by Limey Lady
No, the real-life Vic repeatedly insisted. It wasn't like that.
So you're not a bisexual whore!
NO!!
You are bisexual, though . . . when it suits you . . . and you're happy to fuck anyone to get an edge. WHORE!
No . . . I like nice people. What's wrong with that?
WHORE!!
Karen never had found out about Alan, thank the gods, and their relationship had flourished. The girly relationship, that was. All told Vic had known her neighbour three years. For the first twelve months Karen had been the sexy, happily-married girl next door and they'd hardly exchanged two words. Then came the year where Karen had been the badly-wronged ex-wife. Vic had seen the evil husband storm off on Good Friday, carrying a suitcase.
Her first visits had been completely innocent, not at all motivated by sexy good looks and potential vulnerability. It was only when the subject of bull dykes was repeatedly tossed across the kitchen table that she’d started to woo.
In Vic’s experience, badly-wronged ex-wives could take a lot of wooing. And they could also learn to appreciate a good multiple-orgasm or two, if given by somebody likely to stick around afterwards. Not that it had been easy. That third year, their spell as true lovers, had been the most testing of Vic's life . . . if not one of the strangest and most erotic. Apart from climaxing in remote and exotic places, Karen didn't really do much. She certainly didn't work and had no intention of ever working. All she wanted to do was fuck and look at properties for sale, mostly cottages with roses round the door.
Vic was okay with that, to begin with. Although the promotions had barely started she was already on big bucks. Taking Karen out and picking up the tab actually turned her on. Sometimes they had to stop for sex in the car because she simply couldn't wait until they got home.
Then Karen's money ran out and the serious whingeing began. Everything that had ever gone wrong was down to the evil husband. He should be still paying the mortgage and supporting her in a life of pure luxury. Sod him, though, she was going to sell up and go back to Southampton. In fact why didn't Vic sell up and come with her?
Twelve months as lovers, six enjoyable, six not-so-enjoyable as the whingeing gradually changed to nagging. Vic, half-believing she was in love, had been torn.
*****
Ironically, Alan Carmichael helped Vic make the break, asking out of simply nowhere what was troubling her. Surprising herself, she told him, finding a quiet corner of Wetherspoons (where else?) and suddenly pouring out her heart.
‘Southampton?' he said dubiously. 'I was thinking about closing one of our branches there.'
‘It's as good as that, is it?' she said, smiling weakly.
‘It's not so bad. We're just over-represented in those parts.'
‘What do you think I should do?'
‘Me?' he laughed, 'with my track record?'
‘Please, Alan, I'd value your advice.'
‘There used to be a glass ceiling,' he said after a pause, 'but not anymore. Do you understand what I'm saying?'
‘The sky's the limit? Even for a girl?'
‘Yes, it’s precisely that.'
‘So what's your advice?'
He studied her face, making her remember their eyeball to eyeball moments in bed. For a few crazy seconds she thought he was going to grab her tits.
‘Coming from a man who worked his marriage into the dust?' he said softly.
‘Yes, but also coming from a man I trust and respect absolutely.'
Alan paused again. His Adam's apple went up and down.
‘I'll be CEO next year,' he said finally. 'Assuming I last as long as the last one, I'll be amazed if you're not on the Board when I leave.'
‘So you think I should stay,' she said, glowing inwardly. 'Devote my life to WYB?'
‘Perhaps not your whole life, he replied. ‘You could retire early. It's possible to have a family into your forties nowadays; if that's your thing, of course.'
Vic smiled more warmly. Mamma wanted her to have dozens of bambinos, saying it was a woman's duty, conveniently forgetting she'd limited herself to just one of her own.
‘It's probably not my thing,' she said. 'Karen's the childbearing one. I'm just the breadwinner.'
‘But is she worthy of you? Making unconditional demands, regardless of what you want or what's best for you. And that’s with her living off the sweat of your brow, to boot.'
‘Karen's not like that. She's just been through a hard time.'
Alan looked more serious than ever before. 'If she's worthy, she'll stay on your terms.'
‘She's got financial problems. She has to sell.'
‘She could sell and move in with you. Or you could both sell and buy somewhere else. Maybe you can get somewhere in the Dales . . . Somewhere within easy commuting distance of the Bank, of course.'
The glow transformed into a pulsating fireball. 'You want me to stay, don't you?' she murmured.
Alan eyed her again. In spite of her sadness over the Karen situation, she shivered almost sexually.
No, she shivered very sexually.
‘Of course I do,’ he said. ‘It's in everybody's best interests.'
‘Never mind everybody, Alan, what about you?'
‘You’re really going to make me say it, aren’t you?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ she replied, batting her lashes.
‘Never mind the butter-wouldn’t-melt impressions, you won't tell my new lady friend?'
’Me sneak on you?' Vic chuckled at the reference. It was Alan's way of redrawing lines. He wasn’t to know she'd just completed another man-less year (that took her well over two years in the official annals, because she couldn’t confess him in any way whatsoever). Or maybe he knew her better than she knew herself. 'I'm good at secrets,' she added, 'as you are well aware.'
‘All right then.' He raised his hand so his index finger almost touched her nose. 'You,' he said in a loud whisper, 'Stay . . .' then, suddenly pointing down at their feet, 'Here.'
‘Is that an order?'
‘Will you obey me if it is?'
‘I will if you get me another drink. I'll need it before I face the music.'
*****
Vic had checked her phone while Alan was at the bar. She'd banned Karen from calling her at work but couldn't seem to stop her from texting. Another dozen or so had arrived since lunchtime. She scanned through them, increasingly bugged by the degree of nagging, not least by all the reminders to be home early. The final message got to her most, even though it was supposed to be upbeat.
I JUST SOLD MY HOUSE!
FOUND SOMEWHERE NICE
IN LYMINGTON 2. U HAVE 2
GET YRS ON THEMARKET
2MORROW. DO IT 1ST THING!
AND DON’T BE LATE!
Before she could stop herself Vic entered FUCK OFF and replied to sender.
‘Please tell me you haven't sacked her by mobile,' said Alan.
‘Not exactly,' Vic switched off her phone and put it away, determined not to look again anytime soon. 'I'll do that tomorrow, face to face.'
Alan passed her a fresh pint of Saltaire Blonde. 'I thought you were facing the music tonight.'
‘I don't want to go within ten miles of her tonight. I'll probably spend the night in the office.’ She smiled sweetly: ‘Unless you’ll let me sleep on your couch. That’s probably more elf and safety, isn’t it?'
‘Not such a brilliant idea,' he said after swigging down some beer.
‘I promise I won't get drunk, even though it is my turn.' Ignoring the tiny voice's renewed cries of YOU WHORE!! Vic pressed on. 'You won't even have to undress me. Not unless you really want to.'
Alan's Adam's apple was going up and down like a monkey on a stick now. He glanced around the bar room, making sure none of those typical WYB customers were listening in.
‘My lady friend wouldn't be happy if I did that.'
‘Will she be there, waiting for you?'
‘Good God no, we only see each other a
couple of times a week.'
‘Then she isn't to know, is she?'
‘It really is a bad idea, Victoria. Not to mention unprofessional.'
Vic didn’t necessarily agree. Not standing there in damp knickers, suddenly wanting to have this man more than she’d wanted anyone ever before.
‘I thought you preferred me to stay up north?'
The tiny voice was incensed: You shameless, brazen WHORE!!!
Alan looked and sounded more intrigued than incensed. 'Is that your price for staying . . . a night on my couch?'
‘Confessing to that would be like admitting bribery and corruption. Besides, I haven't even seen your couch yet. It might be uncomfortable. I might need to sleep somewhere else.'
He stared at her and she knew there and then that she would share his bed that night.
So did he; it was unmistakably there in his eyes.
She wondered if he was as excited as she was . . . like sodden.
‘I'm old enough to be your father,' he protested mildly.
‘You aren't though, are you?'
‘I'm in a relationship. Early stages, admittedly . . .'
‘It was early stages for me last time. I still comforted you.'
‘So it's quid per quo, is it?'
‘Nothing so calculated. I just want you to wiggle on me again.'
‘You want me to wiggle?'
‘Don't worry. You probably don't even know you're doing it.'
‘Okay, I won’t worry, but what about . . . out working relationship?'
‘I think it survived very well last time. A little more of the same can’t possibly hurt.'
Chapter Twenty
(Thursday 21st August 2008)
By first light the remnants of the Republican Guard had been eliminated. White faces were glaringly conspicuous as celebrating civilians filled the streets. Leaving the African soldiers to bask in the glory, Rick's team set up camp in the grounds behind the palace. They would have preferred to have gotten straight out of there but had strict instructions to stay until Colonel K had addressed his people. That was due to happen at sixteen hundred local, via the one national radio station. Until he’d said his bit they had to keep their heads down and stay out of trouble.
Pretend they’d never been there.
Letting the rest of the guys sleep, Rick sat in the shade and thought. He knew he was wasting energy but couldn't stop wondering what the big attraction was. When he'd made his report the Ruperts had been beside themselves. Their excitement had been only too obvious. Even Scouse hadn’t been as delighted that time he’d fluked six grand on an accumulator.
Rick looked at a map and was no wiser. The so-called republic was typically African: extra-large sized with ruler-straight lines for borders, full of nothing but rainforest and mountains. And none of the bordering countries had any significant natural resources. He couldn't see any reason why this place should be any different.
‘Don't worry about it, lad,’ Phil said, joining him.
Rick smiled. This was Phil's last mission; he was coming up forty and ready to leave. He'd called Rick “lad” right from the start, even though he wasn't so much older. It was a status sort of thing. Rick did it to the younger guys himself.
‘I'm not worrying,’ he said, ‘just thinking.’
‘I know that. I can hear the rusty cogs.’
Phil was carrying water. He handed Rick a bottle then sat next to him. The water was warm but pure. They swigged it thirstily.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Phil. ‘I won’t miss all this.’
‘What, the action and adventure?’
‘No lad. I’ll miss that all right. It’s the pissing about afterwards that gets to me.’
Rick glanced around the parched palace grounds. It was safe to say Buck House wasn’t losing out to the competition. In fact the shittiest inner city London patch of scrub looked better than this eyesore.
‘Pissing about comes with the territory,’ he said. ‘You ought to be used to it.’
‘I know. And I am. I still don’t like it though. And it’s ten times worse in the regular army. I’m never going to let Marlon join up.’
‘No?’ Rick wasn’t surprised. Phil had long since gone from being the world’s hottest Casanova to the world’s most devoted husband. Then Marlon had come along and Phil had become the world’s proudest dad. The kid wasn’t ten yet but Phil had already lined him up for a dozen fanciful futures. Up until just the other month he was going to be England’s next Jonny Wilkinson. Then a scout from West Bromwich had shown passing interest and he’d become the new Wayne Rooney.
‘I’m not letting him waste his life in a uniform, like I have,’ Phil said. ‘He’s destined for better things.’
‘You haven’t done so badly.’
‘I’ve done nothing but kill people. Not that I’m ashamed. I just want more for my son. You will too, if you ever have kids.’
‘I can’t see it happening myself.’
‘Not even with Dot?’
‘Dot’s married now, like most of the others. I haven’t been seeing her for years.’
‘Find someone else then.’
‘What, at my age?’
‘Why shouldn’t you? You’re not going straight into a wooden box. There’s plenty of time yet.’
‘Maybe,’ Rick shrugged. ‘It’ll have to be quick though. I couldn’t be coping with lippy teenagers when I’m pushing sixty.’
‘Course you could. You’d keep discipline. Inspire respect.’
‘I’d have ‘em enlisted as soon as. Whatever you might say, I think the Army’s a fantastic life. I’ve got a nephew desperate to get in. He’s never heard a negative word from me and he never will.’
‘Fuck me. You’re a walking recruitment ad.’
A burst of gunfire gate-crashed the conversation. There had been odd bursts all morning, but this was a lot closer; it was coming from the courtyard.
‘Must have started on the dungeons,’ said Phil.
Mbobo's dungeons symbolized everything that was negative about the deposed dictator. According to Didier, Colonel K's men had regarded them as second only to the Bastille. Hundreds if not thousands of the colonel's supporters were supposed to have been banged up inside those walls. Yet, like the Bastille, its reputation had proved to be larger than life. They'd got there to find just eleven prisoners, not one of them any particular fan of the reinstated regime.
‘I've got my doubts about the colonel,’ Rick said quietly. ‘Last night, when he knew we'd won, he got hold a megaphone and started gobbing off until a load of locals gathered round. He had them all kowtow to him. Properly, I mean, heads to the dirt, men, women and children. Even Tony Blair wasn't that much up himself.’
‘He's a dictator,’ Phil said. ‘That's what they do.’
‘Who’d you mean, Blair or Colonel K?’
‘I meant both of ‘em. Just watch what happens when Blair makes his big comeback next year. Folk will be kowtowing to him all along Westminster Bridge.’
‘When Blair makes his comeback,’ said Rick, alarmed. ‘Is that a joke?’
‘Like fuck it is. I read it in the Star, so it has to be true.’
*****
Dr Strohl tried to smile at Penny but it was a poor attempt. The once supremely confident neurologist had taken yet another knock.
‘Your husband had a close call,’ he said, ‘a very close call. His lungs are not strong enough to cough out the phlegm from his infection. The weakness also badly affects his ability to breathe. Together, as his lungs fill with more and more phlegm . . .’
‘He drowns himself,’ Penny concluded, looking at the subject of their conversation, lying motionless on the bed. Geoff was back in his usual place on Ward 5. As well as the oxygen mask and his NG tube, he now had a cannula in the back of his right hand, feeding antibiotics into him. The top half of his bed had been elevated close to ninety degrees to help his breathing which, thank Goodness, didn't seem to be a problem at the moment. He was awake and
probably listening to them, but not even trying to join in.
