They bought in bottles of whisky and vodka for about three pounds each. They sold them for seventy. He had one of the menus on his desk and he flipped it open, looking at the prices.
Five pounds for a coke. Ten pounds for a pint of lager. Then there was the list of cocktails. A screwdriver was thirty pounds. It went as high as eighty for a Tequila Sunrise.
Beneath the list was a line which read: ALL COCKTAILS ARE DE-ALCOHOLISED.
You didn't get drunk but you pissed a lot.
If you chose to have the company of a hostess it cost you thirty pounds for a conversation with her. Anything beyond conversation was negotiable, but Scott knew the girls had their own price list for their services. Thirty for a hand job. Fifty for a straight fuck. Eighty for one without a rubber. One hundred quid could even get you a blow job without a rubber. Risky, these days, but then money was money, wasn't it? The entrepreneur always had to take a few risks.
He would take a trip down to the cash-and-carry in the morning, after he'd checked his stock of drink. He'd give Don, the barman, a call in a minute. He doubted if they needed much. The vodka was three parts water, as were most of the spirits. Scott sat back in his seat for a moment, his hands clasped on his lap. At least Don was reliable; he always turned in, no matter what. Not like that fucker Rick. He should have been there tonight.
When and if Rick ever came back he'd find his cards waiting for him.
Scott returned his attention to the inventory.
He was about to start work when there was a knock on the office door.
'Who is it? I'm trying to bloody work,' he called.
The frown on his face rapidly disappeared as the door opened.
NINE
'Sorry if I'm disturbing you, Jim,' Carol Jackson said apologetically.
Scott got to his feet.
'You're not,' he told her. 'Come in.' He smiled at her, relieved to see the gesture reciprocated.
She closed the door behind her and moved towards him, pausing as she looked down at the remains of the pizza. She wrinkled her nose and smiled again.
'Dinner,' he announced almost ashamedly. Then he took her in his arms and kissed her. Carol draped one arm around his shoulders perfunctorily and broke the kiss first. She perched on a corner of his desk and Scott looked at her appraisingly.
She was about three years younger than him. About five-two but slim. Blonde hair framed her face and cascaded just past her shoulder blades. As she stood close to him she toyed distractedly with the ring on her right middle finger. It was gold and held a small onyx.
One of Scott's gifts to her.
The metal was going black in places.
They had been seeing each other for almost fourteen months; the relationship could be called erratic. She worked at the club. Scott worked at the club. They saw each other almost every day during work. They had been seeing each other out of work for nearly as long.
She was wearing jeans and a baggy sweatshirt, a red one. Another gift from Scott. He liked to see her wearing things he had bought her. Now he looked at her and smiled.
He didn't even attempt to say it.
'I heard that Zena had a bit of trouble earlier on,' she said.
'It was nothing,' he told her. 'I sorted it out.'
'Manager's duty?'
He nodded.
'Do you want a drink?' Scott asked.
'I should go and get changed, I…'
'A quick one,' he insisted, smiling.
She agreed and he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk and pulled out a bottle of Southern Comfort and two glasses. She watched as he poured.
'Don't you ever get sick of this job, Jim?' she wanted to know.
Scott handed her the drink, looking bemused.
'It's a living,' he told her.
'I hate it,' she said, venomously. 'I hate what I do. I hate the people who come in here to watch me.' She took a long swallow of the drink and closed her eyes.
'Are you all right?'
'I'm okay. I'm just pissed off. Everyone has the right to be pissed off with their job don't they? It just surprises me you don't get pissed off with yours.'
'Like I said, it's a living. I don't hate it.'
It sounded like an apology. As if he should hate it and himself for doing it.
'You never used to be like this about it,' Scott said.
'I didn't think it would go on as long as this,' she snapped. 'I've been working clip joints since I was nineteen. That's nearly ten years, Jim. It's a long time. I wanted more out of life. I want more. More than being stared at by men with nowhere else to go. Fucking perverts. You know some of the ones we get in here. I hate them. And I'm beginning to hate myself for performing for them.' She took another long swallow and gazed across the room at the wall.
Scott got to his feet and moved closer to her, putting his arm around her, pulling her close.
'Do you want to talk about it later?' he asked, kissing the top of her head.
'What good is talking going to do?'
'I didn't know you felt the way you did. Perhaps if you spoke to me about it…'
'You don't understand,' she interrupted.
'Make me understand,' Scott asked.
She drained what was left in her glass and handed him the empty receptacle.
'Can I see you after work?' he asked.
She shrugged.
'Walk out and watch the show,' she said bitterly. 'You can see as much of me as you want.'
'You know what I mean,' Scott said, irritably.
'Can I see you later?'
She kissed his cheek and turned to pull away but he caught her by the wrist and pulled her close to him. This time she responded with a little more passion, actually allowing his tongue to probe past the hard white edges of her teeth and into the moistness beyond. She touched his cheek as they parted in a gesture that was almost maternal. It wasn't the touch of a lover. He held on to her other hand, to the hand that bore the onyx ring.
The metal was turning black in places.
They were still holding hands when the office door opened.
'Can't you fucking knock?' Scott called.
The newcomer stuck his head around the door and looked first at Scott, then at Carol.
'Very cosy,' he said, noticing that they were holding hands. 'Sorry if I'm disturbing you.' He entered.
Scott swallowed hard as the door was pushed shut.
