“Very much as you’d expect. A rebel. A bit of a loner. Quite bright, I think, but liked to hide it. Only used his brains to come up with new and epic ways to subvert the orthodoxy.”
“He strikes me as cleverer than he likes to make out.”
“Yeah. I don’t think he bothered to turn up for his GCSEs though. And there were always stories about his dad. He was a bit legendary in Goldsands, mostly for lots of the wrong reasons. Boozer, fighter, general all-round badass, you know.”
“I didn’t,” Flipp commented thoughtfully, trying to fit her image of Rocky around this new information. A bad boy from a bad home. A messed-up kid, kicking against the pricks. Easy prey for a man like Cordwainer, if he really was as ruthless as Rocky implied. “Poor Rocky. Was he popular? With the girls?”
“No, not really. He grew into his looks—at school he was gangly and awkward and all nose and hair. Quite spotty too. He was on the periphery of various groups but didn’t seem to have particular friends.”
“So you weren’t his particular friend but you want to find him. Why?”
Jeremy smiled tightly, seemingly annoyed with himself about something. As if in response to a silent plea for help, a couple of women suddenly crowded the back of his chair, one of them ruffling his hair.
“Jezzy baby,” she cooed. “Come and say hello. It’s Fi from Ad Sales’s birthday and she’s getting the round in.”
“Oh right.” He flicked a glance rapidly between Flipp and the other women. “I’ll be over in a sec.”
“Is he interviewing you, love?” the second woman asked Flipp. She laughed raunchily. “You want to watch him. They call him the Griller. He’ll lull you into a false sense of security then drop in a couple of killer questions and next thing you know, you’re the talk of the town.”
“Interview?” Flipp wrinkled her nose, regarding Jeremy quizzically.
“You’ll be on the front page of the Gazette tomorrow.” The woman nodded with mock gravity.
Flipp stood, bristling and icy-eyed. “The Gazette? You’re a reporter?”
Jeremy spread his palms, trying to look apologetic. “I’m interested in Rocky. We really were at school together.”
“Whatever dirt you’re digging, you won’t get anything from me,” Flipp said. She stalked off, noticing the murderous glare Jeremy was treating his two unmaskers to on her way to the door.
Outside, it was late now, and the funfair lights were off. Beyond the pier, only blue-black darkness was visible, accompanied by the gentle lapping sound of the waves. Farther down the Esplanade, drunken singing and the screams of teenage girls chased Flipp all the way back to her bedsit where she lay long on her unmade bed, wondering who the man—to whom she had given her body and heart so willingly—really was.
Chapter Five
Once she was seated on the pier bench, looking out to the salty sea and squealing seagulls, Laura took the little plastic bag of chopped onion out of her handbag, opened it and peered inside for as long as she could bear.
It was true what they said about onions, she noted, snapping the bag shut and gazing into her mirror compact at red streaming eyes. They really did make you cry. She ho
ped she’d managed to make herself look distressed enough without having to endure a reddened nose. She always wanted to slap crying girls and tell them they were ruining their looks. They could at least wear waterproof mascara if they insisted on blubbing everywhere. She let the tears run down her cheeks until they glistened, two perfect dewdrops on the peachiest part of the skin, then she replaced the mirror compact with a balled-up tissue and strode purposefully into Caesar’s Palace.
Flipp wished she had a mobile phone. How much less tedious her long stints in the change booth would be with the enhancement of sex texts from Rocky, or perhaps an inappropriate voice mail or two. Right now she would kill to hear that whiskey-over-gravel voice in her ear again. But Rocky had not been in the arcade that afternoon, and she supposed she shouldn’t be accessible by telephone anyway. The plan was to stay incommunicado, and she knew how important it was to stick to the plan.
She blinked at the clearly distressed young woman who approached her—a shining vision flanked by blaring one-armed-bandit attendants. Not the usual class of customer, Flipp noted. Well-dressed, healthy hair, good skin—what was she doing in here? And why was she crying?
“Can I help you, love?” she asked, working hard to keep the usual indifference in her tone.
“Has Rocky been here?” the girl asked, with an unnerving shudder of her shoulders.
“Rocky?” Flipp continued to feign bored ignorance despite the sudden sensation of a knife twisting in her chest. “Dunno, love. What do you want him for?”
The girl’s face pressed close to the Perspex and Flipp felt a surge of jealousy at the modelesque perfection of it. She felt quite sure that she didn’t want competition of this calibre for Rocky’s attentions, if competition she represented.
“The same reason everyone does,” she sobbed.
Flipp, nonplussed, simply watched her visitor emote for a few moments before taking pity on her—or succumbing to her curiosity—and inviting her into the small area behind the screen.
“Don’t cry,” she said helplessly, offering a tissue. The girl scorned Flipp’s gesture, reaching for her own fine cotton handkerchief instead, but she rewarded her with a tiny smile.
“Thanks. Sorry. You must be wondering what the hell’s going on. I don’t suppose you get a lot of weeping girls in here.”