The Boss (5 page)

‘Thanks, Josie, you're looking good too.'

I bent to kiss her, triggering the usual contradictory
emotions as her lips touched mine. However much I tried to treat her like any other friend it was impossible to forget that she preferred girls to men.

‘I hear you've been to France. Got any vodka for me?'

‘Yeah, but everything's with Steve. Look . . .'

‘Great. Could you hold the bike while I sort this?'

I wasn't really dressed for oily motorbikes but I helped steady the thing while she bolted some widget or other back onto the engine. She was completely absorbed in what she was doing and I waited until she'd finished, only for her to speak before I did.

‘I have got the best gig lined up, at the Yankee airbase at Hockwold.'

‘You are joking? How did you pull that one off?'

‘Easy. Sam's knobbing a fly-boy.'

‘When did this happen?'

‘After you fucked off with that council guy's car. We were all out in the street, and him and his mates came past. She stuck her thumb out, climbed on the lap of the one she liked best and now they're an item.'

‘OK, so when's the gig?'

‘Saturday week. You have to do something about your hair though, Fizz.'

‘Never mind my hair. I let my mum do it so I could go to a job interview. You know she's always nagging me, only . . . only this time I got the job.'

‘Cool. How much?'

‘Twenty-one K.'

‘Fuck me! What are you doing?'

‘Oh, it's this new firm on the Hereward Trading Estate. They do security, that sort of stuff.'

‘Cool. You'll be able to get a new kit, yeah?'

‘Yes. I was thinking of a car.'

‘Get a bike and a van. That way you can ride with me and we won't need Steve to haul our gear everywhere.'

‘That's a thought.'

I'd meant to tell her more, but she didn't seem bothered and I decided to put it off, perhaps until the cameras started to go up. She'd been peering at the innards of the bike, then gave a satisfied nod and began to wipe her fingers on an already oily rag before she spoke again.

‘So what're you doing tonight?'

‘Going out, I suppose. I've got some money from the booze cruise.'

It was, maybe, my last chance for a really wild night out. From Monday I'd be working, and if the cameras went up I was going to have to be on my best behaviour. As I put the first ice-cold mix to my lips in Buzz Shack I was wondering what I could possibly do to top all the nights before. The only trouble was, it felt forced. Everything I'd ever done had been spontaneous, never planned, always the result of an on-the-spot, generally alcohol-fuelled decision. Now nothing seemed right; either childish, or tame, or not worth the risk. I was still thinking about it, brooding really, and had begun to play with my bottle on the bar top and pick bits off the corners of the label when a voice sounded from directly behind me.

‘Felicity?'

I nearly fell off my bar stool. Nobody calls me Felicity, except Mum, and the voice was very definitely male, deep and gravelly, also familiar. Sure enough, there was Stephen English, looking faintly surprised in a smart pale-grey suit with a tie to match. Quite a few
of my friends were around, and I found myself struggling for a suitable remark. He got in first.

‘So it
is
you. I thought I saw you through the window. I'm a bit surprised to see you here.'

‘I, um . . . well, you know, just dropped in for a drink. Er . . . would you like one?'

Somehow I was very sure he didn't drink premixed vodka and lime, let alone use the condensation on the bottle to wet the label and pick little bits off. I found myself blushing, then realised and my cheeks were getting hotter still as he glanced around the bar. Everybody was looking at us, including Pete, who'd already been flirting with me, and Dave Shaw, and what suddenly seemed like everybody I knew or had known in the last twenty years. Finally Stephen English decided to answer me.

‘Not here, perhaps, but would you care to join me at Cuatro Cortado?'

It was a tapas bar at the other end of the High Street, Mum's favourite watering hole and not a place I'd normally be seen dead in, but at that moment I'd cheerfully have joined him at Croxton Landfill Site if he'd suggested it, anything to get out of Buzz Shack. I swallowed my mix with frantic haste, spent a moment choking while he gave me a couple of hearty thumps on my back, and we left.

I could feel their eyes on me and read their minds. What was Fizz doing with the suit? I knew the conclusion they'd come to as well, girls and boys both, their dirty little minds going straight down the one inevitable track: he was bonking me. My face must have been purple but Stephen English appeared not to notice, pausing on the pavement to glance up and down the street as he spoke.

‘In a location like this you can easily appreciate the benefits of the ZX system.

‘In fact, it's ideal; one principal street with the nuisance bars concentrated into a small area, which acts as a focus and allows the faces of those out on any particular night to be recorded. We'd then have smaller units covering the dispersal zone and any potential hotspots outside town, which would allow us to map the activity of any individual we chose to target, with the data remaining on file for an indefinite period.'

He was nodding as he spoke, well pleased with himself and in full view of the bar window. I began to move up the street, not at all sure what to say in the face of his enthusiasm for total control. After a moment he followed, still pointing out features as he went.

‘. . . and if installed carefully, the ZX-1 and ZX-2 modules will be invisible from street level, while the automatic facial recognition feature on the ZX-4 and ZX-5 will be able to record the faces of people actually inside the bars, thus avoiding what we like to call the hoodie problem. You don't usually drink in that dreadful place, do you?'

‘No, no, I'd er . . . just been for a walk . . . along the river, and I was thirsty.'

‘The river walk is beautiful, isn't it? I jog up as far as the B road and back every morning as part of my workout.'

‘Up to the road? That's miles.'

‘Ten K. You should join me sometime.'

‘Er . . . right. Well, here's Cuatro Cortado.'

We went in and I was immediately struck by the smell of the air, warm and fruity yet somehow old, making me think of Nan's kitchen when she was cooking a Christmas dinner. The lighting was a dim
amber glow and there was no music, only a low buzz of conversation from the customers, most of whom were twice my age or more. To my relief Mum wasn't among them, but I still felt distinctly out of place as Stephen led me to the bar.

‘What will you have?'

‘I don't really drink sherry. It's too sweet for me.'

‘No? Then you're missing a treat, and real sherry is dry, never sweet, with the exception of Pedro Ximenez which is probably a bit specialist for your first time. Essentially, there are three styles of real sherry, according to the amount of a mould called flor that forms –'

‘A mould?'

‘Yes, but it doesn't produce a mouldy taste. Just the opposite in fact. A lot of flor keeps the sherry fresh and light, which we call fino and is generally considered the high point of the sherry maker's art. I am perhaps something of a philistine as I prefer the darker, richer amontillados and olorosos, in which the flor does not develop in the same way.'

‘There's less mould?'

‘Exactly.'

‘I'll try that.'

He spoke to the barman in Spanish but perhaps not very good Spanish as it took quite a bit of gesticulation to get his point across. At last two small dark-brown bottles, two small glasses and some bowls of nibbles were loaded onto a tray which he carried to a table directly opposite the bar. I obviously wasn't supposed to neck the stuff from the bottle but otherwise wasn't quite sure what to do, so waited while he twisted the cork loose from his own bottle, poured a small measure into his glass and put it to his nose, inhaling the scent with his face set in deep concentration.

‘Splendid! I could almost be back in Cadiz.'

I attempted to follow his procedure and was surprised to find that the sherry smelled quite nice. Unfortunately it tasted like a mixture of old socks and battery acid but a handful of olives and nuts helped with that. I continued to sip at my glass and listen politely as he went into an explanation of how sherry was made, all of which seemed unnecessarily complicated. Finally he stopped and sat back.

‘But I'm sure I'm boring you. Tell me about yourself. Paul says you've travelled on the Continent. Have you visited the vineyard areas at all?'

‘Um . . . only in passing.'

‘Ah, you should stop. Champagne is the most convenient. It's only a hundred and fifty miles in from Calais, on autoroute the whole way. The Avenue de Champagne is wonderful, and of course Rheims is one of the finest cities in Europe, although sadly spoiled now.'

‘Yes, I thought that. Is it much cheaper than buying over here, or in Calais?'

‘That rather depends what you want. For the Grand Marques, not really, no, and Calais is certainly cheaper for ordinary brands, but if you want the finest, from individual growers, there's no substitute for visiting the area. By my reckoning, a purchase of ten cases made in the region rather than here will save enough money to cover the cost of the trip, including hotels and meals of a respectable standard.'

‘Sounds good.'

‘You should come . . . although of course as your employer . . .'

He'd gone slightly pink, and trailed off. I hastened to reassure him.

‘That wouldn't bother me. Who cares anyway? You're the boss, aren't you? You can do whatever you like.'

He gave a nod, still somewhat guarded, and would have spoken again but the door had opened and he was distracted. My heart sank as I saw who the newcomers were: Mum and her latest admirer, Archie Feltham. Both looked surprised to see me but there was no choice but to make the best of it.

‘Hi, Mum, this is Mr English, my boss.'

The three of them immediately went into a sort of British fit, assuring each other they should use first names and being delighted to meet. Mum at least wasn't faking, but looked well pleased with herself to discover that my boss went to Cuatro Cortado, and that I was there with him. It was just the sort of situation she'd wanted me to be in for years.

I gave in. I was obviously stuck for the evening, drinking sherry and making polite conversation when I should have been out on the razz. Soon I'd begun to clock-watch, wondering what I'd have been doing otherwise, what time I'd have left Buzz Shack, or been thrown out, what time I'd have committed some outrage against public decency, what time Pete Manton would have been pulling my knickers down . . .

The answer was, not for ages, because time seemed to have slowed to a crawl. The three of them had a wealth of subjects to choose from, few of which I could add to. Even Stephen's weird but strong appeal didn't help because there was nothing I could do about it in front of Mum. At least there was plenty to drink and nobody seemed to expect me to pay, Archie providing one bottle and Stephen another. The sherry didn't even seem quite so nasty either, and I made the best of it,
that and the roasted cashew nuts. Otherwise I'd switched off, with a 999 drum beat running through my head over and over and my eyes moving between my glass and the lines of Stephen's face and body.

It was only ten o'clock when Mum started making noises about getting home. She normally stays until closing time, so I knew she was just trying to find an excuse to leave me alone with Stephen English, but it was at least a small improvement. I could feel the sherry getting to me too, and was even wondering if he'd want to snog me, but not sure if the idea was revolting or compelling.

Another half hour and I'd decided it was compelling. There was something about him, the way he was so certain about everything, that made me feel weak. It put my back up too but just at the moment the weak feeling was winning. Maybe it was just the alcohol but I didn't care. I wanted to be snogged, and touched, and maybe even have his cock slid inside my body as I lay open and naked beneath him.

Only when I tried to stand up did I realise just how drunk I was. The sherry had gone straight to my head, leaving me unsteady on my feet, and just at that stage where everything seems like a good idea, no matter how stupid. I felt I wanted more too but the bar was closing. Stephen had already put his coat on and was offering me my jacket, but I turned to the bar.

‘Excuse me . . . hey you, could I have another bottle? The dark stuff we had last. That's the one, yes, cheers.'

The barman passed it to me and I paid, Stephen giving me an indulgent smile as he held the door. Outside the air was cool and fresh, making my head spin. I took his arm, no longer really caring what happened, so long as I got my snog, at the least, and
preferably a good, hard fucking. I wasn't in the mood to play word games either.

‘You can take me home if you like.'

‘Of course. I'd be delighted.'

I smiled. It was that easy. It's always that easy. Maybe he was a stiff, but stiffs are OK as long as they're stiff in the right department. He began to steer me up the road and I let myself melt into his side, already imagining the feel of his cock in my hand, in my mouth, in my pussy. I opened the sherry, taking gulps from the bottle as we walked, and only when we reached the end of my road did I wonder if he might not have got the wrong end of the stick.

‘Hang on, Stephen, this is my road.'

‘Naturally.'

‘But I thought . . . and how do you know my address? Of course, it was on those form thingies, wasn't it? How silly of me, I forgot you were a nosy . . . Sorry, I mean you . . .'