by Sharn Hutton
“Stop that! I’m flying out with Spink. I can’t piss about.”
“Oh come ON. Vegas, baby! I’ll take a different flight. We could have a great time…”
“I dunno. This is important, Adam. I can’t cock it up.”
“Come on. What would Remi do? Huh?” Adam flashed him his winning smile.
Jerry bit at his lip. Las Vegas was Remi’s home turf after all and he didn’t know if he’d ever get the chance again. “I suppose it would be a shame not to explore the local culture…”
Adam whacked him on the back. “Atta boy!”
“Well OK, but don’t tell Rach: she already thinks I’m going on a jolly.”
“Imagine that. Mum’s the word.” Adam ‘zipped’ his mouth. “Absolutely no fun to be had in Vegas.”
“None at all.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
MAMA TWISTED THE TISSUE IN HER HANDS. “Poor Maria! Her husband cut down in the prime of life. Poof! One minute he was painting the house then, wham! Broken back, fracture skull.” She dabbed at her eyes.
Sitting in the corner of the Cavalli sofa that Isabell liked for herself, Mama had been recounting family stories since mid-afternoon. Papa, who’d heard it all before, had escaped for an evening walk, but Isabell was trapped. She prowled back and forth in front of the empty open fireplace, gripping at her upper arms.
“All the family come to the hospital, but they could no save him. Poor Sal. So sad.” She made a hearty blow into the tissue. “Now she has to look after those children all alone.” She peered at Isabell over her glasses. “At least she has the children.”
Isabell turned her back and stooped to plump a cushion. Not this again. “Mama.”
“Hmm. Well, the family have pick her up and taken her to the heart. Sancho has finish the paint. It never look so good! And Alba picks the children up from school while Maria is at work.” She paused to peer at Isabell again. “Ibbie, why you no have a job? If you help to make the good home maybe Papa and I can have our grandchildren. Hmm?”
For once, Isabell was thankful to hear the backfiring Fiat bucking up the drive and stalked over to the window. It gave her an excuse to change the topic. “Jerry’s home at last.” Isabell scowled at her watch: 9:30. It was about time.
Jerry bounded into the house, scraping his gym bag along the two-hundred-pound-a-roll wallpaper before tossing it to the floor at the foot of the stairs. Isabell bit her tongue and scampered over to peck him on the cheek: the dutiful wife.
Jerry slapped her on the arse. “Evening, darling! Had a good day?” Isabell wobbled backward. What the hell did he think he was doing? He pushed past her toward the kitchen. “Chuck that in the wash, would you? Any dinner? I’m starving.”
Isabell stood, jaw flapping, for a moment before catching her mother’s eye, who was shooing her after her husband. Isabell hoiked up a smile and scuttled into the kitchen.
“What the fuck are you doing?” she hissed.
“Back from a hard day at the office,” Jerry bellowed as Mama appeared in the doorway. Isabell felt her presence and switched on the goddess.
“Chicken salad OK?” she simpered. Jerry flopped into a seat at the table and shoved Isabell’s flower arrangement backward, away from the middle. He knew it would annoy her.
“Again? Oh all right, if that’s all you’ve got.”
He’d pay for that later. The Domestic Goddess routine was all very well, but Isabell only had a few dishes that she could make. With Mama peering over her shoulder all the time it was difficult to pass ready-made stuff off as her own. Jerry was going to ruin things if he carried on like this. She rummaged around in the fridge, cursing under her breath.
“I say to Ibbie, why she no get a job.” Mama sat down opposite Jerry at the polished oak table. Isabell seethed behind the fridge door. She couldn’t bring herself to look at Jerry’s undoubtedly smug expression.
“A job? Yes, that’s a marvellous idea, darling.”
“Great. I look tomorrow.” Isabell cut the comment dead and tossed a selection of salad and a half-eaten chicken carcass onto the pale stone counter. She snatched a knife from the block and hacked at its flesh.
“I’ve got a business trip coming up, darling, so you can lay off the gourmet menus for a few days.” Jerry snorted a laugh at Mama then went on to examine his fingernails. A business trip? A likely story. It was just another excuse not to play ball.
“Really? Oh?” She scowled at Jerry just long enough for him to see, but not Mama. “Where are you going?” Let’s see what he can come up with.
“Las Vegas Convention Centre. TEKCOM. It’s a huge event. Locksley’s trusting me to represent the firm.” Jerry buffed his nails on his trousers and gave her a grin.
“Is that right? Well that is news. How long will you be away?” Little shit. He wasn’t keeping to his side of the bargain here at all. How could he pretend to be her doting husband if he was out of the country? She spun the knife’s point on the work surface, drawing a thin squeal from the stone.
“Oh well, the exhibition is on for five days and I’ll need a couple of days either end for travel and recovery.”
“Travel and recovery,” she echoed through gritted teeth.
“Yeah, so about ten days.”
Isabell annihilated the salad and threw a heap onto his plate followed by the hacked chicken. She clonked the plate down onto the table in front of him. Jerry wolfed it down, made a big show of stretching and yawning and after saying how terribly tired he was from all his hard work, sauntered off ‘to bed’.
Isabell heard the Fiat backfire on the corner, but Mama didn’t seem to notice.
“No worry about it,” Mama said at last, “Is just a business trip. He works to make the good home.”
“Yes, yes.” Isabell wasn’t sure how to play it. Was she pleased that her husband worked so hard, or upset that he was going abroad while her parents were visiting? Jerry was irritating her so much it was clouding her judgement.
“You are lucky. He’ll be back. Think of your cousin Maria. Her husband will never come home again.”
That might not be so bad. Distinctly appealing, in fact.
“You know, Ibbie, life can take you on many different paths. A good choice here…” Mama waved her hand, “A bad choice there… Fate will have its way. Think of Cousin Angelina.” Isabell winced, God forbid she got her fate.
“She thought she was the modern woman asking for divorce. A bad choice. Where did it get her? Ostracise from family that’s where. No-one want to know her. Flouting God’s law! Selfish whore!” Mama crossed herself, got up from the table, ambled to the kettle and switched it on, calm again. “Is strange. You think of Maria and Angelina. Both single women now and how different their lives have turn out. The family can no do enough for Maria. Fate. I’m telling you.”
Isabell wiped the knife clean and slid it back into the block. Didn’t you make your own fate?
THIRTY-EIGHT
A SHOWER OF FINE PLASTER DUST RAINED DOWN INTO JERRY’S EYES. He squeezed them closed and shook his head to dislodge the grit.
“Puh! Is this really necessary, Isabell?” he complained, looking down at her petulant pout from the top of the step ladder. She had that look in her eye.
“Is important to change. Old electrics have a lot of danger.”
“I really don’t think it was that old, Isabell. This place was only built in the eighties.”
“Do you want for me to die in a fire?”
Jerry squeezed his lips together.
“Do you want for me to choke on the fumes when the old electric explode?” Isabell spat, swinging her arms in a two-handed demonstration. The step ladder wobbled and Jerry grabbed at the curved bar that ran around the top platform.
“Isabell! The ladder!” She laid an ineffective hand on a waist-height step.
“Pfff.”
“Hold it steady, can’t you?”
“Such a baby.”
“It’s the carpet making it unstable. It’s too lux
urious. Like everything else,” he mumbled and turned his head back to the pendant light fitting, taking care not to move any other part of his body for fear of setting off another wobble. He could really do without this. Spending time at Isabell’s when her parents weren’t even there was well beyond the call of duty.
He looked back to the exposed electrical connections and bit at his lip. “You have turned off the electricity, haven’t you?”
“Of course.” Isabell waved her hand in encouragement. “Carry on.”
Jerry looked back to the wires. Where to start? “Isabell, are you sure you don’t want to get an electrician to do this?”
“Jerry, we can no afford tradesman. You know how they are. All suck of the teeth and lies and big bills. Especially for me. They will take advantage of a woman on her own.” Isabell flipped her hair and looked up at him with a bat of her eyelashes.
Jerry rolled his eyes. “All alone, yes, let’s not forget that.” He looked back dubiously to the wires. “Now you’re sure that the electricity is off?”
“Si.”
“Could you just try the switch to make sure?”
Isabell tutted and flounced over to swipe at it. The bulbs sprang to life with a shocking fierceness centimetres from Jerry’s face and he turned a stony wide-eyed look on her, freezing her in his glare.
“I’ll do it, shall I?” he squeaked and Isabell shrugged and looked away, suddenly terribly interested in her hair clip.
Ducking his head down into the cupboard under the stairs, Jerry surveyed the fuse box with its convenient labels. “You’ve turned off upstairs, dimwit,” he called out, carefully changing the switches and reversing out. He didn’t hear her reply, but Isabell sneered and backed away from the living room light switch as he approached. Jerry flipped it on and off, on and off. Firmly on and off.
Back on the step ladder, he steeled himself for the poking-in-the-metal-screwdriver part. Isabell was right, a professional electrician was likely to charge a small fortune for what was, in appearance, a simple job and, as it would be him footing the bill, it made sense to at least give it a go. Didn’t it?
The driver made contact with the screw without major incident and the removal of wires from their locations was equally drama free. Jerry gave himself a mental pat on the back and even the final cloud of dust that fell into his face when the backing plate came down could not quell the smug feeling of confidence that swelled in his chest. “That’s that bit done,” he said, laying the old light fitting on the sofa and picking up the new. “This’ll be done in no time.”
He even managed to summon up a cheery little tuneless whistle, perched up on top of the ladder. Getting the wires back into the fitting took a bit more concentration and he didn’t notice that Isabell wasn’t holding the ladder anymore, until he heard her banging around in the cupboard. He tried shifting his weight to test the safety of his position, but the ladder’s feet seemed to have sunk into the deep pile of the carpet and gained some stability. This job was a doddle. Now just to ease the final wire in with the screwdriver.
In a flash, Jerry’s hand was white hot with pain, the muscles in his arm spasming into a rigid rod that pushed his hand into the ceiling and his body off balance. He toppled backwards, stiff as a board, and landed with a muted clap on the lounge floor. His body fizzed with pain.
When Isabell’s face came into focus, peering down into his own, his arm was still outstretched and his eyes wide. She looked him over and returned to his immobile face, finally poking his cheek with a sharp fingernail. “Jerry?”
His jaw flapped and she visibly deflated, rolling her eyes to the ceiling and sitting back on her haunches.
“It… you… hurts.” Jerry’s arm felt cramped and his ribs bruised. He lowered his hand and dropped the screwdriver, revealing an angry red welt on his palm.
“Electrocuted,” he managed, “I’ve been electrocuted!” Jerry’s voice squeaked out in a rasp. “But… I…” Isabell twiddled hair around her finger and looked at the carpet.
“Is good is luxurious carpet, hmm? No hurt to land.”
“Isabell.”
“Is good choice now, hmm?” She rubbed an appreciative palm across its pile.
“Isabell, the electric?”
She got to her feet and backed away. “I don’t know.”
“Isabell.”
“You said it was done.”
“No.” Jerry struggled up to lean on his elbows.
“You did. You put it there.” She pointed to the old fitting on the sofa, “and said it was done. How do I know you not done?” She waved a dismissive hand, before bringing it back to cover her mouth.
“I was on the ladder.” Jerry looked to the ladder, now leaning at an angle against the sofa, “With a screwdriver in my hand.” He flexed it into a fist and regretted it immediately, the pain refreshing itself with a million pins, jabbing into his muscles and burning inside his flesh. “How, Isabell? How?”
“I switch back on, of course,” she mumbled and cocked an arrogant eyebrow, “Dimwit.”
THIRTY-NINE
“YES, ABSOLUTELY.” Spink swung his feet up onto the birch desktop and leaned back in his executive leather chair. “I would be delighted to meet some of the other directors on the Worldwide board. U-huh. Yep. Yes.” God, this Drinkwater bloke could waffle on. Yada, yada, yada. “Yes. As it happens I was planning on visiting TEKCOM this year to catch up with some of my more, shall we say, high profile clients,” Spink simpered into the phone with a little head wobble. “Of course, I mean you. Ha, ha, ha.”
Oh yes, this guy was going to be his meal ticket. Turned out, they both liked golf (well Spink had played a couple of times) and they both loved Elton John, who just happened to be playing in Vegas while TEKCOM was on. And guess who’d managed to procure two tickets at enormous expensesable expense? Spink, that’s who. Yup it was like they were brothers: destined to meet. He didn’t know it, but Eric Drinkwater was going to save Spink’s job.
“Seriously for a moment though, Eric. May I call you Eric? Fabulous chat at the UK Conference last week and I hope you’ve had a chance to read through the proposal I sent over. Yup. Yup. Great. I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time at TEKCOM, just to pin a few things down, dot some I’s. U-huh. Sooner we can get the old rubber stamp on things, sooner we can get to work on your behalf.”
Spink prodded his filthy keyboard with nicotine-stained fingers and the William Hill website flicked up on screen. He ran his eyes down the fixtures for the afternoon. “So excited to be working with you. Yup. Just looking at it now actually.” Spink glanced at the two-inch-high pile of unread company literature that Mango had sent through about their ethics and procedures. “Fabulous approach. Yep. Couldn’t agree more.”
Spink supposed he might take it home to read. After hours he didn’t have anything better to do. It wasn’t as if he had hundreds of friends beating down his door. In a hangover from school days, when he’d often been bullied, he’d worked out ways to keep unwanted attention out of his personal space, but never quite how to invite anyone in. He’d discovered the comfort of gambling in his twenties. It started with a flutter on the Cup Final. The thrill of the win had pumped him full of endorphins that fuelled his later addiction.
Spink typed ‘Las Vegas’ into the search engine and the screen filled with images of paradise. A million lights set against the pitch black of the desert; fantastical structures and opulent excess, the stuff of his dreams.
“Sure. Me too. Busy, busy. See you Friday? Eleven o’clock. Perfect.” Spink kicked his feet off the desk, hung up and swung round to better view the screen.
Around the world in a day: the Eiffel Tower; the Statue of Liberty; the Sphinx; Venice. On and on, wonders to behold, all of them. He scrolled down. Night time panoramas gave way to internal shots of the incredible hotels: gondolas on a canal; a great illuminated wheel of fortune; a forest of one-armed bandits; roulette tables surrounded by beautiful winners.
Now his heart was racing. He cou
ld win big! Play well a couple of nights and he might get invited to play with the high rollers. The Cranley would pale into insignificance. Spink drummed his fingers on the desktop, palms itching.
Once the deal was signed with Mango Worldwide there was no way Adler would be able to beat him. He couldn’t wait for that moment when Adler realised he’d lost. For every adrenaline-fuelled rush to the winner he knew there was a gut-wrenching crash for the loser. Spink rubbed his thighs and grinned at Adler’s impending pain.
It was a bit early for celebrations, but a cuppa would go down nicely. “Gemma!” he bellowed. He wasn’t bothered about biscuits, but maybe there’d be a glimpse of something else tasty on the side.
FORTY
JERRY SWEPT ACROSS THE COOL SEA OF MARBLE, drinking in the glorious air conditioning. A vast bank of video screens stretched behind the reception desk. They washed the foyer with hypnotic light and video, extolling the rewards of giving in to temptation. They battled an army of slot machines across the foyer for Jerry’s attention. Everywhere was loud and bright and buzzing.
Spink barged past, knocking him sideways with a snort, scurrying to be the first to check in. Jerry ignored him. It had been a long trip, made longer by his smug companion.
Spink had developed curious Jekyll and Hyde tendencies during their journey. One moment he’d been a supremely confident self-satisfied tyrant, the next, an excited school boy, devouring the in-flight magazine and tourist information with undisguised glee.
