Free Sugar Mummy by Simon Brooke

my mum when I needed a new school
blazer. And that wasn't a very pleasant experience, needless to say. Will it be
easier with Marion? Or will I get bored and look like a berk hanging round rails
of women's clothes? Or like a shop window dummy as she holds things against me and
says, 'That's so you!'
    Even more unnerving is the situation at the office. I've told
them that a water pipe had burst in the roof (they do have pipes in the roof, don't
they?) and that during the night I've been up and down stairs with buckets and the
plumber hadn't turned up so now I was waiting for another plumber but the place
was absolutely soaked and didn't know whether it would ever be the same again. I
tried to make it sound funny, you know, sort of farcical, with me at one o'clock
in the morning drenched and covered in plaster, but the little turd who picked up
the phone when I rang - new guy, I don't know his name - didn't laugh and just said,
'OK, I'll tell Debbie.'
    When I got to Marion's she let me kiss her quickly on the lips
and then told me I was late. I began to apologize but the door bell rang again and
she just told me to sit down.
    Anna Maria introduced a camp little bloke with a white Tshirt
and a Tintin quiff who turned out to be a flower consultant. ('Do you know what
this room says to me?' he hissed in a South London whine. 'It says classic opulence
combined with a lightness of touch.' Marion looked round her living room and said,
'Three hundred pounds max and nothing that leaves pollen stains on my clothes.')
Then she sent him away and gave Anna Maria a list of things to do while I waited
patiently in the corner of the room flicking through French Vogue.
    We move on to Prada and then down a bit to Gucci. Marion sends
the women in Gucci scurrying to find some jacket she'd rung up about earlier in
the morning. Finally one of them is deputised to say very apologetically that they
can't find the jacket in question. Marion's eyes narrow and she gives the women
a long look.
    'Well, when I speak to Miuccia next week I'll ask her about it,'
she says. The woman looks confused and even more terrified but Marion turns and
walks out with me following as fast as I can without looking too much like a lap
dog. I probably ought to practise this - even a man having clothes bought for him
by an older woman must have some dignity.
    'Prada has really gone off,' she says, irritably.
    I look back at the shop, just to make sure I'm right and then
say, 'That was Gucci.'
    'Pardon me?' she says, making for the zebra crossing. 'I said
that was Gucci, not Prada.'
    Marion turns and stares for a moment, then looks along to Prada.
    'These cheap stores all look the same. Gucci, eh? Well, I'll
certainly give Tom Ford a piece of my mind when I see him next. Copying Prada like
that.'
    We go into Armani and I linger over some rather nice navy blue
jackets. Marion seems not to notice so I try one on. It fits perfectly. I wonder
about the etiquette here: do I ask? Or just drop hints? £350. Bloody hell - I've
never bought any clothes in my life for that amount of money. I walk around a bit,
hoping Marion will see me. One of the assistants, a young Italian guy, comes over
to me.
    'Hey, that looks really good on you,' he says.
    'Thanks,' I say, wondering where Marion is. He watches me as
I walk around in it a bit more. 'What's it made of?' I'm really beginning to like
this thing. Will she buy it? Should I try and persuade her? How do I try and persuade
her?
    'It's all cotton,' says the guy, checking the label of another
jacket on the rack to make sure. 'Why don't you try the trousers?'
    Finally I see Marion at the other end of the shop checking out
some dresses. Would it be too presumptuous to put on the trousers too?
    'OK,' I say. 'Marion, what do you think?'
    She looks up distracted. 'You can't wear navy blue in the summer.'
    'Can't I?' I mumble. What about later? The assistant looks at
her and then at me, obviously wondering for a moment what is going on