‘Jesus.’
‘Doctor?’
‘Uh?’
‘Doctor? I think I’ve bruised my inner thigh. Can you take a look at it please? An oilman offered me fifty petrodollars to blow him in the lift.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I asked for seventy-five. But then he wanted everything, and I think he was a little rough with my inner thigh. Would you look at it for me, doctor?’
I told her to forget this doctor nonsense and talk more reasonably — about the oilman and his petrodollars and what he had her do… In the dying moments she made a noise I’d never heard her make before, a rhythmical whimpering of abandonment or entreaty, a lost sound. I’d heard that noise before, but never from Selina.
‘Hey,’ I said accusingly (I was joking, I think), ‘you’re not faking it!’
She looked startled, indignant. ‘Yes I am,’ she said quickly.
Intriguingly enough, the only way I can make Selina actually want to go to bed with me is by not wanting to go to bed with her. It never fails. It really puts her in the mood. The trouble is, when I don’t want to go to bed with her (and it does happen), I don’t want to go to bed with her. When does it happen? When don’t I want to go to bed with her? When she wants to go to bed with me. I like going to bed with her when going to bed with me is the last thing she wants. She nearly always does go to bed with me, if I shout at her a Jot or threaten her or give her enough money.
It works well. It is an excellent system. Selina and I get on like a house on fire. The thing about Selina is, she understands. She knows the twentieth century. She has hung out in cities … When we go to bed together, sometimes the conversation turns to… While making love, we often talk about money. I like it. I like that dirty talk.
No sleep. No, no chance. I couldn’t sleep but Selina could. She’s good at that too, an accomplished sleeper, with childish face.
I went next door in my shorty dressing-gown. I poured myself a drink. I glanced round about myself, on the lookout for clues. When I got in from the airport—yesterday, give or take a week—the flat felt lightly dishevelled, hurriedly lived-in, as if the cleaning-lady’s efforts had been briskly cancelled or mussed. There were flowers on the table but no pants in the laundry basket. There was fresh milk in the fridge but old tea in the jar—and Selina likes her tea. She is particular about her tea, and often carries a pack round with her in her handbag … She was expecting me. I could tell by the quality of her alarm, which was actressy and overdone. Where have you been? I asked her. ‘Here!’ she insisted, with a chirpy wag of the head. How did you know I was coming back? ‘I didn’t! she maintained. And I had told nobody, not Ella Llewellyn, nobody. Oh who cares, I thought, and tried to bundle her into the bag right away. I had a strong desire to repossess. She lets me furl her around for a while, and makes those shammy gasps she knows I like, and gives detailed promise of all that cocked and candid talent — before she calls a halt, slithers off the bed, corrects her clothing, brushes her hair, changes her shoes, powders her nose, slides my Johnson out of her mouth and insists on lunch.
We go to Kreutzer’s. I eat and drink like there’s no tomorrow. We don’t have much to say. Nobody asks sticky questions as they are led on all fours up the stairs. I’m not about to spook her, not me. I’m too worried about earthquakes or nuclear warfare or extraterrestrial invasion or Judgment Day coming between me and my reward. AH you’ll get from John Self is Smalltalk, flattery and squealed demands for more drink. After toothache liqueurs I thunder home and abandon the Fiasco in the middle of the street. By now I am a crackling sorcerer of grub and booze, of philtres and sex-spells. Selina walks into the bedroom with her head held low. I give a great hot grunt as I untether my belt.