And just when you thought it couldn’t get more eventful on a Saturday night than being driven up to a party with a police escort….think again. I didn’t think I’d get so lucky as to find another friendly ride on my way back to the station, so I let prudence take precedence over bravery, and asked Erica to get me a minicab. And since this isn’t a short story, well not really, let me just say, that the only barbeque worth it’s fat, is Matts. Normally, I find barbeques really very silly – you stand around outside usually when the sun’s only pretending to have made an appearance, for food that never seems to, and when it finally does, it’s usually burnt, and then you have to wait for ages for more charred offerings to show up. Not at Matts. Never at Matts – been twice now, and both times, spectacular!! Not only is the food ready, and there’s somehow lots of it, it’s bloody delicious. Have to give the Aussie’s credit where credit is due. Barbie is their birthright. And by God, they shall have it!! So after not intending to eat really (this was the same day as a rather largish dimsum lunch (like there’s any other kind), topped up by a fulsome dessert at Haagen Dazs, and we know how that story goes…yep… the old, ‘I feel sick!’ and walking to Tottenham Court Road and back to Bond Street Stn. via Leicester Sq. and a couple of navel rings, I was still feeling sick, but somehow, those gorgeous sausages were irresistible – can’t remember how many I inhaled before I came up for air…and the burger and chicken was almost as good… didn’t waste my time with the buns and pasta salad, but demolished the tomato/mozzarella and the potato salad.
Coming back to the minicab, I peered out the window, and there they were, a tough old broad greying hair, glasses, bright red lipstick and painted talons, smoking a cigarette parked next to her flaming red Mercedes cab. Yipee…!! As I say my ta ta’s and thank yous, and doubtful yeah, let’s do dinner with your mum and my folks, the broad checks me out and asks in a gravely voice straight out of Casablanca (and yes, I’m talking Sam here), ‘is it just you?’ Like just me isn’t good enough? But I refrain from getting pugnacious – she looks like she could punch my lights out, and trust me, I don’t think that way about many men…and nod instead. ‘You can ride up front with me in that case’. Oh my. A promotion, all before dessert as well. Anyway, once belted in, we set off, and she launches into this story about this people carrier that she encountered on her way over, trying to reverse, and he just had to wait for a second to let her pass. There’s men drivers for you… ok, good start. I admire the colour of her car, and then she chats with someone outside the pub as we stop for oncoming traffic. ‘I never take those guys outside the pub – too rough’ she tells me. ‘mostly I’m dropping women off coz they feel safer with me..’ right…. I feel compelled to participate – that’s what sitting up front with the help does to one… and so I ask chattily ‘How long have you been driving a cab?’ ‘Ever since the divorce. Two years now..’ and that was that. Khul ja sim sim. It turned out that it had been rather a depressing day for her, no thanks to her bastard ex-husband. She used to have a thriving kebab shop before he ran it into the ground. And get this, he’s got the house, because ‘I was dumb enough to make the deed in his name, now wasn’t I?’ a purely rhetorical question I assure you. Anyway, he now wants to sell the house. Her house, bought with her money, and she’ll see him in hell before she sells it. She moved out with the Merc, because she didn’t really fancy going to jail for murder. Seemed like a sound plan. But the kids are still at home with the lazy lying git, and he’s now apparently tell her daughter, who’s about to turn 18, that he has no money. The poor girl was meant to go abroad for a holiday with her best friend, and said friends mum as a treat, coz she’s been working so hard at college and such like, and this bastard, tells her he has no money, and take some of her to boot…!! Ouch.
I’m wishing now that I had just sat in the backseat, all aloof and regal, but c’est la vie… Bastard ex was her first love. They always suck. After 6 years of dating, from when they were sixteen and in Greece, she discovered he was seeing a slew of other women on the side…and dumped him, and went on to marry a nice Englishman, Mr. Wilson (and I know this because that was the name on the deed of her previous house in case you’re wondering how I might have come across this little tidbit..), and they were happy enough together, two kids, but rather tragically, he popped it by the time he was 34. That’s really a rather cavalier way of putting it, but you have to understand, the whole evening in terms of mobility had been rather surreal. Anyway, Gigolo found his way to the UK, and back into her life, and naturally, they had to get married as his visa had expired – a minor fact he’d neglected to tell her when they first reconnected, but she felt a stirring of the old je ne sais quoi…..and bought the house and put his name on the deed.. all I can say, he must have been really good in bed!!
Ah – I almost forgot. Somewhere between her buying him the house and supporting him with the kebab house before he managed to get rid of that, she discovered through other sources, that our man had a 3 year old child from someone else…. The only reason he’d never told her, was because, hey, it was in the past… and it seems he never bothered to see that child, well, 28 year old now and probably grateful never to have seen him. Raspy voice also had two kids with him, in case I haven’t mentioned that yet, and they all live in her house with him. Well, he can want to sell the house, but no way she’s letting that happen. Made him an offer – for cash and given that he sounds broke, a good strategy. £25,000 – take it and transfer the deed to her name, or go to hell. She’ll never let him sell the house. Seemed more than fair if you ask me, and I stoutly told her so. Mistake number three hundred and sixty two. The conversation veered to me…. If I was married, and I guiltily admitted to being separated. A deep knowing nod and a raspy ‘You’re much better off without him honey’. I finally knew what it felt like to be in the power of Zorba the Greek. ‘I’ve seen it all.. it doesn’t matter what colour you are – black, white, blue, green… men are men and they’re all bastards’. All this while taking a turn without the brakes, breaking off only to honk and rudely gesture and yell a the guy in the car next to us.. ‘doesn’t he know there’s only the left turns? There’s only a single lane for left her. Stupid bastard. Men drivers.’ Thankfully, we were now racing closer to home and at Harrow road, when she asked if I had my bearings, the relief in my voice was quite genuine when I said ‘oh yes’. ‘good, you don’t want to get lost again tonight do you.’ Yep – had told her about the police car ride, and she’d grudgingly admitted they were alright.
Just turning into Maida Vale, she hit the brakes to let an unsuspecting male bicyclist precariously paused at the sidewalk take the pedestrian crossing, muttering, ‘I’d run you over just as easily mate, without a second thought. Hell, I’d shoot each and every last one of you with a shotgun if I could.’ Cheerful stuff. The next few minutes I directed her to my place, and don’t ask me why, but felt compelled to ask if she’d like to come in for a cup of tea. Thankfully, before I could articulate the thought, she said she might go on to have a cup of tea with a friend of hers who was just over at Princess Street, and then before I could help myself, my lips parted and I heard myself ‘would you like to come up for a cup of tea with me..?’ before I snapped it shut again. Luckily, she’s a very focused woman, and she hadn’t seen her friend in a while… phew. Saved by someone else’s cup of tea. But she did have the last word as she deposited me at the my door ‘Don’t worry luv, you’re better off without him. Take care and have a good life..’ Zorba has left the building. Goodnight!
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