Read Online A Line of Blood by Ben McPherson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ben McPherson
Tags: UK
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weaving through the side streets, I couldn’t avoid the football completely. I made the Sacred Cock at five to, but I’d half-run the last five hundred metres.
I ordered a pint of Flemish.
‘Hello, Gorgeous. What’s got you so hot and bothered?’
‘Oh, Dee. Hi.’
‘See, I blend in. Let me get that for you, hmm? Have you been running?’ She chucked a fifty at the barman.
‘Yes. You got me.’
‘You’ve got that freshly fucked man-of-the-city thing going on. Didn’t pull you out of bed, did I?’
‘I wish.’
‘So do I, Gorgeous. So do I.’
‘Do you kiss Middle England with that mouth, Dee?’
‘No, Gorgeous. First rule is never swear on the telly. And it’s
all
of England, you know. And Wales, and Northern Ireland. And, oh you know, those funny little people up north.’
‘Yeah, my mum loves you.’
‘Not your dad?’ She mimed a hurt little pout, shaking her shoulders, and for a moment her breasts had me in their forcefield: the dangerous ravine of cleavage, the smooth milk-white vastness. She made a show of following my gaze and gave a mock-seductive sigh. ‘Bad boy, Gorgeous. Caught looking.’
‘I was just wondering …’
‘Yes …’
‘… whether that was part of your clothing range?’
‘Nice recovery, Gorgeous. Sure that’s what you were thinking?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Because I could have sworn …’
‘I’m happily married, Dee, but if I wake up single tomorrow, you’re first on my list.’
‘And you think that choice lies with you. That’s so sweet, Gorgeous. So terribly tousled and sweet. And you would absolutely be second on my list …’
She insisted I match her drink-for-drink. We got quietly drunk in a corner, forgot to go upstairs to watch the comedy. I didn’t want to sleep with her any more than she wanted to sleep with me, but there was something so charismatic and so pretty and so direct about her that I started to understand why Middle England loved her so much. And I was flattered that she was flirting with me over her large glass of Chenin Blanc. Flattered, too, that she wanted to work with me. It would have been bad manners not to flirt back.
On my third pint of Flemish she got me on to Max. I pulled a photo from my wallet.
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Gorgeous begets gorgeous. Is his mother very beautiful?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll bet.
Call
your hot wife. Get her down here. And your son, if he’s still up.’
‘He goes to bed at nine.’
‘Not a showbiz kid, then?’
‘No.’
‘How very wise.’
And anyway, I thought, Millicent wouldn’t like this. Whatever this is. However innocent
this
is, Millicent wouldn’t like it at all. She doesn’t mind, she says, the arms across the shoulders, the drinks after work, and the nuzzling goodbyes. But she’s stopped coming out with me, and lies, instead, reading into the small hours. She’s always awake when I come home.
‘It’s the industry,’ I say, ‘it’s just what we do. No one’s screwing. Not since the 90s.’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I get that. Did I even say I mind? I don’t mind, Alex.’ But maybe this is my equivalent of
out, thinking
. Maybe it’s that part of me that’s unreachable to Millicent. Because she
minds
. I know she minds.
At half past eight I tried to decide what to do about Millicent’s radio programme. If I left at nine thirty I could hear the end of it, and be in for when Millicent got home. Perhaps I could catch the beginning of it on the download. I could check that Max was safely asleep.
At ten past nine I explained that I had to go.
‘But Gorgeous,’ she said, ‘we’re getting to know each other. Don’t you
want
us to know each other, Alex?’
‘Of course I do, Dee. Of course.’
‘That smile of yours,’ she said. ‘It’s terribly beguiling. Your wife is a lucky woman. Can she really not share you with me just a
little
more? Bit harsh of her, don’t you think?’
‘It’s not her,’ I said, ‘it’s me.’
We’re under
I ordered a pint of Flemish.
‘Hello, Gorgeous. What’s got you so hot and bothered?’
‘Oh, Dee. Hi.’
‘See, I blend in. Let me get that for you, hmm? Have you been running?’ She chucked a fifty at the barman.
‘Yes. You got me.’
‘You’ve got that freshly fucked man-of-the-city thing going on. Didn’t pull you out of bed, did I?’
‘I wish.’
‘So do I, Gorgeous. So do I.’
‘Do you kiss Middle England with that mouth, Dee?’
‘No, Gorgeous. First rule is never swear on the telly. And it’s
all
of England, you know. And Wales, and Northern Ireland. And, oh you know, those funny little people up north.’
‘Yeah, my mum loves you.’
‘Not your dad?’ She mimed a hurt little pout, shaking her shoulders, and for a moment her breasts had me in their forcefield: the dangerous ravine of cleavage, the smooth milk-white vastness. She made a show of following my gaze and gave a mock-seductive sigh. ‘Bad boy, Gorgeous. Caught looking.’
‘I was just wondering …’
‘Yes …’
‘… whether that was part of your clothing range?’
‘Nice recovery, Gorgeous. Sure that’s what you were thinking?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Because I could have sworn …’
‘I’m happily married, Dee, but if I wake up single tomorrow, you’re first on my list.’
‘And you think that choice lies with you. That’s so sweet, Gorgeous. So terribly tousled and sweet. And you would absolutely be second on my list …’
She insisted I match her drink-for-drink. We got quietly drunk in a corner, forgot to go upstairs to watch the comedy. I didn’t want to sleep with her any more than she wanted to sleep with me, but there was something so charismatic and so pretty and so direct about her that I started to understand why Middle England loved her so much. And I was flattered that she was flirting with me over her large glass of Chenin Blanc. Flattered, too, that she wanted to work with me. It would have been bad manners not to flirt back.
On my third pint of Flemish she got me on to Max. I pulled a photo from my wallet.
‘Ooh,’ she said. ‘Gorgeous begets gorgeous. Is his mother very beautiful?’
‘I think so.’
‘I’ll bet.
Call
your hot wife. Get her down here. And your son, if he’s still up.’
‘He goes to bed at nine.’
‘Not a showbiz kid, then?’
‘No.’
‘How very wise.’
And anyway, I thought, Millicent wouldn’t like this. Whatever this is. However innocent
this
is, Millicent wouldn’t like it at all. She doesn’t mind, she says, the arms across the shoulders, the drinks after work, and the nuzzling goodbyes. But she’s stopped coming out with me, and lies, instead, reading into the small hours. She’s always awake when I come home.
‘It’s the industry,’ I say, ‘it’s just what we do. No one’s screwing. Not since the 90s.’
‘Sure,’ she says. ‘I get that. Did I even say I mind? I don’t mind, Alex.’ But maybe this is my equivalent of
out, thinking
. Maybe it’s that part of me that’s unreachable to Millicent. Because she
minds
. I know she minds.
At half past eight I tried to decide what to do about Millicent’s radio programme. If I left at nine thirty I could hear the end of it, and be in for when Millicent got home. Perhaps I could catch the beginning of it on the download. I could check that Max was safely asleep.
At ten past nine I explained that I had to go.
‘But Gorgeous,’ she said, ‘we’re getting to know each other. Don’t you
want
us to know each other, Alex?’
‘Of course I do, Dee. Of course.’
‘That smile of yours,’ she said. ‘It’s terribly beguiling. Your wife is a lucky woman. Can she really not share you with me just a
little
more? Bit harsh of her, don’t you think?’
‘It’s not her,’ I said, ‘it’s me.’
We’re under
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