40
The tall redhead smiled at the female receptionist as she entered through a revolving door. Ignoring the young woman’s offer of help, she wandered away, her fuck-me high heels clicking on pristine floor tiles, each step echoing around the cavernous showroom. It felt great to be back in Newcastle on a Saturday, perfect timing for a shopping spree in a busy showroom selling high-end cars.
There were some glass display cabinets on her left with good kit inside. Accessories for those who could afford them, boys toys mainly, with the Porsche brand-name emblazoned across them: jackets, hats, key-rings, watches and leather goods, including a mini golf bag that would fit perfectly into the limited boot space of the bigger toys on sale. Each one of the cars was a genuine piece of precision engineering, design classics made with the discerning motorist in mind.
Although sufficient daylight flooded in through floor-to-ceiling windows, spotlights suspended from the ceiling were perfectly positioned to highlight the sleek lines and stylish interiors of the vehicles on display. The place even smelled classy – a mixture of polish and expensive leather – everything about it said quality. Inhaling deeply, drinking it in, the redhead drew an odd look from a balding fat man who was sitting at the service desk. He looked right through her before handing a set of keys to a young woman dressed more like a senior bank official than an automotive admin clerk.
‘Can I help you, madam?’ a voice behind her said.
Madam? The redhead liked the sound of that. She wished her late father had been there to hear it spoken so deferentially in such an upmarket dealership. Fast cars were the only thing they had in common. He’d once told her she had designs above her station and should remember where she came from. Well, she had news for him. She wasn’t arsed where she’d come from. It was where she was going that interested her.
She had no idea if it was true, but someone had once told her that a tiny percentage of the people possessed a disproportionate amount of the nation’s wealth. Well, she was on her way to join them. She turned towards the voice, almost expecting a salute, and came face to face with the bluest eyes she’d ever seen under a mop of tousled blond hair. The young sales executive had a striking resemblance to her father’s hero, the late Formula One World Champion, James Hunt, who had retired from racing in 1979 – the year she was born – and died fourteen years later aged forty-five.
Living in the fast lane had its pitfalls.
Hunt flushed up under the intensity of her gaze. ‘Is it the basic 911 that interests you?’
‘Do I look like I do basic?’ she countered, her eyes flirting with him. ‘I was rather hoping you’d help me choose.’ She scanned the showroom. ‘I’m torn between models and colours: the Carrera 4S versus the convertible—’
‘The cabriolet is a beauty,’ he corrected her.
The redhead bristled. So Porsche didn’t call them convertibles. She didn’t need a little prick who worked in a garage to remind her of that.
Taking in her reaction, the sales executive flushed up and changed the subject to cover his gaffe. ‘In terms of colours, we have speed yellow over there . . .’ He pointed to a car near the front of the showroom. He waited for a reaction which she didn’t supply. ‘We also have ruby red metallic due in later today, if you’d be interested.’
‘Tacky,’ the redhead pulled a sour face. Turning her back, she stared off into the distance, her eyes sliding over the models, and spoke without turning round. ‘No, I was thinking more platinum silver with red leather interior. Failing that, I’d consider black.’ She pointed to one particular machine parked at a jaunty angle near the door. ‘That one I do like very much.’
‘That one is sold, I’m afraid.’
‘Perfect, isn’t it?’ a man’s voice said. ‘Seems I pipped you to the post.’
The redhead turned. The bald man from the reception desk had his chubby hand out. She ignored it. Taken aback by her rudeness, he stomped off in a huff. She wandered away in the other direction, with Hunt hot on her heels. ‘One of your best customers, I assume?’ she said, as he caught up with her.
‘Yes, buys new every year without fail.’
Of course he does. ‘Why don’t you show me what you’ve got available? I have other cars in mind and I’m in rather a hurry. I want something I can pick up on Monday at the very latest.’
Hunt looked stunned. ‘Monday might be cutting it fine, madam. I—’
‘I don’t think you understand,’ she interrupted him. ‘I’ll be paying cash.’
‘I’m happy to ring round other dealerships if our shipments don’t suit your requirements. I’m sure we can accommodate you.’ He held out his hand, inviting her into a second showroom which was as impressive as the first. ‘I take it you’re looking for a new car?’
‘Is there any other kind?’
He stifled a grin. ‘Any idea on spec?’
She waited a beat. ‘I think the accepted term is “fully loaded”.’
‘Yes, madam.’ Hunt rushed off to make enquiries.