by Lynda Renham
‘I don’t actually think that means you just take it.’
‘That’s what Laura said.’
Laura talks a lot of sense if you ask me. I lift the lid of bin 104 and glance inside.
‘If you want the blings dear, they’re in my bin,’ she says helpfully.
The last thing I need is to go home with a pocket full of stolen blings.
‘Oh no that’s fine,’ I say, peering into the bin. God it stinks.
‘I just want something I threw in here by mistake.’
‘What about the man that was shot?’ she asks.
‘Did you hear it?’ I ask eagerly.
She shakes her head.
‘No, I only know about it because you told me.’
I sigh and carefully retrieve an estate agent’s letter from the bin. A good dollop of anti-bacterial gel is needed after this. Honestly, the things I do for that mare Sylvie.
‘Well I’d better get going,’ I say. ‘By the way, what is the name of the gay man in 104?’
I might as well try again. You never know she might just remember it this time.
‘Ooh, I don’t know if he is gay dear. He always seems pretty serious to me.’
‘Yes but what’s his name,’ I say patiently. ‘The bum boy?’
I thought those words went out with Oscar Wilde.
‘I’ve no idea, dearie. Did I tell you about Larry, the postie?’
‘You most certainly did. Anyway, I’d better be off. Have a nice day.’
Wait till I tell Sylvie. I think I’ll get a book on forensics. I’m getting into this crime solving malarkey.
Chapter Twenty-Two
The only good thing about this boxing scrum is that the auditorium is large and airy. Sam points to the bar.
‘Get yourselves a drink. It’s on me. Enjoy the fight. Aiden will show you to your seats.’
Even with a few drinks in me I really don’t think I am going to enjoy this fight.
‘Two glasses of champagne,’ Sylvie says to the barman. ‘It’s on Sam Lockwood,’ she adds giving him her sexiest smile.
‘I’ll bring a bottle to you,’ says the barman appraising Sylvie. Honestly, I can’t take her anywhere.
‘We shouldn’t take advantage,’ I say.
‘I’m sure he can afford it,’ says Sylvie. ‘And if not we can give him the money for it.’
She means I can. My winning the lottery has really changed Sylvie. We follow Aiden through a throng of excited spectators.
‘Ever been in the front row before?’ Aiden asks. ‘Prime seats they are.’
Front row? Oh shit. I’ve just spent a fortune on beauty treatments and now I’m going to be splattered with blood. I so hate violence, I hate it even more when I have to watch it.
‘Could we not sit somewhere further back?’ I ask.
‘Have you had a lobotomy?’ asks Sylvie. ‘These are the best seats.’
She’s full of tact is Sylvie. Hopefully after a couple of glasses of champagne I’ll be past caring who kills who. The auditorium is packed with people. I throw back a glass of champagne and pour another.
‘This is the life,’ whispers Sylvie. ‘How often do we have champagne?’
‘Never, and don’t think we’re starting now just because I had a win on the lottery.’
There’s nothing wrong with good old Aldi wine.
‘You’re such a spoilsport,’ she mumbles.
A bell rings and a hush descends over the auditorium before the crowd explode with cheers as the referee introduces the boxers.
‘In the right corner we have Sam Lockwood.’
He enters the ring to Eye of the Tiger. The crowd roar and some women throw knickers into the ring. I must admit to feeling a little tingle in my own loins at the sight of his well-toned physique. I feel my face grow hot as he smiles at me. I’m not throwing my knickers into the ring if that’s what he’s hoping. Sylvie jumps from her seat and whistles when he appears. His opponent’s name is announced to a mixture of cheers and boos. I gasp as he enters the ring. He’s huge with lanky black hair hanging down to his shoulders and a grin that reveals a number of missing teeth. There’s no need to wonder how he lost those. There’s no way Sam Lockwood can beat this guy. It will be like fighting the Incredible Hulk.
‘Jesus wept,’ gasps Sylvie. ‘He’s a massive bugger isn’t he?’
By the time the bell rings for the first round, I am on my second glass of champagne. Sam gives me the thumbs up and I feel terribly responsible for what happens to him. I’m his lucky mascot after all. I need to have a word with him about this lucky mascot thing after the fight. They seem to dance around each other for ever and I am tempted to jump into the ring and lay out the other guy myself and get the whole thing over and done with. By round three I’m close to throwing in the towel, well my scarf anyway, although I’m not sure if a Topshop scarf is an eligible fight stopper. Sam is taking a beating and I’m watching it through half-closed eyes. Sylvie is hoarse from shouting and the woman in the seat behind me is yelling kill him kill him, which I think is a little bit harsh. I only hope she doesn’t mean Sam Lockwood or I’d be tempted to give her a black eye.
‘You need to shag him,’ says Sylvie, the shock almost knocking me off my chair.
‘What?’
‘Sam Lockwood, you’ve got to shag him. Get that two-timing dipshit Darren out of your head.’
There’s a roar and we look up to see Sam has the Incredible Hulk cornered. I jump to my feet spilling my champagne.
‘Yes, yes,’ I hear myself screaming.
‘Kill him, kill him,’ yells the woman behind me. She’s on Sam’s side, that’s a relief. I won’t need to give her a black eye after all.
‘Shagging Sam Lockwood is not going to make me forget Darren.’
‘For about fifteen minutes you will.’
Sam takes a punch to his head and reels backwards. I feel myself reel with him and fall back into my seat.
‘Jesus wept,’ groans Sylvie. ‘That was bad.’
‘Shouldn’t they stop the fight?’ I say, giving the referee daggers. The bell sounds to end round 3. God, how many more rounds are there? More to the point, how many more rounds can I take? There is a cut above Sam’s eye that is bleeding badly.
‘I don’t think I can take much more of this,’ I say.
This is the last time I agree to one of Sylvie’s suggestions. I’m off men. They’re nothing but trouble, apart from Ark Morgan, of course. There is no way I’m shagging anyone and most certainly not Sam Lockwood. I’m resolute. I shall look at flats tomorrow. I’ll then take up yoga and buy loads of self-help books. I’ll buy some lavender oil and an oil burner and practise mindfulness. I’ll …
‘Come on,’ screams Sylvie.
The crowd goes wild as Sam shoots into the ring for the fourth round and with a sudden burst of energy throws a right hand punch that knocks the Incredible Hulk to the floor. There are cheers as the referee counts. Sam is animated and dances on his toes as he waits for the count. The Hulk struggles to his feet and wobbles before lurching himself at Sam.
‘Oh God,’ I groan, tipping up the champagne bottle only to find it empty. ‘That big hulk just won’t go down will he?’
‘He’s so damn sexy, how can you not want to shag him?’
I hope she means Sam and not The Hulk.
‘I can’t believe you can talk about shagging while two men are killing each other up there,’ I say hotly.
‘Ooh talking about killing,’ she says, handing me her phone. ‘It looks like the police have found a body. Felix sent a WhatsApp.’
Sam is now wedged against the ropes and the Incredible Hulk is laying into him.
‘Totally unrecognisable,’ Sylvie says.
‘Come on Sam, you can do it,’ I yell. He turns and smiles at me and my heart does a little flutter. He’s galvanised into action and ducks underneath The Hulk and throws a heavy blow to his jaw. For a minute I think he will go down but the guy seems indestructible and comes at S
am with a vengeance. I turn my face away and read Felix’s message.
They’ve found a body. In a dumpster by Sainsbury’s bottle bank. What a way to end up? Waitrose would have been better wouldn’t it? Still, it might have been a lot worse. It could have been Lidl. Anyway, I’ve just been watching Hot Fuzz and I think we should stake out the flat. Oh and Sylv, can you answer your bloody phone.
‘Do you think it’s our guy?’ I say, wincing as Sam takes a blow to his shoulder.
‘It’s too much of a coincidence,’ says Sylvie, before screaming. ‘Come on ref that was out of order.’
‘Kill the bastard,’ yells the woman behind me. The crowd go wild as Sam corners The Hulk but the bugger just keeps on coming back. It’s like one of those horror movies where the bloody villain just keeps going even though he’s been pumped full of bullets. My hands are sweaty and my face red from the adrenalin. The Hulk has Sam pinned against the ropes and it’s not looking good. The cut above Sam’s eye is bleeding heavily now and I’m sure he’s limping. Surely they will stop the fight soon.
‘I’m throwing my scarf in,’ I say as Sam takes another blow to his jaw. ‘This is barbaric.’
The bell goes to end the round. I collapse into my seat. There are so many men around Sam that I can’t see how injured he is. The crowd are baying for blood but I can’t tell whose blood they want. I really don’t think I can sit through another round. My bag vibrates against my foot and I pull out my phone. This must be Darren. He’s finally realised what he’s lost. Well, if he thinks I’m forgiving him a second time he can think again.
‘It’s me,’ says Mum. ‘I hate to tell you this but we’ve just seen Darren in Wetherspoons with some bottled redhead.’
‘He hates Wetherspoons,’ I say.
‘We’re absolutely livid darling. Your dad is all for taking him behind the bicycle shed.’
Ooh, I think that would look a bit suspicious in this day and age wouldn’t it?
‘Mum, can I call you back?’
‘No Martin, of course not, it’s just a figure of speech.’
‘What?’ I hate it when she tries to conduct two conversations at the same time.
‘We thought you should know.’
‘I do know.’
‘You know?’
I just said that didn’t I?
‘How can he prefer her over you? What is it with men and redheads?’
I’ve no idea. I wince as Sam takes a punch below the belt.
‘Out of fucking order ref,’ yells someone behind me.
‘When were you going to tell us?’ she asks in that hurtful tone that she saves for occasions such as these which is supposed to make me feel like the worst child since Damien.
‘A lot’s happened,’ I say. That’s putting it mildly.
‘He’s probably suffering from sex addiction.’
Are we still talking about Darren?
‘I don’t think …’
‘No point getting upset. Sex drives men. It’s not their fault. Their brains are in their …’
‘Mum, I really have to go.’
‘Shit, he’s winning, he’s only bloody winning,’ yells Sylvie.
I look up to see Sam knocking a hundred and seven bells out of the Incredible Hulk. The crowd are on their feet and cheering him on. Meanwhile the Incredible Hulk clings onto Sam until the referee parts them.
‘Where on earth are you?’ shouts Mum.
‘At a boxing match, a friend of mine is fighting.’
‘I hope you’re not getting involved with a boxer,’ she says primly. ‘There’s no future in that. He’ll end up with Parkinson’s disease and then you’ll never get any sex.’
If you ask me it’s my mum who’s obsessed with sex.
‘He’s a friend. I’ve only just broken up with Darren. The last thing I need is another man and I’m certainly not going to have sex with him.’
‘There are decent ones out there Roxanne. If Darren wants a slummy mummy then let him have one. You’ll …’
‘Slummy mummy?’ I stammer. She’s got to be joking.
‘Two little brats, although there could be more, but that’s all she had with her in Wetherspoons.’
‘She has kids?’ I say, trying to get my head around it.
‘Most women of your age have got babies,’ she says in her accusing voice. ‘Come for Sunday lunch. We can talk about things then.’
If by things she means babies, then forget it. She’ll have me booked in for IVF if I’m not careful. After finally agreeing to go for Sunday lunch I get Mum off the phone just in time to see Sam throw such a punch that The Hulk loses his balance and hangs onto the rope for support. This is too awful for words and Sylvie thinks I would want to shag someone who enjoys beating the hell out of people? The referee counts to eight, studies The Hulk and finishes the fight. Thank God for that. The cut above Sam’s eye is bleeding badly and he has another on his lip, but the bugger is still smiling. Does he ever stop? He gives me the thumbs up and attempts a wink.
There is a buzz from the crowd as they wait for the result.
‘More champagne for sure,’ says Sylvie gleefully.
The crowd roars as Sam is announced the winner. Some men clamber into the ring to congratulate him. He raises his arms in celebration and Sylvie climbs into the ring before you can say boxer shorts. I glance at my phone again and resign myself to the fact that Darren isn’t going to ask for forgiveness.
‘Did you enjoy the fight?’ Sam asks, before taking a gulp from a bottle of water.
‘It was brilliant,’ enthuses Sylvie.
‘It was okay,’ I say shyly, conscious of his half-naked body.
‘Roxie doesn’t believe in living dangerously,’ says Sylvie.
‘That’s not true,’ I say.
‘Would joining me for a drink be a bit too dangerous for you?’ he says looking into my eyes.
‘Well I …’
‘My friend will be there too and I am sure Sylvie will come, won’t you Sylvie? We’re going to a little private club. I guarantee to see you home safely.’
‘Thanks, but I can find my own way home and I really have to get back.’
‘You have my number if you change your mind.’
Sylvie and I watch him walk away as the crowd cheer him and reach to pat him on the back.
‘God, he’s so gorgeous. How can you not want to shag him? You’re mad not going for a drink.’
‘I wish you’d stop talking about shagging,’ I snap. ‘And the fact I don’t like him is one reason not to shag him, but also in case you have forgotten I’m just getting over a broken relationship.’
She scoffs.
‘You’re crazy if you let that arsehole get to you.’
Well the truth is I am letting the arsehole get to me. He’s left me for a slummy mummy bottled redhead. Of course it’s getting to me.
Chapter Twenty-Three
‘You what?’ says Sylvie.
‘I’ve looked everywhere. I was really hoping I didn’t drop it there but I can’t think where else it can be. I wasn’t going to tell you …’
‘You weren’t going to tell me?’
‘I didn’t think it was that important but now they’ve found a body I thought I should mention it.’
We’re outside the murder apartment block sitting in my Fiesta. I can think of better ways to spend a Friday evening, like preparing for Ark Morgan’s party for instance. There is a lot to do if I’m to be the kind of woman that Ark would notice. The kind of woman Ark would make a beeline for. I’ve made a list:
1) Get an early night. One needs to be fresh faced and glowing. I’d bought some expensive face cream for this very reason. Slap on loads of oil and then tons of moisturiser and drink gallons of water. Obviously not too much as don’t want to be peeing every few minutes while at posh yacht party.
2) Shave under arms, wax legs and bikini line, obviously. Check thoroughly for downstairs hair.
3) Douche downstairs just in case.
4
) Douche the other downstairs too, just in case. After all, one can’t be prepared enough with the likes of Ark Morgan, especially if he is anything like Christian Grey.
5) Book a blow dry with Lionel. Best to be safe than sorry – don’t want to see Ark Morgan with bird nest hair.
6) Spend fifteen minutes reclining with Glam Glow mud mask, but refrain from wrapping face in cellophane as may be a touch dangerous.
7) Choose appropriate underwear. But just what is appropriate underwear? Supposing I do get off with Ark Morgan? It’ll be Pretty Woman all over again. Except I’m a chambermaid not a prostitute of course. If I wear the Ann Summers sexy lacy Brazilian undies Sylvie made me buy, then I’ll look like I was expecting it. Of course my Marks and Spencer firm control high leg panties are wonderful and will make the dress look even more perfect but not so appealing when in Ark Morgan’s playroom. This is tricky, extremely tricky, as I want to get everything right. After all, this is my only chance. I don’t want the red room of pain stuff ruined because we can’t get the sodding pants off.
8) Practise being chic, sophisticated and alluring. The bathroom mirror is the best place for this.
9) Spray lightly with Jo Malone’s Earl Grey and Cucumber perfume and hopefully knock him dead. With my allure that is, not from the perfume.
10) Practise walking on new three inch heels. I can’t think of anything more disastrous than falling arse over tit in front of Ark Morgan …
‘Roxie, are you listening to us? What have you done with the other earring?’
‘It’s in my jewel box, why?’
‘We need to dispose of it,’ says Felix dramatically. ‘That way no one can trace it back to you.’
‘I bought them in Topshop. Loads of women must have them.’
‘It will have your DNA on it you dope,’ says Sylvie.
‘Yes, she’s right,’ says Felix, thumbing through his copy of Forensics for Dummies.
Honestly, it was bad enough with Sylvie acting out episodes of Waking the Dead but now Felix is at it too. I’m not sure I can bear it. All they talk about is DNA and fingerprints. Oh well, I may as well spill the beans.
‘I also had a hole in my sock. I didn’t realise until I got home.’
