Tara and Helen had bumped into each other outside the restaurant and bundled in through reception together, making a beeline for the bar, apologizing profusely to Josie for being late, again. Enzo picked up the remains of Josie’s drink and led them to their regular window table. He would get someone else to take their order today, best to stay away from their table, far too hazardous.
At a discreet table for two, across the window from theirs, sat a beautiful leggy brunette. Her cool brown eyes followed them as they walked across the room. So involved in each other’s chatter, they were oblivious to her.
“I can’t believe it’s only been two weeks since we saw each other, girls, so much has happened, but first, let’s get the drinks in… bottle of house white do you?”
Tara scanned the menu, wanting to get the ordering over quickly so that they could get down to talking. She fancied something naughty like fish, chips and mushy peas but was enjoying the slimmer her and ought to be good… Chef ’s Caesar Salad? nah, boring. She stuck on Seafood Linguine, perfect.
The girls ordered.
“So who’s first, what’s been happening? Hel?…Josie?”
Helen had nothing exciting to report; she was still bored, bored, bored.
Josie started to talk about a great share deal she was doing, when the girl’s eyes predictably glazed over.
“How’s psycho-mouse T?” asked Helen, anything but stocks and shares.
“Dead… finally! But…,” before the girls could start to applaud, “he left behind a wife and kids.”
“Told you T, you left it too long, they have babies in eight weeks or so,” chastised Josie. “How many kids?”
“I don’t know; it’s gone mental. Once I’d caught him I started to catch all these others, smaller ones. I guess he was the provider and once he didn’t come home, they all came out in search of food, but they were not as savvy and got caught. It’s horrendous, I’ve caught nine altogether, I feel sick just talking about it. It’s been taking over my life. Let’s change the subject…I’ve so much to tell you…”
“Wait, wait, wait,” interrupted Josie. “Which of the traps worked? We should know for when we get them.”
“I live in a Penthouse, there is no way will I get them,” announced Helen smugly.
“Duh!! They can climb stairs honey,” corrected Josie.
“Well, three went in the Henry VIII head choppers, four on the glue sheet things, yuk, they were still alive. I couldn’t bring myself to smash them over the head with a frying pan, urrrgh! I know I’m a coward but it is so gross… and two went with the humane thing. All preferred the peanut butter over chocolate, cheese, or raisins.”
“Next time just use the humane one, set them all free, you are so cruel,” whined Helen, not comfortable with hurting little animals, ignoring the fact that she often wore dead ones draped around her shoulders, she had dozens of fur coats.
“Well, that’s what I thought, but the first humane one I took to the park and let him free amongst the beautiful rose bushes, just as the little blighter was running to an exciting new life of freedom ten big black crows whooshed down, out of nowhere, and ate him up, tearing him apart in front of me, it was horrific!”
The girls stared at her, open-mouthed.
“So the next one I decided to set free in the low bushes of a smart communal garden down the road. Hoping that he could live on a life of caviar in one of those posh houses. It was on my way to work and not many crows…”
She took a swig of wine, the suspense kept the girls quiet, waiting for her to continue.
“I popped him out of the trap, which is not easy to open leaning through iron railings, into a bush. Did he do the sensible thing and run to freedom, no, he jumps back out through the railings and follows me down the main road. His little feet trying to keep up with me, running along the pavement. Mothers and children on their way to school and people at bus stops start screaming. ‘He’s not with me,’ I kept saying.
He wouldn’t stop following me. Then I reached the traffic lights of a cross-roads and stood on the kerb waiting for the green light, but he didn’t stop walking. Before I knew it I was risking life and limb straddling the middle of the road stopping traffic so that he didn’t get run over…I tell you it is not easy trying to save a mouse. Anyway, he eventually ran into someone’s garden, someone else’s problem now. I think that’s it. I haven’t had a squeak for a few nights now.”
Helen and Josie were speechless, what could they say? It could only happen to Tara. A faithful mouse.
“More importantly, let’s toast, I’m finally out of my dry patch, girls.”
Click, click… he suspected she was telling them about Franco.
Click, click… then she would tell them about Ed, what a busy girl his angel had been.
“You bonked Franco, the Franco, the sexy gorgeous drop-dead bloody lovely Franco, worth £55 million… in Seb’s smelly old Gents? What the hell, I don’t believe it, go girl,” screeched Helen, slightly louder than she should have.
Normally any mention of Seb’s name gave her a stab of sadness, but this was too bloody exciting to worry about him.
The brunette’s back was bolt straight, her ears pinned back, tuned in to the girls’ conversation. She was trying hard not to smash the champagne glass held in her furious tight grip. Her lips and jaw set in stone, any more pressure in her mouth and she would crack her very expensive teeth.
“No, we didn’t do the full monty there, we did it in the lift… shit, I’m in trouble. If my bosses find out it’s me in those shots, I’m a dead’un, and Franco won’t do it without me, he thinks we can keep a lid on it.”
“What lift? What’s he like? He is soooo delish T. Have you seen his hands? Well, of course you have… he talks with them a lot when he is being interviewed, and his forearms, they are soooo sexy, don’t care what he’s talking about, couldn’t give a monkey’s about footy, he is just so nice to watch, serious eye candy… Franco Rossellini, the thinking woman’s crumpet… fan-bloody-tastic!”
Helen was getting truly excited now; the whole restaurant was beginning to tune in, particularly the brunette. Enzo wished he’d taken their table after all, he was a big fan of Franco Rossellini.
“Shhhhhh, Hel,” rasped Josie. “Big ’ands aren’t always big cocked, I’ve done some research,” she whispered, grinning, they pealed into laughter.
“Look girls, this is serious, I may lose my job,” pleaded Tara.
“Oh, but he is worth it, baby. Does he talk Italian when he’s doing it? What lift?”
“Hel, shut up,” Tara put her hand up to announce another big confession. “There’s more.”
“I know!” jumped in Helen. “You’re pregnant,” looking at Tara’s guilty face, taking it as a yes.
“Ohmigod…there’s gonna be a wedding. I’ve got just the right hat you know,” jumping up and down in her seat. “How romantic, conceived in a lift…”
“No,” whispered Tara, now losing her patience a little.
“I shagged Ed.”
Hearing the words ‘pregnant’ and ‘wedding’, the brunette took a sharp intake of breath, her glass dropped to the terracotta floor. The noise of glass hitting stone shattered the restaurant’s buzzy lunchtime chatter, quickly followed by an embarrassed silence, while everyone looked around at the culprit.
Seeing it was a miserable-looking beauty, sitting alone, probably being stood up, they turned back to their food. Waiters ran to her aid, she ordered another drink, tapping her foot nervously, taking deep breaths, in desperate need of a cigarette.
“Oops, poor thing, how embarrassing. Don’t you hate it when your date doesn’t turn up, must be awful for her, she’s so pretty, must be a model or something. Oh look, here comes her date now…” Josie’s face went white with recognition.
Click, click… this was priceless.
“It’s Franco Rossiwhatsisface T,” whispered Josie. “Don’t look around, it’s ’im, ohmigod… don’t look, stay calm… he hasn’t
seen you… the two-timing pig… does ’e know you’re pregnant? The little shit…”
Tara’s last comment finally dawning on her, Josie squealed, “you did what, shagged Ed the Head?” turning full onto Tara, Franco forgotten.
“While pregnant wiv anuva man’s child? T, how could you?” fine morals, coming from a whore.
Tara couldn’t help but turn round. Josie was right. Franco, her Franco (ok, she’d forgotten him momentarily when with Ed the Head) was kissing the brunette on the cheek and making his apologies for being late. He sat down opposite her, bending down, ordering a beer from the gob-smacked Enzo, who was on his knees under the table, cleaning up the glass. He’d not seen her. She froze.
“Ohmigod,” turning back to the girls.
“I’ve gotta get outta here, this is awful, I feel sick, how dare he!”
Click, click… what a commotion.
“T, sickness will be the pregnancy… be cool, she could be his sister or agent or something, don’t jump to any conclusions. You don’t want to upset the baby,” soothed a caring Helen.
“I AM NOT PREGNANT!” Tara shouted, finally losing it.
The restaurant fell silent again, heads turned, all eyes on Tara, including Franco’s. Now he’d definitely noticed her. She felt herself go pink, then burgundy red.
Pulling herself together, she smiled charmingly at the maître d’, mouthing an exaggerated “Sorry,” shrugging her shoulders and giggling as if a joke, pretending not to notice Franco, who had gone rather pale. The brunette opposite him was furiously tapping her long manicured nails on the side of her new glass.
The maître d’ manoeuvred effortlessly with the stealth of a U-boat across the room to the girls’ table.
“Everything ok ladies? Can I get you anything further?” … like the bill, he muttered to himself.
“Yep, another bottle and a large gin and tonic please,” squeaked Helen, hurt at being shouted at, confused about the baby, the wedding, Ed the Head, and trying to see how big Franco’s hands actually were.
They sat bunched together, whispering, heads leaning in close over their deserted plates of food.
Click, click… poor little girls, not so happy now, are we?
Tara gradually put them right, explained about the photo shoot, the lift, Ed the Head’s visit, that she was not pregnant or getting married, but about to lose her job.
“And to top it all off, someone has scratched ‘BITCH’ on the hood of my car and I keep getting weird calls and text messages from numbers I don’t recognize.”
She’d had a text message that morning: ‘watch out, bitch, gonna get ya’. She’d written the number down and vowed to talk to the police about it. She’d replied, ‘and who the fuck r u?’ No reply as yet.
Franco watched the back of Tara’s head nervously from across the room. Hoping that she would turn round and recognize him, so that he could go over and say hi. Maria was behaving very strangely, she’d called this meeting so that (he thought) they could finish amicably. But she kept muttering about fatherhood and marriage to an English whore.
“Maria, you know our splitting is for the best, I do not have time for a proper relationship right now. I have to put everything into my career this season, no distractions, I’m sorry.”
“Babies take up a lot of time, Franco; I’m surprised you have time for them…you bastard, and suddenly you’re ready to get married, when did that happen? Bastard,” she cursed at him.
“Marriage, babies…what the hell are you going on about?” she wasn’t making any sense, he couldn’t concentrate on her gibberish, he was too busy trying to catch Tara’s eye, which didn’t help matters with Maria.
“What the hell were you doing with Ed? I thought he was over a long time ago?” questioned Helen.
“Yes, No, I mean…. I know I shouldn’t have, but do you know what, it has cured me, all that sadness has lifted. We had a goodbye bonk, closure. Now I can get on with another relationship. I thought that it would be Franco, fat chance, dream on! Is he looking over, are they being lovey-dovey? How dare he, and I thought he was so bloody honourable. All men are shits. The one lunchtime we are not together having nookie, what does he do, shag a stick insect!”
It was then she noticed that the girls had gone quiet, staring open-mouthed, up over her head.
“Hello, Tara,” that unmistakable deep voice.
Franco was standing over her; he leaned down and kissed her cheek, his wonderful big hand on her shoulder (Helen noticed).
“I’m here with an old friend, didn’t know you used this place.
“I won’t disturb you, will call you later,” he nodded a lovely smile at the girls and joined an incensed Maria, waiting at the reception door, anxious to leave.
Tara, speechless, smiled weakly after him, muttering to the girls under her breath, “oh shit, how long had he been there? Did he hear everything?”
Josie and Helen ignored her; they were too busy following his bandy-legged body as it sauntered leisurely away, gob-smacked schoolgirls nudging each other.
“Girls…behave,” she giggled, pleased he’d come over to speak to her and that her girls thought him as gorgeous as she did.
Click, click… he’d had enough.
Seeing Franco in the shot had lost his appetite for the day, he angrily packed up his bag and went home. He’d been getting glares from the coffee shop staff anyway, it may be time to leave this venue alone for a while.
Stepping out into the street, he walked past the parked Mercedes, its newly sprayed hood, shining in the afternoon sun. Its driver sitting quietly behind a newspaper, sunglass-hidden eyes watching David saunter down the road. Its engine purred into life as he turned a corner.
Franco joined the moody brunette at reception, she was anxious to leave. He held open the door as she stepped haughtily out into the sunshine, flicking her long auburn hair into his face as she passed. He glanced back at Tara with an apologetic smile and followed her, knowing the journey home was not going to be easy. He regretted giving Michael the day off, for some strange reason she never argued in front of Michael.
Word had got out that he was there, he happily signed a few autographs on the steps of the restaurant, while Miss Moody high-heel-tottered on the curb as she balanced waving down a taxi and lighting up a much-needed fag.
The girls watched the impossibly long-legged, mini-skirted model through the window.
“Phew, thank God for that,” sighed Tara. “Couldn’t stand being in the same room as him and his bird. I bet they’re off for a shag now, Christ I hate relationships. Men can never be faithful… it’s in their genes… they need to sow their seed in any bloody direction.”
Noticing the girls’ grins, “what?”
“’err, hello…!” they said in unison, staring big-eyed back at her.
“Well, I learned from men…the bastards…they taught me that there is no point in being faithful. They never are, so why should we be?…besides, I knew Ed well before Franco, I was just saying goodbye.”
Tara took a large slurp of her drink, she hadn’t finished moaning.
“Look at the size of her, a skeleton, I’ve seen more meat on a straw, it’s not the bed that rattles when she shags, it’s her bones. She has champagne for lunch, when she is not chucking it on the floor; no wonder there is nothing of her. Hope he doesn’t mind halitosis, people who don’t eat have bad breath.”
They watched as Maria, teetering on the curb, dragged hard on a cigarette. Closing her eyes, she threw back her glossy head and slowly exhaled the calming drug high into the air. For that perfect moment, she looked the beautiful elegant mannequin she was. The look was soon ruined when, hunched over, she frantically searched through her bag for another fag, red manicured fingers anxiously flicking through its contents, all the while angry eyes scanning the streets for the yellow light of a black cab.
“And she smokes like a trooper, ashtray breath smidgenly surpasses halitosis breath, I suppose, and how the hell do those skinny legs not snap
, especially in those heels?” jealousy was not becoming.
“Now, now, T, retract talons, SO not a good look… actually I think they hate each other, there is no way he is into her and look at her, she looks like death, really pissed off. He said they were old friends. He’ll call you tonight and explain all, he may be a little confused about the pregnancy bit though.” Helen slapped her friend’s wrist and waved at the waiter for coffee.
“… give him a chance; he looked really pleased to see you, yummy body, must be fab in the sack, wouldn’t need to fake it with him,” Helen giggled, Tara calmed.
Waiting for the coffee, they discussed her job. Surely she could get away with it. The whole campaign would be all the more exciting if the girl was never found, it could be the making of her career.
“How is Seb T? Got loads of women all over him, I bet,” Helen asked casually, the drink releasing her tongue. “Still miss him, you know, don’t think I will ever get over him,” she said dreamily. “The one that got away.”
The girls knew better than to encourage this line of conversation, they knew how it hurt her. She’d had a load of guys since Seb but would lose interest very quickly and move onto the next. Her appetite to find a man that ticked all the boxes was ferocious. They worried about her increasing promiscuity, hoping her slapper phase was just that…a phase. As long as she kept using protection, they guessed she was old enough to decide for herself.
“I’m trying a new thing at the moment, just giving BJ’s, no internal stuff. See how long we can wait, it may make the relationship last longer, a bit more respect and all that…” the girls stared at her, she hated blow jobs.
“I know… I was shit at it, but I’ve found a teacher, someone who doesn’t mind giving instruction. Donal, you remember him, the Irish jockey I met at AA last week, well he actually talks me through the whole exercise, been training me up, bless him. He does a running commentary, his lingo is a bit dramatic at times, I feel like I’m in the last race at Lingfield, but the finishing line is SO exciting. Gave him seven yesterday, he thinks he’s died and gone to heaven. The last one was on the motorway on the way back from Goodwood, he nearly did die, we just missed a juggernaut… he is SO small behind the wheel, bless him.”
The Penance List Page 14