Zip Gun Boogie by Mark Timlin Read Free Book Online Page B

We went to a restaurant on the King’s Road. It was downstairs and Marc had had a bit to drink. The stairs were made of marble and he was walking behind me when he slipped and knocked me down, and I ended up on my ass in front of a whole restaurant full of people. I wasn’t wearing any underwear. Boy, was I red! He was so mad he ran off and took the car, and I ended up in the middle of the street in the rain looking for a cab and crying my eyes out.’
    â€˜What happened?’ I asked.
    â€˜I met a guy. We were together for three months. He picked me up in his car. Apparently Bolan, who’s halfway home by this time, remembers me and gets his car turned around. He spent half the night driving round Chelsea looking for me.’
    â€˜And?’
    â€˜And I’m in bed with the guy I met.’
    â€˜What happened to the lead guitarist?’
    â€˜Met a guy too.’
    â€˜The lead guitarist was a woman?’
    â€˜No,’ she said, and grinned. ‘Anyway, Bolan delivered a ton of flowers to our hotel the next morning. I phoned him up and he said, “I’ll phone you right back, I’m writing my next hit. I’ll write one for you in a minute”.’
    â€˜Did he?’
    â€˜Sure. We cracked the hundred with it about six months later. We were friends for years. I cried for a week when he died. He was coming over to visit. So doing that song on the album is just my way of letting him know I still care.’ She pulled a mournful face, then looked through the window and her mood changed. ‘Hey, we’re here.’
    And we were. The restaurant was in Greek Street. Chas stopped the car outside, hopped out and opened the door for us. Ninotchka led the way in. The greeter ran across the room like he was on elastic. ‘Can we have a table?’ asked Ninotchka. ‘We haven’t booked.’
    â€˜Of course, dear lady,’ said the greeter who was a sixteen-stone Korean in a silk kimono. He started rapping out orders to the waiters who scuttled off to do as they were told. The greeter led us into the restaurant where the waiters were setting up a table next to an ornamental fountain. ‘Best table in the place,’ said the greeter. ‘Private for conversation, but you can see who’s in.’ That had never been a priority in my book, but I nodded a thank you to him anyway.
    We sat down like royalty and the waiters fussed around us. ‘They’ll choose, I haven’t got a clue what to order,’ said Ninotchka. She told the waiter to bring a selection of food and she chose the wine. I was feeling more and more like a spare part.
    We started with martini cocktails, which were nothing more than vermouth sluiced over ice then drained off and neat gin added. They tasted like freezing rocket fuel and had about the same effect. The food arrived with the wine just as we finished the aperitifs. We started with dumpling soup with side orders of beansprouts, cabbage, spinach, pickled cabbage and Chinese leaves. Some of the vegetables were cool on the tongue, and some were so hot as to produce tears. Next we got a beef dish with broccoli and hard-boiled eggs. Then ox tongue and a dip of seasoned sesame oil. And finally squid in sweet and sour sauce. Jesus, it was good. We pigged out completely. I asked Ninotchka if she was worried about her figure. She asked me if I was worried about it. I said no.
    We finished with fresh fruit and coffee liqueurs. By that time it was about ten, and I knew as much about Ninotchka as her agent. She was good company, witty in a bitchy way, with a fund of scandalous stories about the rich and famous. She name-dropped outrageously. If she’d had an affair with the subject of a story she went as coy as hell. She often referred to herself in the third person, especially when talking about her singing or acting. She was as tough as an old boot, as shallow as a crispy pizza, as hard as a diamond, and as sexy as hell.
    I