The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (4 page)

   ‘What’s the perfume?’

   ‘Do you like it?’ she smiled. ‘It’s called
Frantic Fever
.’

   Frantic Fever, Fuck me! thought Gringo, and he laughed aloud. Who the hell thought up these crazy names?

   ‘What’s so funny?’ she said, giggling to herself, as Mel was prone to do.

   ‘Great name, eh? Brian buy it for you?’

   ‘Course he did. Who else would buy me expensive perfume? You never have, Gringo.’

   She had a point. He had never bought her perfume or anything else, other than a steak pie and chips, something he planned to improve on that night. If she played her cards right, Miss Melanie Harris, aka Mrs Melanie Tucker, could have whatever she damn well desired.

It took fifty minutes to drive to the country club, what with the city traffic and the Saturday night dating hordes out en masse. It was a pleasant evening, no rain, just a hint of chill in the air, hence the tatty coat he imagined, as he pulled the car into the packed car park.

   She glanced up at the ancient Cotswold stone building. It was bathed in yellow light, while to one side of the entrance, sitting within a small walled rose garden; was a large rectangular sign, gold letters on a pale green background; announcing:
The Henderson Country Club.

   ‘Who’s Henderson?’ she said.

   ‘Some old guy, you never see him about these days; his three sons run the place now. They’ll be on parade somewhere.’

   Melanie had never been to a country club before, and neither had she met young men who part-owned such a salubrious establishment, two points that were not lost on her. She’d make it her business to find out more, and was really looking forward to it, and a sense of excitement came over her, one she hadn’t experienced in months.

   There were three guys on the door, suited and booted to impress. The youngest one, who Gringo had never seen before, stepped forward and enquired: ‘Are you members?’

   It wasn’t quite the greeting Gringo expected. One of the others was a Henderson, a big guy named Richie, the middle brother. He smiled at Gringo and the girl in turn and said: ‘Good evening, Mister Greene, and your lovely lady; show them inside, Mark, Mister Greene is a valued member of our club.’

   The young one nodded somewhat reluctantly, and opened the double doors and ushered them inside.

   Melanie gazed about at the palatial bar; dripping with mahogany and marble and thick pale green curtains, with matching expensive pull chords, timeless quality that never went out of date.

   ‘What would you like to drink?’ said Gringo, as they stood at the rear of a packed crowd at the bar.

   ‘White wine,’ she said. ‘Where can I leave my coat?’

   ‘Oh yeah, sorry. The cloakroom is there, look, go and drop it off and I’ll fix the drinks.’

   ‘Ta, Gringo,’ and with that she disappeared into the cloakroom.

   The crowd at the bar slowly dispersed. Gringo’s turn. He would have to pace himself. He didn’t want to spoil the evening later by being hoiked in by the local plod, and he couldn’t afford to lose his driving licence. Moderation was the word. And anyway, there were other good reasons why he shouldn’t get drunk, or so he imagined. She could drink as much as she wished, within reason, for no one wants a falling down and puking drunk woman, and certainly not him, happy and merry maybe, vomiting drunk, certainly not, but
he
would have to be careful. He ordered an alcohol free beer, and wine for her.

   There were three guys working the bar, young and tall and fit and handsome, and they knew it too, perhaps college kids, or even local sixth formers earning extra cash to buy a car. They were busy, leastways they had been. Gringo noticed they had suddenly stopped and were staring over his shoulder. Gringo turned round.

   She was standing there. Miss Melanie Harris, aka Mrs Melanie Tucker, dressed in a single item of clothing, a figure hugging black velvet dress, no sleeves, her hour glass figure flat against the material, just a hint of the ample cleavage she possessed to keep the boys interested, unless they were blind.

   ‘Fucking hell!’ whispered Gringo.

   ‘Will I do?’ she said coyly. ‘Do you like it?’

   ‘Do? Do? You’ll
do
for me,’ and he grabbed her arm and dragged her away to a vacant low table surrounded by three comfy chairs. ‘You sit there, I’ll get the drinks.’

   She may have thrown on that dreadful beige Mac, but beneath, shark’s teeth, what could you say? She looked like a Hollywood starlet. Talk about scrubbing up well, Melanie Harris might well be the most beautiful, nay, desirable woman, in the entire county, leastways, right there, Gringo thought so, and clearly he wasn’t alone.

   He worked his way back to the bar and paid the guys who were still nudging one another and beckoning toward Melanie. Gringo gave them his best Wild West
Watch Yourselves
look, his turned down moustache suddenly appearing quite menacing, and it seemed to do the business, for they promptly returned to their work and didn’t look at Melanie again… for all of a minute.

   ‘It’s nice in here,’ she said, sipping the cold liquid.

   ‘It is,’ he agreed, ‘and they serve a cracking dinner.’

   Right on cue, a waitress dressed in traditional black and white appeared and said, ‘Hello there. Are you dining with us tonight?’

   ‘We sure are,’ said Gringo, sharing a look with Mel.

   ‘Have you booked a table, sir?’

   ‘Yep. Gringo Greene.’

   The young dame glanced down at her list and smiled. He wouldn’t be the first young buck to insist he had booked a table when he hadn’t, but this time, he had. ‘Table twenty,’ she said, and she handed them each a vast menu. ‘Your table is now ready. Go in whenever you wish. There’s no hurry.’

   ‘Cheers,’ said Gringo, and the girl hustled off to meet and greet other lucky diners.

   ‘It’s nice in here,’ she said.

   ‘You said that before.’

   ‘Did I?’ and she giggled in that infectious, slightly nervous manner she possessed, a vulnerable façade that was a killer for all men. ‘Well it is,’ she said, again, ‘nice in here I mean. I thoroughly approve.’

   Once more Gringo weighed her up. He glanced at her crossed legs, long and slender. Stockings, he was sure of it. Stockings and suspenders, it had to be.

   She saw him admiring her pins. She didn’t mind. Men did that all the time. At least with him she approved of the idea, enjoyed it even, whereas so many of the creeps made her skin crawl.

   ‘What are we going to have to eat?’ she asked.

   ‘Have whatever you like.’

   ‘It’s awfully expensive.’

   ‘Think nothing of it. I invited you, remember. My treat.’

   But did he invite her, she pondered; or was he railroaded into it.
Brian is away on Saturday night,
she heard herself suggesting in that wine bar. The hint could not have been clearer.

   She picked up her bag. ‘Would you like me to go halvy-halfy?’

   ‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’

   Just as well, she thought, for Melanie had no intention of paying for a damned thing. She couldn’t even if she wanted to. She only possessed a tenner to her name, and that wouldn’t even buy a starter.

   ‘If you’re sure.’

   ‘Damn sure, now shut up about the money and choose some food.’

   It was Gringo’s attempt at being masterful. Not a bad effort at that, but if he’d wanted to be a real bastard, to be really masterful, he would have demanded to see the colour of her cash, right there, right then. That’s what Brian would have done, not that he would have brought her to a place like this, not in a million years.

   The Henderson Country Club would have made Brian uncomfortable, which meant he would never cross the threshold, though he did boast a wide circle of friends, and that made Melanie occasionally glance around, half expecting to see one of them staring back at her, at them, glaring their disapproval. As for Gringo, as for being masterful, he still had a lot to learn. Poor man.

   ‘I’m having the crab starter,’ said Gringo, suddenly noticing his hunger.

   She pulled a face. ‘I hate crabs!’

   ‘Not crabs,’ he grinned, ‘fried crab cakes. They’re delicious.’

   She wasn’t convinced.

   ‘Would you mind if I had the garlic mushrooms?’

   Mind, why should I mind, he thought, and then he wondered what was really in her thoughts at that moment.

   ‘Have whatever you like, I told you.’

   ‘Yeah, I’ll have them, and a steak, well done, I hate it bloody.’

   ‘Me too,’ said Gringo. ‘Come on, let’s go through,’ and he stood up, making ready to go. Melanie drained her glass and let him take her arm, as he led her through to the dining room next door.

   The table was small and intimate and was groaning under the weight of silver cutlery, best white china, three different sized crystal glasses on either side, a cute vase of carnations and a single fat and stubby lighted candle in the centre. The chairs were mahogany with padded maroon seats and backs, and were as comfortable as they looked. Gringo helped her into her chair and sat down opposite.

   ‘It’s like Christmas,’ she said, and it was.

   The same super efficient waitress came to the table and took their order.

   ‘Would you like wine?’

   ‘Bottle of Champagne, Moet Chandon,’ said Gringo in a hurry, and the girl smiled at him and at Mel in turn, before scuttling off to fetch the queen of drinks.

   ‘Champagne,’ said Melanie slowly. ‘You won the lottery or something?’

   ‘No,’ said Gringo, ‘not yet, maybe one day.’

   The waitress was back, the heavy glass bottle in her linen covered hands.

   ‘Would you like me to open?’

   ‘Sure,’ said Gringo, confident the girl would do a good job.

   Melanie grimaced. Her experience with Champagne look-alike drinks opened by Brian at Christmas, or on her birthday, always produced an explosion of epic proportions, the cork usually thudding into the ceiling, threatening the light fittings, threatening anyone who happened to be in the way of the ricocheting stopper.  Mind you, Brian would always act the fool and shake the bottle first, the attention seeker he was. Gringo was right. The girl twisted the bottle, not the cork, and it came away with a decent
Pop
but no spillage. The
Pop
had been enough to attract the attention of nearby diners, several of whom peered over at the handsome couple who were sharing Champagne, the lucky things. Someone must be doing well; perhaps it was a wedding anniversary or an engagement proposition dinner.

   The waitress poured two glasses and bent down and whispered in Melanie’s ear: ‘Your husband certainly knows how to treat a girl. Where do you find a man like that?’

   Melanie giggled and crazily covered her wedding ring as she swigged the drink, the bubbles sweeping up her cute Huguenot nose, as the waitress slipped the bottle into the wine cooler and retreated to the bar.

   ‘She thinks you’re my husband.’

   Gringo smiled, for once lost for words.

   ‘It’s nice in here,’ said Melanie, emptying her glass. ‘I know, I know, I said that before, but it is.’

   Gringo sipped his drink and took an eyeful of the young woman sitting opposite.

   ‘What is it?’ she said, clocking his inspection.

   ‘I was just admiring your beauty.’

   ‘Get off! Bet you say that to all the girls.’

   Come to think of it, he probably did, but in this case it was totally justified.

   ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

   ‘Well the answer is no,’ she said, grinning like a kid reading the jokes from a Christmas cracker. ‘I’m already married.’

   ‘Not that, you prune.’

   ‘What then?’

   ‘You don’t happen to have Glen’s address, do you?’

   There was a brief moment of silence and then she said: ‘What, in America?’

   Gringo nodded.

   ‘Is that why you really asked me out?’

   Perhaps it hadn’t been the right time to ask.

   ‘No, course not. I’ve got some papers for her, that’s all, references, that kind of stuff.’

   ‘Send it to her home address.’

   ‘Glen said she wanted them ASAP.’

   That was a lie, but Gringo was confident Mel wouldn’t know any different.

   ‘Are you sweet on Glenda, or something?’

   ‘No, course not. Whatever made you think that?’

   ‘You better not be!’

   That was an odd thing for Mel to say, he thought.
You better not be!
What difference would it make to Mel whether he was sweet on Glen or not.

   ‘No, it’s just that I’ve these papers of hers, and I don’t know what to do with them.’

   ‘Well, if you must know, she did give me her address, but she also said; I was not to give it to anyone else on pain of death, and especially not to you. Sorry, Gringo, but sisters stick together and all that. No can do.’