by David Carter
No, he would never get used to that, never.
Maria Almeida had rules too, strict ones that she never deviated from, though he had no idea about that, and frankly wouldn’t have cared less. All rules are made to be broken, at least once, that was Gringo’s mantra.
He’d eked a kiss from her, strictly no tongues, no parting of the teeth, jammed together like a medieval chastity belt, and even that had been hard work. She had made it plain there would be nothing more on offer. There never was on date one in Maria’s rulebook. That wasn’t a problem. He liked something of a challenge. Sure, he would have jumped into bed with her without a second’s thought if the opportunity had arisen, but it hadn’t, and that just made him all the more determined.
She had dry lips. He noticed that.
Not cracked and damaged lips, but dry, ultra responsive lips. Strange, full lips. Warm and arid, like fresh and fragrant towels from the linen cupboard, brushing against his. He liked them. Her dry lips. There was latent electricity hidden there. She was different to anything he’d embraced before, and since last Wednesday he had thought often of those lips. Tonight he was determined to explore the territory further.
As he drove into the flats’ car park she must have been watching from the unlit window above, for before he could get out of the vehicle, she appeared through the double doors of Telford Buildings, and came skipping towards the car. He saw her coming, smiling as she came, her white teeth like night-lights in the gloaming. He reached over and opened the door, and in the next second she was sitting beside him, clearly happy to be there, and that was always a good sign.
‘Hiya,’ she said. ‘All right, Gringo?’
‘I’m great. You?’
‘I am now.’
She fastened the seat belt as a huge express was pulling out of the station not twenty yards away. She didn’t notice, or pretended not to. He started the engine and pointed the car toward the city and gunned the beast.
‘What sort of day have you had?’ she asked.
Typical small talk that dates always seem to begin with.
‘Busy, you know, always busy.’
‘Yeah, me too.’
She was wearing a one-piece white cotton jumpsuit that zipped from the belly button to the neck, finished off with a casually knotted red neckerchief. She’d left the suit slightly unzipped to reveal a dash of cleavage that she figured would keep him interested. It seemed a skimpy thing for the time of year, and he wondered if she might catch cold. Either way, he thought it hideous, about as stylish as a camel with diarrhoea at the Cannes Film Festival, all the more reason to remove it, and the sooner the better. If he had his way he’d burn the bloody thing. This girl needed some serious lessons in dressing and style. He would have to take her shopping. He would have to take her in hand, and she would have to buck up her ideas in that direction too, or she wouldn’t see out the month. Gringo could not tolerate dreadful clothes.
He guessed the jump suit had been expensive, and it looked and smelt new. She had gained a few marks for effort, but had promptly lost them for the rubbish she had bought. It was gross, that was the word for it, gross.
The Bombay Kings Indian Restaurant, no apostrophe anywhere in the red and yellow illuminated sign, so far as he could see, (Did it need one? He had no idea,) was a small restaurant with a big car park, and it needed it too, because its reputation for quality food ensured it would always be full, especially on a Saturday night.
Gringo had worked hard to persuade Mr Ganesh to release a table, something he had reluctantly done, given that Gringo was a regular customer who bought the most expensive dishes, and tipped well. Gringo would always be made welcome at the Bombay Kings.
Mr Ganesh’s brother, Asif, was working the small bar just inside the door, an area that was set aside for non booked diners who would have to wait their turn, like stand-by travellers waiting and hoping for an upgrade.
Asif smiled his welcome at Gringo, and at the beautiful girl too, and an Indian girl at that. The Englishman had never brought an Indian girl to the Bombay Kings before.
‘Your table is ready,’ Asif gushed. ‘Please go on through.’
Gringo noticed that several of the unfortunate unbooked ones looked up at the newcomers through sour eyes, and sighed and glanced at their look-a-like Rolex’s. He liked that too, his ability to queue jump. It was all down to one thing: Splashing the cash. It worked every time. A broad smile and a good tip; that was the best advice he could offer anyone who really wanted to impress. It seemed to work on Maria, as they were shown through by a smart kid wearing traditional Indian dress, to an intimate table at the back of the house.
‘It’s lovely in here,’ she said.
‘I’ve brought you here specially so you can guide me through the menu,’ said Gringo.
He needed no help in finding his way through the best dishes at the Bombay Kings, but he figured it might make her feel all the more wanted, and in due course Maria would be only too happy to oblige. This Gringo Greene character appeared a caring man, she thought, a man she’d been thinking a great deal about. She would have to be careful or she might be tempted to break her strict rule: No sex until at least the third date.
Mister Ganesh, the boss man himself, appeared bearing menus.
‘So nice to see you again, Mister Greene, and your charming lady.’
‘Nice to see you too, Mister Ganesh. This is Maria.’
He seized her dainty hand in his bear-like paw and lightly squeezed it, before bending and taking her hand to his clean-shaven mouth, to kiss. The full Bombay Kings Royal treatment. Mister Ganesh was about fifty, but he still harboured a full head of hair, albeit a little grey, and a sparkle in his eyes, a twinkle that Maria couldn’t fail to notice.
‘You will always be welcome here, Maria. Any friend of Gringo Greene is a friend of mine.’
She was impressed. How could she fail to be? Impressed with Gringo, impressed with the super charming Mister Ganesh, with just about everything, for they all made her feel so special, and in this day and age that was becoming a rarity.
‘Thank you,’ she managed to utter, ‘Mister Ganesh.’
‘Oh please,’ he insisted, ‘you must call me Raman.’
‘Raman,’ she said slowly, ‘I will… Raman.’
‘I’ll send the boy to take your order. We’ll look after you, that’s for sure.’
For a moment she appeared slightly flustered. For a second Gringo thought she might waft the menu in front of her face, but she resisted the temptation. The discreet lighting reflected from her eyes. It made them appear larger than they were, or maybe they really had increased in size. Afterwards he wondered about that. He couldn’t take his eyes from hers and she immediately detected it.
‘What is it?’
‘You have very beautiful eyes.’
It was nothing new. She had been told that many times before, usually by cheapskates interested in only one thing, but for Gringo to say it, well that was different.
‘Enough flattery for one night, Gringo, what are you after? Don’t answer that. I think I know. Now what are we having to eat? I strongly recommend this.’
She turned slightly sideways and leant over the table so that he could see the dishes she was pointing to. He glanced into her cleavage, and caught a whiff of discreet perfume. It wasn’t one he’d come across before. Maybe it was ethnic, and strangely that excited him too. One thing was for sure, it certainly wasn’t Frantic Fever.
‘I’m in your hands,’ he said, setting his menu down. ‘Order for both of us.’
Maria grinned and bobbed her head
The young guy reappeared, pad in hand.
Maria spoke to him in a tongue that Gringo didn’t recognise. The young guy’s eyes widened and lit up. She smiled up at him and ran through the order in double quick time, her cooing away in Urdu or Hindi or whatever the hell language it was. It sure attracted the attention of the packed adjoining diners. How could it not? The waiter smiled at her again, glared down at
Gringo, or so he imagined, and beat a retreat back to the kitchen.
‘How did you do that?’
‘It’s not difficult, Gringo, speaking a foreign language. You just have to learn. It takes a little effort, I grant you, but anyone can do it. Unfortunately you English are woefully backward in learning languages. You always have been. Laziness my father used to say. The English are lazy when it comes to other nations’ culture. You always have been, and unfortunately you show little sign of changing.’
He couldn’t argue with that. He hated French, and German, and Spanish. Hated the lot of it, and Italian too. She abruptly stopped prattling on. Perhaps she had become aware that she was lecturing, and lecturing never has any place on a date.
‘Sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to go on.’
Gringo gesticulated like Mario did in Lino’s Restaurant.
‘Be my guest, I’m all ears. Talk away.’
They shared another look and one big knowing smile. They both knew it was only a matter of time. The question was, would it be tonight? Gringo was becoming more optimistic by the moment, for he imagined that Maria was buckling under his charm offensive. Time to order a bottle of wine. He stole another look at her. The vaguely blue light bounced off her jumpsuit. It made her look like something from an Atomic Power Station; and crazily the red neckerchief now appeared brown. It resembled a twisted dog turd tied around her neck. Oh dear, but before Gringo could explore those thoughts further, the kid was back with a tray of steaming food.
The youth began chatting to her again; yadda, yadda, yadda; Gringo would later discover it was indeed Hindi, as the kid set the dishes before her. The food looked and smelt amazing. The lad turned toward Gringo, a silver serving dish of sizzling curry in his hand. He made to place it before him, and dropped it into Gringo’s lap.
He jumped up, yelling: ‘Fucking hell!’
The entire restaurant paused for breath and stared.
Mister Ganesh came running. ‘What is going on here?’
Maria was standing and bending and wildly wiping with her white napkin.
‘He deliberately threw it over me!’
‘No he didn’t,’ said Maria, coming to the kid’s aid who’d turned and run away. ‘Don’t exaggerate. It was an accident.’
‘Oh, I’m so terribly sorry, Mister Greene,’ pleaded Mr Ganesh, staring at the steaming muck that ran down Gringo’s trousers like a muddy river. ‘Please come. Please sir! Please follow me and we shall clean you up.’
‘But he deliberately threw it!’
It was as if no one was listening.
‘Go with the nice man,’ said Maria. ‘Do as you’re told, Gringo. Stop making a scene. Please, go! Please!’
Me? Making a scene! He wanted to scream, though this time no words came.
Mr Ganesh grabbed Gringo’s elbow and led him, still protesting, away toward the kitchen for emergency treatment. Maria glanced around at the wide-eyed watchers.
‘Just a little accident,’ she said, ‘nothing more, could have happened to anyone.’
Slowly the restaurant regained its composure, and its appetite.
‘Some couples are not happy unless they’re making a scene,’ said one big woman in the corner, as she gorged on lamb tikka like a spider sucking the juices from a ladybird. ‘Drama queens, the pair of them,’ and she sank her pint of lager in two gulps.
‘But the guy had boiling curry poured all down his pants,’ her date dared to suggest.
‘Probably did it himself, just to attract attention, on the make for a free meal if you ask me. Some people are like that...’
Gringo and Mister Ganesh returned twenty minutes later to find Maria eating. She saw they had done a good job with his trousers, but a large wet stain still remained, but at least there was no obvious hint of Indian food on his dark mohair pants. Mister Ganesh loudly promised to pay the cleaning bill, and the entire meal would now be on the house.
‘See! What did I tell ya?’ muttered the fat woman. ‘On the make!’
‘The waiter will be instantly dismissed,’ continued Mr Ganesh. ‘No question. No question at all. He will never work at the Bombay Kings ever again.’
‘Don’t be too hard on him,’ pleaded Maria. ‘It was most likely an accident.’
‘Accident, my arse,’ whispered Gringo.
Mister Ganesh himself brought fresh food to the table. Gringo thanked him and sat and picked at the dish, but by then his appetite had vanished. He just wanted to get out of there; to be rid of those stinking trousers that still steamed.
Raman Ganesh escorted them outside ten minutes later, his profuse apologies following them all the way back to the car park. Once in the car she said, ‘I’d like to see your house tonight.’
Of course you’re going to see my bloody house, he wanted to yell. Do you really think I want to go anywhere in this state? Reeking of chicken fucking tikka!
‘Too right,’ he said, roaring from the car park with a wheel spin and a squeal. ‘Too right you will.’
Twelve
Maria loved his house. Women usually did. They could see themselves living there, their feet under the table, their hands on his expensive and lightly used kitchen equipment, their feminine touch conquering his masculine orderliness.
‘I’m going for a shower, won’t be too long.’
‘Good idea, Gringo. You take your time. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll wait for you. Shall I make some coffee?’
‘Yeah! You do that!’
He was away ages.
Scrubbing and washing and drying and selecting fresh clothes. He even washed his hair. When he came back she was watching the television, some programme about what became of Anne Boleyn’s head.
Maria flicked off the TV and jumped from the sofa.
‘Here, sit down, I’ll fetch the coffee.’
He sat in the place she had vacated. The leather was still warm.
‘How do you like it?’
‘How do I like what?’
She giggled infectiously. ‘The coffee of course.’
Stupid question. ‘Black, no sugar.’
‘Looking after our figure, are we?’
He didn’t answer, just beckoned for her to set it on the low table before him.
She sat close beside him and linked his arm. His hair was still wet. It was neatly combed and parted, shiny and jet black. She liked his hair; it was a Sub-Continent head of hair, as if it had been born in New Delhi. He’d slipped into an opened necked short-sleeved shirt. It was primrose, not a colour she would have associated with Gringo, but it was decent and went well with the white slacks he’d put on.
There was something about him that reminded her of Bollywood movies. She could imagine him dancing amid a bevy of Asian beauties, indeed she thought he looked quite summery, though it was most certainly not summer, but warm enough in the cosiness of his home. Maria thought his dress sense too conservative, he could do with some lessons in dressing and style, she thought, perhaps he should lighten up a tad, and if she continued to date him, she would endeavour to teach him a thing or two in that area. There was a moment’s silence and then she said: ‘Well, what a performance.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘That Mister Ganesh seems a very nice man.’
‘They’ve ruined my third best suit.’
The thought did cross her mind as to why she’d only merited his third best suit, though she didn’t say.
‘I’m sure it will clean up well.’
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘Well, what do you want to do?’
He turned toward her, wrapped his arm around her shoulder and said: ‘This,’ and pulled her toward him.
She fell into his arms and let him kiss her. He deserved at least a kiss or three after the Battle of the Bombay Kings.
Her lips were dry, just as before, drier if anything, but more responsive, more demanding, fascinating, and slightly apart. He was making progress. The question was; was he
making enough?
He swept her up onto the sofa and removed her shoes and tugged off the neckerchief. She didn’t resist, instead she went searching for his lips, demanding that he kiss her again, so he did, pressing down on her, forcing her into the cushions. His hand went to the zipper and eased it a little way down, then slipped inside like a snake seeking its prey in the undergrowth. There was no resistance. She was his. He felt jubilant.
‘No, Gringo, no,’ she whispered. ‘Not tonight. I’m not ready.’
Maria’s big rule. No sex until at least the third date.
Gringo’s rules were somewhat different. No sex by the third date and they’re dumped. The girl was running out of time. They both sat up and shook themselves and drank coffee and listened to a couple of old records, then kissed again for half an hour or so, but she knew it was hopeless. He couldn’t or wouldn’t get warmed up again, not unless it was heading somewhere, and ten minutes later he took her home.
Outside Telford Buildings she told him she was away for most of the following week on some accountancy course in Bristol, and they agreed to meet again the following Saturday.
It would be make or break time for both of them, and they both knew that. He kissed her again. Her lips were still dry, but promised much, and after she’d gone he sat for a moment and said aloud: ‘Next Saturday, Maria, next Saturday.’
On Sunday morning Brenda rang. She asked him if he’d like to come round later for tea, as she called it, when she meant dinner. Gringo thought about it for all of ten seconds.
‘Course I would, doll.’
‘I thought you’d gone off me.’
‘Course not. Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘Dunno, just the way you’ve been acting lately.’
‘Don’t be silly. I’ll see you at seven.’
Occasionally life has its little, or in Brenda’s case, not so little, compensations.
‘Reach for the sky, man, reach for the sky!’
It was Tuesday afternoon and Paul was back on the blower.
