by David Carter
She was loitering in the doorway, both hands cradling her black handbag in front of her. She was wearing a long beige raincoat, an old thing he’d seen many times before. Not an auspicious start. He’d gone to so much trouble and she’d turned up in an old rag-like coat that any self-respecting charity shop would have said: Thanks, but No thanks. He would have to have a word with her about that.
Gringo smiled through the windscreen, a smile fully returned, and then she opened the door and jumped in.
‘Hello, Gringo.’
‘Hello, Melanie.’
‘And how are you, man?’
‘All the better for seeing you.’
‘My God, you look smart. Is that a new suit?’
‘This?’ he said, feigning disinterest. ‘No, I’ve had this for ages.’
‘Where are we going?’ she asked, settling into her seat.
‘I thought we’d go to a country club I know, twenty-five miles from here. No one will know us there, leastways, they won’t know you.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Did Brian get away all right?’
‘Oh yeah. He won’t be back till tomorrow night.’
Gringo liked the sound of that and thrust the car into gear and accelerated away. Melanie fastened her seat belt and crossed her legs. He couldn’t miss the exciting rustle. She was wearing black tights, or maybe, just maybe, stockings. He mused on the thought for a moment as they headed for the ring road, and the quickest route out of town. Her perfume was strong; a scent that soon infiltrated every corner of the car. Gringo liked it, and took a second sniff.
‘What’s the perfume?’
‘Do you like it?’ she smiled. ‘It’s called Frantic Fever.’
Frantic Fever, Fuck me! thought Gringo, and he laughed aloud. Who the hell thought up these crazy names?
‘What’s so funny?’ she said, giggling to herself, as Mel was prone to do.
‘Great name, eh? Brian buy it for you?’
‘Course he did. Who else would buy me expensive perfume? You never have, Gringo.’
She had a point. He had never bought her perfume or anything else, other than a steak pie and chips, something he planned to improve on that night. If she played her cards right, Miss Melanie Harris, aka Mrs Melanie Tucker, could have whatever she damn well desired.
It took fifty minutes to drive to the country club, what with the city traffic and the Saturday night dating hordes out en masse. It was a pleasant evening, no rain, just a hint of chill in the air, hence the tatty coat he imagined, as he pulled the car into the packed car park.
She glanced up at the ancient Cotswold stone building. It was bathed in yellow light, while to one side of the entrance, sitting within a small walled rose garden; was a large rectangular sign, gold letters on a pale green background; announcing: The Henderson Country Club.
‘Who’s Henderson?’ she said.
‘Some old guy, you never see him about these days; his three sons run the place now. They’ll be on parade somewhere.’
Melanie had never been to a country club before, and neither had she met young men who part-owned such a salubrious establishment, two points that were not lost on her. She’d make it her business to find out more, and was really looking forward to it, and a sense of excitement came over her, one she hadn’t experienced in months.
There were three guys on the door, suited and booted to impress. The youngest one, who Gringo had never seen before, stepped forward and enquired: ‘Are you members?’
It wasn’t quite the greeting Gringo expected. One of the others was a Henderson, a big guy named Richie, the middle brother. He smiled at Gringo and the girl in turn and said: ‘Good evening, Mister Greene, and your lovely lady; show them inside, Mark, Mister Greene is a valued member of our club.’
The young one nodded somewhat reluctantly, and opened the double doors and ushered them inside.
Melanie gazed about at the palatial bar; dripping with mahogany and marble and thick pale green curtains, with matching expensive pull chords, timeless quality that never went out of date.
‘What would you like to drink?’ said Gringo, as they stood at the rear of a packed crowd at the bar.
‘White wine,’ she said. ‘Where can I leave my coat?’
‘Oh yeah, sorry. The cloakroom is there, look, go and drop it off and I’ll fix the drinks.’
‘Ta, Gringo,’ and with that she disappeared into the cloakroom.
The crowd at the bar slowly dispersed. Gringo’s turn. He would have to pace himself. He didn’t want to spoil the evening later by being hoiked in by the local plod, and he couldn’t afford to lose his driving licence. Moderation was the word. And anyway, there were other good reasons why he shouldn’t get drunk, or so he imagined. She could drink as much as she wished, within reason, for no one wants a falling down and puking drunk woman, and certainly not him, happy and merry maybe, vomiting drunk, certainly not, but he would have to be careful. He ordered an alcohol free beer, and wine for her.
There were three guys working the bar, young and tall and fit and handsome, and they knew it too, perhaps college kids, or even local sixth formers earning extra cash to buy a car. They were busy, leastways they had been. Gringo noticed they had suddenly stopped and were staring over his shoulder. Gringo turned round.
She was standing there. Miss Melanie Harris, aka Mrs Melanie Tucker, dressed in a single item of clothing, a figure hugging black velvet dress, no sleeves, her hour glass figure flat against the material, just a hint of the ample cleavage she possessed to keep the boys interested, unless they were blind.
‘Fucking hell!’ whispered Gringo.
‘Will I do?’ she said coyly. ‘Do you like it?’
‘Do? Do? You’ll do for me,’ and he grabbed her arm and dragged her away to a vacant low table surrounded by three comfy chairs. ‘You sit there, I’ll get the drinks.’
She may have thrown on that dreadful beige Mac, but beneath, shark’s teeth, what could you say? She looked like a Hollywood starlet. Talk about scrubbing up well, Melanie Harris might well be the most beautiful, nay, desirable woman, in the entire county, leastways, right there, Gringo thought so, and clearly he wasn’t alone.
He worked his way back to the bar and paid the guys who were still nudging one another and beckoning toward Melanie. Gringo gave them his best Wild West Watch Yourselves look, his turned down moustache suddenly appearing quite menacing, and it seemed to do the business, for they promptly returned to their work and didn’t look at Melanie again… for all of a minute.
‘It’s nice in here,’ she said, sipping the cold liquid.
‘It is,’ he agreed, ‘and they serve a cracking dinner.’
Right on cue, a waitress dressed in traditional black and white appeared and said, ‘Hello there. Are you dining with us tonight?’
‘We sure are,’ said Gringo, sharing a look with Mel.
‘Have you booked a table, sir?’
‘Yep. Gringo Greene.’
The young dame glanced down at her list and smiled. He wouldn’t be the first young buck to insist he had booked a table when he hadn’t, but this time, he had. ‘Table twenty,’ she said, and she handed them each a vast menu. ‘Your table is now ready. Go in whenever you wish. There’s no hurry.’
‘Cheers,’ said Gringo, and the girl hustled off to meet and greet other lucky diners.
‘It’s nice in here,’ she said.
‘You said that before.’
‘Did I?’ and she giggled in that infectious, slightly nervous manner she possessed, a vulnerable façade that was a killer for all men. ‘Well it is,’ she said, again, ‘nice in here I mean. I thoroughly approve.’
Once more Gringo weighed her up. He glanced at her crossed legs, long and slender. Stockings, he was sure of it. Stockings and suspenders, it had to be.
She saw him admiring her pins. She didn’t mind. Men did that all the time. At least with him she approved of the idea, enjoyed it even, whereas so many of the creeps made her
skin crawl.
‘What are we going to have to eat?’ she asked.
‘Have whatever you like.’
‘It’s awfully expensive.’
‘Think nothing of it. I invited you, remember. My treat.’
But did he invite her, she pondered; or was he railroaded into it. Brian is away on Saturday night, she heard herself suggesting in that wine bar. The hint could not have been clearer.
She picked up her bag. ‘Would you like me to go halvy-halfy?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’
Just as well, she thought, for Melanie had no intention of paying for a damned thing. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. She only possessed a tenner to her name, and that wouldn’t even buy a starter.
‘If you’re sure.’
‘Damn sure, now shut up about the money and choose some food.’
It was Gringo’s attempt at being masterful. Not a bad effort at that, but if he’d wanted to be a real bastard, to be really masterful, he would have demanded to see the colour of her cash, right there, right then. That’s what Brian would have done, not that he would have brought her to a place like this, not in a million years.
The Henderson Country Club would have made Brian uncomfortable, which meant he would never cross the threshold, though he did boast a wide circle of friends, and that made Melanie occasionally glance around, half expecting to see one of them staring back at her, at them, glaring their disapproval. As for Gringo, as for being masterful, he still had a lot to learn. Poor man.
‘I’m having the crab starter,’ said Gringo, suddenly noticing his hunger.
She pulled a face. ‘I hate crabs!’
‘Not crabs,’ he grinned, ‘fried crab cakes. They’re delicious.’
She wasn’t convinced.
‘Would you mind if I had the garlic mushrooms?’
Mind, why should I mind, he thought, and then he wondered what was really in her thoughts at that moment.
‘Have whatever you like, I told you.’
‘Yeah, I’ll have them, and a steak, well done, I hate it bloody.’
‘Me too,’ said Gringo. ‘Come on, let’s go through,’ and he stood up, making ready to go. Melanie drained her glass and let him take her arm, as he led her through to the dining room next door.
The table was small and intimate and was groaning under the weight of silver cutlery, best white china, three different sized crystal glasses on either side, a cute vase of carnations and a single fat and stubby lighted candle in the centre. The chairs were mahogany with padded maroon seats and backs, and were as comfortable as they looked. Gringo helped her into her chair and sat down opposite.
‘It’s like Christmas,’ she said, and it was.
The same super efficient waitress came to the table and took their order.
‘Would you like wine?’
‘Bottle of Champagne, Moet Chandon,’ said Gringo in a hurry, and the girl smiled at him and at Mel in turn, before scuttling off to fetch the queen of drinks.
‘Champagne,’ said Melanie slowly. ‘You won the lottery or something?’
‘No,’ said Gringo, ‘not yet, maybe one day.’
The waitress was back, the heavy glass bottle in her linen covered hands.
‘Would you like me to open?’
‘Sure,’ said Gringo, confident the girl would do a good job.
Melanie grimaced. Her experience with Champagne look-alike drinks opened by Brian at Christmas, or on her birthday, always produced an explosion of epic proportions, the cork usually thudding into the ceiling, threatening the light fittings, threatening anyone who happened to be in the way of the ricocheting stopper. Mind you, Brian would always act the fool and shake the bottle first, the attention seeker he was. Gringo was right. The girl twisted the bottle, not the cork, and it came away with a decent Pop but no spillage. The Pop had been enough to attract the attention of nearby diners, several of whom peered over at the handsome couple who were sharing Champagne, the lucky things. Someone must be doing well; perhaps it was a wedding anniversary or an engagement proposition dinner.
The waitress poured two glasses and bent down and whispered in Melanie’s ear: ‘Your husband certainly knows how to treat a girl. Where do you find a man like that?’
Melanie giggled and crazily covered her wedding ring as she swigged the drink, the bubbles sweeping up her cute Huguenot nose, as the waitress slipped the bottle into the wine cooler and retreated to the bar.
‘She thinks you’re my husband.’
Gringo smiled, for once lost for words.
‘It’s nice in here,’ said Melanie, emptying her glass. ‘I know, I know, I said that before, but it is.’
Gringo sipped his drink and took an eyeful of the young woman sitting opposite.
‘What is it?’ she said, clocking his inspection.
‘I was just admiring your beauty.’
‘Get off! Bet you say that to all the girls.’
Come to think of it, he probably did, but in this case it was totally justified.
‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’
‘Well the answer is no,’ she said, grinning like a kid reading the jokes from a Christmas cracker. ‘I’m already married.’
‘Not that, you prune.’
‘What then?’
‘You don’t happen to have Glen’s address, do you?’
There was a brief moment of silence and then she said: ‘What, in America?’
Gringo nodded.
‘Is that why you really asked me out?’
Perhaps it hadn’t been the right time to ask.
‘No, course not. I’ve got some papers for her, that’s all, references, that kind of stuff.’
‘Send it to her home address.’
‘Glen said she wanted them ASAP.’
That was a lie, but Gringo was confident Mel wouldn’t know any different.
‘Are you sweet on Glenda, or something?’
‘No, course not. Whatever made you think that?’
‘You better not be!’
That was an odd thing for Mel to say, he thought. You better not be! What difference would it make to Mel whether he was sweet on Glen or not.
‘No, it’s just that I’ve these papers of hers, and I don’t know what to do with them.’
‘Well, if you must know, she did give me her address, but she also said; I was not to give it to anyone else on pain of death, and especially not to you. Sorry, Gringo, but sisters stick together and all that. No can do.’
‘That’s cool,’ said Gringo, trying hard to remain calm and appear disinterested, though he couldn’t help wondering why on earth Glen would not want him to have her address. That hurt him, though he struggled hard not to show it.
They were both glad to see the waitress back with crab cakes and garlic mushrooms. She caught Gringo’s eye and nodded at the bottle. He raised and lowered his eyebrows, and she refilled Mel’s glass, with just a top up splash for him.
After that they talked small talk, or at least Melanie did, and he was happy enough to let her natter on. He was a good listener, always had been. Records and songs she liked and had bought, films she had seen, holidays they had enjoyed, places they had visited, and new places she hankered to see, relatives who made fools of themselves at a recent Tucker family wedding, new carpets they had bought, and better ones she had set her heart on.
As she rambled happily on, Gringo watched her without appearing to do so. The way her lips devoured her food. The way they pursed when she drank. The way her big blue eyes looked at everything as if they were seeing the world for the very first time, like a kid’s eyes on their birthday, the way her breasts moved with her breathing, the way her dress constricted her honed and toned body, the way she tossed her tumbling, blonde hair back over her shoulder whenever it had the temerity to stray onto the table.
Melanie Harris, as Gringo preferred to remember her, was the archetypal dumb blonde. The glitzy super attractive office glamour puss, wit
hout a brain in her head. And yet, and yet, that was unkind and incorrect. Somewhere in that dizzy head of hers lurked a clever girl who just occasionally burst forward with acts of brilliance that stunned everyone. When they happened, and it had to be said, they were exceedingly rare; they were all the more surprising. There was that dreadful business earlier in the year when All Nippon Steel had overcharged them £250,000 on a heavy duty wire contract. No one had noticed that, not even Gringo himself, nor the entire accounts department, and the bill had passed all checks and scrutiny, and was within eight minutes of being electronically settled.
Gringo could still hear Melanie’s voice softly soothing through the office, as if she couldn’t quite believe what she’d discovered.
‘Why are we paying them a quarter of a mill too much?’
The office had come to a juddering halt.
Bloody good question! Why are we? Check every damned invoice that All Nippon has ever sent. Check every damned invoice that anyone has ever sent! Jesus Christ! Somehow the story reached head office, though certainly not from Gringo’s lips. He definitely did not want to be associated with such a monumental cock-up, but now he was, no matter how hard he might try to deflect the blame.
Dryden Engineering had rewarded Melanie Tucker with a bottle of Cava and a £50 book token. They really knew how to look after their staff. Melanie thought it pretty cool, especially when Gringo bought the book token from her for forty pounds cash. She was quids in, though she never mentioned it to Brian or he would have wanted his share. No, Melanie Harris was a smart kid who just happened to be extremely good looking, very desirable, as Gringo reaffirmed when he treated himself to another eyeful, and that cleavage that made his mouth stone dry at the very sight of it.
Six
Melanie had never tasted Baked Alaska before and pronounced it the King of Sweets, as she insisted on calling it.
‘Puddings,’ Gringo had mentioned once or twice, but for Mel they would always be Sweets.
Neither had she seen or tasted flaming Zambucas either, and she adored the theatrical performance, as Gringo implored her not to drink until she was certain the blue flame was extinguished.
