For Love or Money

Another plate rattled in the rack. That noise and the clash of cutlery filled the silence, which was fine with Chantelle. Why did she always have to fill the bloody dishwasher? Hadn't The Great Deadendo eaten the Minted Grillsteaks too? Who'd gone to all the way to fucking Iceland to get them? Who'd spent all her time cooking them? Ok, it wasn't that long – but the instructions were hard to read, weren't they? Speaking of reading, The Great Deadendo had his nose in that newspaper again. Stupid name, stupid colour. Pink. Dominic said he'd always read the FT and he wasn't going to stop now. Dominic! She'd thought his name so classy, when he'd picked her up in the Slug and Lettuce. Three years, from there to here. Jesus.

She supposed he didn't look that much different now. Was that a spare tyre or had his tailor been better at hiding it than Burton's? The hairline had always been receding, and, well, the chin thing had clearly marked him out as from a different class to her usual. Anyway, she'd got fed up of footballers and fancied a go-round with someone who didn't think sex was a team sport.

Chantelle looked around the poky kitchen. It hadn't mattered then. Besides, the lounge diner was massive and the terrace looked out over the Thames Barrier. Anyway who had cared about cooking, for fuck's sake? Still, she wouldn't be doing it for much longer, not in this kitchen, at any rate. He didn't move when she walked into the lounge. Neither did the newspaper. She took a key off the ring she'd taken out of her handbag. Placed it silently by the phone.

'Want anything from the offy, luv?'

Luv. As if. The Great Deadendo grunted.

'Right. See you.'

Yeah, right. Serve you right if I do find an Ashley or a Jermaine tonight. Or even both, she thought. It had been a long time. What good was he anyway?
Broke...
No job...
Fucking banker.