THE
limo moved off at a majestic pace. Jaywalkers skittered across the road. They
darted towards the limo and veered into the shadows as the limo gained speed. The
jazz funk was too soft. Discomfiture permeated every nerve of her body,
rendering her rigid. Bex would have lowered the strap of her dress had she been
sitting here now. And she would not have honored her oath of silence. She would
be giggling or dishing out her daring cheek. Nancy had no doubt that Leon’s dry
humour would commandeer; his guise for keeping the upper hand forever preserved.
And Bex would never know.
Cora
would be quieter but no pushover. She could be sly, ingratiating herself into a
longer ride. Her broken heel would be instrumental. She would say she’d sprained
her ankle and get Vince to massage her feet. But how was Nancy any better? She
was a pretender, saddled with a past she hated to contemplate. Bex’s drunken stints
always forced murky memories to the surface and freeze Nancy up into a statue.
Occasions of revellry were the worst. Propositions rendered her tongue-tied, defensive
and standoffish. Nancy was probably the most unfitting selection of the three
for Vince’s shoot.
Still,
how anyone could submit their faculties to yeast pee? Nancy couldn’t bear the
false sentiments, the empty promises and the hammy declarations. She remained
the outsider, branded by a mother who believed drink made her a fun person to
be with. Only since Nancy had got sacked from her caring job, did she realise
it wasn’t the drink she feared, but the betrayal. Nancy feared her trust had
been pummelled to shreds by a person who traded in her former self for dumbing-down,
for selling herself out to booze.
A
rustling sound severed her thoughts. Vince was inclined forwards and was
rummaging through a drawer of garments he’d pulled out from beneath a rear
compartment. He fished out a shirt from Savile Row. She knew this because the
label was still on the wrapper. Her sights rebounded in a half-attempt to look
away. She watched expressionless as Vince unbuttoned his overcoat and place it on
the seat between them. He proceeded to unbutton his shirt. ‘Change the disc,
Leon,’ he uttered, ‘I fancy something classic, something smooth.’ His tone
clipped the air in a dark resonance that she wagered rarely rose in volume.
Roxy
Music’s Avalon dulcet tones seeped
from the stereo as Vince stripped off his shirt and crumpled it atop his
jacket. Vince had a torso to flaunt but he did anything but. He oozed
indifference; not scorn, not denial of her presence, just indifference. The
seam at the centre of his torso rippled as he contorted his shoulders and
sheathed his arms one by one into his shirt. Dark down tracked this seam in an
ever thicker assemblage from his navel to the waistline of his trousers. His
chest wasn’t hairy. Coiled strands flecked his sternum and his nipples. This exposed
broad expanses of flesh; brown, toned and lightly scented with expensive
cologne. Yes, expensive, because one odour such as apple or mint didn’t overpower.
His comprised a subtle blend that came together to form a new scent entirely; a
little oaky, yet with the tang of sap.
Bex
would have ogled brazenly and mouthed OMG! Yes, Vince’s proportions pleased the
eye, but the manner in which he buttoned his shirt up to the collar implied he
knew this. His display was not for Nancy’s benefit. In fact, his
inappropriately-timed changing of shirt served to underline the disdain she had
seen on his face. Her place in his compartment was on loan. Nothing in here was
hers, not even the memory of watching him change his shirt.
Leon’s
soulful voice cut into Brian Ferry’s intones. ‘How are the shares doin’?’
Vince
whipped his tie around his collar and tucked it under. He brusquely looped the
tongue and fed the end through. ‘Down, he replied gutturally. ‘Definitely
down.’
Leon
whistled. ‘That bad?’
Vince
adjusted the tension until the knot sat square. ‘The situation is desperate.’
Roxy
Music’s synths filled a segue. ‘You mean like Chelsea’s own goal?’
Vince
snorted. ‘Positively.’
Nancy
detected a subtext to this exchange but couldn’t interpret the meaning.
Vince
piped up again. ‘And there was no need to remind me about Chelsea.’
Leon
returned with a throaty chortle. ‘Sorry, Vince. By the way, Menez sends his
regards.’
Menez
was a name Nancy knew well. Chelsea’s star striker, Menez had played alongside
the likes of Rooney and Gerrard for the England squad in the last two cups. Her
ex, Robbie Probert obsessed on Menez’s defection from Manchester United.
Strange how Menez was the best striker in the Premier League until he left. And
then (according to Rob) he became shit. Vince’s next words caused her to blink
in disbelief.
‘Get
him on the speaker, will you?’
Nancy
couldn’t help mouthing the very name she had become sick of hearing. Vince donned his coat and reclined into his seat as though Leon were merely patching through his mother.
