THE BIG BOY BRUNCH

A literary tribute to Britain's most loved bakery chain, with thanks to Jackie Collins

Sauvignon Anaconda looked in the hotel mirror, studying her naked form. Her make-up might have been smudged, but that was what came from crying herself to sleep. Fuck Frederico. She tossed her mane of auburn hair and put her hands on her hips. 41,  but nothing sad or saggy about those breasts. If Frederico wanted to get his hands on those he would have to beg, get on his knees, kiss her feet, kiss her all over.  But she knew the preening Monte Carlo millionaire’s son wouldn’t do that. He had phoned last night, all simpering apologies. He couldn’t make the flight. Business at the casino. Like hell. She could just see him, hanging up the phone, going off to get blown by some bimbo while he snorted cocaine. He had sent flowers, ordered her to carry on the party without him. But who wanted to drink champagne on their own? She had sat there in the hotel restaurant, dining solo, but the sea trout had tasted sour and salty. She had skipped dessert. She had thought about getting drunk, sinking a few bourbons and acting the wild child, party animal she used to be in her teens. Hell, even  now, on the wrong side of forty she could have had any of the male guests she wanted,  but they were a dreary, sexless lot. Not worth getting in the sack with. She had asked for a coffee, lit a first cigarette, then snapped at the waiter, camp as a row of tents, when he reminded her it was a no a smoking zone.

So that was her first night in England.  Dolled up in Dolce and Gabbiana to no avail. Alone on the silk sheets of a hotel bed in a Mayfair suite that cost $2,000 a night. Not even her favourite vibrator for comfort. Maria, the dumb Guatemalan housekeeper, had forgotten to pack it.There would be hell to pay when Sauvignon got back.

She was hungry, but had slept too late for breakfast. She showered, trying to clean herself of the frustration and disappointment, the numbing ache between her thighs. She was in London, she might as well see what it was about. 

Sauvignon decided to go casual. It had been raining yesterday, but looking out of the window onto Hyde Park she saw a bright blue sky. If only her personal trainer, the well-hung but elusive Josh, had been around to get her out running. She went for a pair of blue slacks and a cream coloured blouse. Federico had organised a limo for the duration of her stay. But she hadn’t liked the first driver. “Don’t get any ideas, mister”, she had snapped after he had ‘accidentally’ touched her butt while handing over a suitcase. You didn’t do that with an Anaconda. Not unless you wanted your balls served up in a rocket salad….

Sauvignon took the lift, dropped the key at reception and offered a brief smile to the doorman. Kind of cute these English retainers, all uniformed and deferential. She strode out onto the streets. Maybe she would go check out Buckingham Palace or Harrods. She clasped her handbag tightly as she walked. She had heard bad things about crime in London. A few years back, she had dated Derek, a Brit who had moved to Florida. There were rumours he was ‘connected’, but what the hell. The Anaconda family had made millions off real estate deals and had not been shy about using enforcers when the going got tough. Derek was always coy about his line of work. “Nuffin to worry your pretty little head about darling”, he’d grin, ruffling her hair. And he would chuckle. She missed his gritty, streetwise humour and the massive cock that went with it. What she didn’t miss were the long Sunday mornings when he would stay in bed, watching episode after episode of The Sweeney. 

Sauvignon was soon picking up the pace, sniffing the late September air. She had no map, no driver to show her the way. What the hell, it was an adventure. Suddenly she turned a corner and wow….the river, with Big Ben standing tall. She laughed, putting a hand to her mouth as she remembered this was what Derek called his manhood when he was up and ready. She was enjoying herself. He had talked about ‘Sarf London’, as he liked to call it, telling stories about his boyhood gangs, getting into fights, popping out for jellied eels, going to watch Millwall at home and getting a bit of what he called 'aggro'

She decided to cross over. It was getting towards midday now. The sky had darkened a bit. South of the river turned out to be a big disappointment. Not a hint of a designer shop. You couldn’t imagine Princess Diana out on these streets. Sauvignon was aware she stuck out amongst the down-at-heel people moving to and fro. She wanted a break, but where to go? This was not Beverly Hills or Malibu. No brunch at the Four Seasons. She saw a sign for the Elephant and Castle and was intrigued. That sounded kind of exotic. 

To her irritation, she realised it was now beginning to rain. Goddammit. Fuck the English and their weather. No umbrella. No limo. No raincoat. No freaking cell-phone. Not an elephant or castle in sight. She could always go into a shop and wait until the worst was over, but what kind of boutiques would she find here on what she saw was now the Walworth Road. She winced at the shoppers poring over bargain toilet accessories in a place called 'Poundland'. She thought for a minute of taking shelter in a launderette. But the people looked shabby and unwelcoming. Shit.

It was the smell that first got to her, a warm, bready aroma, taking her back to the Little Italy bakeries she had visited when she visited her cousins Lucianio and Garbriella in New York. Luciano had taken her virginity in the back of a yellow cab on 74th street. Gabriella had died of a cocaine overdose in Switzerland. Dumb bitch. Would she find find fresh canneloni here in deepest south London? "Are you coming in, or what?" A man held open the door for her. She got herself back from the streets of New York and nervously moved herself towards the back of the queue, not a place the Anaconda family was familiar with ... (to be continued).