The Heat Is On Read online

‘Please tell me it’s something alcoholic next,’ she continues.

  ‘They probably serve alcohol on the canal boat,’ I tell the guests. ‘At least we’ll all get to sit down.’

  ‘I’m not sure I can,’ says Patty as we walk bandy-legged along the canal to the mooring of the glass-topped boat which will show us the rest of the city at a more sedate pace. We’re served a glass of chilled wine and we sit back watching the gabled buildings go by, only vaguely listening to the commentary being narrated over the tannoy. My customers are relaxing, taking in the views and chatting to each other, so Patty and I head for a quiet spot at the back of the boat.

  ‘I’d forgotten how beautiful this place was; why have we never been back here?’ I ask as we clink glasses.

  Patty shrugs. ‘Lots of other places to visit I guess, but I’d come again,’ she says. ‘We could bring the guys – maybe when the canals have frozen over and it’s all romantic. We’d be all wrapped up wearing those big muffs and we’d get glasses of warm schnapps.’

  I think she’s seen too much art this morning, as her fantasy is straight from a Hendrick Avercamp painting. It sounds wonderful, though.

  ‘Things will be really different soon. We’ll be doing all those things that couples do. Having dinner as foursomes and inviting each other to barbecues,’ Patty continues. ‘Do you think he’ll move in with you?’

  I think about it, and although I’d love to be opening the door to someone when I come home at night, I’ve a few fears to conquer before then.

  ‘I’d quite like it to be all mine before I even think about it being ours,’ I reply cautiously. ‘But I don’t see myself moving again so who knows maybe if things go well.’

  ‘On your perfect night you mean?’ she smiles, mocking me only slightly. ‘Well, we’ll have to get you some underwear while we’re out here to make sure it is perfect. There are probably a few places that could fit you out with a sexy little number.’

  ‘My vision doesn’t involve looking like I stepped out of the red-light district, if it’s OK with you.’

  We sit quietly but she’s put the thought in my head – what should I wear? In my dream I’m in a silk negligee like they had in 1950s films but:

  a) Where the hell do you buy 1950s negligees?

  b) Given the number of candles in my perfect seduction scene, I’d have to be bloody sure silk isn’t flammable.

  But what do people wear in bed together these days? Before they get to the comfy PJ stage? By the time my ex left me, we were both wearing big woolly socks to bed. I’m sure there has to be a stage before you get to that. Patty had been on her own even longer than me when she met Jack, and despite not wanting her advice I am curious as to how she coped with the first time after all those years.

  ‘Did you get all dressed up for the first time with Jack?’ I venture. ‘You know, go for the sexy look.’

  She laughs, ‘Err – I suppose you could say that.’

  She takes a gulp of wine. ‘I was that nervous. After all, he’s a doctor, he sees hundreds of women and some of them on the cruise are pretty damned gorgeous. I didn’t know what he’d think of me. I mean I wanted to make an effort but I didn’t want to look like a reject from Bouncy Babes II. We stopped off at a port with a gorgeous market and I found this little lacy number. It was very tasteful and covered up the wobbly bits but still looked quite sexy in a demure kind of way.’

  ‘Don’t raise your eyebrows like that – I can do demure. I planned it all for our night off. We’d have dinner, then a romantic evening stroll and then back to my cabin. I’d disappear into the bathroom to change into something more comfortable and he’d pour the champagne. I imagined myself opening the door to reveal a vision of beauty and him being unable to resist. So I had this perfect night planned just like you.’

  ‘I’m guessing that’s not what happened.’

  ‘Too right it didn’t. The night before I was hosting a Spice Girls tribute. You remember what I used to do – tell the audience I was auditioning for some new members as they’d all gone off and done their own thing? It was bloody hilarious – I had about twenty Baby Spices and no Sporties. I was in my Ginger get-up and the one who won the Posh competition turned out to be a bloke. He was the worst dancer you have ever seen but the crowd loved him.

  ‘Jack couldn’t stop laughing when I told him about it. We were sort of on a high because of it and then one thing led to another and before long we’d both broken our leave of absence, so to speak.’

  ‘So for your first time in several years you were wearing a Union Jack Ginger Spice outfit?’

  She nods matter-of-factly. ‘And he could certainly tell what I wanted, what I really, really wanted.’

  It could only happen to Patty but it’s a relief to hear she was nervous, too.

  ‘That’s why I think the lesson is not to take it all too seriously,’ she concludes. ‘You’ll be fine. I’ll lend you a ginger wig if you like.’

  I laugh and picture Michael’s puzzled face as he turns up to my new place and finds me in that get-up. Somehow I don’t think that’ll do the trick twice.

  The boat trip comes to a stop, so I gather up my customers and we head into one of the canal-side restaurants for dinner.

  ‘So will you be singing for us tonight?’ one of the customers asks Patty. She shakes her head.

  ‘Alas, I’ve given my farewell performance,’ she replies to the dismayed crowd.

  The dinner is very jovial, with Patty recounting her days on the cruise. Then, as we’re getting ready to leave and the plates are cleared away, it starts pouring with rain outside.

  ‘Stay for a schnapps,’ says the waiter. ‘It’s just a cloudburst, it’ll soon pass.’

  The customers are happy to stay inside, so we take up the offer but inevitably one schnapps leads to another. If you had your wits about you, you’d know the moment you’d had too many glasses of schnapps: it’s the moment when it starts tasting OK. Your first always burns the back of your throat and you vow to have no more. The second feels strangely warming, and by the third you’re finding out the name on the bottle and planning to buy some when you hit duty free. If you do this, it’ll lie gathering dust in your drinks cabinet until one very dark day when you have absolutely nothing left to drink and the world is about to end, then you’ll get it out.

  We have to get out of here before any more is consumed, so I tell the waiter we’ll just have to brave the weather. I pay our bill and when he brings me the receipt, our lovely waiter also supplies us with several cheap, plastic pacamacs. They’re the thinnest pale pink plastic ponchos you have ever seen, but we all pull them over our heads and step out into the rain. Patty looks across at me and bursts into laughter. ‘You look like a giant condom!’

  We all turn and catch a glimpse of ourselves in the windows – yep, that just about describes it. The Mercury Travel Club stands giggling at its glamorous reflection. I take a picture for our end-of-year calendar. Thunder roars above our heads and the downpour gets heavier.

  ‘Come on,’ I yell through the din, ‘we have to get into a bar or something.’

  We peak from under our hoods and spot a Heineken sign hanging above a pub-like door. Heads down we hold hands, and screaming through the puddles make a dash for it. Pushing the door open, we get inside and panting pull our hoods down.

  ‘Have we died and come to heaven?’ says Patty looking round at the wall-to-wall room of gorgeous Dutchmen.

  We walk to the bar.

  I’ve read the Dutch are the tallest people in the world and it certainly seems that way. In our sensible city-walking pumps – now soaking wet and squelching with every step – my middle-aged customers and I are at eye level with a room full of broad muscular chests and solid pecs. It would be so tempting to have a quick squeeze just to check they’re as firm as they look. Patty is obviously thinking the same, as I see her tentatively lifting her hand in that direction. I grab it, preventing an international incident. I may have been out of circulation for a few year
s but these guys are gorgeous and I can still appreciate a work of art when I see it. Isn’t that what this weekend is about?

  As we get to the bar, the entertainment starts and a drag queen gets up on the stage singing ‘What’s Love Got to do With It?’ Patty sips the frothy beer we’ve ordered and I can see she’s just chomping at the bit.

  One of the customers nudges her: ‘You should show them how it’s done.’

  I have to be ready to grab her if any song she knows is played but I’m too slow and it’s too late. The opening bars have everyone dancing and Patty, thrusting her beer at me, leaps on to the stage pulling up the hood of her plastic mac. Sensibly the drag queen steps to one side and lets her get on with it. The Mercury Travel Club push through the crowd to get to the front of the stage for this, Patty’s European comeback.

  The locals are in stitches as the little fifty-year-old English woman in the bad plastic mac does the robotic moves made famous by the one and only Kylie Minogue. She blasts out the words of the song, ‘Can’t Get You Outta My Head’.

  I don’t think anyone ever will.

  Secret Fear

  Happy that our first day has definitely provided some unforgettable moments for the guests, we head to bed. Patty and I are sharing a room and she’s as gleeful after her performance as my mum in a cake shop.

  ‘I’ve still got it, haven’t I?’ she yells from the bathroom.

  ‘The need to show off?’ I reply.

  ‘Star quality and that certain je ne sais quoi that keeps the crowds entertained.’

  She emerges with her hands outstretched ready to receive bouquets if anyone’s throwing. I throw a hairbrush, which she catches before bowing.

  ‘Well, I certainly ne sais quoi what you’ve got but it was a good laugh. It reminds people why Mercury is so unique; they won’t get that anywhere else.’

  ‘Are you going to hire me for every trip, then?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I was talking about the whole day: the art, the bike ride, the canal trip, the schnapps and then you of course. I mean it has been pouring with rain for most of the day but that’s not the bit you remember, is it?’

  ‘It certainly isn’t. What time are we on duty tomorrow?’

  ‘I need to be up for first breakfasts at seven but you can lie in if you like. I have to set an alarm, though.’

  I pick up my phone, which is completely dead and needs recharging. That explains why Charlie hasn’t called; he usually checks in at the end of the first day. I plug it into the charger and as soon as I have some juice, messages start to beep in. A voice message from Charlie checking everything is doodle dandy (his words). I send him a text saying that in fact it’s all yanky doodle dandy à la mode. He’ll understand.

  Then I spot Michael has sent me a picture message. It’s from the welcome dinner he mentioned. Everyone is dressed to the nines and he’s standing there beside a gorgeous Indian lady and an equally gorgeous guy being given an envelope. Michael is smiling like a little boy who wants to be an astronaut meeting Tim Peake. I can’t help but laugh.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Patty and I show her the picture.

  ‘That’s a good-looking threesome,’ she says and I grab the phone back in despair. I check the time and as we’re an hour ahead, he’s probably still up. The phone rings for a while and just as I’m getting my message ready, he picks up.

  ‘Hi there,’ he yells. ‘You rang! Are you having a good time?’

  ‘We are,’ I tell him, ‘and by the sounds of it so are you. Are you still at the dinner?’

  ‘It’s kind of turned into a party now. I’ve just come out on to the terraces so I can hear you. Did you see the picture?’

  ‘I did, what happened?’

  ‘They gave us a little prize for having the best-kept grounds of the tournament. The team were pretty chuffed.’

  I can hear the smile still in his voice.

  ‘Who were the people in the photo,’ I ask not wanting to specifically ask about the woman.

  ‘You didn’t recognise him? One of the greatest spin bowlers ever, I had to stop myself asking for his autograph. And Nimmi’s their head of PR, she’s gorgeous isn’t she. They’re both really lovely people.’

  ‘They look it,’ I laugh. Well, I do that laugh thing which sounds and is completely fake.

  ‘Tell Patty that I have a treat in store for Jack,’ he continues. ‘The prize we got was an all-expenses trip to Lords; he’ll love it. It’s a fabulous ground.’

  Before he’d told me it was a cricket ground, I’d envisaged us all trooping off to Lourdes and couldn’t imagine why Jack would be thrilled to go there, unless he needed a miracle and wanted Patty to be blessed with some modesty. No chance.

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ I say as we say our goodbyes and I hear someone dragging Michael back to the party.

  ‘What will you tell me?’ asks Patty.

  ‘We’re going to see some men playing with their balls.’

  ‘So what’s new?’

  And with that we both turn out the lights and snuggle down.

  But I don’t sleep.

  Or at least I don’t seem to.

  The problem with having a phone by the side of your bed is that you can use it to feed any anxieties that might be keeping you awake. Having woken for the first time at around 3 a.m., I check that Patty is well and truly out then google ‘head of pr india cricket team’. Having scrolled through pages of pictures of cricketers, I see her looking beautiful and exotic. She’s handing a cheque to some schoolchildren. Maybe that’s what she does, hand things to people. She’s stunning and Michael obviously thought so, too. Even in the pictures where she’s in jeans and a jumper she looks effortlessly stylish. I wonder what jammies she wears to bed. I bet she doesn’t freeze at the crucial moment and I bet she doesn’t wear jammies.

  Three-forty a.m. Jeez, have I just spent forty minutes wondering what a woman I’ve never met wears to bed and belittling her daytime look? When I have to be up in three hours looking fabulous for my own job? I flick back to Michael’s message and look at their smiling faces. I wonder if I should explain what I’m really scared of. I wonder if he’ll understand or just despair. I wonder if he’ll wait much longer. I never thought he might be surrounded by gorgeous women in his line of work. Would I wait if he told me he was afraid he couldn’t actually do it any more? That’s stupid, it’s not the same thing at all…

  I must have dozed off for a while because after seeing in 4.30 a.m., the next thing I know, the 6.30 alarm is going off. I reach out and switch it off, then get straight up in case I fall back to sleep. That is no way to prepare for a day of more art.

  Today, it’s the Rijksmuseum for Rembrandt and then the Stedelijk for some modern art. I can’t bear the thought of being inside all day, especially not in a place that encourages contemplation. I get to breakfast before any of the guests and fill a mug of mind-blowingly strong coffee. I think this strength was meant for an espresso cup but it does the job. I smile and make polite conversation with everyone. Patty gets a round of applause when she enters the breakfast room. Well, she stands in the doorway until people start to notice that she’s there and then they take the hint. Boy, am I going to need her today.

  ‘Let’s get this over with then,’ she says. ‘The sooner we’ve appreciated the art, the sooner we can get back on the schnapps.’

  I reassure my guests that today will be a calm and cultured day. I can see some very tired people and I can’t imagine more than a few of them had spent many nights dancing in a drag club before this trip. Anyway, we have one of Amsterdam’s top restaurants booked for our final meal together. I just have to stay awake that long.

  Vermeer must have been a funny old soul. He certainly wasn’t one of those artists you struggled to understand. He didn’t paint huge blocks of purple and call them something obscure like Passing the Salt. His paintings – Milkmaid, Woman Reading a Letter, View of Houses in Delft – yep, they pretty much do what they say on the tin. The only one I know
(Girl with a Pearl Earring, obviously) isn’t here, but even if you hadn’t known what it was about, you could have guessed from the name. It’s almost as if he just kept painting and at some point, someone told him that he had to name them. Being an artist he found this a ludicrous idea, so he just pointed at the pictures lying around his studio. ‘Right then,’ he probably said, ‘that one’s “girl in a red hat”, that’s “girl in a blue dress” and that one’s “woman with a jug”.’ In my imagination he has a very broad Yorkshire accent.

  Anyway, the classics done, we head to be dazed and confused at the Stedelijk. Actually, I quite like some modern art, especially sculpture. I always visit the Tate Modern if I’m in London, although in fairness that’s because of the cocktail bar on the top floor. It has one of the best views of the Thames ever. I’ve read that this Dutch gallery has an extension that looks like a bathtub and as we approach it, that’s certainly what it looks like from one angle. From another it looks like a spaceship hovering above the ground.

  ‘This is probably what they call bold architecture,’ says one of the guests and we all nod in quiet agreement.

  I send the guests off with a guide and take a seat with Patty in the huge atrium.

  ‘Please tell me that’s not modern art,’ she says nudging me. I look up and laugh.

  ‘No, I think that’s genuinely a mop and bucket.’

  A cleaner comes and takes them both, much to our relief.

  ‘I had to get you smiling somehow,’ says Patty. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Just tired, I didn’t sleep much.’

  ‘I wasn’t snoring, was I?’

  I let out a little snort, ‘Yes but it wasn’t that, I was just thinking about Michael.’ I cannot confess my googling session even to Patty.

  ‘Bless, love’s young dream. He sounded like he was having a good enough time without you, though,’ she laughs. ‘Fancy him winning a trip to another cricket ground and still seeming delighted with it. He’s not hard to keep happy, is he? Still, it’ll be nice for us all to get away for a weekend together…’