Sugarcoated (7 page)

Strut was one of those shops with a bell outside. Not exactly Glasgow, that.

‘Needs to get over itself,’ Georgina – who only ever bought clothes from One World or Save the Children – used to say whenever we passed it. One Saturday afternoon we swanned up and rang Strut’s bell. No one let us in, although this arseless, spray-tanned blonde sneered out at us both as if she was Glaswegian aristocracy and me and Georgina were turds in matching Fair Trade T-shirts

‘Torn-faced tart,’ Georgina had opined in her debating club voice as the Torn-Faced Tart turned her back to attend to some essential folding. When Georgina pressed the bell again, keeping her finger on it this time, the TFT swanned over to the door and flipped the sign on it to CLOSED. Me and Georgina had mooned her then.

I wonder if she recognises me
, I gulped when same blonde was flipping the CLOSED sign on me again. This however was once I was
inside
Strut. And after she’d greeted Stefan with a triple kiss and not a glance in my direction.

‘Hi-yaaa. So fant
a
stic to see you. Your Versace just looks
great
on you,’ she shrilled at him in this Lorraine Kelly-esque voice that soooo didn’t match the filthy head-to-toe dart of scorn she threw me when Stefan said, ‘This is Clau-’

‘Listen: Oh. My. God, Stephen,’ without bothering to catch my name this shop assistant lunged for Stefan’s arm, whirlwinding him through the shop. Although I couldn’t see another soul in the place, she was gushing at him in a secretive whisper.

‘I know you spent a fortune last week but I’m telling you, Stephen, these shirts that’ve just come in, I am
not
joking: you have to check them out and you’ll want one in every colour because see with your white suit? They’re just
so
made for it and, I swear to God, you’ll be the only guy in Scotland wearing one coz they’re straight off the catwalk in Milan. Quick, quick –’

Still just in the shop and no more, I watched this no-longer-quite-so-torn-faced stick insect hoiking Stefan through to men’s clothing as if all these shirts she was raving about were ready to fly back to Milan without him. She seemed to know Stefan better than I did,
Though why d’you keep calling him Stephen, you snooty bint?
I wondered while I stood abandoned near the entrance of the shop. I felt as welcome as a pimple on the tip of Angelina Jolie’s nose in the company of the various anorexic mannequins posed around the shop floor, with their cinched-in waists and their pert pointy boobs and their bored, blank faces. Oh dear, they’d be the templates for the clientele Strut expected, I sighed, wandering over to the nearest sparse rail of ladies’ clothing. As you do when you’re hanging about in normal clothes shops waiting for someone else, I began to browse, checking the price label first, of course. Holy Moley! Every single garment had a triple figure tag, and the prices seemed to rise inversely with the amount of fabric your money bought you.

What a steal,
I snorted, examining this bra-top
contraption. Looked like it was run up from one of the Woolworth’s hankies I give Dad every Christmas.

POINT. SHOOT.
Shoddy red stitching on each bra cup instructed. £425 dangled the price.

‘Made of tat,’ I spluttered aloud.

When I plucked the hankie bra off the rail and held its tiny triangles of fabric against my substantial boobs I knew I’d have to describe this ridiculous outfit to Georgina in my next email. To make sure I didn’t miss out any details I checked around for the nearest mirror and walked towards it. But as soon as I was a few inches from the rail, the stupid bra in my hands started to shrill:

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep

Muggins hadn’t noticed that – unlike Primark – everything in Strut was attached to a wire. I’d remember next time I popped in, all right! That way I might avoid the attentions of this complete
tank
of a security guard who appeared from nowhere. Slammed me to the floor. Bloody hell! I’m no pushover but before I could say ‘I was only looking,’ he’d my arm racked up my back and his sturdy beam of a knee rammed into my coccyx.

‘Please don’t move a muscle,’ this bloke requested, squeezing my throat till my eyes bulged. ‘Otherwise I’ll have to hurt you.’

The white-hot fury in my own squashed voice probably surprised me more than it did the guy spread-eagled across me.

‘Comedian. I’ll hurt
you
if you don’t get off me. I said GET OFF!’

Adrenalin surged through me, pumping up my volume, filling me with fight. Every last stone of me heaved against the security guard as I put into practice the dying-fish-on-a-deck wriggle-move good old ex-wrestler Uncle Super Mike had taught with the guarantee that it would always see me out of trouble if I was jumped. Unfortunately, and despite a snapping back-thrust with my head catching the guard a cracker to his nose – blood everywhere – my grunted efforts were essentially as sorry as a dying fish. I’d met my match. Just couldn’t throw this big guy off. Still, my panted unladylike war-cry of, ‘Bloody let me up, ya dope. I wouldn’t thieve this crap if you paid me,’ was loud enough to bring a topless Stefan to the rescue.

‘Babes? Problem?’

Stefan’s response wasn’t exactly a textbook damsel rescue. He didn’t even lay a finger on the bloke who’d laid into me:
How dare you assault my lady-friend, you bounder!
However, he didn’t seem to need to get physical.

‘Oi! Have you a deathwish, pal?’ Stefan enquired of the security guard. Not even loudly. And by the time I was free and exhaling and scrabbling to my feet, the tank who’d flattened me was up against the nearest wall looking like he wanted to be molecularly absorbed into it. There was blood pumping out his nose, down his chin.

Give the guy a tissue,
I felt like saying to Stefan. He was standing in front of the guard now, just watching him bleed. And as I watched Stefan eyeballing this guy, this snake tattooed across Stefan’s bare back watched me. The thickest part of it lay in the space between his jutting shoulder-blades, tail tapering to rest along Stefan’s flank, its tip curling up and over his left bicep. The snake’s head twisted round on itself so it appeared to be striking outwards. Mouth open, fangs bared, like a toxic warning:

Keep back.

Nice, I winced, wondering why the heck Stefan would want to wear something so vicious underneath his classy designer threads. It wasn’t like bodywise he
needed
to embellish anything. His upper torso was preeeeetty buff, all hard, corded muscle, not a spare inch of fat. And his untattooed skin was flawless.

Apart from this ugly great blemish.
I wrinkled my nose, watching the snake slither along the skin on Stefan’s back, rippling the hump of Stefan’s vertebrae when he folded his arms. If the snake hadn’t had the same tongue of flame as the little one I’d noticed on Stefan’s wrist the day we met, I’d have sworn it was real.

‘You blind there, pal?’ Stefan tutted at the security guard. ‘Not paying attention, then. Because she –’ he cocked his head at me as casually as if I was a sack of spuds, ‘walked in here with
me
.’
Me
was pronounced particularly low and harsh. Anything but casual, I noticed, watching the security guard’s reaction.

Shaven-headed and with a neck on him as thick as me at maths, he was a good four inches taller than Stefan. When Stefan leaned in and spoke to him, his
tilted chin was only level with the guard’s impressively broad chest. But despite this physical inferiority, Stefan’s flat mumble was undiluted menace.

‘Look I’m so sorry ‘bout this, Mr Josef,’ the security guard burbled through a mouthful of blood. He was softly-spoken, his voice a mismatch to his thuggish outward appearance.
And you’re not bad-looking either, in a beefed-up, gentle giant way,
I decided.

‘I didn’t realise you were both … and when the alarm went off –’ the security guard shrugged, his arm moving from Stefan to me. ‘When your friend set off the alarm, I automatically –’ He sighed, trying to staunch his nose with the side of his hand. With all the fight out of his shoulders he just looked like a bloke desperate to keep his lousy job.

‘Honestly, I can’t apologise enough,’ this time the security guard spoke to me. ‘And I hope I didn’t hurt you as much as you hurt me –’ With a half-smile he made a reaching gesture towards me. His eyes – brown, warm – were brimming with sorry.
And fear,
I sensed.
Of Stefan. A guy he could mince in one hand. Isn’t that weird?

So I tried to clear the air. ‘No bother –’ I shrugged.
But a slicing motion from Stefan’s hand silenced me. ‘You’re right there: you
can’t
apologise enough – what’s your name?’ Stefan moved in so close I couldn’t see the security guard’s face any more. Just heard him murmur, ‘Dave Griffen,’ before Stefan went on, ‘Dave Griffen, yeah? Well, Dave Griffen. You
can’t
apologise enough. Not now. Not ever. Can he, babes?’

Though Stefan had raised his voice, he didn’t turn round immediately. That’s why I assumed I was the ‘babes’ he was talking to.

‘But he
has
apologised.’ I was half-laughing. ‘And I got him good on the nose. So it’s OK. Are we having breakfast now?’ I went on.

Then I realised Stefan wasn’t speaking to me at all. The babes he meant was the spray-tanned shop assistant. I’d been half-aware of her whispering into a phone at the cash desk when Stefan first rushed over to me. Now she was by his side, flicking invisible smuts from the stupid hankie bra that had caused this horrible scene. While I watched her hanging it back on the clothes-rail like it was a priceless work of art, I
was tempted to snatch it. Dab it against poor Dave Griffen’s nose.

‘Stephen, you’re so right,’ babes-who-wasn’t-me gushed. ‘I’ve just told the boss what’s happened and he says Strut won’t employ security that can’t tell criminals from customers. Especially
personal
customers –’

‘Like the ones
I
bring in, huh?’ Stefan finished the sentence. While he spoke he planted both hands either side of poor Dave Griffen, trapping him against the wall.

‘Do you know who I am?’ Stefan said.

‘
Do
you?’ he repeated in the softest voice I’d heard him use yet.

I watched the gulp in Dave Griffen’s Adam’s apple when he nodded at Stefan.

Or
Mr Josef
, as Dave Griffen was calling him:

‘I do, Mr Josef.’

Well maybe you can fill me in,
I’d so loved to have freeze-framed this whole nasty scene and whipped Dave Griffen off into one of the changing rooms to ask, because right now this shirtless Mr Stefan/Stephen/Josef whateverhisname was didn’t seem
anything
like the
sweet-talking guy I’d met in the newsagent’s. My fellow-Minstrels fan. The bloke who was
so
upset at what I might have seen outside Dad’s shop. Right now Stefan was hard as nails. With a calm, dangerous power to him. Something I’d never seen in anyone who wasn’t a hard-man on the telly.

Who are you?
I watched Stefan thumb Dave Griffen from his sight. He was telling the ex-security guard, ‘Count yourself lucky to be
walking
out this shop. Right, babes? All settled that he’s slinging his hook?’ Stefan asked the Babes Who Wasn’t Me. Though he wasn’t really asking her at all. He was telling her. The way Ray Winstone would give an order. Vinnie Jones. Wee hard man Robert Carlyle. Or Robert De Niro, sleepwalking through one of his bad-guy roles.

Babes, nodding at Stefan, flicked an arm towards Dave Griffen in dismissal.

‘Oh, no please, Lynne. Gonna give us another chance.’

Instead of moving away, Dave Griffen tried to plead. ‘I’ve worked here two years. No hassles –’ he said, addressing me when both Stefan and the shop assistant ignored him.

And, hey, I’d have spoken up for Dave Griffen if Stefan hadn’t planked himself in front of the guy again.

‘Mate, what don’t you understand?’ Stefan’s voice was low, his tone as warm and friendly as his smile. ‘You’ve assaulted my friend but I’m letting you walk out in one piece. If I were you, I’d split while the going’s good.’

Stefan was still smiling when he jabbed his finger at his own face. I had to strain to catch the final advice he gave Dave Griffen. It might have been spoken quietly, but I heard it loud and clear:

‘Underneath this babyface of mine beats the heart of a psychopath.’

‘Babes, I need coffee. Let’s head up to the bistro. We’ll shop after.’ Before I could catch my breath to blurt:
What was all that about? Why would you call yourself a psychopath?
I was Stefan’s babes again. He’d his hands cupping my face, stroking my shoulders, gentle as fur.

‘Y’OK? Sorry I’d to play hardball, but that joker was well out of line with you.’

Smiling into my eyes, sweeter than melted marshmallows, Stefan tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, kissing the tip of my nose. Behind him, through Strut’s window I could see the ex-security guard hovering out on the pavement. He was rubbing his shaved head, shaking it like he couldn’t believe what had just happened. Then he walked away, his big shoulders hunched.

What HAD just happened?!
Stefan … Stephen? …
was becoming one confusing guy to be around: two babes, two names, two phones, two cars, two snake tattoos, and at least two sides to him …

I watched him telling his other
babes
we’d be back in a bit.

‘
Fantastic.
See you, Stephen,’ Lynne simpered from behind the cash desk, where she was taking forever and a day to swaddle a couple of white T-shirts in tissue paper. Duh! You’d think the tops were antique glass like Mum’s fancy bottles, not cotton and – as far as I could see – identical to the ones my dad bought in packs of three at T. K. Max.

‘Sixty quid each? For vests?’ I spluttered when I spotted the tag Lynne-babes was snipping off. ‘Someone’s having a larff,’ I tried to crack a joke. Lighten things up a bit. But Stefan didn’t react to my remark. Lynne though, paused the wrapping ritual to blink at me as though I’d left my brain on the pavement.

‘They’re D&G,’ she stroked the T-shirts like they had feelings, ‘and complimentary, Stephen. The boss said. To make up for what’s just –’ Lynne gave the minutest nod in my direction.

‘I like
that
,’ I couldn’t help blurting. ‘I get poleaxed by a scrum forward who thinks I’m shoplifting; he apologises but gets the sack;
you
get free gear. Mister, you got life sussed!’ I nudged Stefan, hard enough that his hips bumped the cash desk. I didn’t think I’d done anything more outrageous than comment on the bleeding obvious, but Lynne gave this little squeak as if someone under the counter had nipped her bony arse. Unless Lynne’s mascara was bothering her, or she’d stomach cramp, I’d say her eyes were narrowed with worry as she peeked through her lashes to gauge Stefan’s reaction, although if he had been listening to me, he didn’t show it.

What’s up with your face?
I nearly said to Lynne because after what had just happened this designer shopping lark was a bit much for me. I was hungry too and skipping meals always makes me snappy. But I was too bored to give this poor dolled-up lassie some of the lip she deserved. Poor Lynne babes, I felt pity, not anger, while I watched her decorate her daft parcel with coloured Strut Your Stuff stickers. They kept glueing themselves to her Hollywood nails.

Anyway, it wasn’t Lynne-babes who
really
wound me up. It was Stefan.

Because just as we were on the staircase up to this ‘amazing bistro’ that he said was on the next level, ‘and sells the world’s best muffins. I promise!’ his stupid phone donked.

What’s going on here, buster?
I thought to myself while Stefan wandered to a corner of the shop to talk in private.

And what am I still doing in this up-its-arse shop?

Why didn’t I go home last night?

I didn’t even stay where Dad thought I was.

And I let this bloke –

Who I’ve known less than two days

Who’s just threatened a decent guy twice his size with violence

Before proclaiming himself a psychopath

Lie for me!

‘This isn’t me,’ I muttered, looking over at Stefan. Still shirtless, one hand in the pocket of his pinstriped trousers, he prowled the far end of the store, yakking non-stop into his phone. I couldn’t swear on this, but it
didn’t sound like he was speaking in English, though when I tried to concentrate and stare and listen harder, the black pupils of his nasty snake tattoo warned me, like eyes in the back of Stefan’s head, to keep my distance.

I decided I would.

‘I’m off. See myself out,’ I told Lynne. Given the heels she’d on she was round the cash desk impressively fast.

‘Without telling Stephen?’ she whispered, her eyes two frilly saucers of shock. Then her gushy voice rose loud enough for Stefan to catch what she was saying across the shop.

‘Why don’t I show
you
some clothes? What are you? A sixteen? Stephen says you’re needing a trouser suit.’

‘News to me.’

Instead of following Lynne, I unsnecked the door.

‘I wouldn’t go if I was you,’ Lynne’s anxious heels teetered after me.

‘But you’re not me. Ta Ta, babes.’ I left her catching flies.