Amanda's Young Men

by Madeline Moore

  Rupert wanted to open a speciality shop for more extreme styles, four-inch platforms and eight-inch heels, thigh-high skin-fit latex boots and kinky padlocked ankle strap pumps, for example, to cater to strippers and fetishists. If he could find a supplier or two, he’d like to add wider lasts in sizes up to fourteen, for transvestites and transsexuals. That would all be lots of fun, but it would have to make financial sense before Amanda gave his more extreme ideas green lights. The right location would be vital, and likely very expensive.

  Of course, if Sophie Sharpe got her way at the shareholders’ meeting, all this would be for nothing. Or would it? It would be small consolation, but Amanda had to smile at the thought of the nasty bitch finding herself dropped into the middle of a maelstrom of drastic changes, none of which she’d understand. Amanda was sure that the sour cow’s first move, if she took over, would be to fire Rupert, Paul and Nola, thus ensuring that she’d have no one left to explain to her what was going on.

  Amanda left her office and went to Nola’s desk. ‘It’s time to make that special call,’ she said. ‘You’ve got everything straight?’

  ‘Trust me,’ Nola assured her. She picked up her phone and carefully punched each number. When the call was answered she said, ‘Ms Sharpe? It’s me, Nola, from Forsythe Footwear?’ The girl gave Amanda a lop-sided grin. ‘Nola the receptionist – you remember – pink hair, pretty, very short skirts that you didn’t approve of?’

  She nodded at Sophie’s response. ‘Your name isn’t on the list, Ms Sharpe, and it ought to be, oughtn’t it?’ She paused. ‘What list? Oh, the one Ms Garland gave me to call everyone from.’

  She frowned and rolled her eyes at Amanda. ‘The list of shareholders, of course, Ms Sharpe.’ Pause. ‘What am I calling the shareholders for? Well, are you sure you should have been put on the list? I wouldn’t want to …’ She mouthed at Amanda, ‘She’s sure, fucking well sure, come to that.’

  Amanda smiled and waited with Nola for Sophie’s foul stream of invective to slow to a stop.

  Nola continued, ‘Well, about the shareholders’ meeting, Ms Sharpe? The time’s been, like, changed, and I’m supposed to tell everyone when it’s been changed to. I can’t think why your name isn’t on the list. You being a major shareholder and all.’

  She nodded and winked at Amanda. ‘You can think why? Really? Ms Amanda is a what?’ Her eyebrows shot up. ‘Well, if you’re sure …’ She mouthed at Amanda, ‘Fucking well sure,’ and almost laughed.

  Amanda gave her a warning look.

  Nola sat up straight. ‘OK. Well, the meeting’s in the same place, of course, but it’s like, an hour earlier? One thirty instead of half-past two? No, I’m not asking you a question, I’m answering your question.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, I’m sure, oh, and, Ms Sharpe, may I say that it just hasn’t been the same around here since you left us so very suddenly.’

  Sophie Sharpe’s hang-up was so violent that Amanda heard it and Nola winced.

  ‘How did I do?’ she asked.

  ‘Perfectly,’ Amanda congratulated her.

  ‘It’s the advantage of me being so young and looking sort of ditzy, right? No one suspects me when I’m being a bit crafty.’

  ‘I’ll never underestimate you, Nola,’ Amanda promised her.

  ‘No, you’re good like that, sizing people up. That’s what makes you such a great boss – that and how damn hot you are.’ She licked her lips. ‘Where’s the party, after the shareholders’ meeting?’

  ‘I hadn’t thought that far. Besides, you must prepare for the possibility that it won’t be a party so much as a wake.’

  ‘No chance of that,’ Nola said. ‘You’re way too smart for that evil bitch, Ms Amanda.’

  ‘Thanks. And now,’ Amanda announced, ‘I have some important calls of my own to make.’

  So, on what might be her last night as President of Forsythe Footwear, Amanda Garland was once again alone and working late, scheming and dreaming, though more of the former than the latter for once.

  Eventually, she packed up most of her desk, making sure to leave nothing that might be of use to Sophie Sharpe, should the latter be victorious the next day.

  She hadn’t consciously been waiting for Trevor but, when she heard the jangle of his keys as they bounced against his muscular thigh, her heart lifted and she realised she’d been dawdling so he’d come by before she left. There was no real need to see him as all their plans for the following day were made. But he’d been here the first night she stayed late, so it was only fitting he be here on what might be the last.

  As soon as he responded to her greeting by entering her office, Amanda could see that something had changed. Trevor had changed, though she wasn’t sure exactly how. His bulk, always so solid, seemed to be vibrating. His colour was high.

  ‘What?’ She grinned. She could always count on Trevor to amuse her.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I promised I wouldn’t say anything but I have to. Thank you.’ Even his voice sounded different. Huskier than ever, yet sort of – lilting? If husky can be said to lilt.

  ‘What for?’ Amanda grinned again, eager to be in on any game, though ‘the Gratitude Game’ was one she was particularly fond of.

  ‘For Meg, of course. My God, Amanda, she’s just what I’ve been looking for. But then, you knew that.’

  Amanda kept the smile pasted on her face, though her insides were turning upside down, her heart moving into the place where her stomach should be and her stomach up high, so high she couldn’t breathe. ‘Meg?’ It was all she could manage to say but it was enough.

  ‘She’s fantastic, Amanda. Just perfect. The moment I laid eyes on her I knew, I just knew. I wasn’t sure you understood just how … how weary I was of … playing games. But you did, and you did something about it. I’ll never forget this.’

  ‘And Meg?’ She kept the rest of the sentence, ‘the treacherous bitch’, to herself.

  ‘She feels the same. We just … well first I got rid of Sophie Sharpe and then I helped her close and make the night deposit and then we literally fell into each other’s arms. Holy Murphy, Amanda, we’re in love.’ He grinned at her, abashed.

  Trevor, abashed? Fuck.

  ‘Love?’ She sounded like a parrot, or maybe one of those furry little animals that were so popular a few years back. A Furby. Yes. That’s what she was. A funny little toy that had been all the rage for awhile and now lay discarded, untouched and unwanted, with dust balls matted in its once-glossy fur.

  Tears prickled her eyes. She blinked fast to prevent them from falling. No one with a heart, not even a shrivelled black furbeest heart like hers, would mess with the joy that suffused the big man in front of her.

  Amanda cast a protective shield, like invisible ice, around herself. That helped. Ice doesn’t cry. Ice doesn’t feel. Trevor, on the other hand, looked like he might start to jig any moment. Perhaps she should offer him a couch to jump on? Just keep it inside, she growled at herself. Don’t let him know. Be frozen.

  ‘Love! I haven’t felt this way in years. I swore I never would again but here it is and goddam it all it feels good.’ Trevor threw back his head and laughed.

  Amanda realised she’d never really heard him laugh. What else had she missed? Plenty, it seemed. There was plenty about Trevor that she hadn’t even noticed wasn’t there, probably because it wasn’t there in her, either. She’d been a playmate for him, and a damn good one, but nothing more. And what was he to me? A little voice inside her tried to be reasonable. He’d been her playmate and a damn good one. The best, actually, except maybe for Meg. The loss of both of them hurt, or would hurt, once she got this frozen face defrosted. God, he was still going on. His voice boomed in her ears, too loud, much too jubilant.

  ‘… last-minute tickets to Jamaica. We’ve never been so it’ll be an adventure for us both. I’ve resigned from the building and I’m taking my holidays in lieu of notice …’

  Her Meg? The willowy blonde with the wide-set grey eyes and the big grin
. Clown-school Meg? Her angel-without-wings? She couldn’t think which would be worse, to lose Trevor or to lose Meg. Losing both, to each other? No! Amanda’s hands balled into fists but her face stayed frozen, smiling, her eyes glassy, her grin bordering on garish. Goddam it all to hell!

  ‘… she wanted to wait until after the meeting but I knew as soon as I saw you that I had to thank you …’

  Hmm. Perhaps Meg had an inkling that Trevor’s news wouldn’t be met with unbridled joy on Amanda’s part? The conniving bitch. Had their entire evening together been a charade? Nothing more than a night of great sex?

  ‘… understand why you said you wanted me to come to work for you and it didn’t matter if our relationship changed. I understand everything now. You’re tremendous, Amanda. All I can do is say thank you, over and over again, and promise to protect you forever, for the rest of my life. Me and Meg, both, we’re committed to you. To Forsythe Footwear. Forever.’

  She licked her dry lips. ‘I may not be here when you get back from your honeymoon – I mean your holiday. Remember?’

  ‘I have every confidence in the plan. I’ll pick you up at one o’clock sharp. It’s going to work. You’re going to have everything you wanted, Amanda. Or should I say, Ms Garland, President and CEO of Forsythe Footwear. Everything you ever dreamt of.’ Trevor circled her desk and swooped her up out of her chair to press her close to his massive rippled chest in a bear hug that crushed the protective ice shield she’d created and left her defenceless against her devastating loss. ‘Hey. Are you all right?’

  ‘Nervous about tomorrow but I’ll be fine,’ she managed to say. ‘Go, do your rounds. I’ll be gone by the time you’re finished.’

  ‘OK. See you tomorrow!’ He dropped her back into her chair and was out of her office in three strides.

  She managed to keep her silence until she heard the slam of a door that indicated he was out of earshot. Even then, she’d rather have kept the pain inside but it came creeping out her mouth in little muffled consonants, ‘Nnnn. Ooww,’ that hurt so much she had to open her mouth a little more and release the ragged sobs, and a little more, until she was half-howling from her loss.

  Somehow she managed to stagger to her door and slam it shut. ‘Everything you ever dreamt of.’ The irony was murder. She flopped back into her chair and scrabbled at the locked drawer that held, among other things, the velvet bag. She dumped the bag in her lap. Her bracelet was a heap of buttercup gold amidst gleaming charms, old and new. The diamond silver anniversary charm captured plain office light in its microscopic heart and blazed it back through its facets to the surface, where it twinkled like a tiny constellation. Love light.

  She’d loved Roger and he’d almost ruined her. Financially, well, that was one thing, that could happen to anyone. But emotionally. She’d loved him. She loved to make love with him; she loved to groom him and massage him and croon to him in the strange light of dawn when the horrors had him shouting in his sleep. She loved him.

  The platinum watch was off her wrist in a trice. The gold was heavy in her hand when she picked up the bracelet. She wrapped it around her now bare wrist and closed the lobster claw. The weight felt briefly foreign, then deeply familiar. With it came back the memories of all that Mr and Mrs Garland had had and lost.

  The charms chronicled a life, no, her life, as observed by her husband. She examined the bracelet more closely than she had since the day he’d given it to her. Over the years she’d received new charms to celebrate her achievements, which she’d considered modest but Roger had treated as momentous. A party hat and favour represented the fabulous New Year’s Eve party she’d thrown for all of Forsythe Footwear, and a musical note with an emerald in it celebrated the day she’d received her Performance Diploma from the Royal School of Music. The globe was a tribute to the successful ball she’d held to solicit contributions to a charity for children, and a pair of comedy/tragedy masks marked her performance as Ophelia in a Little Theatre presentation of Hamlet. Every one of the charms was dated, so she’d always remember her successes, except for the heart with the ruby in the middle, which was simply inscribed ‘Roger’.

  Then there were the charms he’d purchased in advance, the ones he’d never had a chance to give to her. She’d only looked at the 25th anniversary charm and laughed at his optimism in thinking he’d live long enough for them to celebrate a date still seventeen years in the future. Now she spied among the other charms a baby rattle, no gem, just intricately engraved yellow gold. It too had no date.

  This time she didn’t laugh at his optimism; she wrapped herself in the cloak of it. They’d both wanted children but after many disappointments they’d endured an endless battery of tests, her dedicated to one thing only, having a baby, and Roger, just going along, always willing to give her what she wanted, always saying the same thing, ‘If it’s meant to happen it will, and in the meantime we always have each other.’ When she’d finally given up and collapsed in his arms, bitter with disappointment, he’d crooned, ‘It’s you I want. Just you.’ He’d always known how to soothe her.

  Now Amanda looked at the bracelet in full. Though there were plenty of charms competing for attention, the initial fifteen still clearly spelled out their message. H-I-G-H M-A-I-N-T-E-N-A-N-C-E.

  Her cheeks had flushed and she’d laughed so hard on their first anniversary. She’d covered Roger with kisses and repeated, ‘You know me!’ until he’d hushed her with his mouth. She’d been so delighted with all that gold, so amused by the message of the charms. So much in love.

  All that happiness, gone.

  Gone, gone, and she’d pushed away not one but two chances at ever finding it again. Pushed ’em right into each other’s arms.

  The cloak of optimism she’d wrapped herself in fell away, but it had done its job. Amanda wasn’t frozen any more, and all that melted ice turned into tears.

  25

  AMANDA’S CELL PHONE was on four-way conference. She was wearing a big floppy blue felt hat and that short blue with white polka dots coat-dress that she loved, with sheer navy hose and matching four-inch stiletto-heeled pumps. There were no panties under her dress. Amanda had decided that ‘going commando’ felt empowering. Right now she was undercover but soon, soon she’d be face to face with the enemy. A shoot-out was imminent and not wearing panties made her feel like she’d be quicker on the draw.

  That image, the one of the lone gunslinger, suited the alienation she’d been suffering from since the night before.

  Amanda was seated behind a large potted fig tree with her back to the hotel’s main entrance. It looked as if she was reading but her book concealed a good-sized mirror that she used to watch the entrance. She whispered, ‘There’s another crowd coming in through the revolving doors right now. Be ready!’

  The first people through were a middle-aged couple in crumpled Hawaiian shirts and baggy shorts. They were followed by a tall thin fellow with bushy hair, then a stiffly erect army officer with red tabs, and right behind him came …

  ‘Sophie Sharpe’s on her way. She’ll be at the lifts in ten, nine …’

  Amanda swivelled round to bring the bank of lifts into her mirror’s range. A pair of doors slid open. Rupert and Paul went into the cabin in a flash and turned their backs to study advertisements on opposite walls. Sophie Sharpe stepped in. Something must have made her suspicious because she turned hurriedly, as if to leave – and was blocked by Trevor’s massive bulk.

  Paul stabbed at the buttons. The doors closed behind Trevor’s back.

  They had her, the bitch!

  Amanda picked up her case and caught the next lift up to the tenth floor, one floor higher than the suite the shareholders’ meeting was scheduled to be in. When she got to suite 1012, the tinted glass doors that led to most of the suite were firmly shut. Open double doors led to a boardroom, which was dominated by a big mahogany table at which a struggling Sophie Sharpe was seated, flanked by Paul and Rupert and pinned down by Trevor’s huge paws on her shoulders. Her briefca
se was on the floor beside her chair. Nola sat to one side, her neatly crossed legs exposed almost their full lovely length, far above the tops of her hose, practically to her lap, which was covered by a minuscule pleated skirt in Royal Hunting Stuart tartan. It occurred to Amanda that the girl could have sat in a muddy puddle without soiling its hem.

  That morning, Amanda hadn’t actually laid eyes on her three young employees. Everyone had had tasks to take care of and it looked like Paul, Rupert and Nola had performed theirs very well. The boys were holding their own. Rupert looked a bit grim, like it was hard for him to be there, but Paul, though pale, was staying the course. Nola seemed to regard it as a bit of fun but that was her speciality, wasn’t it?

  Sophie was struggling futilely, spluttering and screaming threats. ‘Unlawful confinement! Kidnapping! Battery!’ She paused to suck in a deep rattling breath before adding a triumphant shrill, ‘Conspiracy!’

  Amanda took off her floppy blue hat and let it sail across the room. She took a seat opposite the incensed woman.

  ‘You think you can stop me like this?’ Sophie demanded. ‘You’re burnt toast, all of you. The minute I get out of here, I’m calling the police and my lawyer. I’ll have every penny you own, all of you, and see you doing hard time. I’ll …’

  Trevor clamped a massive palm over the woman’s mouth. ‘Perhaps you should listen, Ms Sharpe, and find out what’s going on?’

  ‘That’s a very good idea, Ms Sharpe,’ Nola added. ‘Listen to Ms Amanda. I always do.’ She flashed Amanda her sunniest smile, the one that made her shine from the inside out.

  Trevor lifted his palm.

  Sophie looked daggers at Nola. ‘You, you fucking little whore, you …’

  The palm descended.

  ‘Thanks for the “little”,’ Nola commented complacently. ‘All the men seem to like it that I’m petite.’ She stretched her torso and smoothed her black skinny-fit jersey top down over her ribs, to emphasise her slenderness. ‘It makes me easier to pick up.’