A Summer Fling (11 page)

‘Why? What do you want me for?’ said Anna defensively. ‘Why are you loitering around interchanges?’

‘Not loitering, searching,’ he answered. ‘And not just stations, but libraries, supermarkets, shops. I look for a woman.’

Anna opened her mouth to reply but she hadn’t a clue what to say to that. Apart from ‘
perv
’.

The man reached into his voluminous coat and pulled out a very stylish business card which he then handed over to her.

Vladimir Darq.

That’s all it said, plus a mobile number. How arrogant was that? Or supremely confident anyway. It smacked of someone who should be instantly recognizable. The funny thing was, the name
did
ring a bell although she couldn’t for the life of her remember where she had heard it before.
Crimewatch?

‘What do you want with me then, Mr Darq?’ She pronounced it ‘Dark’. He didn’t correct her so she presumed that was right.

Vladimir Darq slid off his gloves to get a better purchase on his mug. He had large but exquisite hands. The nails were black varnished but strangely that only added to his masculinity. He had an enormous gold ring on the middle left finger bearing the word ‘DARQ.’ It was his only ring, she also noticed.

‘You,’ he began, staring at Anna with such pale-eyed intensity that she felt herself blushing, ‘. . . you are the woman for whom I have been searching.’

Nutter alert.

‘OK, that’s me going home now,’ said Anna, attempting to stand but failing.

‘Please, hear me out,’ he said, his palms open towards her. ‘Sit, listen. Five minutes. That’s all I ask.’

Anna sat again because she had no choice. Her legs said no to any supporting requests from her brain and the moment she stood, the blood rushed from her head and she felt ever so woozy again. Not that she wanted him to know that, in case he took advantage.

‘My name is Vladimir Darq. I am a designer,’ he began.

Yes, of course
, thought Anna.
That rings a big bell now
. She’d seen him on fashion shows. Gok Wan had dressed some of his women in Darq gowns. If, of course, he was the real Vladimir Darq and not some saddo imposter. After all, Barnsley train station wasn’t exactly the place to bump into Laura Ashley, Coco Chanel and the like.

‘You may know me as a maker of gowns. Only gowns. But no longer!’ He waved away his entire collection of gowns with one sweep of his beautiful hand. ‘I have diversified into a new area – lingerie. I don’t want to design for A-list divas any more. I want to design for women who want to feel as if they are A-list inside here,’ and he thumped his chest where his heart was positioned. ‘I have a question: do you watch Gok Wan on the television?’

‘Yes,’ said Anna cautiously. Oh God, he was going to ask her to walk up and down the railway platform naked!

‘And do you watch
Jane’s Dames
?’

‘I love
Jane’s Dames,’
gasped Anna. It was a new programme which competed with Gok’s shows, more or less the same formula, and presented by a young, gorgeous, no-nonsense style guru-in-the-making called Jane Cleve-Jones.

‘
Jane’s Dames
are making a new series. They have approached various designers – I am, of course, one of them – and each of us has a model that we intend to transform. My specialized area will be the lingerie. I need a woman who wants to feel beautiful, earthy –
Darq
, as I call it. I believe that every woman has a Darq side but alas, most women don’t even suspect it. Then I see you and I know without a doubt that you are the one. I want you to be my model. I want you to inspire other women to wear my clothes. I want to design for women like you.’

‘Old, past-it lumps of lard, you mean?’ said Anna, with a mirthless little laugh.

‘
Nu
, not at all,’ said Vladimir Darq, leaning across the table, stroking one finger down Anna’s jawline and making her shiver in the process. ‘Women in their late thirties, early forties who think they are no longer sexy or maybe they have never felt that way. I see it in the slump of your shoulders that you do not feel desired. You have not learned that sex comes from within. I would guess that others have not made you feel very good about yourself. I am right, of course. You think that life has forgotten you.’ He took a strand of her dull brown hair and let it fall through his fingers.

Anna felt the tears making their way up to her eyeballs and gulped them down. That small gesture in her throat was all Vladimir Darq needed to see to know he was correct in his assumptions. Not that he had had any doubt. He had too much confidence in his intuition for that.

Anna puffed out her cheeks. Was it so obvious she was an unloved reject with about as much spark as a spent match in a canal, even to a total stranger across two railway lines? Boy, she must be a total minger.

‘No matter. I can transform you,’ whispered Vladmir Darq. His voice was like a velvet caress. ‘I can make you feel beautiful. I can change your life in less than eight weeks. And you will inspire other women like you to be beautiful. You will be the first of my beautiful Darq women.’

‘Beautiful?’ said Anna with a dry snort of laughter. The word had never been applied to her. No one had ever said; ‘Anna Brightside, you are beautiful.’ Or lovely, or pretty for that matter. In her teenage days, she lost count of the times she had got into conversations with gorgeous guys, only to realize halfway through that they were actually trying to get to her much prettier friend Caroline, with the dimples to die for and eyes like pools of treacle. In her twenties, she drew even less male attention, if that was possible, despite her flawless skin and hair the colour of autumn. Then, in her thirties, she met Tony, with his smooth banter and vociferous sexual appetite. Being the object of his lust had lifted her to some state of desirability. Until he dropped her for Miss Pert-Tits, of course. And now here was a bloke dressed up as a vampire telling her that he had magic underwear that would make her beautiful. At thirty-nine? After being as sexually alluring as magnolia paint all her life! Had he lost his guide dog? Or was he Care in the Community?

‘I’m having trouble believing all this,’ began Anna, confusion pulling her brows together. ‘I mean, this is Barnsley and I’m in a train station. And you say you’re Vladimir Darq and want to put me on the telly? I’m beginning to think I’m still on the floor passed out and this is a dream.’ Even more so because every time his lips parted, she saw a hint of fangs in his teeth-line.

‘What is your name, please?’

‘Anna. Anna Brightside.’

‘Then please, Anna Brightside, you think it over,’ he said. ‘Look me up on the worldwide web and see that I am in good faith.’ He leaned in extra close and said in a voice that brooked no debate, ‘We start filming on Saturday May ninth. You will do this with me.’

‘Oh will I?’ said Anna.
Cocky git.

‘Yes, you will, and I will expect your call soon to confirm,’ said Vladimir Darq. ‘It is
soarta
– fate – that we have met.
Soarta
!’ And before Anna could say another word, he had stood, lifted up her hand, kissed the back of it, and clicked his heels together like Kaiser Wilhelm. Then he was gone in a swirl of black coat.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Anna. She couldn’t think of anything else to say that better fitted the moment.

Calum had managed to surpass himself: he delivered a hat-trick. Dawn had come in from work to find that her two-pound coin pot had been raided and the Easter egg from Thornton’s she’d had iced with the words ‘Foxy Fiancé’ was half-eaten on the kitchen work surface. Calum had obviously found them both secreted at the bottom of the wardrobe. She felt more like crying at the desecration of the egg than at the missing money. Thank goodness she’d hidden her Grand National winnings a bit more securely, she thought. Then she found chocolatey fingerprints all over her veil in the carrier bag. She sat on the sofa fuming until he turned up pissed at half past ten. He laughed in that casual way he had, shrugging his shoulders as though totally baffled that she was making such a fuss about a few pounds that he’d borrowed, it wasn’t as if he’d stolen it – and a flaming egg that she’d bought for him anyway. She cried that he’d spoiled her surprise for him. Then he shouted back at her that she was a nag and he’d be better off back with his ex, Mandy Clamp, if this was how it was going to be. She screamed back that he was a selfish pig and he slapped her across the face because she was hysterical, he said. Then he went to bed and left her sobbing in the sitting room.

Grace woke up the next morning to the sound of heavy rain battering against the side of the walls of the tinny caravan in which she had just spent a cramped and uncomfortable night. She turned over to view the clock – ten past six – then she buried her head under the blanket on the narrowest bed she had ever had the misfortune to encounter and tried to get back into the dream she’d been having of swimming in the sea whilst a warm tropical rainstorm gently showered her from above. The bubbling rage inside her made that an impossibility. She struggled on, willing herself unsuccessfully into unconsciousness for another half an hour before getting up to make herself a cup of tea in a very poky kitchen area.

A picture of Gordon’s self-satisfied face as he turned off down the motorway the previous evening reared up in her head and flooded her whole being with expletive-flavoured feelings. She’d known instantly then that she was being kidnapped and forced somewhere she didn’t want to go. She would have put her life savings on it being Blegthorpe (a place-name which Gordon had been plopping into conversations for months) where she would be systematically tortured with tours of caravan sites. And boy, had she been right! Gordon had been very put out that she hadn’t been in the mood for cheery chat over a sandwich and tea as they pulled in for a toilet stop at the service station. He had packed a case for her. It contained a pair of old black trousers that she wore when she was cleaning, a blue skirt and a fawn top, three bras and one pair of knickers. He’d put in her hairbrush and a couple of towels, no make-up but three pairs of shoes. No nightdress, no tights.

She switched on the old portable television and twiddled about with the aerial on top until she found a watchable picture. At least the newsreaders’ voices covered the low burr of Gordon’s annoyingly contented snoring in the next bedroom. She was half-tempted to take the car keys and drive home. She wanted to spend Easter Saturday with Paul and watch Joe’s face light up at the sight of the giant WWE Easter egg she had found for him last week. She hated Gordon for this. What Gordon wanted, Gordon had to have, more so than ever recently since the words ‘caravan’ and ‘early retirement’ had started creeping into his sentences. Well, the time had surely come to make some sort of a stand against him. In fact, it was well overdue. She should have done it when he threw Paul out of their home and ignored her son’s protestations not to get herself involved.

She texted Paul to say that she couldn’t make tomorrow afternoon. Her battery went flat as soon as she had pressed send so she didn’t know if the message had gone through. The dead screen on her phone made Grace feel more isolated from the world than she could ever remember being before.

Dawn awoke at ten on the sofa, where she had sobbed herself to sleep the previous night, and drove over to Muriel’s house whilst Calum was still wrapped up in his quilt in bed, looking more as if he were hibernating than sleeping.

‘Hello, lovey, this is a nice surprise,’ said Muriel. Her soft voice made Dawn burst into tears and Muriel gathered her into her plump arms and, patting her back, led her across to the couch. She kicked off the greyhound that was dozing on it and pushed Dawn down onto the dog-furry cushion.

‘You and our Cal had a fight, have you?’ said Muriel.

Dawn nodded, unable to talk for all the tears clogging up her throat.

‘On account of him being given a final warning yesterday for lamping that bloke?’

Dawn looked up.

‘Oh, he hasn’t told you that bit yet then?’

Dawn’s face crumpled. Could this get any worse?

‘Not his fault. Our Calum said the bloke had a black eye coming for months.’

So Calum had told his mum about his warning, then went off to the pub and got drunk before coming home, thought Dawn. It wasn’t hard to see where she sat on his list of priorities.

‘It’ll be all right, you know,’ said Muriel. ‘His dad was just the same when he was younger. Feisty bugger Ron was, especially when he’d had a drink. Took him years to get his act together, but he did in the end. Look at him now, wouldn’t say boo to a bloody goose. You’ve just got to hang on in there, girl.’

‘He hit me across the face, Muriel,’ said Dawn.

‘You should have hit him back,’ said Muriel, amazed at her apparent stupidity. ‘He wouldn’t do it again so quick then, I can tell you.’ She laughed, then she took a close look at Dawn’s tear-stained face and her voice hardened.

‘He couldn’t have hit you that hard, there isn’t a mark on you. What did he hit you for anyway? You must have given him a reason.’

‘He said he’d be better off with Mandy Clamp.’

‘Well, he would say that if he was trying to get your back up in a row. You should have told him to bugger off and go to her then; I would have.’

Dawn wouldn’t though. Mandy Clamp was a big, nasty thorn in Dawn’s side. She and Calum had had an on/off relationship for years. Then, when Mandy dumped him for the last time, he’d taken up with Dawn in that fateful window of opportunity. Then Mandy decided she wanted him back and had chased him blatantly on several occasions. Dawn always took an obvious delight when Muriel said that none of them liked her very much. The Crookes were all deliciously bitchy about her wonky eye.

But, wonky eye or not, Calum might have visited Mandy, just to teach Dawn a hard lesson. And Mandy Clamp would have been happy to get one over on Dawn and open her door to Calum. And her legs.

‘He shouldn’t have hit me,’ wept Dawn.

‘You want to grow up, Dawn,’ said Muriel, a sudden sharp tone to her voice. ‘He’s told us that you nag him to death. Sooner or later a man will blow if you nag him like you do, we’ve all said as much.’