by Lynda Renham
‘Interested in the warrior are you? I’ll have to admit, you’ll be the first.’
The shopkeeper’s voice makes me jump and I almost knock the warrior over. We both clutch a breast to steady her.
‘She’s not really my thing,’ I say, keeping my voice low.
The last thing I need is her staring at me from the corner of my new living room.
‘Roxie Brown,’ says Sam Lockwood, ‘I would never have taken you for an antique browser, let alone a warrior enthusiast.’
‘I always was a big fan of Zulu,’ I say moving out from behind the warrior and trying to keep my eyes off his hairy legs.
‘Great film,’ he agrees. ‘Don’t shoot until you see the whites of their eyes,’ he mimics.
‘I wouldn’t have taken you for an antique browser either.’
‘I’m actually looking for a wedding present. They’re both keen on the forties era, don’t ask me why.’
‘I’ve got some great Hitler books, a couple of swastikas too,’ says the shopkeeper. ‘I’ve got lots of Nazi memorabilia somewhere. Oh, here you go. A pair of gas masks.’
He holds them up for us. I raise my eyebrows and Sam smiles.
‘I’m not sure two gas masks are the best wedding presents, or swastikas come to that.’
I fight back a giggle.
‘What about you?’ he asks, ‘What brings you here, apart from female Zulu warriors.’
‘My friend Felix said this was the best for second-hand furniture. I’ve just bought my own flat …’
I stop, realising I’m giving away too much information.
‘With The Gunner?’ he asks, looking questioningly into my eyes.
‘Without the Gunner,’ I say, turning to the dresser.
I glance at his reflection in an antiquated mirror. He’s extraordinarily handsome, even with a five o’clock shadow. He’s hairier than a werewolf.
‘Seen anything you fancy?’ he asks, giving a wink.
I blush and turn to the dresser.
‘How much is this?’ I ask the shopkeeper.
‘That belonged to a titled lady so I can’t let that go for less than seventy-five quid.’
‘A better choice than the warrior if you want my opinion,’ says Sam.
‘I’ll take it,’ I say.
‘You’re decisive’ he grins. ‘What else do we need?’
‘We?’ I repeat.
‘Just a figure of speech,’ he smiles.
Ooh that smile is doing things to me that it really shouldn’t be doing. Only Ark Morgan is supposed to make me feel like this. Important to remember that Sam Lockwood is Ark’s enemy and business rival.
‘Got some lovely bedside cabinets,’ says the shopkeeper.
‘Do we need those?’ asks Sam.
‘Shouldn’t you be browsing the forties memorabilia?’ I ask.
‘Quite right,’ he says, wandering back to the LPs. ‘Give a shout if you need any advice.’
‘I’m sure I can cope, thank you.’
He looks at a jukebox on the other side of the shop and I sigh with relief.
‘These are quality,’ says the shopkeeper showing me the bedside cabinets.
I picture my six-foot bed. I then find myself imagining Ark lying on it and come over all hot. I grab a fan from on top of the dresser.
‘That looks forties style,’ says a voice behind me. Oh for goodness’ sake.
‘Most likely,’ says the shopkeeper.
‘Can I see it?’ says Sam, sliding the fan from my hand and stroking my fingers with his as he does so. Sensations flood through me and make my body quiver. He has that Mr nice-guy manner about him. Please don’t be fooled, Ark’s words echo in my head.
‘These cabinets are great, are you taking them?’ Sam asks.
If I had time to think I might be able to make a decision.
‘I’ll let you have both for thirty quid, seeing as you’re buying the dresser and all.’
‘How much for the jukebox?’ asks Sam.
‘Oh yeah, that’s forties for sure,’ says the shopkeeper.
‘Actually it’s more fifties,’ I say, although why I’m getting involved I do not know.
‘It’s got forties records on it,’ says the shopkeeper determinedly.
‘Sounds perfect,’ says Sam.
Oh good, maybe he’ll buy it and disappear. I try to visualise the bedside cabinets next to my six-foot bed and decide to take them. At that moment my phone bleeps with a text. I pull if from my bag to see it is from Ark.
I hope you’re keeping out of trouble Miss Brown. I have missed you. Work has kept me busy and away from you.
I stare at the screen feeling Sam’s eyes on me. Before I can type a response, another one bleeps at me.
Are you alone?
I’m just buying beside cabinets, I message back.
Oh God, I couldn’t have sent a more boring text if I’d tried could I?
I hope they match your bed Miss Brown.
Yes,’ I reply, they do.
I hope you’re going to bed alone Miss Brown.
I feel my legs go weak and grab the warrior’s breast for support.
‘I see you’re quite taken with that,’ says the shopkeeper.
‘Yes,’ I text back with trembling fingers.
‘You’ve not been seeing Sam Lockwood have you?’
Good God, it’s as if he’s in the shop with us. Honestly, if I didn’t know better I’d think it was Sam Lockwood he was interested in and not me.
‘Do you like to cook Miss Brown?’
‘I love cook …’ I begin.
‘Seen anything else you like?’ asks Sam, from behind me. I jump out of my skin and my finger hits send. Holy shit. I look down at my text message and almost die from shame.
It reads, I love cock. I could kill sodding Sam Lockwood. My phone bleeps again and I’m too afraid to look.
‘Sounds wonderful Miss Brown. I look forward to our next meeting. I will be in touch.’
My face must be scarlet. Sam hands me the fan.
‘You look hot. Not bad news I hope?’
‘I’ll throw that in for thirty quid,’ says the shopkeeper.
‘A bit pricey for a fan,’ I say. The shopkeeper and Sam look at me and I realise I’m still grasping the warrior’s breast. I quickly pull my hand away.
‘Oh, you mean the warrior? Thank you but as lovely as she is I really have nowhere to put her.’
I wait for another text from Ark but nothing comes. What must he think of me? Surely he will know I meant to say cooking.
‘You seem attached to it,’ smiles Sam. I ignore him and turn to the shopkeeper.
‘When can you deliver?’
‘That’s the thing,’ he says, whipping my credit card from my hand, ‘The van’s got a bit of a problem.’
‘Oh,’ I say, trying to collect my thoughts.
He shoves the credit card machine under my nose.
‘What kind of a problem?’ I ask, slowly punching in the pin.
‘It’s broken down. I reckon it will be two weeks before I can promise delivery, unless of course you’ve got other means of getting them home.’
I don’t think they will fit into the Fiesta. The card machine whirrs as my purchase goes through. Damn it.
‘Do you know where I can hire a van?’ I ask.
‘Where’s it to?’
Sam hovers over us and I can almost see his ears twitching.
‘Rommel Mansions,’ I say softly.
‘I can help you with that,’ pipes up Sam. ‘I know it well.’
He would wouldn’t he? My phone bleeps again and I peer at it cautiously. It’s Hal.
‘The Great Zehilda got it right. I’m pregnant. I did the test an hour ago.’
I rather think The Great Zehilda picked up on Hal’s swollen breasts and tearfulness. No wonder her wedding dress looked tight.
‘Wonderful,’ I respond. ‘I’d never have guessed.’
‘I did struggle with the dress,’ she tex
ts back.
‘Congratulations.’
‘You really shouldn’t leave it too long.’
I really don’t know what everyone expects me to do aside from go home and inseminate myself.
‘I can do it for you this afternoon,’ says Sam.
‘What?’ I say my head still full of thoughts of insemination.
‘I can deliver your stuff this afternoon. I’ve got the company van today.’
‘Sounds grand,’ says the shopkeeper
‘Isn’t there a job you should be doing?’
‘This is my job,’ says the shopkeeper.
‘I meant him,’ I say, tipping my head towards Sam, who, by the way has hairy toes as well. Good God, the man is a gorilla.
‘That’s the beauty of being your own boss. You can take a day off whenever you want to.’
It’s very tempting. At least I’ll get everything into the flat today. Then Ark’s words come back to me, He’s bad news.
‘That would help us out,’ says the shopkeeper, as if it’s all done and dusted. Excuse me, doesn’t anyone ask the customer any more?
‘Sure you don’t want the warrior? I can knock her down to twenty-five.’
‘You do go well together,’ grins Sam. ‘You’ll never be lonely.’
I glare at him. I notice the bruise is not so prominent on his cheek today.
‘Isn’t there someone you should be beating up?’ I say turning away from him.
‘I don’t think of boxing as beating people up,’ he says in that soft, crystal clear voice of his. ‘So what do you say about the delivery? You can’t still be cross with me about the pavlova? It was only a few raspberries.’
‘It has nothing to do with the raspberries,’ I say.
‘That’s a relief,’ he smiles. ‘I hate falling out with people over fruit.’
‘Shall I book you in for delivery?’ asks the shopkeeper. ‘There’s a charge of twenty-five quid.’
‘Whereas I’ll do it for free,’ adds Sam.
‘Sounds good to me, and I’ll throw her in for twenty quid,’ he says pointing to the warrior.
‘I really don’t …’
‘Fifteen,’ he pushes.
‘It’s meant to be yours,’ grins Sam. ‘I’ll tell you what. I’ll buy it as a flat warming present. I’ll have the jukebox too.’
‘Great,’ exclaims the shopkeeper, taking Sam’s cash eagerly.
‘Have you got the whole day off?’ Sam asks.
I give him a sharp look.
‘I can’t get anything right can I?’ he grins. ‘Everything I say is wrong.’
‘He has that Mr nice-guy manner about him. Please don’t be fooled.’ Ark’s words echo in my head.
‘I’ll bring the van round. You’re welcome to come in the van too,’ he says, giving me a sidelong look.
‘I’ve got my car.’
‘I’ll follow you then.’
And see my tatty Fiesta? No thanks.
‘I’ll meet you there,’ I say. ‘How much do I owe you?’
‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t I take you and the furniture in the van and come back later for the car, and if you really want to pay me then have a bite to eat with me.’
‘Maybe I’ll just pay the shopkeeper for a delivery,’ I say hotly.
‘Now what have I done? I’m just being friendly. Ah,’ he says, holding up a finger. ‘Ark Morgan is your new boyfriend. He wouldn’t want you going out to dinner with me would he?’
I glare at him.
‘Ark Morgan is not my new boyfriend. I’m getting over a break up.’
He nods.
‘Not that it’s any of my business, but I agree it’s a bit quick to have a new boyfriend. I only saw you about a month ago crying into your camomile tea over the Gunner and his redhead …’
‘Bottled redhead,’ I interrupt.
‘Ah, that’s bad taste,’ he agrees.
‘And a slummy mummy at that,’ I continue. I don’t know why I’m sharing all this with Sam of all people. He sucks in his breath.
‘Bad taste to totally bad taste,’ he agrees, giving an impish grin. ‘Talking of bad taste, what are you doing with Ark Morgan?’
I shake my head in exasperation.
‘Okay, not my business,’ he concedes.
‘So who’s doing the delivery?’ asks the weary shopkeeper.
Sam looks at me. It really would be rather petty to say no and it is only dinner.
‘Okay, thank you very much,’ I say. ‘And dinner would be nice.’
‘Great.’
I only hope he changes out of those shorts.
Sylvie
This is going to be harder than I imagined. I don’t know what made me think I could just stroll in and chat to the guy. He may not be Tom Cruise high profile but he’s high profile all the same. I couldn’t believe he was all over Google. There’s bound to be bodyguards and all sorts. I hover at the stage door, straighten my poncho, adjust my hat and gently turn the handle prepared for it to be locked. Good God, it opens. I wasn’t expecting that. I look into a dark musky corridor. For all I know there may not be anyone here. On Google it said he was rehearsing his new play at The Majestic in Chelsea between filming his first movie. Knowing my luck today will be the day he is filming his movie. I let the door close behind me and walk gingerly down the corridor towards the sound of voices. Blimey, if it’s this easy to get to a celeb I’ll have to work my way up to Jude Law. I wish there was some light here. I can’t see a thing.
‘Can I help you?’
‘Jesus wept,’ I shriek, almost jumping out of my skin. I turn to see a burly man with a crew cut, staring at me. He’s wearing a smart black suit with a crisp white shirt. I knew they’d be bodyguards.
‘You certainly didn’t help me just then,’ I say crossly. ‘What’s your job, scaring people to death? because if it is, you’re bloody good at it.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he smiles, ‘but this is not for public access.’
‘I’m looking for Nigel Forrest. I work for the Morgan Group.’ I pull out my Morgan Group badge and flash it at him like DCI Jane Tennison and before he has time to open his mouth, I add, ‘Mr Forrest was at a function on Mr Morgan’s yacht last week. Some rather nice cufflinks were found after the party …’
‘Cufflinks?’ he repeats in a disbelieving voice.
‘Well these parties get a bit hairy after a time and a lot more than cufflinks can come off.’ Jesus, what am I saying? I’m not doing much for Ark Morgan’s reputation.
‘You want to check with Mr Forrest if they’re his.’
Come to think of it, I’m not doing a great deal for Nigel Forrest’s reputation either.
‘If that’s okay,’ I say.
‘You’re checking with all the guests are you?’ he asks suspiciously.
‘Only those with the initial NF matching the engravings on the cufflinks,’ I say, not missing a beat. ‘There were only three guests with those initials. Of course, I could phone Mr Forrest but Mr Morgan prefers the more personal touch.’
It will certainly be personal if he finds out. In fact it will be that personal, I’ll no doubt get the sack.
‘What the fuck is going on out there? Some of us are trying to have a bloody rehearsal,’ yells a voice from beyond the closed door. ‘Christ, do you think you can make a bit more noise?’
‘Brian Moody, the director,’ says the burly man. ‘He doesn’t like interruptions.’
The door is flung open and a man in a bright striped scarf glares at us. I study the scarf and decide it is nowhere near a Where’s Wally one and smile warmly at him. He pushes his glasses onto his head and peers at me.
‘Do I know you?’ he says in an Ian McKellen voice. In fact for all I know he may well be Ian himself.
‘The lady is here to see Nigel.’
‘Did someone mention my name?’ calls another voice. Then standing in front of me is Nigel Forrest, ten times better looking than the photos on Google. He’s actually quite gorgeous
and doesn’t look in the least like a murderer to me, but then looks can be deceiving. He’s wearing a fab cap and I find myself looking at it enviously.
‘Nigel darling, we really don’t have time for you to ingratiate yourself with groupies.’
‘Excuse me, I’m not a groupie and I rather resent being called one,’ I say firmly.
Groupie, my arse, surely they come looking more appealing than me.
‘I love your hat,’ smiles Nigel Forrest
‘Thank you. It’s my favourite. I love your cap.’
‘For Christ’s sake, Can we have less of the mutual admiration society here and more bloody acting,’ snarls Brian Moody. He’s a cheerful bugger.
Nigel Forrest checks his watch.
‘It’s four Brian. We have been at it for some time and frankly I’m famished. Never mind the play; if I don’t eat soon I’ll die from starvation.’
‘Darling, you never stop eating, but I agree, we could all do with a break. My nerves are frayed.’
‘Great,’ says Nigel, smiling at me. ‘Fancy a bite.’
I am peckish. I’d worked right through lunch. I could kill Roxie for taking time off. I hate working with Kitty. She needs a firework up her arse she’s that slow. It took us forever to get the rooms done and then she buggers off early. I wouldn’t mind but she didn’t arrive until seven so I was working the first hour alone anyway.
‘That would be great, thanks.’
‘There’s a burger bar around the corner, do you know it?’ he asks, grabbing a jacket and thankfully without a Where’s Wally scarf. I shake my head.