Bang: Memoirs of a Relationship Assassin (6 page)

She smiled. “Nope. I’m
au naturelle
.”

“Ah,” I nodded, “
trés bien
.” That caused a small chuckle, at which point I snatched up my helmet. “Bye.”

I didn’t look back as I walked out. But I did catch a reflection of Becky in the glass door as I swung it open. You know, I’d swear she was checking me out.

The wannabe-Casanovas among you probably think that was kind of lame. All that bollocks about contact lenses, and then leaving just as I might be getting somewhere. Should have just gone for it, you’re thinking, asked her out. But that’s because you’re an amateur and I’m a professional. Trust me, this is how you do it: I’d broken a little ice, displayed a sense of humour, and by coming back so soon I’d become a recognisable face, no longer a stranger.

Most important of all: I’d noticed her. Not just another courier, rushing in and out as quickly as possible to get on with the next delivery. This one had noticed her. If I’d said “Hey baby, you have beautiful eyes,” I’d have got the finger, quite rightly. But this looked more like an unplanned compliment. And it helped that I didn’t hang around to milk it.

Another reason for keeping it brief was that I hadn’t decided upon my character yet. I was trying to keep my mannerisms as neutral as possible. Polite, but not giving much away. My accent could still go anywhere between Chelsea and Mile End, because I had no idea what might be attractive to Becky. Maybe she liked her boys rough, like Mrs Raine had. Boy, did she ever. Bonnet-of-the-transit-van rough. Or maybe smooth, charming and educated, like Mrs Stephenson-Payne and her love of Wilde-quoting, finishing school gentlemen. Most likely somewhere inbetween, but time would tell.

Something else I want to make clear. Up until that morning, I knew next to nothing about my target. This wasn’t the big case we were waiting to get from Larry, just another small one, and Barry’s briefing notes had been meagre. A basic description, a bit of background, a few details about where she worked and what she did. Other than that, not a clue. So the blue-eyes thing wasn’t planned. Becky Hargreaves could have been grossly overweight, or car-crash ugly, or had halitosis so bad I needed to keep my helmet visor down. All of which I’ve had to deal with in the past, by the way. (Man, Mrs Trussler had been all three. And she had a laugh that sent her own cats running under the bed. Bloody earned my pay on that one.)

But it doesn’t matter. I can get past all that. And that’s what allows me to make a living out of this. I genuinely don’t give a damn what the target looks like, sounds like or even smells like. The excitement of becoming somebody else, of going undercover, is what gets me through. The excitement of a seduction. Thinking about the money helps too. That thrill has never really gone away. Even if the woman isn’t my type at all.

Actually… now that I think about it, I’m not sure what my type is.

Hmm. That’s bugging me now. Have I ever had one?

Anyway, the point is that with Becky, I was making half of it up as I went along. It made the whole thing even more exciting, romancing by the seat of your pants. The fact that she was young and cute was a bonus, but it didn’t make much difference really. Becky could have had facial hair like Chewbacca and I’d still be coming at her like she was this month’s centrefold.

Phase 3: Flirtation.

Tuesday 8 June 2.20pm.

“Oh God, what a slag!”

“Who’s a slag?”

“Her! That slag there!”

There was a little group of office girls clustered round the reception desk, laughing and talking. Becky was still behind the desk but joining in. It looked like they were all peering at a magazine. The moment I saw them, I turned away and started rooting through my satchel, as if looking for something right at the bottom. Delaying tactics. I hovered, earwigging.

“Who, Anne Robinson?”

“No, her with her tits hanging out!”

“Megan MacLeod?”

“Yeah, the slag!”

Becky’s voice: “She’s not bad in EastEnders though.”

“Yeah but she’s everywhere nowadays innit, all over the place. Nothing but a Scotch tart.”

“God look at Declan, he’s gorgeous.”

“Oh yeah, he’s sex on a stick, isn’t he?”

“Hmm, he’s all right. Bit too pretty-boy for me.” Becky again. Interesting.

“He could certainly do better for himself than that slapper.”

“I’d do the dark-haired one in the band, definitely, what’s his name, looks like a young Robbie Williams, phwoar!”

“Phwoarrr!”
mimicked Becky, making them all laugh.

That sounded like my cue. I walked up to the desk, waving at Becky. “Hi. Another parcel.”

The three girls shifted slightly, looking me up and down as I wandered innocently into their world. Christians and lions. “Just running my media studies class,” smiled Becky, gesturing to her mates.

“Oh right… yeah, sounded pretty in-depth.”

“Oh, we’re all professionals here, can’t you tell?” She was in a good mood. Excellent.

“Bet
he
fancies her,” said one of the girls, making me jump. She waved the glossy magazine at me. I caught a colour spread of a young redhead in a slinky dress. “You do, don’t you? All blokes do.”

“Who’s this, then?”

“Her off EastEnders.”

“Nah, she’s a slag,” I said, getting a roar of laughter from all of them.

“It’s true! She is, I told you!” This was from the loudest of them, a bottle blonde whose hair had been styled to sweep dramatically sideways across her forehead. It looked like she’d washed her hair with superglue then walked out into a hurricane.

“Mmm, a man with taste,” said a black girl whose body weight was twice my own. She had the dirtiest, loudest laugh of them all, like she was channelling Sid James. “Nice bum too.”

Squeals from the third girl, who was small and boney. “Teri!” Hands to face. Drama queen.

“Well he has! I like a man in leather!”

“Whose your type then, if it’s not her?” asked bottle-blonde, still waving the magazine.

“Well…” I thought about it for a second, and amazingly there was a sudden hush, like they were actually listening. Think quick. Make it work for me. “I got to say, I know this sounds stupid, but I prefer girls with blue eyes.” And I kept myself at a right angle to Becky, so it wasn’t obvious this was aimed at her.

The boney dwarf squealed again. “Oh my God! I’ve got blue eyes!”

“Yeah, and me!” said bottle-blonde.

“Right, well I’ll have both of you then!” I lunged forwards, arms out-stretched, as if I was going to sweep them both up and run off with them. Big laughs all round. The blonde even threw herself forwards and gave me a quick hug. Bit keen, that one.

During all of this, Becky had been sitting there smiling, watching. Now her telephone rang, and she raised her voice to answer it. “Welcome to Asquith and Bream Consolidated, how can I be of assistance? What’s that, sir? Sexual favours department? Sorry, Laura’s not at her desk right now, can I take a message?”

We all laughed like drains, even bottle-blonde Laura: “Oi, you bitch! Stop doing that!”

Becky put the phone down and grinned. The joker of the pack. Very interesting.

After this, I got a barrage of questions. You’re a new boy, aren’t you? Who do you work for? Are those leathers comfortable? Just nonsense stuff, but I chatted happily to them while Becky signed for the package. All of these deliveries were fake, by the way. I was buying the latest chart CDs and sending them to various high-ups in Asquith and Bream, with a compliment slip saying they were free samples from a marketing agency. I knew nobody would ever look too closely at a such a freebie, so it allowed me to keep making deliveries. Cost me a bit, but I could always chalk it up to expenses and get the client to pay. Like with the champagne that I never got to drink. In the past I’ve had expenses claims for everything from return flights to Greece to renting a Porsche. And once I made a claim for two pairs of handcuffs and a bottle of something called Banana Dick Lick. But that’s another story.

I started worrying that I was concentrating on the other girls a bit too much, but then Becky asked me a direct question: “What was your name again?”

“John,” I told her.

She nodded. On her face: yes, that’s fine.

I’ll say it again – names are important. Makes a world of difference in the early stages. A name you’ve never liked can put you right off someone. But you can’t go far wrong with John. Good solid name. Masculine, but ordinary. Just as long as she didn’t ask my surname. Or if she did, that she hadn’t heard of John Holmes and his enormous reputation.

A more significant question from Laura. “Are you single?”

“Laura!” gasped boney dwarf (whose name I gathered was Nicola), as if she’d asked me
“Do you mind if we get a look at your cock?”

“Sure.” I grinned, cheekily. “Best way to be.”

“Oh yeah, totally! Loads more fun!”

“Get a room, guys!” guffawed Teri. Nicola shook her head – I was a bit worried that if she turned that pointy chin towards Teri too quickly, she might burst her. That was enough for one day, I decided. As I picked up my satchel and turned to go, I threw a wink directly at Becky. She smiled, amused.

A little secret something between her and me.

It’s amazing how effective tiny gestures like that can be. There isn’t a woman in the world who doesn’t want to feel like
she’s
the special one – not her friends, not any of the other girls, but her. She’d keep that to herself, I knew.

I felt I had a better handle on Becky now. She was lower end of the spectrum, cheap and cheerful. A common working girl. That might sound nasty, but remember I was used to getting it on with women who lived in mansions and had credit accounts at Fortnum and Masons. Still, Becky seemed a bit more on the ball than her workmates. And she had a sense of humour – the telephone gag was obviously her little invention, something she did from time to time to get a laugh.

So that helped establish my character. I would be the boy next door type, as down to earth as she was. I would have a good sense of humour and be quick to laugh. And, remembering her comment about pretty boys, I would stop shaving. Maybe give myself one or two little scars? Hmm, not sure I could ever do that to myself.

But basically, that was me from now on. John Holmes the motorbike courier. Friendly. Cheeky. Fun. Honest.

I loved this part. Crafting the mask. Nailing down the speech, the mannerisms, the personality, oh and the
motivation
darling, don’t forget, you must know the character’s
motivation!
(Well, that was easy. John’s motivation was to chat up the cute receptionist and, if possible, shag her blind.) I reckon I’d have made a half-decent actor in another life. But then again, do you have any idea how piss-poor most actors are? Nah, I’ll stick with where the money is. The Old Vic will get by somehow.

Easy one, this. No challenge. Some of my past cases called for a whole lot more. I’ve had to pretend to be somebody so unlike me it would make the RSC weep at my wasted talent. That time with the vicar’s wife, for example. Prayer meetings and Bible discussions and long talks about the nature of temptation. That was tough. Not sure how I pulled that one off.

I don’t do holiness very well.

Phase 4: Damage limitation.

Wednesday 9 June. 11.02am.

As soon as I walked into reception, I knew things had gone wrong. New faces behind the desk. One of them was a bloke. That’s how wrong it was.

While I went through the whole sign-for-package thing with him, I looked round, hoping to spot Becky somewhere else. Through the glass double doors, I could see the main office – plenty of people, but not her. “No Becky today, then?” I asked the receptionist.

“No, she’s off sick.”

Bollocks. Nothing I could do about that. A waste of a day. And maybe more if she was ill the rest of the week. But that’s the way it goes. You’re bound to get setbacks one way or the other. The trick is to minimise them if you can.

As I took the receipt from him I said “Cheers, and listen, tell her I hope she’s feeling better soon, yeah? She knows me, it’s John from Ontime Direct.”

“Sure, I’ll let her know.”

That was something. Assuming matey remembered to mention it, that might do me some good. Knowing that I asked about her might make her feel a little special. Most women get a buzz out of being pursued. If it’s not overdone, it can open a lot of doors.

And legs.

Phase 5: Conversation.

Thursday 10 June. 9.33am.

“Hey!” I said happily as I came through the doors. There she was in her usual place, giving me a smile. Thank God she was back. I was on a schedule. “So how you feeling, you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine thanks. Heard you came in yesterday.”

Result. “You know what, I almost turned round and walked back out again. Can’t make a delivery without you there. It’s just not right!”

She laughed. “I can’t believe you let someone else sign for it, how could you!”

“I know, I’m a slag,” I said, and that made both of us laugh, remembering Laura’s little tirade. I scanned her face again. “I have to say, you don’t look ill to me.”

“Yeah, well…” She glanced round, lowered her voice. “I threw a sickie. I had some stuff to do for… for a friend.” She was leaning forwards, arms folded round her sides, hands buried. You couldn’t see the ring.

“So you bunked off! I’m telling!” I looked left and right. “Where’s your manager…?”

“No, don’t you dare!” and she instinctively grabbed my arm to stop me walking off and squealing on her. Playground stuff. But it got her touching me, even if only briefly. Another small barrier broken.

All I wanted to do today was talk. It didn’t matter if it was absolute rubbish or serious discussion, I just needed talking time. To listen to her voice, watch her expressions, measure her body language. And settle myself into those patterns.

I managed nearly ten minutes of forgettable conversation. Slowly I began to mimic a few things about her, although I can’t say precisely what they were because so much of this stuff is done subconsciously. I did catch myself leaning on the desk the same way she did, with both arms folded underneath me. Didn’t even realise I was doing it. That’s how it works: talking the same body language.