F: Chapter Five

The Lanesbrough Hotel, designed by the Australian architect cum
industrialist John Rourke and boasting an elegant library bar with
perhaps the most comprehensive collection of fine brandy in London, is
located just over 700 meters from Harvey Nichols at the extreme West
end of Knightsbridge. JP, carrying almost two thousand pounds of
designer shopping, was there in under three minutes.

Pausing for breath at The Lanesbrough's impressive entrance, JP gathers
the thoughts that had been running through his head faster than he had
been running through the Knightsbridge crowds:

1. It's for real
2. Tyson's outdone himself. This is the best scam he's ever
pulled.
3. It's the Egyptian. It has to be. No one else there looked remotely
capable of something with this much style.
4. If it's Tyson I'm going to kill him.
5. It's for real &;amp; it's the Egyptian.
6. She knows me?
7. My own name? She knows my name?

Its worth noting in (3) that JP makes the error of equating good looks
with ability and/or virtue, an in-built universal human bias in- with
suspected evolutionary cause - that is born out both by controlled
laboratory experiments as well as by statistical data on interview
success, salary and school grades of good looking versus their equally
qualified plain counterparts. It is further worth noting that this
error is more likely to be committed, and is committed in more extreme
forms, by people who are themselves good looking. Truly, beauty is a
kind of genius.

At the check in desk, another dilemma presents itself: what type of
room. If it's a scam, then the cheapest room possible (and at the
Lanesborough, where basic rooms have a rack rate of ?249, cheap is
relative). But if it's for real and it's the Egyptian, then he doesn't
want to look cheap. She looked like someone who was used to the best.
But suites stated at ?599. He decided on the compromise of an executive
room (?329), and figured that if she didn't show he could always storm
out and claim that he had changed his mind or something. The check in
clerk was as imperturbably implacable as only a check-in-clerk of a -5
star British hotel can be:

"Will sir be staying long?"

"Um, no. No, not long. Probably not, just one night.. Just got off the
plane from L.A. Crucial meetings later this afternoon. Just need to
freshen up"

"I see sir. And will sir require assistance with his luggage?"

"No, no. Bloody airline, lost all my bags. Had to go shopping to, em,
buy the essentials", JP brandishes his shopping-bags, pleased with the
quickness of his improvisation.

"Very good sir. Thank the lord for Harvey Nichols, eh?

"You have no fucking idea"

*

Twenty quivering minutes later, JP has brushed his teeth (twice),
changed his sweat drenched shirt (once), paced the room (fifteen times
and counting), and assumed a variety of inviting, but casual poses on
the bed and sofa.

The bell rings. He part sighs with relief, part whoops with excitement
when he sees, through the tiny peephole, who is visitor is.

"It is you. I knew it would be."

She enters, walking past him. Her shawl brushes him again, the same
swirl of cream linen. "No you didn't. You hoped it would be. It's not
the same thing. But men never seem to realise that." Her voice is as
opulent as her clothing, the accent a complicated mix of East Coast
American and Middle Eastern.

JP acknowledges the distinction with a grin: "Who are you? You said you
knew me? But we haven't met, because I'm reasonably sure I wouldn't
have forgotten."

She appears not to have heard. Or rather, she appears to have no
intention of answering just yet, but counters with her own question,
apropos nothing: "You changed your shirt. Why?"

He attempts a gentle offensive: "Just trying on my new purchases. You
were late."

She trumps it, going directly for his bluff: "Liar. You sweated. You
perspired all over your nice bright blue shirt. You ran all the way
over here didn't you, you got all excited".

He shrugs acknowledgement. That's twice she's caught him out.

"Good. You should be excited. Even you, the great Jeyaratnam Paul,
sharp-dresser, smooth talker, big-shot film executive; scrounge of the
ladies from the West Coast to the West End. I knew a bit of mystery
would get your blood pumping. Something a little out of the ordinary
was needed for you, something to make the chase a bit different, the
result a bit less obvious? Yes. I told you, I knew you.

"But no, we've never met, and yes, you would have remembered, and no,
I'm not late. Late implies I specified a time. I didn't. Nor did I
specify what would happen once I got here, so don't go getting any
ideas. Good choice of room, by the way. Suites are so pass?." She takes
her phone from her hand-bag, deliberately switching it off and throwing
it by her side, sits down on the edge of the bed. Poised, not settled,
as if to suggest that she hasn't quite decided how long she will be
staying.
JP pulls up the chair from the writing desk and sits opposite her,
their faces perhaps ten inches apart. He's hooked now. The fact that
she knew his name, her poise and power alone would have him. But this
woman has more than inner grace. He studies her more closely than he
had opportunity to do so at the sushi bar. Skin a shade deeper than
his, not brown but somehow golden; hair dyed a rich brown with
highlights, nose imperial, lips full and a tiny bit pouty. Body full,
but toned: full breasts, firm beneath expensive layers; wide hips on
strong haunches. Nails perfectly manicured make-up impeccable. The
overall impression is one of incredible, never ending luxury: this is a
woman whose considerable natural beauty has been substantially enhanced
by years and years of money. This is a woman for whom the phrase "high
maintenance" would be a dramatic understatement. This is a woman for
whom high maintenance would be a walk in the park.

She leans forward, legs crossed, elbow on knee, chin in palm: her face
almost touching his now, brown eyes wide, framed by long, exactly
mascara-ed, unblinking lashes. JP feels what is for him, a most unusual
sensation: he feels like a mouse caught in the deep, reflective gaze of
a cobra. He wonders if this is what it feels like to be at the
receiving end of his own best seductive stare and, determined not to be
out-done, returns the look, unblinking moment after unblinking
moment.

Her mouth curves slightly, she starts to say something, and then seems
to change her mind and, closing her mouth, leans into him instead, head
tilting infinitesimally, her nose into the nape of his neck, skin
almost but not quite touching; she does a most unexpected thing. She
smells him. In a single unbroken inhalation, she draws JP deep into her
nostrils, like a sommelier investigating a fine wine, she sucks him and
swirls him about; eyes shut, lungs full, expression contemplative. Will
she spit him out or take a drink?

A long moment passes, and she exhales, and sits back. She looks
happier, more relaxed, like she's just inhaled a breath of weed and the
drugged smoke has gently calmed her. JP by contrast, is anything but
relaxed at that point, his every primed libido now well and truly
cocked by the chase, the beauty of the woman, anonymity of the room and
now this smelling thing. He can't take this any longer, reaches out,
hand on either side of her neck pulls her towards his and kisses her
deeply. Does she begin to respond for a millisecond, before her fist,
tightly grasping her hard Nokia phone bangs into his head with a
resounding crack of metal against head-bone?

JP's not sure, because the hard crack is very painful, and disorients
him. He stands up out of pain and anger and confusion; and then falls
back into the chair. She watches him closely, silent, and perhaps her
hand is trembling slightly as it goes to her bag and withdraws a pack
of cigarettes. She removes one and lights it, all the time keeping an
eye on him. Neither of them speaks as she takes a long slow drag, her
breathing gradually regulating as the nicotine hits the back of her
throat. JP sits rubbing his head, ruefully, not quite sure which way
this is going to go now, but recognising that his best course now is to
shut the fuck up and wait.

Eventually, she breaks the smoky silence: "That was my fault. I hadn't
explained the rules." JP remains rubbing his head, still reckoning that
silence is his best policy. She gets up and walks over to the window,
her back to him. "First, I know who you are because you slept with a
friend of mine in California. And no, I don't imagine that narrows
things down for you very much, and no I'm not going to help by naming
her.

"But she said good things about you. She said despite your colossal
capacity for self-delusion and that you were an emotional retard, she
said despite those things, you are the best she's ever had. She said
more than that. She said you were uniquely good. And, well, she's a
very good friend and I'm well aware of her range of comparisons. She
knows that I like the best of everything, and she told me that if I
ever had the chance. Well, I'm not entirely going on her word, of
course, I saw you once before: you didn't see me. It was one of your
industry parties. I was on the floor above. You were dancing below. You
dance very well. I always think that's a good sign".

She turns to face him, sun streaming through window at her back,
cigarette still burning, she's wreathed in sun-smoke, an angel on fire.
"So when I saw you today, I thought I would play a little game with
you. And if you played well, I thought we'd play another one."

JP had stopped rubbing his head. "Am I playing well?"

"Well you've only lost one life so far. And in order that you don't
loose any others, let me explain the rules to you. We meet when I say.
Where I say and only where and when I say. I will contact you, never
the other way around. We go at my pace, and on my terms. I don't like
being uncomfortable, and if you ever make me feel uncomfortable, I will
leave.

"These rules aren't just for my comfort, they are also for our
protection. I am married, and my husband is not an understanding man,
or a conventional one. If he discovered he had been wronged in anyway,
his remedies would not be civil. You understand, his remedies would be
remedial. They would be, well, I think the phrase is, medieval.
Technically, of course, the adultery, the sin, would be mine now yours.
But my husband is not a man to be governed by technicalities. So are
you still a risk taker?"

JP got up and walked over to her at the window. He takes the cigarette
from her hand and puts it to his own lips. The stub is wet, he can
smell her on it: the faint moist, open smell that he knows, but is
surprised to find. He will learn that unlikely some women who exclude
this pheromone only during sex, she exude from every pore at every
moment, generating a perpetual hormonal mist, a sexual dew. He wants to
just drink it in, but she's waiting for an answer. "I am the most?
discreet risk taker", he proclaims, as he draws the cigarette down to
the stuff and puts it out: "I won't even ask your name".

"Noor", she says, "Noor Rashid", and this time she kisses him; and its
not till very much later, after the kiss, and all that follows; and in
fact long after she leaves, when he's lying in the warm bed that his
brain unwinds enough to connect all the dots and he realises whose wife
he's just slept with. He's horrified for a moment, then scared, then
angry, and then he cycles through all those emotions all over again.
But not for a moment does he contemplate the possibility of not seeing
her again.