by Anne Zoyroydi
IT WAS an unfortunate fact (and one unrecognised by Martin himself) that all of Martin’s good points seemed to be offset by aspects of character definitely not desirable in a young man. Ambitious, perhaps even greedy, he was also lazy, lethargic almost, and so frustrated himself in his ambition. He was streetwise and, frankly, devious, yet lacked the spark of real intelligence which might have made a shrewd pavement-level businessman of him.There was, however, one area in which Martin was, quite simply, outstanding. Physically, he was truly blessed; Martin was a stunner. His Italian mother and Glaswegian father had gifted him with a perfect combination of attributes. From her he took his thick, rook-black hair, which he wore cropped short, glossed and oiled; his Bambi-like chocolate-fondue eyes were hers too, and so were the full, so-kissable lips, the perfectly straight, perfectly Roman nose and the strong-tea-with-milk tint of his blemish-free skin which gave him the slightly exotic appeal of always looking as if he had recently returned from somewhere Mediterranean.
His father had donated height – Martin stood 6’1" in his elegant bare feet – and muscle, for there was not one ounce of flesh on Martin’s body that was not toned and taut, in spite of his very sedentary lifestyle. Through no effort whatsoever of his own, his fabulous physique was not dissimilar to that of an Olympic gymnast.
As part of his street-wisdom Martin had learned that his looks could be turned to great advantage and so naturally he dressed, always, to kill. In colder weather, dark double-breasted suits flattered his Pierce Brosnan looks; in summer he was much more direct, choosing little vests and tank tops to display the upper body, smart gaberdine shorts to show off naked legs, calves beautifully firm, feet in thong sandals to flatter slender heels and ankles and classical toes.
His appeal (his physical appeal at least) was universal. Martin was frequently cruised by gay men and was quite happy to smile a greeting, chat a while or even to let a casual hand rest a few moments on his tempting thigh – but only if his drinks were paid for. His own taste was far more straightforward, if much harder to satisfy. It was for a certain type of women . . . Rich women . . .
In recent months Martin had been quietly devoted to his search for his dreamgirl, putting in time across town in the few almost-smart bars and restaurants he believed to be used by the more affluent residents of the city. Wealthy women were very rare items indeed in Martin’s part of town, and even casting his net much wider had, up to now, brought him no female with both the means and inclination to pay his way in the world. So it was that, when Jessica fell, almost literally, into his lap ;in his own local pub, Martin felt that Providence had finally taken a hand and was prepared to go to almost any lengths to secure his prize. He and Jessica, he decided, would have a baby.
Jessica and her friend Mona had been extremely conspicuous amongst the shabby crowd in the seedy bar that Sunday evening. Firstly, they were strangers in a locals’ local in a suburb unvisited by outsiders because of its bad reputation and a total lack of aesthetic appeal. Secondly, they differed greatly in appearance from the few hard-eyed women already in the bar. Jessica and Mona were both smartly dressed, in neat little pastel-coloured suits and heels, and both immaculately groomed, makeup fresh and subtle, hair shining, neat, sprayed in place. A hint of a scent, perhaps roses, survived around them in the sour fug of old spilt beer and dropped fag ends. And thirdly, music to Martin’s ears was Jessica’s voice, loud and confident as she ordered their drinks, two large gin and tonics please, lots of ice and lemon. No thick city vowels here but a glorious, fat plum in the mouth which could only come, in Martin’s opinion, from Good Breeding and, by inference, Old Money.
Martin was not physically attracted to Jessica. A hasty review of her attributes showed a nose too potato-like, eyes too small and colourless, ankles too thick, hips too broad ever to be tempting. Still he wasted no time. Two more large gins were quickly dispatched to the small table in the corner via the barman; then, when Jessica and Mona looked around to discover their admirer, Martin hit them with what he felt to be his most seductive smile, in the style of the ex-Princess of Wales (head slightly lowered as if bashful; eyes raised, slowly; not too many teeth). The women’s reaction was as calculated. Both blushed and turned away and, putting their heads together, whispered and giggled. Martin waited only a few moments before he picked up a chair and, sure of his welcome, crossed to their table.
He instinctively chose Jessica as his primary target and a few minutes of conversation confirmed his choice. Jessica was the outgoing, confident one of the pair. Mona simply sat, a bored, rather distant look on her face whilst Martin ran through his paces. By the time the brass bell rang for last orders he had extracted all the information he needed from Jessica to confirm her as a suitable recipient for his attentions; the right address, the right car, the right background were all there. It was time for the masterplan to be put into effect.
There was nothing unique in Martin’s approach to the wooing of Jessica. His lack of imagination precluded tactics of any originality, and his considerable vanity allowed him to believe that his beauty alone was a fair trade for the physical comforts he needed from life. For centuries, he reasoned, beautiful women had sold their gifts to wealthy men with nothing more required of them than to be decorative. Why should he not share in a similar destiny? It was never possible, was inconceivable to Martin, that one chosen by him would not choose him in return.
Still there must be no speedy seduction. He must be viewed as a man of serious intent (which, of course, he was).
Borrowing heavily from his father, Martin escorted Jessica on a predictable round of outings to the same semi-smart restaurants and bars he had haunted at the very beginning of his campaign, with one or two country pubs thrown into the mix to illustrate his ‘wild man’ qualities.
Satisfyingly, Jessica seemed to fall quickly and easily into Martin’s carefully spread net. Always keen to meet him and always cheerful in his company she was, in fact, good company herself and made up for her lack of physical attractions with her wit and intelligence, qualities with which Martin was largely unfamiliar. Four weeks after they first met, when Jessica asked for a picture of Martin to keep in her purse, Martin judged the time right to begin hinting about strong feelings for her, and was slightly annoyed when Jessica simply laughed and changed the subject. But although she never said anything to suggest she returned his feelings, which were, after all, non-existent, Martin knew from her demeanour that the woman was hooked. A room was booked in a good out-of town hotel; no expense was to be spared his father in reaching Martin’s goal.
For Martin’s purposes, the seduction was an unqualified success. The time he spent in the en-suite bathroom carefully making tiny holes in the condoms using a pin he had brought in his lapel expressly for the purpose was wasted as she, apparently overcome by her desire for him, took him, quickly and unsheathed.
Thereafter it was only a matter of three weeks’ wait until the phone call came. Jessica sounded subdued, perhaps upset, and insisted they meet that evening. Martin suggested an Italian restaurant where he had a friend who worked as a waiter. It was quickly arranged with the friend that a bottle of champagne could be had at cost and ready chilled; it would be foolish to have his big scene ruined by having to send the waiter out to the off-licence. Then he rummaged through his sock drawer to find the blue velvet jewellery box which held the ring he had bought off another mate in the pub. It was antique, opals, but he’d got it at a knock-down price as his mate couldn’t get rid of it through his usual fence. Martin intended to claim it had been his grandmother’s.
He was sitting at corner table, candle lit, feeling almost elated, certainly smug, when Jessica arrived. Without a smile or a kiss, she sat, and looking him straight in the eye reached for his hand across the table. "I’m pregnant," she said, quite matter-of-factly. Allelujah!
"And you are the father. I do acknowledge that." Allelujah again! Martin adopted an expression of both shock and concern. He touched the ring box in his pocket, was about to place it on the table.
"I haven’t been totally honest with you, Martin." The irony of this statement caused his eyebrows to lift slightly, and his ‘shocked and concerned’ look was traded for a more genuine reflection of surprise and wariness.
"We are grateful to you. More than you’ll ever know. Gerald can only fire blanks. I chose you because you’ve got such wonderful genes. It will be a beautiful child. Gerald approved; I showed him your photo. And I knew you weren’t the type to want to be emotionally involved with a child, or with me. Gerald just wanted me to be sure not to choose someone we’d be likely to bump into socially. He told me to give you this." A cheque, folded in half, was pushed across the table.
"I have to go now. Gerald’s waiting outside." She stood, looked down at him and smiled.
~The End~
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