The Hunger (9 page)

—Whenever you want.

—So, you’re usually here, then, in The Office or at your flat?

—Sure. Or anywhere in Soho.

—Look, I need to know. I need you to be specific.

I’m sober enough to sense that what she’s saying is odd. Esurio chips in before I get too suspicious:

—She wants you so much, Lincoln, she wants to know where you are
all
the time. That’s your power over women. They just can’t get enough of you. You are the Master!

I think:

—You’re so fucking right! You know me better than I know myself.

So I give her my mobile number and I say:

—If you can’t find me just call me and we can meet up whenever you want.

She smiles. I walk out onto the street knowing with absolute certainty that I am the King of Soho. I do not yet know that she is crazy. I get my first hint the next day. I’m going into a
meeting with The Boss when I see a text from Sharon. It says:

—Where are you?

I think:

—I’ll reply when I get out of the meeting. Always good to keep them waiting. Let them know who’s Boss.

When I get out of the meeting I have over a hundred texts. All from her. Here’s a small selection:

—Where are you?

—Where are you?

—I need to know. Where are you?

—Please don’t ignore me. Just tell me where you are and we can meet up later.

—Are you trying to hurt me?

—Please, please, please, please, tell me where you are.

—I am not your toy. I deserve respect.

—I gave you everything.

—How can you do this to me?

—Do NOT NOT NOT NOT ignore me.

—I love you.

—I hate you.

—I want to hurt you.

—Sorry about the last text. I don’t really want to hurt you. I just want to know where you are. I want to be with you.

—Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.

—We are made for each other.

—Please fuck me.

—Don’t you think we are made for each other?

—You will.

—If you won’t tell me where you are, I’ll find you.

—I’ll find you.

—Bastard.

Esurio is looking over my shoulder and reading the texts with me.

—Got ourselves in a bit of a pickle, haven’t we?

—What should I do?

—How am I supposed to know?

—You seem to know most things.

—Lincoln, I know how to make things
worse
. I’m afraid I’m not so good at making them better. Why don’t you meet her and have some more fun? She’s obviously a
lady in need of more entertainment.

I think:

That’s crazy!

Then I think:

Maybe he’s right. Some ‘Lincy Love’ will sort her out. I can bang some sense into her.

Esurio says:

—You need to make sure you’re fuelled when she comes round, Lincoln. Really fuelled.

After five hundred press-ups, two hundred crunches and a round of ridiculous weights, I leave the gym and I think:

My heart must be really strong. I can take anything!

When she arrives at my flat, she says:

—I need you. I want you. I love you. You can do anything you want to me.

So I do. I go mental on her. After three hours of pounding like a sewing machine, I have
marked
her. She will never forget me now. When I’m done she can’t walk for a while, so
I take the opportunity to say:

—Now we can both move on.

—What do you mean ‘move on’?

—Well, you know, move on.

—But Lincoln, we’re made for each other. You love me.

—Look . . .

I can’t finish my sentence. I know I have just fuelled her madness with mine. I’m worried. And with good reason. Over the next couple of weeks this is what happens:

Esurio says:

—At least you know what a stalker is now, Lincoln, and that was something you didn’t know before you met Sharon. Like Tony Robbins says: it’s what you
learn
that matters.

—What do you want?

—I’m Lincoln’s girlfriend and I’m waiting for him.

Violet tells her to go and sit in Pret across the road and wait for me there. When Sharon bangs on the glass a few times, Violet calls Security, and when I leave The Club after meeting The Boss
and George, Sharon is sitting in Pret smiling and waving at me to join her. I want to throw the stupid bitch under a bus but she is talking to a blonde barista called Marcia who I like. A lot.

—Shag me, shag me, please shag me!

One of the Wraps lets her in and she keeps banging her head against my bedroom door. The Wrap sends me a text saying:

Your crazy girlfriend is banging her head against your bedroom door. I gave her some coke to help calm her down. She’s begging you to fuck her. Should I call the police or are you
coming round to shag her?

I text back:

She’s not my fucking girlfriend and don’t even think about calling the police. I’ll be round in five minutes.

A few seconds later I text again:

And I’m not going to shag her.

Then she disappears out of my life. The first thing I notice is that I haven’t had a text for half an hour, then an hour, then a whole day. After a couple of days I get a call from an
Unknown
number.
Unknown
has lost its appeal to me. It is tainted with fear. I answer it. A man says:

—Hello, Lincoln?

—Who’s that?

—David. Sharon’s son.

—Yeah?

—I would just like to apologise for my mother. She’s not well. I’m taking her back to Cornwall. She won’t bother you again.

Esurio says:

—Now it all makes perfect sense.
Cornwall
.

—What do you mean?

—Not our kind of madness, Lincoln. Cornwall is full of druids, temple bells, angels, fairies, spirit-channelling and healing with hieroglyphics. A blight on the face of the earth, if you
ask me.

I don’t know what he’s talking about. I take a line and open a bottle of Rioja. Within minutes I’m dreaming of the next Wrap and Sharon is already a distant memory.

Esurio is like an excited five-year-old.

—I adore Christmas, Lincoln, adore it.

He’s making some notes in a fancy snakeskin notebook.

—What are you writing?

—I’m not writing. I’m planning!

—What are you planning then?

—I’m planning a special Christmas for us, Lincoln.

—Like what?

—I don’t know for certain yet, that’s why I’m planning.

—Well, give me a fucking clue . . .

—OK. These are only ideas, you understand. Very rough outpourings of my imagination. But I do think you will like them.

—Try me.

—Well, it’s fair to say in recent years your Christmases have been a bit disappointing. I agree that you did your best to throw up over the Christmas turkey last year but that was
down to a tummy bug rather than any excess of your own doing. And the years before, well, there were a few parties here and there but nothing to satisfy a man like me. But now things are different.
This is our first
Soho
Christmas and we have to make the most of it. You don’t know if it will be our last.

—Well, it’s not going to be our last, is it? I intend to stay here a long time.

—I don’t deny your intention, Lincoln, but Soho isn’t like that, is it? You may
intend
to stay but then, one sunny day, it’s one tipple too many and you’ve
gone to the Big Bar in the Sky.

—Thanks for your optimism.

—My pleasure. Now listen to this. It may help you on your way. I’ve called it
Esurio’s Magical Christmas.

—Fucking get on with it.

—OK. During the Merry Month of December, Lincoln will aim to surpass all previous achievements in his life by undertaking some very tricky challenges. To date, I have enumerated three and
I believe they will suffice. First: to inseminate at least fifty ladies. These can be young or old, free or paid for. It’s the number that counts. Second: to consume more cocaine and alcohol
in a single day than he has ever consumed before.

—Excuse me, how am I going to know when I’ve done that? I’ve no idea what’s the most I’ve ever taken. I’m always too bollocksed to count.

—I’ve thought of that, so I’ve made rough calculations based on my own observations and using, if you don’t mind me saying so, a slightly more functional memory.

Esurio shows me some workings-out on a page that look like an accountant’s spreadsheet.

—I don’t understand them.

—You don’t need to. I wouldn’t want you to waste your time thinking when there’s so much doing to be done. When I’ve completed my calculations I will simply give
you a list and you will act on it.

Esurio lifts his pencil off the page and waves it in the air:

—Last, and by no means least, he must become the proprietor of his own nightclub.

—What the fuck?

—I know it sounds rather improbable but I feel you are sometimes held back by not being your own boss. Imagine what you could do if you owned a club and all the alcohol and women were at
your disposal whenever you wanted them. I really feel you deserve this opportunity, Lincoln. You have worked hard all your life and you are more than capable of running a business.

It’s only mid-afternoon but I’m already unsteady on my feet, my head feels a bit fuzzy and I can’t think straight but, after a few seconds of careful reflection, I say:

—Do you know, I really think you’ve hit on something there. I’ve got so many ideas. Things I’d like to do with the bar, what the girls would be wearing, the carpets and
lighting.

—Splendid!

I’m lying. All I’m thinking about is pussy. I imagine Wraps on the first floor and Grannies on the second. I say out loud:

—It’ll need to have a lift.

—What?

—Oh, nothing. I’ll have the Grannies on the ground floor and that’ll solve the problem.

—I have no idea what you’re talking about. What matters, Lincoln, is your business acumen, not your recently discovered talent as an architect.

He’s right. I have run businesses in the past and it’s fair to say that my success as a Sales Director has not been matched when I take on more general responsibility for a
business.

This is the problem: I’m aware that businesses need structure and I’m an animal that’s better contained under the direction of others. I am certainly not a man you would ask to
build his own cage.

Here, in what I believe to be the correct sequence of events, is what happened the last time I owned a share of a business:

I was known in the transport industry as the best Sales Director in the UK. I was also known as a nutter. Not a drinker in those days. Just a man with a terrifying temper shorter than a
gnat’s cock. A successful businessman called Gerry asked me to be the junior partner in a new venture he was setting up in the marine industry. I agreed. He was minted and I soon learned why.
When we travelled we shared a bed in cheap hotels to save money. He always had a jar of Vaseline with him, which he would rub on his cock and wank while I was trying to sleep. I got his business
moving. I sold pretty much every lead I went on. He said: