Read Online Last Chance Saloon by Marian Keyes - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marian Keyes
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you’re at it.
‘She’s great,’ Fred said again, then delivered the highest praise he could give any woman. ‘She’s like a bloke with tits.
‘Now Flora there,’ Fred indicated a little woman with blonde bubble curls. ‘Does a great stunt with a bottle of baby oil and a cold flannel, but she’s a bit of a handful, rang my wife and told her –’
‘I thought her name was Connie,’ Joe interrupted.
‘Oh, it is,’ Fred agreed. ‘It is, but we call her Flora because she –’
‘– spreads easily,’ Joe finished drily.
Fred gave Joe a face-splitting beam. ‘Got it in one! I think you’re going to like it here, son.’
Joe wasn’t so sure. ‘What about that… er… Katherine, the accountant?’ he asked casually.
‘Who?’
‘You know, the skinny cute one who wears the suits.’
‘Cute?’ Fred was perplexed. ‘Skinny? Do you mean Lolo?’ He pointed at a dark-haired girl, who was so emaciated her legs were nearly as narrow as her arms. ‘Don’t fancy yours much. But get her to do the thing with the toothpaste when she’s sucking your knob. She won’t swallow, though, I’m giving you fair warning now. She’s too afraid of getting fat.’
‘I thought her name was Deirdre,’ Joe said.
‘It is,’ Fred confirmed. ‘We call her Lolo because she’s always depressed. Moany cow. But at least when she’s got your knob in her gob she can’t go on much.’
‘I see,’ said Joe. ‘But I don’t mean her, anyway. I mean the little Irish girl.’
Fred was so shocked he could barely speak. ‘Her!’ he finally managed. ‘That dried-up old bag.’
‘She’s gorgeous,’ Joe said, in surprise.
‘Gorgeous is as gorgeous does,’ Fred retorted. ‘And she doesn’t
do
anything! I wouldn’t waste your time with her, son. Not when you’ve all these great goers to pick from. I reckon that Katherine lass is a lesbo.’
‘So she wouldn’t go out with you?’ Joe asked, sympathetically.
‘Not just me,’ Fred roared. ‘She won’t go out with anyone. She’s just a pigging waste of space. And take a look at her clothes. She’s like a frigging nun!’
Katherine always came to work decked out in slim, professional suits and crisp white blouses. Some of the other women at Breen Helmsford also wore suits, but with heavy irony. Theirs were sexy, fashionable ones, in bright colours, with short skirts. By contrast, Katherine played it very safe, with her skirt invariably ending just above her knee.
But Joe had noticed giveaway signs of the woman underneath. A slight bunching under her tailored skirt that indicated she was wearing stockings and suspender belt, rather than boring tights. The absence of the little seam up her belly that confirmed his suspicions. Or sometimes, as he sat in front of her, being bollocked for not keeping restaurant receipts, he caught a glimpse of something lacy under her neat white blouse, andresolved to lose even more receipts. So for the eleventh working day in a row he strode over and perched on the edge of her desk.
He was very tall – about six one – and lean with it. But the consensus was that it suited him. Clothes kind of hung on his lanky frame, looking languid and stylish. Today he wore black combats and a long-sleeved T-shirt. To see him properly Katherine had to lean back so much that her face was almost parallel with the ceiling.
‘Morning, Katie,’ he said, a huge smile on his thin face. ‘What’s got you in on a Saturday?’
Katherine was stunned at the ‘Katie’ bit of ‘Morning, Katie.’ At work she cultivated a definite, deliberate distance. No one called her Kathy or Kate or Katie or Kath or Kit or Kitty. She was always Katherine. In fact, she’d have liked it to be Ms Casey, but she knew she was pushing her luck. Breen Helmsford was too contrivedly informal to stand for surnames. Even the managing director Mr Denning insisted on being called Johnny. (Although his name was actually Norman.)
Only the cleaner was addressed by her
‘She’s great,’ Fred said again, then delivered the highest praise he could give any woman. ‘She’s like a bloke with tits.
‘Now Flora there,’ Fred indicated a little woman with blonde bubble curls. ‘Does a great stunt with a bottle of baby oil and a cold flannel, but she’s a bit of a handful, rang my wife and told her –’
‘I thought her name was Connie,’ Joe interrupted.
‘Oh, it is,’ Fred agreed. ‘It is, but we call her Flora because she –’
‘– spreads easily,’ Joe finished drily.
Fred gave Joe a face-splitting beam. ‘Got it in one! I think you’re going to like it here, son.’
Joe wasn’t so sure. ‘What about that… er… Katherine, the accountant?’ he asked casually.
‘Who?’
‘You know, the skinny cute one who wears the suits.’
‘Cute?’ Fred was perplexed. ‘Skinny? Do you mean Lolo?’ He pointed at a dark-haired girl, who was so emaciated her legs were nearly as narrow as her arms. ‘Don’t fancy yours much. But get her to do the thing with the toothpaste when she’s sucking your knob. She won’t swallow, though, I’m giving you fair warning now. She’s too afraid of getting fat.’
‘I thought her name was Deirdre,’ Joe said.
‘It is,’ Fred confirmed. ‘We call her Lolo because she’s always depressed. Moany cow. But at least when she’s got your knob in her gob she can’t go on much.’
‘I see,’ said Joe. ‘But I don’t mean her, anyway. I mean the little Irish girl.’
Fred was so shocked he could barely speak. ‘Her!’ he finally managed. ‘That dried-up old bag.’
‘She’s gorgeous,’ Joe said, in surprise.
‘Gorgeous is as gorgeous does,’ Fred retorted. ‘And she doesn’t
do
anything! I wouldn’t waste your time with her, son. Not when you’ve all these great goers to pick from. I reckon that Katherine lass is a lesbo.’
‘So she wouldn’t go out with you?’ Joe asked, sympathetically.
‘Not just me,’ Fred roared. ‘She won’t go out with anyone. She’s just a pigging waste of space. And take a look at her clothes. She’s like a frigging nun!’
Katherine always came to work decked out in slim, professional suits and crisp white blouses. Some of the other women at Breen Helmsford also wore suits, but with heavy irony. Theirs were sexy, fashionable ones, in bright colours, with short skirts. By contrast, Katherine played it very safe, with her skirt invariably ending just above her knee.
But Joe had noticed giveaway signs of the woman underneath. A slight bunching under her tailored skirt that indicated she was wearing stockings and suspender belt, rather than boring tights. The absence of the little seam up her belly that confirmed his suspicions. Or sometimes, as he sat in front of her, being bollocked for not keeping restaurant receipts, he caught a glimpse of something lacy under her neat white blouse, andresolved to lose even more receipts. So for the eleventh working day in a row he strode over and perched on the edge of her desk.
He was very tall – about six one – and lean with it. But the consensus was that it suited him. Clothes kind of hung on his lanky frame, looking languid and stylish. Today he wore black combats and a long-sleeved T-shirt. To see him properly Katherine had to lean back so much that her face was almost parallel with the ceiling.
‘Morning, Katie,’ he said, a huge smile on his thin face. ‘What’s got you in on a Saturday?’
Katherine was stunned at the ‘Katie’ bit of ‘Morning, Katie.’ At work she cultivated a definite, deliberate distance. No one called her Kathy or Kate or Katie or Kath or Kit or Kitty. She was always Katherine. In fact, she’d have liked it to be Ms Casey, but she knew she was pushing her luck. Breen Helmsford was too contrivedly informal to stand for surnames. Even the managing director Mr Denning insisted on being called Johnny. (Although his name was actually Norman.)
Only the cleaner was addressed by her
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