Amanda's Young Men (22 page)

Paul interrupted. ‘But if the shoe is from China, India or Manila, there are no replacement shoes available.’

Rupert continued, ‘By the end of a season, the manufacturer or the wholesaler is left with odds and ends, covering maybe a quarter, a half or perhaps three-quarters of the original range of sizes. All he wants to do then is liquidate them, get rid of them for whatever he can get.’ He tucked into his fried rice.

Nola asked, ‘But don’t shoe shops always want a full range of sizes in every style?’

Paul took over the explanation. ‘Of course they do, in theory, but, in practice, they never have, not for long. A case comes in, someone buys the only size five in it and someone else buys the only ten, bingo – a broken range. Then, if a customer wants a shoe in a size that isn’t in stock any more, it’s up to the salesperson to offer the closest other styles that they do have in the customer’s size.’

Nola clapped her hands as she realised what the young men were doing. ‘So – you’re buying odds and sods of hot styles
from
abroad, ones that haven’t reached us yet, and you’re relying on the salespeople to switch customers from the style they asked for to a slightly different one, when necessary.’

‘And we’re buying them at fifteen or twenty per cent of their original prices,’ Amanda added. ‘That’s how we’ll tide our shops over from the time our giant clearance sale ends until we get a proper purchasing system rolling. That’ll take another two full seasons, at the very least.’

‘We can do it,’ said Paul.

Rupert nodded his agreement. Both boys shot Amanda questioning glances.

Rupert added, ‘We can with Ms Amanda in charge.’

Nola grinned adoringly at Amanda. ‘Oh, Ms Amanda, I sure hope you get to stay President of Forsythe Footwear!’ The girl’s exclamation was so ingenuous the three businesspeople in the room laughed. It was the question on everybody’s lips, though neither Paul nor Rupert would have said it out loud.

Affection surged through Amanda. They were all three as devoted as they were adorable. Two of them had exceptional business skills and the third was as sweet as candyfloss. ‘I expect the meeting to go very well,’ she said. ‘But I can’t guarantee it.’

‘We’re behind you all the way,’ said Paul.

Rupert nodded.

Nola giggled. ‘Behind you,’ she repeated. ‘That’s funny!’

Amanda intended to spend the rest of the day calling the other shareholders. There had been no time to woo them as Sophie Sharpe had likely done, and anyway numbers don’t lie, but it would be a good PR move on her part. She sent Nola off to the warehouse with a list of questions she needed answered, and set to work in her office, starting alphabetically on her list of shareholders.

By the time she’d reached ‘J’, Amanda’s face was frozen into
a
fake smile. She hadn’t seen any of the shareholders since the funeral and so every single one had seen fit to express his or her condolences over Roger, so she’d had to feign a bit of sadness at her husband’s untimely demise. When the conversation turned to the upcoming meeting, most of the shareholders assured her they’d be there, while quite a few, when pressed, admitted they’d already promised their proxies to Sophie Sharpe.

Just as she reached for the phone to dial Jim Jacobek, the next number on the list, it rang. She picked up immediately, glad of the distraction.

‘I’ve got news for you, Ms Garland.’

Damn. Tom Sharpe.

She put on her most commanding voice. ‘Haven’t your friends come to collect you yet?’

‘Forget that. Something’s come up. I’ve heard my Mom talking. She says she has a way to ruin you,
and
Forsythe Footwear.’

‘Yes, well, she’s obviously been busy wooing the shareholders.’

‘It’s much more than that. Meet me and I’ll show you. She’s gone until Thursday morning.’

Amanda was sorely tempted. Getting more information about her opponent was tempting but, if it meant meeting up with Tom, she had to refuse. ‘We’re over, Tom. I’m not meeting you.’

‘Then I’ll call the police. How do you think the shareholders’ meeting will go with you in jail?’

‘What – what are you …?’ Amanda sputtered. The cheek of the boy!

‘I’m talking “rape”, Ms Garland. Statutory rape.’

‘You’re of age! Right?’

No answer.

‘You’re in college, Tom, you must be of age.’

‘I skipped two years because I’m so bloody brilliant.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘That’s right, lady. Jail time. Major scandal.’

‘Oh my God. Tom, does your mother know about us?’

‘No. This has nothing to do with her. I’ll never tell her about us, Ms Garland, if you’ll just come see me this one last time.’

She knew when she was beaten. ‘When, and where?’

‘My mom’s house. Tonight at seven. Come alone.’ His attempt at a threatening tone might have made her laugh had she not been so thoroughly shocked.

Her next call was not, after all, to Mr Jacobek, but to Trevor. ‘I need your help. Are you free tonight? Around – um – seven?’

‘I can arrange it. Why?’

‘I might have got myself in over my head.’

‘Does this have to do with that phone call you received the other day?’

‘Yes. Trevor it’s Tom Sharpe. Sophie Sharpe’s son.’

Trevor chuckled. ‘You’ll do anything for Forsythe Footwear, or anyone.’

‘It wasn’t like that, honestly. There was an attraction between us, and I – maybe I let it go further than it should have but I – I thought he’d appreciate having his cherry popped by someone with experience. Instead he’s gone crazy. One minute he says he loves me and the next he’s threatening to have me put in jail.’

‘Charged with …?’

‘Statutory rape,’ she whispered. It was horrible, horrible! ‘He says he’s not of age.’

‘Could he be lying?’

‘Yes.’ She breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That’s probably it. He’s probably lying. Still, I think I’d better meet him tonight. Will you come?’

‘I’ll lurk, close by, and listen in, just in case.’

‘Thank you, Trevor.’

‘Bring your super-dooper spy machine.’

‘Huh?’

Trevor laughed. ‘Bring your cell phone.’

19

THEY TOOK TREVOR’S
van. Amanda sat in the passenger seat and watched his biceps flex as he turned the steering wheel. He was wearing black pants that were tight over the bulging muscles of his thighs and a matching muscle-shirt, so that his enormous arms were bare. He looked so dangerous that it made her groin ache.

‘I emptied Roger’s cell-phone camera like you told me,’ she said. She was about to say more, but she thought better of it. Instead, she asked why he’d told her to wear a pant-suit for the occasion.

‘The little toad doesn’t deserve to look at your lovely legs, Amanda.’

‘But you do,’ she teased.

‘And when I want to see them, I’ll have you take your pants off.’

Not ‘ask’. Not ‘tell’. Just ‘have’. When they were in dom/sub mode, he was that confident of his control of her.

He parked a few houses down the street from Sophie Sharpe’s home. Trevor checked that Amanda’s cell, concealed in her oversized Carriage bag but with its antenna slightly sticking out, could pick up her quiet voice and transmit it to his cell. He’d given her a small flat square of metal that had sticky stuff on one side. As he helped her from his van, he told her, ‘I’ll be listening closely. Just call my name and I’ll be there.’

‘What if my gimmick –’ she opened her palm to show the metal square ‘– doesn’t work?’

‘Then I’ll just have to damage Sophie’s door, won’t I?’

‘Oh!’ She had a quick and thrilling mental image of Trevor battering Sophie’s door down.

Tom answered the door quickly. His eyes were bleary. He had booze on his breath. Those weren’t good signs.

Amanda walked in ‘at him’ to make him back up, which gave her the chance to slap her gimmick over the slot the door lock’s tongue went into before she pulled the door closed behind her. Did she hear the tongue click into place? She wasn’t sure. If she’d screwed up, that would delay Trevor’s charge to the rescue, if one was needed.

‘Thish way,’ Tom said and led her into the living room.

The room stank like a rundown slum pub, with traces of smelly old socks and stale teenage testosterone as grace notes. There was a stained towel on the sideboard, put there to protect the French-polished finish, no doubt, and it certainly needed protection. A dozen empty beer bottles lay on their sides and half a dozen bottles of cheap liqueurs stood on the towel, all opened and all streaked with sticky spills. The virulently coloured drinks seemed to be based on banana, chocolate, something green, two kinds of orange and one clear, anise, perhaps. All of them looked and smelt like synthetic treacle. Amanda couldn’t imagine a more nauseating selection of drinks.

Tom waved his arm in a broad gesture that almost un balanced him. ‘These are my mates,’ he announced, as if he was inordinately proud of having the uncouth duo that lounged across the room as friends.

One youth was large, with a bulbous nose that was pitted with blackheads. The other was a bit shorter than Tom but twice as wide, built like a fireplug. Whereas Tom had reminded Amanda of cricket, this one made her think of rugby and
wrestling
and gymnasium showers. Under other circumstances, Amanda might have found him reasonably attractive, in a crude sort of way. But not now.

‘Nice to make your acquaintance,’ he said with a smirk.

The other contented himself with a snort.

A slimy coldness invaded Amanda’s tummy. Somewhere near the top of her extensive repertoire of masturbation fantasies, she’d imagined being kidnapped and forced to perform obscenities for a gang of crude toughs. Being subjected to a gang-bang was a common female fantasy, or so she’d read.

But this was real, and nasty. It didn’t excite her one little bit.

‘I want to see your ID,’ she said to Tom, trying to take control. ‘Something with your birth date on it.’

‘Zat so? Like my driver’s licence?’ Tom leered in close. ‘I want to see something of yours, too.’

Amanda struggled to keep fear from her voice. ‘You had something to tell me about your mother,’ she reminded Tom.

‘Only one thing you need to know about my mother. She’s not here! And she won’t be back for a couple of days. Me and my pals are having us a bit of a bash before I head back to college. And you are invited to be the guest of honour, and to provide the entertainment.’

‘Guest of honour?’

‘I told my mates about all the really dirty things you and me got up to that day. They want you to do the same things for them, right?’ He turned to his friends.

They agreed. ‘Right! Right!’

Amanda wanted to breathe deeply but the smell in the room was revolting. Everything about this scenario was disgusting beyond belief. She tried to keep a level voice. ‘And what if I don’t want to do those things for your stupid friends?’

Trying to sound menacing but failing because his voice cracked, Tom snarled, ‘It can be real nice for you if you play along, or we can make it real nasty if you don’t, but you’re going to do us, all three of us, and do us every way there is, whether you like it or not.’

‘I don’t believe you’d do that to me, Tom. Not after what we had together.’

That was precisely the wrong thing to say. Anger flushed Tom’s face bright red and tears shone in the corners of his eyes. ‘I loved you. You used me. I don’t love you any more.’

Amanda shrank back. ‘I need help,’ she whispered.

The fat boy lumbered up out of an armchair clutching his groin. The leering wrestler elbowed himself off the wall he’d been leaning against.

‘Might as well enjoy it, lady,’ the fat one suggested.

‘No!’ Amanda lifted her bag closer to her face, abandoning all attempts at secrecy. ‘Trevor! I need you. I
really
need you!’

‘What the fuck?’ Tom asked.

‘Who’s this “Trevor”?’ the fat one wanted to know.

There was a crash in the hall and then the door behind Amanda burst open. The three would-be rapists each took a quick step backwards.

‘Party’s over, lads,’ Trevor announced.

The wrestler told him, ‘Take off, you, before you get hurt, bad.’

Tom squeaked, ‘This is a private house. I’ll call the police on you.’

‘That’s a stupid threat,’ Trevor observed. ‘Here.’ He scooped an ornate antique phone off a side table and tossed it at Tom, who fumbled his catch. The phone jangled to the floor. Its dial rolled away under the sideboard.

‘Go ahead, call them,’ Trevor challenged.

The wrestler said, ‘You’ve got a count of three to get out, or else!’

‘One-two-three,’ Trevor counted. ‘Now what?’

The wrestler rushed Trevor, fists swinging. The heel of Trevor’s right hand met the boy’s forehead, whipping his head back and sending him crashing against the wall. He bounced off it as if he was made of rubber and charged again. Trevor stepped inside his swinging fists and bitch-slapped him half a dozen times, driving him backwards until he fell over his own feet.

Tom hadn’t made a move but Trevor reached a long arm out sideways and took his lower lip in a pinch-grip between his finger and thumb. As Trevor twisted, Tom sank, gurgling and streaming tears, to his knees. Trevor patted him down, located his wallet in his rear jeans’ pocket, extracted it and tossed it to Amanda.

It was the fat one’s turn to charge – and to be met by a thrust from the heel of Trevor’s free hand into his flabby chest. He back-pedalled, gasping for air, and tripped over a stool.

‘Next?’ Trevor asked calmly.

The three teens looked questioningly at each other but none of them volunteered to attack Trevor again.

‘Damn,’ Trevor complained, ‘I didn’t even get to use my karate.’ He took the open bottle of chocolate liqueur and poured it over Tom’s head. ‘Lap that up while I decide what to do with you,’ he ordered.

Tom meekly obeyed.

‘What’s his ID say, Amanda?’ he asked, as he poured a bottle of thick red liqueur over the big boy’s head and a vile yellow liquid over the head of the other. Like Tom, they lapped up the liqueur that had reached the floor.

‘He’s more than legal, the little bugger,’ said Amanda.