Entertaining at Large Ch. 17

'Sorting your bloody life out, missy, that's what.'

I laughed.

'By looking through sheaves of pictures of naked women? How's that helping me, you old pervert?'

'That's for us to know and for you to find out, you little tart.'

The others grinned at the pair of us while we jousted. I was still no wiser as to what they were really up to.

'If I've said it once, I've said it a thousand times, what you need is a bloke to sort you out regular like. Then you'd keep your nose out of other folks' business.'

'The only thing you've ever said a thousand times is 'get 'em off and let me give you a good shafting'. Success rate of about one in a hundred if what the girls in the Ladies say is right.'

Scarlett snorted and went red in the face as she tried to suppress her laughter. Mr J smiled up at me supportively. James just looked confused as George muttered to himself under his breath. Mr J cleared his throat to get my attention.

'You wouldn't believe it to listen to him, but George is actually being very supportive. We're trying to solve your little problem. Lower your profile as it were.'

I looked around the group again. James was nodding enthusiastically. Scarlett just smiled enigmatically. The man himself scowled threateningly.

'You can thank me later.'

'No George. You'll get your reward in heaven. Hopefully a long time in the future. So for the present, if you wouldn't mind taking your hand off my arse and get back to whatever you were doing I'd be grateful.

'Spoilsport.'

'Moi? Never. I just don't want you getting distracted from whatever devious plan you're all hatching. I trust the other three implicitly. Otherwise I'd be running out of the place screaming.'

I bent and kissed the top of his head and gave him my sweetest smile.

'In the same spirit of supportiveness, I'm going to see if I can sort out that miserable sod.'

I nodded towards Steve. He looked for all the world like a Peanuts cartoon character; the one with the black cloud constantly hovering above him. Wot and Pete were looking increasingly desperate. The three at the table all looked over to see who I was talking about. All their faces bore frowns when they turned back to me.

Mr J: 'Got your work cut out there, love, good luck.'

Scarlett: 'I'll organise a whip round for you if you can just stop him going on about how splitting up with Chloe was the worst mistake of his life.'

James: 'He does make it sound like a local version of Romeo and Juliet, doesn't he? Hard job.'

George: 'Rubbish. Onlyjob he needs is ahand job or ablow job. Geddit?'

He started laughing at his own insight. I punched him in the arm which drew appreciative nods from the others. Great minds think alike.

'Oddly, oh fat one, that's not a million miles from the solution I had in mind. I'll pencil you in as volunteering to suck him off if I can't get a better candidate. Thanks for that. Toodeloo.'

I waggled my fingers in farewell and retreated to the centre of the bar to the sound of general cackling. I looked over at my three team mates - Luke and Tracey were obviously still enjoying one of their longer sessions - as I reached into my bag for my phone. The two Poles had the look of beleaguered passengers stuck on a station platform late at night with the buffet and waiting rooms closed and the unwanted presence of a train spotter in full-flow on the intricacies of steam versus Diesel engines. I grinned at them sympathetically as they frantically tried to get me to go over. I found the number I was searching for and waved the phone at them whilst holding up a finger to indicate I'd be with them in a minute.

'Monica?'

'This is Monique. How may I help you this evening?'

I laughed. I knew my friend's phone would have told her who was calling; we spoke once or twice a week. I was impressed by the sultry telephone manner she adopted.

'Busy?'

'Never too busy for you. This place is dead. And Peter, the hunky barman, is still resisting all my wiles. Will he ever succumb and let me suck his todger?'

From the pathetic, love-lorn tone of her last comment I assumed it was made for the benefit of the sullen bartender at The Royal who must have been within hearing distance. He was the epitome of detachment, oblivious to every and any human drama going on around him. I knew from our chats that Monica was convinced she was thawing the glacier. The few times I'd been in The Hideaway bar with her I could detect little evidence of it. But hey, give a girl her due. No one could say she wasn't a trier.

'Got time for a good deed?'

'Are you thinking Mother Theresa good deed, or more in line of me throwing someone a freebie?'

'The latter. But if you were willing to dress up as a nun, so much the better.'

'I'm intrigued.'

Her tone softened and became more confidential. It took me a few minutes to explain the Steve situation. Then a few minutes more to persuade her he was reasonably good looking and, if she could persuade him to put his mind to it, able of giving her a good time. I then had to resort to whispers. She got the scenario, but couldn't grasp why - if I was being truthful - I didn't do the good deed myself. I conceded her point and then had to listen to her incredulity as I explained my no-shagging-team-mates rule.

'OK. OK. I'll do it.'

She was clearly stifling guffaws.

'But if I get there and discover he's a dog you'll owe me big time, young lady.'

'You're a saint.'

'Yep. Just the look I was going for. Saint Monique, patron saint of the lonely deceiver. Will you phone the pope or shall I?'

'I've got him on speed dial. You'll get your beatification in the post.'

'So where are you?'

'The Crown and Anchor. Know it?'

The other end of the line went silent.

'Hello? Monique? You still there?'

'Yes.'

Her tone was flat.

'Problem?'

I could almost feel her hesitation at the other end of the line.

'Maybe. Nigel's not there is he?'

'Nigel?'

'My son. You remember. Tall, skinny.'

'Oh, that Nigel. Its such a common name now that the place has gone all classy. No, he's not here. He usually only comes in on a Friday. You know what young lads and strippers are like.'

'No, actually. I don't.'

She sounded playful again, but still a little wary. I promised to explain it to her when we met.

'It's just that...'

'You wouldn't want him seeing his mum behaving like a tart?'

'In a nutshell, yes.'

She sounded grateful I hadn't made her say it herself.

'Don't worry, he's never here on a Wednesday.'

'He did say he was going over to Alice's this evening.'

'There you are then. He'll be trying to talk his way into her knickers as we speak. No chance we'll see him.'

'She's a nice girl.'

Monique sounded a little huffy. I tried to think fast. I needed her more than she needed me and I couldn't tell whether she was putting it on.

'I'm sure she is. OK, so he'll be trying andfailing to talk himself into her knickers. Either way, he's not going to show up here, is he?'

I paused. I hoped theatrically.

'Unless, of course, she's wearing her naughty-girl panties tonight. In which case...'

Monique laughed.

'Alright, you've made your point. I'll be there in ten.'

We exchanged a few more minutes of almost masculine suggestive banter and I let her go. I looked over at the morose Steve. His demeanour hadn't changed. He wouldn't know what had hit him. I smiled to myself, regretting for the first time ever that I didn't have a villain's moustache I could twirl.

'You're looking pleased with yourself.'

'Plots and schemes, Mandy, plots and schemes.'

I tapped the side of my nose and she leaned across the bar with enough subtlety to immediately draw the attention of Bert and his mates. She stared hostilely. It was not enough to make them rethink.

'Back off you lot or we'll start talking about menstruation and other female complaints so horrific your balls will shrivel to the size of peanuts.'

'As I was saying, your conventional four-two-four formation...'

They returned to their discussion and Mandy rearranged her huge breasts on the polished wood in such a way as to suggest she was in for the long haul.

'I've thought of a way of cheering Steve up.'

'May the gods be praised. I've contemplated topping myself more than once since he split up with that gold digger. Me and George were thinking of making him carry a sign warning those of a sensitive disposition to keep away from him.'

'A day or two I could live with, but he is laying on with a trowel, isn't he?'

We looked across just in time to see Pete make a gesture like he was tightening a noose around his throat.

'Got any coffee?'

Mandy looked from side to side and leaned even closer after nodding towards George's back.

'Coffee? Be more than my life's worth to advertise this but I do keep some upstairs. For emergencies, you understand. It's in the first aid box where he won't find it.'

'Give me two St Clements, two lagers for our heroic Polish allies and a strong coffee with two sugars.'

Mandy didn't move. She was clearly waiting for the explanation. I sighed.

'I thought it would be polite if he was a little less pissed before he got his brains screwed out.'

Mandy scanned the bar expectantly as if searching for someone then returned her gaze to me with a disappointed look.

'Who is she? Our Tracey's taken more than one run at him - for the sanity of the rest of us you understand. No luck.'

'Wow. It's worse than I thought.'

'I know. She was positively taken aback, poor lamb. First time it's ever happened to her.'

We both shook our heads in a what's-the-world-coming-to kind of a way.

'She's a friend of mine. Monique. What you might call a semi-professional. She'll see him right.'

Mandy busied herself putting the drinks onto a tray. She squeezed my shoulder in a comradely way as I took a deep breath before picking it up and then disappeared to get the coffee.

'Do you think she'd take me back if I asked her? I know I've hurt her, but I miss her so much.'

I don't speak Polish, but from the intonation and the look on Pete's face as he translated to Wot, I assumed he said some thing to the effect that the miserable bugger's starting all over again. I put the tray down rather more heavily than I meant to. So hard in fact that some of the lagers slopped over the rims of the glasses. It got their attention at least.

'Right. I'll take over. Thanks Pete. Will you kiss Wot for me? You take the lagers and beat it. You've done your bit.'

There was no need for translation this time. The words were barely out of my mouth before they'd disappeared. I sat in Pete's still-warm seat and carefully removed the two soft drinks from the puddle on the tray, letting them drip onto a beer mat before putting them down.

'Where's mine?'

'Stop whining Steve. Mandy's bringing you a coffee. I need to you to sober up a bit and do me a favour.'

'Coffee?'

'Don't squawk. George'll go apeshit if he hears.'

'Favour?

If anything he sounded even more outraged at being asked to do something for someone else than being given a non-alcoholic drink.

'I've got a friend coming down. I need you to be nice to her.'

'Huh?'

'Come on Steve. You know what it's like in here when a new woman turns up. Anyway, you'd better be, she's giving you a lift home.'

'What?'

After footie it was usually me who delivered the lads back to wherever they were going. My month off the booze had, in their minds at least, transformed what was initially a sensible and practical idea into something akin to a human right. I'd come down on my bike tonight, in part, to break the arrangement. I could see Steve trying to get his brain and mouth round this new blow to his shattered life when I spotted the woman herself arrive.

We've all seen those old westerns when a stranger walks into the saloon and everything freezes. The tinkly piano falls suddenly silent and everyone stares. The saloon girls and the card sharps mentally riffle through the newcomer's wallet assessing what their take might be; the barman makes a snap decision on whether to reach down the non-gut rot from the top shelf and mentally calculates how much, and who, he'll charge for the soon-to-be-broken furniture and windows; the gunslingers and psychopaths decide how much of a scene they want to make and the rheumy-eyed old sheriff suddenly makes himself scarce. Well, Monique's arrival at The Crown was nothing like that. At first.

She had pushed rather too hard on the newly refurbished doors and stumbled into the light of the bar, nearly falling. I watched her regain her composure almost instantly as she accustomed herself to her new surroundings. The rain had obviously got heavier since we had finished playing and she furled a small umbrella and brushed most of the water off an expensive-looking men's gabardine raincoat. It was the kind that seems instantly familiar, but you'd have no idea where to buy one. I presumed it was her husband Howard's as it looked big and baggy on her, the size disguising the treasures which I knew lay beneath. I could hear Steve wittering about the unfairness of life in the background, but I was engrossed in the scene unfolding at the door.

Monique held the dripping umbrella and looked for the male-assistance all beautiful women expect to be available whenever they need it. It came in the shape of Wot. He and Pete had been waiting their turn at the pool table and he strolled over to offer his help. Wot's a nice guy of the old school and I knew he'd have done the same for anyone. I saw him take the waterlogged brolly and nod towards the bentwood coat stand in the far corner. I couldn't hear what was being said, but recognised the uncomprehending expression behind Wot's smile as he held out his arm for the raincoat.

She unknotted the belt which was holding it closed and shook it a little more to help it dry off. She turned her back on Wot to allow him to take it from her shoulders. Because of their position and the size of the coat I couldn't get a good view of what everyone else in the pub saw as it was eased away.

That was the saloon moment. Of course there was no piano, but the sound of clicking pool balls and the dull thud of darts hitting the board stopped. Conversations gradually fell silent. Bert was the last to shut up; one of his audience elbowed him in the ribs to make him. Even the self-obsessed Steve stopped his dirge as he became aware something was going on. All heads swung towards the door. It was an almost magical moment even though the stillness lasted for no more than a few seconds. It was George who broke the spell with a "fuck me". He spoke barely above a whisper but in the quiet it was heard by everyone and followed by a ripple of nervous or embarrassed laughter. From everyone except George that is.

Monique was oblivious to the effect she was having. Having disposed of the coat she spent a while playing with her hair, shaking her head, running her fingers through it and finally twitching at stray strands to get the tousled look she generally went for. She was wearing one of her favourite cocktail-style dresses. This one bright red. It was low cut - of course, if I had 35DD breasts I wouldn't have worn anything else either - and finished far enough down her thigh to be respectable when she was standing up, but guaranteed to expose stocking tops, if not bare skin, as soon as she sat. Her breasts undulated seductively as she arranged her hair.

Having finished the coiffeur she adjusted the bust line of the dress. In normal circumstances I would have described her actions as discreet. When every eye in the place is on you, however, each action seems calculated. There were a number of audible groans as she used a finger to stretch the fabric whilst bowing her shoulders to move the breasts it was designed to contain. Only after a few desultory tugs on the hem of the dress to make sure she wasn't exposing too much did she look up to take in the scene. There was the sudden sound of coughing and the shuffling of chairs as the men in the place - again excepting George - realised they had been caught gawping. I could hear Scarlett and Mandy's giggles as Monique's eyes lit on me and she started to come towards us. I waved.

'It's nice here isn't it. Really lovely. I can see why you like it.'

It was my turn to be speechless. I could see from her expression and hear from her tone that she wasn't joking. I quickly scanned the pub, looking for something I had missed. True, it was a lot brighter and definitely looked clean since the refurb. But the decor was more or less the same and the leering customers and randy owner only underlined the general atmosphere of seediness.

'First time I've heard anyone say that.'

'Come on. It's so original. Ooh, is that you?'

She was staring at the portraits above the bar. The series which had been put up weekly, was now complete. The one furthest from us - I had my legs akimbo and vaginal lips spread to leave nothing to the imagination - would have served as an anatomical illustration for a gynaecology class if it wasn't for my expression of fake ecstasy. I searched my brain for a comment on the lighting James had used, or the artistic composition.

'Did I tell you I'd done a little modelling myself recently? For one of Nigel's friends, you know? Mine didn't come out half as nice as that.'

'This young man is the artist responsible. And he'd love to ask you if you would pose for us.'

Mr J was standing at my shoulder trying not to be too obvious as he stared down Monique's cleavage. James was next to him with his accustomed red hue he donned whenever meeting anyone new. Scarlett was leaning against him. She nodded down and sideways when she caught my eye to draw even more attention to her boyfriend's state of tumescence and then grinned wickedly.

'Monique. This is my neighbour Mr J. Oswald. Don't let the sweet-old-man act fool you. Next to him is James, the photographer and his girlfriend Scarlett.'

Mr J executed his usual solemn bow to kiss Monique's hand without staring too hard at her chest. I could see she was impressed. Then Scarlett grabbed her like a long-lost sister, kissing her on both cheeks.

'We really would like you to model for us sometime, if you are willing. You're stunning. We're working on a book. Did Susan tell you?'

Monique questioned me with a glance. I replied with one of my own. She gave a little shrug which confirmed both that she was mildly impressed and considering the offer. You can say a lot without words when you know someone well. The three newcomers glanced around for spare chairs and looked like they wanted to settle the deal there and then.

'OK you lot, back off. Give the lady room. I'm Mandy.'

She had somehow arrived and inserted herself between Monique and Mr J. She held her lover's eyes with a hard stare. At the same time she placed a steaming mug of coffee in front of Steve without glancing at him. She continued to glare at the newcomers until they backed away and returned to their computer. Wot, Pete and even Bert who had been hovering in the background in the hope of introductions took the hint and made themselves scarce. Even Matt was there. He caught my eye and mouthed a request for a word. I tapped my wrist hoping he'd interpret the gesture as 'later' and he faded away. George, who had stood up from his table and was adjusting the waistband of his trousers in an attempt to conceal one or two of his rolls of stomach fat, was despatched to behind the bar with a curt shake of Mandy's head.

'You're very welcome, love. Always good to see new faces. Susan'll look after you. That lot are like dogs on heat whenever a good-looking woman shows up.'

'It's good to meet you too. I was just telling Susan how nice the place looks. And she didn't mention that her friends were such hunks.'