The Make

Sandy arrived right on time. She was a pretty young thing – around twenty-two, he guessed – and skinny, with long ash-blonde hair, intense brown eyes and a closed-off, defeated, almost childish air about her.

‘Hi George,’ she said, coming up to the table. They’d seated him near the bogs tonight, and he’d protested, but the place was packed, there was nowhere else. It wasn’t the sort of place he’d have chosen for a romantic night out, but the choice had been hers so he had to make the best of it.

He stood up. ‘Hi Sandy,’ he asked.

She nodded and they air-kissed and sat down, Sandy beaming happily, George wondering not for the first time what a young, pretty girl like this needed with an escort.

‘What would you like to drink?’ asked George, as the waiter came over with the menus.

‘White wine,’ said Sandy. ‘Please.’

‘Bottle of white,’ said George, and the waiter rushed off.

‘This is a nice place,’ lied George, and started giving her the patter he did so well. Soon she was laughing and chatting to him, relaxing. ‘What do you fancy?’ he asked, opening the menu and perusing the goods on offer.

‘The penne,’ said Sandy.

‘Good choice, I’ll have that too,’ said George, and gave the waiter their order when he came back with the wine.

‘I meant to tell you last time we met,’ said Sandy.

‘Tell me what?’

‘That you’re better looking than your photo on the website,’ said Sandy.

‘Thanks,’ said George, surprised. He wasn’t used to being complimented on his looks. Harry fielded all of those, as a rule.

‘I like photos but they are so one-dimensional,’ said Sandy. She pulled a tiny digital camera out of her bag and placed it on the table. ‘Brought mine tonight, thought we could have one taken together if that’s all right . . .?’

‘Sure it is.’

‘Photos don’t show the life-force, do they? You’ve got a lot of life-force.’

‘Well, there’s a lot of me to have a lot of life-force,’ said George with a smile.

‘Don’t put yourself down. You’re gorgeous.’

‘Well, so are you.’

‘Nah, I’m not. I’m a dull little office mouse; nothing exciting ever happens to me.’

‘What did you say your job was?’ asked George, thinking that he was in for a long evening. And he really should have made a note of her job last time they met, even if she had bored him stiff; women loved it when you remembered stuff about them.

‘I’m an administrative assistant in dental supplies.’ She smiled then. ‘Told you I was dull.’

‘So what does an administrative assistant do all day?’

‘I take telephone orders from dentists. Drills. Mouthwash. Bibs. Sterilizers. Been there for five years now.’

Yep, that was dull all right. George looked at her and decided it was time to pile on the old charm. ‘You know what I thought when we first met?’

‘No. What?’

‘That you were too young and pretty to need an escort’s services. That you must have guys queuing at the door.’

‘Ha! I wish.’ She sipped her wine and gave him a little sideways look. ‘But thanks for saying that.’

‘I mean it.’

‘Sure you do.’

Silence fell between them. Dean Martin was giving it some ‘Amore’ in the background, and there was the happy buzz of conversation all around them. Waiters were shooting back and forth from kitchen to tables, people were coming and going to the loos; they were right on the flight path here and that was pretty damned annoying. George got his mind off his annoyance and concentrated instead of giving this – yes, all right, she was dull – girl another scintillating evening.

‘So tell me some more about yourself,’ he said, leaning forward, giving her the ‘come on, I’m keen’ body language.

‘Oh, there’s nothing much to tell. I’m single. Live at home with my parents. Go to work, come home, you know how it is.’

‘And you just fancied a few nights out?’

‘It’s my birthday,’ she said, and blushed, and buried her nose in her glass again.

Fuck, how sad is that? thought George.

Their food arrived. The waiter brandished a large pepper mill at them, then hurried off.

‘Well, let’s celebrate that,’ said George with a wink. He lifted his glass and clinked it against hers. ‘Happy birthday, Sandy Cole.’

When Sandy got home, Noel was waiting for her and he was in a bad mood, just as she’d known he would be. He didn’t like her going out. The minute Sandy put her key in the door she was full of apprehension. She went into the shabby little lounge where he was sprawled out on the cheap moquette sofa. Dumped her bag and coat on a chair. The air was thick with the scent of cold pizza, beer and weed. He had a spliff in his mouth and the telly was roaring away. He looked up at her expectantly.

‘Where you been then?’ asked Noel.

Sandy was staring at the telly, acting casual. ‘Molly’s,’ she said. ‘I told you.’

‘It’s late.’

‘We got talking, you know what she’s like.’ Sandy knew that Molly would cover for her; Molly was a good friend. She knew he’d check, because he was bloody paranoid. He’d text Molly and say: Was Sandy with you tonight? And Molly would text back: Sure she was.

But he seemed satisfied. He turned his attention back to the telly, some moronic game show or other. Sandy stifled a sigh and looked at him. He was tall and well built, running to fat around the middle, but that was because he never did a fucking thing from one day to the next. He had thick brown hair, a long thin face, brows that almost joined in the middle, giving him a bad-tempered look at all times. Which sort of summed him up, didn’t it? Because he was bad-tempered all the time. And useless. And . . . sometimes, not often . . . he’d shove her, or tell her she couldn’t go out, or he’d check her phone and accuse her of having men in, which was an utter bloody joke, because he was always hanging around this place they rented together like a bad smell.

Rented together. That was also a laugh. She paid the rent. He just bought ciggies and beer and a few takeaways when she wasn’t here to cook, because he couldn’t be arsed to do it himself. He had to be the laziest, scruffiest man she had ever met, and she felt that she’d been had, done over, made a fucking fool of, because he hadn’t been like this at first.

Her mum, with her excellent radar for losers, had warned her about him at the start. But back then of course Sandy had thought he was good-looking; she’d been in love with him; she had dreamed of them living together, maybe even getting married, having children.

Now, she was very careful to take her pill, the pills she had to hide away from him because he wanted them to ‘start a family’, when what he really meant was that he wanted to keep her tied up indoors with a baby, didn’t want her going down the shops or even outside the frigging door. This house, which once had fuelled all her girlish dreams, was now her prison. And he hadn’t bought her a birthday card. Not even a card.

‘I’m going on up,’ she said, and picked up her coat and bag and went upstairs.

She took a shower, soaping herself, thinking about the evening she’d spent with George, and how wonderful it was to be treated like a lady for a change. They’d eaten a lovely meal, chatted. There hadn’t been any sex . . . but there could have been. Feeling so resentful, so hemmed in as she did these days, she wished she had booked George for sex too. But it would have made her very late, and she was a bit afraid to go that far. Then she would really be what Noel kept accusing her of, she would really be a slapper, and he would have justification then in pushing her around, watching her when she was on the computer, checking her phone, even checking her body to make sure she hadn’t been with another man.