What's a girl like that doing in a bar known locally as the Last Strumpet?
'A British minister killed in Saudi Arabia,' said Keith, holding up a newspaper. 'They must have had some inside help from the rag-heads. Otherwise I don't see how they could have got to the man. Not with the security he would have had around him.'
Matt stole another glance at Alison. Definitely a nine. She had a way of growing on you. 'Not necessarily,' he said, looking back towards Keith. 'There's always a way of getting to a man.'
She was standing by herself, he noticed, but didn't seem lost or nervous or insecure, the way a lot of women might when stranded by themselves in a bar. They either looked too eager, as if they were almost inviting one of the guys to come and try their luck, or they looked too sour, as if they were warning all the men in the bar to keep well away. But this one looked as if she was just enjoying the gin and lime in her glass, the night air, and the breeze blowing in from the sea, the same way a man would if he was having a drink by himself.
'You reckon?' said Keith. 'How then?' Keith claimed to be a former policeman, but Matt wasn't sure he believed him. He had neither the strength nor the character Matt would expect from someone professionally trained. He was too loud, too cocky: his muscles were strong, but his mind was flabby. The closest Matt reckoned he'd been to any real danger was a late-night brawl in a pub or a ruckus at a football match. Men who had seen real action didn't joke about it and didn't talk tough: they knew it was ugly, raw and violent, and that even the strongest men were frightened in the face of death. A traffic cop, maybe — or a parking warden. If it wasn't for the fact that he spent most of the little money he earned at the bar of the Last Trumpet, Matt wouldn't have taken the time to talk to him.
That's the trouble with life after the Regiment. You have to talk to wankers all the time.
'I'm not telling you, mate,' said Matt. 'I might want to kill you one of these days. No point in telling you in advance how I'm going to do it.'
'If you were going to kill me,' said the woman, 'how would you do that?'
Matt turned round to see Alison standing just a few inches behind him. Her eyes were looking straight at his, her glass held slightly to one side, her lips were poised on the cusp of a smile. Classy, he reflected, having noted her voice's pure, round vowel sounds. A lot classier than most of the women who hang around at the Last Trumpet.
'Meticulous preparation, that would be the key,' said Matt. 'I'd have to get to know everything about you.'
'And where would you start?'
Matt saw the way her finger was curling around the edge of her glass. There were no rings, he noticed. She was acting tough, but she still seemed slightly nervous. Her skin looked soft and was lightly tanned, but had none of the wrinkles women quickly collect when they move to the Spanish sun. On holiday, he decided. Maybe she was just divorced and looking to catch up on some lost time. Or maybe she was one of those London career harpies who suddenly find all their girlfriends have got married and had kids and they don't have anyone to go on holiday with except themselves. Either way it didn't matter. She was definitely interested.
'I'd start by finding out all about you, where you five and what you do, then I'd want to find out what interests you and excites you. I'd want to know what your passions are.'
'My passions?'
'Sure,' said Matt. 'A woman's passions are her main weakness.'
'I reckon the only killing you know about,' Alison said, her lips drawing back into a smile, 'is lady-killing.'
'That's probably the most dangerous sort,' said Matt, laughing.
Deciding to get rid of Keith, Matt took a bottle of Moet & Chandon from behind the bar — one of the privileges of being a shareholder — and cracked it open. The beach, he suggested to the woman, was the perfect place to drink champagne on a warm evening. Somewhere they could hear the waves in their ears and feel the sand beneath their feet.
One of the best things about basing yourself in Spain, Matt reflected as he took her arm and guided her gently down the steep metal staircase that led from the terrace to the beach, was the constant parade of girls on holiday with tight skirts and loose morals. Easyjetters, some of the guys at the bar called them. They came in by jet. They were easy. They were cheap. And after a couple of days by the pool some of them were even orange as well.
But this woman wasn't like that. She might be easy — he would find out soon — but there was nothing cheap about her.
'I don't even know your name,' said Matt, sitting down on one of the rocks that jutted out from the sand.
'Alison.'
'I heard you let that little friend of mine take off your party dress.'
'I know the song, thanks.'
Matt fell silent. It was only two days since he had split up with Gill. The pain was still there, weighing on his mind. Her parting words were still echoing through his thoughts, and the image of her tears still burned his memory. A hundred times he had thought about calling her: a thousand times he had told himself he mustn't. He had made his choice, he must learn to live with it.
Maybe I need something to help me get over Gill. Maybe I'll never sort out the mess I'm in and just need to move on. Forget about the past, and everything in it.
'You're quiet.'
'Just thinking.'
'Oh.'
Alison leant forward and brushed her lips against his. Matt moved his face towards her and their lips collided, the kiss turning into a long, passionate embrace. She tasted different, and felt different. It was two years since Matt had slept with any woman other than Gill, and he had started to forget how each had her own unique flavour, her own way of touching you, her own noises and movements. Gill and he had got together when he'd left the Regiment, and they'd gone back to the crowd of people they'd known before he'd become a soldier. There had always been plenty of temptation at the bar, but he'd never so much as looked at another woman.
Alison's hands were moving quickly over his chest and shoulders, her fingers pressing through his blue denim shirt. Through her bra and her blouse he could feel her nipples starting to harden. 'Not here,' she whispered into his ear. 'I want to fuck you all night, and we can't do that on the beach.'
He stood up, holding her hand, and they started walking. It was ten minutes to his apartment, a one-bedroom place overlooking the sea, just down from the main coastal road.
Matt pushed open the door of the flat, hoping it wasn't too much of a mess. It was a standard guy's place — a few pieces of furniture, none of them bought with any great thought. A big hi-fi, and a row of CDs filed away on the bookshelf in alphabetical order. A wide-screen TV, with a PlayStation 2 underneath it and a collection of games. A small kitchen, with a big fridge containing beer, some orange juice and six frozen double pepperoni and sausage pizzas. The only individual touch was the framed pictures on top of the hi-fi, one of his mum, the rest of himself in uniform with some of his mates from the Regiment.
Matt picked a CD from the shelf — Sonny Rollins, in his opinion the greatest jazz saxophone player of the 1950s. He fed the disc into the player then turned around to look at her, noticing the way the light caught her hair, emphasising the fact that she was a near platinum blonde. A sad, soulful tune slowly filled the room, the lines of the melody straying in different directions, and Matt gripped Alison around the waist, feeling the tight leather of her trousers firm against his hand. Already he was wondering how she would look naked, what would be the contours of her body, how her shape would fit against his. She wasn't saying anything, but it suited him that way. He kissed her lips, his mouth moving quickly down the length of her neck, his hands wrestling with her belt buckle. 'Undress,' he said. 'Undress for me now.'