Come on Eileen

The Bangles were kissing Valentino by a crystal blue Italian stream.

And Ricky was already behind the bar.

'Oh,' she said, 'your train was on time.'

'Good old British Rail,' he replied with a grin. Then, more seriously: 'I understand you saved Joe's life while I was away. He's ever so grateful. In fact he's more in love with you than ever.'

Ricky was a final year undergrad who liked to gossip. Working in the students' favourite watering hole was his dream job. Careful with what she divulged, Angie shrugged.

'I couldn't face the idea of him keeling over and the Union being shut over Christmas,' she said. 'And it's not me he's in love with. Ask him about his lady professor.'

'What lady professor?' Ricky asked eagerly.

'I said ask him, not me. Where is he, anyway?'

'He's in the back, waiting to settle up with you.'

Angie went into the office/storeroom, conscious of a strange lump in her throat. When she'd stepped in to help she'd told herself her stint would soon be over; that bar work was boring but didn't go on for ever. Now her stint was over and suddenly realizing that felt bad. No, realizing that felt like the end of everything.

Shit, she hated farewells!

Joe was behind the desk. Moving a large cardboard box of pork scratchings off the visitors' chair, onto the floor, Angie sat opposite him.

'So that's that,' she began. 'All done with, and we never did try it over a beer barrel.'

'I'm going to ban Gloria from talking to you in future.' Joe coughed. 'I've been adding up your hours. I make it a hundred and fifty.'

'Nonsense; I've done twelve days at nine hours a day. And I've been sent home early these last two days. I make it a hundred at most.'

'Angie, you've been in here every hour we've been open. You've helped out during your breaks and I am the boss. Therefore you have done one hundred and fifty. So here's your money.'

She took the pile of twenty pound notes and counted £500. 'That's far more than we agreed.'

Joe tapped his chest. 'Don't argue or else you might stop the old ticker. And that would rather defeat the object of saving my bacon, wouldn't it?'

'This is far more than the minimum wage. And that's not even come in yet.'

'Not listening. Now then, what are you going to do with your free time; back to studying?'

*****

With time back on her hands Angie spent three hours in the library then, concerned about the cash in her wallet, went into town to visit her bank. £500 was more in hard currency than she'd ever had. Usually she got £30 a week from an ATM and lived off that, doing her best not to top up too often.

£500 tax-free! Joe had told her he'd put her down in the books as "casual labour", making it look as if he'd paid smaller amounts to several individuals. Consequently the taxman wasn't to know unless she foolishly included it on her annual return.

Not that she'd ever yet had an annual return to fill in.

Depositing £400 she left NatWest still feeling rich. Tonight Eileen would be expecting her to be behind the bar. Instead she was going to get taken out and thoroughly wined and dined. With no disrespect to Gandhi's Revenge, tonight Angie was going to do the job properly.

Then she was going to do Eileen properly.

Oh yes, was she!

But she'd missed her usual lunchtime baguette and was peckish. And the alluring smell of fish and chips was in the air.

Eating them out of the paper, Angie made her way to Ye Olde John of Gaunt, easily her favourite of the town centre pubs. A quick visit to the ladies' later and she was armed with a pint of Landlord. And, as she looked around the half-empty pub, she spotted two familiar faces.

Damien seemed surprised to see her. His buddy just smiled smugly.

'I guess we're all eligible for LGBT,' said Angie, taking a seat. 'And we're the only students in here.'

'Give it a fortnight and it'll be wall-to-wall students,' said Buddy.

'What are you after?' said Damien, rather rudely.

'I'm after witty, intelligent company,' Angie replied. 'I'm after charming and amusing repartee. And yes, I must admit, I'm after some of your excellent grass.'

'I'm smoked out,' Damien replied, 'mostly because of you and your girlfriend.'

'Karin's not my girlfriend,' Angie corrected. 'What happened at your party . . .'

'Yeah, yeah,' said Damien. 'What happened stays at my party. Don't worry. I know the score.'

'So when are you scoring some more?'

Suddenly shifty, Damien leant across the table and whispered. 'It should be tonight, with any luck.'

'Can you get extra for me? I'll pay the going rate, of course.'

Damien indicated his empty glass. 'I could do with a pint while I think about it.'

Angie bought three more Landlords, expertly carrying them back to the table.

'So?' she said as she retook her seat.

'You're on,' said Damien. 'What do you want, precisely?'

'I want enough for six of those cigar-sized reefers; ideally already rolled and ready to go.'

He scowled. 'Six won't last you long, way you go.'

'I want to surprise a friend of mine back home,' Angie said patiently, 'and her brother. He smokes all the time and I owe him in a big way.' She chuckled as she spoke. Sandra's brother was a respectable office worker . . . by day. By night he'd be delighted to try a little something brought from afar.

In fact the more afar it came from, the merrier.

So too would Sandra. But Evan wouldn't be present when they smoked the other five.

Not unless they were totally blasted, and there wasn't enough grass on the planet for that.

Chapter Seven

Ricky answered when Angie rang the Union Bar from a public phone box. 'Eileen the darts player,' he mused. 'Would she have red hair and long legs?'

'That's her.'

'She was in this afternoon, mugging a crowd of lads over games of Shanghai. She asked where you were. And she seemed taken aback when I said you don't work here anymore.'

'I hope you didn't scare her off,' said Angie, more than ready to punch the lad's lights out if he had.

'No worries. I made it clear that you're still heroine of the year. She said to tell you she'd be in here at seven.'

Angie thanked him and checked the time as she rang off. It was almost five thirty. Normally she didn't bother changing when she went out. Her clothes were fresh on every day. That meant, so far as she was concerned, she was good for the duration.

But tonight she made the effort. Back in 444 she shaved her head with the usual number one guard and then, conscious Karin had admired her "five-o'clock shadow", shaved her pussy using the same setting, ensuring she was shadow-free. Then she made her second visit of the day to the communal showers and, as clean as she'd ever been, returned to her room.

Her choice of makeup was, to say the least, limited. She'd never bought any, not even one stick of red lippy. Her choice of scents and perfumes was just as exhaustive. She did, however, possess cans of deodorant.

Lynx was a men's brand. Inspired by a TV advert, Angie had started using it years ago.

And what an ad! In it a guy had fallen through a hole into a million years BC . . . into a world that was populated by beautiful cavewomen who all adored the smell of twentieth century arm spray.

Angie had been looking for a similar hole to fall through ever since first seeing that advert.

And she'd used the spray every day, too, just in case.

Her outfit was easily chosen: freshly polished Docs, clean blue jeans and a white sweatshirt without a logo. Clean knickers too, of course. The only thing remotely reused about her was the jacket, and that that been through the wash within the last week.

Okay, so it smelt of pot . . . but who cared?

She nodded as she checked herself in the mirror: fierce and mannish but attractive with it. Her looks were improving as she matured. Or maybe her self-depreciation was waning as her list of conquests grew and grew.

'Bugger it,' she muttered to her reflection, 'you'll do.'

*****

Angie entered the Union at seven on the dot. The bar was busier than it had been over the weekend. Most of the video machines were in action and so too were all of the darts boards. Boy George was on the jukebox, claiming he was a man without conviction.

And Eileen was on the dart board by the window, as usual, hustling another half dozen lads. Seeing Angie, she waved. Angie waved back and mimed drinking . . . her long-distance way of volunteering to buy a round. Eileen held up a full glass of wine and emphatically shook her head.

Joe sprang to serve Angie, starting to pull a Marston's before she even got to the counter.

'I've been at a dead end without you,' he said. 'Ricky knows all my best I Spy clues.'

'Did you try him with FT?'

'No.' Joe grinned. 'Not yet.'

'What's Eileen drinking tonight; Pinot Grigio?'

'Yeah; she's all dressed up for a change. I guess pints don't fit tonight's image.'

'I guess not. And I guess I'd better get her a large one.'

Joe rolled his eyes. 'So she's your hot date.'

'That's right. Raquel Welsh was otherwise engaged. You'll be stuck with your professor for a night or two yet.'

As she approached the darts players Angie was glad she'd made a bit of an effort. Eileen was usually part of the jeans and T-shirt brigade. But not tonight; tonight she was in a short, brown leather skirt and a white dress shirt that was ever-so-slightly tight about her bust. She was wearing stockings and heels too.

And she'd tastefully applied minimal makeup: pale pink lipstick, a touch of green eye shadow and little or nothing else.

Yes, she did look good enough to eat.

Yum, yum!

Angie joined Eileen as it was her turn to throw. They were playing Shanghai again. She was throwing second last and currently going for sixes. From the scoreboard Angie could see they were playing up to the seven and that she only had one serious rival: the lad who'd thrown before her was in the lead by thirty-three points, the others were nowhere.

Graceful as ever, Eileen threw a treble and two singles, scoring thirty.

'Three points behind,' she said to a chubby, blond-haired guy. 'Three treble sevens and you've won.'

Then, turning to Angie, 'You shouldn't have. I've only just bought this.'

'Nice to see you, too,' said Angie, passing her the fresh wine glass.

Eileen hesitated a moment before kissing her chastely on the cheek.

Grinning at her first, Angie kissed her on the mouth, timing it to last just a shade longer than a friendly peck.

'I hope you don't think we're staying here all night,' she said.

'Of course I don't; only until I've finished this game. Then I'm all yours.'

Angie's grin became wolfish. 'I rather hoped you might say that.'

'Ahem,' went the chubby guy. 'It's your throw.'

'Come on Eileen,' added one of his mates, making everybody laugh.

The chubby guy hadn't got three trebles but had scored a creditable thirty-five. Eileen stepped up to the oche and, unhurriedly, quite casually, threw two treble sevens.

'Knock one of them out,' muttered the plump guy, in desperation rather than hope.

Chuckling, avoiding her two winning arrows by as much as she could, Eileen threw a double top.

'How lucky am I,' she said, watching the six lads dropping pound coins into an already well-populated ash tray, making sure nobody bilked.

There was some good-natured grumbling as she collected her winnings and then put her darts away in their fancy leather case.

'Eighteen quid,' she said, 'not bad for half an hour's work.'

'Let's go sit in the Corner,' Angie suggested.

That wiped the smile off Eileen's face. 'I don't know if I dare.'

'Come on duck, there's nobody there just now. Nobody who knows what it's like during term-time, anyway.'

'Are you sure?'

'Sure I'm sure. There's more guys there than girls. And most of them are part-timers; they're not even postgrads.

Distinctly dubious, Eileen accompanied Angie to one of several free tables and sat, sipping vino and looking edgy.

'Where do you want to eat?' Angie asked brightly. 'I'm in the money and I'm buying, so say wherever you like.'

'Gandhi's,' said Eileen without hesitation. 'And we're going Dutch.'

'No we're not. I've got £100 on me and I'm not bothered if we blow all of it. What would you say to that French steak house on Church Street?'

'I'd say I'd prefer Gandhi's. And I'd also say I'm not letting you spend all your Christmas money in one fell swoop. I want to go Dutch.'

'It's not Christmas money; I got paid off for working behind the bar this morning. And £100 is only the tip of a very generous iceberg.'

'Okay,' Eileen said after a pause. 'I'll think about it. But don't expect me to change my mind.'

Changing the subject instead, Angie asked about Eileen's trip home. 'Birkenhead is part of Liverpool, isn't it?'

'No it is not. It's on The Wirral. And we don't actually live in Birkenhead. I say that to fit in. In reality we live in a very posh part of Cheshire. We have several Premier League footballers living close by.'

Angie knew little about football but whistled all the same. 'They'll obviously bring the area down.'

'They do. But there aren't half some fancy cars around. They must all have ten luxury models each.'

'And a few luxury female models, I'll bet.'

'Yeah, sometimes it feels like we're living in Hollywood.'

'Do you mean short skirts and big tits?'

'Yeah, everywhere you look.'

'So why not be proud?' Angie wondered.

'Everyone hears my accent and automatically assumes that I'm a scally. And worse, if I meet anyone from the Pool and they learn the truth . . . Well; I have to endure the slagging, don't I?'

'What do you mean?'

'There are all sorts of things they say. We're so posh we get out of the bath to have a pee. Our streets are spotless because our local council can afford officers to train the pigeons to fly upside down. And someone will always ask about the rates, answering his own question by saying, "Oh no; no rates; we have field mice but no rates," in an affected voice.'

Angie blinked. 'Those are examples of the famous Scouse humour, are they?'

'There are probably better ones,' said Eileen. 'But I'm too nervous to remember all of them.'

Chapter Eight

Eileen never did get wined and dined; not that evening, anyway. Leaving the Union with the intention of bar-hopping until they agreed on a restaurant, they made it as far as the doorway of the third pub.

'I'm getting worse as the night goes on,' she said apologetically, clutching at Angie's hand and looking directly into her eyes.

'What do you mean?'

'I mean my nerves. Back home I'd say I'm bricking myself more by the minute.'

She did have a point. Their conversation had been filled with gaps and uneasy silences, mostly of her making. And her apprehension was infectious. Another hour or so and Angie would be equally jittery.

Not that Angie was ready to fall at the first fence.

Not with her hormones ravaging and raging.

'Let's eat,' she said decisively. 'Gandhi's is just around the corner, if you're sticking to your guns about going Dutch. And that steak house isn't much farther away. You choose. I'll pay the bill or else we can share or whatever. I'll go with whatever you want.'

'I've no appetite at all,' said Eileen. 'Listen, I know that I owe you a . . . I owe you sex. Let's get it done with, yeah? Maybe we can go out again for a curry afterwards.'

Angie stared at her.

'I mean it.' Eileen was blushing. Her hand was trembling. She seemed close to crumbling altogether. 'I might by hungry once we've got the sex out of the way. You might even talk me into a juicy fillet.'

'A juicy fillet,' said Angie, her mind full of different images altogether.

Yes, very, very juicy images at that.

'Right,' said the redhead. 'I mean who knows?'

If ever there was a time to do the decent thing this was it.

Pulling Eileen away from the doorway, out of sight and hearing of other drinkers, Angie took a breath. 'I don't intend to force you into something you don't want to do,' she said, sincerely. 'Forget that stupid bet; I was only joking anyway.'

'But I promised . . .' said Eileen.

'I mean it,' Angie went on, 'let's just have a proper pub crawl instead. Then we can decide about if and where to eat. Heck, we can go back to the Union, if you like. I'll get Joe to make you a baguette that'll blow your mind. Cheese and ham, beef and onion, tuna and whatever . . . you name it. And I'll partner you at darts. That should be amusing if nothing else.'

Eileen gaped.

'Okay,' said Angie. 'So you might lose your unbeaten record. And your profits might slump . . .'

'Frigging hell, girl . . .'

'Don't "frigging hell" me. Just forget the hanky-panky and say yes to the pub crawl.'

'But I promised . . .'

'And I absolve you. You owe me nothing.'

Another lengthy, uneasy silence ensued.

Then proceedings took a significant turn for the better.

'But I want to have sex with you,' Eileen blurted. 'I've thought about nothing else all Christmas. It's the long, slow seduction that's getting to me. Normally I'm more of a smash-and-grab sort of a girl.'

Angie spirits unexpectedly soared. So much for doing the decent thing! All false-diplomacy aside, she was back on board big-time.

Oh yes, was she!

'Are you really?' she said. 'You're not just being polite?'

'Am I heckers like being polite. I'm really, really up for it.'

'So I suddenly see. But I was asking about the smash-and-grab, actually.'

'Yes, that's me all over. I tend to look for partners at parties, when they start playing the last dance.'

'And now you tell me!' Angie laughed out loud. 'I try to be patient and understanding, for the first time in my life . . .'

*****

Their university town wasn't enormous. It was only a ten minute walk to Eileen's flat. And, once there, it only took twenty seconds to go into the bedroom.

'I don't know how to go about this,' said Eileen, apologetic again.

'Don't worry. Leave everything to me.'

Standing there in the middle of the room, Angie kissed Eileen, going very much for slow and sensual, keeping close control.

No groping, she warned herself. Not yet.

Under normal circumstances her hands tended to roam. Right then she forced them to stay steady on Eileen's shoulders, holding her while their tongues fought a lazy duel.

'Okay,' she said eventually, 'it's time to get naked. But relax; I'll do it for both of us.'

She started with her own jacket, taking her time about removing it. Then she went behind Eileen and just as slowly took off hers.

'I love your hair,' she said, kissing the nape of Eileen's neck, licking and nuzzling it.

Eileen sighed.

Back in front of her Angie began undoing the buttons on the white dress shirt, taking care to kiss each area of flesh as it was exposed: her throat first, followed by her collarbone and the tops of her breasts. Next in line was her flat tummy, her hungry, eager mouth making the girl squirm and giggle.

Then, still painstakingly slowly, Angie took Eileen's shirt off, kissing and nibbling at her bare arms and shoulders as soon as they saw light of day.

'Beautiful,' she said honestly, staring at a well-filled bra, her fingers itching. 'Shall I take off my sweat for you now?'

Eileen seemed unable to speak. She nodded.

Keeping "slow" as her watchword, Angie took hold of the hem of her sweatshirt and inched the fabric upwards until her bra-less tits were on the verge of popping out, watching Eileen's face all the while.

Eileen couldn't take her eyes off Angie's breasts. She probably didn't realize it, but the sharp tip of her tongue was between her lips. Her heavy breathing was visible, as was her trembling body. Excitement flickered from her, filling the room.

Infectious or what!

Angie inched a fraction higher and her tits sprang free, bouncing provocatively.