Read Blame It on the Bossa Nova for Free Online

When I looked again he was no longer looking at the screen, but at me, and in his urgent, searching expression I could see that the pretence was over and that the cards were on the table. But who was I to give everything so quickly? I pulled away, detached my hand from his and looked at the screen. I had my self-respect to think of. He kept trying to get his hands on me all the way through the film; he was getting on my nerves but I had to stay with it; this was the project.
    I didn’t enjoy the film. I remember seeing, or hearing, Shelley Winters get run over, and Sue Lyon seducing the high school kid in summer camp, but I’d missed too much. My chances of getting anything out of the movie had been wrecked. I never have seen it to this day. Once you’ve half seen a film it’s spoiled for good. By just gone ten we were standing on the pavement in Lower Regent Street. I hadn’t put my jacket back on as it was still warm for the time of year. Christopher looked cool and collected. He was wearing a cream shirt and a dogtooth sports jacket made up of a subtle blend of colours. I was wearing a sky blue crew neck pullover. I felt very much the young pick-up. I also felt as if everyone on the street knew it. Without asking he guided me to a pub just off St James’s Square and again without asking put a double scotch in front of me. I smiled inwardly. If the plan was to get me going with a few shorts he had picked the wrong baby, but it was a nice gesture. At the time I wasn’t sure how far I was prepared to go with the game; like many alien coastlines the wilder shores of sex attain greater normality and familiarity on closer inspection. With a thoughtfulness of timing I appreciated he waited for me to empty a glass before catching my eye.
    “Let’s go.” We started walking back down towards St James’s Square but before we reached it a taxi pulled up and we jumped inside.
    “Philbeach Gardens.”
    “Where are we going?” I asked.
    “You like parties don’t you?”
    “Yes.”
    “Well, we’re going to a party. You’ll love it.”
     
    Earls Court is the sort of area that has led the word ‘cosmopolitan’ to come to be associated with seediness. At some time in the past it was colonised by Australian refugees, at another time the whores came, perhaps attracted by the guaranteed regular custom derived from the business efficiency exhibitions and the like held at the great halls. Philbeach Gardens was centrally positioned in this enclave. It left Warwick Road just north of the main entrance to the Earls Court Exhibition Halls and rejoined it just before the crossroads with Cromwell Road. By rights it should have been called a crescent. There were better streets than Philbeach Gardens in Earls Court, but there were also a lot worse. Its aspect was made daunting by the height of the houses, uniformly four stories, in conjunction with the relative narrowness of the street. It was not a joyous place. The cabby dropped us at the south end and Christopher pointed to the steps leading to a basement flat. The door was open and a red light cast reluctant illumination over the basement area. A lazy, recalcitrant Caribbean rhythm was coming up to street level and seeping along the pavement. We went down and stepped inside. What looked to be an ageing West Indian tart flung her arms around Christopher and started to move to the music with him. He not only acquiesced to this but soon took the initiative in turning it into an informal limbo competition to shrieks of delight from a couple of young white tarts sitting on a grubby sofa near the window. During this introductory turn of Chris’s I was beginning to feel like a spare number. The white tarts had given me a cursory glance and had dismissed me from their thoughts. I wondered whether anyone Christopher brought was automatically considered bent, or if they just didn’t fancy me at any price. I wandered into the back of the flat, into a bedroom. A white girl was sitting on