Dead Like You

He grabbed it and jammed it back on his head, not caring for a moment how it looked, and found himself staring up at a shaven-headed tattooed man-mountain.

‘Faggot! Why don’t you look where you’re frigging going?’

‘Screw you!’ he shouted back, totally forgetting for an instant to mask his voice, scrambled to his feet, one hand clutching his blonde wig, and stumbled on, aware of the smell of hot coffee and the unpleasant sensation of hot liquid ru

‘Fucking fairy!’ the voice called after him as he broke into a run, weaving through a group of Japanese tourists, fixated on the bobbing umbrella of the woman striding into the distance. To his surprise, she did not stop to look in L.K. Be

She took a left fork and he followed her. Past a pub and then another jewellery shop. He dug into his handbag, pulled out a tissue and dabbed the coffee from his smarting face, hoping it had not smeared his make-up.

Blondie crossed busy Ship Street and turned right, then immediately left into the pedestrian precinct of expensive clothes shops: Duke Street.

Good girl!

She entered Profile, the first shop on the right.

He peered into the window. But he wasn’t looking at the row of shoes and boots displayed on the shelves, he was looking at his own reflection. As subtly as he could, he adjusted his wig. Then he peered more closely at his face, but it seemed all right; no big, weird smears.

Then he checked on Blondie. She was sitting on a chair, hunched over her BlackBerry, pecking away at the keys. An assistant appeared with a shoebox, opened it the way a proud waiter might lift the lid from a tureen, and presented the contents for her inspection.

Blondie nodded approvingly.

The assistant removed a tall, high-heeled, blue satin Manolo Blahnik shoe with a square diamanté buckle.

He watched Blondie put the shoe on. She stood up and walked around the carpeted floor, peering at her foot’s reflection in the mirrors. She seemed to like it.

He entered the shop and began browsing, breathing in the heady cocktail of ta

The assistant asked her if she would like to try on the left foot as well. Blondie said she would.

As she strutted around the deep-pile carpeting, he was approached by the assistant, a young, slender girl with a dark fringe of hair and an Irish accent, asking if she could help her. He told her in his softest voice that he was just looking, thank you.

‘I have to give an important speech next week,’ Blondie said, in an American accent, he noticed. ‘It’s an after-lunch thing. I’ve bought the most divine blue dress. I think blue’s good for daytime. What do you think?’

‘Blue’s a good colour on you, madam. I can tell from the shoes. Blue’s a very good colour for daytime.’

‘Yeah, um-umm. I think so too. Um-umm. I should have brought the dress along, but I know these are going to match.’

‘They’ll go with a wide range of blues.’

‘Um-umm.’

Blondie stared down at the reflection of the shoes in the mirror for some moments and tapped her teeth with her fingernail. Then she said the magic words, ‘I’ll take these!’

Good girl! Manolos were cool. They were beautiful. They were just so much a class act. Most importantly, they had five-inch heels.

Perfect!

And he liked her accent. Was it Californian?

He sidled up towards the counter as the purchase took place, listening intently, while pretending to study a pair of brown mules.

‘Are you on our mailing list, madam?’

‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘Would you mind if I entered you on it – we can let you know in advance of our sales. You can get some privileged bargains.’

She shrugged. ‘Sure, why not?’

‘If I could have your name?’

‘Dee Burchmore. Mrs.’

‘And your address?’

‘Fifty-three Sussex Square.’

Sussex Square. In Kemp Town, he thought. One of the city’s most beautiful squares. Most of its terraced houses were divided into flats. You had to be rich to have a whole house there. You had to be rich to buy the Manolos. And the handbag that went with it, which she was now fondling. Just the way he would soon be fondling her.

Kemp Town, he thought. That was an old stomping ground!

Happy memories.

41

Saturday 10 January

Every time she bought a pair of shoes, Dee Burchmore got a guilty thrill. There was no need to feel guilty, of course. Rudy encouraged her to dress smart, to look great! As a senior executive of American & Oriental Banking, over here at its lavish new Brighton headquarters on a five-year posting to establish a foothold for the company in Europe, money was no object at all to her husband.

She was proud of Rudy and she loved him. She loved his ambitions to show the world that, in the wake of the financial scandals that had dogged US banking in recent years, it was possible to show a caring face. Rudy was attacking the UK mortgage market with zeal, offering deals to first-time buyers that none of the British lenders, still smarting from the financial meltdown, was prepared to consider. And she had an important role in this, in public relations.

In the time Dee had in between taking their two children, Josh, aged eight, and Chase, aged six, to school and then collecting them, Rudy had tasked her with networking as hard as she could within the city. He wanted her to find charities to which American & Oriental could make significant contributions – and, of course, gain significant publicity as benefactors to the city. It was a role she relished.

A respectable golfer, she had joined the ladies’ section of the city’s most expensive golf club, the North Brighton. She had become a member of what she had gleaned was the most influential of Brighton’s numerous Rotary Clubs and she had volunteered for the committees of several of the city’s major charitable institutions, including the Martlet’s Hospice. Her most recent appointment was to the fund-raising committee of Brighton and Hove’s principal hostel for the homeless, St Patrick’s, where they had a unique facility, offering Japanese-style pods to homeless people, including prisoners out on licence who were actively involved in retraining.

She stood in the small shop, watching the assistant wrap her beautiful blue Manolos in tissue, then carefully lay them in the box. She could not wait to get home and try her dress on with these shoes and bag. She knew they were going to look sensational. Just the thing to give her confidence next week.

Then she glanced at her watch: 3.30. Shit! It had taken longer than she thought. She was late for her appointment at the Nail Studio in Hove, on the other side of the city. She hurried out of the stop, barely clocking the weird-looking woman with lopsided blonde hair who was staring at something on display in the shop window.

She never once looked behind her all the way to the car park.

If she had, she might just have noticed this same woman following her.