‘Oh, no,’ says Suzanne airily. ‘Wherever you want to find it.’
Her mind’s racing. ‘You mean, off the whole budget?’
Suzanne Oddie meets her eye icily. ‘Yes, Amber. That’s what I mean.’
Dear God. She wants me to lose a hundred thousand pounds off a budget that’s already creaking at the seams. I’m using the cheapest everything. There isn’t anywhere to get any of this stuff cheaper, unless I go to China myself and bring it back on foot.
‘Suzanne…’ she begins.
The smile again. ‘Yes?’
‘I… that’s a lot to ask out of the blue.’
‘Oh, it’s OK,’ says Suzanne. ‘I’m not asking you to do it by tomorrow. It’s over the whole year.’
‘Yes, but… twenty per cent?’
Suzanne looks down at her pad. ‘And how much is it we pay you, again?’
She feels a blush. She’s not counted her own salary into the mix. ‘Twenty-two thousand five hundred.’
‘Hmmm.’ Suzanne makes a note.
Martin feels strong, powerful, confident. Feels the way he’s always thought he should. It’s as though Saturday night has taken a big syringe full of self-esteem and shot it directly into his veins. He rarely leaves the house before noon, but today he’s been striding the streets of Whitmouth since nine o’clock, earwigging the shuffling crowds, listening to the talk on the streets and bathing in his glory. I exist now, he thinks. I really exist. They’re all wondering who I am.
He strolls up Mare Street, past the scene of his triumph, and feels the swell of pride as he sees the yellow tape flapping in the wind. Lets himself indulge in a moment’s sensual memory – the whore staggering from side to side, hand hopelessly clutching the gouting wound. He had to jump back a few times to avoid getting gore on his new trainers. I need to be more careful, he thinks. That’s not the way to do it, not if I don’t want to get caught. I need to learn a thing or two from that other guy. Try something less messy next time.
But he doesn’t think the next time will need to come for a while. This is the best he’s ever felt. My God, he thinks. I haven’t even thought about Jackie Jacobs in a couple of hours. She’s nothing to me now. She doesn’t deserve me. Not now I’m Someone. I deserve better than her. Her and her prison guard Amber Gordon. They can’t keep me down any more.
As he’s thinking it, someone brushes his sleeve as they hurry past, apologises, and he looks up. It’s that journalist who chatted him up on the beach: Kirsty Lindsay, flashing him a smile as she hurries on towards the front. Wow, he thinks. I’ve been so caught up in my triumph that I completely forgot to look up what she wrote on Sunday. He makes a mental note to check the Tribune website when he gets in, but decides to follow her for a while first. She won’t be able to brush him off the way she did before. When she notices him, she’ll see he’s Someone too.
She’s dressed down for the day in jeans and a mac, but he sees that there’s a nice body under the clothes. She’s not spectacular, not flashy like the mayfly beauties who totter past him on the strip at night; but she has the sort of solid, womanly good looks, the evidence of self-respect, that a Someone should be aiming at. She’s talking on the phone, has an oversized computer bag hanging off her shoulder, clamped to her body by her other arm, and looks younger than he remembers from their brief meeting. He waits till she’s got a few feet further on, then falls into step behind.
Whoever’s at the other end of the phone isn’t happy with her. ‘I know, darling, and I’ve told you I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘It’s not like I’m here for a fun day out. I can think of a lot of places I’d rather be.’
She stops, and he almost runs into the back of her. He quickly diverts to read the small ads in the window of the newsagent’s. He doesn’t really need to bother with the pretence, as she’s too absorbed in her call to notice what’s going on around her. I should warn her, really, he thinks. To pay attention. People get pickpocketed all the time because they’re not paying attention. Maybe that would be the way to get her talking. She’d be grateful…
‘Yeah, yeah, I know, Jim,’ she says. Her voice is less posh than he remembers; he’s surprised by that. ‘And again, I’m sorry. What? Yeah, I know. Blimey. Like women haven’t been complaining about that for centuries.’
He’s beginning to be concerned about the tone of her voice when she lets out a laugh. ‘I told you not to call me when I’m at work,’ she says.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ she says. ‘Nag, nag, nag, bitch, bitch, bitch. Here I am working my arse off to keep you in the style you want to be accustomed to and all you do is complain. You don’t even keep the house clean.’
Martin doesn’t really understand what’s going on. It doesn’t sound like a happy marriage. She’d never talk like that to me, he thinks. You’ve got to have respect in a relationship, or it will never work.
She laughs again. ‘Yeah, not a chance. I wish I could, but there’s no point. I’d just have to come back tomorrow, and I’ve got copy to file this afternoon. What? Yeah. Pissing down, and the sort of wind that tears your knickers off. Yup. Yes, I am, you dirty sod. The Voyagers Rest. The Trib really know how to treat a girl, don’t they? Still. No. Not yet. Tomorrow, probably. Yeah. I’ll give you a call later. Yes. I promise. Promise. Yes.’
She hangs up, drops the phone into her bag. Walks on, then turns abruptly into Londis. He follows her in and watches her buy an egg sandwich and a bottle of sparkling water.
Amber’s head is so full she feels it will burst. Meetings with Suzanne Oddie always leave her feeling wrong-footed, ill-educated and unimportant, but today’s has left her terrified.
They’ll hate me. All of them. The ones I sack and the ones who will have to take on the extra work for no extra pay. And who do I sack? Who? There’s no way to reframe this; no way to make the outcome a good one.
A little voice says: Jackie. She pushes it down. Being a selfish house guest doesn’t mean she deserves to lose her job.
Shit, she thinks. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.
She sees Vic, working the waltzer. A couple of girls in the queue have obviously noticed him, are nudging each other and passing comment the way girls always do. She feels a sharp ache in her lower back, is suddenly aware again of the bruises on her thighs, as though the sight of him has set the pain off. I hope he comes back soon, the Real Vic; I can’t take much more love from the Other One.
Vic sees her, and a smile flickers across his face. He’s feeling right on top again; he’s got the old adrenalin surge. Feels like it will last for days this time, like it did in the old days. Yeah, he thinks at the departing back. But I’ll be home tonight anyway, won’t I? When I feel like it.
He spots the girls in the queue, gives them a treat with his sparkling eyes. Sees them look at each other and burst into a fit of giggles. It’s so easy, isn’t it? he thinks. Just so damn easy. Women, they’re just there for the taking. A flash of your arms and a Bacardi and Coke, and you can do anything you want. That’s why I stay with her. She’s not a pushover. A woman with a bit of self-respect, that’s what I like. That and the other.
Not so much self-respect yesterday, he thinks.
The girls come round again; they’re pretending not to look, simpering into each other’s eyes. He knows the routine. Three more circuits and they’re all his.
He steps over to the nearest gondola, sets it spinning, raises shrieks of fear-filled pleasure from the tarts inside. The graze on his knuckles is beginning to scab over, and splits slightly when he grips the seat-back. He quite likes the feeling. It makes him feel alive. He spins the gondola again and listens to them scream.