Absolute Beginners Read Free Page A

the matter?’
    ‘What matter?’
    ‘That you’re an agent for my camera studies.’
    Suze smiled.
    ‘Oh, it’s quite simple, really. Sometimes, of course, they know of me, I mean recommended by other clients. Or else, if not, I just size them up and show them some from my collection.’
    ‘Just like that?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And Henley, does he know?’
    ‘I never do it if he’s there,’ said Suze, ‘but I expect he knows.’
    ‘I see,’ I said, not pleased somehow by this. ‘I see. And what of this diplomat? How do I fix the deal?’
    ‘ Do you mind ?’ was all Suzette answered, the reason being that by now I had one of her knees caught between my two. I let go, and said, ‘Well, how?’
    She opened her square-sac, and handed me a shop-soiled card, which said:
    Mickey Pondoroso
    12b, Wayne Mews West,
    London (England), SW1
    The address part was in printed copperplate, but the name was written in by hand.
    ‘Oh,’ I said, fingering this thing. ‘Have you any idea what sort of snap he’ll need?’
    ‘I didn’t go into any details.’
    ‘Don’t sound so scornful, Suze. You’re taking my twenty-five per cent, aren’t you?’
    ‘Have you got it for me in advance?’
    ‘No. Don’t come the acid drop.’
    ‘Well, then.’
    I got up to leave. She came rather slowly after.
    ‘I’ll go out looking for this character,’ I said. ‘Shall I walk you back first to your emporium?’
    ‘Better not,’ she said. ‘We’re not supposed to bring our boyfriends near the building.’
    ‘But I’m not,’ I said, ‘your boyfriend any longer.’
    ‘No,’ said Suzette. She kissed me quickly on my lips and ran. Then stopped running, and disappeared at walking pace.
    I started off across Belgravia, in search of Mr Mickey P.
    And I must say that, in its way, I rather dig Belgravia: not because of what the daddies who live there think of it, that is, the giddy summit of a mad sophistication, but because I see it as an Olde Englishe product like Changing the Guard, or Savile Row suits, or Stilton cheese in big brown china jars, or any of those thingsthey advertise in Esquire to make the Americans want to visit picturesque Great Britain. I mean, in Belgravia, the flower boxes, and the awnings over doors, and the front walls painted different shades of cream. The gracious living in the red with huge green squares outside the window, and purring hired and diplomatic vehicles, and everything delivered at the door and on the slate, and little restaurants where camp creatures in cotton skintight slacks serve half an avocado pear at five bob, cover charge exclusive. All that seems missing from the scene is good King Ted himself. And I never cross this area without thinking it’s a great white-and-green theatre with a cast of actors in a comedy I rather admire, however sad it may be to think of.
    So there was I, in fact, crossing it in my new Roman suit, which was a pioneering exploit in Belgravia, where they still wore jackets hanging down over what the tailors call the seat. And around my neck hung my Rolleiflex, which I always keep at the ready, night and day, because you never know, a disaster might occur, like a plane crashing in Trafalgar Square, which I could sell to the fish-and-chip wrapper dailies, or else a scandal, like a personage seen with the wrong kind of man or woman, which little Mr Wiz would certainly know how to merchandise.
    This brought me to Wayne Mews West, which, like often in these London backwaters, was quite rural, with cobbles and flowers and silence and a sort of a sniff of horse manure around, when I saw a Vespa cycle with a CD plate on it parked nearby a recently built whitemews flat, and crouching beside a wooden tub outside a chrome front door, a figure in a mauve Thai silk summer suit who was, would you believe it, watering a fig tree growing in the tub.
    I snapped him.
    ‘Hullo there,’ he said, looking up and smiling at me. ‘You like me to pose for you beside my