His reply bounced back almost immediately.
Hot Lips; like in MASH if you watch golden oldies. Rumour has it she used to be quite a babe. Still not bad if you ask me, although I would prefer a much younger woman with beautiful green eyes and long black hair. And she has to have matching initials. HH would be perfect. Any idea where I can find one?
My nickname is the very boring Stevo by the way. What’s yours?
Cheers
Stevo
Heather’s response went back just as fast.
Of course I’ve watched M*A*S*H. Hot Lips Houlihan played by Loretta Swit. Or was that the film? I’ve seen both.
Sorry, no idea where you might find the girl of your dreams. Maybe nobody’s so perfect. Best stick to Hot Lips. She is a JJ after all.
I think my nickname should be Little Orphan Annie, but I’m told it may be Snow White. And before you ask . . . don’t! I’ve already had applications for all the roles as (very tall) dwarves, including one from Dopey, asking if he can make me feel Happy.
Cheers
Snow W
Another message arrived as this went. Curious, Heather went into her in-box and found it was from [email protected]. ‘Ah,’ she said, ‘Miss Efficiency’s minutes. That’s cost me two quid.’
She therefore opened the message in all innocence to find:
Hiya Heather
I hope you didn’t mind me butting in like that. You seemed to want to keep a low profile and I know what Chris can be like. You would have made his day if he’d found out The Manor is single-sex. If nothing else you’d have been quizzed about what went on with the big girls after Lights-out.
Be warned! He ispersistent.When he finds out he’ll try again, starting with a seemingly innocent question before pouncing.
Other than that, welcome aboard. There are more graduates here than you can shake a stick at, but not many who went to a private school first. And hardly any who went to a half-decent private school, never mind a top drawer establishment like The Manor. I was lucky enough to go to St Helena’s, so I know the difference better than most. It will be good to have someone like you to speak to. We can swap tales about how character-building it was: the loneliness and temptations; the frustrations and all those cold showers!
We must have lots in common.
I might even swap stories about Lights-out.
L
Vic
Heather’s heart fluttered. She pictured the high-flier as she turned from the water cooler, swapping one sensational view for another. And that wink . . .
When Heather was quite small her Uncle Adrian started buying her Tintin books for Christmas and birthdays, ignoring Mum when she said they were meant to be stories for Belgian boys. An image from one of those books came to her now. It was of a fairly drunk Captain Haddock, slumped at a table, staring wistfully at an unopened bottle of Loch Lomond whisky. He had a little white angel perched on his right shoulder, a grinning red devil on his left. The angel (with Tintin’s head) was earnestly giving a hundred sound reasons why the bottle should stay unopened. The devil (with the captain’s head, beard trimmed to make him suitably diabolical) was gleefully giving a hundred much more interesting reasons why it should not.
Abruptly, the image changed and she was in Captain Haddock’s position, staring wistfully at her PC. The angel (who now had Joanna’s head) was saying: ‘Think of your reputation . . . and your career. You’ll get sideways-promoted to delivering the internal post. Then you’ll spend the rest of your life wishing you’d listened to me.’
The devil (now looking like Jack Nicholson) didn’t waste time with words. Instead he clapped his hands and Heather saw again Victoria turning from the water cooler. Apart from her shoes and glasses she was naked. Smiling at her, naked and winking and . . .
Knickers, there are always other jobs. And who’s going to get caught anyway?
* * *
‘That’s about it,’ said Barney, concluding his report.
Harry glanced around the uncarpeted backroom, taking in the three unanimously grim expressions.
‘No chance of them breaking out?’ he asked.
‘Absolutely none,’ said Barney. ‘That place was built to last.’
‘Bet it’s cold in there,’ Jonjo observed. ‘Won’t freeze to death, will they?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ Barney replied. ‘The electricity was cut, so the coolers weren’t working. And we left them with their jackets on. Might catch a bit of a chill, but they shouldn’t freeze.’
‘A chill’s not going to bother those two. Not for long.’ Harry’s evil laugh bounced off the walls, unsettling even him.
‘Are you sure nobody saw you? he resumed.
‘As sure as you ever can be,’ Barney wasn’t quite as laid-back as usual. He was probably worrying about the shape of things to come. ‘It was dark and foggy. And we had them gagged, so nobody will have heard them, either.’
‘What about Burrows? Will he keep it zipped?’
‘I reckon he will. He’s desperate for money. Well, he’s desperate for coke, which comes down to the same thing.’
‘How much did you give him?’
‘Two hundred to be going on with. I tried to get the right balance. More and who knows what he’d get up to. Not enough and he might start on the smack.’
‘Can we trust him with the smack?’
‘As long as he thinks he’ll be getting two ton every other day, he’ll play by the rules.’
Harry decided there and then that Bunny Burrows wasn’t long for this world. Not at a ton a day; not when he hated the fat cunt to start with.
‘Okay,’ he said aloud. ‘Keep him sweet. And keep an eye on him for fuck’s sake. I don’t want him going AWOL. That’s a lot of smack we’ve put on the line.’
‘He’s expecting me round tomorrow morning. I’ll string him along a bit more.’
‘Good man.’ Harry grinned until he felt his scar stretch. ‘Listen Barney, you won’t want to hear the rest of this. Give Jonjo the keys, eh?’
Barney gladly handed over the keys and went.
‘Right,’ Harry resumed. ‘Are you guys up with the plot?’
Driller Killer hadn’t said a word during Barney’s update. He merely nodded.
‘I think I am,’ said Jonjo. ‘We’re topping them both, aren’t we?’
‘Well now,’ Harry grinned again, ‘that rather depends . . .’
* * *
Heather re-read the email, conscious it had taken precedence over the minutes, making sure she wasn’t mistaking the message. L Vic, she wondered. What could that possibly mean but Love, Victoria?
Lust Victoria?
It had to be one or the other, and in the circumstances, either would do.
Right, this called for a clever reply; one showing respect for the Ice Queen’s lofty status, just in case she’d mixed the signals after all, while giving out clear signals of her own.
She began with:
Hiya Vic
Then changed it to:
Hello Victoria (or Vic, if you prefer)
I certainly didn’t mind you riding to my rescue; I welcomed you with all my heart. You were better than any knight on a white charger!
And thank you for the warning about Chris. If there is a next time I’ll be ready with some witty (I hope!) retort that shuts him up as well as yours did. Shame I can’t tell him what really did go on with the big girls after Lights-out! That would render him speechless!
I hope you enjoyed St Helena’s as much as I enjoyed The Manor. I don’t know about you, but I quickly got over the loneliness and frustrations and concentrated on the temptations! I’ve always been able to resist everything except temptations! And I don’t think that will ever change!
I am sure we will have lots and lots in common and can’t wait to swap stories. Maybe we should do it over a drink rather than here. Some of my stories might be a little much for anyone unfamiliar with single-sex schools! Particularly when I tell you about our
Helena, who was anything but a saint!
I owe you a drink anyway, for being my knight.
Let’s make it sooner rather than later.
L
Hev
That’s used up all my exclamation marks, she thought, but what the heck. She fired it off before she could chicken out. Again, as one message left another arrived, this time from Steve. She opened it and read as far as:
Hi Snow White
Then she realized there was someone standing behind her.
‘Snow White,’ Chris Woodhead said. ‘Is that what they call you?’
Heather swivelled her chair so she faced him and at the same time blocked off her PC screen.
‘It looks like a possibility,’ she admitted. ‘I suppose it could be worse.’
‘Oh it could,’ Chris agreed. ‘There are some fairly offensive nicknames around. But what can you do? As the saying goes, Boys will be boys and girls will be worse.’
‘That must be a new one. I’ve never heard it.’ Heather smiled and tried to seem obliging. ‘Is there anything I can do to help? Joanna’s tied up in a meeting.’
‘I know. I’m on my way to the same meeting. I just stopped off to apologize.’
‘Apologize?’
‘Yes. In person.’
‘What for?’
‘I shouldn’t have put you on the spot. I didn’t know you’d been to an exclusive school. I wasn’t trying to embarrass you.’
Heather didn’t scoff. Instead she told herself he was doing this off his own bat and didn’t have to grovel.
And he was a handsome so-and-so.
If I ever . . .
‘Apology accepted,’ she said, smiling even wider, hoping she looked as good for it as Joanna did. ‘I can’t think why I got flustered anyway. I’m proud I went to The Manor.’
‘Well it’s certainly turned you into a fine, athletic young woman.’ Chris grinned as he applied flannel with a trowel. ‘Or were you finished off at uni?’
‘Bit of both,’ she said modestly, ‘aided and abetted by intensive karate. Hajime is my middle name. Unless I’m playing hockey, of course; then it’s Bully Off.’
‘Karate probably came in handy for hockey.’ Chris laughed. ‘It’s a dangerous game, hockey, especially when girls are involved. I stick to golf myself.’
‘I know you do, Tiger. You play off four, don’t you?’
‘I’m due to be pulled to three,’ he said, ‘possibly two after last weekend. But how did you know I’m off four? Have you been checking me out?’
‘About as much as you’ve been checking me out.’
This time they both laughed, holding each other’s gaze, comfortable, almost. Heather could appreciate how easily a girl might slip into a relationship with Chris, even knowing he’d ultimately be bad news.
If not diverting along the way.
‘Do you play?’
‘Golf,’ Heather shook her head. ‘Sorry, not anymore. I knew a guy who had a plus handicap. He put me off good and proper.’
‘That’s a shame; I was going to ask you if you’d like to play around.’
‘Do you mean play-a-round? Or play around?’
‘Both. But if you’re not a golfer, maybe . . .’
‘Cards on the table,’ she said, pointing to his wedding ring. ‘If it wasn’t for that, I’d play a whole tournament. But I don’t do married.’
‘What if I said it’s an old one I forgot to take off?’
‘I’m afraid I’d have to class it with: The cheque’s in the post. And that other one; the one I’m too polite to mention.’
‘How about: I’m looking after it for a friend?’
‘No good. How about: You’re flogging a dead horse? Or: Aren’t you late for that meeting?’
‘Stone me; you are Snow White, aren’t you?’
‘Pure as the freshly driven stuff,’ said Heather, laughing again.
‘I meant the Fairest of Them All, actually.’ Chris started towards the meeting room. He gave her a final grin. ‘By the way, I like a challenge. It’s going to be fun working with you.’
At least he didn’t try to bribe me with promotion. Heather admired the view as he went. As long as it stays that way, it really could be fun. And I’ve never played hard-to-get before; that could be fun too.
If I ever get back round to blokes, that is.
* * *
Heather went back to her PC, finding two new messages. Leaving Steve’s part-read, she hurried into her in-box to discover one of the new ones was from Victoria. The other was yet another from Steve. No contest. Victoria’s got opened first.
Hiya Heather
At WYB I am always Victoria, and I’m afraid I’m so sad I’m nearly always at WYB! Only very close friends outside work ever call me Vic. If I’m really your white knight, you’d better call me Vic right from the beginning.
Beginning . . . sounds like an adventure, doesn’t it?
Anyway (and by the way) I hate being called Vick, Vicky or Vikki, so if you ever want to wind me up, now you know!
My, my, Heather! If you enjoyed giving in to the same temptations as I did we really are going to be friends! Lights-out always was my favourite time of day!
I’m ready for that drink whenever you are. Just say the word.
L
Vic
Wow! Heather immediately replied to sender with:
Hiya Vic
Tonight?
L
Hev
She then went back and read Steve’s middle email.
Hi Snow White
Are you all right? You’re not your usual self and I don’t get the bit about Little Orphan Annie. If there’s anything I can do please let me know.
And I hope I’m not Dopey, because you’ll always be my Fairest of Them All.
Cheers
Stevo
Fairest of Them All . . . could Chris have possibly read that with me in the way of the screen? Surely not. And so what if he did? All it tells him is I have another admirer. No, another married admirer.
She sent her reply.
Hi Stevo
I was a little bit Grumpy but I’m Happy again now. You’ve never been Dopey so don’t be Bashful, be Happy like me.
Cheers
Snow W
Victoria’s latest reply landed before Heather could open Steve’s third email.
Hiya Heather
I’m up for tonight but am stuck here until 6:30. Is that wildly inconvenient? If it’s okay we could meet outside the main entrance and walk across to The Ferrands.
L
Vic
Heather’s response went back seconds later.
Hiya Vic
6:30 is fine. I’ll be there, wearing a white carnation.
L
Hev
She saw the clock as she returned to Steve’s last message and grimaced; it was nearly two already. The day was almost gone and nothing productive had been done. Forget home and a quick shower, she’d work until twenty past six, then stroll down to the cash point.
Heather
What’s Woodhead up to? If he’s been upsetting you I’ll brain him with his 5 iron then bury him in the bunker on the Thirteenth.
Steve
Married men! She sighed inwardly. They’re worse than teenage boys.
Hi Stevo
NOTHING! Chris Woodhead couldn’t bother me if I wanted him to. And I DO NOT WANT HIM TO.
The idea of seeing him with just his head sticking out of the sand is quite appealing but seriously, he hasn’t done anything to offend me, never mind anything to deserve that.
Just so you know: YOU are top of my married men list. If I ever slide in that direction, YOU will find out long before Chris Woodhead.
Be Happy
Snow W
She sat back and waited until she was sure the flurry of mail had stopped.
Okay, that’s the personal stuff sorted out, let’s see how much real work I can clear before carnation time.
Chapter Eighteen
McGuire Bros (1960) Ltd was based in a warehouse off Manchester Road (not, in Sean’s opinion, far enough out of the centre of Drabford). What was it, a mile or so? No, not nearly enough for him. To add to his edginess the McGuire cousins were catching up with family gossip. Feeling like an outsider, he leant back in his chair and smoked, leaving them to it.
Or rather, leaving Pat and Joey to it; the third cousin just sat there, looking mean.
‘Remind me Paddy,’ said Joey, making Sean smile in spite of himself. Pat hated being called Paddy, which was the name everybody used for his dad. ‘What did your old man say when he inherited Uncle Ryan’s opals?’
‘I can’t give you it word for word,’ Pat replied. ‘But I think he said something about the luck of the fecking Irish. And leprechauns; he said something about them, too.’
Sean joined in the general laughter and lit another cig. The McGuire’s office was a partitioned-off affair in the far corner of their warehouse. It had soon filled with smoke. Hardly surprising, really; he and the latest owners of this old haulage company were chain-smoking as if their lives depended on it. Only Pat, who’d given up years ago, hadn’t got an open packet in front of him.
Sean glanced out of the window, wishing they could get down to business. The summery sunshine had gone. Outside it was drizzling and getting dark already. Maybe the weather’s only crap here, he thought. Maybe in Bingley it’s still glorious. Whatever; let’s just do the deal and piss off back to civilization.
But no, Pat and Joey were on about Mary now, whoever she was.
Sean hated Bradford with a passion. He’d once fucked a girl in a T-shirt bearing the message: WELCOME TO DRABFORD. To him it had been Drabford ever since. Everything about the place was dull and depressing. Even the dark, satanic mills had been closed and left to fall down on their own. Not that crumbling buildings spoilt the image; if anything they improved it. To his mind the whole city gave shit-tips a bad name. The fact that his decent, good-looking home town came under the Bradmet banner constantly annoyed him. Although he was too young to remember Bingley Urban District Council, he would have voted for its restoration in a flash.
What a dump! If it wasn’t for the curries he’d never come here again.
Ever the diplomat, he kept smoking and smiling. Outwardly patient and polite, inwardly fidgeting like crazy. And only half-able to concentrate. His attention kept straying to an old-fashioned safe standing against the wall. The safe was painted bottle green and bolted into the concrete floor. It had a well-used look to it, as if it was there for a purpose, not saved as an ornament. He glanced from the safe back to the office window and saw that, like all the other windows he’d seen here, it was protected by recently installed bars. That was interesting, because the warehouse didn’t have anything conspicuously valuable in it. There were a few rigs and unattached trailers, but nothing likely to be slipped through a window.
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