Novel Titanic
Chapter 82
Chapter 82
James
“Got your stuff?”
Charlotte jams her hard hat and steel-toed boots into a bag, then patting at pockets does a visible
phone, purse, notebook, pen check. “Yes, got everything. You good to go?”
“Yes, let’s get moving. I don’t want to be late.”
We head down, Charlotte stepping out of the elevator ahead of me and heading smartly for the door.
Ben’s there, talking to Kirstie. He’s smiling but she looks uncomfortable, although Ben seems not to
notice.
His smile fades as he sees me.
“Oh hello, Ben. I didn’t know you were around,” says Charlotte. “Are you here to see me for
something?”
He replies to her politely enough, but his eyes are on me and are not friendly. “No, I just called by to
say hello to Kirstie.”
This isn’t the place for an argument….
I switch on ‘polite but cool’ mode myself. “Hello, Ben. Charlotte and I just going out on-site.”
“Really? What’s happening on-site?”
What’s wrong with the man?
“We’re getting the ground-works set out for the new retail complex.”
“So, what’s Charlotte got to do with that?”
Ahhh…. Gotcha….
Stupid bastard….
“Charlotte is, as you know, a trainee. She’s going to be spending time with the surveyors over the next
few days to learn what their job involves…. I assume you don’t have a problem with that?”
He has the grace to blush. “No, of course not.”
“Good. We’ll be on our way, then.”
We turn and leave. After the door closes behind us, Charlotte turns back to me, looking worried. “You
don’t think he wants to make trouble do you?” This belongs © NôvelDra/ma.Org.
“He’s Michael’s brother, so let’s hope not.”
*****
Twenty-Nine Years Ago
The girl is tall, statuesque almost. Long copper-red hair drapes loosely over her shoulders, highlighting
moon-pale skin.
Her clothes are cheap but do what they need to. The skirt is short and clingy, displaying long legs and a
great ass. The halter neck plunges to the front and the wide vinyl belt emphasises her shape. Knee-
length boots with spiked heels complete the outfit.
Come fuck me….
She doesn’t much like the clientele: typically late-nighters tipping out from the bars. That’s usually
quickly over and she can get back on the street again for the next one. On the other hand, if she
catches them on the way into the bars, they have more money in their pockets….
Swings and roundabouts….
She works her pitch, standing out to catch the headlights as they come down the high street, backing
into the shadows if blue lights flash.
Some of the other girls have a man back there. It’s safer she supposes, but it means he’s there….
Taking her money….
Telling her what to do….
No-one can tell Mitch what to do any more….
She lies there, rocking away under the motion as he pumps at her. He’s alright this one. And he’s
usually happy enough just to pound away, so she lets him get on with it. Legs splayed, staring at the
ceiling, she occasionally throws in a moan or an ‘Oh, that’s great….”
He’s taking a while….
She loops arms around him, digging long painted nails into his hair, and reaching up to check her
wristwatch….
Long enough….
She rolls and swings up and over. “Hey, that was great, but….” She straddles him…. “Let me do some
of the work for a bit, eh?”
“Sure thing, doll.”
She rises and falls, rises and falls as he grunts and gropes for her tits. She locks eyes with him. Most of
them seem to like that. After a minute or two, he groans and judders. When she’s sure he’s done, she
lifts away and grabs for a robe.
“Same time next week?” he says, pulling on his pants.
“Sure, Marc. You know where to find me.”
From the bathroom is the sound of splashing water. She dresses, checks her make-up in the blotched
mirror, flicks the bedding back into place and smooths it straight….
She reaches for the tin on the top shelf, takes out the thin roll of notes there, adds the two left lying on
the shabby dresser, then puts the whole lot back again.
Ten minutes later, she’s back on the street.
*****
She has a roof over her head and eats regularly and she can save a bit.
And no-one tells her what to do….
But….
…. She looks around her apartment.
Faded paint, glossed dirty where fingers handle the light switch. Cracked plaster and that black patch in
the ceiling corner. The curtains; perhaps once colourful and bright, now bleached grey. From
downstairs; rowdy noises, a street fight. Breaking glass.
It’s a hovel.
She keeps it as clean and tidy as she can, but it’s a hovel nonetheless.
How to earn more?
Where do you go to find rich marks?
She looks at herself in the mirror: pale perfect skin, her long, lustrous hair, amber bronze even in the
ugly light of the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, her full woman's figure….
…. the cheap clothes, the cheap shoes, the gaudy cheap jewellery….
And how do you catch them?
*****
“Hey, you!” He jabs a finger at her, then a thumb to the door. “You out! Your kind isn't welcome here.
This is a classy establishment. Go on, fuck off. And if I see you back here again, I'll call the police.”
She backs out hastily, almost reversing through the revolving doors.
He follows her outside, talking to the doorman loudly enough that she can hear him. “Don’t let her in
here. What the fuck were you thinking of?” Then a saccharine smile spreads over his face and he
descends the six stone steps to the limo that just pulled up.
“Mr Beaumont. Good to see you again. And Mrs Beaumont of course. Do come this way. Your suite is
ready for you. No, leave those. Karl will bring your bags.”
Sullenly, Mitch watches from across the street, her mind whirring.
*****