Nancy lunched
at a communal table overlooking Stone Road. Burroughs’ porky aid with a
penchant for silk shirts and Cuban heels complemented Nancy on her attire.
Nancy had purchased two: a Marks & Spencer linen-blend navy blue jacket and
matching skirt lined with silk. The neck opened out to a mandarin-collared
blouse; white, lightly ruffed on the seams and fitted to the waist. Nancy
thanked him in a starched manner she didn’t recognize and sipped her coffee.
Silk-shirted
man, Just Call Me Stu didn’t seem to mind and bade her a good day. ‘And to
you,’ Nancy returned with a small smile.
Nancy
had left her cheap shoes at Weaver’s Street. Today she wore John Lewis black
Oxfords with heels and leather uppers. She liked the way her nylon tights
whispered against her skirt as she walked. She liked the way her bloused
enfolded her every curve as an amour. Her mother would have given her pride a
royal knocking. Bex would have told her the Jonas shoot had rendered her head
too big for the average doorframe. Beneath the silk lining, Nancy would always
be a slapper from Glebe Hollow. But here, no one can see, no one can judge.
Nancy
picked up her black leather satchel-bag and took her Fiat Punto for a spin in
the country.
You jumped-up bloody cow.
Nancy
throttled up and switched on the radio. The Bee Gees’ Jive Talkin’ soulful arpeggio rendered her brain a-stutter. From
the second bar on, she mumbled the lyrics before pulling up behind a hawthorn
hedge, providing the perfect screen.
You can take the woman out of Glebe Hollow but you
can never take the Glebe Hollow out of the woman.
Nancy
killed the radio, got out. Since her previous visit, the lawns had been cleared
of dead leaves. The turf now exhibited immaculate bands of two-tone
chlorophyll. Before long, her index finger was depressing the buzzer on the
intercom system. Somewhere above, a whirring grazed the air. Nancy didn’t look.
The wrought iron bars slashed through the glamorized fort at the head of the
shingled driveway. It remained so. The intercom system remained silent.
She
didn’t depress again. The drone told her the security system had detected her
presence. A breeze fondled the fine strands around her crown. She shifted
between heels, but remained resolutely within shot of the overhead camera.
She
could picture the visual feed to whomever within. An overhead view of a lone
woman, starchly-dressed, satchel-bag in hand and arms clasped in front. Hardly
surprising she hadn’t brought a reaction, really. Tomorrow, she would bring her
ankle boots and a scarf to guard against the cold. Perhaps she might even bring
a hot flask of coffee and a packet of digestive biscuits. Amy couldn’t accuse
Nancy of trespassing or criminal damage and as for harassment, it was early
days yet. Nancy reckoned such offences would inflict less fury upon the PA than
the sight of a woman standing at the foot of her assigned gates, dunking
digestive biscuits into the lid of her flask.
A
black Porsche levelled up beside her. Tinted windows barred Nancy a view of the
occupants inside. The gates emitted a click and a whir. The Porsche motioned
indifference in the manner by which it edged forwards too close for comfort.
With majestic grandeur, the gates accepted the Porsche, which slowly crunched
up the driveway.
Nancy
remained at her station. Amy wanted Nancy to stow herself in whilst the gates
were open. Nancy knew better than that. Amy could legitimately enforce a charge
of trespassing which would not do; Nancy would deprive Amy the satisfaction.
Satchel-bag in the other hand now, Nancy remained at the foot of the gates once
they had closed.
A
second car, this time a green Lamborghini pulled up alongside Nancy. The
occupant, Vince’s accountant, Nancy reckoned, kept his eyes firmly ahead. The
gates clicked. The gates whirred. The Lamborghini banked forward.
Sunlight
made its debut at around three o’clock. Nancy closed her eyes and allowed the
October sun to bathe her face. The rumble of a perfectly-tuned engine stirred
the stillness once more. Nancy didn’t open her eyes. The sound came from the
grounds. Porsche or Lamborghini? Next time she would pay closer attention to
the sound-profile of such engines that ferried Vince’s visitors. Porsche,
definitely Porsche. The gates clicked, a mechanism whirred. Gates open. The
clutch bit as the Porsche nosed forwards. Nancy peeped – one eye smudged by
lashes. She’d been right. The gates closed behind her. The black aerodynamic shape
slid from view.
Nancy
took up her former position facing the gates. The sunlight faced-off the teeth
of a cloud. The cloud skimmed past, spurring a cavorting of leaves around the
gate posts. It seemed the raking of leaves was akin to a woman’s proverbial
work, in that it is never done. Nancy’s arms goose-rashed and that’s when she
noticed. Lodged between the central slats of wrought iron and an eagle crest, a
mini Amy nestled – only far off at the building’s entrance. She wore black
flared trousers and a red double-breasted jacket. Her face, a beige dot was
hard to read.
A
click, a whirr. Nancy watched the gates stir from its moorings. This activation
was not on account of the Lamborghini of earlier, as it remained at the head of
the driveway. The iron slats drifted slowly across one by one. Amy disappeared
and reappeared behind each passing. The gates’ mighty hinges gave a judder at
the arc’s terminus. Only when the gates were fully open did Nancy step over the
threshold.
