After Chantelle’s ordeal, would it be insensitive to call Amnesty International to say that my human rights were being abused by having to date Jack Cassidy? It certainly was a cruel and unusual punishment. These were my thoughts as I made my way through Camden to Primrose Hill.
Jack lived in a pretty, petal-strewn cul-de-sac near the park. Although the Saturday-morning air was crisp, the sun was shining. I’d decided to drop in on him at his four-storey Edwardian home, just to ascertain that there were no undisclosed professors’ wives or live-in gym junkies in residence. I walked up through the cobbled streets, past pastel-painted houses and into the village, with its cutesy baby and bridal boutiques, tea-cosy-twee bric-a-brac gift stores and quaint little cake shops. It was like walking through treacle. I grabbed the lion’s-head knocker and banged loudly on Jack’s door.
‘Are you working?’ I asked, noting the Montblanc pen in his hand when he answered my knock.
‘Just busy converting my bar bills into legitimate legal expenses I can charge to the client.’
‘Gee, you’re really putting that starred First from Oxford to good use. Don’t you worry about what people think?’
‘Nope. After all, they don’t do it very often.’
‘Are you sure you’re not busy seducing a client or preboarding a flight attendant or something?’ Jack gave me a slight frown of annoyance. ‘Okay, then. May I come in?’
‘Do you have any blood-splattered fugitives with you?’
‘No.’
‘That’s disappointing.’ I could hear a laugh beginning to surface in his voice, which was beyond annoying. He stood back from the door and beckoned me inside with a courtier’s bow. The high-ceilinged cream rooms with their dustless wooden floors warmed by rich rugs and shards of sunlight, the cool green air of the park opposite breathing fresh oxygen into the hall through the wide, open windows, the piles of hardback books on side tables, spines not yet cracked, the velvety sounds of a Bach cello suite wafting on air scented by the blossom of luxuriant flower displays – it was the opposite of my current abode, with its chaos, feral canines and curling carpet.
I followed him through the house, past an atrium and conservatory and into a luxurious sitting room.
‘So, how’s your testicle festival going?’ Jack flung himself back into a leather armchair and crossed one sockless ankle nonchalantly over the opposite knee, preparing to be amused.
I sat primly opposite him on a hard-backed chair. ‘That’s why I’m here. I’ve decided that I will go out with you . . . in exchange for scheduling my granny’s case before the rape trial.’
‘Well, that’s an interesting turn of events. I got the impression that you would rather ride the Death-defying Space Mountain rollercoaster, followed by a quick spin in the Tower of Pain, than be seen with me in public. So, what changed your mind?’
‘I’m sorry. Am I under oath? I don’t remember agreeing to a cross-examination. Let’s just decide where and when and what we are doing so I can get it over with.’
‘Hmm. Good question . . .’ He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘We’d better not sit side by side in a dark theatre, as an erection is so tricky to hide in the interval.’
I realized then that what I had thought was my mild disdain for Jack Cassidy had morphed into acute repugnance. I glared back, lips curled.
‘Although a hard-on in the car home afterwards is considered very good manners in most social circles,’ he teased.
‘Really? I find saying to a man’s face that he’s an irritating fucking bastard is considered rude in most social circles.’
Jack Cassidy narrowed his eyes at me. If he and I were in a Spencer Tracy/Katharine Hepburn movie, as my mother had suggested, I’m pretty sure this would be the moment when he’d put me over his knee and spank me. ‘Let’s do dinner, then. I find dinner dates are a good time to talk over each other’s sexual preferences.’
‘My only preference is for men who want to make the world a better place.’
‘Yes, you’re so right. If only I worked at the UN. Then I could just tell nations like Belarus that they’re grounded. Or maybe drive around Iran with a sign on my bumper: ‘Honk if you still have hands.’ . . . As fighting is clearly foreplay for you, why don’t we just skip dinner and pick up where we left off?’ he baited, extracting a slim cigar from his pocket. The man was enjoying playing with me – think cat, think mouse.
‘Because I no longer find you remotely attractive. Not since you sold out and became a cigar-addicted corporate-cowboy cliché.’
‘Cigar smoking is not remotely addictive. I should know. I’ve been doing it for years,’ he said glibly, picking up a lighter.
‘I recently met the man I thought you’d turn into, actually. He’s given up working at a bank in the City to help disadvantaged kids.’
Jack put down the cigar, unlit. ‘What do you mean “given up”? That’s clearly a euphemism for “getting the sack”. Probably from Lehman Brothers, or some other bank that crashed and burnt.’
‘Actually, he was very high up at Credit Suisse. But he had an epiphany and left to give back to the world in some way.’
‘Ah, the Swiss. While they were dipping fondue, Britain was – oh, wait. What were we doing again? . . . Oh yes, I remember. Waging war against the Nazis.’
‘I don’t know. I’ve always liked the idea of an army which carries corkscrews instead of machineguns.’ I rose to my feet. ‘Well, I’d better let you get back to your “work”,’ I said derisively, before moving back down the hallway.
Jack followed. ‘Well, I’m sure we can discuss this further at dinner. Over the Swiss cheese course, perhaps?’
‘Yes, let’s have dinner. I find that having dinner before diving into bed gives a girl a chance to re-evaluate and maybe just flee home for a hot encounter with her vibrator . . . So, where are we going? Do I need to bring anything?’
‘Not much . . . just your birthday suit and a large tub of mango love butter.’
‘You disgust me. Were you always this sleazy? Or have you been taking lessons?’
‘Would you have gone out with me otherwise? . . . I’ll be in touch to discuss details.’ Jack was positively gloating. The man would win the Gloat Vote at a Gloat Festival. And it was nipple-numbingly annoying.
‘I knew you’d come to your senses eventually, Tilly.’ He gave a cat-that-got-the-cream smile, then opened the door and leant against the wall so that I had to brush past him to escape.
Come to my senses? Going on a date with the misogynistic, amoral Jack Cassidy, I was clearly out of my mind.