I love Fridays. And I truly adore Fridays in London.
I've been here six months now, enough time to establish my routine.
Finish work between six and seven. Never, never have a drink with work colleagues. (Why would I? I see enough of them the rest of the week). Never, never make a date with friends. And even though we went dress-down ages ago, always wear one of my more flattering Armani suits.
About seven, head for a bar in the City. The City? Let me explain. There is London and there is the City of London. London is the whole deal, several million people, several miles across, public housing, mansions, soccer grounds, airports, the whole deal. The City of London, on the other hand, is the Square Mile in the middle, site of Roman Londinium, now the home to banks and finance houses, one of the three most important financial centers in the world. Everyone in the Square Mile works in something related to finance. They work hard. On Fridays they like to play hard, no-one more so than me. It's a long way from Springfield, Mass.
It's a little crazy. It feels like all the offices have emptied straight into all the bars. That first hour is mayhem, drinks going down quicker than the Titanic.
I'm a little calmer. I find myself a place at the bar, and nurse a gin and tonic. And I case the place. It probably looks to anyone else like I'm waiting for someone, a friend or a date. I'm not. I'm looking for something a lot more satisfying.
I don't go for beautiful women. There's a lot more fun to be had with the level or two below beautiful. Call them pretty; maybe quite pretty. Often lacking a little confidence about their appearance. A little too much make up, or not enough. Dress sense that's gone wrong somewhere. Certainly not pale gray Armani. But underneath it all, often as not, a real peach. And I love hidden surprises.
A lot of these women, it has to be said, are secretaries. Or as some Londoners call them, seccies. They earn a decent wage, but the job's hardly satisfying, and they make up for the drudgery at the weekend. Starting Friday. They usually go out in groups of three or more. Safety in numbers, but not with me around.
And me? I guess I'm pretty/quite pretty myself. Late twenties, tall, dark, slim, but with an ass that I sometimes truly feel like worshipping. Hey, why have neuroses, when all the evidence tells you that one part of your body is to die for?
Also, I'm not a dyke, however you want to use the word. There are times that the desire for a cock is overwhelming. But a lot of the time it's the softer charms of a young woman that appeals. Particularly since I've been in London, where the testosterone levels disappear of the scale and casual sex with a man is likely to involve three and half minutes frantic penetration followed by twelve hours snoring. Yes, I could do without English men. Plus none of them are seccies.
So I'm standing at the bar, and I think I've seen her. Definitely a quite pretty. Blonde straight hair, about shoulder length. Nice hair, but she's done nothing with it, always a good sign. Wearing a dark green suit that doesn't quite fit, which is also encouraging. Holding a pint of what the English call lager but the rest of the world knows as beer. A pint! Quite a spunky little thing then. With four or five mates. All of them seccies.
It's her turn to buy a round, and surprise surprise the only space is next to me. (I have a subtle technique which involves backwards leaning and sharp kicks to the ankle that makes sure this happens). And then she's standing next to me, a clutch of grubby fivers in her hand.
We talk at last. “You'll be waiting here for hours,” I offer. “None of the staff speak a word of English.” Here's the deal. If I were English, talking to her like this might set all sorts of alarms ringing. But I'm American, and the English believe that Americans have no sense of social decorum. Which is bullshit, but means that you can say, or do, almost anything and the English will just smile and think “she doesn't know better”.
My girl smiles. “I don't think there's an English barman in London,” she replies. “I don't know what's happened to them.”
“It is kind of odd,” I say, and wave a twenty pound note across the bar. Someone comes up to me immediately, despite the fact my girl has been waiting longer than me. Must be something to do with those fiver tips I've been giving. “What can I get you?” I ask her.
Like I say, if we were both American, or English, she'd know the game immediately. But she's probably thinking that this is what Americans do to complete strangers. “I'm alright, thank you,” she says. I put her accent down as being from Liverpool.
“Go on, I insist,” I say. “You're the first person I've spoken to all evening. And it's been a pretty good week.” In fact I've dropped shedloads but she doesn't have to know that.
“I'm with some friends,” she says.
“So? Let them share the spoils.” I buy a round. Lagers and evil spirit cocktails for the girls, a glass of Chablis for me. My credentials as a lonely but nice American lady are established. Time to move on to phase two of the operation.
As expected, I'm invited over. The other girls wonder what the hell's happening when my girl says “This is…Sorry I don't know your name.”
“Hi I'm Sam.” Realization sinks in. American! Lost, lonely, trying to buy a bit of friendship. I guess they're not wrong.
My girl is Kathy. I don't even bother listening to the other names. Not surprisingly none of them, Kathy probably included, are pleased at having their evening gatecrashed. So I start off with a few jokes about Americans, to show I'm not the po-faced “God is an American” type. Then subtly establish the fact that I work for a leading investment bank. Finally show I'm now one of the gang by making a kind dig at the girl I've already established is the butt of all their jokes. I'm in, it's taken twenty minutes and all of a sudden their evening has taken an interesting turn. Fuck them.
I turn to Kathy. She has lovely green eyes. I've done well this time, I think. Clearly, indisputably not a dyke, but then they so rarely are. All the more of a challenge, all the more satisfying when I win. We start a long conversation about all the things that interest her. I'm a good listener, and I guess it's pretty flattering for her after the way I've so effortlessly established myself with her group. It's certainly meant to be flattering.
I buy us all a bottle of champagne. (The English are never too slow accepting American generosity. Just think two world wars). Maybe some of them are wondering if I'm pulling Kathy, so every now and then I join in with the rest of the group. After all, I want them out of there, without anyone whispering any concerns to my girl.
