by David Carter
‘Thanks,’ she said, crossing her legs and putting on her seat belt.
‘I thought we’d go to The Lions.’
‘Great,’ she said. ‘I believe it’s lovely there.’
The Lions was a pub cum restaurant, but in truth casual drinkers were never encouraged. There was no bar to speak of, and everything was geared toward mid to expensively priced meals that kept the sales figures churning and the pretty owner happy. Black olives and roasted cashews awaited them as they sat on a leather settee in the corner and scanned the menu.
‘It’s expensive,’ she said, double checking the prices.
‘Not really, my treat, don’t consider the price, choose whatever you want.’
‘Really,’ she said, displaying an infectious smile.
Gringo nodded. ‘Sure.’
‘In that case I’ll have the T-bone; I love T-bones, if that’s all right.’
A vivacious redhead came and took their order; Gringo choosing crispy chicken with lime, and a few minutes later the happy waitress led them through to their table.
‘I like it here,’ she said.
They talked and drank and ate and talked some more, all the necessary stuff that couples on first dates always cover, and then she surprised him by asking: ‘Do want to have children, Gringo.’
A dangerous question, for sure, and he knew that, and so early in the date. If he said No and she was desperate to have kids, this date might be the one and only. There was only one answer to give and it had be a Yes, even if it were a lie.
‘Of course I do. Do you?’
‘Oh yeah, I’d like four.’
Four! Bloody hell. If she were to achieve that goal she would have to get a move on. He didn’t know exactly how old she was, but guessed she must be in her thirties.
‘I could just see you with kids,’ she said, ‘four little boys, thick dark hair and moustaches, running riot around your feet.’
‘They’d be rather strange kids if they looked like that.’
‘You know what I mean,’ she said happily, reaching across the table and pushing on his forearm.
So, he wanted kids too, she mused. A big plus point in her eyes, and egged on by the alcohol, he now appeared to be much better looking than he had in the hospital. Well turned out too, and that was becoming a rarity. What’s more, he had his own home, a good car, money in the bank, so he’d intimated, and a good job. What more could any girl want? He clearly knew how to look after a woman, how to date a woman, and, she’d wager, how to please a woman too, and by the look of him, he knew how to look after himself as well, an attribute not to be sniffed at in modern day Britain, where everyone was only a mugging away from the graveyard. Yes, he fitted the bill right enough. All she had to do now was land him.
‘Is that what you want?’ he said. ‘Four boys?’
‘Oh no. Two of each. Barry, Stephen, Caroline and May.’
Gringo sniffed a smile. She had it all figured out, even down to the nondescript names. It could have been worse. It might have been Fairy, Magic, Roald and Timpani.
After the meal she went to the cloakroom and made certain her makeup was just so, paying particular attention to her dark red lipstick. Once back in the car when he came to kiss her, she would readily agree, though that was all he would get tonight. On no account did she want to appear an easy touch.
But he didn’t make any move on her at all, and that was the first thing he’d done that disappointed her. Perhaps he was one of those calculating guys who enjoyed keeping a girl waiting. She could live with that, for a short while.
‘Do you fancy coming back to mine for coffee?’ he said, confident she would agree.
‘Oh Gringo, I can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m on an early shift in the morning. I’ll have to be up before six.’
Why didn’t you change your blinking shifts or suggest an alternative night for the date, you daft bint, he wanted to blurt out.
‘Your place then?’
‘Yeah,’ she said, ‘please,’ holding his left arm.
It was just on midnight by the time they arrived back at her Bingley flat.
‘You won’t be too disappointed if I don’t invite you in,’ she said, peering across into his dark eyes, as if searching for his true feelings.
‘I’ll live with it.’
‘I’ll tell you what I’ll do; I’ll make sure I’m off on Sunday, so I can stay up late on the Saturday night. How’s that?’
Gringo bobbed his head. That sounded good to him. It seemed as if he was on a promise, so long as he didn’t make any horrendous gaffes; and that surely meant progress.
‘Great,’ he said, ‘I’ll pick you up at eight. We’ll go somewhere special, put on your best dress.’
Bit cheeky, she thought afterwards, telling her how to dress, but she would let that pass, and as for going somewhere special, she thought where they’d been tonight had been pretty special, so what could he possibly have in mind?
‘Night then,’ she said, looking at him hopefully.
‘Night Linda,’ and he leant across the car… and opened the door for her to get out.
Bugger him! She thought as she hurried back to the flats. No kiss; nothing. He was one of those calculating men who enjoyed making a woman sweat. Two could play at that game. He should be careful, this Mister Gringo Greene, or she would dangle him on a string like some lucky charm on her bracelet. She knew how to deal with clever dick men all right, men who revelled in the mind games business, she’d been sorting them out for more than fifteen years, yet when she really thought about it later as she lay alone in her bed, had she really dealt with everything in her life so brilliantly well?
What had she achieved to be so proud of? A long string of nursing qualifications after her name, true enough, but fancy certificates don’t keep you warm and happy through life.
She was living alone with little sign that that might change sometime soon. Yes, perhaps Gringo Greene was the man to alter all that, and now she was more determined than ever to achieve everything she desired. Gringo Greene could and would be the provider. She’d set her mind on it, her heart, and nothing would be allowed to interfere. Gringo Greene would be hers.
He still could have kissed her though, the cold-hearted swine, for she had so wanted him to kiss her.
Fifty
The following evening at just past nine, Gringo rang Glen. The phone was answered immediately. Many people thought the sisters sounded identical, yet Gringo could instantly tell Glen apart.
‘Fifty-two, seventy,’ cooed the girl hopefully.
He didn’t know which of the sisters it was, but he did know it wasn’t Glen.
‘Is Glen there?’
‘Sorry, she’s out on a hot date. Who’s this?’
‘Gringo Greene.’
‘Oh hello, Gringo, I haven’t heard from you for a long time. It’s Trisha, how are you doing?’
‘I’m good. You?’
‘Oh yeah, I’m cool, all the better for hearing your voice.’
‘So where is she is, Trish?’
‘Out with that Paul prick. He was moping around here everyday she was away. I don’t know what she sees in the weed. He’s got a face like a bowl of boiled shite.’
Gringo sniggered. He didn’t know Paul at all, but he did know he didn’t like him, and somehow Trisha’s description seemed to fit the bill.
‘Do you think she’ll go back to the States?’
‘Why? Are you worried?’
‘No, not really. Will she?’
‘Don’t know. She seems smitten, but then again, you fellas are always sniffing round her. I don’t know what you see in her, personally.’
‘I’m sure you have more than your fair share of admirers, Trisha.’
He could picture her smiling at his flattery.
‘A girl can never have too many admirers, Gringo. Which reminds me…’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘If you were to take me out on
a date this weekend, back to your place afterwards, know what I mean, I can guarantee that you’ll never think of dating Glenda ever again. Guaranteed.’
‘Really?’
It was decent offer, and one he was minded to accept.
‘Yep, and you know it too, don’t you, Gringo. So how about it? You up for it?’
For a fleeting second he thought of agreeing. True, he would have to cancel the nurse, but that could easily be rescheduled, not because he fancied Trisha per se, he didn’t really, but if he dated her, he knew it would irritate Glen hugely, and her bad tempered father too, and that was always fun, and maybe, just maybe, by making Glen a tad jealous, it just might make her value him a little more. Fact was, as things stood, when it came to Glen, he didn’t have anything better.
‘I have a date, Trish,’ he heard himself saying, and then he added, ‘Maybe another time, eh?’ ever keen not to slam the door, any door, even to her, on anything that might assist him in securing what he really wanted.
‘You know where I am, Gringo. Give me a call when you change your mind,’ and then she added an afterthought that really struck home: ‘You know you want to. You know my number.’
‘Fifty-two, seventy,’ he sang, mimicking her telephonist voice.
She giggled at his silly impression. ‘You got it, man, so don’t forget.’
On Saturday afternoon he went through the whole time consuming preening routine. Shower, bath, hair wash, facial scrub, shave, man moisturiser, aftershave, the whole shebang, before dressing in his expensive and immaculate clothes. A lot of men didn’t bother with suit, shirt and tie anymore, and strangely Gringo was happy about that because he figured he would be the best turned out guy in the place. In his opinion women still appreciated suits, shirts and ties, smartness, sophistication, and he would stick with them until someone convinced him otherwise.
One final glance in the hall mirror to reassure himself that everything was just so, one last check that he carried all the essential items a modern man needs when dating a pretty woman. Check, check, check, a final smile at his own image, and out into the cool evening air where he jumped into the newly polished car.
At Bingley he reversed into a space opposite the main door of the flats and turned off the engine. He watched the clock until he was ten minutes late, then took out his mobile and punched in her number. She answered immediately as if she’d been perched by the phone.
‘Hello,’ she said, and Gringo imagined he could detect a note of anxiousness in her voice, as if concerned he had rung to cancel. He always liked to hear that. ‘Nothing wrong is there?’ she said.
‘Not with me.’
‘So why are you ringing?’
‘To tell you I’m waiting in the car outside.’
Her voice softened a tad.
‘And you want me to come down?’
‘You’d better, if you want feeding.’
‘Cheeky thing; won’t be a tick.’
Why hadn’t he come to the door and rung the bell like any normal man? Answer: because he liked playing games. Linda could do games too, games of every kind. He’d better watch out. A moment later she appeared through the doors and Gringo instantly liked what he saw. She was wearing a long, low cut, black dress that accentuated her waist and curvy figure. He watched her smile at him and stride like a catwalk model, the twenty paces toward him. He reached over and slipped open the door and she came inside, bringing with her an invisible cloud of scent and deodorant and bath soap, and other cosmetic aromas that gentlemen, even Gringo Greene, never fully comprehend.
They sat together for a moment in silence, examining each other through widening eyes. He was as handsome as she remembered. She could lose herself in those sparkling dark eyes. Her judgement now reaffirmed he was indeed the one for her, and already she knew that tonight could be something special.
She’d spent the entire afternoon in the hairdressers, that much was obvious to him, no doubt some sophisticated place in the city, the slightest of trims, a discreet styling, a huge bill, and her tumbling auburn hair looked as good as it had ever done.
‘I like your dress.’
‘I bought it special.’
That wasn’t quite correct. She had bought it special, that much was true, but especially for the marriage of Steven’s brother, Pete. She’d splurged on the credit card on the very afternoon of the evening he had finished with her.
We are just not hitting it off, babe, in the bedroom department, if you get my drift, sorry about that. You’ll soon find someone new.
Cruel git!
He’d spoken as if it were about as important to him as changing his brand of soap powder. Men can be so rat-like. The bastard! It was only later that she discovered that he was seeking comfort with the black sister on Ward seventeen, and worse still, had been doing so all along. He had never been hers and hers alone, and it was Marie Olajampong that he eventually took to the wedding two weeks later in her place. Linda would never date a doctor again, ever. They were a bunch of shits, and every goddamn one of them thought they were God.
As for the dress, true, it did bring back dreadful memories still fresh in the mind, but it had cost a small fortune, and dresses like this one deserved to see the light of day, or night, and if the seductive combination of black material and ribbon assisted in arresting the attention of this Greene character, who so clearly adored black, then it was money well spent.
‘I thought we’d go to the Jackdaw Hotel,’ he said.
She had never been to the Jackdaw before but knew full well of its fancy reputation, and if a man was willing to take her to such a place and pick up the tab, it could only mean one thing. He was interested in her, as she’d suspected all along. The only question was, how much?
‘Lovely,’ she said, settling in and fastening her seatbelt. ‘Do they do T-bones?’ she said, grinning.
That grin teased a smirk from him. Oddly his moustache shivered; and even more oddly, she liked it, that slight quivering motion.
‘Probably,’ he said, starting the car. ‘Let’s go find out.’
The main eatery in The Jackdaw Mill Hotel and Restaurant was spread over two levels, and the happy couple were led to a table on the lower level by a slight young man whose English was in its infancy.
The guy came back with menus and they both scanned for T-bones. There they were, grinning happily back. Gringo glanced at her cute face and realised that a cut of steak had teased another smile from her. He winked across the table and for a second she seemed quite flustered. She glanced back at the price but didn’t care it was stratospheric. He could damn well pay; it was the least he could do for landing another date with her, and for not kissing her last time. She hadn’t forgotten that.
They ordered at starter, a nondescript pasta effort that came with a powerful odour. Gringo ate his, Linda left most of hers. Pasta is fattening. She was looking after her trim figure, so she said, and Gringo could believe it. She had even taken up jogging, something that amazed her family and friends. She would never have believed it, but soon discovered she hugely enjoyed it. All her worries seemed to float away as she pounded the road; but more than that, clear visions of her rosy future flooded into her head, as she tracked all the way down to Downer’s Bridge and back.
She’d hassled her mother into buying her an expensive pair of pink and white trainers for her birthday. Her mother still hadn’t recovered from the shock. £120 for a pair of pumps, you must be mad! But it was what Linda wanted, and mother duly stumped up the cash.
Linda’s daily jog had become the most important thing in her life, even more important than sex, much more important in fact, twice daily on her days off, and she wouldn’t give it up for anything.
Then an odd thought dropped into her mind. It had come from the tabloid newspaper she had been reading in Daniel Henry, Hairstylists for the Modern Woman, earlier that day. How many times a week does the average couple have sex? Two, three, four, came back the replies. About average. And how many times a week
does Linda Drayton jog down to the Bridge and back? She imagined being interviewed on some daytime TV programme by some pretty kid with an IQ of 75. Seven times a week at least, ten in a good week!
She giggled aloud.
‘What’s so funny?’ asked Gringo.
‘Oh, nothing.’
‘Come on, something made you laugh.’
‘I was just thinking about an article I read in the Daily Trash.’
‘About?’
‘Well, if you must know,’ and she leant across the table, close enough almost for a kiss, and whispered, ‘It was about how many times a week the average couple have sex.’
‘And what is it?’ grinned Gringo.
‘Three or four,’ it said, and then she asked him, bold as brass, ‘How many times a week do you have sex, Gringo?’
It didn’t phase him. He imagined it to be a serious question.
‘Three or four, about average.’
‘And if you were married?’
‘Ah, now that would be different, every day, without fail.’
She guessed most guys would say that, right off the cuff, Every day! I mean what guy is going to say: well maybe once a week, or once a month, depending on how tired I feel. Nope. None of them, Every day, a stock answer, but in his case, he just might be telling the truth, at least as he saw it, as he hoped it might be, but in the end, the woman would decide how many times a week they had sex. Leastways they would in any marriage involving Linda Drayton. It was interesting though, what he said, and she was still thinking of that when the bones arrived.
Her face lit up like a little girl on Christmas morning, but there was something bugging her, and Gringo wondered what it was.
A few minutes later and she nodded to her left and whispered something he didn’t quite catch.
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
‘Him,’ she mouthed, without making a sound.
‘The waiter?’
‘No-ooo.’
‘Who then?’
She nodded again, almost imperceptibly.
There was an older couple seated there, high up on the second level, but almost beside them. Gringo glanced at the balding guy who exaggeratedly looked away.
