driver a quick once

over. He looks respectable enough. You never can be too careful. This time

Charlotte leans over and kisses me gently on the cheek, and then on the nose.

"I hope it feels better," she whispers.

"Thanks." I stand on the curb and watch her disappear down the street.

***

A week after my first visit to PGP, I'm back there in Smythe's office. Smythe

is busy talking on the phone as I sip my coffee, relaxing in one of his three vast

leather couches that dominate one corner of his enormous office. His corner office,

with panoramic views of London, feels bigger than the entire Thruster office.

On one side, the covers of PGP's various magazines adorn the wall, including

the latest issue of Thruster with Lucie Sinbad on the cover. It had been a last minute

deal to get Lucie on the cover. A deal that sent sales through the roof. When people

RICHARD PARKER

174

saw Lucie in a red PVC catsuit mouthing 'Oops I Did It Again', under the caption

'Porn Star Reveals All', they just had to buy the magazine. She wasn't Britney Spears,

but for most men she was the next best thing. For some she was even better.

"Sorry about that Toby," apologises Smythe, when he hangs up. "Kids. Real

tearaways my three. You have any yourself?"

"No."

"You married?"

"No. Still looking for Mrs Right."

"It's not easy these days. I don't envy you. Just make sure her first name isn't

Always."

"How old are your kids?"

"19, 17 and 13. The middle one is the worst. Totally out of control. You do what

you think is best for your children but sometimes nothing you do is right." I feel

obliged to offer some sage advice from my own experiences as a teenager, but it all

sounds so banal. "I wouldn't worry. Most kids come right in the end." Sage advice

indeed.

"I hope you're right. Anyway enough about my problems. Let’s talk about Thruster.

I want to say again how happy I am with the last issue. It was the best ever in my

view. I also believe it gives Thruster the platform from which to launch an all out

assault on the big boys." I nod in agreement. "We also need to consider," he

continues, "how we bring magazines like Thruster into the mainstream. I want people

to feel as comfortable reading Thruster in public as they would Vanity Fair, Hello,

GQ or The Economist. We need to come up with a strategy to do that. You

remember RJ Nabisco's smokeless cigarette? It was a disaster but they found

RICHARD PARKER

175

themselves in the same dilemma as us in a way. How do you make an objectionable

product unobjectionable?"

"Speaking of smoking, do you mind?" I ask, pulling out my packet of Dunhills.

"Not at all," says Smythe waving his hand.

"I agree with you Julian. It's what I've been struggling with too. The problem we

have is if we remove the objectionable part we will lose our current customers. We

don't want to remove smoke, we want to convince people that smoke isn't

objectionable. That smoke is good." Smythe nods his head vigorously. "Yes, yes.

You're right. But how?"

"That I don't know," I reply, exhaling and blowing a plume of smoke across the

office.

"I do," says Smythe. "Lucie Sinbad. If she can't get people to love smoke, no one

can. We need to arrange a meeting with her and her manager. Let's do it over a

dinner."

"Okay. I'll give her a call and let you know when she's free."

"Wonderful. Let's aim for next week if we can."

RICHARD PARKER

176

7

Getting caught in public

"People are prepared to get caught in public doing almost anything if it means a

chance of fame or fortune. Trust me Toby. "

[Excerpt from conversation between Julian Smythe, MD of PGP Europe and Toby

Willis, editor of Thruster – UK Edition]

I can barely contain myself. Charlotte has asked me to move in with her. I

can't believe it. Now, when I say move in with her, I mean move in with her, and her

flatmate Lauren. But that's good enough for me. As soon as I hang up from her I call

Josh. I have to tell someone.

"Josh, it's Toby. Guess what?"

"What?"

"Charlotte has asked me to move in with her."

"What? Get out of here."

"No, really she has."

"But I saw her this morning and she didn't say a thing."

RICHARD PARKER

177

"Well, she rang me five minutes ago and said one of her flatmates has been

transferred to New York for a year, and would I want to move in. She even said I

could have a couple of days to think about it. As if."

"Well, you know what this means?"

"What?"

"She's not interested in you," says Josh.

"What makes you say that?"

"Experience. Look, I've got someone with me. I better go."

"Shapiro?"

"Yeah."

"Say hi for me."

"Will do."

After I hang up from Josh, I close the office door. I need some quiet time to

cogitate.

My thoughts turn back to Charlotte. I realise of course that Josh might be

right, when he says Charlotte's decision to ask me to move in is evidence she doesn't

like me. ‘Like me’, in this context, meaning ‘wanting to shag me senseless’. Women

are like that for some reason; not wanting to shag their flatmates that is. Most male

flatmates I've known think of nothing else. So while he might be right, I hope he isn't.

Moving in with someone like Charlotte, someone I like, is uncharted territory

for me. What do I do in the following situations for example?:

1. A guy leaves a message on our answerphone asking Charlotte out on a date. Do I:

(a) delete the message and not pass it on?; or

RICHARD PARKER

178

(b) pass it on?; or

(c) pass it on but give the wrong time and day for the date?

2. I find her sleep walking naked in the flat. Do I:

(a) just stare at her?; or

(b) just stare at her?; or

(c) just stare at her, before running and grabbing my camera and taking a few photos.

3. I'm caught masturbating in the bathroom. Do I:

(a) say I'm donating sperm for an infertile couple?; or

(b) say nothing and pretend masturbating is as normal as combing my hair?; or

(c) say I'm conducting a scientific experiment?

4. I catch her masturbating. Do I:

(a) pretend I didn't see anything?; or

(b) tell her don't worry I do it all the time too?; or

(c) ask if she'd like a hand?

When you're about to move in with someone you like, you need to have the

answers to these questions.

***

It's after 4 p.m. when I emerge from my office.

RICHARD PARKER

179

"Okay everyone. Let's get together in the meeting room in five minutes. There are a

few things I need to update you on." Five minutes later I kick the meeting off.

"There are three things I'd like to discuss. The first is a replacement for Rachel. The

second is the decision by PGP to increase our entertainment budget ten fold and to

examine ways that Thruster can become a top-tier magazine; and thirdly I'd

appreciate your advice on a personal matter. Any questions? No. Good. Okay

Rachel. What can I say apart from good riddance. I think we'll all be better off

without her. Until we find a replacement we're all going to have to work a little

harder. If we're lucky we might get another of PGP's magazines to lend us someone

on an interim basis.

"Sally, can you draft up a job description briefly outlining what Rachel did? – you

know - nail filing, back stabbing, and whatever else it was she did to fritter away the

day, and I'll get Sarah Bright from Williams Seymour to come in tomorrow to meet

with us. Now, the next matter relates to the future strategic direction of this

magazine. I must stress that what I'm about to tell you is highly confidential and is

not to be repeated outside these four walls. Is that understood?"

Sal, Sam and Mike nod their heads.

"Over the last week or so I've had a series of meetings with Julian Smythe, and he has

signalled that PGP wants to take Thruster in a new direction. More specifically, it

wants Thruster to become a top-tier magazine. The first part of that commitment is a

ten-fold increase in our entertainment budget to £100,000."

"What!" screeches Sally.

"Bullshit," explodes Mike.

"Why?" inquires Sam.

RICHARD PARKER

180

"Why? Personally I think PGP has made a conscious decision that it either makes a

go of trying to turn us into something that can compete with the Playboys of the

world, or it should chuck the whole thing in. Effectively, they're giving us one last

chance. What seems clear is that PGP no longer has any interest in owning a

marginally profitable, third-tier porn mag. Our last issue has shown them what we

could become. It's our job to make sure it happens."

"But how?" exclaims Mike. "Last month was a one-off. The only reason sales were

so strong was because Lucie Sinbad was on the cover. We can't have her on the cover

every month. What exactly does PGP have in mind?"

"We're still working through the detail but as soon as that is done I'll let you know.

By the way, I want you all to know that I've raised the issue of your current salary

levels and how they're not in line with the market. PGP has promised to review them

for us." A small fib but told for the greater good. If I can't get them pay rises, I'll

make damn sure some of the expense account money finds its way into their pockets.

"Lastly, I have a very important personal matter to discuss with you. Your candid

advice would be appreciated. Today, Charlotte asked me to move in with her."

"Charlotte?" blurts out Mike. "I thought she hated your guts?"

"She did Mike. But that's ancient history. While we were in Boston, Charlotte and I

talked things through, and we agreed to be friends."

"Friends? But I thought you wanted to shag her?" fires back Mike, somewhat

sceptically.

"Well I did. I do. But it's not going to happen. So friends it is. It's better than

nothing."

"Good for you Toby. I think you'll make a great friend." Sam looks deeply sceptical.

"Thanks Sam. I appreciate that," I reply, before glancing at Sally and Mike.

RICHARD PARKER

181

"So what do I do people? I'm not going to deny I like her, but if I'm going to be her

friend I've got to act like one."

"Do you think she'll change her mind?" asks Sally.

"Who knows? I hope so. But I'm not going to count on it."

"So what do you do if she starts bringing guys home and bonking them or goes out on

dates? You can't start sulking like a little kid," says Sally.

"Yeah yeah, I realise that. I'll just have to be cool about it."

"Make sure you leave the loo seat down. Girls go nuts about that. And don't fart.

They hate that too for some reason," says Mike. "And make sure if you're going to

have a wank that you lock the bathroom door. Oh yeah – watching porn by yourself

with a bottle of baby oil isn't a good look."

"Thanks Mike. Appreciate that. Anything else? Ladies?"

"Well, if you're still intent on winning her over then you need to drop the playboy

routine. She already thinks you're a player, so you're going to have to try to change

that perception," says Sam.

"Kick a man while he's down won't you."

"Do you want some help or not?" Sam snaps back. I nod in agreement, somewhat

chastened and then glance down at her heaving breasts.

"And you'll have to stop doing that!" she yells.

"Doing what for Christ's sake?" I yell back, before stealing another glimpse, as she

thrusts her indignant chest in my direction.

"That! What you just did. Shit you don't even realise you're doing it. Women know

when men stare at their tits. They also know when you're staring at other women's

tits. If you're going to have a chance with Charlotte, it has to stop. Understood?"

"Okay okay. What else?"

RICHARD PARKER

182

"What's her flatmate like?"

"Lauren? No idea."

"Is she single?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Good. If I were you I'd make it my mission to get Lauren to think the sun shines out

of your arse. With any luck, if Lauren decides you're a good guy, she'll tell Charlotte

what she thinks. But make sure you aren't too friendly in case she decides you're

coming onto her."

"Would I do that?"

"Yes!" all three of them say in unison. For the next 20 minutes Sally, Sam and Mike

lay down the rules of flatting with someone you like. I'm not confident I can live by

them, but I promise that I'll do my best.

***

Every quarter Thruster conducts its own unique focus groups. Their purpose

is to reassure me that what I think men want, men in fact want. The remarkable thing

about pornographic focus groups is the people they attract. For their efforts each

participant is paid 10 quid an hour, and gets two free Thruster magazines and a porn

video. Most don't care about the money. We usually run an advert in the paper two

to three weeks before the session, and limit the group to no more than 10. With more

than 200 responses to most adverts, doing the final cull is no easy task. We have to be

reasonably vigorous in our screening process.

RICHARD PARKER

183

Porn magazine focus groups tend to attract a variety of people: the cheapskates

who are too stingy to buy their own magazines and videos and so come along for the

freebies – you get those in any focus group I suppose; the under-sexed, depressed

middle-aged married executive, who realises reading mags and watching videos is as

close to the real thing as he will ever get again; if you're really lucky, the aspiring

centrefold, who has been turned down by every other pornographic magazine in the

business and insists on ripping her clothes off and trying to convince the group how

desirable her breasts and vagina are; the anti-pornography campaigner who weasels

his or her way into the group on false pretences only to launch into a vitriolic tirade

on the moral evil that is pornography; and then, of course, there are your unemployed,

low-lifes desperate for some free food, free porn and a bit of money. They can be a

diverse bunch but that's what makes them so interesting I suppose.

The screening process for the latest focus group took two weeks and in the end

I selected the following eight. Seven blokes and one lovely lass.

1. Gareth – English, 28, unemployed, single

2. Vijay – Indian, 30, Computer Programmer [read - porn downloader],

single

3. Hiroshi – Japanese, 32, student, single

4. David – English, 20, student, single.

5. Troy – American, 21, drama student [ read – aspiring porn actor],

single

6. Chantal – French, 26, unemployed model [read - aspiring Thruster

centrefold] , single

RICHARD PARKER

184

7. Wasim – Pakistani, 27, illegal immigrant [just a guess], married, 11

kids [just a guess]

8. William – English, 39, unemployed former accountant, divorced twice.

I require all eight to sign one of Shapiro's ball-busting confidentiality

agreements, whereby if they utter a word about what goes on in the focus group,

Thruster can throw them in jail, sell their house, sell their loved ones into slave

labour, and sell their pets to the local Chinese takeaway.

***

This quarter's focus group kicks off at PGP's offices on a Thursday evening at

7 p.m. It's set to run until 9 p.m. In addition to the eight participants, in attendance

are Smythe, a group facilitator called Angus, and myself.

"Good evening everyone. Thank you very much for coming along tonight. My name

is Toby Willis, and I'm the editor of Thruster. This evening we also have the MD of

PGP Europe with us, Julian Smythe." I gesture towards Smythe, who flashes

everyone a big cheesy grin.

"The aim of tonight is to get your views on the proposed new direction in which we

wish to take Thruster and the process by which we intend to do that. Just a few

housekeeping matters before we get started. Firstly, I expect the session to go for

about two hours. There will be a five to 10 minute break at 8 p.m. to give you a

chance to stretch your legs and have some refreshments. Bathrooms are down the

RICHARD PARKER

185

hallway and to your right. And lastly, can I just remind you of the absolute need for

confidentiality. You've all signed the confidentiality agreement I know but I can't

stress the point enough. Any questions?"

"When do we get our mags and videos?" It's Troy. What a surprise? I picked Troy

as the biggest knuckle shuffler in the group. At 21, single and butt ugly, I reckon he'd

be doing the business three or four times a day.

"They'll be handed out at the end Troy. Don’t worry," you ugly git. "Anything else?

Nope. Great. Well Julian is going to outline the proposed new look Thruster and

then we'll go from there. Over to you Julian."

"Thank you Toby." Smythe moves to the centre of the room. He's wearing a navy

pin-stripped Italian suit, and a Thomas-Pink-looking shirt with the sleeves rolled up,

to give him that slightly harried corporate look. Staring at him I wonder what it is that

attracts the likes of Mel Trotter and Rachel Porter to him. Perhaps he exudes power

and that makes him sexy. I'm buggered if I know.

"Good evening everyone. As Toby has told you, I'm Julian Smythe. I'm the

Managing Director of PGP's European Operations. As part of those operations I have

responsibility for Thruster. What I want to do tonight is to share with you my vision

for Thruster. A vision that hopefully will see Thruster become one of the leading

entertainment magazines both here in the UK, and in the US. Not just pornographic

magazines either. I mean magazines in general – a magazine that competes with Time

and Vanity Fair. The single biggest obstacle to achieving that goal is people's

perception of porn magazines. We need to make pornography magazines as everyday

as cooking magazines or home and garden magazines. I want people to feel

comfortable having a copy of Thruster on their coffee table when they have guests

around. I want people to feel at ease browsing a copy of Thruster on the tube or in the

RICHARD PARKER

186

doctor's waiting room. The only way we can do that is by changing people's

perception of pornography. We face a challenge not dissimilar to that faced by the

tobacco industry. The issue we have is how do we convince the man and woman in

the street that pornography is good?" Smythe looks like he's just warming up. Like

he's just starting to get into his tobacco industry analogy. The participants, however,

are beginning to look bored senseless.

Fortunately, Angus, the facilitator, senses this and cuts Julian off, saving me

from that unpleasant task.

"Well thank you Julian. Why don't we pause there and get some feedback from the

group on your vision for Thruster?" Smythe stammers momentarily, looking both

aggrieved and surprised by Angus's untimely interruption.

"Ye..Yes. Certainly Angus."

"So what do people think? Gareth, Vijay – any thoughts?"

"Yeah," says Vijay. Angus nods encouragingly.

"Well, I'm not quite sure how to put this but, well….." Vijay hesitates. He looks

pained in a constipated kind of way. Vijay also has a remarkably English accent.

More English and more comprehensible than most English people. There's certainly

none of that 'me be thanking you' stuff. He's an asset to his people.

"Just say whatever feels natural Vijay. No one here is judging you. We're here to be

frank. Isn't that right Toby?"

"Absolutely Angus. Just say what you feel Vijay," I chip in.

"Well. Personally, I like pussy. Jap pussy in particular. No offence Hiroshi but

there's nothing like a nice luscious Jap pussy. And a pussy isn't a casserole is it?

Even a Jap one."

RICHARD PARKER

187

The room is silent. Everyone is digesting Vijay's comments. A pussy isn't a casserole

is it?

"No Vijay you're quite right. A pussy isn't a casserole. At least I don't think it is." I

turn to Smythe, who shakes his head vigorously in agreement. Vijay suddenly looks a

touch embarrassed.

"What I meant was, well, what's his name," Vijay points to Smythe, "said he wanted

to make a pussy magazine as everyday as a cooking magazine. But I don't see how

you can. Pussy's pussy. Cooking's cooking. You know what I mean?"

"I think I do Vijay. I think I do," chirps in Angus. Personally I'm not too happy about

suddenly working for a 'pussy magazine'. The word sends shivers down my spine. I

can't explain why. It just does.

"Anyone else?" implores Angus. "Gareth, Chantal? What do you think about what

Vijay has to say?"

"I have something to say but not about what Vijay said," replies Gareth.

"Yeess," says Angus curiously.

"It's about Indian pussy. I had this Indian girlfriend once and she had a fantastic

pussy. Why doesn't Thruster have models with Indian pussy?" Models with Indian

pussy? I scratch my head and start searching for my cigarettes. Smythe looks at me.

I don't need to ask what he's thinking. Where the fuck did you get these half wits

from I can hear him yelling?

Angus turns to me.

"Toby. Do you have anything to say in response to Gareth's question?" Angus is one

of those facilitators who believes in treating everyone with respect and letting them

have their say no matter how moronic and unworthy of respect they are.

RICHARD PARKER

188

"Yes Angus I do. Firstly let me say we don't hire models with Indian pussy. We hire

Indian models with vaginas. We haven't yet had an Indian centrefold but we're

certainly receptive to the idea. It's really up to our readers – what they want. To date

most have said they want Lucie Sinbad type models – buxom blondes. Angus will

make a note of your interest in Indian models Gareth."

"With Indian pussy!" yells Gareth.

"What other kind would an Indian model have Gareth? Pakistani?" I ask. Gareth

shrugs his shoulders. You're a half wit I scream at him in silence. Smythe looks

furious. Angus looks distressed. We need to get the group back on track.

"So tell us more about your vision," mumbles Troy. Smythe instantly pricks up at this

invitation.

"Certainly Troy," replies Smythe. "It's really quite straight forward. It's going to rely

on money, greed, Lucie Sinbad and a very slick media campaign. What I'm proposing

is this. The next three issues of Thruster will feature Lucie Sinbad on the cover in

various provocative poses." A murmur of approval reverberates around the room.

Troy whispers something to Vijay who laughs and whispers something back. Troy no

doubt telling him how he loves to do the knuckle shuffle watching Lucie Sinbad

videos and Vijay saying how he loves Jap pussy. Staring at the two deadbeats I start

to wonder how much like them I really am? Is that how others perceive me? Lord

help me if they do.

The major caption running across the top of the magazine is 'Get caught with

me in public and be in to win £1,000,000', concludes Smythe.

"Shut up!" yells Troy.

"Excuse me," says Smythe somewhat tersely.

"I meant far out. A million squid? You gotta be yanking my chain?"

RICHARD PARKER

189

"We're not Troy," I reply. I seize the opportunity to take charge of the group. Angus

and Smythe just don't emanate the right kind of image to connect with the Troys and

Vijays of the world.

"Our competition will run for three issues over a three-month period. We plan to hire

up to 200 students to roam the major cities and towns of the UK taking photos of

people reading Thruster in public. They'll take their details down and enter them into

the competition. At the end of the three months we'll draw the winner. The winner

will take home £1,000,000 and have the opportunity to watch the making of Lucie's

next film in the Seven Deadly Sins series, as well as have a chance to have a cameo or

even starring role in that film, if they so wish."

"The winner will get to shag Lucie Sinbad???!!!" screams Troy. "I don't believe you."

I glance over at Smythe for some assistance. Technically speaking Troy is right not to

believe us, because Lucie Sinbad hasn't agreed to our proposal yet. In fact, she

doesn't know anything about it.

"I know it sounds too good to be true but you'll simply have to trust us," I finally say.

"Okay," mumbles Troy.

"What about me?" It's Chantal. What about you I want to say?

"Can you expand on that Chantal?" Angus suggests helpfully.

"Well I'm not a muff muncher you know. I don't get into that kind of thing."

"Why not?" yells Troy.

"Because I'm not a fucking lesbian. That's why."

"People pleeassse. Troy that was most uncalled for. Please apologise to Chantal,"

instructs Angus. After a bit of cajoling Troy finally mumbles something equating to

an apology.

RICHARD PARKER

190

"There will be male actors as well Chantal. We'd need to speak to them but assuming

the winner is a heterosexual female, I'm sure we could accommodate her."

"As long as it's not some old geezer with a moustache. I'm not shagging one of

them."

"I'm sure if you win Chantal no one will force you to do anything you don't want to."

I glance at my watch. It's 8.05 p.m. "Okay everyone. Let's take a break for

10 minutes and resume at 8.15 p.m." As the group breaks I go over to Smythe.

"So what do you think?"

"The truth?"

"I wouldn't expect anything else."

"These people are the most gormless imbeciles I've ever met. I wouldn't ask them

advice on how to pick my nose, let alone what magazine to buy."

"They're also our customers. Gormless imbeciles or not, we need to understand what

makes them tick."

"Hmm," says Smythe, sighing deeply. "I suppose you're right. Doesn't change my

opinion of them though."

"I would hope not," I say.

"So when's our dinner with Lucie?" inquires Smythe.

"Day after tomorrow."

"Does Diane have the details?"

"She does."

"Excellent. Do you think she'll go for it?"

RICHARD PARKER

191

"You can never be certain but I'm fairly confident. We'll find out in two days I

guess."

"What's her manager Linda like?"

"She's a bit of a tough nut actually. Nice but tough. She'll drive a hard bargain."

"I should hope so," retorts Smythe, with a smile. I glance at my watch. 8.14 p.m.

"Oh well, back to it," I say.

In the second hour of the focus group I turn my attention to the internet.

Internet porn more specifically, and the challenges it poses to Thruster, and the porn

magazine business in general. If people prefer downloading stuff from the net as

opposed to reading Thruster, I need to understand why.

"Okay everyone. Thank you for your thoughts so far. They've been most insightful.

Haven't they Julian?"

"Insightful? Yes Toby. Very insightful," he spits out, almost choking.

"Now how many of you watch porn on the internet?"

Within a nanosecond I'm staring at six raised hands.

"What kind of stuff do you watch?"

There is a nervous shuffling. Everyone's heads are glued to the floor. I thought the

first half had warmed them up, but no one seems eager to volunteer.

"The reason I ask," I continue, is that Thruster's greatest competitor is not Playboy

magazine or other such publications, but the net. I suppose I want to understand why

people seem to prefer the internet to magazines? Troy, what do you think?"

"About what?" What do you think you stupid twat?

"About people preferring the net to magazines for their porn."

"Dunno. I don't have a computer." Oh.

"What about you Gareth? You look like you'd own a computer."

RICHARD PARKER

192

"I sure do. It's a Dell notebook with an Intel Pentium 4 Processor." Good for you

Gareth.

"And do you download porn from the internet?"

"You betcha."

"And how does what you download differ from what Thruster offers? If you prefer it

to what you get from magazines, why?"

"It's totally different man."

"How so?" I know the answer, but I need to hear it from one of my potential readers.

"I can get anything on the net. Sex for starters. Not just some still photos of a naked

woman. And you can get black chicks, white chicks, Asian chicks. Group sex.

Lesbo sex. Anal sex. Underage sex. Anything man. It's fantastic and it's free too.

Well, most of it. And you can send it on to your friends and they can send you stuff,

and you never have to leave your house."

Whooa!! Back up a minute Gareth.

"Did you just say underage sex?"

"Yeah. Not kiddy stuff. Fourteen and 15 year old girls. They've all consented. It

says so on the video footage. And some of them are real goers. You can tell they just

love it."

"But that's illegal Gareth." It's also disgusting and morally repugnant.

"Is it?" Of course it is, you stupid moron. I have a good mind to report you to the

authorities.

"Yes it is," I reply curtly.

"Well, I don't care. I love watching school girls. Besides it's better than reading your

boring magazine." Ouch. Now there is no need to get personal Gareth.

RICHARD PARKER

193

"It's a free world. We should be able to watch what we want," yells Troy, who doesn't

even own a computer.

"Well, I think it's disgusting. I think you're disgusting," screams Chantal.

"Piss off you stupid cow," snaps back Troy.

Before I can say anything, Chantal has thrown herself at Troy and appears to be trying

to scratch out his eyes. I'm not inclined to stop her. Julian stares at me. I stare at

him. We both stare at Angus. Angus decides to do something.

"Chantal, Troy. Please," pleads Angus, as he tries to wrestle Chantal off Troy, whose

face is now covered in scratches.

"You fucking bitch," he cusses.

"Troy, please," says Angus again.

After a few minutes of deft negotiations, Angus manages to diffuse the situation.

"Now apologise, both of you," he insists.

"Troy, apologise," he orders.

"Fuck you bitch," he says.

"Fuck you too you disgusting pervert. I'm going to report you and Gareth to the porn

police."

At this point in time I decide to call it a night.

Despite the unfortunate end to the session, Smythe is pleased. Pleased

everyone seemed crazy about the 'Get caught with me in public and be in to win

£1,000,000' campaign. A guaranteed winner they all proclaimed.

While I'm pleased too with the enthusiastic response to the campaign, I'm also

troubled. Troubled how Thruster can possibly compete with the internet? Troubled

about how we can possibly capture and keep the interest of people like Gareth and

Troy, who think watching underage schoolgirls, though illegal, is morally

RICHARD PARKER

194

acceptable? Troubled that the net, where anything goes, and where people are able to

seek out increasingly graphic and depraved sexual images, will give all of us in the

porn game a bad name. That it will undermine my attempts to make porn acceptable;

to make Thruster coffee table reading.

***

"So how do you like the new flat Toby?" asks Lauren. Lauren, her boyfriend Matt,

Charlotte and I are sitting on the flat's two couches devouring some Thai takeaways.

It's our first flat dinner together.

"Loving it thanks. The new flatmates aren't bad either," I add. "You should have

seen my last place in Chelsea. It was a dump."

"I can attest to that," pipes in Charlotte. "His flat was awful. I don't know how you

managed to stay there so long."

"So Toby, Charlotte tells me you're the editor of a porn mag," interjects Matt. I look

at Charlotte who appears slightly embarrassed.

"Yeah," I reply.

"That must be the coolest job in the world?"

"It has its moments," I say.

"I bet. Do you get sent free pornos to review? Because I had this friend who worked

for Penthouse in the US and he got sent truckloads of them. It was unreal. I couldn't

believe someone could have such a cool job."

"I have a few. Goes with the territory unfortunately."

RICHARD PARKER

195

"I don't see what's so unfortunate about it mate. Christ if you don't want them send

them to me. You'd be keen to watch them with me wouldn't you Lotty?"

"Leave them alone Matt. Just because you're a filthy pervert," barks Lauren.

Matt takes a swig of beer.

"We'll talk later," he says to me.

After the end of Cold Feet, Matt and Lauren excuse themselves and disappear

into Lauren's room.

"I think we should start charging him rent soon. He's been here four out of the last

five nights. What do you think?" asks Charlotte.

"I'm all for it."

"You remind me a bit of Adam off Cold Feet you know?" Charlotte says, as we clean

up the kitchen together. Adam!! Adam!!!! I mean sure he's a very funny guy with no

dress sense and one testicle, but he's no oil painting.

"A bit or a lot?"

"Hmm. A lot I think."

"In what way?"

"Just his mannerisms I guess."

"Oh okay."

"You're slightly better looking however." Slightly!! Jesus Christ! I'm tempted to say

Charlotte reminds me of Rachel or more specifically Helen Baxendale, who is one of

my all time foxiest desert-island babes. But I don't. As Charlotte chucks the plastic

Thai food containers into the bin, she gives me a cheeky little smile.

"Coffee?"

"Yeah, that'd be nice." Charlotte grabs the kettle, continuing to smile to herself.

RICHARD PARKER

196

"What are you smiling about?"

"Just waiting for you to say how I remind you of Rachel."

I laugh. "Well I was. I mean you do. And I was going to tell you but I thought you

might take it the wrong way."

"Why? How might I take it?" For someone who professes to have no interest in me I

find Charlotte's behaviour most perplexing.

"That I liked you. That we could be a couple like Adam and Rachel."

"Why would I think that?"

"I don't know."

"Look I'm not going to assume every compliment you make about me is intended as a

come on." You won't? You obviously don't know me very well.

"Pleased to hear it," I say. After making our coffees we plonk ourselves back down in

front of the TV.

"So how's work going?" Charlotte asks.

"Good. We had a really interesting focus group session the other night. Smythe came

along. He was a bit bemused by some of the people I think. What about you?"

"Not bad thanks. It hasn't been too busy. Fortunately one of the IPOs we have been

working on has been delayed which is a relief." For the next five minutes we sit there

staring at the TV, saying nothing. Occasionally I glance over at Charlotte who is

wearing jeans and a grey NYU sweatshirt. Her legs are tucked under her bum as she

gently blows on her coffee.

"Did you know I've never watched a porno?" she says, breaking the silence. It takes

me a moment to register what she has just said. Whoaaa!! Where's she going with

this?

"Really?"

RICHARD PARKER

197

"Yeah. I've had a few opportunities but I was never that interested."

"You're not missing much."

"Maybe, but I'd like to decide for myself. Have you got one I could watch?"

"I think I could get one. Why the sudden interest?"

"Embarrassment I suppose."

"Embarrassment?"

"I came home the other night and caught Matt and Lauren watching one. I told them

it was disgusting and stormed off to my room. I felt a bit silly afterwards. Matt

thought I was a complete prude."

"Look, if it's not your thing don't let someone like Matt make you feel embarrassed."

Please let it be your thing. Please God. Please!

"Hmm, maybe you're right." No I'm not! You should watch one. You must watch

one. I'll help you. I'll talk you through it.

"Look, it's up to you. If you're curious, I'll bring one home tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Okay, bring one home or okay don't bring one home?"

"The former."

"Okay. Just tell me when you want to watch it and I'll make myself scarce."

"I'm not watching it by myself. I'm not some sicko like Matt. You have to watch it

with me."

"Sure." If you insist.

It will be the first time I've ever watched a porno with a female friend which

I'm not sure is that advisable. In my mind there are only two kinds of people you

should watch porn videos with – the girlfriend you're shagging and have persuaded

that re-enacting some scenes from a porn film will add a little spice to your love life,

RICHARD PARKER

198

or a couple of mates with pizza and beers, where you can reassure yourselves that

you're keeping abreast of the latest shagging techniques, just in case they've changed

from last week when you watched your last video. Charlotte falls into neither of those

groups.

***

The Sushi Room in Knightsbridge is the latest upmarket Japanese restaurant to

spring up in London's West End. I wasn't exactly enthused when Smythe told me

where we were going, but I wasn't about to argue with a man who just doubled my

salary. According to Smythe the Sushi Room is more authentic than anything you'll

find in Tokyo.

Our booking is at 8.30 p.m. The maître d greets Smythe by name. Smythe

mumbles something-san and bows ever so slightly. We're seated and I quickly order a

drink and light up. By 8.45 p.m. Lucie and Linda still haven't turned up. As we sit at

our table I’m not sure what to make of Smythe. My opinion of him seems to be

constantly changing. When Dave Jacobs rang me the other day to say Mr No-Name’s

hidden cameras hadn’t recorded anything worthwhile, Smythe actually went up in my

estimation. Don’t ask me why, because I still don’t totally trust him.

"Where could they be?" he asks.

"Beats me. Probably traffic. Don't worry about it." But I can tell he is worried.

After 10 minutes pass, he excuses himself. He emerges from the Gents a good eight

RICHARD PARKER

199

minutes and 23 seconds later. I assume he's had a dump. By 9 p.m. he looks totally

flustered.

"Look, let's give them another 15 minutes. If they still haven't shown up by then,

we'll go."

"Okay. Why don't you call again?" he suggests.

"I've tried three times. It's just going through to her answerphone."

"Well try again," he says with an edge in his voice.

"Sure." I try one more time. Finally a dial tone. "It's ringing," I tell Smythe, cupping

the mouthpiece.

"Linda. It's Toby. Where are you?"

"Stuck in bloody traffic. This city is worse than LA."

"How far away are you?"

"I'd say 10 minutes. Maybe 15. Why don't you order for us?"

"You're sure?"

"Yeah."

"I'll read the menu to you if you want?"

"No don't worry. We'll trust you. As long as it's not goat's testicles or pig's intestines

or something."

"Okay. The menu is all in Japanese but I'll do my best."

"I didn't know you could speak Japanese?"

"I'm full of hidden talents."

"I know," she replies naughtily.

"See you soon," I say.

"Bye," she replies.

"What's the story?" barks Smythe.

RICHARD PARKER

200

"Fifteen minutes away apparently. They said to order for them."

"Excellent. I have just the thing for them." Smythe motions to one of the waiters

who comes running over.

It's nearly 9.30 p.m. by the time Lucie and Linda arrive.

"We're so sorry. You wouldn't believe the traffic."

"Can I get you ladies a drink?" asks Smythe.

"You can, thank you. Anything will do as long as it's a double," says Lucie.

"So how long are you in London for this time ladies?" inquires Smythe.

"I've never been called a lady before," jokes Linda. Lucie starts to laugh. I almost

start to laugh too, before I notice that Smythe looks slightly embarrassed.

"Well, no one else has manners like us Poms, isn't that right Julian?"

"Yes of course Toby. You're quite right." Linda and Lucie seem to agree. When the

waiter arrives with their drinks everyone starts to relax.

"So what's this proposal you want to put to us Julian?" asks Linda getting straight to

the point. As I down my glass of chardonnay and wave at the waiter for another, I sit

there quietly listening to Julian's sales pitch. I try to read Lucie and Linda, but neither

is giving much away. As I watch them I start to feel aroused. It's one of the

disconcerting things about dining with porn stars. Your mind has a will all of its own.

Whether you want to or not, you can't help but find yourself visualising them

shagging some lucky sod senseless.

"We think, with Lucie fronting the new look Thruster, we could turn this magazine

around and make industry history in the process." For the next 15 minutes Smythe

regales us with his vision for Thruster.

"So what's the deal?" asks Linda.

"£75,000 for each of the three issues, plus 2% of each issue's net profit."

RICHARD PARKER

201

"Not even close Julian. If Lucie is so pivotal to this new look Thruster, then you're

going to have to do a hell of a lot better than that."

"But think of the exposure Lucie's going to get. If this launch goes to plan, every

male in the UK is going to be buying a copy of the magazine. Every issue will be

promoting her backlist of videos which we'll place at no cost. Assuming sales of her

videos take off, you'll both be doing rather well I'd imagine. Thruster will be giving

Lucie the kind of publicity no amount of money can buy. In light of that I thought my

offer was rather generous."

"£120,000 per issue plus 10% of the net profit."

"What do you think Toby?" asks Smythe. It's an untimely question as I'm in the

middle of shagging Lucie who is on all fours wearing only a pair of stilettos. If

someone yells fire, right at this moment, I will be unable to leave my seat. I tell

myself to get a grip.

"Toby?"

"Yes, sorry Julian. I was away with the fairies I'm sorry."

"We're not boring you I hope?"

"No, no. Don't be silly." Before I can respond to Smythe's original question I feel

Linda's hand grabbing my crotch. I quickly brush her hand away, skull the rest of my

glass, and tell Smythe I think we should take the counter-offer.

"Excellent. Looks like we have a deal then. Toby can you arrange for Shapiro to

draft up the contract and get it over to Linda ASAP?" instructs Smythe.

"Sure."

"I think a toast is in order," says Smythe. "Let's order some champagne." Everyone

nods in agreement. Before the champagne arrives, I excuse myself and dash off to the

RICHARD PARKER

202

Gents. As I turn around, I see Linda in hot pursuit. Oh Christ. I increase my pace

and hurriedly lock myself into one of the stalls.

"Toby, Toby," Linda whispers. "Open up. Now!"

"What?"

"Open up!"

"I'm on the bog for Christ's sake. Can't a man get some peace? And you shouldn't be

in here. It's the Gents for Christ's sake."

"Toby open up or I'll start yelling."

"Look Linda."

"Toby. Three seconds. Three, two…" I flick the latch open and Linda squeezes in. I

have no choice. She will cause a scene. She's the scene-causing type.

"What do you want?" I ask, exasperated.

"A shag. Now take your pants off," she orders, making a move for my belt.

"Linda stop. I'm seeing someone."

"You're serious aren't you?"

"I am. Sorry." Why do I feel the need to apologise?

Linda shakes her head in disbelief.

"No one has ever done this to me before."

"I'm sure they haven't."

"Well, I hope she's worth it." So do I.

When we get back to the table Smythe announces that he and Lucie have agreed to

shoot the next cover in Paris in two weeks. Subject to the contract being signed, he

tells Linda. Linda says that sounds like a great idea.

"Wonderful," proclaims Smythe. "A toast then," he says raising his champagne flute,

"To Paris."

RICHARD PARKER

203

"To Paris," we all say in response.

"To Lucie Sinbad and the new Thruster," he toasts. We all raise our glasses.

***

When I get back to the flat just before midnight, I grab a beer from the fridge

and head out onto the balcony for a smoke. As I start to feel the chill of the evening

air, I retreat inside to get my leather jacket. Back out on the deck, I take another

cigarette out. Sitting there overlooking South Kensington I start to ponder what film

might be appropriate to show Charlotte.

I need one that will explain to Charlotte, make her understand, why I watch

them. Although I believe you are either a porno person or you're not, I retain the

belief that those in the 'not' category can be converted.

As I stub out my cigarette into the cactus plant, I see the kitchen light flick on.

It's Charlotte. She's in her pyjamas rummaging through the fridge.

"Hi, how are you?" I whisper. Charlotte jumps, almost dropping the carton of milk.

"Shit you scared me," she replies, grabbing her chest.

"Sorry."

"Cute PJs," I say, admiring the penguins, polar bears and icebergs on her pyjamas.

She takes a sip of milk from the carton creating a little milk moustache.

"Thanks. I saw them in GAP last year and just had to buy them." I touch my upper

lip.

"Thanks," she replies, wiping the milk moustache away with the back of her hand.

"Don't tell Lauren I drink straight from the carton. She can't stand it. Drives her

nuts."

RICHARD PARKER

204

"Your secret is safe with me," I respond with a wink.

"Now don't forget we've got the circumcision thingy tomorrow."

"Oh yeah. Do we have to go?" I say.

"Yes. Sam Stein is a very influential partner at K&S."

"So?"

"Look, you don't have to come if you don't want to," she replies, laying on a guilt trip.

"Okay, but you owe me one for this you realise. Charles isn't going to be there is he?"

"I'm not sure."

"I hope not."

"Anyway, I'm zonked. Goodnight," I say.

"Goodnight Toby."

***

Charlotte and I are standing in the back of the living room of Samuel Stein's

house in Hampstead Garden Suburb. Sam is a friend I met through Josh and also

works at K&S. Sam's son Jacob is eight days old and is in the process of getting the

chop. It's Charlotte's first bris. It's my seventh. It's our first together as friends.

Although I didn't want to come, the fact is I’d go anywhere or do anything, if it meant

spending some time with Charlotte.

"You got home late last night. How was dinner with Smythe and the porn stars?"

"Good. We're off to Paris to shoot Lucie's cover for the next issue."

"Paris. Very nice. And what exactly do you do during the photo shoot?"

"What do I do?"

RICHARD PARKER

205

"Yes."

"I stare at Lucie Sinbad naked. Suggest to her that she might like to look a little more

slutty or dirty, if need be, and I make sure I keep the Troys and Gareths of the world

happy. It's a tough job."

"Yeah right. Who are Troy and Gareth anyway?"

"You don't want to know."

"So are you circumcised?" whispers Charlotte.

"I am," I reply.

"Did it hurt?"

"I can't remember. It was a long time ago you do realise."

"I think it's barbaric personally."

"You do? Why?"

"It's unnecessary. Why put a child through that kind of unnecessary pain?"

"Well I'm glad I was circumcised."

"You are? Why?"

"Because they look better." I'll even show you if you want.

"They?"

"Penises."

"Says who?"

"Says almost every woman I know. That's who."

"I'd like to meet some of these women."

"Don't you think they look better?"

"I've never really thought about it actually."

"You must have. Every woman I know has a view on it."

"Not me."

RICHARD PARKER

206

"So you wouldn't get your son circumcised?"

"No."

"Even if it meant he had an ugly knob for the rest of his life?"

"They're pretty ugly anyway. Whacking off the foreskin doesn't improve them a lot,

I'm afraid."

I shake my head in bewilderment.

"I'm hungry. I wish the bloody mohel would hurry up!"

Charlotte shoots me a Toby-behave look.

"So do you realise this is our first circumcision together as friends? This is a pretty

special occasion. I think we should have a glass of champagne to celebrate."

"I agree," says Charlotte.

"Oh God," I groan.

"What?"

"I've just spotted Charles."

"Where?"

"Over there, near the entrance to the dining room."

Charlotte cranes her head around the people in front of her.

"I see him. Now don't go getting in another fight."

"Would I do that?"

When the mohel finishes his business we queue up to congratulate Sam and

his family, before heading for the waiters holding the trays of kosher champagne. I

throw back two glasses straight away.

An hour later we decide to leave. We're about 10 feet from the door, when he

appears out of nowhere and stops us dead in our tracks.

"Charles," I snarl.

RICHARD PARKER

207

"Toby. Charlotte. How lovely to see you both," he replies in a tone laced with

sarcasm. "Why don't you stay a little longer Charlotte? I know Simon Elworthy

would love to catch up with you." If I was a little tougher I would deck Charles right

here and now. Instead we barge past him, and I mumble 'arsehole' to him.

"What a prick!" cusses Charlotte outside.

"Do you want me to go back in and beat him up?"

"That would be fun, but he's not worth it. Come on. Let's go to the Horse & Trap

and get a drink."

"You're on."

RICHARD PARKER

208

8

Paris and the vagina dialogue

"The answer ultimately isn't a moral one. Nor is it a question of artistic merit or

sexual preference. It's an issue of commercialism. Of dollars. Will our magazine sell

more or fewer copies if we have vaginas and will it attract more or less advertising

revenue?"

[Perspective of Toby Willis, editor of Thruster – UK Edition]

Our luxury hotel is on the rue du Fouberg St-Honoré, only a stones' throw

from the Champs Elysées. It's my fourth visit to Paris and the hotel is by far and

away the flashiest French establishment I've had the honour of staying at. Smythe it

seems is determined to impress the panties off Lucie, and he is sparing no expense on

anything. I'm sure he feels a swanky hotel room in the heart of Paris is just the way to

get Lucie 'sans panties'.

I find Paris, and France, beautiful but exhausting. It's the language. My

French is limited to une Heineken et une packet de Dunhill Rouge s'il vous plaît. It's

not hard therefore to understand why getting around is a little draining for me. Why

the French don't speak frigging English is beyond me quite frankly. Why everyone

RICHARD PARKER

209

doesn't speak English is beyond me? Cultural diversity is hugely overrated. It's a bit

like Asian countries with their chopsticks and squat toilets. Why don't they use

knives and forks for God's sake? I'm sure chopsticks were a great invention at the

time but, let's face it, things have moved on. And as for the squat toilet – surely their

citizens don't enjoy crapping on their shoes? Then again, maybe I'm just a cultural

Philistine.

The cover shoot with Lucie is tomorrow. Before then, Smythe and I need to

make one of the most important calls a pornographic magazine can ever make – the

all important 'vagina-shot' call. Up until now, Thruster has been a vagina magazine.

We have celebrated the vagina in all its glory by having it gratuitously displayed by

our various models.

After much angst and soul searching I've decided that Thruster should cease to

be a vagina magazine. What I need to do now is convince Smythe why it should be

so. Smythe, you see, is obsessed with them. For him, no vagina means no magazine.

To him Thruster always has been, and always should be, a vagina magazine.

***

Smythe is sucking on a big fat Cuban cigar when I arrive at his room at 4 p.m.

"You want one?" he inquires as I take a seat on the couch.

"Thanks."

"Boy I love this city. It sure as hell beats London doesn't it? And the French. God I

love the French. Don't you?"

RICHARD PARKER

210

Not really. "They're okay," I eventually concede.

"So have you given the matter any further thought?" asks Smythe.

The matter is, of course, whether Thruster should continue to let its models

display their vaginas. The answer ultimately isn't a moral one. My particular mores,

and Smythe's for that matter too, are irrelevant on this subject. Nor is it a question of

artistic merit or sexual preference. It's an issue of commercialism. Of dollars. Will

our magazine sell more or fewer copies if we show vaginas and will it attract more or

less advertising revenue?

"I have, Julian." Before I can continue there is a knock on the door.

"Get that for me, would you Toby," orders Smythe, as he wanders off to the minibar.

With Cuban in hand, I get the door.

"What are you doing here?" is all I manage to splutter.

"To make sure you do your job properly," shoots back Rachel Porter, in a most

caustic and condescending manner, before brushing past me. "Now where's Julian?

And get that bloody cigar out of my face will you."

I'm not happy. Thruster is my magazine. My baby. I don't need or want Rachel

Porter to tell me what to do.

"Rachel, you're here. Wonderful," enthuses Smythe. "Now Toby. I hope you don't

mind but I thought it would be helpful to have Rachel sit in on our little discussion.

Get the female perspective – that sort of thing."

"Well actually I do."

"Do what?"

"Mind. This is my magazine. I'm the editor, Julian. I don't really see what Rachel

can add. And besides, if my memory serves me correct, Rachel resigned from

Thruster. And since when have we cared about the female perspective? We're a

RICHARD PARKER

211

men's magazine for God's sake." I'm losing my cool. But I don't care. There's simply

no way Rachel is going to tell me what to do.

"Julian," squeals Rachel.

"Look Toby. I think Rachel can make a contribution. I want her to sit in." By the

tone in his voice I can tell it's an ultimatum. Either I let her sit in, or I can start

looking for another job.

What the hell do I say? Fuck off. Go shove your job up your arse. As badly as I

want to say these things, I've come too far to ruin everything over Rachel Porter.

"Okay," I mumble, seething.

"So, you were going to tell me what you think Toby."

It takes me a moment to collect my thoughts. "I think Thruster should become a

vagina-free magazine. Breasts and buttocks only." Smythe doesn't look enthused.

Rachel looks unmoved.

"Why?" he barks.

In a panic I resort to the smoke analogy. "If the new look Thruster is to reach the

kind of audience we want, we need to convince them that smoke is good. At the very

least that it's not harmful. That it's not objectionable. Having in-your-face-vagina

shots is a bit like blowing smoke in our readers' faces."

"What's wrong with that? If we've convinced them smoke is good why would they

care having smoke blown in their face?" It's not a bad point really. I pinch my

forehead. My Cuban is making me dizzy. I need to regain my thoughts. I decide to

try a different tack.

"People want a bit of mystery and intrigue in their lives. They want to see, but they

don't want to see everything. It's a bit like religion really. What keeps religion going

RICHARD PARKER

212

is the thought of the unknown. If people could actually see and touch God, the

mystery would be gone, and they'd lose interest."

"What a load of bollocks Toby. Besides, by not going the whole hog, we're no better

than cock teasers. And I won't be a cock teaser Toby. I won't."

"Let me rephrase it then. It's like having too much of a good thing. You know when

you have one Big Mac and you think gosh that was good, I'd love another one. And

then half way through the second one you feel sick and you say to yourself, why

didn't I just stop after the first one? The thing is, there is a difference between what

people think they want and what they actually want. Most porn mag readers think

they want the vagina-shot just like they think they want the second Big Mac. But as

soon as they bite into it they realise the mistake. They might not know it, but all they

really want are the breasts and buttocks."

A look of incredulity spreads across Smythe's face. Rachel looks gobsmacked. As

bright as I am, analogies have never been my strong suit.

Smythe pauses and exhales a plume of smoke. "You may have a point."

"Really?"

"No, not really."

"Oh."

"I think what Toby is trying to say, Julian, is that less is more. Look at the popularity

of some of the newer magazines like FHM. They've targeted celebrities and have

clearly adopted a strategy of less is more."

"I don't agree," says Smythe. "I've always thought more is more."

"Rachel is right Julian." God did I just say that? "People who want the real hard core

stuff, the people who want smoke blown into their faces, the people who want two or

even three Big Macs, are turning to the net to get their thrills. We simply can't with

RICHARD PARKER

213

that; we can't offer what those types of people want. In terms of magazines, I think a

lot of men prefer a half naked Kylie Minogue to some zoom-in snatch-shot of a girl

called Amber. If they want Amber, they can log onto the net.

"But we can't afford celebrities," says Rachel.

"Well not yet. But if this magazine takes off, we will."

"And what about the staff at Thruster? Rachel tells me they're a bunch of useless

twats? What do you think?"

"What do I think?"

"Yes. Are they as useless as Rachel says they are?"

"No, they're not," I reply, indignantly. They're actually bloody good at their jobs.

They're dedicated and they want the magazine to succeed. And they happen to be

damn nice people. Not that that seems to count for anything anymore."

"Come on Toby. That's not true and you know it. Mike's a useless twit. Anyone can

see that. You should get rid of him," Rachel spits, looking over to Julian for support.

"Look, Rachel. I'm the editor. I decide who Thruster hires and fires, and Mike stays.

End of story."

***

Smythe has booked us a table at a very exclusive restaurant near the Place des

Vosges, off the rue des Francs Bourgeois in the Marais District. Parisian restaurants

scare the hell out of me for some reason. There's something terribly pretentious about

them. Take the waiter we have tonight for instance. Some prat called Jacques. Now

RICHARD PARKER

214

I know he speaks English because I heard him talking to someone important-looking

in English. But when Jacques babbles something at me and I shrug my shoulders and

ask if he speaks English, he simply turns his arrogant nose up at me, pulls a face, and

mumbles something to another waiter in French.

"What the fuck did that frog just say?" I ask Linda.

"He asked what you wanted for dinner."

"It didn't sound like it to me."

"Well he did. What are you going to have anyway?" asks Linda.

"I have no idea. I can't even understand the bloody menu. Why they don't have an

English translation is beyond me. Arrogant pricks. It's the least they could do

because if it weren't for the English they'd be speaking fucking German. They're

ungrateful sods the French. Ungrateful and arrogant." Linda shakes her head in

bemusement at my little outburst.

"Would you like some help?" she purrs, snuggling in close to read my menu.

Mike winks at me.

"What are you having Mike?"

"Haven't decided yet."

"Can't read the menu eh?" I jest.

"I did French at university I'll have you know." Mike then turns to the waiter and

engages him in a lengthy conversation about God knows what. Bloody show off.

Next time Jacques comes around I get Linda to order for both of us. I light up a

Marlboro and start playing with my lighter. The restaurant is incredibly noisy. It's a

strain to hear what the person next to you is saying, let alone those at the other end of

the table. And Smythe, Rachel and Lucie are at the other end. And I want to know

what they're talking about.

RICHARD PARKER

215

I'm bored out of my skull. Linda is starting to piss me off big time. Actually

everyone is. Much to Rachel's chagrin, Smythe is all over Lucie like white on rice,

Jacques is poncing around the restaurant like he's got a cactus rammed up his arse,

and Mike is looking like a Japanese tourist videoing everything with his handycam.

A great look in an upmarket Paris restaurant.

"So tell me about this Charlotte of yours?" Linda says. "How did you get together? Is

she good in bed?" Mike who has said 10 words all night suddenly sparks into life.

Unfortunately, Mike is also very very pissed and I have serious concerns, based on

previous experiences at the Horse & Trap, about what might come out of his mouth.

"Charlotte!" he exclaims. "Charlotte and Toby together? Toby's got about as much

chance as shagging Charlotte as, um.."

"Mike. Fuck up," I whisper as forcefully as possible, flicking my eyes in the direction

of Rachel Porter."

"Shit sorry Tobs. Sorry."

"But I thought that Charlotte and you…So why did you lie to me in the Sushi Room

the other night?" Linda asks genuinely perplexed.

"Why do you think?" I reply, blowing smoke across the table.

"So if you like her so much why haven't you done anything?"

"Rachel Porter is why."

"The one sitting next to Smythe?"

"That's the one." I then proceed to explain my nightmare first date at MKs and

Rachel's involvement.

"What a bitch," exclaims Linda.

"Tell me about it."

"So what are you going to do?"

RICHARD PARKER

216

I shrug my shoulders. "I'm open to ideas."

"Well, I know what I'd do." Taking love advice from a porn star is asking for trouble.

Five minutes later I find myself pleasantly surprised. Maybe I've misjudged Linda.

"And what about you?" interjects Mike. "Surely someone as breathtaking as you

doesn't have trouble finding love." Gee Mike, real smooth. Mike is practically

begging for a shag and Linda knows it. And the thing is, she's the sort of person who

would shag him simply for the hell of it. That's probably what Mike is banking on.

Praying his days of knuckle shuffling are over. Even if only temporarily.

By 11 p.m. Linda starts talking about going to this club in the Montmatre

district. She is still on friendly terms with the owner. She performed there a couple

of times when she was starting out and desperately wants to check it out for old times'

sake.

It seems everyone except me, is taken with the idea. Their overt desperation

makes me ill.

At 11.30 p.m. I plead exhaustion and make my way back to the hotel on the

rue de Fouberg St-Honoré, leaving Smythe, Rachel, Mike, Linda and Lucie to go to

the club.

***

The big night has finally arrived. I have played this evening through in my

mind 1000 times. It always ends the same way. But after Paris, I'm suddenly having

my doubts about how it should end. How I want it to end. Lauren and Matt are both

away for the night, leaving Charlotte and me alone. Charlotte looks anxious to get on

with things. It's all about mood I tell her. If you're not in the mood you shouldn't

RICHARD PARKER

217

watch. It will ruin the experience. You won't enjoy it. And then your view of

pornography will be skewed forever, and that wouldn't be right.

Since Paris I've also come to the conclusion that I don't want to begin my

relationship with Charlotte over a porn film. It doesn't feel right. It feels like

cheating. I'd feel like a 100m sprinter smashing the world record aided by a gale

force wind and performance-enhancing drugs. I'd have done it, but I'd always doubt

myself. I owe myself more than that.

"So how was the shoot in Paris?" asks Charlotte, as she extracts the cork from a bottle

of pinot noir.

"Oh, you know."

"No I don't. That's why I am asking actually. What's this Lucie like anyway?"

"You'll find out in due course," I reply. The movie I have selected is LUST from

Lucie's Seven Deadly Sins series. Charlotte stops pouring the wine and turns to face

me, her hands on her hips.

"Is that the best you can do?"

"What? What did I say?"

"Nothing. That's exactly it. You're such a typical male sometimes Toby."

"What do you want to know then?"

"Anything. Is she nice? Is she attractive? Does she have a brain? Would you like to

sleep with her? Have you thought about sleeping with her? Anything."

I give a wry smile. So that's what this is all about.

"Can I have my glass of wine please?"

"Not until you answer my question."

"Which one? There were at least five."

"All of them."

RICHARD PARKER

218

"Okay. The answers are yes, yes, yes, no, yes. Anything else?" I'm banking on the

fact that Charlotte will appreciate my honesty. There's also no point in denying the

patently obvious. Charlotte grabs her glass and the bottle, and proceeds into the living

room. She's wearing a pair of dark navy denim jeans, a red cashmere top and her

famous black boots. I admire the tab on the back of her jeans as I follow her into the

living room.

"Shall we watch it now?" she says, hesitantly, plonking herself down on the couch.

It's 7.30 p.m.

"There's no hurry is there? I thought I might enjoy the glass of wine."

"Sure. So you've thought about having sex with her but you don't want to sleep with

her. Can you explain to me how that works?"

"I realise it seems like a bit of a contradiction in terms, but it's true. Maybe I should

rephrase myself. Although I would like to sleep with her and have thought about it, I

wouldn't."

"You wouldn't? Why not?"

"I'm not sure."

"You're not sure. That's very reassuring."

"Look, it's a male thing. All men are like that. All men would like to sleep with

attractive women. But we don't. It's called self control. There are lots of things I'd

like, but which I know I can't have. Anyway I'd probably just regret it if I slept with

her."

"Why would you regret it?" I'm not certain whether it's the lawyer or the woman in

Charlotte but I feel certain that this relentless barrage of questions will only serve to

incriminate me in some way, and so I choose my words carefully.

RICHARD PARKER

219

"I'd regret it because I've always regretted sleeping with women with whom I knew

there was no future. The next person I sleep with is going to be someone with whom

I think I have a future." I look for a reaction. I think I see her eyes flutter

momentarily.

"I'm glad to hear that," she says, before refilling her glass. "So what's this film about?

What's the plot? Do they have plots?"

"Depends what you call a plot I suppose. Technically speaking, there is a plot, but I

wouldn't worry about it too much. It's normally used as a crude mechanism to explain

why two complete strangers feel the urge to rip each other's clothes off five minutes

after meeting, and shag each other senseless."

"Charming."

"Shall I put it on?"

Charlotte nods.

"You're sure? This is your last chance."

"Toby. Just put the bloody thing on will you."

"Okay, okay."

After fast-forwarding through the standard introductory spiel about HIV, AIDS and

using condoms, we get to scene 1 of LUST.

"Is that her?" asks Charlotte.

"It is."

"You were right."

"About what?" I say.

Charlotte drops her head and gazes at me with a look of incredulity. I smile

mischievously. I've strategically located myself on the second couch. I'm making

absolutely sure nothing will happen.

RICHARD PARKER

220

"Before I forget, if the phone rings, can you get it?"

"Why?" she asks.

"Because."

"Because what?"

"Because I might be incapacitated." The penny finally drops. Charlotte screws her

face up in disgust.

"Shall I fast-forward through this?"

"No. I want to listen to it. I might learn something," she insists.

"I doubt it," I reply.

"Look you never know. Now be quiet, we're missing it."

I pour myself another glass of wine, and lean back in the couch, legs firmly

crossed, cushion by my side. The male actor's serenading of Lucie makes me cringe.

He is busy telling her how he'd love to stick his big, hard you-know-what in her wet,

cavernous you-know-what. Lucie, instead of being repulsed, becomes incredibly

horny, and immediately starts tearing off her clothes. And so begins LUST. I sneak a

glance of Charlotte. She is riveted to the TV. She's not even blinking. Her mouth is

slightly agape. Her wine glass is perilously close to falling out of her hand.

Fifteen minutes later, scene 1 of LUST is over. In a whirlwind display of

human gymnastics, heavy breathing, panting, and groaning Charlotte is introduced to

the heady-world of adult entertainment. I decide to hit the pause button.

"What do you think? Seen enough?"

"I think I need another drink," pronounces Charlotte, grabbing the wine bottle. After

filling her glass, and taking a few gulps, she gives her prognosis.

"I suppose it's kind of what I expected."

"And what did you expect?"

RICHARD PARKER

221

"An ugly guy, an attractive but trashy slut, and a sleazy implausible plot."

"So I take it you didn't like it?"

"No, I'm not saying that. I don't think I liked it or disliked it. It was interesting I

suppose. I don't really see why men are so into them though?"

"Do you want to watch any more?"

"No thanks. That was quite enough for one night. How are you going anyway?

Enjoying yourself?" she inquires, glancing over at my crotch region. I turn slightly

pink and stick the pillow on my lap.

"None of your business, I'm afraid." I have this overwhelming urge to rip my pants

off, dive onto the other couch with Charlotte, and tell her where I'd like to stick my

you-know-what. But it's not going to happen. Not tonight anyway. I've made a pact

with myself and I'm going to stick to it.

"Oh well, I might call it a night. Thanks for watching it with me. I appreciate it. I'll

be able to tell Matt where to stick it next time he hassles me," says Charlotte.

"You tell him," I say. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah, goodnight Toby."

An hour later I'm lying in bed tossing and turning. I'm having non-shagger's

remorse. I should have pounced on her I tell myself. No I shouldn't have, I reply.

Yes I should have. I wonder what she's thinking right now? Is she lying awake too?

Wishing I'd pounced on her? Is she writhing on her sheets moaning my name? I rub

my face and tell myself to get a grip. We're friends. That's all.

Lying on my back, staring at the ceiling, feeling sorry for myself, cursing

Rachel Porter and the injustice of the world, I see the hallway light go on and the

RICHARD PARKER

222

creaking of floorboards, as someone makes their way along the corridor. The

creaking suddenly stops outside my room. There's a knock.

"Toby are you awake?"

"Yeah," I reply.

"Can I come in?"

"Sure." The door eases open, and Charlotte wearing her sexy penguin and polar bear

pyjamas walks in.

"I couldn't sleep. I'm sorry. I hope you don't mind?"

"Don't be silly. I couldn't sleep either. What's on your mind?" Me hopefully.

"Nothing in particular. I just felt like talking. Actually do you mind if I get a drink?"

"No."

"Can I get you anything?"

"No, I'm fine." A few minutes later she's back with a cup of coffee.

"That's not going to help your insomnia."

"I know," she says smiling.

"So. What would you like to talk about – politics, religion, world affairs?"

"The Loire."

"The Loire sounds good to me." Charlotte looks hesitant as she sips her coffee.

"Matt and Lauren are going there next month and they've asked me along."

"Great."

"I was wondering whether you wanted to come too?"

"Sure. As long as Matt and Lauren are happy with that. Sounds great. Thanks. Oh

yeah, and provided the magazine goes out on time. It's due out in two weeks so it

shouldn't be a problem."

RICHARD PARKER

223

As she sits on the edge of the bed, I suddenly notice that one of the buttons on

her pyjamas is working itself free. I start praying her top is going to fall open and

expose her breasts. Then all of a sudden she stands up, moves over to my bedside

table, puts her coffee down, sits back down on the bed, grabs my head with both

hands, and starts kissing me. A full-on, tongue-down-my-throat pash. Thoughts of

restraint fly out the window. I get this overwhelming urge to grope her, starting with

the breasts. To grope her like a wild octopus. And then it's over. She stops as

abruptly as she began. She leaps up, grabs her coffee, and leaves the room without

saying another word.

What am I to make of her behaviour? Certainly it's not the behaviour of

someone who is simply a friend. Shall I go back into her room and jump on her?

***

"Mike get in here!" When Mike arrives I ask him to close the door behind him. He

looks worried.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Trouble? No. Of course not."

"I want to talk to you about Paris. About the club. I know something happened."

"Sure. What would you like to know?"

"Everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything, Mike."

RICHARD PARKER

224

"I can show it to you on video if you want. It might actually be easier."

"Show it to me?"

"Yeah. I've got it all on my handycam." Mike starts to grin like a deranged serial

killer who has just found a spare head in the freezer.

"Video? How did you manage to video it? More importantly, what did you manage

to video?"

"Well, you're not going to believe this." I'm sure I won't. The suspense is killing me.

"I've got on tape Smythe and two French guys from the club shagging Linda, Lucie

and Rachel. They were at it for nearly an hour. And they were doing drugs. Cocaine

I think. And some tablets."

"You are kidding me right? Tell me you're not kidding me."

"I'm not."

"Holy shit. Where is it?"

"On my desk."

"Get it! Now!" Mike goes to the door.

"Mike. Who else knows about the video?"

"Apart from Smythe, Rachel, Lucie and Linda, just you and me."

"How the hell did you end up videoing them?"

"Well, I had my handycam with me, and more as a joke than anything I suggested to

Linda that I should video them. Linda thought it was a great idea."

"And what about Smythe and Rachel? I can't imagine them being happy about it?"

"They were too out of it to really care."

A minute later, Mike is back. I draw the curtains and insert the video in my

machine. Fifty-seven minutes and 23 seconds later I'm left speechless by a display of

naked group gymnastics that would have made the Romans proud.

RICHARD PARKER

225

"I'm not sure what to say," I mutter, grabbing a cigarette.

"Rachel's hot don't you think?" remarks Mike.

"Yeah, she's not bad, I have to admit. How many copies of the video are there?"

"Just the one."

"Can you get two copies run off for me?"

"Sure." Mike takes the video and heads for the door.

"Hey, you're not getting off that easily Wilkinson. What did you get up to before all

the videotaping started?" The deranged-serial-killer smile returns.

An hour later I glance at my watch. It's 11 a.m. The first group of students is

due in half an hour. Mike and I are supposed to brief them on their responsibilities for

identifying individuals who meet the entrance criteria for Thruster's competition. I

decide Mike can handle them on his own. I need to see Charlotte. When I woke up

this morning Charlotte had gone. No note. Nothing. I started to wonder whether I

had imagined her coming into my room.

After instructing Mike, I grab my denim jacket, and head for the tube station.

***

Forty minutes later Charlotte and I are in a Starbucks café near her work.

"Hi, how are you?" I ask.

"Good thanks."

RICHARD PARKER

226

"I didn't hear you leave this morning," I say, gazing into eyes. She's wearing another

one of her exquisite tailored suits.

"No, I wanted to make an early start. Clear my e-mail and in-tray. I didn't want to

wake you. I enjoyed last night by the way."

You did? Well of course you did. Which part? The porn watching part or the

pashing part?

"So did I." I should ask about the kiss. What it means? Maybe it means nothing. If

it does, I need to know now. I take a sip of my coffee.

"Can I ask you something?" I say. An inquisitive looks forms on her face.

"This sounds ominous."

"It's about last night."

"Yeess," she replies, as she licks some coffee off her luscious lips. Her beautiful

pashable lips.

"Did you manage to get to sleep in the end?"

"I did thank you. And you?"

"Not a wink unfortunately."

"Oh. Why not?"

"I kept dreaming about some strange woman in penguin and polar bear pyjamas

coming into my room, jumping on my bed and kissing me."

"What was she like?"

"Stunning. Absolutely stunning. I couldn't get her out of my mind all night."

Charlotte's eyes quickly turn downwards as she goes a shade of crimson. Ten minutes

later Charlotte looks at her watch.

"Look I better go Toby. I've got a couple of clients chasing me to get them some

documents today. Let's talk tonight." She leans over and kisses me lightly on the

RICHARD PARKER

227

lips. I sit there, watching her back as she disappears down the street, savouring her

kiss. A kiss that feels a million times more erotic and satisfying than shagging Linda

on a balcony. Funny that.

***

On my way back to work I detour to a bookshop to pick up Bret Easton Ellis's

book American Psycho. After browsing the 'E' section of the shelves, and finding

nothing, I go in search of an assistant.

"Excuse me."

"Yes," snaps an elderly bespectacled lady. She reminds me of Auntie Kate. I take an

instant dislike to her.

"I was looking for American Psycho by Bret Easton Ellis. I've checked the shelves

but I can't see it."

"Then we won't have it," she says unhelpfully.

"Can you at least check to see whether you have any copies out the back?" She sighs

heavily as she contemplates my request, before heading off to the computer. A few

minutes later she's back.

"According to our records it should be on the shelf. Some inconsiderate person has

probably reshelved it in the wrong place," she gripes. After a couple of minutes of

rummaging she finds it.

"Here we are."

"Great," I say as we head back to the counter.

RICHARD PARKER

228

"Is it any good?" I ask as I hand over my credit card.

"I wouldn't know. I don't read those kinds of books," she sneers.

"What kind of books are those?"

"You know."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Pornographic books. They're disgusting. I don't know why we even stock the book."

"For people like me I suppose."

"Yes, quite," she says, in a very put-down kind of way.

"Thank you for your help," I cuss sarcastically, as I snatch the book from her bigoted

fingers. Bowling out the door, I nearly knock over a woman entering the bookstore.

"Shit sorry. Are you alright?"

"Yes I'm fine, no thanks to you. Why don't you look where you're going?"

"Oh it's you!" It's Rachel Porter. A smile comes to my face as I imagine Smythe and

her. For a moment I almost pity her. She takes a glimpse at my book.

"American Psycho. How very you Toby."

"Why thanks. I'm sure you could relate well to some of the scenes."

"I don't think so," she spits back. And with that, she's off.

Back out on the street I phone Mike to see how his briefing went. He tells me

the photographer has arrived with Lucie's photos. I tell him I won't be long.

Fifteen minutes later I'm back in the office. In the main meeting room, I find

the photographer Chris, a tall weedy guy with a goatie, ponytail and no dress sense,

poring over Lucie's photos with Mike and Sally.

"Toby how are you mate?" says Chris with his usual infectious enthusiasm.

RICHARD PARKER

229

"Good thanks Chris. How are they?" I ask, strolling up to the table.

"Unbelievable," exclaims Mike.

"What about you Sally? What do you think?"

"Honestly?"

"Of course."

"They're the best photos I've ever seen. As a heterosexual woman I'm deeply

impressed. I'd love to meet this Lucie Sinbad. She's just breathtaking."

After selecting the photos we'll use, I turn my attention to some of our

advertisers. Smythe has been on my back all week about boosting advertising

revenues. "You just tell those pricks [the advertisers who keep our magazine afloat]

that this magazine is going to be huge," he said. "If they don't get on board now, and

pay our rates, which are fucking reasonable, then they can go and get fucked. You

understand Toby. I want you to tell them that."

What I unsuccessfully try to explain to Smythe is that pornographic

magazines, no matter how popular, are still niche magazines with a limited

advertising audience. Many large corporates will not advertise in Thruster, no matter

how huge it is.

Over the next hour I cajole and haggle with various marketing execs from

alcohol, tobacco, and lingerie companies over why they should pay double what

they've usually paid Thruster. I've gone out of my way to avoid the media buyers

who are just plain wankers. Words like 'once in a lifetime opportunity', 'trust me',

'would I lie to you?', ' you won't regret this', 'we'll remember this', come spilling out of

my mouth like a broken record. When I hang up I feel cheap, dirty and menial.

RICHARD PARKER

230

***

The flat is empty when I arrive home. It's my night for cooking and I've

selected one of the few dishes I can throw together without too much trouble –

spaghetti bolognaise. I flick on the stereo, crack open a bottle of wine, and defrost

the mince. I feel nervous waiting for Charlotte. It's that awkwardness that always

comes after the first kiss. The excitement and the worry. I pray she gets home before

Matt and Lauren. I don't think I'll be able to stand it if I don't get to talk to her before

dinner. A few minutes later my hopes are dashed. It's Matt.

"Tobs how are you? Is Lauren here yet?"

"No. Just me sorry."

"How was the porn business today?" I'm not sure if I like Matt. He pretends to be all

matey matey but underneath it all I detect a hint of superiority. That he's a big shot

bond trader and I'm just a pornographer peddler. I could be wrong of course. I've

been wrong before. But I doubt it. Matt's a prick. Most bond traders are. Matt is,

however, dating Charlotte's flatmate and best friend. So I'm going to have to be nice

to him. To make an effort.

"What's that music?" Matt asks, looking pained, and grabbing one of my Stella beers

from the fridge. 'Help yourself', I say. You only earn a hundred times what I do.

"Savage Garden."

"I thought so. Do you mind if I change it?"

"No, go for it." Prick. Wanker.

RICHARD PARKER

231

As Matt drinks my beer, and changes my CD, I start to flick through American

Psycho looking for the scene with Patrick Bateman, Christie, Sabrina and the futon..

Matt eventually puts on the new Shaggy CD.

"What are you reading there Tobs?" I hold the cover up to show him

"American Psycho. Great film. Particularly the scene on the futon. Fantastic. Have

you seen it?"

"Yeah."

"So what's the book like? It can't be as good as the film. Books never are mind you.

The great thing about films is that they cut out the boring shit." This opinion says a

lot about Matt I feel. As we stand in the corner of the living room, Matt finishes

my/his beer and plonks the bottle down next to my empty wine glass.

"You want a beer?"

"Sure." They are mine after all.

"Here you go," he says returning with two beers.

"So," I say. "How long have you and Lauren been going out?" I know the answer

already. Charlotte told me the other day, but I can't think of anything else to say.

"Three years." I nod my head and take a swig of Stella.

"So what's the story with you and Charlotte?" asks Matt.

"What do you mean?" I reply puzzled.

"Lauren told me she's dead keen on you. But don't tell Lauren I told you. She'll kill

me. And Charlotte will kill Lauren." I decide not to tell him about the kiss last night

or the porn film.

"So what else did Charlotte tell Lauren?"

"That although she liked you she wasn't sure she could trust you."

"Did she say why?"

RICHARD PARKER

232

"Something about your past. Thought you might be a player."

"Hmm." There's a bit of truth in that I suppose. But that's all behind me.

"Oh yeah, and your job."

"What about my job?"

"She said she wasn't sure she should or could trust someone who stares at naked

women all day."

Before we can take the conversation any further Lauren arrives home, followed

shortly after by Charlotte. Lauren goes over and kisses Matt and says hi to me.

Charlotte says hi to Matt and them moves over to me. For a moment she looks like

she's going to kiss me, but she doesn't.

"So what are you cooking us Tobs?" she says instead.

"Your favourite Italian dish."

"Cannelloni - great. Can you pour me a wine while I get changed?"

"Sure. Red or white?"

"Red thanks."

"Lauren you want anything?"

"I'll have a red as well thanks Toby."

While Charlotte gets changed, the three of us move to the living room.

"So, the four of us are off to the Loire next month, Charlotte tells me. It should be

fun. I haven't been there in years. What about you guys? Have you been there

before?"

"Sorry?" says Lauren. She looks incredulous and horrified.

"I invited Tobs last night Lauren. I was going to e-mail you today but I forgot sorry,"

calls out Charlotte, as she zips up her jeans and enters the living room.

RICHARD PARKER

233

"Great," says Matt. Lauren takes a sip of her wine and says nothing. Lauren and

Charlotte exchange a look which disconcerts me. Feeling like a right proper pillock I

decide to go to check on the dinner. A few minutes later Charlotte joins me in the

kitchen.

"How are you going?" she asks, sidling up close to me.

"Good thanks. And you?"

"Great."

"Is it just me or is Lauren not that enthused about me coming to the Loire?"

"No, she's fine. She's just a little over-protective sometimes."

"She doesn't like me does she?"

"Don't be silly. Of course she does."

"Have you told her about last night?"

"Not yet. But I think she suspects something has happened. She has a sixth sense like

that."

"If you want me to quit the magazine I will."

"What?"

"Look, I know you're not comfortable with me working there. I'll quit."

"Who told you that?"

"Look, it's not important who told me."

"It is to me." Charlotte looks like she's going to storm into the living room and

confront Matt and Lauren. I grab her arm.

"Okay. Look it was Matt. But don't confront him or Lauren. I understand why he

and Lauren are concerned. It just shows what good friends they are."

"Well they shouldn't meddle in things that are none of their business."

"I suppose."

RICHARD PARKER

234

"Look you shouldn't quit your job because of me."

"You don't mind my job then?"

"I wouldn't say that but I certainly don't want you quitting. Not yet anyway. Okay?"

"Okay."

When Matt and Lauren retire to Lauren's bedroom shortly after dinner,

Charlotte and I take our wine glasses out onto the balcony.

"Alone at last," I say.

"Flatmates can be a pain can't they?"

"Sure can. You're not too bad though."

"Gee thanks."

"So about last night?" I leave the question hanging there, as I reach out, grab the

bottle of wine, and refill my glass.

"Actually, I nearly called you this afternoon to talk about it but I chickened out," says

Charlotte.

"What were you going to say?"

"I wanted to explain why I kissed you last night."

"I'm listening."

"I like you Toby. I don't want to be just your friend," she says shuddering.

"You look like you're shivering? Come here." Charlotte comes over and sits on my

lap. I envelope her in a bear hug, and start rubbing her arms.

"Well I don't want to be just your friend either."

"Good," she replies.

RICHARD PARKER

235

9

Watch out for butter chicken

"My arse hurts like hell."

[Excerpt from conversation between Charlotte Fisher and Toby Willis, editor of

Thruster – UK Edition]

My head bangs against the window of our Renault wagon, as Matt takes a

corner a little too quickly. The sudden bang jolts me back to consciousness, where I

discover a large globule of drool oozing out of the right-hand corner of my mouth. I

quickly wipe it away, before glancing over at Charlotte. She's fast asleep. As the

Renault races along the road, the French countryside swishing by in a blur, I watch

and study her as she sleeps. She's the one, I tell myself. Whatever you do, don't blow

this Willis.

Matt and Lauren have booked us three nights at a stunning château about 15-

20 minutes from this quaint little town in the Loire, the name of which escapes me.

"Are you awake Toby?"

"I am now, thanks to your cornering. Where are we?"

RICHARD PARKER

236

"I'm not sure actually." On hearing this rather disturbing news I pull myself up in my

seat, and lean forward towards Matt.

"You're not sure? Are you saying we're lost?"

"Lost? No I wouldn't quite say that."

"What would you say then?"

"Directionally challenged is more like it. Can you grab the map and have a look

where Vendôme is?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Wouldn't Lauren be better?"

"Lauren is asleep and I'm not waking her." I lean forward to check that Lauren is

really asleep. She is. Damn it.

"I'm not very good at map reading. I had a traumatic experience on a school camping

trip and I've never quite recovered."

"Well if you want to arrive some time today, I suggest you get over it," retorts Matt,

sounding none too impressed.

"Sure." After carefully easing the map out of Lauren's lap without waking her, I

search for Vendôme.

"Found it yet?" inquires Matt, glancing back over his shoulder.

"Nearly," I lie.

"Found it!" I exclaim triumphantly. "There's only one problem."

"What?"

"It's not much help knowing where Vendôme is, if we don't know where we are now.

What did the last sign we passed say?"

"I can't remember," replies Matt, checking his hair in the rear vision mirror.

RICHARD PARKER

237

"Great. Well until we see another sign I'm not going to be able to help much."

"Okay, well keep your eyes open."

Ten minutes later we pull over to the side of the road, next to a road sign.

With a reference point to Vendôme, we discover we are a good two hours away after

spending the last 20 minutes heading in the wrong direction.

"Okay. We should be there by three at the latest. You know where we're going

now?" asks Matt.

"I think so," I reply, in a most unconvincing fashion.

Twenty minutes later we arrive at a four-way junction. The French road signs all of a

sudden look like Chinese. I search for the name Vendôme, but can't see it.

"Which way?" asks Matt.

Panic sets in. The map becomes a blur.

"Quickly. Which way Toby?"

"I don't know. Pull over," I shout back. Matt swerves to the side of the road,

incurring the wrath of angry drivers in the cars behind us. In the process Charlotte

and Lauren wake up.

"Are we there?" asks a groggy Charlotte, as she rubs her eyes.

"Not quite," I reply.

"Give me the bloody map," snaps Matt. I hand it over with little reluctance.

Matt glares at the map and then the road signs intently for a few minutes, throws the

map onto the dashboard, and slams the car into first gear.

"I did my best," I plead. "I told you I was hopeless at reading maps," I add. Matt

looks at me in the rear vision mirror and grunts something unintelligible.

"Can we change the music. I think I've heard enough of Shaggy for one day," pleads

Charlotte.

RICHARD PARKER

238

"Well, it's the only CD I've got," shoots back Matt.

"Toby's got some. Haven't you Tobs?"

"Let me guess – Westlife, Savage Garden and S Club 7?" says Matt snidely.

"How did you know?" I joke, not wanting to look too precious.

"Because you look like you've got shit taste in music. I'm not playing any of those."

Now it's my turn to be indignant.

"Fine," I mutter, fuming. When Matt hits the play button and Shaggy starts blaring

out yet again, an enraged Charlotte leans into the front seat, hits the eject button, and

hurls Shaggy out the back window.

"I'd rather listen to nothing than that crap one more time." Matt looks speechless. He

turns to Lauren.

"You probably deserved that honey," she replies.

Now Matt looks like he wants to hurt someone. Me in particular. I have a bad feeling

about this weekend.

"Matt, I don't suppose you want to reconsider playing Westlife?" I suggest a few

minutes later.

"No."

"You're sure?"

"Oh, what the hell? It's better than nothing I suppose. Give it here then." I hand it to

Matt. He leans forward and puts it in the CD player. Half way through the first song

he suddenly says, "nope don't like it," hits the eject button, and hurls it out the

window. He then proceeds to cackle madly with delight.

"You deserved that mate. Besides, only girls listen to Westlife," he adds as a

footnote.

RICHARD PARKER

239

At 3.10 p.m. we arrive. Turning into a tree-lined entrance, the Renault weaves

its way down the twisting driveway to the château. As the trees clear, the château

suddenly comes into view. It's every bit as amazing as the photos on the website.

You'd never know it's an upmarket B&B run by a woman from Manchester and her

French husband.

"We're here," announces Matt, stating the glaringly obvious. Out of the car we all

stretch our legs and backs, admiring the enormous grounds in front of us.

"I think I could do with a glass of wine," pronounces Charlotte.

"Me too," I say.

"What about a swim? The pool is heated isn't it?" says Lauren.

"Count me in," says Charlotte.

"And me," I add hurriedly, contemplating seeing Charlotte's semi-naked body for the

first time.

"Hey Toby. Feel like giving me a hand with the luggage," yells Matt from the boot of

the car.

"Yeah, coming."

***

Sitting by the side of the pool I feel as content as I've ever felt about my

career. On the front page of one of Britain's leading tabloids is a photo of more than

1000 people – mainly young men – reading the latest issue of Thruster in Trafalgar

Square. The heading reads 'Getting Caught in Public'. The journalist then proceeds

RICHARD PARKER

240

to laud praise on the new-look magazine and its young 30-something editor Toby

Willis. Who would have thought? I can't wait to show Juls. Words such as

'innovative', 'fresh', 'controversial', 'cutting edge' and 'a real threat to the current

mainstays' fill his article.

The journalist also tells readers what I already know. That sales of Thruster

have gone through the roof, and that an atmosphere bordering on hysteria is gripping

the nation, as men and women of all ages clamber over each other to buy a copy, and

rush to one of the country's popular landmarks to get 'caught in public'. Stories

abound of mothers buying copies for their sons, wives for their husbands, secretaries

for their bosses, reports the journalist. It's been only two weeks since the first issue

hit the streets but already Smythe's, PGP's and my expectations have been exceeded.

"Come on Toby. We're on holiday. Stop reading and get in. The water is beautiful,"

calls out Charlotte from the far end of the pool.

"In a minute." I pick up on of the broadsheets. To my chagrin, I find a very negative

piece by a T.S. McAllister, entitled 'Enough is Enough!'. McAllister, who I assume

is some evangelical right-wing Christian zealot, then proceeds to criticise Thruster's

efforts to make pornography even more pervasive than it already is.

"Isn't it enough that we are already inundated with explicit sexual images almost everywhere

we turn – from TV to advertisements to movies and music? Isn't it enough that the internet,

the holy grail for pornographic distributors, has now made it possible for anyone of any age

to download anything from anywhere? Censorship laws, designed to protect children and

prevent society from becoming a Caligula-like den of iniquity, have been rendered redundant.

Seemingly not satisfied with the already insidious ubiquity of pornography, Thruster now

wants to spread its tentacles even further. Thruster wants to make itself, make pornography,

'mainstream!' As if it isn't already mainstream?!! No. Enough is enough……

RICHARD PARKER

241

McAllister then makes a call to arms for all god-fearing people to rise up and

denounce Thruster and all it stands for. What a load of crap. Whatever happened to

objective and balanced journalism?

Infuriated, I put the paper down. I slip into the pool, swim underwater and

grab one of Charlotte's legs and then her waist as I try to drag her under with me. She

successfully fights me off and I finally break the surface gasping.

"You're stronger than I thought," I blurt out.

"I thought you were trying to pull my bathing suit off."

"Now there's an idea," I say. Charlotte then dives underwater and starts tugging at my

bathing suit. I'm tempted to let her succeed but then fears of shrinkage suggest that

might be a mistake I'll live to regret. I pull her off fairly easily but in the process

grope her left breast twice.

"Sorry about that," I mutter, spitting water out of mouth. "It wasn't deliberate."

"I was kind of hoping it was," she taunts.

"Matt and I are going for a walk around the grounds. We won't be too long," yells

Lauren from the far end of the pool.

"Okay. See you soon," replies Charlotte.

Lying out on the hot concrete by the side of the pool, as the late afternoon heat

beats down on my back, my mind is consumed with thoughts of groping Charlotte's

breasts.

"What are you smiling about?"

"Huh? Sorry?"

"I asked why you were smiling?" repeats Charlotte.

"Was I?" I reply, somewhat sheepishly.

RICHARD PARKER

242

"You were," says Charlotte. "Anyway you should put some suntan lotion on. You'll

get burnt."

"I don't suppose there's any chance of you putting it on for me, is there?"

"There might be," she replies playfully, picking up the tube of lotion.

"Pleeeasse," I plead. "I'll do you afterwards." And I don't mean putting on the lotion.

"I've already reapplied mine."

"I'll reapply it again. In case you missed a spot."

"Alright."

As Charlotte's hands cascade over my body I feel a stirring downtown. When one of

Charlotte's hands slide up my shorts to the base of my buttocks I let out a small

whimper.

"Are you alright?"

"Yeah. It's just the concrete. It's getting a little hot."

"Do you want to move?"

"No, no I'm fine." Activity downtown makes movement impossible. As Charlotte

starts working on my lower back her hands again slide into my shorts and onto the top

of my buttocks, resulting in another whimper and a bit of lip biting.

"There you go. All done. My turn now."

"Yeah. Just give me a minute.

"You better not welch on me Toby Willis."

"No, no." After a few minutes pass I decide the only way to 'cool off' is to jump back

in the pool."

"What are you doing?" cries Charlotte when I hop out.

"I was too hot. Don't worry the lotion is waterproof."

RICHARD PARKER

243

As I start massaging the lotion into Charlotte's shoulders and back I fixate on

her exquisite arse. It's perky and taut in an excruciatingly sexy way. It screams grab

me. It takes a Herculean effort not to. As my hands move down her inner thighs she

starts to giggle.

"That's ticklish," she squeals.

"Sorry."

"No, it's alright. Ticklish in a nice kind of way." Five minutes later I'm done.

"Okay. All done. How's that?"

"Very nice thank you. What's the time by the way?"

"Four thirty."

"I might wander back to the room in about half an hour to have a shower and get

ready for dinner."

"Okay."

***

We leave the restaurant to head back to the chateau from dinner a little after

11.30 p.m. Everyone except Lauren is totally sloshed. Matt is being a complete dork.

"Piss off. I'm trying to drive," Lauren berates Matt, as he attempts to fondle her

breasts. Charlotte and I are going for it hammer and tongs in the back seat, as though

it were our last time together before I'm off to prison to serve a life sentence with no

conjugal visits. I feel certain we will shag tonight.

"That's it. I've had enough," yells Lauren, swerving to the side of the road.

RICHARD PARKER

244

"All of you get out!" she screams.

"What? What's wrong Lauren?" asks Charlotte, pulling her hand out of my pants and

leaning forward to the driver's seat.

"What's wrong?"

"I'll tell you what's fucking wrong. My boyfriend is being a complete tosser and my

best friend is acting like a slut and throwing herself at someone who, in my opinion,

isn't good enough for her." Ouch. That hurt.

"Lauren!" exclaims Charlotte.

"No, Charlotte. It's true. You can do better than Toby. Much better. And you know

it." Suddenly Rachel Porter doesn't look too bad.

I go to say something, but Charlotte grabs my arm.

"Don't Toby," she whispers. "She doesn't meant it. And it's not true."

"Now if you want me to drive you back to the château without killing you all, I

suggest you two stop molesting each other," she says, pointing her finger in our

direction, "and you keep your hands off me," she says to Matt.

Suitably chastened, the three of us promise to behave. As Lauren drives on, I

stare out the window in silence, slowly drifting off to sleep as the alcohol kicks in. I

snap out of my slumber with the sound of raised voices.

"How the hell would I know where we are?"

"Well I was following your bloody instructions, so please forgive me for thinking you

knew where you were going."

"Look give me the map." When Lauren refuses, Matt snatches it from her grasp.

This ill-judged act causes Lauren to burst into a flood of tears. Tears are followed by

heaving and convulsions, and a pig-like snorting. I've never seen such a display in my

life. As my mind drifts back to Charlotte and what we might get up to tonight,

RICHARD PARKER

245

Lauren's convulsions reach such a state that I decide to wake Charlotte to see if she

can calm her down. Ten minutes later the four of us are standing outside the car

poring over the map.

"I'm getting this incredible feeling of déjà vu for some reason," I remark.

"Piss off Toby," mutters Matt.

"I'm not the one who has got us lost twice in one day so why don't you piss off." The

next thing I know I'm lying on the ground holding my face.

"Toby are you alright? Is anything broken? Let me have a look. Just take your hands

away for a minute." I do as I'm told.

"Keep your head back while I get some tissue." On her way to the back seat of the car

Charlotte belts Matt in the shoulder and calls him a fucking arsehole. I start to feel

better.

"Matt seems to think he can direct us home now, so let's get you into the back of the

car," says Charlotte on her return. Back in the car, with my head on Charlotte's lap, I

let the directionally incapable Matt attempt to lead us back to the château.

It's close to 1 a.m. when we finally get to our room. I feel totally wrecked.

My head hurts from too many beers, my nose and jaw ache, and the urge to get naked

with Charlotte has all but evaporated.

Charlotte and I are sharing a room but have two single beds. I immediately collapse

onto my bed and start to drift off.

"Aren't you going to get out of your clothes?" she asks.

"I'm too tired."

"Do you want me to help?" Now there's an idea.

RICHARD PARKER

246

"Thanks. I appreciate that." She starts with the shoes and socks. Then she's onto my

belt and is unzipping my trousers, before returning to my feet, where she starts

tugging at the end of them.

"Lift your leg," she orders. I lift the wrong one.

"No, the other one. Now lift your bum too." I do as I'm told. As my jeans come

sliding off, I quickly grab hold of my boxers which are disappearing down my thigh

with them. Within a couple of minutes I'm lying on my bed naked apart from the

GAP boxers.

"I don't suppose you have pyjamas?"

I shake my head.

"Do you want me to leave your boxers on?"

I shake my head again.

"Was that a yes or no?"

"No," I whisper.

"Bum up please," she orders, before whipping them off, leaving me starkers. She then

leans over, squeezes the big fella once, kisses me on the lips and says goodnight.

"Now close your eyes please while I get changed," she instructs. I'm too drunk to tell

whether she's serious or not. Five seconds later I open my right eye. Charlotte has

her back to me and is taking off her red satin panties. Her arse is to die for. She turns

around to grab her pyjamas and catches me squinting.

"I thought I told you to keep your eyes closed."

"You did. I'm sorry. I couldn't help myself," I plead. "Your arse is just exquisite."

She blushes momentarily. She then turns around fully and takes off her bra. Both of

my eyes leap open. As she leans over to pick up her pyjama top, the full glory of her

RICHARD PARKER

247

perky breasts send a shudder through my intoxicated body. When she slips into bed

and turns off the light my eyes remain open.

"Goodnight Toby."

"Goodnight Charlotte."

Should I or shouldn't I? I'm two feet away from the world's most yummy arse.

***

My head is pounding when I wake the next morning. Charlotte has pulled the

curtains back, and sun is streaming across the room and onto my face. Charlotte is

sitting out on the balcony in a pair of denim shorts and her bikini top, with a cup of

coffee. It smells divine.

"Good morning Toby," she yells, as she catches me limping across the room towards

the bathroom. I raise my hand and wave back. My throat is too hoarse and dry from

last night's booze and cigarettes to actually get any words out.

After nearly half an hour in the shower, I finally emerge and join Charlotte on

the balcony.

"I hope those aren't the same boxers you were wearing yesterday?" she says. I look

down at them.

"I'm not sure. Probably." Charlotte shakes her head.

"They're clean. I promise. No skid marks. Nothing."

"Delightful. So do you feel as bad as you look?" she asks.

"Worse."

"Oh dear. How's the nose and jaw?"

RICHARD PARKER

248

"Bloody sore. I don't know what I do to deserve such treatment. First with you head

butting me, and now this."

"There, there. Poor Toby. Would you like some coffee?"

"Thanks. Have you seen Matt and Lauren this morning?"

"No. I'm a bit scared to go over actually."

"Yeah, me too."

"Let me get you that coffee."

When Charlotte rejoins me on the balcony with my coffee, I feel pleased

nothing happened last night. I'm determined things will be different with Charlotte.

"It's beautiful isn't it? I wish we had more than three days."

"So do I. So what's the plan for today?"

"Matt and Lauren talked yesterday about going to Cherveney and watching the

feeding of the hounds. I thought it would be quite fun. I'm assuming, of course, that

they're still keen. After last night, who knows?"

"Sounds great to me. We should still go, even if they don't want to."

"I agree," says Charlotte.

***

On the tube to work on Monday morning, I'm desperately trying to read an

article in The Times about Thruster. The only problem is I have to stare past a woman

with a very provocative top, who thinks I'm leering at her tits.

"Sorry. I'm just trying to read the article in The Times behind you," I say.

RICHARD PARKER

249

"Yeah sure," she scoffs.

"It's true," I protest to no avail.

"Excuse me sir," I say, leaning over and tapping a man on the shoulder. "I don't

suppose I could read page three. There's an article about my magazine on it."

"No," he replies.

"No?" I repeat. He doesn't reply.

"Why not?" I ask.

"I've said no, now stop harassing me."

"I'm not harassing you arsehole. I simply asked to read an article in your paper. I'll

give it back."

"The answer is no," he replies.

By the time I get to Covent Garden, I'm consumed with rage. Shocked at how

selfish some people can be. After buying a copy of The Times at a newsstand, I make

my way to Rosen House.

"Morning Sam," I enthuse, bouncing past reception. "Morning Mike, Sally. Yes the

Loire was great thanks. Fantastic in fact. Best couple of days of my life," I blurt out,

flying into my office.

Inside my office something feels wrong. My office looks different. All the

pornographic posters on the wall have been taken down for starters.

"Mike, did someone go into my office while I was away?"

"Yes," comes a reply. It's not Mike. It sounds eerily familiar though. It can't be.

"Hi Toby. I bet you didn't expect to see me again. We need to talk. In private." I

feel a quiver in my bowels. I have a very bad feeling.

RICHARD PARKER

250

"How was France by the way? It's lovely this time of year isn't it?" she remarks. I

don't answer. I'm in no mood for small talk. When I take a seat in my office and the

raven closes the door, I notice my computer is gone.

"Where's my computer?" I blurt out.

"It's at PGP."

"PGP? Why?"

"Being searched by the IT department."

"What the hell for?"

"Look Toby, calm down," says Rachel, rising out of her chair to adjust her skirt. I

glance down at her legs, and feel saddened that this attractive woman is such a cold-

hearted bitch.

"What's going on Rachel?" I demand, as I open the top drawer to grab a packet of

cigarettes. The drawer is empty.

"Where are my cigarettes?"

"I threw them out."

"Why?"

"Because this is my office now."

"Your office!" I yell. "What are you talking about?"

"Toby, as of today you have been suspended as editor of Thruster pending a full

investigation into alleged dealing in child pornography. As an interim measure, PGP

has appointed me acting editor." I'm dumbstruck. Flabbergasted. As the words come

out of her mouth homicidal thoughts come flooding into my head – thoughts of

Patrick Bateman and chainsaws specifically. I try to compose myself.

"I see." I take out the cigarettes from my jacket. "So can you clarify exactly what

you mean by dealing in child pornography?" I ask.

RICHARD PARKER

251

"As you may or may not be aware, PGP routinely does random searches of people's

internet use. Over the past couple of months you were found to have downloaded a

substantial amount of child pornography from multiple websites. Our IT people are

now examining those sites, the pages you went onto, and the material you

downloaded." I slump forward in my chair and watch my cigarette slowly burn. I can

sense the glee in Rachel's eyes. She's enjoying this even more than the night she

trashed me to Charlotte at MKs.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?"

"No I'm not," she replies.

"Bullshit Rachel. I know you too well. All I can say is that I hope shagging Smythe

is worth it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about Toby."

"Like hell you don't. This is my fucking magazine Rachel. I'm the one who's turned

it around and made it success. Not you. Not Smythe."

"Bullshit Toby. Without Julian's backing and money this magazine would be nothing.

Look this isn't about me or Julian. It's about you Toby. You obviously need some

help. Adult entertainment is one thing, but kiddy porn? Hey, come on. That's sick.

If you're interested, we'd be willing to consider a deal."

"A deal! I thought you were still investigating this?"

"We are. But let's face it, it would be in all our interests if this matter were resolved

amicably. Out of the public domain."

"And why would this matter enter the public domain? Unless of course you leak it," I

yell.

RICHARD PARKER

252

"People talk Toby. You know that. And given your current status as the editor of

Britain's newest and most controversial adult porn magazine, an accusation of child

pornography will cause a scandal."

"But it's bullshit."

"I think you'll find that people won't have too hard a time believing that the editor of

an adult porn magazine is into child porn. Whether it's true or not will be irrelevant.

People will want to believe it's true. The mere accusation will destroy you."

"What's the deal then?"

"You resign, three months' salary and a reference from PGP."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

"And if I don't agree to the deal?"

"We'll complete the investigation and your employment will be terminated. We'll

also refer the matter to the police."

"Let me think about it. When do I need to get back to you?"

"End of the week. Sam has all your personal belongings in a box at reception. We've

deactivated your security card as well. All the best Toby." I collect my things from

Sam who looks devastated.

"I'll call you," she whispers.

"Thanks."

***

RICHARD PARKER

253

I arrange to meet Josh and Charlotte at this new Indian curry house in

Piccadilly, originally named, The Indian Curry House. There's nothing like a good

butter chicken to console oneself. When I exit Piccadilly tube station, it's pouring

with rain. The Indian Curry House is two streets away, and just crossing the road will

leave me drenched. I decide to buy an evening paper and wait in the entrance of the

tube station until it eases up a little.

On page 11 I find yet another article analysing the new-look Thruster. This

time the writer is somewhat cynical of what he sees as the blatant commercialism of it

all – Thruster's attempt to try to buy its readership. He's right of course. It is blatant

commercialism and we are trying to buy readers. But we want to make money not

win the porn Pulitzer.

"Toby," I hear a voice call out. I turn around. It's Josh and Charlotte.

"Oh good you've got an umbrella. I was waiting for the rain to ease off." Charlotte

comes up and kisses me. "How are you?" she whispers in my ear.

"I've been better, I have to say. I'll tell you about it when we get to the restaurant."

Huddling under Charlotte's umbrella we race across the street, dodging

puddles as we go. The Indian Curry House is bustling when we arrive. We are hit by

the sweet aroma of curry when we enter the restaurant.

"Won't Ravi be annoyed you're not eating at Delhi Belly?" says Josh referring to my

usual curry haunt.

"Probably, but it's always good to sample the competition. Besides it keeps Ravi on

his toes if he thinks I might go elsewhere." I'm a true Indiancurryophile. I eat it at

least once a week. My search for the perfect butter chicken has taken me all over

London. I'm even planning a pilgrimage to Bombay and New Delhi. It also keeps me

very regular. I've saved a fortune on prunes.

RICHARD PARKER

254

At the reception desk we are greeted by a slickly attired young man called

Sachin, who introduces himself as our waiter, and shows us to our table. As he takes

our drinks order, I ask whether his last name is Tendulkar and whether he's related to

the famous cricketer.

"Gosh, you're the first person to ask me that," he retorts sarcastically. I decide there

and then that I don't like Sachin. Not one little bit.

When our two Heinekens and chardonnay arrive, I begin to relay the events of

the day to Josh and Charlotte. After 15 minutes of cross-examination, the verdict of

one of my legal advisers is clear – sue the bastards.

"You have to Tobs. You can't let them push you around like this," says Josh.

"I realise that, but what Rachel said is also true. This won't be about whether I'm

guilty or not. It's about the stigma of the accusation. That's what they're counting on.

They might as well accuse me of being a child molester. It's almost as bad."

"Don't worry about that. We'll threaten them with legal action if they leak anything.

Besides, they'll risk destroying all the positive PR the new magazine has generated.

The last thing they'll want is their editor being embroiled in a child porn scandal."

"I don't know about that. It might actually help boost sales."

"What about Jeremy Mandel or Mary Newman?" suggests Josh. I shoot him a look

that tells him to be careful with what he says.

"I don't know. Jeremy won't want to intervene on Smythe's turf. You just don't do it.

I suspect I'm on my own."

"So how are we going there folks?"

"Very well thank you Sachin," I reply. "And how are things with you?"

Sachin ignores my question. "Are you ready to order?"

"I think we'll need another five minutes thanks Sachin."

RICHARD PARKER

255

"Okay."

"Oh, before you go, can you tell us the specials for the day?"

"Specials?"

"Yes. You do have specials don't you?"

"No we don't. Everything is on the menu." With that he's off.

"No specials!" I moan to the table. "Last time I'm coming here." The people at the

adjacent table give me a strange look.

"So Charlotte what do you think? Should I take the money and run, or should I

fight?"

"I agree with Josh. You've put too much work into the magazine to walk away.

You're the one who has made it a success. Sure Smythe stumped up the money but

you're the one who put it all together. You can't just chuck it in now."

"But I thought you didn't like me working for a porn magazine?"

"Well I don't. But I don't want you to leave it in this way either."

"Are we ready to order YET?" snarls Sachin, returning to the table.

"I think we are. We'll have three butter chickens – mild, plus rice and another two

Heinekens."

"And some naan bread," adds Josh.

"Do you need to write it down?" I ask. Sachin appears to be one of those waiters who

believes he can remember a table's orders without writing anything down.

"Well it is a rather complicated order but I think I can manage."

"Bastard," I mutter, as he wanders off. Charlotte rubs my back. "He's not that bad

darling." Josh pulls a face.

"What?" says Charlotte, somewhat peeved.

RICHARD PARKER

256

"What's with this darling business? Isn't there a rule against people calling each other

darling this early in a relationship?"

"Leave her alone!" I protest. "We'll call each other whatever we want won't we

cupcake? As for Sachin – he's just so full of himself and for what? He's a frigging

waiter for Christ's sake. Neither of you are to give him a tip. Okay?" Josh and

Charlotte agree.

"You know what upsets me the most about losing my job?"

"What?" says Josh.

"I'm going to have to pay for my porn from now on."

"Oh you poor thing. How will you cope?" says Charlotte rolling her eyes.

"Anyway enough about me and my problems. How's Sara?" Sara is Lisa and Josh's

new baby girl.

"Great thanks. She's nearly sleeping through the night. And second time around is

always much easier. At least we have an idea what we're doing, unlike when we had

Jonathan."

"And how's Lisa coping?" asks Charlotte.

"She's a little stressed, but her mother and sister are helping out a lot. You should

come over again. Lisa would love to see you."

"That would be nice," replies Charlotte.

"Okay, three butter chickens – mild," announces Sachin, as he plonks the steaming

bowls of curry in front of us.

"Smells great Tobs," says Charlotte.

"Yeah it does."

"Your naan bread and drinks are on their way," he adds.

RICHARD PARKER

257

***

Charlotte and I get home at 10 p.m. I'm feeling fairly relaxed after two

Heinekens and a Stella at The Indian Curry House. Walking up the front steps of our

apartment my thoughts turn to making a move on Charlotte. We haven't even got past

first base, and I'm thinking of grazing my knees and elbows sliding into homeplate.

Part of my hesitation about moving too quickly is I can't face blowing it. And then

there is the fact that Charlotte intimidates me sexually. Not because she proclaims to

be so good in bed, but because she doesn't. I can tell she's keen on sex but I'm not

sure what makes her tick.

Is she the kind of girl who secretly wants me to tear her panties off with my

teeth and shag her in an elevator? Or is she the type who wants to be romanced and

caressed? Made love to gently and sensuously. I'm happy with either approach

frankly. Versatility has always been one of my strengths.

In the living room, Charlotte flops onto the couch and unbuttons her skirt.

"Sorry the skirt is feeling a little tight after all that curry."

"No need to apologise. Do you want coffee or tea?"

"What are you having?"

"Coffee."

"I'll have a coffee too then."

RICHARD PARKER

258

While I'm in the kitchen making our coffee, Charlotte suddenly changes her order to a

hot water.

"Here you go," I say back in the living room.

"Thanks."

"I've never quite understood the attraction of hot water," I remark.

Charlotte shrugs her shoulders. "I'm not quite sure why I like it. It's hot and it's

caffeine free I suppose."

"Toby."

"Yeah."

"I just want to say thanks for what you did in New York. I know you rang Jeremy

Mandel. That was really sweet of you. It's one of the nicest things anyone has ever

done." She knows! I can't believe it. Who told her and when?

"It was the least I could do. I wasn't going to stand by and let that arsehole Elworthy

get away with it. How long have you known?"

"Since Boston."

"Boston. Did Josh tell you?"

"No."

"Who then?"

"I shouldn't say."

"Come on. Please."

"Jeremy Mandel. He was very nice about you actually. He said you had huge

potential. I think you should give him a call. He strikes me as the kind of guy who

would stand up to Smythe."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Anyway, can you pull my boots off?" she pleads, holding up one of her legs.

RICHARD PARKER

259

"Sure." I put down my coffee and move over to her couch.

"Leg out."

"Now pull the heel first and then the toe," she instructs.

"Heel, toe. Got it."

After a minute of tussling I finally have them both on the floor. I decide to roll the

dice.

"Anything else I can help take off for you?"

I say it with a mischievous grin. I swallow deeply, nervous I may have said the

wrong thing.

"You can take off anything you want. You can take it all off if you really want." Oh

God thank you. I won't forget you for this. I promise.

"How's that skirt feeling?"

"Tight. Too tight."

I fumble around for the zip, as Charlotte lifts her bottom off the couch. The skirt

slides down her thighs. I throw it on top of the boots.

"Now what next?" I say aloud to myself, scanning her partially-clothed body, and

rubbing my hands along her silky smooth pantyhose.

"These pantyhose look a bit constricting. Shall we get rid of them?"

She nods her head vigorously.

Charlotte is lying on the couch naked except for her panties which I've left on.

I start kissing and sucking her inner thighs. After several minutes of passionate

kissing and groping I decide to let Charlotte enjoy the Toby Willis experience.

"Toby, are you feeling okay?" Charlotte whispers. She's curled up in the foetal

position on the couch. Her face looks pained.

RICHARD PARKER

260

I rub my face and check my watch. I've been asleep on the living room floor for

nearly an hour. "What was that?" There's something stuck to my cheek. I paw at my

face and it falls off – it's my used banana-flavoured Durex. Nice! I then find a

raspberry one stuck to my foot.

"Are you feeling okay?" repeats Charlotte.

"Great thanks. You don't look too good though?"

"I don't feel good. I think it's the curry." I pull myself off the floor and move over to

the couch. Stroking her hair and caressing her bottom I offer to carry her to bed.

"I think I need to go to the bathroom. Now." Charlotte suddenly leaps up and bolts

for the door. I give chase.

I knock on the bathroom door.

"Don't come in," she yells.

"I won't. Are you alright?"

"No," she moans.

"Well, yell out if you need anything. I'll be in my bedroom."

"Okay."

Five minutes later Charlotte sends out an SOS. She needs a bucket.

"Can I come in?"

"No…I mean yes. Quickly." I scurry into the bathroom. Charlotte is sitting on the

toilet naked, hunched over, holding her mouth. She grabs the bucket from my grasp

and then projectile vomits the partially-digested remnants of her butter chicken into it.

After two more chunders she hands the bucket back. I study the contents closely.

"Do you think it was the butter chicken?" I ask innocently, "because I feel okay." She

looks at me and her eyes say it all.

RICHARD PARKER

261

"I wonder why I'm not sick? Perhaps I should call Josh. Actually it's a bit late isn't

it?" Charlotte then grabs her stomach and unleashes a remarkably fluid sounding

torrent of pooh. Despite her undignified condition, I find myself more attracted to her

than ever before.

"Can I get you anything?"

She shakes her head.

"I bet it was that prick Sachin. He probably put something in your bowl of curry

thinking it was for me. I'm going to keep your vomit and send it to the health

authorities. We should get that place closed down."

Charlotte's eyes have glazed over. She hears me I think, but is too weak to respond.

She rips the bucket out of my hand before dry retching a few times. She then spits

into the bucket.

"Do you want me to put the shower on? That usually makes me feel better."

"Not yet. But thanks. I hope you're not going to go off me, seeing me like this."

"Don't be silly." She smiles weakly.

"You don't have to stay," she says.

"I don't mind."

"Actually I'd rather you didn't. I don't really want you to see me like this."

"Okay. I'll leave my bedroom door open so yell out if you want anything."

"Thanks Toby."

An hour later I still can't sleep. I wander down the hallway to Charlotte's

room.

"Are you awake?"

"Yeah."

"How are you feeling?"

RICHARD PARKER

262

"Marginally better. My arse hurts like hell though." I bet it does.

"Anything I can get you?"

"No thanks."

"Okay. See you in the morning then.

"Toby."

"Yeah."

"I don't suppose you could clean the toilet for me tomorrow? Before Lauren gets

back." I'd love nothing more.

"No problem."

***

Charlotte is still pretty crook when I get up. I ring one of her friends who is a

doctor at a private medical clinic to pop over at lunch-time and diagnose her. I'm sure

it's food poisoning and I'm determined that Sachin is going to pay.

***

Shortly after 4 p.m. I meet up with the owner of Delhi Belly, and my good

friend Ravi Maharaj, who has agreed to accompany me back to The Indian Curry

House to confront Sachin.

RICHARD PARKER

263

"Thanks for coming with Ravi. I really appreciate it," I say, as we walk towards

Piccadilly.

"Don't mention it Toby. How is your girlfriend? What's her name again?"

"Charlotte."

"That's right."

"She's still pretty unwell. It was coming out both ends at a great rate of knots last

night. It wasn't pretty."

"I don't want to say 'I told you so', but that's what happens when you dine at the

competition."

"I know. It won't happen again. So you know this guy Sachin?"

"Oh dearee me. Unfortunately yes. He worked for us for about six weeks a few

months ago. We had to let him go."

As I see Ravi's reflection in a shop window I'm reminded how he looks like

some actor from Bollywood. Tall, very dark and handsome is how he always

describes himself. As we near Piccadilly, Ravi gives me the low down on Sachin.

"We think he could have Pakistani blood in him, Toby."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"Because no Indian would act the way he does."

Ravi isn't a big fan of Pakistan and Pakistanis. I first learnt this at Ravi's place,

watching a cricket game between India and Pakistan in Karachi. Even Ravi's wife, a

beautiful, demur and sophisticated woman started hurling four-letter expletives at the

TV screen and Wasim, after Sachin Tendulkar was given out in a rather dubious leg

before wicket decision.

RICHARD PARKER

264

The Indian Curry House is opening its doors when we arrive. A petite and

attractive young girl with a red dot in the middle of her forehead (I must ask Ravi

what this signifies again) greets us at the door.

"Hello," she says, smiling shyly.

"Hi," I reply.

"Do you know if Sachin is working today?" inquiries Ravi.

"Sachin? Um um. Let me go and check." As she makes her way back into the

restaurant Sachin emerges from the kitchen.

"There he is," I say turning to Ravi. Both of us barge on in, gently easing the girl to

one side.

"Sachin," squeals the girl, "these gentlemen want to talk to you." Sachin recognises

Ravi immediately.

"What are you doing here?" he yells. "Get out."

"Sit down Sachin," orders Ravi. Sachin hesitates for a moment and then does as he's

told.

"What do you want?" he snarls. The girl who opened up the restaurant runs out the

back, leaving the three of us alone.

"My girlfriend and I had dinner here last night with another friend. Do you remember

me?"

"No." Bullshit. Of course you do.

"I think you do."

"I don't. We have lots of customers here every night. I can't be expected to remember

every customer's face."

"Well your memory is apparently good enough to remember orders without writing

them down. Anyway, my girlfriend got a severe case of food poisoning last night no

RICHARD PARKER

265

thanks to this place. It wasn't pleasant trust me – I had to clean up the toilet this

morning."

"What the hell is going on here?" yells a voice from the back of the room. I look up.

It's a short rotund man, whom I presume is the owner of The Indian Curry House.

"You!" he screams even louder, when he sees Ravi. "What are you doing here?"

"Questioning one of my ex-staff. You nearly killed a customer here last night with

one of your cheap Pakistani imitation butter chickens."

"What are you talking about?"

"My friend's fiancée here spent last night in hospital after dining at this restaurant.

The word is that you might be closed down."

"Get out now! Get out!!" screams the short rotund owner. Ravi and I hold our

ground, but when he starts charging at us with a curry bowl, we both turn and flee.

Sachin isn't worth getting a curry bowl smashed over your head for.

***

After saying goodbye to Ravi, I decide I need to get a present for Charlotte.

Just a little something to say thanks for last night and I hope you're feeling better. A

little something to tell her that despite seeing her hunched over on the toilet bowl

crapping and puking her guts out, I think I'm the luckiest guy in the world.

RICHARD PARKER

266

10

Sodom and Gomorrah

"Do Londoners really want to become modern day Sodomites?"

[Quotation from T.S. McAllister, London newspaper columnist.]

Larry's bar is bursting at the seams when we arrive. Sam, Sally and Mike

have taken me out to get trollied, and get the inside scoop on my untimely demise at

the hands of Rachel Porter.

"Steve said drinks are on the house, so what can I get you Tobs?" asks Sam.

"A Stella and a pack of Marlboros, if that's okay?"

"That's fine."

"Actually make it two Stellas. It looks like getting a drink might be difficult," I add,

viewing the dozens of people crammed in around the bar.

After a group leaves, Mike and Sally snare a table near the street end of

Larry's.

"So what's she said about me?" I ask, as Sam returns to the table with my drinks and

cigarettes.

RICHARD PARKER

267

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing," says Sally.

"Really? She must have said something?"

"She's told us you've been suspended pending a full investigation into inappropriate

conduct," replies Sally.

"Those were her exact words – inappropriate conduct?"

"Yeah."

"So what's the real story Tobs?" asks Sam. Sam is wearing another of her legendary

outfits – short black leather miniskirt and velvet breast-hugging leopard-skin top. I

stare at her breasts for a moment as I take a swig of Stella.

"Your tits suit leopard-skin you know Sam."

"Thanks Tobs. That means a lot," Sam replies gazing down at her breasts. I follow

her gaze. "It's back in fashion this season according to Vogue."

I bet it is, I think to myself.

"Anyway to answer your question as to what the real story is…" I pause for moment

and take another swig of beer. "Sam can I have a cigarette thanks?"

"Sure." Sam lights me up a Marlboro and hands it over. "To be perfectly honest, I

don't know the real story. All I know is that when I got into the office on Monday

morning my computer was gone, and Rachel said I was suspended while they

investigate further into my accessing of child pornography websites. I suspect it had

something to do with my little spat with Rachel and Smythe in Paris but I can't say for

certain. Dave Jacobs always told me Smythe was an unpredictable bastard. He's

well-known for firing people for no apparent reason. I guess I've paid the price for

telling him to keep his fucking girlfriend away from the magazine."

"Did you say child porn? Jesus Toby!" spits Mike, in a manner to which I take

exception.

RICHARD PARKER

268

"I didn't do it Mike."

"No of course," he stammers.

"So what are you going to do? Are you going to fight them?" asks Sam, lighting up

another cigarette.

"No. I've thought about it a lot and I'm going to cut a deal with Rachel and take the

money and run," I reply.

"You can't," insists Sam.

"Yeah, you can't. You can't leave us with her. We'll all resign," adds Sally.

"Look, don't do anything for me. Thruster is on the verge of becoming a major

player. You'd be crazy to chuck in the whole thing now. Especially after all the work

you've put in."

"She might get rid of us too you know." Good point I think to myself. What were

Rachel's words to Smythe, 'a bunch of useless cunts', or something like that.

"Think positively Mike," I reply patting him on the back. And pray; lots.

"What will you do?" asks Sally.

"I'm not exactly sure. Find another editorship somewhere, if anyone will take me, or

maybe go back to law. I've even considered teaching actually."

In my day, being a teacher seemed to be the easiest job in the world – any

dim-witted twat with a penchant for corporal punishment, cardigans and socks and

sandals could do it. All you had to do was know how to write legibly on the

blackboard, give out detentions, tell people to write, "I will not talk in class' 200

times, give out lots of homework, and beat kids mercilessly for the most minor of

transgressions. In many ways those were the golden days of teaching.

In those days, if a kid told you to fuck off, you were allowed, indeed you were

expected, to flog them viciously until large painful welts covered their buttocks and

RICHARD PARKER

269

they begged for mercy. Nowadays you are expected to ask them for an apology, and

if they refuse, refer them to anger-management counselling where some touchy-feely

ponce like Angus will talk to them about their 'issues'. Having said all that, teaching

still holds some attractions; cruisy hours, lots of holidays and the chance to look at 17

year-old girls in the shower – if you're in to that kind of thing of course, which I'm

not.

"Teaching!" the three of them blurt out simultaneously, before collapsing into

hysterics.

"Yes, teaching. Is there a reason you all find that so amusing?"

"You just don't seem the teaching type," proffers Sam.

"And what is the teaching type?"

She pauses for a moment and adjusts her left bra strap.

"I don't know, but it's not you. Sorry Tobs."

At this stage I decide to pack a sulk.

"Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"Tobyyyyee. Why do you take everything so personally?" says Sam.

"How else should I take it?"

"Let's change the subject," suggests Sally. "How's Charlotte?" she asks.

"She's great thanks. We got on really well in France."

"And how's living with her going?" asks Sam.

"Really well." I decide not to tell them about the pashing, the shagging, the diarrhoea,

the vomiting and the porn watching.

"I don't want to get ahead of myself but I can see a future together for us. She's

everything I've ever wanted in a women – smart, good looking, funny, career-

RICHARD PARKER

270

orientated without being overly ambitious and most importantly she likes me – what

more could I want?"

"So have you porked her?" Mike then asks. Porked her? Now there's a phrase I

haven't heard in a while. It's not one of my favourite turns of phrase. It sounds like

something you do with luncheon sausage or some Dutch salami. Shagging is far more

palatable.

"Whether I've porked her or not is none of your business, I'm afraid Mike."

"You have haven't you?"

"I'm not saying."

"Mike give it a rest will you," says Sam interjecting. Mike, looking suitably

chastened, goes quiet.

"So are you serious about this teaching business?" asks Sam.

"Sort of. It's certainly a possibility. I loved school. My school days were the best

days of my life in fact. I really feel I could make a difference to kids' lives."

"What would you teach? Sex education?" laughs Mike. Sam shoots him an evil stare.

"Sorry Tobs. Just joshing."

"My mum was a teacher. I might talk to her. She always believed it was one of the

more noble professions. Up there with medicine in terms of the contribution it makes

to society."

"Well my teachers were a bunch of cunts. So were all my classmates," Mike snarls.

"I hated school. Absolutely hated it. I used to get beaten up every week."

At about 9.30 p.m. I call it a night, say my goodbyes, and promise to keep in

touch.

RICHARD PARKER

271

***

I leave the offices of Thruster in Rosen House for the last time a bit before

midday. My confidential settlement agreement, which I've promised to tell Sam,

Sally and Mike about next week, sees me getting six months' salary, no admission of

guilt for surfing child porn sites, and a glowing reference from PGP. I also negotiated

a two-year free subscription to Thruster at the last minute. A bit of fun I thought.

Rachel looked suitably unimpressed but she wasn't about to blow the deal over

something so trivial. Despite Josh's and Charlotte's counsel that I should fight Rachel,

Thruster and PGP, I decided I had no stomach for an acrimonious battle which I

might not even win. Better to cut my losses and move on I thought.

I'm on my way to Trafalgar Square to meet Josh and Charlotte. I have a copy

of Thruster's latest issue, the cover again adorned by Lucie, this time in black knee-

high PVC boots, black PVC hot pants and a black PVC bra. All in all she looks like

serious heart attack material for any man over 35. I've promised to pick up two extra

copies for Charlotte and Josh so they can both enter the competition. When I get to a

newsstand there is a large queue. I wait nearly 10 minutes to get to the front and spot

the last two copies of Thruster. I reach over to grab them. As I do, some large

overweight man tries to rip them from my grasp.

"Hey fatso, they're mine. Get your own magazines."

"What did you call me?"

When I take a second to look at fatso I realise I've made a terrible mistake. He's

certainly fat. No doubt about that. But he also looks mean. Mean in the I've-served-

time-and-I'm-going-to-cause-you-grievous-bodily-harm sense of the word.

RICHARD PARKER

272

"Nothing."

"You called me fatso you little prick didn't you?"

"No I didn't." I feel like I'm going to crap my pants. No make that crap and piss my

pants.

"Yes you did," says someone standing behind me. I turn around.

"Mind your own business you nosy cow," I snap back. I then do what I do best in

such situations. I throw the newsstand man some money, tell him to keep the change

and run. Run like hell. Run like I'm auditioning for Chariots of Fire. Fatso pursues

me for about 50 metres before I duck behind a bus and make my escape.

I arrive in Trafalgar Square, panting and sweating. I soon see Josh and

Charlotte.

"Here you go," I say, handing them both their copies. "You won't believe the trouble

I had getting these."

"I hear they're selling out all over the city," says Josh. "Look at this place would

you?" he remarks, gazing at the thousands of people who are wandering around the

square with their magazines, all in the name of a million quid.

"So you signed the settlement agreement?" asks Charlotte.

"Yep."

"It was all okay? She agreed to everything you asked for?"

"Yeah no problems. She even threw in a two-year subscription to Thruster. She

seemed desperate to get rid of me at any price. Probably should have asked for

more."

"Six months is fairly generous Toby," she says.

"I meant a longer subscription." Charlotte hits me on the shoulder in disgust.

RICHARD PARKER

273

"You're a lucky man Willis having someone like Charlotte. There's no way Lisa

would allow me to have those types of magazines in the house."

"I know, I'm very lucky," I reply, winking at Charlotte. Then out of the corner of my

eye, I see fatso. And then he sees me. "Oh shit."

"What?" says Charlotte. I need to think quickly.

"I'll meet you guys at MKs in 20 minutes."

"What's going on Toby?" asks Charlotte.

"I'll explain at MKs." Fatso is pushing his way through the crowd now. Ducking

down I make my way through the throngs of people, and start running again.

***

Returning to MKs, the scene of my datus horribilis, isn't easy. But it has to be

done.

"What was that all about?" Charlotte asks, when I meet up with her.

"He tried to steal my two magazines so I called him fatso. He seemed to take offence

to it. Can't understand why?"

"I see. Well at least you're in one piece."

"Are you up for a glass of bubbles to celebrate my new-found unemployment?"

"I think so."

"What happened to Josh?" I ask.

"Shapiro called him on his mobile. Needed him back at the office for an urgent

meeting."

RICHARD PARKER

274

"That sounds like Shapiro."

"So what are you going to do with yourself now you've got all this spare time on your

hands?"

"I thought I'd have one week doing absolutely nothing. Buy a few books, rent a few

videos and unwind. I should go and see my mother again. Maybe you'd like to

come?"

"Yeah. That'd be nice," Charlotte says. "We should go away somewhere though; just

the two of us. What about Florence? I haven't been there in years. What do you

think?" she asks.

"Sounds great. Last time I was there was about five years ago."

"Shall I ask Matt and Lauren?"

"That would be wonderful," I reply sarcastically.

We both laugh. I continue to make an effort with Lauren, if only for

Charlotte's sake, but Matt is out of the question. Matt is a dickhead. I will have

nothing to do with him. Lauren fortunately has been good enough to start spending

nights at Matt's place, thereby sparing the four of us the discomfort of sharing a living

room together.

"I'll call the travel agent this afternoon. How about the end of the month?"

"Sounds great."

"To Florence!" I say, raising my glass.

"To Florence."

***

RICHARD PARKER

275

On my way home I decide to swing by Hatchards in Piccadilly to get a bit of

reading for the week. After browsing the store for more than an hour and traipsing up

and down the stairs I end up with half a dozen books. After Hatchards, I swing by the

post office and drop off a little, but rather precious parcel for an old acquaintance.

Back at the flat I decide to give my mother a call. I grab the phone, my

cigarettes, one of my books, and move out onto the balcony.

"Mum, it's Toby. How are you?"

"Toby. I didn't expect you to be calling me at this hour on a work day. Nothing's

wrong is it?"

"No, no. I was thinking of coming to see you."

"That sounds lovely."

"How does next week sound?"

"Next week? Yes that's fine. But what about work?"

"I'm taking a bit of time off. A short sabbatical. I'm even thinking about being a

teacher. I thought we could talk about it."

"I think you'd be a great teacher, Toby." Finally some encouragement. "By the way

Auntie Kate showed me an article about you and your magazine in the paper the other

day."

"She did?" Bloody cow. I knew someone would tell Mum sooner or later and I

should have guessed it would be someone like Auntie Kate. I can imagine her giddy

with delight when she discovered my real job.

"I'm sorry Mum. I'd been meaning to tell you."

"Don't worry. I already knew. Juls told me about it a year ago."

"She did? I'm really sorry mum. I should have told you. I just didn't know how to

bring it up."

RICHARD PARKER

276

"Nor did I, I'm afraid. Anyway we can talk more when you come to visit."

"Yeah. I'll call you again later and let you know what time I'm arriving. See you later

Mum."

"Bye Toby."

After I hang up, it strikes me how ridiculously easy our conversation was. A

conversation I had dreaded and avoided for so long.

***

It's a beautiful Saturday morning, and Charlotte and I are sitting out on the

balcony of our apartment having breakfast and reading the Saturday papers.

"What a day," I remark, staring up at the sun.

"It sure is. What do you feel like doing?" she asks, taking a sip of her coffee.

"I thought we could go to Selfridges and have a look around for a new suit for me. I

pulled out the two I had yesterday, and I think they're looking a little tired."

"Cool. So have you given any more thought to what you're going to do?"

"A little. I'll try to find another editorship first. If that doesn't work out I've thought

about going back and trying law again or maybe even teaching."

"What about Jeremy Mandel? I still think you should call him."

"I will."

"Did you see the article about PGP and Thruster in the FT?" asks Charlotte.

"Yeah I did," I reply, grabbing my coffee cup and heading inside for a refill.

RICHARD PARKER

277

"Would you like another cup? I ask.

"No thanks."

The article depressed me much more than I thought it would. The

unprecedented interest created by Thruster has focused media attention on the whole

PGP Group. According to the article, PGP, the world's third largest media

conglomerate, is in serious talks with AGN Media Group, the world's fourth largest

group, about a possible merger or acquisition. Together the combined entities would

own hundreds of magazines and many of the world's leading titles. The article then

reprinted excerpts of an interview with Sir Richard Avery, Chairman of PGP. Much

of the interview focused not on the enormous sales Thruster has managed to generate

in a fairly flat market, but rather the increasingly vociferous criticism the magazine is

attracting from the likes of T.S. McAllister and others. When asked about

McAllister's assertion that Thruster's attempt to bring pornography into the

mainstream would lead to the further degeneration of an already morally-vacuous

Britain, Sir Richard simply replied, 'Not true. Utter bollocks.'

When it was suggested that magazines like Thruster degraded women and

whose editors were usually misogynistic sex maniacs, Sir Richard replied, 'Utter

rubbish.' He then went on to add, 'if you'd done your homework you'd have known

that the editor of Thruster, is, in fact, a woman – Rachel Porter, one of PGP's rising

stars and a staunch advocate of women's rights.'

When asked if he could explain the phenomenal success of Thruster, Sir

Richard replied, 'Yes.' When asked if he cared to expand upon that answer, he

replied, 'No.' Sir Richard Avery, well-known for being a man of few words, sounded

as curt and cantankerous as ever.

RICHARD PARKER

278

When Charlotte and I exit the Bond Street tube station 45 minutes later, I still

feel aggrieved by the article and that Rachel Porter is now associated with Thruster's

success. Success for which I am responsible. Seemingly not satisfied with destroying

my career, she seems intent on taking credit for my hard work.

"You're not still thinking about Rachel Porter are you?" asks Charlotte, as we stroll

hand-in-hand along Oxford Street, towards Selfridges.

"I can't help it," I moan.

"I'm sorry. I'm not being very sympathetic am I?"

"Yes you are. Look, I'll snap out of it. I just need to brood a bit longer."

When we get to Selfridges I see him coming towards us. I grab Charlotte's

forearm.

"What?" she asks.

"I see someone I know. Give me a minute will you."

"Toby. I thought it was you. How are you?"

"Good thanks. This is Charlotte," I say, introducing her.

"Hi, I'm Jonathan Miles. Nice to meet you. Thanks for the tape Toby. I presume it

was from you?"

"Let's just say it was from a friend with a mutual interest."

Miles laughs. "So what are you up to?"

"Suit shopping."

"Job interviews eh?"

"Afraid so."

"Well I'll leave you two to it. By the way don't forget to buy a copy of the Sunday

Star-Times tomorrow. You might find it interesting."

"How interesting exactly?"

RICHARD PARKER

279

"Extremely."

As we enter Selfridges, Charlotte starts to cross-examine me.

"What was that all about?"

"It's a long story."

"Most of your stories are, I'm discovering."

"This one is even longer."

"Why am I not surprised?"

"Let's find me a suit and then I'll tell you all about it okay?"

"Okay."

***

For someone not wildly enthusiastic about getting out of bed in the morning,

particularly on a Sunday, I am impressed by the gusto with which I leap out of bed at

7 a.m., the day after running into Jonathan Miles.

"Where are you going?" asks a sleepy Charlotte.

"To get the paper."

"What time is it?"

"Seven."

"Are you feeling alright?"

"Never felt better. Back soon."

RICHARD PARKER

280

Sprinting to the newsstand, I grab a copy of the Sunday Star-Times. I smile.

A wicked-thank-you-Jonathan-Miles-thank-you-Mike-Wilkinson-thank-you-God

smile, as I stare at the front page.

"Everything alright there mate?" asks the newsstand man.

"It's better than alright. Here," I say, handing him a 20 quid note. "Keep the change,"

I add, without even lifting my gaze from the paper.

"Thanks!"

I walk away from the newsstand not simply alright, however. I'm giddy. Positively

giddy.

***

There's nothing quite like appearing on the front page of one of London's

major tabloids in a display of naked gymnastics (that would make the eyes of a

contortionist from Cirque du Soleil water), with three other women (none of whom is

your wife), to sully one's reputation and cause a little disharmony in the marital home.

Four weeks have passed since the Sunday Star-Times broke the story of

Smythe's Parisian ménage à six, and as I sit on the balcony smoking, drinking and

reading, I reflect on the ups and downs of life and my current unemployment. In

those four weeks Smythe has been mocked, pilloried and hung out to dry by all and

sundry. Within hours of the story breaking, in the eyes of the upper echelons of PGP

management he became a boil that had to be lanced; a zit that had to be pussed. There

RICHARD PARKER

281

were by all accounts a queue of PGP senior execs champing at the bit to do the

lancing and pussing.

The whole media feeding frenzy was made worse because of Smythe's

involvement with Thruster. To have the MD of the company that owned Thruster

caught in an orgy with the new editor and the world's hottest porn star was more than

the British tabloids could bear. They were giddy with delight. And far from

damaging Thruster, sales in fact went through the roof, as regrettably did the

popularity of Rachel Porter. Now she has her own website and receives 200,000 hits

a day from around the world.

So while Smythe's life lies in tatters, and he has been ostracised by PGP, his

wife and children, and the British public at large, for being lucky enough to shag three

attractive women at once, Rachel Porter has been embraced and canonised as the

latest sexual demigod.

Rachel, I must admit, has had the nous to realise that she could either embrace

her new-found status and popularity as a slutty husband-stealing orgy-goer or protest

her innocence and sink into obscurity. Ever the pragmatist, she chose the former.

According to recent surveys in the tabloids, 90% of men admitted they would sleep

with Rachel if they had the chance; 95% thought she had done nothing wrong

sleeping with a married man; and 95% of men also admitted they were jealous of

Smythe, and that if Rachel would have him, he should leave his wife. In contrast

0.5% of women said they would sleep with Smythe; 99% thought Smythe was

despicable and Rachel a slutty homewrecker; and 92% thought they both deserved

each other and that Smythe's wife should definitely leave him.

RICHARD PARKER

282

The story also has led to a minor renaissance in Linda Lawless' career. Her

old movies have been re-released and become cult classics, and offers to do new

movies have come pouring in.

The antics of Smythe, Lucie, Linda, Rachel and the two unnamed Frenchies

and the resultant surge in Thruster sales, did nothing to appease the increasingly

unappeasable T.S. McAllister. Likening London to a modern-day Sodom and

Gomorrah, McAllister lambasted Londoners (whom he unfortunately referred to as

potential Sodomites – a rather poor choice of word I thought) for the alacrity with

which they lapped up Thruster and its creators.

On my way back to the fridge for another Stella, the doorbell rings.

"Who is it?"

"Sam."

"Sam, how are you?"

"Terrible."

"Oh dear. Come on up." I release the intercom button and hit the door release and let

Sam into the building. A couple of minutes later we're out on the balcony with beers.

Sam has always been a beer chick.

"So what's wrong?"

"Everything."

"Can you be a little more specific?"

"Work."

"I figured as much."

"And Steve." Steve? That's interesting. For a moment, but only a moment, the

thought of a single Sam in search of love and support and a quick shag on the side

seems decidedly erotic. But a glimpse of Charlotte's Italian boots by the couch in the

RICHARD PARKER

283

living room brings me back down to earth. Vulnerable or not, available or not, Sam

James is off bounds; persona non gropa.

"So what's Rachel done?" I ask cutting to the chase.

"She's a bitch."

"What's new?" Sam gives me an evil glare.

"I'm sorry." Being sympathetic isn't one of my strong points.

"She fired Mike."

"For what?"

"According to her, for being a useless twat."

"Those were her exact words?"

"More or less."

"How's Mike taking it?"

"Not well."

"So what's he going to do?"

"He's not sure."

After listening to Sam rant and rave about Rachel, I carefully turn the

conversation to Steve, whom I suspect is the real cause of Sam's current state.

"So what's the story with Steve?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

Sam and Steve have been going out for three years. Physically they are a

perfect match. Sam, the sultry stiletto-wearing big-breasted tart and Steve the macho,

gym-going bar owner. Despite their physical chemistry, their relationship has always

been turbulent.

RICHARD PARKER

284

"He's found someone else," says Sam, breaking the silence. I decide to say nothing

and let Sam vent in her own time.

"Some bimbo bartender at Larry's. I never liked her you know. She was always

flirting with Steve."

"What's she like, apart from the flirting?"

"Big tits, tight arse – your typical nightmare."

I refrain from telling Sam she's just described herself. Steve's dumping of Sam has

confirmed one of my long-held beliefs – that men aren't only interested in looks.

They want variety. To men, women are like beer. Men may think that Heineken is

the only beer for them but sooner or later they'll have to try Stella, then Corona and

then God forbid Fosters or Bud.

"So what are you going to do?"

Sam shrugs her shoulders. She then kicks off her heels and puts her feet up on the

railing causing her skirt to ride up her thigh. I pinch myself. I also make a mental

note to get down to Larry's and check out the bartender. She must be something

special for Steve to trade in Sam.

"Everything will work out, Sam. She'll probably dump him and he'll come crawling

back to you. And if he doesn't, you'll find someone else. You're gorgeous. You

know that."

"Thanks Toby." Pretty lame advice but what else can I say.

***

RICHARD PARKER

285

We get to our hotel in Florence in the Piazza Ognissanti in the late afternoon.

Charlotte has a rudimentary grasp of Italian and does all the talking with the hotel

staff thank God. My Italian is much like my French sadly.

It's many years since either of us was in Florence and, as is always the case,

some things seem wonderfully familiar and others entirely foreign. Our room is

beautiful and has stunning views of the Arno River. Too late in the day to bother

doing any of the tourist things, we decide to wander the streets and soak in the

atmosphere of one of Italy's most beguiling cities. Holding Charlotte's hand we go in

search of somewhere to have a drink and later an early meal.

"What are you thinking?" asks Charlotte, as we near the Ponte Vecchio.

"About you. About how beautiful you are, and how lucky I am."

Charlotte giggles and grabs my arm.

"Did anyone ever tell you how smooth you are?"

"All the time."

"Let's go find ourselves a drink."

As we make our way across the Ponte Vecchio and through the crowds of

people, I scan the jewellery shops hoping to catch a glimpse of something I can sneak

back and buy for Charlotte.

"It's looking a little grey," I point out once we're over the bridge. No sooner have

I spoken, than the first drops of rain appear. Ten minutes later it's pelting down.

Scurrying for cover we decide to head back to the hotel. When we get to Via del

Porcellana, not far from the hotel, we decide to try to hunt out a restaurant. About a

100 metres down the street we find one. But by then we are soaked to the skin.

"What do you think?" asks Charlotte.

"Let's go back to the hotel, run a bath, and order some champagne and room service."

RICHARD PARKER

286

"You're on."

Back in our hotel and in our marble bathroom we both peel off our sodden

clothes. Charlotte pours the bubble bath liquid in. Back out in the main room I flick

on the TV and find CNN weather. The CNN weather woman tells me that Florence is

going to be ravaged by gusting winds and torrential rain for the next couple of days.

This can be contrasted with the forecast I found on this website called

www.trustuswiththeweather.com the day before leaving which categorically assured

me that Florence would be cloudy with occasional showers but with increasing fine

periods. I cuss the weather, meteorologists, and the internet.

"It's not looking good I'm afraid," I say as I head back to the bathroom with our

champagne and glasses.

"What's the forecast?"

"Rain and wind until we leave."

"Oh well. I'm sure we'll find ways to entertain ourselves," she says, splashing some

water at me. "Now hurry up and pour me some champagne."

"Yes ma'am. Anything else?"

"Yes. Grab the room service menu. I'm starving."

"As you wish."

Back in the luxurious spa bath, Charlotte sits between my legs while I massage

her shoulders and head.

"That's nice. When we get back I want a massage like this once a week okay?"

"Sure but there's one minor problem with that."

"What?"

"We don't have a spa bath in the flat."

"Then we'll go to a hotel once a week."

RICHARD PARKER

287

"Fine by me."

"I thought you might say that," she giggles, running her hand between my legs.

A few minutes later I hop out of the bath to grab a cigarette. "God, the rain

has got worse," I yell out, as I peek through the curtains.

"I'm hungry. Let's order dinner," Charlotte replies.

"Okay what do you want?"

Charlotte orders some exotic local dish and I order a cheeseburger and fries.

"Dinner will be half an hour," I say, getting back into the bath.

"What did you order?"

"Cheeseburger and fries."

"You come to Florence and order a hamburger? You could get that anywhere."

"So?"

"So why didn't you order something Italian?"

"I did – an Italian cheeseburger."

"Oh God Toby. You really are a cultural Philistine."

An hour later we're curled up in bed, the curtain pulled back so we can watch

the rain pound against the window. Charlotte is lying on her side and I'm sitting up

watching some Italian gameshow I can't understand and having my last Dunhill of the

day.

"Can you even understand that?" asks Charlotte.

"No."

"Then turn it off and spoon me."

"Sure." I grab the remote and kill the TV.

"So what are you thinking?" I ask, spooning Charlotte and cupping her breasts.

"About you. About how lucky I am."

RICHARD PARKER

288

"Really?"

"No, not really. I was thinking about where I can buy some shoes tomorrow."

"Oh thanks very much," I moan, squeezing her breasts.

"Ouch."

"You deserved that."

"I did. You're right."

"So what are we going to do tomorrow?"

"Well if the weather is still like this – not much. I'd like to do a bit of shopping –

shoes, handbags and jewellery. And I'd like to visit the Duomo and the Uffizi again."

"Sounds great."

"That champagne has made me sleepy," says Charlotte.

"Me too."

The rain feels almost hypnotic as it crashes against the window and I feel myself doze

off. A while later I'm woken up by a ringing. It's the telephone. It's just after

midnight.

"Hello," I mumble, groggily down the phone.

"Toby is that you?"

"Yeah. Who's this? Jeremy?"

"It sure is. Sorry to disturb you so late."

"That's alright. How did you get this number?"

"I figured you were with Charlotte, so I rang K&S. They weren't too forthcoming

with her whereabouts but I got Shapiro on the case, and he sorted it out."

"I suppose you're wondering why I'm calling at such a strange hour."

"I was actually."

"We've literally just bought AGN Media Group."

RICHARD PARKER

289

"Fantastic."

"Thanks. It's still very confidential – we're in the process of drafting releases to the

various exchanges – but one of my key responsibilities will be merging the North

American operations of both groups. And I'm going to need some help in respect of

the magazine divisions."

"I see."

"I thought you might be the person to give me that help."

"Me?"

"Yeah. There is one thing though."

Oh God. I knew there would be.

"Look, if it's about Rachel Porter and that child porn shit, I swear to God I didn't do

it."

"I know you didn't. I had a meeting with Rachel in London. She basically admitted

as much. I'm not a huge fan of Rachel myself, but she is doing great things for

Thruster."

"So what's the catch with this job?"

"It's in New York."

"Oh."

"Now, I know how serious you are about Charlotte and I've spoken to Mary Newman.

If Charlotte wants a job in the PGP Legal Department in New York, it's hers. Of

course, I'm sure Shapiro will be only too happy to help her transfer to K&S's New

York office, if she'd prefer that."

"I don't know what to say?"

"I'd like you to say yes. But you obviously need to talk to Charlotte. Have a think

about it and call me back in a few days."

RICHARD PARKER

290

"Thanks Jeremy."

"You're welcome." I hang up speechless.

"Who was that?" asks Charlotte, who has woken up.

"Jeremy Mandel."

"What did he want?"

"How do you feel about moving back home?"

"New York?"

"Yeah."

"I'd love it."

"Me too."

RICHARD PARKER

291