Last Chance Saloon - Marian Keyes [23]
On Joe’s first day, Fred Franklin, the overweight, fortyish, heavy-drinking Lancastrian who was to be his boss, had taken him aside. First he’d established what football team Joe supported – Arsenal – then gave him some words of avuncular wisdom on his new post. Where the coffee machine was, how to fiddle his expenses and, most importantly, the best women to pursue. ‘Martini, there,’ Fred told Joe, indicating a tall, toothy redhead. ‘Goes like the clappers.’
‘I thought her name was Samantha,’ Joe said.
‘Aye, technically speaking it is,’ Fred admitted, ‘but we call her Martini, because anytime, anyplace, anywhere, she’s up for it.
‘She’s great,’ Fred said, with a fond smile. ‘She’ll do anything. Anything. And she never wants those daft things women always want.’
‘You mean flowers and chocolates?’ Joe asked.
‘I mean phone calls, remembering her name, that kind of thing. She’s just in it for the sex. She’ll even let you watch the footie while you’re at it.
‘She’s great,’ Fred said again, then delivered the highest praise he could give any woman. ‘She’s like a bloke with tits.
‘Now Flora there,’ Fred indicated a little woman with blonde bubble curls. ‘Does a great stunt with a bottle of baby oil and a cold flannel, but she’s a bit of a handful, rang my wife and told her –’
‘I thought her name was Connie,’ Joe interrupted.
‘Oh, it is,’ Fred agreed. ‘It is, but we call her Flora because she –’
‘– spreads easily,’ Joe finished drily.
Fred gave Joe a face-splitting beam. ‘Got it in one! I think you’re going to like it here, son.’
Joe wasn’t so sure. ‘What about that… er… Katherine, the accountant?’ he asked casually.
‘Who?’
‘You know, the skinny cute one who wears the suits.’
‘Cute?’ Fred was perplexed. ‘Skinny? Do you mean Lolo?’ He pointed at a dark-haired girl, who was so emaciated her legs were nearly as narrow as her arms. ‘Don’t fancy yours much. But get her to do the thing with the toothpaste when she’s sucking your knob. She won’t swallow, though, I’m giving you fair warning now. She’s too afraid of getting fat.’
‘I thought her name was Deirdre,’ Joe said.
‘It is,’ Fred confirmed. ‘We call her Lolo because she’s always depressed. Moany cow. But at least when she’s got your knob in her gob she can’t go on much.’
‘I see,’ said Joe. ‘But I don’t mean her, anyway. I mean the little Irish girl.’
Fred was so shocked he could barely speak. ‘Her!’ he finally managed. ‘That dried-up old bag.’
‘She’s gorgeous,’ Joe said, in surprise.
‘Gorgeous is as gorgeous does,’ Fred retorted. ‘And she doesn’t do anything! I wouldn’t waste your time with her, son. Not when you’ve all these great goers to pick from. I reckon that Katherine lass is a lesbo.’
‘So she wouldn’t go out with you?’ Joe asked, sympathetically.
‘Not just me,’ Fred roared. ‘She won’t go out with anyone. She’s just a pigging waste of space. And take a look at her clothes. She’s like a frigging nun!’
Katherine always came to work decked out in slim, professional suits and crisp white blouses. Some of the other women at Breen Helmsford also wore suits, but with heavy irony. Theirs were sexy, fashionable ones, in bright colours, with short skirts. By contrast, Katherine played it very safe, with her skirt invariably ending just above her knee.
But Joe had noticed giveaway signs of the woman underneath. A slight bunching under her tailored skirt that indicated she was wearing stockings and suspender belt, rather than boring tights. The absence of the little seam up her belly that confirmed his suspicions. Or sometimes, as he sat in front of her, being bollocked for not keeping restaurant receipts, he caught a glimpse of something lacy under her neat white blouse, and resolved to lose even more receipts. So for the eleventh working day in a row he