knew that, because Paddy so obviously adored her – but Leanne was pretty, too. And, if Vicky’s hunch was correct, she wouldn’t let the small matter of Paddy being taken bother her, not if she really had set her sights on him.
‘Here you go,’ she said, bringing Leanne’s coffee back out, and placing it on the reception desk as Mrs Gallagher was paying. ‘I’m going to carry on cleaning in the back while I drink mine. Give us a shout when my Paddy gets here, will you?’
‘Will do,’ Leanne replied. Then she grinned at Mrs Gallagher. ‘In fourteen and a half minutes and counting …’
Forcing herself to ignore it, Vicky returned to the back room. Leanne was okay, really. Just a flirt and a bit of a know-all – which was fair enough, Vicky supposed, since she’d been there two years, and knew so much more about everything than Vicky did; she’d reached that precious milestone – she was even allowed to cut and perm now. And Vicky enjoyed it for the most part, particularly on those days when it was just the girls in, the boss, Francis, being a force to be reckoned with – he ruled the salon like a dictator.
The washing machine whirred to the end of its spin cycle, so she pulled towels from the drum and began folding them. No, on balance, working here was just fine. And who knew? Once she and Leanne got to know one another better, perhaps she’d have a new friend as well.
Or maybe not. She emerged with a fresh pile of towels to find Paddy leaning casually against the counter. On the other side of which was Leanne, busy cashing up, apparently, but clearly busier laughing at something Paddy had just said to her, and in that simpering fashion every girl knew so well.
Vicky marched across to the cubbyholes the towels were stored in. ‘I thought you were going to call me,’ she said to Leanne as she pushed the pile in. Then, because she couldn’t stop herself, ‘but you’re clearly too busy.’
The words dropped out of her mouth and felt heavier than she’d intended.
Paddy laughed, then, as if specifically to wind her up, leaning across the counter. ‘I told you she was jealous to death,’ he said.
The towels safely stashed, Vicky stalked across the salon to fetch her jacket. ‘You’re such a div,’ she told Paddy, who was now standing grinning at her. ‘As if I’m bloody jealous of you!’ It was pointed. It was meant to be. Paddy’s jealousy was legendary. A bloke so much as glanced at her and he could turn caveman in a second. She swung her coat around and pulled it on, smiling sweetly at Leanne. ‘Take no notice of this idiot, Lee,’ she said, regaining her composure. ‘He fancies himself as a bit of a ladies’ man.’ She then turned to Paddy and slapped him on the back. ‘Come on then, loser. Let’s get home and ready to party.’
Paddy winked and saluted as Vicky shoved him out the front door. ‘Don’t hate me, Vic,’ he pleaded, while ducking another slap. ‘I can’t help it if the birds all love me, can I?’
‘Don’t kid yourself,’ she huffed, even though she wasn’t even cross with him anymore. Possession, after all, was nine-tenths of the law and, as Vicky so often reminded herself, it took two to tango, and her Paddy, much as he loved to flirt with girls, had never expressed any desire to tango with anyone else but her.
Paddy had parked his latest old banger down on Ivegate. It was a bright blue Ford Capri with naff go-faster stripes down it, and despite looking like it belonged in some ancient 1970s TV cop show, it was his pride and joy. Though that was mainly down to the fact that it had a brand new Pioneer tape deck installed in the dashboard, which meant that, coupled with the speakers he’d installed front and back, he could play his beloved Northern Soul music whenever he was driving. Well, blast it out for all to hear, more accurately. He was a bit like the crocodile that swallowed the clock in Peter Pan – you could always hear him coming before you saw him. Not least because he was fast becoming a dying breed – apart from her (and Vicky knew that it was only because of him anyway) Paddy was the only person she knew who still listened to it.
And looking at him now, as they made their way down Ivegate towards the car, she could see he was hoping they’d be playing it at Vikram’s party. Despite the heat, he was wearing his long leather trenchcoat, over baggy black trousers and a white Fred Perry T-shirt. And as ever, she conceded, he carried it off.
‘What should I wear, Pad?’ she asked, once they were both in the car and the music was blaring at the max. She’d learned over time that it was always worth getting his input, in part because she liked to look good for him, obviously, but also because you never knew what ‘good’ might comprise. Sometimes he liked to show her off, and have her dress to the nines, but others – if he was in one of his periodic grumpy moods, he’d tell her she looked slutty if she turned out like that, telling her to tone down the make-up and cover herself up, reminding her that she was his, and his alone. What she’d never quite worked out was what either mood was based on. Mercurial, that’s what her mam called him. Changeable, like the weather. She wasn’t sure quite what that meant but she kind of got the gist of it. He was unpredictable. Which was probably why he still excited her so much.
However, anything for a quiet life. Which apparently tonight meant the black mini-dress she’d bought the previous weekend. Her first well-deserved purchase as a full-time working girl. ‘And those shiny high heels,’ he added. ‘Give ’em all something to gawp at, eh, babe? We’ll be the best-looking couple there, that’s for sure.’
Not that any of that mattered to Vicky, and she was just about to say so, when he added, ‘Not that your dopey mate and her fucktard of a boyfriend are any sort of competition. Gurdy tells me they’re invited, more’s the pity.’
‘Paddy!’ Vicky complained. ‘It’s not a frigging competition!’ She swivelled in her seat. ‘And please don’t start tonight, babes. Promise me, okay? I want to make up with Lucy – not cause another frigging row. It’s a party, so let’s just all have a laugh, okay?’
He looked offended. ‘Me? Start anything? Like I’m the one who has anything to prove?’
‘No, I know,’ she said, reaching between her legs for her handbag as Paddy parked up outside her house. ‘But I also know you. Couple of drinks …’
‘Cross my heart,’ he said, pulling the key from the ignition. ‘Come on, let’s get you in and get you out of that work gear.’
‘And straight into my party gear,’ she added. ‘You can stay downstairs with Mam. She’s got some cider in. You can have a drink with her. She’ll enjoy the company.’
Even as she said this, Vicky knew it wasn’t going to happen. ‘Alright, Mrs Robinson?’ Paddy called as he followed her into the hall. Then, in Vicky’s ear, as he grabbed her arse fondly, ‘I’d much rather watch you strip out of that apron …’
Which meant it would take her twice as long to get ready. And it did. Two hours later, after a slow undressing, an obligatory romp on the bed and then a hurried re-dressing, she was finally ready for Vikram’s party, albeit slightly flushed.
It was a nice place, the Coach House, where the do was being held, but, for some reason, it had always been known as Mucky Willy’s. Not that anyone she’d asked could ever tell her who Willy even was, let alone in what sense he’d been mucky. Still, tonight it was all looking tarted-up and elegant, with Vikram, Gurdy and their parents looking equally festive, standing in the foyer, all togged up for the occasion.
Vicky could have kicked herself, watching other guests ahead of them, bearing elaborately wrapped gifts. She’d written a card, and popped a tenner in it, but why hadn’t
