Читать книгу The Annie Carter Series Books 1–4 - Jessie Keane - Страница 36

If this was what love did to you, thought Annie irritably a few days later as she sat at her dressing table, then you could stuff it. She stared at her face in the mirror, looking for answers and finding none. Was this love? Or just lust? She didn’t know. She’d only felt like this once before, she knew that much. And look at the trouble it had caused. It had been him that time and it was him again. It was always him. The bastard.

‘Annie girl, you look like shit,’ she told herself. She snatched up a hairbrush and tried to sort out the haystack which seemed to have landed on top of her head.

Bugger this, she thought, wrenching the brush through, punishing herself with the pain. But her insides were fizzing like she’d eaten a packet of Love Hearts. She was waking up at all hours of the night since the exhibition, lying there in the dark alone, thinking of him. Of how good he looked, and – oh yes – of how his skin had felt against hers on that one night, that unforgettable night. The heat of him, the hardness, his hands that were so strong they were almost hurtful as they held her.

She had started biting her nails, something she hadn’t done since Dad left home. She was off her grub too, and that wasn’t like her. She’d be as thin as Ruthie soon, and then where the hell would she be?

She was considering taking up smoking fags, if only to relieve the tension. Out of the question to have a drink. She’d sipped some champagne at the exhibition, but she hadn’t really enjoyed the taste. For her, drink was forever linked to her mother and memories of an endlessly miserable childhood. Connie lying on the sofa crying in self-pity, sodden with booze and bellowing orders, Annie or Ruthie having to go to the door to see the rent man, the baker, the milkman, and tell them Mum was out, to call back later, scared of what the tradesmen would say but scared of her even more. They were even frightened to go to school, because they never knew what they would come home to. Would they find her dead on the lounge floor, having choked on her own vomit? Or find an ambulance outside with Connie about to be whisked off to hospital?

Annie shuddered. Enough of all this. She put the brush down. At least her hair was straight now. She touched up her make-up, checked her black dress was clean, her pearls straight, her shoes gleaming. Showtime, she thought, and stood up and went downstairs to play hostess at yet another party.

Funny how used to all this she was getting. She was no longer shocked by naked arses, exposed breasts or rampant hard-ons. She oversaw it all with the calm discretion of a ringmaster. A leather-clad Aretha passed her at the top of the stairs, leading a blindfolded man dressed only in Y-fronts by a chain around his neck.

‘One step more,’ Aretha lied, because there were two steps and the man went sprawling on to the landing carpet. ‘Stupid clumsy boy!’ Aretha snapped, yanking the chain. The man groaned enjoyably and crawled along the landing into Aretha’s room. Annie paused at the top of the stairs, shaking her head as she watched. There was music and laughter drifting out from the front room. She looked down into the hallway. Chris was there in his usual spot, and there was a bulky, sandy-haired man bending over him, whispering. Chris nodded, and something changed hands between them. Annie got a shock when the man turned and she saw that it was Pat Delaney. What the fuck was he doing here?

‘Hello, Mr Delaney,’ she said when she reached the downstairs hall. ‘How are you?’

‘Oh, I’m spiffing,’ said Pat nastily.

Annie’s smile tightened. ‘Enjoying the party?’ she asked.

‘I told you once before, I wouldn’t touch any of these tarts with someone else’s, let alone my own,’ said Pat with a sneer.

Then why are you here, you arsehole? she thought. She looked at Chris, but he was looking shifty. Not like Chris.

‘Of course, if you were to offer me a shag, I might reconsider,’ said Pat, wrapping his arm crushingly around Annie’s shoulders.

Annie nailed her smile in place and gently but firmly detached herself. God, he was disgusting. Was he drunk? She couldn’t smell booze on his breath, which was sour and unpleasant but not alcohol-induced. His eyes looked weird, his pupils were huge.

Chris was looking concerned and Annie could understand why. He didn’t want to get into a ruck protecting Annie from one of the Delaneys; it was a clear conflict of interests.

‘I told you, Mr Delaney,’ said Annie. ‘I’m a manager, not a worker.’

‘Ah, all women are whores at heart,’ said Pat. He winked at Chris. ‘I’ll catch you later, Chrissie boy,’ he said, and lurched out the door.

There was a tense pause. Then Annie said: ‘What’s he on, Chris?’

Chris shrugged and his eyes slid away from hers.

‘I won’t have any rubbish in this house,’ said Annie, but Chris did not respond. Annie went on into the front room, where Ellie and Darren were hard at work. She fixed her smile back on. Brian handed her the usual orange juice, but her mind was still on Pat Delaney, wondering what the fuck he really wanted.