Jago was an accounts’ manager at one of the American credit card companies that had opened for business on the expanding business parks south of the city. Chester was becoming a thriving financial centre, though that was the last thing on his mind as he backed out the car. He earned good money, though his masters took their full pennyworth in return. He also spent good money, up the ladder, down the snake. He hoped that Lena’s lack of a picture wasn’t because she was so dog god-awful.
SAM HAD CHOSEN HIM because he looked wild. Long wavy dark hair, black-framed glasses, straight prominent nose, white skin, two red spots. He said he was twenty-nine but he looked younger. He’d written a biog that came over as if it had been written by a fifteen-year-old school kid on one of the wackier social networking sites.
Hobbies and interests: Getting pissed, taking drugs, acting wild, screwing, and hanging out with cool dudes.
In Sam’s eyes the hobbies and the photos didn’t match, and that was another reason she had selected him.
SHE SAW HIM STANDING there, looking nervous, smoking a cigarette, a bunch of damp daffs in his hand, and she walked away. She would make him wait. Come back in ten minutes, no, fifteen, see if he was still there.
He was still there, in his vile blue trousers, and even viler green jacket, shirt and tie, probably his effort at looking smart. Or had he come straight from work? She didn’t care. She ambled along the busy corridor, passed him; he barely offered her a second glance. Why not? Men usually did. Did he think she was too good to be true? Or did he think she wasn’t coming?
She turned round and wandered back. He was still there. He was facing away and feeling the inside of the back of his shirt collar, as if he had been sweating, and it chafed.
‘Jago?’ she said, in her best sexy voice.
The guy swivelled round. Almost fell over. His face lit up at the perfect blonde before him. He liked her hair; and the pink suit. He liked her face and figure; he liked the red lipstick and bright green eyes, and the classy ivory gloves. Geez, he adored everything about her. She was perfect.
‘Lena?’ he said.
Sam nodded.
‘You’re late,’ he said.
‘Sorry,’ she said, as if she enjoyed being admonished. ‘The bus broke down.’
‘No worries. You are here now.’ He glanced down at the soppy daffies, ‘These are for you.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, and gave them to an ancient woman who was shuffling by. She took one disdainful look at them and dumped them in the nearest bin.
Jago actually looked disappointed, then said, ‘Shall we go in?’
‘If you want to.’
‘Oh yeah, so long as you do.’
‘I’m hungry,’ she said.
‘Come on,’ he said, as he strode toward the door and held it open.
Once seated at the corner table in the Hunting Rooms restaurant, they sat and studied the vast menu.
‘It’s very expensive,’ muttered Jago.
‘Not too much for you?’
‘No, No! Not at all.’
He just wanted to make sure she had noticed, that she appreciated how much of his hard-earned cash he was about to lavish on her. Not to put too fine a point on it, was she worth it? She’d better be.
Sam chose her meal, not the most expensive items on offer, but not far off, and then she said, ‘I always like champagne at lunchtimes, don’t you?’
Jago hid the grimace and said, ‘Yeah, of course, anything you say.’
They talked about this and that, and something and nothing, and then surprisingly, the plates were empty; the glasses were empty; the bottles were empty; and the meal was over.
She had never once removed her gloves.
He teased her by referring to her as the glovely lady, giggled at his own witticism, a joke that Sam, or was it Lena, forced herself to share.
The foreign waiter presented the bill. Jago squinted at it and tried to banish the figure from his mind. He hoped Lena might volunteer a contribution, but none was forthcoming. He took out his credit card, manufactured by his employers, and realised that with this meal he’d be maxed out.
He forced a smile across the table. Lena smiled back. She had gorgeous teeth, far better than his. He’d like those teeth down his pants. He paid the bill with that thought in mind, and could contain himself no longer.
‘Well,’ he said, ‘Do you want to go out again?’
‘Maybe,’ she said, fiddling with her glove.
‘Tomorrow night?’
She pulled a face. ‘I might be able to do that.’
She was playing hard to get. He didn’t care. He wanted to date her again; he wanted her back at his place; he wanted...
‘What time did you have in mind?’ she said.
‘Eight o’clock OK with you?’
She bobbed her head.
‘We could go for a meal, in some country pub.’
Lena nodded, didn’t say anything.
‘Where do you want to meet?’
‘Outside the swimming baths.’
‘OK,’ he said, ‘I can do that, you’re on.’
Lena nodded and stood up and made to go but paused and said, ‘Thanks for the meal, Jago,’ and she walked off and left him sitting at the table.
He made no effort to follow, and that was cool.
Chapter Eighteen
Armitage looked forward to his visits to the garage, but only because he could slip away and run around the corner to the shop where the bell at the top of the door announced his arrival. Mrs Greenaway treated him like the son she never had. She’d raised three daughters, all now married and away. Army soon developed a deep interest in flowers. His imagination would fire as he matched the red tulips, roses, and geraniums.
Within a month he was filling the shop window with his selections, within a year he was creating displays far beyond anything Mrs Greenaway could match, and within two years people were coming from far and wide to have their arrangement made up by the handsome boy with the artistic touch.
He had
