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The Insulated Conductor continued. I turned into warm putty. Later I proposed an early night and Gina trumped that by proposing marriage. Mellowed by Chianti that went down while singing Italian love songs, my brain was on autopilot as I murmured a grovelling acceptance. This image of elegance would be all mine, for life, but only after the ceremony. Ever fancied a nun? I slept on her couch that night, the frustration driving me bananas. In the cold light of day, I fronted her with my up-to-date case notes. She cursed Laura as a prime example of the brainless bimbo LT was recruiting these days but, without losing her cool, she went on to describe the callous way Hugo had treated her, following the revelation of her pregnancy. She told how he applied pressure on her, to have an abortion, adoption, whatever. When she refused, he spread nasty gossip about her until she was almost excluded from works social events, even canteen gossip. Months before the birth, management forced her to give up her job, on medical grounds. The company doctor had diagnosed pre-natal depression, but she knew management, and Hugo's union mates, were behind it. After the birth she took her case to a brief, then a Works Tribunal. She was reinstated, but without compensation. Her plan for revenge, she told me, was formed over months of pain and resentment. She calmly described how she decided to work only half a day for the company, and half a day for herself. In her mind, the acquisition of Hugo's ticket machine justified the fraud. She could implicate him, if anyone ever sussed it out, and her conniving bosses were getting their just deserts for the way they'd treated her. I bought it. The marriage was in a registry office, with a quiet reception in my local boozer down the East End. We moved into her's. I'd like to tell you that the union was blissful, but I might as well be upfront about it. The thing about ethereal is that you can't make love to it. Well you can, but you usually feel bad about it after, know what I mean? Like a mermaid, I imagine. Nice status-symbol to have on your yacht, but try shagging it. Gina is 'Class', I could tell that from the outset. I ran out of words to describe her beauty when we went out together, all dressed up and that, but heavenly bodies, trust me, are a no-no in bed. The lady was still way beyond me: I couldn't handle it. I think I'd used up all my brain cells figuring out her scam. Maybe it was her subtle way of telling me I was the loser. I done a runner! The old Gibson is my only souvenir of that cocked-up career move. Now I just think of it as a trophy from a Sherlock Holmes-style five-pipe problem. I often wonder if I should nick a bus from a garage, for an evening; they never take the ignition keys out, you know. I could do a night run to Trafalgar square, with Laura blagging topped-up fares from club ravers stoned out of their skulls. Then I could return it in early hours all warmed up for the 'milk-run' driver. It's in the genes I suppose, but then again, maybe I'll just stick to the old ducking and diving. It's what I do best and it's gotta be less grief! The End Copyrights reserved by the author. If in doubt, please click on 'Copyrights' for details. |