The Life and Loves of Gringo Greene (11 page)

   Saturday finally came.

   Decision day.

   He woke up in an optimistic mood. He usually did on Saturdays. Today she would need to come across, or she would be on the receiving end of the Farewell Francis treatment, the Goodbye Glenda, See ya Susie, Bye bye Brenda, Heave-ho Harriet. He tried to think of something appropriate for Maria, but the best he could come up with was: Missing you Maria, as he waved her goodbye.

   He hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He’d grown quite fond of her. She was a pretty girl with a decent body, even if people did sometimes stare at them in the street as if they were the odd couple. He still wanted to find out more about her, much more.

    As before she came skipping through the doors the moment he pulled into the car park. It was a cool, dry evening as he watched her approaching the car; that pleased to see you smile set firmly on her face. She was wearing trousers, no surprise there, he thought, but one thing was for certain, it would be the last time she wore trousers on a date with him, one way or the other, the trousers were finished.

   They were brown slacks to be accurate, with a short maroon leather jacket up top covering a primrose blouse, not unlike the shirt he’d slipped into last time, a fact she alluded to when she jumped into the car and pointed to the shirt and said, ‘See, same colour as yours.’

   He took her to Lino’s Italian that was located opposite the bus depot. It wasn’t the most fantastic location, but the ambience inside more than made up for that. Lino’s was twice as big as the Bombay Kings, but seated only the same number of diners. As they stepped through the door Gringo inhaled. He adored the aromas that flooded through Lino’s at night, fresh virgin olive oil, basil, garlic bread, Mediterranean vegetables, Chianti, Parmesan cheese, the whole mosaic.

   Mario met them with a smile and an Italian wink for the dusky wench. Ten minutes later he returned with minestrone soup, lovingly prepared by his non-English speaking father. Mario noticed that Gringo seemed uncharacteristically nervous as he made to set the soup before them.

   ‘Don’t-a worry, Meesta Greengo, I am notta about to speel it!’

   Maria giggled and smiled at Gringo and Mario in turn, who winked at her again before turning tail.

   ‘Do you think they’ve heard about the accident in the Bombay?’ asked Maria.

   ‘God knows. I hope not!’

   The meal went well. Great food, exciting company, good service, a combination that could not fail. During the main course he caught her gazing across at his face, as if studying him.

   ‘What is it?’

   ‘Is Gringo your real name?’

   He laughed through his nose.

   ‘Course it is.’

   ‘Really? I’ve never heard it before.’

   He found it hard to believe that she could possibly think it was.

   ‘Actually, it’s a nickname.’

   ‘So what’s your real name?’

   ‘I don’t like my real name.’

   ‘But what is it?’

   ‘I will tell you on condition that you never use it.’

   She pulled a face.

   ‘All right, if that’s what you want.’

   ‘It’s Kevin, if you must know.’  

   ‘Kevin Greene,’ she said slowly, the names rolling off her pink tongue. ‘That’s not so bad.’

   ‘I prefer Gringo.’

   ‘So why does everyone call you Gringo? You look like something out of the Wild West.’

   ‘That’s about right. There was a guy in the pub who grew a big droopy moustache and everyone starting calling him Mex. So I grew a moustache too, and Mex started calling me Gringo, and it’s stuck ever since.’

   ‘I don’t mind the name Kevin, honestly I don’t.’

   He bobbed his head. She was a good kid.

   ‘I prefer Gringo. You call me that.’

   ‘Whatever you say. You’re the boss.’

   He liked that. The way she said:
You’re the boss,
and the cheeky look on her face that accompanied the remark, and he liked the idea that he was indeed the boss, the dominant one. He could not and would not have it any other way, and he imagined that she would not want it any other way either.

   Afterwards she linked his arm on the way back to the car. Inside, a moment later she let him kiss her passionately. Why shouldn’t she? She was in love with Gringo Greene, or at least that was what she’d told Vicky Williams in Naughton’s the previous evening.

   ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah,’ Vicky had said. ‘We’ve heard it all before, Maria.’

   ‘No Vick. Not like this. He really could be
the
one.’

   Vicky had given Maria her best sceptical look.

   ‘I am pleased for you, babe, just don’t go getting hurt, that’s all.’

  
Don’t go getting hurt, that’s all.

  
Those words swirled around her head now. She’d been hurt many times before. Men all too often dined her, wooed her, had her, and then promptly dumped her, though it had to be said, it was more often than not after she’d cooked them a meal. Maria was not a great cook and the over fiery Goan fare she served up simply couldn’t be handled by some English men. It didn’t help either that she always fucked up the rice. An Asian woman who couldn’t cook rice! She must have been unique in that respect. This time she was determined she would not make that mistake with Gringo Greene. She would not cook him a damned thing, not until it was absolutely necessary.

   Back at the house he asked her to make the coffee, something she was happy to do. You couldn’t fuck up a coffee machine, could you? Not that it really mattered because he wasn’t in the least interested in coffee.

   He slipped the jacket from her shoulders and hung it on the hooks in the hall, then grabbed her and pulled her close and kissed her harder than before. Her lips were dry, but rounded and responsive. She possessed unbelievable lips, not huge, not enhanced; just ultra responsive, truly incredible, and he couldn’t kiss them enough.

   Moments later they were writhing together on the sofa, Gringo’s tongue venturing into places it had never been before. He pressed down on her, kissing her all the while, forcing her into the leather cushions.

   ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he whispered, between breaths.

   ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m not ready.’

   He was tempted to say:
Well when will you be fucking ready?
but just about managed to rein himself in.

   He need not have fretted.

   Ten frantic minutes later she whispered: ‘All right, Gringo, all right.’

   It was exactly the words he wanted to hear.

   It was an admission.

   An admission that he had won, just as she always knew he would. An admission that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. An admission that she was now available to him. An admission that all his efforts had finally paid a big dividend. There could be no turning back.

   He had heard those words issued in that same breathless manner many times before.
All right, Gringo
. He looked out for them. He yearned for them because he knew exactly what they meant, and so did she. Now he must act before anything intervened. Fate sometimes plays terrible tricks on ditherers, on anyone not seizing the moment. Phones ringing, people knocking on doors, televisions exploding, anything can happen! Seize the day! Seize the night! Seize the girl! Nothing must interfere.

   He stood up and pulled her to her feet, grabbed her shoulders and pushed her toward the stairs.

   ‘All right, Gringo, all right. Gently!’

   She was now ascending the stairs.

   He slapped her backside. It was only to be expected.

   ‘Gringo!’ she pleaded, breaking into a trot.

   He slapped her again, all the way up to the top of the house.

   ‘You are terrible, Gringo.’

   ‘Get in that bedroom!’

   He went for the trousers first, yanking them off. She would never wear trousers in his bedroom again, ever.

   ‘You will have to wear a thingy.’

   He wasn’t at all keen on wearing thingies, but sometimes he would make an exception.

   ‘Fair enough.’

   She wore blue, woolly knickers. He couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. She wouldn’t wear crap gear like that again either. The pants went the same way as the slacks.

   A moment later she was beneath the silk sheet, naked. They both were. He kissed her again, hard on those lips that captivated him so.

   When they came apart she whispered: ‘Gringo, can I ask you something?’

   ‘Sure babe, anything you like.’

   ‘Have you had any sexual diseases?’

   It wasn’t the question he’d been expecting. He propped himself up on his elbows.

   ‘Certainly not! Have you?’

   ‘No, of course not!’

   ‘Then why ask?’

   ‘You can’t be too careful these days.’

   She lifted the sheet and peered down the bed to make sure he was adequately suited and booted. Gringo knew what she was looking at. He watched her eyes. She pulled a funny little face and bobbed her head and seemed happy enough. He pecked the end of her nose and nibbled her bottom lip.

   ‘May I now proceed?’

   ‘In a moment. Just one other thing.’

   ‘What! What?’

   ‘Can you please make it last as long as you possibly can?’

   ‘Oh I will, I intend to. You can count on that.’

   She didn’t speak again for twenty-five minutes. When she did she uttered the same word, seven times.

   ‘Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! - Stop! Stop! Stop!’

   ‘What’s the matter?’

   ‘I can’t go on, not once I’ve finished.’

   So much for:
Making it last as long as you possibly can.

  
Afterwards, he remembered thinking that was unusual. Normally they simply couldn’t get enough. He had never been asked, nay ordered, to stop before, how peculiar. But it wouldn’t be long before he started again. She would have to pay for that, for interrupting him in full flow, she would have to pay big time, and eventually, she did.

Gringo was daydreaming. It was Monday afternoon. Recently he’d noticed he was daydreaming more often, and he didn’t really have the time to waste. He glanced down at the ever-increasing pile of papers mounting on his desk. Whatever happened to the paperless society? It certainly hadn’t arrived in the office of Dryden Engineering. To hell with it, just for once he would daydream a little longer. He would stay late if he had to. There was nothing to rush home for.

   The object of his dreaming was, for the moment, Maria Almeida. It had been a decent weekend. Not the best in the greater scheme of things, but damned decent nonetheless. He’d driven her to church on Sunday morning, but hadn’t gone in; he had no time for all that mumbo jumbo. She was Catholic; it came with her Portuguese Goan roots, though he’d only taken her there on condition that he could pick her up again afterwards, and on the strict understanding that she would be his for the remainder of the Sunday. She hadn’t taken a lot of persuading, but by the time he’d returned her to her apartment at midnight, she was more than ready for home; and bed, alone.

   She did have one little sulk. Gringo didn’t approve of that, though he didn’t think so much of it. She’d wanted to see him again on the Wednesday, but that was out of the question because Gringo was going away.

   ‘Where are you going?’ she’d asked, pouting like a teenager.

   ‘I’m driving up to see my mum and dad.’

   ‘Didn’t you think to tell me? Didn’t you think to ask me if I might like to come with you?’

   ‘It’s been arranged for ages. I didn’t think you’d want to come.’

   Gringo didn’t like taking women to see his parents because they would inevitably see it as a precursor to marriage, and Gringo had no intention of getting married, and most certainly not to Maria Almeida. He was driving to Shropshire on the Tuesday and not coming back till Saturday afternoon.

   He’d escorted Maria up to her apartment and hugged and kissed her in the doorway. She’d wanted to make a firm arrangement to meet the following Saturday, but he even put that off, saying he didn’t know what time he would be back. She was beginning to think he might be considering dumping her, now that he’d had what he wanted. All too often men were like that. It didn’t bear thinking about. It would be a very long week, so far as she was concerned.

   That didn’t bother him at all. He liked to keep them guessing and on their toes. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that, and anyway, he wanted to write her a letter. There were one or two things he didn’t like, little issues he had, and the best way to address those was in writing. She might ignore or mishear a telephone call, but written down in black and white, that was another thing entirely. You can’t ignore a letter. In his mind he’d already begun composing his missive.