Sugar Daddies (12 page)

I gestured to the door. “Be my guest, he’s in suite four-two-four.”

She scanned the crowd, and everyone dropped their eyes. “You’ll be sorry,” she snapped, and then she was gone, a whirlwind of self-entitlement stomping her way down the corridor, heels clacking like pistol shots.

I smiled at the rest of the candidates. “Equal footing, as I said. No exceptions.”

I took my phone from its dock, noting the message icon before I slipped it into my pocket. The room felt lighter somehow, barriers coming down.
There was more eye contact, brighter smiles. Good.

All good.

“Right,” I said, changing the slide. “Let’s get started.”

Tourist season turned Much Arlock into a hiker’s haven. The cafe was rammed for the lunchtime special, people nipping in for a sandwich after a morning’s walk along the Malvern Hills. I grabbed table four’s orders from the hatch and flashed Benny a smile as he wiped his brow with a dishcloth.

My resignation letter was in my pocket, but there was a sadness to the idea of handing it in. I’d been working here since I was old enough to carry a tray without spilling it. Saturdays at first, just around school, then holidays, and now four afternoons a week. The money was crap, but the job was alright. And Benny was so bloody nice.

Slowly the lunchtime rush eased off, and I wiped down tables and waited. Eventually, Benny stuck his head around the door. “You wanted to speak?”

My stomach lurched, the letter burning me. “When you get a second.”

He beckoned me over, and my legs felt stiff as I moved. I wanted to hand in my notice, and yet I didn’t. I wanted the time, and not the safety net, not the safe little wage packet this place offered me. It would make it far too easy to bail on Carl and Rick, and I didn’t want to bail, I wanted to chase the rainbow.

I handed over the envelope and Benny’s eyes fixed on me. “You have a new job?”

I nodded. “Sorry, Benny.”

“No need for sorry,” he said. “You have a degree, all grown up. It’s time.”

His smile brought a lump to my throat. “I’ve really loved it here.”

“And here’s really loved you.” He put a hand on my arm. “You must come, for toasted teacakes, often. My treat.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

He slipped the letter in his apron pocket. “This job, with your father?”

Urgh. Another one I regretted telling. I really should get better at keeping secrets. Once it slipped out, they never fucking forgot about it.

“No,” I said. “Nothing to do with that prick.”

“Pity,” he said. “Your father knows good business.” I looked at his friendly eyes, heavy browed with grey. Benny was South African, accepted by the locals slowly over the years, until he was now a piece of the Much Arlock furniture. “Where are you leaving us for?”

I tried to recall the standard line I’d made up. “I’m helping out a designer. Cheltenham.”

“I didn’t know you were into the art.” He smiled. “A designer… yes…”

“I’m not,” I laughed. “It’s the customer facing side. I’m his… assistant…”

“Ah, yes.” He grinned. “Good.”

I felt like such a fraud. “Yes, it’s good.”

He pulled out the calendar. “You finish next week?”

“Please,” I said, and then remembered the sperm donor phone call. Another fucking
urgh
. “And I’ll need Monday off, if I can. My
father
wants to talk to me.”

Benny scribbled on the rota. “Maybe your father has a good business offer.”

I checked for customers but there was only the old deaf couple by the window. “Maybe my father can go fuck himself.”

“Katie!” he blustered, but he was laughing. “You just hear him out, yes? For old Benny.”

God.
Another one.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll hear him out.”

The bell above the door chimed as a party of regulars came by for coffee and cake, and our time was up.

“Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I really do.”

He waved it away. “Good partnership,” he said. “That’s all.”

My phone vibrated in my pocket as Benny turned back for the kitchen. I pulled it out as the table of regulars got seated.

One message. One email.

Which to answer first?

I clicked the message.

Rick: I’ve got an idea. Fancy a hook up this week?

I felt it between my legs, the memory of his piercing against my clit. My cheeks were burning as another message pinged through.

Rick: I mean a chat, not a fuck. Sorry, that sounded bad!

Rick: Unless you want a fuck?

I smiled, and then there was another ping.

Rick: Ignore me. I meant a chat. A hang out. Some chill time.

The table were engrossed in the menu,
even though they had the same cakes every time. I sent
off a message.

Sure, I’d like that. When? I can do Wednesday. Maybe Friday.

Rick: Wednesday? Lunch? Come here. I’ll cook.

And Carl?

Rick: No Carl.

No Carl? I didn’t know whether to feel relieved or worried.

Ok, cool. See you then.

I took the coffee order before remembering the email. I clicked to open as I waited for the coffee to filter.

Favcom Tech. Confirmation of your interview.

What the fucking hell?

I scanned through the text. A fucking interview?! On Monday?!

So much for a fucking chat.

I fired off a text to Mum.

I’m not taking a fucking job with him.

Mum replied in a heartbeat
. Just hear him out. Please?

Such a simple reply.
No. Fucking. Chance.

It’s not a job. It’s an internship. Great experience.

So, she knew exactly what he was after. I could have strangled her through the handset
. No!

What about Harrison Gables????

I steamed the milk, and I was pissed off. So fucking pissed off. I typed a response.

Fuck Harrison Gables, and fuck the fucking sperm donor, too.

She’d replied by the time I delivered the tray to the table, and I could have guessed what it said a mile off.

I know you don’t mean that. Please go, just to see. For me. Love you. x

Pissing hell. What was with the world? Please go, for me, for me, for me…

I took a breath.

I didn’t need him or his poxy job, and I’d tell him so. I’d tell him what I thought of his stupid Harrison Gables blackmail, too.

And then I’d tell him to go fuck himself, and at least I’d be in person to give that sperm donating sack of crap the fucking finger.

I loosened my tie and ditched my jacket over the chair, guzzling down a couple of mouthfuls of beer before Rick even asked the question.

“So, Princess Faverley?” he quizzed. “Just as good as you were expecting?”

I nodded. “The brat wouldn’t sing.”

“Ouch.”

“Quite. So, I sent her packing. She ran to Daddy, you know how it goes.”

He sucked in breath. “And what happened?”

I smiled at the memory. “He sent her back five minutes later, with an apology.”

Rick’s eyebrows shot up. “An apology? No fucking shit!”

“A token apology.”

“Did you accept it?” He grabbed himself a beer.

“After she sang the Rocky theme…” I couldn’t help but smirk. “Solo…”

Rick shook his head. “Jesus, Carl. She’s gonna hate your fucking guts.”

“She can hate my guts, I couldn’t give a toss, just as long as she learns to apply herself to the programme, or gets the fuck out of it.”

He paused, and I made him wait, didn’t say another word.

“Did you get my message?” he asked, finally.

I took a swig of beer. “Yeah, I got it.”

Rick shrugged. “So? It’s good, right?”

“That our little
sugar baby
wants to head over and
chill
on a Wednesday afternoon? She probably thinks you’re paying.”

He scowled. “Don’t ruin it. It means she’s still keen.”

“It means she’s after more cash.”

“Or more cock.” He leaned back against the kitchen island. “Can you be here?”

I stared at him. “When have I ever been here on a Wednesday afternoon?”

“Fine,” he said. “So, what if she wants to fuck?”

I shrugged. “Is that what you want?”