hadnât liked it.
âYouâre going to remember us,â one of them had said.
Back at home at last, Colin bathed his face, and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Thank God his parents were away, though with their usual perversity, they were coming back tomorrow, rather than adding the weekend to their holiday, like everyone else. Colin looked at his own eyes burning back at him, and threw up in the basin.
He felt suddenly and desperately tired; he collapsed into a chair, and fell into an almost immediate and almost unconscious sleep.
Jake Parker let himself into the large bungalow which he rented from people who had gone to the States on a twelve-month exchange. It was much too large for one person, but it had the right image. Stansfield didnât go in much for penthouse flats; which would have been rather more his style than the over-fussy architecture of the bungalow, not to mention its Laura Ashley interior. Still â it was all right for entertaining business acquaintances.
Bobbie liked it â not that she had been there that much. He preferred to keep her in the background â she didnât quite fit in with the image he was trying to project. She shared a flat with another girl in Malworth, and lived on presents and promises of great things to come.
And they would come. Nothing was going to stand in his way. Heâd made damn sure that he could distance himself from the whole thing â not so Lionel. And if push came to shove, he would have no hesitation in dropping Lionel right in it.
He pulled off his tie, and poured himself a drink. He was tired, after his exertions; his eye hurt. He looked at it in the mirror over the bar, and held the glass up in a grim, silent toast.
Out in the lobby there was a cigarette machine; Mac had given that up too, but he stuffed coins in and pulled out the first packet he came to, tearing off the cellophane as he glanced into the lounge. He longed to be back in bed with her, but she had wanted him to leave, and he wasnât about to spoil things.
It had never been like that with any of the peroxide blondes with their tight skirts and sexy wiggles that more often than not were violations of the Trade Descriptions Act. Melissa wore old jeans and a shapeless sweater; that, he had discovered, was because she didnât need to look sexy. She just was.
The lads on the sports desk didnât know about her, did they? Melissa Fletcher, the one who hadnât had the faintest idea who he was when he had been introduced to her at the paper, who hadnât even remembered his name earlier on this evening, had just given him the best time heâd ever had.
He could have had anyone he wanted in the old days. And had. Models, film stars ⦠falling at his feet, theyâd been. But it was a funny old game, life. Stood up by Donna the dead-cert divorcee who was well past her sell-by date, only to be seduced by someone twelve years his junior who until now hadnât known he existed. Perhaps it had been his personal charisma all along, and nothing to do with the fame and the money. Or perhaps Melissa Fletcher was a pushover, which seemed a touch more likely. Heâd have to tell the sports desk to update their files.
He wondered if she did this all the time. A couple of reps had appeared since he had gone upstairs with Melissa; if he hadnât bumped into her, it might have been one of them. Tough luck, lads, he thought. You donât know what you missed.
She was on the skinny side, and the tall side â Mac had a preference for ladies a couple of inches shorter than he was, and, if anything, she was just a touch taller. Thinking about her made him want her again, despite the tendrils of ardour-damping fog wrapping themselves round him as he stepped out into the damp air. He could have gone on all night, and so could she. But she had asked him to leave.
The mist was patchy now; some spots were clear, and he could see the stars.
âYouâre going to remember us,â one of them had said.
Back at home at last, Colin bathed his face, and looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. Thank God his parents were away, though with their usual perversity, they were coming back tomorrow, rather than adding the weekend to their holiday, like everyone else. Colin looked at his own eyes burning back at him, and threw up in the basin.
He felt suddenly and desperately tired; he collapsed into a chair, and fell into an almost immediate and almost unconscious sleep.
Jake Parker let himself into the large bungalow which he rented from people who had gone to the States on a twelve-month exchange. It was much too large for one person, but it had the right image. Stansfield didnât go in much for penthouse flats; which would have been rather more his style than the over-fussy architecture of the bungalow, not to mention its Laura Ashley interior. Still â it was all right for entertaining business acquaintances.
Bobbie liked it â not that she had been there that much. He preferred to keep her in the background â she didnât quite fit in with the image he was trying to project. She shared a flat with another girl in Malworth, and lived on presents and promises of great things to come.
And they would come. Nothing was going to stand in his way. Heâd made damn sure that he could distance himself from the whole thing â not so Lionel. And if push came to shove, he would have no hesitation in dropping Lionel right in it.
He pulled off his tie, and poured himself a drink. He was tired, after his exertions; his eye hurt. He looked at it in the mirror over the bar, and held the glass up in a grim, silent toast.
Out in the lobby there was a cigarette machine; Mac had given that up too, but he stuffed coins in and pulled out the first packet he came to, tearing off the cellophane as he glanced into the lounge. He longed to be back in bed with her, but she had wanted him to leave, and he wasnât about to spoil things.
It had never been like that with any of the peroxide blondes with their tight skirts and sexy wiggles that more often than not were violations of the Trade Descriptions Act. Melissa wore old jeans and a shapeless sweater; that, he had discovered, was because she didnât need to look sexy. She just was.
The lads on the sports desk didnât know about her, did they? Melissa Fletcher, the one who hadnât had the faintest idea who he was when he had been introduced to her at the paper, who hadnât even remembered his name earlier on this evening, had just given him the best time heâd ever had.
He could have had anyone he wanted in the old days. And had. Models, film stars ⦠falling at his feet, theyâd been. But it was a funny old game, life. Stood up by Donna the dead-cert divorcee who was well past her sell-by date, only to be seduced by someone twelve years his junior who until now hadnât known he existed. Perhaps it had been his personal charisma all along, and nothing to do with the fame and the money. Or perhaps Melissa Fletcher was a pushover, which seemed a touch more likely. Heâd have to tell the sports desk to update their files.
He wondered if she did this all the time. A couple of reps had appeared since he had gone upstairs with Melissa; if he hadnât bumped into her, it might have been one of them. Tough luck, lads, he thought. You donât know what you missed.
She was on the skinny side, and the tall side â Mac had a preference for ladies a couple of inches shorter than he was, and, if anything, she was just a touch taller. Thinking about her made him want her again, despite the tendrils of ardour-damping fog wrapping themselves round him as he stepped out into the damp air. He could have gone on all night, and so could she. But she had asked him to leave.
The mist was patchy now; some spots were clear, and he could see the stars.
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