Sweet (11 page)

I didn’t feel like a kid with Asif though. I felt that every time I had sex with him, I absorbed a bit of all that terrible stuff he’d been through. Kim had had an easy life, and it rubbed off on me; Asif had had a rotten time, and so did that. And I had enough baggage of my own to cart around, let’s face it, without prancing up to all and sundry and squealing, ‘Hi! My name is Maria and I will be your bag carrier for the night!’

That was the theory – the practice, though, was Those Eyes and That Mouth, and they’d do until plain old Magic came along again. So I shared his pain and my sandwiches, and sang his hymns, and rubbed his back when he’d start crying about what his lot had to put up with in Pakistan. We were in it together, the way I looked at it, and we might as well do our best to help each other through, especially sex-wise. The way I see it, and the way Asif might have put it if he’d been a dirty-minded blasphemer, horizontal is the good Lord’s apology for vertical.

Nevertheless, as I waited in the rain for the bus to Stanwick that night, I was starting to regret my decision to kick the horsey habit. Facing another eight hours of wasting my brains and beauty in that place without actually
being
wasted didn’t seem a whole lot of fun. For about a minute after redecorating Ag and Bag’s place, I’d been buzzing with what I’d taken to have been a natural high – but, as with every high, natural or chemical, you’ve gotta pay for it with the comedown, and mine had kicked in without so much as an eighth to ease the pain.

I’d got my revenge on the paedo pair – but where did that leave me exactly? I wasn’t going to get my chance any time soon to make the pages of the
Argus
as high-fashion’s latest must-have muse, that was for sure! I’d tried not to get too carried away with the whole idea – I knew I wasn’t about to be strutting my stuff down the catwalks of London, Paris or Milan any time soon – but I did at least think there was a chance I’d maybe see some chick strutting through the North Laines next summer looking well sweet in one of the designs I’d inspired. Kizza once told me she thought I was terrified of being as ordinary and boring as everyone else; at the time I’d had to shut the daft dyke up by sticking my tongue down her throat, but of course she was right – I’m terrified of being ordinary.

I’m not scared of spiders and I’m not scared of snakes – hardly, with my track record! – but when I’m walking home at night and I peer in the lighted windows at the happy little families living their happy little lives, I feel a sense of absolute panic, like you’re meant to feel if you’re standing on the ledge of a skyscraper with no safety net – vertigo, that’s it. I know that some people look into other people’s rooms and wish it was them – but being a wife, having a family, I just don’t get it. It’s like being dead – only you have to do housework!

Would be different if I got Ren back, though . . . my little Ren. Just me and her.

And Asif. And possibly Kimmy. And Dr Fox too, if I could swing it with Asif and Kimmy.

I shook myself. What a perve I was! And come to think of it, what right did I have to sneer at other people! They were ordinary inside their little boxes, all tucked up tight – I was ordinary outside of the respectable loop. And for me, ordinary meant cleaning bogs and watching other people fly off to places I was only ever likely to see on
Holiday Reps
. Talking of which, on
Holiday Showdown
a while back there was this family from Bristol who’d only ever been to one place for their holidays – Bristol. Just like my mum and Brighton! Roots, who’d have ’em! – roots are OK for trees but crap for people; just another way of holding you back and keeping you down and spoiling your fun. Roots are like an umbilical cord round your neck all your life. Roots suck!

For a few weeks I’d caught a glimpse of a different life – a life where, following the runaway runway success of the Sugar-coated collection, my proud and grateful new friends had tucked me neatly and firmly under their privileged wing and carried me into a shiny new future. But however much the motherfrockers might have claimed that the merest glimpse of a naked chick made them want to vom, like most men they just couldn’t resist screwing one. Then – again just like most men – they’d dropped me right back where they found me. Which was standing in the cold, looking forward to another night picking chewing gum off tables and emptying ashtrays. Seemed such a waste of brains and body, if you ask me – which of course no one ever did. So I was, quite justifiably, in a raging mood when I stepped off the bus, but the sight of Asif waiting for me with a look of concern and a big flowery umbrella made me feel a little better. And giving him a quick feel made me feel better still.

He squirmed and sniggered as I groped him. ‘I didn’t want you to get wet,’ he said as he shoved the umbrella into my hand. His voice was all soft and concerned as he put his arm round me and we headed towards the airport.

‘That makes a change!’ I nudged him.

He laughed. ‘There’s – what you’re saying? – method in my mania!’

‘Madness, you mean!’ You couldn’t but laugh at his pretty ways. AND he smelt of curry. I’m not saying that in a bad way – I totally heart curry. So that cheered me up too.

‘Because if you get wet,’ he went on, ‘you might get a cold. And if you get a cold –’ and now a deliciously lustful light danced in his eyes – ‘I won’t be able to do this . . .’ He pulled me up against him so I could feel just how pleased he was to see me; put it this way, it reminded me of when I was little and Suzy used to to put her arms as far apart as she could and go ‘I-LOVE-YOU-THIS-MUCH!’ in a slightly too intense way that used to make me scream like a girl and run off and hide in the dog’s basket.

Not that I was going to run and hide this time! He gave me a long slow kiss, and looking up into his beautiful face I decided tonight might not be so bad after all. ‘Fancy a quickie in the supply cupboard later?’ I grinned and ran my hand over his bum as we dumped our coats and headed for the staffroom. But then I heard Kathleen’s voice come whining through the walls like Black & Decker’s finest, straight through my skull, and I realized I’d cheered up too soon. Ever since the rosary-munching drudge had clocked that there was something cooking between me and Asif, she’d done her worst to make sure we couldn’t get our paws on each other during working hours; he’d be banished to buff the floors in check-in and I’d be at the other end of the airport on loo duty. The glamorous life!

13

Sure enough I spent the next few hours as the Cif-spraying sidekick of the deranged old dwarf, listening to her rant on about how much of a burden it was being the
only one who ever cleaned anything properly round here
, and how the rest of them (meaning Kathryn, wild guess) never even did a half-decent job – I guess they’d forgotten to iron the bog roll, lick the urinals clean with their own tongues or something equally satanic. Course there was nothing the twisted troll loved more than finding a bin that hadn’t been emptied or a desk that had gone undusted; she became so excited by any evidence that everyone except her was total pants at their paid employment that she practically wet herself on the spot.

I knew my routine off by heart by now; I did a bit of ‘innit!’ and threw in a few ‘lazy bastards!’ out of the goodness of my heart – my mum’s a Catholic and, believe me, I know how these broads get a rush from playing the hard-done-by martyr, all they need’s the audience to make it complete – but after a bit I’d had enough and let her rant off down to check-in while I flopped down on a seat and lit a fag. I sat there in a blue funk, smoking and watching holidaymakers till it was time for my break, when I dragged myself back to the staffroom.

Kathleen looked up and gave me evils with knobs on as I threw myself over Asif. As if she’d say no if the Pope put her on a promise!

‘And where exactly did you disappear to, Maria! You can’t just go wandering off whenever you feel like it, you know – this airport isn’t going to clean itself! I had to do check-in all on my own – it’s a wonder I managed to get it done in time, though with my poor back giving me jip all the while it’s not something I can say I enjoyed, thank you very much!’

Yeah, right – the old bag loved it! In fact she’d probably be happier if I skedaddled every night and left her to get on with it, she’s that into the feeling-good-feeling-bad shtick. Still, I couldn’t be arsed to argue, so I mumbled something about a kid projectile vomiting and diarrhoeaing – both ends burning! – in Arrivals. And I swear the mad cow looked jealous! – clearly she was well teed off that I might have stolen yet another tasty job from right under her nose, because after break she let me off the leash and sent me to clear up in the departure lounge while she hot-footed it over to Arrivals to see if any tiny speck of sick had survived to suffer her tender ministrations. Freak!

At this time of night, Departures was usually rammed with 18–30s catching late flights to the party destinations of the world – and these happy holidaymakers had no intention of waiting till the plane touched down – or indeed, till it took off – to get the party started. Their final destination was alcoholic oblivion – and these were already well on the way to needing the brown paper bag in the seat pocket in front of them. The bar was full of hard-bodied girls and beer-bellied boys (ooh, there’s my inner lezzer raising its ugly head again! – OK, some of the boys were passing fit) knocking back the booze and already mistaking the fluorescent lighting of the airport for the shameless, blameless blaze of some sun-soaked, sin-soaked island; looking at them, I instantly recognized my people – the similarly shameless, blameless English youth, taking their leisure and pleasure with a savage innocence. I felt an almost painful pull towards them, and an equal revulsion towards the work world I was currently billeted in.

Something in me snapped, and at the same time something
pinged!
back into place. I might have been watching the party from the wrong side of the rope, but what was to stop me from ducking under it and joining in for a while?

A group of girls were shrieking and laughing and shouting over each other by the bar; they were wearing identical gear – cropped baby-pink Ts with FALLEN ANGEL scrawled across their tits in sparkling silver scrawl, tiny denim hot pants and cowboy boots. It was clear that this ensemble had been chosen by the size tens of the pack, cos when I say ‘identical’ the same outfit couldn’t have looked more different. Every size and shape of chick was either slipped into the clobber like it was a second skin or wedged into it like a hippo in a condom. A classic blonde Barbie Girl, all big tits, tiny waist and long baby-Bambi legs was leaning against the bar with one St Tropezed arm slung round a dark-eyed Natalie Portman looky-likey who was wearing a veil and a LEARNER plate. I’d bet my miserable week’s wages that Barbie had been in charge of picking out the outfits – not that I blamed her for showcasing her wares so wantonly. I’d once worn a skirt out to Creation that was so short some sarky student said to me, ‘That’s a nice belt – why don’t you get some more material like it and make a skirt as well!’

Barbie Girl grabbed a tequila shot and a slice of lemon from a long line that were on the bar ready to go. ‘Shut up and get drinking,’ she shouted. ‘To Vic – the poor cow! I had him before she did, and let’s say I’m glad I only did him for the practice, because he was no damn use for anything else!’

Vic started to object – ‘Sazza! You bitch! – but was drowned out by the chorus of “TO VIC!” followed by squeals of delight as they knocked back the shots.

‘Right, next one!’ commanded Blondie.

The girls were being perved at by a bunch of lads that by the look of their well-stacked shoulders and broken noses might well have been a rugby team. I don’t usually go for rugby players – most of them seem to be posh twats who think you’re not worth talking to if you didn’t ‘school’ with the royals but yet still think it’s OK to grope your arse without asking. I mean, working-class boys are meant to be rough – but at least they’ve got an excuse. When someone’s had a fortune spent on their education though, isn’t it a bit weird that they communicate in grunts and lunges?

But there was one of this lot I wouldn’t have minded getting in a scrum with. He was leaning against the bar lazily scratching his mid-section – an improvement on the Neanderthal nut-gathering I was used to, I suppose – lifting his T-shirt (which read GO HOME, YOUR VILLAGE IS MISSING ITS IDIOT: pot, kettle, wack!) to reveal not just a tantalizing glimpse of his Calvin Klein crackers but also a taut, toned stomach that made Gavin Henson look like he was letting himself go a bit. He was a flesh-and-bone cliché – tall, dark and doable – and better still while the rest of his teammates were drooling over the Fallen Angels he’d clocked my appreciative stare and was helping himself to a large serving of perving as he ran his eyes all over me like a bad case of carpet burn. Workers’ playtime!

Yeah, yeah – I hadn’t forgotten about my big-eyed buddy with the magical expanding umbrella. But what Asif didn’t see wasn’t going to upset him and it wasn’t like I was planning to actually DO anything. I just fancied having a little fun before I forgot what it was, is all.

So I had only just decided to let Hooray Hottie buy me a drink when I realized that Barbie Girl was thinking along similar lines; she flicked back her hair, downed her tequila, winked at her mates and shimmied over to my prey. Well, I wasn’t about to let a little competition spoil my night, so checking that the poppers on my uniform – btw, NEVER underestimate the power of a uniform as boy-bait – had given up their futile attempts to keep my puppies under control, I unholstered my Mr Muscle and strutted into battle.

Barbie Girl was teetering towards him, rolling her hips, batting her lashes and sticking out her tits so far I was surprised she hadn’t fallen over. I
gently
nudged her out of the way and took aim at my target totty. ‘Sorry to barge in, but it’s my job to keep things clean, see, and I was wondering if you had . . . ah . . . anything that needs polishing? Anything I could give a good rub?’ I let a slow grin slide across my face as I looked up at him and winked in slo-mo; OK, it wasn’t subtle, but it’s girl-meets-boy-meat we’re talking about here, not world peace.