Blokebusters Read online

  Matt gestured they should go through to the living room. Billy finally took his sunglasses off.

  “This is nice. What the hell is that?” He pointed to Gyp, stretched out asleep in an armchair.

  “Gyp. Georgia’s cat.”

  “Should it be that fluffy?”

  “I think so.”

  “Right. That’s cool.” He sat and splayed his legs so wide apart it must have hurt. Matt shook his head. What was he thinking, asking Billy’s advice? Billy’s relationships, the few he’d had, barely made it to the end of the first date. What would he know about a marriage approaching its fifth anniversary?

  “OK.” Matt tried to think how to start. “A while back – last autumn – I lost my job. We were both really worried about keeping the house and… I hit upon a business idea.”

  “Porn?” Billy asked hopefully.

  “No.”

  “Right. Sorry – carry on.”

  “We’ve set up a service company on the Web and it’s doing really well.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Thank you.” Matt took another mouthful of beer, grateful Billy hadn’t queried what the business was. “The thing is. It’s proven to be more successful than we’d dreamt and it takes up a lot of our time. Georgia’s in particular ‘cos she fits it around her day job.”

  “Has she still got those cracking bazookas?” Billy clarified his use of terminology with a mime.

  “Are you even listening?”

  “Of course. Internet business. Doing well. Really busy.”

  “Right. Through this business we’ve come into contact with a man. He’s suave and urbane and stylish. And I think he’s after Georgia.”

  “And you want me to get him killed?”

  “Not really. No.”

  “Good. ‘Cos I don’t do heavy jobs like that.”

  “Billy. You’re a computer lecturer who sells stolen kitchen equipment. Why would I ask you to kill someone?” Matt sighed.

  “As long as we know the boundaries – that’s cool with me.”

  Matt wondered which of them was the bigger fool but he carried on.

  “What should I do? Trust her and hope nothing develops? Or be heavy handed and demand a stop to everything? She isn’t cheating on me, I know that, but it feels like I’m losing her. And I’m not even doing anything wrong. I love her and trust her – maybe too much. The more freedom I give her the more she seems to exist without me.”

  “Do you know what you should do?” Billy said.

  “Is this a serious suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Go on then – tell me.”

  “Have an affair. Give Georgie a wake-up call. Let her walk in and see you slipping a portion to a really tasty, grateful, younger bird.”

  Matt held his head in his hands and groaned. Billy looked at him, waiting for confirmation of his genius. Matt shook his head.

  “Do you ever wonder why you’re single?”

  “Too much man for one woman – I realised that ages ago.” He cupped his crotch proudly and gave it a firm pat. “Can I have a sandwich? After what I got up to last night I’m starving.”

  “What did you get up to?” Matt asked, regretting it the moment the words left his mouth.

  “Finished Call of Duty – Black Ops.” He followed Matt into the kitchen.

  Matt buttered the bread.

  “Ham or cheese?”

  “Both.” Billy scrutinised Matt as he rooted around in the fridge. “Can I be brutally honest?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you were a woman, I’d say you’d let yourself go.” He detected Matt’s look. “No offence mate, but is it any surprise Gorgeous Georgie’s had her head turned by someone better?”

  “Better? Thanks a lot.” Matt sliced the Cheddar with angry cuts.

  “I’m serious. I’m telling you ‘cos I can. Look at you – when was the last time you had a new t-shirt?” Billy leant over and pinged it to prove how thin and faded it was. “Your jeans look like you’ve just got out of a bath of shit. And I bet you’re still wearing those saggy old Y-fronts you wore at uni.”

  “She likes me like this!” Matt didn’t want to hear it but, at the same time, knew someone should’ve told him a while ago.

  “And don’t even start me on your hair!”

  “Georgia’s not shallow!”

  “Which is why you’re worried about losing her to Mr Suave? I’m no style guru and I haven’t even seen this other bloke but I bet most women would pick him over you – I mean, look at you! Only your specs come close to passing muster – and that’s because they’re so out of fashion they’ve actually somehow come back in.” Billy bit into his sandwich and chewed smugly. “Who’s her ideal man?”

  “That’s irrelevant.” He’d got the message; he didn’t need it rubbing in.

  “Cary Grant. Cary Grant – suits and good hair. She hasn’t got posters of Worzel Gummidge up the stairs has she?”

  “That’s a bit cruel.” Matt stared at the crumbs on the worktop.

  “Cruel to be kind mate. Cruel to be kind.”

  “Not ‘cos it’s fun?”

  “You wound me. Got any pickle?”

  An hour later, Billy left. He turned on the front step.

  “You’re always welcome to crash out at mine if you ever need to – you know that?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Same flat as ever.”

  “What’ll I do if I need it and you’re lying low somewhere? How will I get in touch?” Matt couldn’t resist winding him up.

  “Good point buddy. Good point.” Billy fumbled with his key ring. It had hundreds of keys on it; Billy never threw keys away in case they fitted something else. He handed Matt the key he’d twisted off the ring. “Here – take this. Spare key.”

  “Thanks,” Matt laughed. If he ever needed to bed down at Billy’s, things had taken a serious turn for the worse. “If you’re not there should I worry? You might be in trouble.”

  “Nah. I’ll be fine. Hanging out at one of my crew’s gaffs – don’t worry about me. They don’t call me Billy the Cat for nothing.” They didn’t call him Billy the Cat at all but he hoped that if he said it often enough, they might start.

  “You’ve put my mind at rest.”

  When Billy had gone Matt sat on the stairs and studied Georgia’s posters. In every one Cary had a smart suit, short, neat hair and a debonair air. He looked like he would smell good too. He studied his own clothes; the faded jeans and the old Radiohead t-shirt that Georgia didn’t even bother to throw out anymore. He looked like he’d smell bad, even though he didn’t. He rested his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands and pondered what to do.

  Chapter twenty-two

  Leo waited until his colleagues were all back at their desks before taking his phone and slipping out of the building. An alleyway ran alongside the building and was the meeting point for all the smokers, their habit exiling them from the office several times a day. He stood where he could feel the least squidgy cigarette butts underfoot and dialled Fiona’s mobile. Leo viewed stress as the baton in a relay and was keen to finish his leg as quickly as possible.

  “Fiona Williams,” she answered without looking at the display.

  “Fi, it’s Leo. I’m worried – I wanted to warn you.” He paused as a colleague passed by and nodded at him in greeting. “I’ve just come out of a meeting about how we’re going to crack the Blokebusters story. Thought you should know.”

  “Hold on a minute.” Fiona got up and closed her office door. “Right, go on.”

  “They’re getting frustrated. There still aren’t any leads on Larry Pink – it’s like he sprung out of nowhere without any history.” He paused in case Fiona volunteered anything but she didn’t, so he continued. “We’ve had a few responses from people claiming to know him but they’re all obvious cranks – one old woman from Grimsby said he lives next door and boiled her cat to use its fur for a hat. I’m guessing that’s not true.” He paused
again. “Anyway, we’ve got wind of a radio debate on Saturday – a representative of Blokebusters going head-to-head with some happy-clappy moralist. They’re going to be outside the studios to try and get some photos. Is it you doing it?”

  “No. No, it’s my friend.”

  “Well tell him to be careful.”

  “Her.”

  “Tell her to watch herself – go in disguise or something. If you want to maintain your anonymity, watch yourselves. Any half-decent photo of any of you and it’s over. They’ll be onto it like a flash.”

  Fiona smiled.

  “Why are you doing this?”

  “What?”

  “Tipping me off. This could be the best story you ever uncover.”

  “What’s one story compared to a potential lifetime of happiness with a fabulous woman?” He wondered if it was too cheesy. She didn’t respond and he imagined her puking into her waste paper bin. “Are you still there?”

  “I’m here,” she said choking back tears.

  *

  Georgia had never felt so important. A chauffeur-driven car with blacked-out windows collected her and Matt from their home to take them to the radio station. It was a London-only station based not far from King’s Cross. She had her red wig on under a baseball cap and large sunglasses to hide as much of her face as possible.

  “Remember what we discussed,” Matt said. He too was in disguise. He’d refused to wear Fiona’s brown bobbed wig but accepted a baseball cap and sunglasses. In his whole life he’d never worn either items before and felt like an octogenarian American golf fanatic. It didn’t help that he couldn’t wear his own glasses underneath so the world had a fuzzy, soft focus look to it.

  “Yes, I remember.”

  “Promise you won’t mention she used the service.”

  “I don’t see why – if some two-faced cow wants to bury us why can’t I use all the ammo I’ve got?”

  “Because she’ll be attacking your business – not you personally. If you mention her marital worries it’s personal.”

  Georgia stared out of her window. He assumed she was sulking but it was hard to tell under all her headgear. He tapped her thigh.

  “All right, I promise.”

  In his hotel room, Dan Goldstein flicked through the ‘welcome’ folder to work out how to tune the radio; the folder was sticky to the touch and he chose to believe it was cleaning product residue. He wondered if it would be Georgia doing the debate. Satisfied he was tuned to the correct station, he stretched out on the bed that was slightly too soft for his tastes, hands behind his head and waited.

  At Leo’s Docklands flat, Fiona and Leo sat in the living room excitedly waiting for the debate to begin. Every atom of Leo’s décor disgusted Fiona, from the Moroccan orange kitchen to the blood-red bathroom. She was threatened and oppressed by colour. Her pale blue trousers and white shirt gave her a spectral appearance on his pea-green sofa.

  “Do you have to look so repulsed every time you sit on it?” Leo asked.

  “I’m sorry. I could live a thousand years and I’d never adapt to it.”

  “When we move in together, I’ll let you pick the colour schemes then.” He said it as a throwaway line, fully aware she’d latch on to it.

  Georgia noticed three men lurking at the entrance to the studio. The car whisked past them into the bowels of the building. She and Matt were guided to a waiting room where a young woman briefed Georgia on what would happen.

  “I understand it’s just you doing the debate,” the woman said gesturing to Georgia with her clipboard. What she needed a clipboard for when her job seemed to consist of telling people not to swear live on air Georgia couldn’t fathom. Georgia nodded.

  “You’re probably best waiting here – you can hear everything and you’ll have some privacy,” the woman said to Matt, who nodded back.

  Once in the studio, sitting next to a woman whom she assumed was Elaine Rogers, Georgia started to panic. She’d concentrated so much on what she shouldn’t or couldn’t say that she didn’t actually know what she would say. Elaine wouldn’t look at her, she seemed to be taking it very seriously and Georgia watched her grind her jaw back and forth, clutching a folder of papers to her chest. She eyed her critically: everything about her was murky – the dark trousers and jumper that didn’t seem to be a discernible colour; her hair not in any particular style. Georgia was just about to excuse the husband for looking elsewhere when she stopped herself. The sisterhood couldn’t crumble simply because someone had it in for her.

  The DJ was a young man with a haunted look in his eyes. Georgia never listened to the radio and didn’t have a clue whether he was well known or not. He had an aggravating habit of rocking on his hipbones from side to side when talking.

  He informed his listeners for the millionth time what station they were listening to and introduced Elaine and Georgia. She’d asked to be referred to as Lisa and adopted her more flighty, common voice for the interview.

  “I’m sure the listeners will all want to know why you’re here today Lisa, rather than the elusive Larry Pink. Why isn’t Larry here?”

  “Larry was desperate to do the debate but unfortunately he couldn’t, one Saturday a month he likes to do charity work – he helps elderly people with their gardening. Obviously that’s far more important to him than being here and talking business,” Georgia purred.

  “Terrific yeah,” the DJ said. “So, to kick things off. Elaine – why are you against what Blokebusters does? Surely it agrees with you in that it’s looking to help good relationships?”

  “Yes it does but what we at Trust object to is the playing on women’s doubts to make money out of them. If you think your partner is cheating, ask him – don’t go to a morally dubious company and have what, in my opinion, is little more than a prostitute hit on him. Where’s the dignity?” Elaine’s voice was smooth and educated but lacked warmth.

  “Businesses only do well because they offer a product or service that the market demands. We’re doing nothing illegal,” Georgia countered. “It’s not my – or your place to tell people what they should or shouldn’t do – that’s fascism. You might not like my business but that doesn’t give you the right to stop it.”

  In his little room, Matt nodded in agreement. She was very slick.

  “But your business is founded on the somewhat crude notion that men think with their reproductive organs.” Elaine’s tone was challenging.

  “And your problem with that is?”

  “It’s offensive. Sexism isn’t the less damaging because it’s aimed at men.”

  “Listen sweetheart. I’m not saying this to be funny, there won’t be a woman out there who doesn’t understand when I say that the day men start thinking with their brains we’re all screwed.” Georgia relaxed in her chair; this was starting to feel like fun.

  In the adjoining room Matt grinned. She was playing a blinder: savvy, cheeky and witty. In his hotel room, Dan laughed out loud; God, she was sexy. His hand veered for his crotch but he stopped himself. It was too tacky. In Docklands, Fiona punched the air.

  “You tell her Georgia!” Realising her disclosure she covered her mouth.

  “Lucky for you I’m a bit deaf in that ear – couldn’t hear a thing.” Leo pulled her hand from her mouth and kissed it.

  Elaine took a nervous sip of water.

  “I notice, Lisa, that you’re wearing a wedding ring. You’re married?”

  “Yes I am.”

  “And you’re happy to denigrate every single marriage vow you made in order to ‘earn a few quid’?” She put finger quotation marks around the end of her question. That alone would normally be enough to make Georgia angry.

  “I wouldn’t denigrate any of my marriage vows. I don’t believe I have. I have never cheated on my husband and I never would. A singer sings love songs and picks out a member of the audience to sing them to – has he cheated? Of course not. An actress performs love scenes with an actor she’s not married to – has she cheated? No. I s
ee my job as no different.”

  “Then your husband obviously has the same alley-cat morals as you do,” Elaine snapped.

  “Excuse me?” Georgia said in the slow and measured voice that Matt recognised to be seconds before erupting.

  “Your husband can’t be any sort of man to let you do the work you do,” Elaine repeated. “A husband should protect his wife, not send her out to prostitute herself with other men. That isn’t love – it’s pimping.”

  In the side room Matt started pacing.

  “Don’t rise to it Georgia. Don’t rise to it,” he repeated over and over, suddenly wondering why he had believed Georgia could control her temper. She never controlled her temper. Never. Oh God, bad things were about to happen. He rubbed his lips anxiously.

  The DJ squirmed in his seat sensing something explosive was about to occur. He hated hosting debates, far preferring his usual mix of music and competitions, but the Saturday audience demanded greater variation and he’d been forced to have a weekly hot topic debated live. On his deathbed, the image of the social worker strangling the nun would still be all too vivid.

  “You asked me about my wedding ring. I notice you’re not wearing one. Why is that?” Georgia asked.

  “I’m guessing she’s a moose. What? What have I said?” Leo recoiled from Fiona’s glare.

  “I’m separated from my husband,” Elaine replied.

  “What led to the separation?”

  “Is that really relevant?” Elaine snapped, her face blanching.

  “Oh I think so.”

  “Georgia, don’t do this. Don’t,” Matt muttered. He picked at a piece of skin around his thumb, yet to realise he’d drawn blood.

  “He had an affair,” Elaine said.

  “Hmm. Your group – Tryst.”

  “Trust.”

  “Yeah – whatever. They don’t like adultery do they?”

  “No. What sane, moral person living a clean life would?”

  “Do they dislike hypocrisy too?”

  “Of course.”

  Matt’s chest tightened. She’d promised she wouldn’t. She promised.

  “Then why have they selected you as their representative in this debate?” Georgia smiled. “After all – why would they select possibly the only person in their organisation who’d paid to use the Blokebusters service?”