by David Carter
‘You are insatiable, Mister Greene.’
‘You wouldn’t want it any other way.’
She smiled contentedly to herself. Maybe he was right. Yelping had worked just fine. Crazy thoughts of a threesome involving Vicky could be put to be bed, for now. Maria stood up and slipped on his black gown and headed downstairs for the kitchen. In the end it had been one of the best days, and nights, of her entire life, and now she was more determined than ever to make their affair a more permanent arrangement.
Eighteen
He dated Maria again the following Wednesday, taking her for a quiet drink in the country at a little pub he knew down by the river. Afterwards, they went back to her place and he amused himself for an hour or so, but he didn’t stay the night, and on the way home he began thinking she was back on the countdown. Ten, nine, eight, and when it reached zero it would be shift-off not lift-off. He couldn’t see it running beyond that. As he left the flat they embraced and kissed in the hallway.
‘We are all right, aren’t we, Gringo?’
‘Course we are, doll. You get some sleep. I’ll ring you.’
That seemed to placate her for she kissed him again, more passionately than before, and after that, Gringo left.
The next day was ultra busy and all morning the only occasion he left his desk was to dash to the gents. At lunchtime he sent one of the bright young things for sandwiches and a bottle of orange juice, as he ploughed through the never-ending paperwork. The only thing that broke his concentration was the burbling telephone.
‘Dryden Engineering. Management. Gringo Greene speaking.’
‘Reach for the sky, man! Reach for the sky!’
‘How are you doing, big man?’
‘I’m great. And you?’
‘Not bad, no problems, that’s the main thing, nothing I can’t handle.’
‘I’m the bearer of big news.’
‘Oh yeah? Let’s hear it.’
‘The tart and I. Can you hear the wedding bells from where you’re sitting?’
‘No! Congratulations. Isn’t it all a bit quick?’
‘Not quick enough as far as I’m concerned. Two months today, so make a note in your diary. We’re both keen to populate the world with big people.’
Gringo laughed. ‘There’s a fair chance of that.’
‘And we’ve pencilled you in as best man, okay?’
Oh gee, no, Gringo wanted to say. The thought of standing in as best man beside Paul and Kay was horrendous, and then there were the parents. He’d seen Paul’s old folks, just the once, but that had been enough. They were skinny giants too. Gringo would look like the abandoned pigmy amongst the grownups, and yet he found himself saying: ‘Sure Paul, be an honour, you know that.’
‘Great, man, I knew you’d oblige, and I want you to promise me one thing.’
‘What’s that?’
‘Bring that Asian chick with you. She’ll brighten up the table and no mistake. I might even grab a dance and a kiss.’
‘You’re marrying Kay, Paul, you shouldn’t be thinking of groping my girlfriend.’
‘You have to take your chances when they appear, leastways that’s what you always told me, and now look at us.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, I’m getting wed, and you’re still single.’
I’d rather remain single than marry Kay, Gringo wanted to say, but didn’t, though Paul did have a tiny point. Who would have believed that he would be getting married before Gringo? Not many.
‘I knew you’d succumb sooner or later,’ said Gringo weakly.
‘The thing is,’ said Paul, ‘I thought we could have a few jars one night and go through the arrangements, just you and me.’
Firm arrangements had already been made, mused Gringo, it proved they were serious, and in a hurry.
‘This isn’t a shotgun job, is it?’
Paul guffawed. ‘Course not! You know me. Always use a rubber. Extra large to match the height.’
That wasn’t what Gringo had heard, though he didn’t say. A rubber. What an awful expression, and not one that he would ever use.
‘I can do tonight,’ suggested Gringo.
‘Sorry, no can do, spoken for tonight. In rehearsal.’
Gringo didn’t want to know any more about that.
Paul said: ‘I can do tomorrow.’
‘I can’t. I’m going to that car launch.’
‘Oh yeah. I heard all about that. They were talking about it in the showroom today.’
‘We’ll have to fix up something next week.’
There was a tap on Gringo’s door and when he looked up Rebecca, the young wench from the accounts department, came in. She was missing her pink cord jeans and in their place she’d slipped on a short black skirt. She smiled down at him and sat on the end of his desk, and crossed her legs.
‘I’m going to have to go,’ said Gringo.
‘Okay,’ said Paul. ‘Speak to you next week. And you’ll tell the Asian chick all the news, yeah?’
‘Sure,’ said Gringo, ‘I’ll tell the Asian chick all the news.’
Gringo set the phone down and sat back in his chair and looked up at the kid.
‘What can I do for you Miss…. er… Miss…’
‘Walker,’ she said grinning, ‘Rebecca Walker.’
‘Yeah, I knew it was Rebecca, I just couldn’t remember your surname. Where are the pink jeans today?’
‘Ah Gringo, you noticed. They’re in the wash if you must know. Do you like the skirt?’ And she glanced down at her tanned knees and legs.
Gringo followed suit. He couldn’t help himself, and then he said: ‘Yes, well… fine.’
She handed him a small envelope. It was only two inches square and made of fine blue paper, like an old fashioned pay packet, but smaller and smoother and more delicate. On one side his name had been written in full in longhand in real ink. Gringo immediately knew where it had originated, though he had no idea of the content, as he took it from her.
‘What are these piddling little blue envelopes anyway?’
He reached up and tapped her on the nose with it.
‘They are private and confidential, and you are never to open one, and never to ask again. Understand?’
She rippled her eyebrows and grinned.
‘Top secret, eh? I love secrets, me.’
‘Where did you get it?’
‘Julian asked me to give it to you.’
‘It’s Mister Smeaton, to you.’
‘Oh Julian doesn’t mind me calling him by his Christian name. He lets me sit on his knee and everything.’
I’ll bet he does, thought Gringo, and for a moment he wondered if Rebecca was just a little innocent, but when he looked back at her face, he knew she wasn’t innocent at all.
It figured it came from Julian because he usually opened the post. It must have come in from Head Office late, but he shouldn’t have given it to the girl. By rights junior staff were not supposed to know of the existence of management secret blue envelopes, never mind handling them, for they always contained confidential instructions, and some of them could be extremely delicate, such as last year when two members of staff were designated for termination through the blueys, and another two not-so-elderly gents for early retirement.
‘When are you going to take me out, Gringo,’ she said, shuffling her backside on the desk.
‘I’m not.’
‘Oh come on, GG. It must be my turn. You’ve taken everyone else out, Melanie, Glen and that one from last year, what was her name?’
‘Do you mean Chrissie?’
‘Yeah, that’s the one, Christine.’
‘I took Christine out to comfort her after her father died suddenly.’
‘Comfort her, yes, I’ll bet you’re very good at comforting, Gringo.’
‘Don’t be sarcastic.’
‘I’m not, Gringo, honestly. Go on, when is it my turn?’
‘We’re not taking turns here. This isn’t some game of mu
sical chairs. I’m not taking you out and that’s final. You are not on some kind of rota, and anyway, you’re far too young.’
‘Too young for what, Mister Greene?’
He glanced back at her face. As expected that wicked glint was back in her bright blue eyes.
‘Get away with you, behave yourself, and while you’re at it, take these invoices back to Melanie.’
‘Spoilsport!’ she said, jumping down from the desk in an exaggerated fashion, and grabbing the papers from his hand.
Through the glass partition he watched her practising her model-type walk through the office. She could easily have gone to the far side of the desks and handed the papers to Melanie, but she did not. She paused in front of the bank of desks and leant right over and plopped the papers before Mel. Gringo saw Melanie glancing up. Mel saw Gringo gawping through wide eyes, and guessed precisely the view he was enjoying.
‘Thanks Becky, now bugger off,’ said Mel.
‘Street hussy,’ whispered Gringo to himself, trying hard to think of work matters. He reached down and picked up the management communication, pondering on its contents. He grabbed the silver letter opener, the present his mother had bought him last Christmas, and slid it into the top corner.
Inside was a single sheet of tissue type paper. At the top were two words, Dryden Engineering, nothing else, no telephone number, no address. The brief letter had been typed on an old fashioned IBM golfball machine. In that way no record would remain in any computer that could be stumbled on by unauthorised eyes, or hacked into by nosy geeks searching for company secrets, even potential blackmail material. It was an old fashioned system, but one that worked well.
Strictly Confidential
This matter is not to be discussed with anyone
To: Mister Kevin Greene.
Your presence is required at a meeting in the boardroom at head office next Tuesday at 11.30am. Come by train. Buy a first class ticket on expenses.
Don’t be late.
By order of M A B Soloman.
Below the typing was an unreadable ink signature. Gringo read the message twice. What was this all about? He couldn’t imagine. He didn’t want to imagine. He had met Michael Soloman once before when Mike had visited them. The man was about fifty and came with a fearsome reputation for ruthlessness, and no matter what Gringo thought of it, he couldn’t believe that this was good news, unless perhaps he had landed a big promotion, but that would inevitably mean him moving to Reading; and for several reasons he did not want to do that.
He eased the paper back in the envelope and sighed, slipped it inside his wallet and didn’t look at it again that day.
Nineteen
Some years before Gringo had been ordered to buy six new vehicles and the motor trade took notice of that. Anyone with such buying power was always courted and feted beyond belief. That probably accounted for his invitation to the Hamilton Hotel to witness the unveiling of the new Cayton Cerisa model.
The Hamilton Hotel was a rambling mid-range place that could have done with a refurbishment programme, and that meant that it was not the car manufacturer who had arranged the party, but a local main dealer, and in due course they would be required to foot the bill. Car manufacturers only used the very best places, and the Hamilton Hotel certainly wasn’t that.
The cars were scattered around outside on the lawns, three different colours of the same model, surrounded by marquees and pretty girls in sashes and yaddering people. Gringo took a quick gander at the vehicles and the girls and the food on offer, and promptly retreated to the American Bar inside.
The place was empty, other than the barman and one woman sitting on a high stool at the far end. He thought she glanced over the top of her evening paper, though he might have been mistaken. She was middle-aged, maybe around forty-eight, but smart enough. Her tight beige skirt was a little short, but who cared. She’d recently had her collar-length straight blonde hair cut and styled in the modern way, kind of a haystack mess, sticking out every which way, a style that sometimes looked appalling, but when it worked, it appeared sophisticated. With her, it worked well. She was clearly trying to impress someone, but was that someone she already knew, or was she on the lookout to hook a stranger? The barman approached Gringo.
‘A G & T please.’
The guy nodded and poured the drink.
‘What did you think of it?’ said the woman.
Gringo imagined she was talking to the barman.
She turned toward Gringo and said, slightly louder, ‘I saw you outside before, what did you think of it?’
‘Oh sorry, I didn’t think you were talking to me. Do you mean the car?’
‘Course I mean the car, it’s why we’re here, isn’t it?’
Gringo bobbed his head.
‘Not much. They seem to think that by changing the colour of the gear stick, and whacking on more chrome looking plastic, they are being revolutionary. You?’
‘Jap crap!’ she said with an air of finality, as she set the newspaper down on the bar.
‘Design and style is not one of the Japanese motor industry’s strengths,’ said Gringo, immediately aware that it came out pompously.
‘It was designed in Italy,’ she corrected him, demonstrating her knowledge of the automotive industry, ‘no doubt at astronomical cost.’
‘Well if it was, it must have been a Friday night muck-up job. The Italians must have been only too keen to throw it away.’
The woman laughed. ‘Too true.’
‘I won’t be buying one,’ said Gringo.
‘Nor me. No way.’
He swooped on his drink and was soon ready for another. He pointed to the glass and nodded to the barman who came running. Gringo turned to the woman and said: ‘Would you care to join me?’
She turned and inspected him again. There was a slight pause, as if she was considering his offer.
‘Yeah… all right. George, you can stick another one in there. Why don’t you come down here and join me?’
Gringo nodded and sauntered to the end of the bar.
‘I’m Sarah Swift,’ she said, holding out her hand.
Gringo took it and squeezed it, hard but not too hard.
‘Gringo Greene, pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise.’
She wasn’t bad looking for a woman in her mid forties, strangely better looking close up. Gringo might have been slightly unkind to her with his earlier assessment of her age, and anyway, age didn’t really matter, leastways not at that level. He’d been out with older women countless times before and had invariably enjoyed himself. What counted was style and beauty and attention to detail, so far as he was concerned, and judging by her appearance, she clearly believed the same thing.
They began talking about the stories on the front page of the newspaper and soon became relaxed in each other’s company. She bought the next round, the same drink as him, and he bought the one after that, and as is so often the case when relaxing in a bar, time raced by. She flicked her wrist and glanced at her gold watch.
‘Is that the time already? I really must dash. I haven’t eaten since breakfast,’ and she eased herself down from the stool and smoothed down her skirt.
Ever the trier, without a moment’s hesitation, Gringo said: ‘I thought we might go for something to eat.’
There always comes a moment when you must make a move. Miss the opportunity and you regret it forever, for it rarely reappears, and it never matters for one second if your suggestion is flatly dismissed. Forget about it. Seek out the next one.
‘Oh did you?’ she said. ‘But I don’t really know you.’
‘Well I don’t know you either, but I’m willing to take a chance.’
That brought a smile to her fair face. The old lines are still the best lines, for they often work. She was clearly considering his idea.
‘I like your hair,’ he said.
She smirked and let out a gentle huff.
‘Well all right, just so long as it isn�
�t foreign muck, I can’t be doing with foreign muck.’
‘I thought we’d go to the steak bar down the road, steak and chips and apple pie, that’s what I like.’
She nodded her approval.
‘Well in that case,’ she said, glancing at George, who raised and lowered his eyebrows, as if denoting his approval, ‘I accept.’
‘Great, let’s go.’
Though the steak bar was only a quarter of a mile down the road Gringo drove there, and Sarah appreciated that for she wasn’t much of a street walking woman, leastways not in the city. Weller’s Steakbar had been trendy once with each table set inside a white boulder-like cave, like something out of a prehistoric town, each pod lit with multicoloured lights as if it were Christmas, and in truth the whole place could have done with being gutted and modernised. The food though was decent and well priced, and they did boast a comprehensive wine cellar that Sarah studied thoroughly, before settling on a bottle of decent burgundy, a wine that didn’t sting the wallet too much.
‘So,’ she said, settling into their cream coloured cave. ‘What do you do?’
Gringo told her in thirty seconds flat and turned the question back on her.
‘I have my own business. Antiques.’
‘That must be interesting.’
‘It’s a bloody nightmare. You just can’t get the staff. I’m looking for a good man right now.’
Gringo couldn’t resist the thought.
‘And what do you need a good man for?’
Sarah giggled and sipped the wine.
‘What do you think?’
‘The mind boggles.’
‘If you must know, I need a foreman type guy, someone to keep the others in line. You wouldn’t happen to know of anyone suitable, would you?’
‘Can’t say as I do.’
‘That’s a pity. The problem is that half the time people come looking for work and they can’t even speak the Queen’s English, and I don’t know why men find it so hard to move furniture without bashing it. And why is it they always crack it on the front in the most conspicuous place, never round the back where no one can see? I am sick and tired of buying stock only to have it ruined by careless men.’ It was clearly a bugbear with her. Perhaps she’d had a bad day.
