Best Served Cold

by Limey Lady

  ‘Rick? It’s Phil here. Barracks secured.’

  Rick listened. The firing had virtually stopped. Designated men with loudhailers were running through the streets, advising civilians to stay indoors while the last of “Mbobo’s imposters” were mopped up.

  ‘Tell him it's done,’ he said. ‘Mission completed.’

  *****

  Despite being re-attracted to Sean . . . and no doubt about it, she definitely was re-attracted . . . Heather owed a debt to Joanna; quite a big debt. It was a historical sort of thing but it was still undoubtedly there. And she always honoured her debts. Now, sitting in The Kings Table with her colleagues, she stealthily remembered the details.

  When she first started at WYB she’d been surprised to learn the older woman was unattached and not playing the field. Indeed she had found it almost impossible to believe. Never mind all the obviously available, ready-to-be-rampant willies at the Bank, she had immediately fancied the pants off "Ms Jones", regardless of the fact she was her line-manager and mentor.

  How could nobody be shagging her? Fit or what!

  Okay, so Joanna was old enough to be her mother, but she certainly kept herself in shape, and a fine, slinky shape at that. She was also warm and witty, always ready with advice or a kind word. And added to that, her smile would have seduced the coldest, most calculating bloke.

  Not to mention the hottest, most eager young woman.

  Come to that, it would have seduced an ancient, solid stone statue.

  Allured by what she saw, Heather had sent out signals. They were totally ignored so she fell back on research, not that she got much help there. Apparently Joanna had a past but the specifics were obscure. Everyone at WYB had a nickname. Joanna's was "Hot Lips" but nobody was saying why. It seemed that none of the youngsters knew while the older hands had a code of omerta that Don Corleone would have been proud of.

  Heather (who was swiftly and almost incredibly known as Snow White!) hadn't really bothered too much about the past anyway. She'd been more interested in the present. Not that her colleagues were much more help in that direction. All she got from them was the impression that Joanna was completely straight and still waiting for the mythical "Mr Right".

  At the time, still having nightmares about a supposed boyfriend back in Sydney, Heather had believed she was “off” men. Girls were still very much on though, and she didn't do waiting. For her it was always now or never . . . and preferably now. And, whether Joanna was straight or even slightly pliable, she was lonely as heck, and that couldn't be allowed to continue.

  Cue some more intimately-targeted research.

  One-to-one, Joanna was as reticent about her past as everyone else had been. Getting info from her was painfully slow. As Heather inched ever closer she decided the older woman had been badly let down by some rat or other, leaving her with no faith in anyone better ever happening along. In fact she had as good as given in. Heather soon came to believe Ms Jones was in danger of withering on the vine.

  Although not if she had anything to do with it.

  And who really needed Mr Right anyway? Joanna's was a confidence situation, and you didn't need one specific guy to cure that.

  Within weeks mentor and mentored were firm friends and Joanna's orientation had been as good as confirmed . . . or, rather, discussed and not avoided. She claimed she had never so much as kissed a girl but, like so many others, she was at least mildly bi-curious. And she always had been. She admitted this coquettishly, following up by vigorously declaring an undying appetite for men.

  Not that Heather had bought that; not with all the evidence pointing the other way.

  Temporarily putting curiosity on the back-burner, she had become almost a pimp, pushing Ms Jones at every hard willy that crossed her path, very nearly getting her a night of sated lust with Patrick bloody McGuire . . .

  Scaredy-cat bastard that he was!

  Heather had been annoyed and dismayed when McGuire, virtually presented with Joanna's trembling, parted legs, cravenly chickened. Seriously annoyed, she had accelerated her pimping and simultaneously shifted focus back onto Joanna’s curiosity, with mixed success, relatively quickly establishing a form of phone sex but taking forever to progress it.

  Well, maybe not forever; maybe three or four months, hitting the jackpot not so very long after she’d reached equality in grades . . .

  *****

  ‘That,’ said Andy Sullivan, ‘has to be the most expensive tenner you’ve ever lost.’

  ‘I haven’t lost.’

  ‘When’s the date, then?’

  ‘We haven’t fixed a date. But she’ll be back.’

  ‘Dearie me, Sean, how many years have I known you; is it thirty-five? I never thought I’d see the day when you welched on a bet.’

  ‘I’m not welching.’ Sean handed over a bank note. ‘I just didn’t realize you wanted me to get written confirmation.’

  ‘Cheers,’ the landlord said, accepting the money, giving a slip of till roll in exchange. ‘Now for the bad news: there’s another forty-one twenty-five to pay. Not counting the Moet; that was yours anyway. I hope she does come back.’

  ‘She will. Make sure you let me know the second she does. And don't let anyone touch those two bottles of Shiraz. They stay exactly as they are.’

  ‘Sieg Heil,’ Andy said as Swanny limped up to the bar.

  Sean let Swanny get a beer before leading him into The Meeting Room for a word.

  ‘This Trevor Lockwood,’ he began. ‘It looks like he's taking us for mugs. We're going to have to find out how much equity he's really got in these buy-to-lets.’

  ‘I thought we knew that.’

  ‘Yeah, but after the conversation I've just had, I'm not sure anymore.’

  ‘Go on; spell out where I went wrong.’

  ‘I'm not blaming you, Swanny. It might be my advice that’s wrong. But I don't think it is.’ Sean smiled at his own smoothness. God but he was good at this. Never mind one day becoming a politician, he ought to be sorting out wars and things. ‘Here goes. I believe Lockwood paid two-forty for the pair two years ago, because that's what they were back then. I also believe he now has them on the market for two-seventy, because I've seen the bumf from the estate agents.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘But there are lots of apartments for sale, all exactly the same spec, and none of them are shifting. The only one that's sold in the last six months went a few weeks ago, for a hundred and ten grand. Which suggests Lockwood's pair is worth two-twenty.’

  ‘Okay, but in a year they'll be worth two-seventy again. Five years after that, they'll be worth half a million.’

  ‘You're right in the long term, but short term? I've been convinced we're in for a bumpy ride. This time next year they might be worth less than one-eighty together.’

  ‘So that makes his equity of a hundred thousand look a bit dodgy,’ Swanny anticipated. ‘In fact it just about makes it look like no equity at all.’

  ‘You’ve got it in one. And what if by then he owes us twenty-five, maybe thirty grand on top of his own unpaid mortgage?’

  ‘It doesn’t look good, does it?’

  ‘No. And it also makes his offer to sell at two-fifty look like shit. Why pay that much when I might save seventy thousand by waiting a year?’

  ‘Shall I tell him to eff off then?’

  ‘No,’ said Sean, ‘not yet. There are things to be done.’

  ‘Do you mean a punishment?’

  ‘Maybe I do, maybe I don’t.’ Sean tipped his hand like the scales of justice. ‘I can forgive him for asking top whack for a sale. Who doesn't? But I can't stand by if he's trying to rip us off by borrowing more before doing a runner.’

  ‘He can’t be trying that. He’s married and everything. He’s not the sort who can just up and away.’

  ‘I know that. But he seems desperate to me. I don’t think he’s looking as far ahead as next year or even next month, which is scary. And that makes me wonder if we're ever going to see
the wedge we’re already in for.’

  ‘The guy's on a fifty grand salary. I saw his wage slip. He's got to be good for ten grand.’

  ‘I’m not convinced. He’s certainly acting like he’s struggling. Or if he's just dicking around with what he owes us, I reckon he soon won't be acting.’ Sean warmed to his argument.

  Well, to Heather’s argument.

  ‘You know what he's done, don't you? You or me go for a mortgage with our fifty grand wage slip, we get told we can borrow up to four times . . . two hundred thousand altogether . . . so we go away happy. This cunt tells them on top of his fifty grand he’s going to get another twenty-five a year in rent for each apartment. They don't check this. Everyone's telling them that that's the rate they'll get; they desperately want to believe it. So they add it on, times it by four, and then beg him to borrow four hundred thousand. And that’s if his bank is responsible. Some of those clowns have been multiplying by fives and sixes.’

  Swanny shook his head. ‘That can't be right.’

  ‘It's what's been happening. Apparently it started with people looking for nest eggs after that bastard Brown robbed their pension funds. All the lenders decided it was a good do, so fuck the deposit, give ‘em a hundred and ten per cent and lend, lend, lend.’

  ‘Are you saying Lockwood might not have any equity already?’

  ‘I’m saying worse. If he owes anything like four hundred thousand, he's going to be repaying up to six grand a month. More, if the mortgages are for short term. Fifty grand a year isn't going to come anywhere near that. And he's not really going to be getting another fifty in rent. It’ll be more like fifteen, if he's lucky. If he can't sell because he's in negative equity, he's going to fall further and further behind. Then he's not going to have anything, is he?’

  ‘Sean, I'm sorry. I've screwed up.’

  Sean smiled reassuringly. ‘Don't worry about it just yet. Let's see how bad a hole he's dug himself, then get back what we can. What I want is for you to pay him a visit at that nice house of his in Eldwick. Take Tinner and Moggs with you. Don't let them particularly hurt him, but make sure you get a look at all his mortgage statements. And I mean all of them. We can work it out from there.’

  ‘If we lose out on this, I'll pay you back out of my own savings.’

  Sean suspected Swanny didn’t have any savings to brag about but let it slip by. ‘I don't intend to lose out,’ he said. ‘We'll make him pay us before everyone else. Now, have you any other bad ones?’

  ‘No,’ Swanny said confidently.

  ‘None you're losing sleep over?’

  ‘There's a few whinging about being hard up, but nobody missing payments.’

  ‘Good. Keep your eyes open and shout if anyone starts playing the twat. In the meantime, I want to tighten up on what we’re lending out. Is that all right with you?’

  Swanny agreed quite eagerly and, for the next hour or so, they planned new tactics. They had just about done when Sean's mobile rang. It was Andy on the landline from behind the bar. From his hushed tone, Sean could tell the landlord was cradling the receiver with his back to the customers.

  ‘It's me,’ he whispered, as if it really could have been anyone else. ‘There's a woman here in a red dress. I think she’s come for a good shagging.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  (Wednesday 20th August 2008)

  To Geoff’s troubled mind the strange thing about CIDP was that he hadn't previously felt ill. For him it had all been about a lack of feeling. Apart from a short-lasting ache in his shinbones, the only feeling he’d had was that unusual tingling sensation in his feet and hands. And that had stopped weeks and weeks ago.

  Since then he’d felt nothing at all.

  The chest infection had been something else, though. From sniffling and coughing but otherwise his normal, paralyzed self he’d began to feel as if he was coming down with flu. He was hot and cold at the same time; there was a weird lightness in his head; piercing, incessant noises were drilling into him; he was having horribly repetitive dreams . . .

  Doctor Strohl had started him on oxygen perhaps three days ago, steadily increasing the proportion of O2. He could vaguely remember Penny visiting but had no idea what she had said or when he'd last had a rational conversation with anyone. All he was really aware of was the pain in his ears from that flipping awful strap on his oxygen mask, and the even more awful discomfort from the NG tube in his parched and swollen throat.

  All told, he was starting to wish he was dead.

  Indeed the one thing keeping him going was the belief this infection wasn’t as bad as full blown flu. Oh it was bad . . . but not that bad. He could still pass the twenty pound note test.

  Leastways he could have done, if he wasn’t paralyzed and bed-ridden.

  Sleeping was best. Sleeping got him away from his worst worries. Sleep had to be similar to death. If it hadn't been for the dreams he could have slept happily ever after.

  This latest dream was the most peculiar he’d had, maybe because it hadn't got repetitive yet. There was a terrible, shrill ringing in his head and a circle of people over him. They were mainly nurses but none he recognized from Ward 5. Acute Care nurses, he supposed vaguely. He did hear the word “pneumonia” more than once but couldn't be assed to ask if they were talking about him. State he was in, he probably couldn’t have got any words out anyway.

  Suddenly the bed was moving; sharply and erratically. Geoff thought that this must be what it was like to be a disposable extra in an episode of Casualty. The bed jerked hard right then left and then careered in a more or less straight line for a while before jerking sharply left again. He clenched his eyes tight shut, praying for sleep to rescue him. But the shrill ringing made sleep impossible.

  Leave me alone, he wanted to scream.

  Then, abruptly, silence . . . silence and total stillness.

  *****

  Joanna had slept in Heather's bed three times. Not that sleep had ever been on the agenda. On the first occasion Heather had been completely masculine, coming across all burning passion and bristling strap-on. Ms Jones had had definitely had an appetite for that. She'd done Saturday night, Sunday morning and gladly went back for desserts after they'd taken an early lunch.

  Yes, she’d had an appetite all right. Her dreamy expression when she finally went home looked more like that of a teenager than a late forty-something. She'd even simpered and said Thank you for having me before kissing Heather goodbye.

  The second occasion had been quite different. At Joanna's request Heather had made love to her like a woman, without any tricks or toys, pampering and possessing her all night long. She'd had an appetite for desserts after that, too. So had Heather; in her humble opinion, the excitement and satisfaction level that second time was significantly higher . . . which was really saying something.

  Their third night had been much more of a mishmash, with Joanna playing a bigger part in the doing and doing very so well. Heather had been thoroughly enjoying herself and was startled when her lover suddenly burst into tears.

  Turned out Joanna was consumed with guilt about simply everything: for having "unnatural sex" and finding it so good; for losing control of her emotions; helping Heather to two-time . . .

  Back then the romance between Snow White and the Ice Queen was very much covert (even now it remained on the lower rungs of the WYB rumour mill). Without admitting much, Heather had stressed she was free to do whatever she wanted . . . sexy blonde cougars definitely included. She also came up with a few stern words about "unnatural sex", expounding one or two of her long-held theories about the strict, political correctness of bisexuality. There were other items on Joanna's list and she dealt with them too.

  Well . . . all apart from emotion.

  Blast bloody emotion!

  Joanna said she was stepping on toes and afraid she might fall in love. And Ice Queens aside, the age difference was insurmountable. Not to mention the mess she would make of Heather's career.

  ‘It's to
o good to be true,' she’d wept, 'it can only end in disaster.'

  Arguing had got Heather nowhere. When Joanna's mind was made up it wasn't for changing. And she did, of course, have a bit of a point, especially when she said she'd undoubtedly get clingy and jealous.

  Heather did clingy even less than she did waiting. And she hated being forced into choices. Choosing between Vic and Joanna could only end in bad news, especially when her next snap decision might easily be Mary Rose or Claire . . . or that svelte brunette who'd just moved in on the floor below her penthouse.

  No, Heather never had been into fidelity. Even though she liked Joanna enormously, she had to agree it couldn't work out if clinginess and jealousy were involved. Therefore choices had to be made. So she’d dug in and bargained but allowed herself to be swayed . . . a bit.