UNCONSECRATED GROUND

by Mark Woolridge

  ‘Oh, Chris knows his onions all right. And so he should; he’s led just about every area over the years. Or should I say misled? Some cynics reckon he only ever promotes girls who’ve slept with him. Tidy, airheaded ones, naturally. Then, when he’s filled his area with bubbly blondes, he gets a new department and starts again. He’s heading the latest buy-to-let initiative at the moment. I’ll bet you 50p his team-members are all female and under twenty-five. Who’s your other puzzle?’

  Heather feigned another glance at her notes. ‘Victoria Hanson.’

  ‘Her ladyship in person! You were honoured. Did she take the minutes?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well forget what I said about tomorrow, the minutes have probably already arrived. Everyone else calls her the Ice Queen, but I’ve always called her Miss Efficiency, especially when it comes to minutes. “She who controls the minutes controls the meeting,” she told me once. And she’s right, of course. I’ll bet another 50p that the decisions are all what she wanted and all the actions are down to other people.’

  ‘You like your nicknames at WYB, don’t you? Have I got one yet?’

  ‘The jury’s still out, but don’t worry. Your reputation is unblemished. The worst you’re going to get is Snow White.’

  ‘How accurate that would be!’ Heather laughed. ‘Why is Victoria the Ice Queen? She seemed approachable enough in that meeting.’

  ‘Because she’s never been caught in the toilets at the Christmas Party.’

  ‘Caught?’

  ‘Shagging, I mean.’

  ‘Joanna! I didn’t know you knew such words.’

  ‘I haven’t always been over forty, you know. And it’s being going on ever since Eve got a taste for apples. It’s not just been invented by you youngsters. I’ve even done a bit myself.’

  ‘Surely not in the toilets.’

  ‘Nowadays it happens all over the place. It does when WYB throws a party, anyway. No enclosed space is exempt. I suppose that’s the girls’ doing.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Yes. The lads don’t stand a chance anymore, do they?’ Joanna had been keeping a straight face, although her lips had twitched occasionally, as if it was an effort. Suddenly she smiled again and looked incredibly youthful. ‘Not that we were all saints when I was your age,’ she added.

  Heather already fancied the pants off Ms Joanna Jones. Seeing her at her best didn’t change that one bit.

  Shame she’s too straight to notice.

  ‘Go on,’ she said, ‘give me a confession.’

  ‘Me?’ Joanna smiled yet again, ‘sorry, no confessions. Too many guilty parties are still at large. I’m still ten years away from writing my blockbuster kiss and tell.’

  * * *

  Anne-Marie seemed to like the Aston Martin. Even though she’d missed two of today’s three lectures, she was torn when Sean offered her a lift into Drabford.

  ‘Thanks but no,’ she said finally. ‘I’d love to be seen, but I’ll get more work done at home.’

  ‘Okay then, home it is. Where exactly do you want to be?’

  ‘Wagon Lane. Just by the cricket ground. We should be all right at this time. Mum’ll be out.’

  He looked at her before starting the engine. ‘You live with your parents?’

  ‘Yes. Education’s an expensive luxury nowadays.’

  She was flashing something at him as if she was CID. It was her driving licence and she was indeed nineteen.

  ‘I never doubted you,’ Sean said mildly. ‘But it’s not such a good picture.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She stared at the likeness of herself. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  ‘It doesn’t do you justice. I should have snapped you in the shower. That would have been lots better.’

  ‘Oh sure, my dad would really appreciate that.’

  They laughed together as he steered the sports car down his gravel driveway and into Lady Lane.

  ‘Will you be in trouble for staying out all night?’

  ‘What?’ Anne-Marie was looking back, fascinated to see the gates automatically closing behind them. ‘No, no problem. I sent Mum a text. She knows I’m . . . active. As long as I tell her I won’t be home, she doesn’t worry. Not much, anyway.’

  ‘Would she worry if she knew you’d been with someone twice your age?’

  ‘Probably, but she’s not going to know, is she?’

  ‘And you still want to do it again?’

  ‘You bet I do. I’ve always wanted to have sex in a car like this.’

  ‘It’s only a two-seater.’

  ‘Never mind that, I have a plan.’

  They were soon on Wagon Lane. She directed him to a smart detached house and kissed him with surprising tenderness when he pulled up. ‘I don’t sleep with all my bosses,’ she said, smiling. ‘You’re the first.’

  ‘Technically, Marco’s your boss. I’m just a bloke who spends too much time in the pub next door.’

  ‘Oh sure,’ she kissed him again and got out of the car. ‘Don’t make me wait too long.’

  Sean watched her into the house then drove back to town. Everything about the day seemed good. The sun was shining and, although kids were out progging for Bonfire Night, he was in a summery mood. There was even a free place for him in the Shoppers’ Car Park.

  His summery mood lasted all the way across the road, towards the metal steps leading up to the Co-op. There was a group of teenagers gathered at the foot of the steps, drinking cans of Strongbow and getting in everyone’s way. He counted eight of them, six lads and two lasses, ranging between fifteen and maybe eighteen, all wearing baseball caps at stupid angles. Normally the sight of such a bunch of tossers would make his blood boil. Today, still thinking happy thoughts about Anne-Marie, he politely said, ‘Excuse me.’

  One of the older lads was actually sitting on the steps, blocking them. He grinned insolently and stuck out his hand. ‘That’ll be a quid.’

  Sean studied Insolent more closely. Insolent didn’t know who he was talking to, otherwise this wouldn’t be happening. He checked out the other seven faces. They were all unpleasant and sneering. He didn’t recognize any of them. Probably knew some of their absentee fathers, but he couldn’t spot any resemblances. There again, he was hardly likely to, was he? This lot’s mothers probably changed life partners after every second fuck.

  Sean pushed another lad (Fatso) out of the way and said, ‘Excuse me,’ again, a lot louder this time.

  ‘Ow,’ Fatso yelled, hamming it up, ‘assault! That’s what that was!’

  Sean ignored Fatso and a shower of abuse from the others and glared at Insolent, who shuffled about an inch on the step.

  ‘Do I get my quid now?’

  Sean stepped past him roughly and Insolent shouted, ‘Another assault! I’m going to get this cunt done!’

  Everything went quiet inside Sean’s head. The piano player stopped playing. Turning back, he snapped, ‘What did you call me?’

  ‘I called you a cunt, you cunt.’ Insolent sniggered.

  ‘And I called you a dickhead, you dickhead,’ one of the girls added.

  Obviously well-practiced, one girl started chanting, ‘Dickhead, dickhead,’ while, in a different key, the other inserted, ‘Knobhead, knobhead,’ into the gaps.

  It wasn’t worth it. Sean worked out in his gym nearly every day and could have taken all eight of them. But even if they didn’t know who he was, plenty of others did. He’d never get away with it. Besides, this was his second set of Armani today already; he didn’t want to have to change again.

  He climbed to the top of the steps and would have marched on through the Co-op if Fatso hadn’t shouted, ‘Oi, is that red Aston Martin yours?’

  Sean turned again and all eight of them gave him the finger. No question: if he’d been carrying he’d have blown them away.

  A little old lady was threading her way through the youths. Sean watched, scowling, ready to rush to her rescue. But no need; the tossers begrudgingly let her pass. He wa
ited until she completed her ascent, mumbling bad things about the youth of today, then he waved an arm towards the electronic door, opening it for her. She gave him a ‘Thank you, young man,’ before she went in.

  As he followed he heard Insolent calling after him.

  ‘It’s a tenner to mind an Aston Martin.’

  * * *

  Heather’s update was interrupted by someone from another team, arriving with paperwork for Ms Jones to countersign. Heather lingered until he’d gone, grateful when her team leader resumed without prompting.

  ‘My advice to you is to keep on being sensible . . .’

  Sensible! Heather thought. Me!

  ‘That’s important when it comes to men who work at WYB. Go with anyone on a higher grade and you’ll be labelled Airhead Bimbo for the rest of your days. If you really must shag on your own doorstep, avoid the likes of Tiger Woodhead and pick on a twenty-year-old temp. God knows, there are enough of them. With your looks you could have a different one every night of the week. Or seven at once, if I’m right about you and Snow White.’

  ‘You can’t possibly be right,’ Heather protested. ‘As well as not doing married, I never do men more than three at a time.’

  ‘Three’s okay, so long as they’re temps,’ said Joanna, giving her another of those smiles. ‘And if you ever lose control at a WYB party, don’t worry about getting pregnant, you can sort that out later. It’s the guy’s grade you want to worry about, not what he leaves inside you. If you get caught with a colleague it’s essential his grade is lower than yours. That way everyone will agree it’s not career-driven. They’ll just say you’re a ballsy, hot-blooded babe.’

  ‘I didn’t appreciate there was so much etiquette involved. It’s like reading Jane Austen.’

  ‘More like Playgirl,’ said Joanna. ‘And reading Playgirl is the only confession you’re getting right now. That and the fact that these days I find an hour alone in bed more rewarding.’

  ‘Never!’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. Three minutes with my bare bum up against a toilet door . . . or an hour in bed with a glossy? No contest. No need for the morning-after pill, either.’

  ‘Did you ever get caught?’ Heather really wanted to know. ‘And who does all the catching, anyway? Are there squads of them, or just one official? Like the Child Catcher in Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang?’

  ‘I never got caught, but I rarely used the ladies’ for peccadilloes.’ Joanna smiled broadly now. ‘Whenever I pulled I took the lucky chap back to my place, to make sure I got more than just three minutes. And no, no squads of child catchers. It’s done by word of mouth. Our grapevine’s stuffed with all the latest gossip. It’s amazingly accurate, not to mention up to date. I’m only surprised it’s not got a page on the Bank’s Intranet.’

  Heather looked at the older woman’s ring-less finger again and didn’t ask. ‘So the Ice Queen’s never been caught,’ she said instead.

  ‘Not doing anything untoward. Not even after a team-building event. As far as I know, she’s never had sex with anyone, anywhere, ever. Hence the nickname. And that just has to have been given by a rejected man, by the way.’

  ‘Tiger, you mean?’

  ‘Not Tiger. Not as a reject. If you want to go double or quits on that pound you’ve lost . . .’

  ‘Assuming I see those minutes.’

  ‘You will. There’s no doubt about that. And precious little doubt about this either. I’ll bet that if anyone has got through her guard, it’s Tiger. Were they at each other’s throats all the time, like a couple who’ve been married twenty years?’

  ‘Yes . . . and no. Towards the end they were bouncing ideas back and forward like Serena and Venus.’

  ‘That’s their love/hate side,’ Joanna said. ‘If there is anything other than my imagination, that is.’ She looked at her watch. ‘It’s nearly time for my meeting. Anything else I can tell you before I go?’

  ‘Yes. What is it that Victoria does?’

  ‘She’s running Mortgages at present. Before that she was running a special team, like the one Chris is running now, even though she can’t have reached his grade yet. Or maybe she has. She’s been promoted faster than anyone I’ve ever known; far faster. And I’ve been here since we opened in 1983.’

  ‘Okay, last question. What’s your nickname?’

  Joanna tried to look affronted. ‘What makes you think I’ve got a nickname?’

  ‘Everyone else seems to have one. And you’ve been here all along.’

  ‘Oh, all right then. This is from the old days, mind. But I overheard it being used last week, so I can’t claim it’s been forgotten. It was, maybe still is, Hot Lips.’

  ‘Hot Lips . . . wow!’ Heather was delighted. ‘Never mind Playgirl, get yourself out with me after that rugby match. Show me the sights of Bingley. There are loads of pubs; we’ll pull in no time. Especially wearing badges with Snow White and Hot Lips on them.’

  ‘I might take you up one day,’ Joanna rose from her chair, ‘but probably not so soon. Bingley’s full of rascals and scoundrels. Pulling’s not been the same since the teacher training college shut down.’

  * * *

  Sean stopped in the rundown, decaying shopping arcade to make a call. There were plans to demolish this eyesore and replace it with something shiny and new. A couple of last night’s guests had been trying to persuade him to lease a unit in the rebuild. He didn’t intend to invest but did agree the place needed demolishing. It was dark, dank and depressing, with hardly any shops still in business. Even The Scarecrow was closed and rotting. As far as he was concerned its only redeeming feature was the Shama curry house up on the roof. That and the fact it was so full of holes he could get a better signal under here than out in the street.

  ‘Andy? It’s Sean. Who’s in at the moment?’

  ‘Pat’s just gone to try Marco’s lunchtime special. Angel and Tinner are playing pool. Otherwise it’s the usual dinner trade.’

  ‘Get Angel to nip outside and call me back.’

  Sean gave Angel instructions then strolled a few yards in daylight before joining the queue in NatWest. He wanted a supply of small change from the pub’s account and five grand in notes from his own. Queuing seemed to take longer than withdrawing but, less than ten minutes later, he was sorted. Smiling at the sexy cashier, ready for a little creative accounting back at The Kings, he left the bank.

  The tossers were still bunched untidily at the bottom of the Co-op steps. As soon as they saw him the girls resumed their chant.

  ‘Dickhead, dickhead, dickhead . . .’

  ‘Knobhead, knobhead, knobhead . . .’

  None of them noticed Tinner and Angel approaching from behind.

  Tinner was a big, ugly man but his companion made him look like a medium-sized film star. Angel was a relatively new recruit. He resembled Stone Cold Steve Austin on a bad day, apart from being larger, less pretty and much, much nastier. He was wearing his trademark motor cycle boots, tattered blue jeans and a black T-shirt that had FUCK U on it in uneven white letters. Even the tattoos on his muscles had muscles. Sean vaguely remembered Angel drinking himself into a coma last night, so his fuse was likely to be shorter than ever. He was glad they were on the same side.

  As a fight it wasn’t much of a contest. Tinner grabbed the two girls and gave them a slap while Angel banged the nearest two lads’ heads together. Then Tinner took hold of the other two lads while Angel gripped Fatso and Insolent. These four took more punishment but nothing extreme; maybe three on a scale of one to ten. The whole confrontation couldn’t have lasted sixty seconds.

  Sean waited until Tinner and Angel had calmly walked away before descending the steps. Two of the tossers had run off, the other six were sprawled on the pavement, trying to work out what hit them. Dinted cans of cider were rolling about everywhere.

  He stopped by the horizontal figure of Insolent, who was bleeding from his mouth and broken nose.

  ‘That was an assault.’ Sean chuckled. ‘If I was you, I’d
get them done.’

  He walked on a couple of paces before turning back. ‘Nearly forgot,’ he said, dropping ten pound coins one by one onto Insolent’s bloodied sweatshirt.

  ‘Thanks for minding the car.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  There was no sign of the minutes when Heather finally returned to her desk.

  ‘Not quite so efficient,’ she murmured, before sighing deeply. She liked everything about her job but was suddenly disheartened. Up until now she hadn’t seriously considered having sex with a workmate (except for the odd fantasy about the lovely Ms Jones, of course). In fact she hadn’t seriously been considering sexy relationships at all. Now, the first time she’d been tempted . . .

  The first time she’d nearly wet herself . . .

  Joanna hadn’t mentioned the other office romances that were happening all around them, the ones that were presumably acceptable by labelling standards, but she was obviously spot-on about spur-of-the-moment shagging. In her short time at WYB Heather had already heard dozens of junior managers referred to as bimbo, airhead or both. That wasn’t a mystery anymore; they’d been caught in the bogs. And boggy mud at WYB must stick, because some of those juniors were pushing forty.

  How unfair was that? Most of them had probably been thinking orgasm at the time, not promotion!

  As for Victoria, well, she could forget it. Apart from her stratospheric grading, despite that warm, welcoming wink, she was the Ice Queen, possibly even the Virgin Queen. It wasn’t easy to forget that incredible body but hey, she could always round up some of those temps.

  Heather added a couple of lines to an email and sent it off into cyberspace . . . after officially starting her break, naturellement. She liked Steve but wouldn’t have done him a whole email during working hours.

  Well, maybe a very short one.

  She couldn’t help grinning. She’d noticed that particular workmate straightaway. Steve had made it plain he’d noticed her too. Trouble was, as well as having a willy, he had one of those bits of metal on his hand: the sort that put him completely out of bounds.