To the Ends of the Earth

“I can keep myself in toothpaste.”

We talked of our schools—his Eton, mine Elmbridge—and then transferred, still chatting vociferously, to the restaurant, a tiny but exclusive place that hadn’t been “discovered” by the Michelin guide but served the most divine food.

I remember that first meal, food from all over the world. We had massaman curry from Thailand for starters, piri-piri chicken from Mozambique as the main meal, and pastel de nata from Portugal as dessert. Even the names made my mouth water. (Talk about Pavlov’s dogs! They weren’t in it.)

Wines from everywhere, a different one for every dish. It sounds, doesn’t it, as if we finished as bloated lumps, but the restaurant knew its customers, just so much for every course, so that we were left with that feeling we could have eaten just one more bite or spoonful.

Eventually we were satisfied if not satiated, and we talked about the rest of the night. Lex wanted me to come back with him. I wondered if we were not rushing things. Of course we’d had sex before, a one-night stand. Now I felt, and tried to explain to him, that I wanted to slow things down, become friends, perhaps to lead on to lovers. He put his hand on top of mine and looked into my eyes, and I was lost. Bed and sex would be part of the loving.

And it was.

He was in turn tender and gentle, passionate and sometimes almost violent. We held off the final orgasmic climax as long as we could. Eventually, though, I could control it no longer, and I came and came and came. Lex lasted for a few more seconds, then responded in kind. Christ, what a night! I’d never experienced anything like it before in my whole sexually orientated life.

And afterwards, as we lay in each other’s arms in postcoital languor, we murmured words that, if not precisely of love, were dangerously close to it.

Morning came and work was insistent, me to the paper, he to—what did he do? In all that talking we had indulged in the night before, he’d never mentioned his job, or rather, from the evidence of his flat and the way he had signed off that superexpensive meal with a flourish and a platinum credit card, profession.

And now was no time to ask. We had to arrange another meeting, obviously. He traveled, that was admitted, and he was off to Spain for some sort of conference, so it would have to be next week. My job might send me anywhere. I felt that getting that scoop would probably mean I’d be off the trivial and on to the unusual. I blissfully thought of becoming a foreign correspondent, but of course a local paper doesn’t have one of those, and anyway it would take me away from Lex.

With my first month’s pay and some parental generosity, I had bought myself a super-duper camera, a Nikon D7200, and hoping to find an opportunity to use it, I went back to the usual grind as before, though now I was allowed to cover accidents (with fata

lities), house fires (with victims on the critical list), and sports coverage.

This last was a bit difficult. I knew zilch about most sports. I spent most of my time at school in the long grass at cricket matches or behind the fives court rather than in it.

But Jacob knew about football. He had often tried to persuade me to accompany him to the Saturday match and I’d always refused. Now I could use his expertise—and also get in touch again. I felt rather guilty that I’d ignored Jacob recently. In fact, ever since that first night when he’d gone home and I’d copped off with Lex. I didn’t think it would be a wise move, though, to mention Lex to Jacob. I remembered the look of hostility when I’d introduced Jacob to John Hornby and we’d been to see Oklahoma when I really should have taken Jacob.

But Jacob was being a bit difficult to locate. I phoned the supermarket headquarters and asked, in my best managerial voice, if I could speak to the local branch manager.

“Who would that be?” asked a suspicious female voice as if I was trying to steal commercial secrets.

“Mr Levin. Mr Jacob Levin.”

“I regret”—though there was no sound of regret in her voice—“that Mr Levin is no longer in our employ.”

That was a real facer. I didn’t want to ask whether he’d been sacked or had got a job with another supermarket chain.

“I suppose you don’t know where he is working now.”

“That’s quite correct. I don’t.” She put the receiver down.

The bitch! The arch bitch!

Okay, well, I’ll try his mobile number. He never used to like me ringing him at work, but well, he might not have any work. I got the familiar, “I regret… unavailable… leave message… back to you.” Beep.

“Jacob, where are you? I need to speak to you urgently. Sorry I haven’t been in touch, but I’ve been so busy. Did you see my article? Ring me ASAP.”

I’d scarcely put the phone down when it rang. Jacob the caller.

“Jacob, where are you? They told me you’d left your job. Have you got another one, a better one?”

He sounded down. “Things got complicated. There was a problem with a young guy in delivery. Claimed I’d made lewd advances to him. And they believed him and not my denial. He wouldn’t take it to court, so it shows he was lying or they paid him off.”

“Oh shit, that’s really bad.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Of course you didn’t. I know that. Have you got anything else?”