that she was the first girl he had ever really liked, or had her ears deceived her? ‘OK, I’ll meet him then,’ she croaked.
Wayne and Angela spent the whole afternoon at it like rabbits. After her initial painful experience, Angela had taken to sex like a duck takes to water and had even learnt the art of giving a blow job.
‘Suck it again for me, Ange. It’s your fault it keeps getting hard,’ Wayne said, bluntly.
Angela smiled. Wayne had told her earlier that she gave him the best sex he’d ever had and Angie liked to feel indispensable.
‘Do you love me, Jacko?’ she asked him coyly.
Desperate to feel her plump warm lips around his penis again, Wayne nodded. ‘Yeah, of course I love you, babe.’
Stephanie Crouch shook hands with Barry’s boss, Steve. Most Indian people Steph had met before, including the two boys in her class at school, were very reserved, kept themselves to themselves and spoke in weird accents, but Steve was entirely different. He was loud, funny and sounded more cockney than she did. When Barry had first told her he was a fly pitcher, Steph hadn’t quite understood the occupation. She hadn’t wanted to ask in case she made herself look silly, but now she knew exactly what Barry did. A fly pitcher was someone who hadn’t been given a pitch by the council so stood on a street corner selling their wares. Steve and Barry sold kingsize bath towels, and Barry would act as a look-out for the police and market inspectors while Steve used his witty sales patter to charm the public.
‘Do you ever get caught?’ Steph asked, as they said goodbye to Steve.
‘Nah, and even if we do we only get a slap on the wrists. Got eyes in the back of me head, me,’ Barry replied, laughing.
Stephanie smiled broadly as Barry held her hand again. Everybody knew him down Roman Road market and she could sense how popular he was with the other traders. ‘That’s a nice top, ain’t it?’ she said, pointing at an off-the-shoulder baggy red sweatshirt.
Barry dragged her over to the stall she was pointing at. ‘Bag me up one of them red sweatshirts please, Joanie,’ he ordered the lady who was serving.
‘I can’t let you buy that for me,’ Stephanie said, amazed by Barry’s generosity.
Handing Steph the sweatshirt in a carrier bag, Barry turned towards her. ‘I really do like you, Steph. Please say you’ll be my girl?’
Barely able to believe her luck, a completely besotted Stephanie nodded her head with glee.
Marlene Franklin was sitting opposite her friend Marge in the Albion pub in Woolwich. Marge’s real name was Karen, but she had earned her nickname because her legs tended to spread quicker then Stork margarine. The name didn’t bother Marge at all. She loved sex, always had done, and if people were jealous of her success rate with the male gender, then that was their bloody problem.
‘Does this dress look all right? You can’t see me knickers when I walk, can you?’ Marlene asked her pal as she returned from the Ladies.
‘No, you look stunning, mate, and them blokes in the corner can’t take their eyes off you,’ Marge replied, truthfully.
Pouting her lips just like the models did, Marlene sat down and crossed one leg seductively over the other. At thirty years old, Marlene still looked rather youthful for her age, and with her bright red lipstick, false black eyelashes, and thick blonde hair that she curled herself with heated rollers, Marlene considered herself to be the spitting image of Marilyn Monroe. Today, she had made a special effort and had worn the short, leopard-skin dress that she had stolen from a designer boutique in Hornchurch. Marlene was an expert at shoplifting. She would always wear bulky clothes to go out shopping, would try lots of items on in the fitting room, then would walk out with her favourite underneath her own outfit.
Marlene smiled coyly as an elderly man in a tan Crombie-style coat winked at her. She knew he couldn’t take his eyes off her fishnet stockings and high-heeled black suede shoes, and who could blame him?
‘So have you finished with that Winston now?’ Marge asked her friend.
Marlene took a sip of her gin and tonic. If the men didn’t start buying them drinks soon, they would have to start ordering halves of lager just to make their money last out. ‘Yep. I made him buy me a load of shopping at Sainsbury’s last weekend, then told him I couldn’t see him no more as I felt guilty he had a wife. Gutted he was, even rang me up on Monday crying, but I warned him if he contacts me again I was gonna go round his house and tell his wife everything.’
‘I thought he was quite handsome. He had a fit body,’ Marge said. She had a thing about black men and had been quite jealous when she had first laid eyes on Winston.
‘He had a big black cock, I know that much. Made my bleedin’ eyes water, it did,’ Marlene said, laughing.
‘You must be mad finishing with him.’
‘Didn’t have enough money for me, mate. A Ford worker is hardly gonna keep me in a life of luxury, is he? Especially a married one with three poxy brats.’
‘Don’t look now, but I think that old bloke’s coming over,’ Marge said, nudging her pal.
‘Good afternoon, ladies. I was wondering if you’d allow me the honour of buying you both a drink,’ the man asked, resting his gaze firmly on Marlene.
Marlene smiled. The man was old, short and was certainly no looker, but he reeked of money from his Rolex watch to his shiny leather shoes. Marge had never been backwards in coming forwards. ‘Yes please, mate, we’ll have two large gin and tonics.’
When the man pulled an enormous wad of fifty-pound notes out of his pocket, Marlene’s eyes lit up like beacons. She waited until he walked up to the bar and then turned to her friend. ‘I’m gonna snare this cunt, Marge. Watch and learn, girl.’
Stephanie Crouch was enjoying one of the best days out she had ever had in her life. After Barry had bought her the red sweatshirt, he had insisted on buying her pie and mash for lunch. He’d then bought her a red rose off the flower stall, two drinks in the Needle Gun pub, and UB40’s new single ‘Red Red Wine’, which Stephanie absolutely adored.
‘I’ve had such a fab day, Barry, thanks ever so much,’ she said, joyfully. She had never had a proper boyfriend before, and walking along Roman Road holding Barry’s arm felt that good, she thought she might burst with happiness.
‘The day ain’t over yet, babe. We’re going to meet me old man now.’
‘Is his real name Smasher?’ Stephanie asked, seriously.
Barry laughed. Steph’s naivety was one of the things that endeared her to him so much. ‘Nah. His real name is Barry. I was obviously named after him, but everyone calls him Smasher as he used to be a fighter years ago. He used to smash everyone’s lights out, he did – hence his nickname.’
‘Really?’ Steph exclaimed.
‘Yeah, back in the day he used to fight for money. They were illegal bouts, but he’s proper hard my dad. Only ever lost twice in his life, he did.’
‘So, where’s he going on holiday then?’
‘What you on about?’ Barry asked, bemused.
