“I don’t think so.”
“Where are you going? To her place?”
“Shut up. Go away. I need to call a cab.”
“No you don’t. I’ll give you a lift. I insist. It’s the least I can do.”
The simmering rage on Rocky’s face was terrifying and thrilling. He really did look as if he wanted to kill her. The wild elation this seemed to provoke in her soul was probably a little bit disturbing, if she cared to analyse it, but she didn’t. She had no other thought on her mind than her need to get Rocky into her car and then pounce on him.
“Don’t you have any pride?”
And it was this simple question that defeated Laura. She could have taken on any amount of bluster or threat or even cruelty, but this near-contempt was too much for her. She did have some pride, after all. Rather a lot, actually. And she had lots of other things too—determination and vengeful patience being but two. She could wait for her Rocky. She could fight for him another day.
“Among other things,” she said, leaning down to kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “You’ll see. Good night. Sweet dreams.”
Flipp felt the need for more cider, which was inconvenient, as she only had twenty-three pence left in her handbag, plus one pound for the coin electricity meter in her bedsit, before tomorrow’s pay packet. She stared bleakly into her sequined purse and shrugged. Time to go home and stare through the tatty net curtains at the tatty vista of the curry house and kebab shop beyond. Perhaps she should save up for a TV. There must be cheap secondhand sets on sale somewhere. But for tonight, entertainment would be provided by her ancient radio/CD player. Again.
She was picking a careful path across the beer-splashed carpet when a hand on her shoulder caused her to stop and look up. A man, preppily handsome with floppy hair and a striped rugby top, was smiling down at her.
“Excuse me…so sorry to disturb you…but were you in here with Rocky Anderson earlier?”
Aha. A surname.
“Might have been,” she said. “Are you a friend of his?”
“Yes. An old school friend. Haven’t seen him in ages. Do you have his number?”
Flipp never gave out information to people she did not know, and besides, she really didn’t know Rocky’s number, so she shrugged and tried to move away.
“I’m sorry,” the man continued, smiling shamefacedly. “I don’t mean to be rude. My name’s Jeremy. Jeremy Weill. Look, can I get you a drink? Or will Rocky kill me for moving in on his girl? I’m not, by the way. Moving in on you, I mean. Not that you aren’t worth moving in on…Oh dear. I’m coming across as a right tosser, aren’t I? I tend to babble. Ignore me. But seriously, what are you drinking?”
Flipp’s guard was lowered by Jeremy’s endearingly shambolic air. She smiled.
“Cider,” she told him. “Dry, not sweet.”
He brought her a bottled brand, plus a pint of bitter for himself and sat down at the table Rocky had vacated earlier, placing the drinks on the selfsame coasters.
“Are you new in town?” he asked. “I don’t recognise you at all.”
“Newish,” said Flipp.
“Thought so. Goldsands, you’ll be discovering for yourself, is a small place. Everyone knows everyone’s business. Wel
l, mostly. Obviously you lose touch here and there. Like me and Rocky. You have a metropolitan twang to your voice—are you from London?”
“Around that way.”
“I see you’re a girl who likes to play her cards close to her chest. Nothing wrong with that, of course. I like a little bit of mystery—all adds to the fun. Do you have a name, at least?”
“My name’s Flipp.”
“Flipp? Really? Short for Philippa?”
“Exactly the right length for Flipp.”
“It’s different. Fresh. I like it.” Jeremy was striving so hard not to give offence that Flipp granted him a small concession.
“I met Rocky at work,” she told him.