The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (13 page)

   She set the letter down in front of her. If it was bad news, she simply didn’t want to know. If it was bad news she would pretend the letter had never arrived. Post was always going missing in Telford Buildings; no one would think it unusual. No, she wouldn’t open it. Not now, not until after she’d showered and eaten. Her mind was crammed with confused thoughts as she headed for the bathroom. Ten minutes later and she was back, wearing a wraparound white-towelled robe and nothing else.

   She’d bought pasta for dinner. One of those packs of little parcels of pasta that contained green gunge that didn’t taste of anything much. She imagined it might do her some good, one of the five portions of fruit and vegetables every day, though by the time she had liberally sprinkled it with grated cheddar cheese, the calorie count had rocketed.

   She tried to read the paper but failed dismally. She tried to do the crossword. Clue one: Political Party whose agenda favours the environment. Greens! Greene, Gringo bloody Greene. Oh Christ! She left half of the
Delicious Pasta Parcels
and pushed the dish to one side. She emptied the apple drink down her dry throat and picked up the envelope again.

   It was time to pluck up courage. It was time to read.

   She kissed the envelope and closed her eyes and said a little prayer. If she thought any more about it a tear would come, and Maria had long ago taught herself not to cry, not to become upset at some of the vile comments she had been forced to endure since she was a junior schoolgirl, quite different to any of the others in her class. In adulthood Maria Almeida was slight and feminine and pretty, but still as tough as nails, or so she told herself. Christ, how she hated that school. It was true what people said: Life isn’t fair. Never has been, never will be.

   She slipped her slim finger inside the corner of the envelope and began tearing it open. In the silence of the kitchen the sound of ripping paper was deafening. She took out the content. She had been right. There were two pages, folded twice, neatly and firmly, as if caringly done. Seemingly there was nothing slapdash about anything that Gringo Greene did.

   She opened the pages and glared down.

  
Shropshire, Somewhere in the Countryside.

   Twenty to Eleven at night. 

  
Why couldn’t he write the name and address and a date like any normal human being?

   Just a short note to tell you that everything is fine at this end, and to advise you of my plans for the week ahead. I hope to be back in the big city by Saturday afternoon and by then I will most definitely be in the mood for the company of a beautiful woman, which is where you come in.

  
Oh thank God! It wasn’t a See-you-later-Suzy, -See-you-never-again type letter. Her eyes retreated and read the line again.

  
The company of a beautiful woman… which is where you come in.

  
She read the line three times. What a wonderful line it was. He thinks I’m beautiful. Maria beamed. Deep down she knew she was beautiful, as most women do, but oddly, she had rarely been complimented on her beauty. More often they meant sexy, not beautiful, but what’s the difference? Sometimes it is hard to tell. Oh yes, men did find her attractive, and often said
You are beautiful, you
, as they attempted to coerce her into doing something she plainly did not wish to do, and why was it they were usually the most pig awful men, and often at the office Christmas party where the partners and seniors seemed to think that the juniors and trainees were open season.

   Gringo had written
a beautiful woman, which is where you come in,
his exact words, didn’t you just love him, down in pen and ink, surely that couldn’t be a precursor to a dumping, could it? He couldn’t be trying to let her down lightly, could he? Her excited eyes fled across the inky letters.

   She read his comments about her slacks.
I
wear the trousers.
She read the part about her God-awful underwear, and what he expected her to wear in future. Bloody cheek! She read of his threat of spankings, thrashings even. Had the man not heard of equal rights? Was he a madman? And yet deep down, and she would never have admitted it to a living soul, well maybe to Vicky, she was secretly excited at the prospect. She read of what he intended doing with her on the forthcoming weekend.

 
You can most definitely say, in modern parlance, that you are on a promise this coming weekend, big time, and there will be no stopping either.

 
Thank you God, thank you.

   I still am,

   Gringo Greene

   XXX

  
What a strange way to end, she thought, why couldn’t he use the love word, but then again he was a man, and men, well, they left a lot to be desired when it came to expressing themselves, the poor things.

  
And there will be no stopping either.

   Maria shrugged her shoulders and read the letter again.

   And again. And again.

The next morning she arrived at work ten minutes earlier than usual. The adrenaline had kicked her out of bed. Vicky’s desk opposite was vacant, but she came in five minutes later and was surprised to see Maria sitting there, printouts already spread across the desk, files open, pen in hand, adding machine hot and dusty.

   ‘You’re keen today.’

   Maria glanced up and grinned and came straight to the point.

   ‘I’ve had a letter.’

   ‘Have you now. From him?’

   Maria bobbed her head.

   ‘Proposed marriage, has he?’

   ‘No. Course not. Don’t be silly.’

   ‘Well, whatever it is, it’s certainly put a smile back on your face.’

   Maria giggled.

   Vicky slipped off her raincoat and hung it on the new chrome stand.

   ‘Have you got it with you?’

   ‘Might have.’

   Vicky held out her hand. ‘Come on. Give. Give.’

   ‘I can’t do that!’

   ‘Why ever not? Is it a rude letter?’

   ‘A little bit.’

   ‘I see. I had a bloke once, he wrote me the most filthy letters, talk about being bombarded with descriptive filth, and now I shudder to think that I actually agreed to go out with him, out of curiosity more than anything else, but what a bloody let down. The poor love had no idea what to do. Not a clue in his thick ginger head. Never trust filth writers, that’s my motto, it has been ever since.’

   Maria giggled again.

   ‘It’s not a filthy letter, not exactly.’

   ‘But marginally exciting?’

   ‘Oh yes. Very much so.’

   They both spotted Mister Julip heading their way at the same moment.

   ‘Eh up, here’s trouble,’ said Vicky as they both kept their heads firmly buried in figures.

   But Julip stopped at the desk anyway and said: ‘Now come along ladies, I really must have those Quality Building Supplies audits completed by lunchtime. So, chop, chop, and let’s see some smoke coming off this desk today.’

   ‘Yes, Mister Julip,’ said Maria, and they both watched him turn tail and clear off to annoy someone else.

   ‘Chop, chop, indeed, the bloody prick,’ whispered Vicky. ‘Who the hell does he think he is?’

   Maria giggled again and began punching data into the adding machine.

   ‘So what did he say?’ asked Vicky.

   ‘I’ll tell you later.’

   ‘Shall we go down the wine bar at lunchtime for a bit of peace and quiet?’

   ‘Yeah, let’s, half twelve.’

   ‘I’ll see that letter yet, young woman.’

   Maria rippled her eyebrows and considered whether there was anything in it that Vicky couldn’t or shouldn’t see.

Naomi was the only one on duty behind the bar in Shaman’s that day. She knew Vicky Williams pretty well, they had once flirted with going to Keep Fit together, but today Naomi’s eyes were more taken with the vaguely familiar petite and striking Asian girl who came in with her. A moment later, Vicky introduced them.

   ‘What will it be?’ asked Naomi.

   ‘Two white wines.’

   ‘Why don’t you two take a seat? I’ll bring them over.’

   ‘Ta, Naomi,’ said Vicky, and the girls found a vacant table in the far corner.

   ‘So,’ said Vicky, holding out her hand. ‘Come on, show, show, show, you know us girls must stick together; sharing love letters is the least of it. Share and share alike.’

   ‘I don’t know. It’s not really a love letter.’

   ‘Well if it’s not a filthy letter, and it’s not a love letter, and it’s not a thanks but no thanks letter, and it’s not a proposal, what sort of bloody letter is it?’

   ‘Shush,’ whispered Maria, as Naomi approached with the drinks.

   Naomi smiled at Maria as she set the drinks down, and it wasn’t just a friendly thanks-for-your-custom type smile.

   ‘Is is me, or is she a bit flirty?’ said Maria, after Naomi was safely back behind the bar, serving a brace of big red-faced fellas.

   ‘What, Naomi?’ said Vicky, glancing back across the room.

   Maria bobbed her head. ‘Yeah.’

   ‘Nah. I have never noticed anything.’

   Maria thought for a second and then went into her handbag. Vicky could now see the letter from where she was sitting. Maria hesitated. Vicky kept quiet, hoping for success, she could do with a laugh, and maybe a tiny bit of titillation. Ever since she’d fallen out with Herbie men had been pretty thin on the ground, and anything that brightened up her life was better than nothing. A touch of titillation goes a long way, and besides, she liked the look of mister Gringo Greene, and if he ever became fed up with little Miss Perfect here, then she would be more than happy to step in and fill the void, or better still, let him do so.

   ‘All right,’ said Maria, still holding the letter tightly. ‘But you must never say anything to anyone, and especially not to Gringo. He’d go crazy.’

   ‘Course, dib, dib, dib, Brownie’s honour and all that nonsense.’

   Maria slipped the letter into Vicky’s hand.

   Naomi had finished serving the guys and was wondering what was going down with the bitches in the corner. They were up to something, that much was obvious, they’d been conniving like the gunpowder plotters since they’d come in, whispering and giggling, earnest looks on the pretty one’s face, and then what looked like a handwritten letter being passed over, a love letter sure as quail’s eggs are awful. Naomi wouldn’t mind getting a butchers at that letter, and was wondering how she could achieve it. The ever so slightly overweight ginger one, Vicky, was now engrossed. Even from where Naomi was standing, she could see ginger’s eyes racing over the words. Naomi would bet that it would only be a matter of minutes before that corner was filled with hysterical laughter.

   Vicky’s breathing had visibly slowed and her eyes had widened.

   …
then I will most definitely be in the mood for the company of a beautiful woman, which is where you come in.

  
‘Beautiful! He thinks you are fucking beautiful!’ she shrieked.

   ‘I
am
beautiful,’ said Maria, somewhat taken aback.

   ‘Yeah, course you are, doll,’ said Vick, reaching over and tapping Maria’s thigh. ‘Course you are, darling, sorry girl, you are far too beautiful for a bloke like him.’

   Her eyes darted back to the strange long hand.

  
Don’t make any plans for Saturday (and Sunday too if I have my way) I am booking you now, you are spoken for. I thought we’d push the boat out and go out somewhere really nice for dinner, so get your hair done and put on your best dress or a smart suit, but most definitely not trousers of any kind. In case you hadn’t noticed, I wear the trousers in this relationship.

   ‘Eh? Lucky you! Hot weekend coming up, eh, girl?’

   Maria smiled happily and sipped her drink, as Vicky’s eyes plundered on.

  
And while we are on the subject of clothing, put on some sexy underwear, none of that blue serge rubbish, and if you haven’t got any slinky stuff, then bloody well get some, and if you are really lucky, before the midnight hour, I shall carry out a full kit inspection, and woe betide anyone who does not pass muster.

  
Vicky giggled and began singing.
‘Sexy! You’re gonna be so sexy! - Do you really wear blue serge knickers? Yuck!’ She didn’t wait for a reply, and then she said: ‘You do possess some sexy underwear, don’t you?’