The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (46 page)

   ‘I like your dress.’

   ‘I bought it special.’ 

   That wasn’t quite correct. She had bought it special, that much was true, but especially for the marriage of Steven’s brother, Pete. She’d splurged on the credit card on the very afternoon of the evening he had finished with her.

  
We are just not hitting it off, babe, in the bedroom department, if you get my drift, sorry about that. You’ll soon find someone new.

  
Cruel git!

  
He’d spoken as if it were about as important to him as changing his brand of soap powder. Men can be so rat-like. The bastard! It was only later that she discovered that he was seeking comfort with the black sister on Ward seventeen, and worse still, had been doing so all along. He had never been hers and hers alone, and it was Marie Olajampong that he eventually took to the wedding two weeks later in her place. Linda would never date a doctor again, ever. They were a bunch of shits, and every goddamn one of them thought they were God.

   As for the dress, true, it did bring back dreadful memories still fresh in the mind, but it had cost a small fortune, and dresses like this one deserved to see the light of day, or night, and if the seductive combination of black material and ribbon assisted in arresting the attention of this Greene character, who so clearly adored black, then it was money well spent.

   ‘I thought we’d go to the Jackdaw Hotel,’ he said.

   She had never been to the Jackdaw before but knew full well of its fancy reputation, and if a man was willing to take her to such a place and pick up the tab, it could only mean one thing. He was interested in her, as she’d suspected all along. The only question was, how much?

   ‘Lovely,’ she said, settling in and fastening her seatbelt. ‘Do they do T-bones?’ she said, grinning.

   That grin teased a smirk from him. Oddly his moustache shivered; and even more oddly, she liked it, that slight quivering motion.

   ‘Probably,’ he said, starting the car. ‘Let’s go find out.’

The main eatery in The Jackdaw Mill Hotel and Restaurant was spread over two levels, and the happy couple were led to a table on the lower level by a slight young man whose English was in its infancy.

   The guy came back with menus and they both scanned for T-bones. There they were, grinning happily back. Gringo glanced at her cute face and realised that a cut of steak had teased another smile from her. He winked across the table and for a second she seemed quite flustered. She glanced back at the price but didn’t care it was stratospheric. He could damn well pay; it was the least he could do for landing another date with her, and for not kissing her last time. She hadn’t forgotten that.

   They ordered at starter, a nondescript pasta effort that came with a powerful odour. Gringo ate his, Linda left most of hers. Pasta is fattening. She was looking after her trim figure, so she said, and Gringo could believe it. She had even taken up jogging, something that amazed her family and friends. She would never have believed it, but soon discovered she hugely enjoyed it. All her worries seemed to float away as she pounded the road; but more than that, clear visions of her rosy future flooded into her head, as she tracked all the way down to Downer’s Bridge and back.

   She’d hassled her mother into buying her an expensive pair of pink and white trainers for her birthday. Her mother still hadn’t recovered from the shock.
£120 for a pair of pumps, you must be mad!
But it was what Linda wanted, and mother duly stumped up the cash.

  
Linda’s daily jog had become the most important thing in her life, even more important than sex, much more important in fact, twice daily on her days off, and she wouldn’t give it up for anything.

   Then an odd thought dropped into her mind. It had come from the tabloid newspaper she had been reading in Daniel Henry, Hairstylists for the Modern Woman, earlier that day. How many times a week does the average couple have sex? Two, three, four, came back the replies. About average.
And how many times a week does Linda Drayton jog down to the Bridge and back?
She imagined being interviewed on some daytime TV programme by some pretty kid with an IQ of 75.
Seven times a week at least, ten in a good week!

   She giggled aloud.

   ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Gringo.

   ‘Oh, nothing.’

   ‘Come on, something made you laugh.’

   ‘I was just thinking about an article I read in the Daily Trash.’

   ‘About?’

   ‘Well, if you must know,’ and she leant across the table, close enough almost for a kiss, and whispered, ‘It was about how many times a week the average couple have sex.’

   ‘And what is it?’ grinned Gringo.

   ‘Three or four,’ it said, and then she asked him, bold as brass, ‘How many times a week do you have sex, Gringo?’

   It didn’t phase him. He imagined it to be a serious question.

   ‘Three or four, about average.’

   ‘And if you were married?’

   ‘Ah, now that would be different, every day, without fail.’

   She guessed most guys would say that, right off the cuff,
Every day!
I mean what guy is going to say: well maybe once a week, or once a month, depending on how tired I feel. Nope. None of them,
Every day
, a stock answer, but in his case, he just might be telling the truth, at least as he saw it, as he hoped it might be, but in the end, the woman would decide how many times a week they had sex. Leastways they would in any marriage involving Linda Drayton. It was interesting though, what he said, and she was still thinking of that when the bones arrived.

   Her face lit up like a little girl on Christmas morning, but there was something bugging her, and Gringo wondered what it was.

   A few minutes later and she nodded to her left and whispered something he didn’t quite catch.

   ‘What is it? What’s the matter?’

   ‘Him,’ she mouthed, without making a sound.

   ‘The waiter?’

   ‘No-ooo.’

   ‘Who then?’

   She nodded again, almost imperceptibly.

   There was an older couple seated there, high up on the second level, but almost beside them. Gringo glanced at the balding guy who exaggeratedly looked away.

   ‘What about him?’

   Leaning across the table she whispered: ‘He keeps staring down my dress.’

   Gringo imagined himself sitting up there, and guessed the view the guy was enjoying, peering down Linda’s low-cut frock, a view that tonight was strictly reserved for him. Gringo gave the guy another harder look.

   The bloke looked away, but then back at Gringo with an obvious stare as if to say:
What’s your game, pal?
and
then he really did speak.

   ‘Something the matter?’

   ‘I think you know what’s the matter,’ said Gringo.

   ‘What’s he talking about?’ said the rosy woman sitting opposite, as she rubbed her mouth with an overlarge serviette.

   ‘Don’t know, darling, the bloke down in the stalls appears upset about something.’

   ‘Keep your eyes to yourself!’ said Gringo.

   ‘What does he mean?’ continued rosy.

   ‘You think I could be bothered with looking at
that
,’ said the guy. ‘I’ve seen more meat on a starving chicken!’

   Gringo stood up and threw his linen on the table and glowered at the man. Linda gazed at Gringo. She liked what she saw. He was standing feet apart like an excited fighting cock; redness had come to his pale face like war paint, his eyes were fixed and steady, she could almost imagine a red cock’s comb standing erectile on his black feathered head, as his eyes darted this way and that. He seemed as if he were about to do battle, and all on her behalf.

   ‘All right, all right,’ said the bloke, backing down and getting up. ‘Keep your hair on, pal. We were just going anyway,’ and the pair of them stood up and sauntered off toward the bar, rosy still muttering something about not understanding what all the fuss was about.

   After they had gone Gringo said: ‘I’m sorry about that.’

   ‘It wasn’t your fault,’ she cooed, staring at him through admiring eyes, reaching out and touching his wrist. ‘Thanks for sorting him out.’

   ‘My pleasure,’ he said, feeling good, and staring into the back of her blue eyes, eyes that at that instant couldn’t look anywhere else but at his, and in that second he knew how the evening would end. It couldn’t come soon enough. It never ceased to amaze him what a spot of testosterone fuelled conflict could do. Worked wonders every time.  

He didn’t ask her if she wanted to come back to his house for coffee, and she didn’t query where he was heading, as he drove rapidly back toward the close. She knew exactly what was in his mind because it was in her mind too, and there was no point in pretending otherwise.

   Before the sun came up he was going to have her, and she was going to give herself to this man, but there was method in her madness, and far more importantly than that, she was going to sink her claws so far into this guy’s mind and body that he would never be able to wriggle free. Two can play mind games, Mister Greene.

   Back at the house they wined and coffeed and writhed around on the sofa, kissing and cuddling for as long as necessary. He bit her neck, not severely but with enough intent to excite her, and shortly after that he suddenly stood and grabbed her wrist and tugged her to her feet.

   She didn’t say a word as he dragged her to the foot of the stairs; too busy was she watching his every move. She did protest a little as he dragged her up the first flight.

   ‘Gently, Gringo! Gently!’

   Not that he was listening, as he started up the second set. He imagined the caveman routine, dragging the woman back to his cave, imprisoning her, leaving her vulnerable to his every desire, was a big turn on for the girl, and whether he was right in that or not, she was still protesting as they made their way up the stairs.

   ‘Not so fast, Gringo. Gently!’

   He still wasn’t listening, so intent was he on reaching the top. But something must have been bugging her for half way up she dug her heels in like a Blackpool pleasure beach donkey with a major beef.

   ‘Gringo, no! Wait a minute!’

   He glanced at her face. ‘What is it?’

   He was certain he hadn’t misread the signals.

   ‘I want to ask you something. I want to tell you something.’

   He looked deep into her eyes. What the hell was wrong? Surely to Christ she hadn’t let it get this far when there was some medical, or physical, or physiological reason why he couldn’t proceed? Whatever the problem, he didn’t appreciate being kept waiting.

   ‘Well?’ He said, ‘What is it?’

   She took a deep breath.

   ‘Tell me what’s the matter!’

   ‘I don’t like anal sex!’

   His mouth half opened. He shook his head and retreated half a step and looked enquiringly into her eyes. What was it about him that brought that crazy thought into her pretty head?

   ‘I’m not that keen on it meself,’ he joked, his light-hearted remark not quite hitting the right note.

   He gently tugged on her hand, but still she wouldn’t move a muscle. He glanced back at her face and saw she’d flushed. Her bottom lip had extended and she appeared close to tears.

   ‘I’d never ask you to do anything you didn’t want to do,’ he said, in an attempt to reassure her, and he let go of her hand and held out his arms. ‘Nothing like that, honestly.’

   She jumped into his embrace and hugged him as if she had never been hugged before.

   ‘I know that, Gringo,’ she whispered. ‘I know that. I just wanted to be sure. I feel so safe here with you.’

   Women often said that to him,
I feel so safe here with you
as if they didn’t feel safe anywhere else, and that was a puzzle in itself. He had always imagined they were shooting him a line, but when he held her at arms length and looked into her apprehensive face, he instinctively knew that she was telling the truth.

   He hugged her again and whispered: ‘Shall we go up?’

   She didn’t answer, leastways not in words, but his shoulder detected the tiniest of nods coming from her pretty head, twice, in case there had been any doubt. He clasped her hand and led her gently to the bedroom.

   There was no further resistance after that, and in the next few seconds the expensive black dress, bought for a special occasion, disrobed on an entirely different special occasion, was decorating the bedroom floor.

   He watched her jump on the bed and lie on her back and as he approached, she dug the soles of her feet into the mattress and arched her back clear, an obvious invitation for him to slip the green silk French knickers from her body, and everything else that came with it, an invitation he was never going to refuse.

   ‘I’m on the pill,’ she whispered, something he could take or leave, and something that had been true not so long ago, though not now.