The Girl In The Red Ferrari

By Betsy Bond

At 19 years old, Daisy Dean is one of the youngest police officers in Scotland. She’s fit, smart and super-ambitions – but is stuck working in a sleepy fishing town and living at home with her ageing father. She’s a long way from the big city and the serious criminals she dreams of fighting.

But Daisy soon gets her shot at some action when she has the chance to work undercover with a ruthless gang of thieves – as their getaway driver.

Has the charming gang leader seen through her disguise? Does he like her as much as he seems to? Is he really behind the city’s crime wave?
Or is young Daisy simply in far, far too deep to find any answers at all...?

This is a thrilling, sexy and adventurous novel set in the romantic Scottish landscape and its dark, alluring cities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Betsy Bond
• Release date: Dec 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781999920425

Betsy Bond

Betsy Bond was born in Glasgow in 1999. She is currently studying in Edinburgh.

Book preview

chapter 1

the high hills and the frozen sea

It wasn’t the Brazilian drug runners cracking her spine that hurt Daisy, but the way her Dad was so totally uninterested. He just sat there listening to Pansy prattle on about whatever stupid man or plan or fat-headed dream she was goo-goo over this week.

That was agony.

She knew it would be a lame week from the start, though. Walking into the police station on Monday, she was smiling at the spring crocuses when suddenly snow comes at her like a cavalry charge. One minute Portross is grey and dull as usual, just an out-of-time fishing town on Scotland’s wild west coast. The next it’s a storm of fat white flakes swirling around skidding cars.

All day it just kept coming. The snowplough got snowed into its garage. The gritter ran out of grit. Then it got really cold.

Down at North Sands the sea froze. The rock pools were solid. You could see the poor crabs hanging there in the crystal water, baffled eyes rigid on their stalks.

And she was on traffic duty.

She slipped silk lining gloves under her white canvas gauntlets, but still the animal cold gnawed at her fingers. The snow settled on her hat and shoulders as she stood in the middle of the madness, directing cars she could hardly see.

A red Peugeot came down Shore Street. Didn’t clock her till late. Jammed on the anchors. Black Audi A3 went into the back of it. Both drivers got out and started shouting at her. Like she’d conjured the stuff down from heaven simply to annoy them. Meanwhile, the traffic’s backing up all the way past the harbour to the golf course.

Eventually she calms them down. Takes their details – only she can’t write with her gauntlets on so she has to take them off. The silk liners go too. Her bare fingers are like frozen crab pincers round the pencil. At last she sorts it out. Gets the drivers to pull away. Puts her gloves back on. The traffic flows. Then fifty yards up the road, the red Peugeot brakes, the silver Saab ploughs straight in and the show starts all over again.

A whole week of that.

So come Friday when Miriam phones to suggest a drinkie or two in Route 66 followed maybe by some dancing, Daisy’s whooping practically deafens her friend.

Soon as her shift finishes at four-thirty she spins on her heel and leaves the cars to their skidding. She just has to check the rota and she’s free.

♥

The police station is the only modern building on Central Street. Built in the 1960s it’s hardly new, but compared with the rest of the town it’s an ugly punk of a construction, its square shoulders muscling a space between ancient tumbledown fishermen’s cottages.

Outside sits the station’s patrol car, buried under a foot and a half of snow. The sharp concrete steps haven’t been cleared either. Daisy tries to hurry up them into the warm, but her heavy boots slip – once, twice, three times. She stumbles and curses. She hates wearing these clumpy things. At the top of the steps she knocks the snow from her soles and opens the glass-panelled main door.

The blue-walled lobby is a relief after the snapping cold. But the air in this small room is stale and too familiar and Daisy moves quickly through it to the security door.

Hey George, she calls in to the reception office as she passes. The rota up?

No reply.

Daisy stops and looks in the little sliding widow. The elderly station assistant fills his chair like woolly plaster poured in a mould. His head is back, eyes closed, mouth open. He clutches an empty Pot Noodle to his cardigan-clad chest.

She sniffs. Pads at her running nose with her gauntlet. No sense in trying to wake him. This man could sleep through a riot. Not that there are ever any riots in Portross.

Daisy steps to the wall and enters her code on the keypad – BEEPBEEPITYBEEPBEEP – and the heavy door to her left swings open. This separates the public area of the station from the offices, cells, stores and other secure rooms. She walks through and swings it shut behind her.

Now she’s in a central hallway with two doors opening off it and a descending stairway at the far end. Daisy heads for the door on the left.

A table, four chairs and a drinks machine with no windows to light them, just a flickering fluoride tube – the staff room.

And two uniformed men with their backs to her. One is tall and very slender. The other is shorter and quite fat. They are both bent over the table, staring at a computer screen.

The shorter one is saying:

…and she’s entering the room…

Hey guys, says Daisy, and walks over to the drinks machine.

…walking to the drinks machine…

Daisy slots a fifty pence piece into the machine and punches 15 into the keypad. A plastic cup shunks into a holder and steaming liquid squirts from a half-clogged nozzle.

…standing there…

Daisy lifts her soup out and sips it.

Utterly disgusting.

She takes her cup and walks back over to the two men.

…and now she’s walking towards us and she’s right behind us and…

Both men whirl round.

Ha ha! I’m a genius! cries the tall one. The bones in his face are very fine – handsome, in fact, but the way the flesh clings to those bones is unsettling. It’s like there’s not enough meat and muscle for the man. And he has a habit, when speaking, of half-closing his eyes and rapidly flickering the lids for a few seconds. At these uncomfortable moments he always looks to Daisy like some undead creature, fighting trying to rouse itself from its decaying slumber.

Constable Hamilton.

You’re a genius? says the shorter man. He has pink, saggy features. A dark port-wine birthmark runs from his right temple down the side of his face to his jawline. The mark also runs backwards, covering his right ear and distorting the growth of hair on that side of his head.

Constable Inches.

What are you two up to? asks Daisy, sipping her soup.

It was my idea, says Inches, stepping towards Daisy and beaming.

You lying little toad, snaps Hamilton, slapping his colleague on the shoulder. I told you yesterday that you can track a phone even without knowing the IMEI number-

But you didn’t have a clue how to go about it, returns Inches. I was the one who realized that all we had to do was-

Oh spare us, wails Hamilton. Did Einstein worry about details? It’s the big idea, my fat little friend. That’s what matters.

Details is all he ever worried about- starts Inches.

So, interrupts Daisy. Let me get this straight. The pair of you have spent the day spying on me? she says.

Blank stares.

Hamilton suddenly turns and looks down at Inches.

I told you it was a terrible idea.

"What? You’re the one who came up with it…"

Daisy sighs and shakes her head.

As if I’d spy on our colleague-

You said we could use it at weekends as well if we got her mobile number-

I’ll tell you what you’re geniuses at – idling. Next week’s rota up? she asks, and steps away from them to the notice board by the sink. Pinned top left is the new duty rota. Daisy stops in front and reads:

March 21-25

Constable Hamilton Crime

Constable Inches Crime

Constable Dean Traffic

She takes a deep breath. Tries to hold it in. Nope. It’s no good.

Shit! she says, stamping her foot. Flipping shit!

She hurls her soup into the sink and stalks across the staff room to the door.

Inches peers at the screen.

She’s leaving the room…

Shut up, Inches.

Three strides and Daisy is across the hallway at the door opposite. She knocks, and without waiting for reply, enters the room.

This small office has a window but it only opens onto a dark well formed by a fire escape, the side of the station and the flank of the old post office next door.

In front of the open window is a large desk stacked with improbably high piles of paper, at which sits a uniformed officer. He’s not that small a man – he must be at least five eleven, and his shoulders could be almost broad. But he hunches when he sits. And he has a habit of bobbing his chin towards his chest in a meek, birdlike manner. Combine that with thick glasses and an unnaturally smooth chin, and although he’s a few years older than Daisy, he could easily pass for a few younger.

Sergeant Walker – the commanding officer of this tiny station.

As she steps in, the air in the room cloaks Daisy’s throat like fur – three or four electric heaters are placed around the room elements burning bright. She notices that Sergeant Walker is wrapped in several layers of scarves.

The door clatters shut behind Daisy and Sergeant Walker jumps in surprise.

Daisy! I mean, Constable Dean.

Sergeant Walker, can I have a word?

Come in, yes, do – my door is always open. I mean, the door is shut a lot of the time… because of the draught, you understand… but, it’s just a metaphor, you know, because, ah, what I mean is, you can open the door, even if you encountered it when it was in its shut state, as you just have, and come in any time and… and anyway… He laughs nervously. Pushes his heavy glasses back up his nose. …it doesn’t matter because, ipso facto, you’re already in the room, so… And he bobs his head towards his chest.

Daisy walks right up to his desk. The chill wind gusts in through the window. A drop of water falls – PLAT – from her hair onto the desk. She shivers.

My goodness, he says, reaching out a hand towards her. You’re soaking!

Yes, she says, I’ve been standing in the snow all day. And I see from the rota that I’m going to be standing in the snow all next week as well. She steps back a little, just out of his reach. Sergeant, why am I on traffic patrol again next week?

Sergeant Walker bobs so violently he almost headbangs the desk.

Ah, well constable, as you know, since the ah… start of this year, among the many improvements I have made to procedural operations in this station, and here he gestures to the piles of paper on his desk, I have been running a two-weekly or, to be strictly correct, bi-monthly rota system.

But look at the weather! interrupts Daisy. Can’t you shift it around a little?

Sergeant Walker pushes his glasses up his nose.

If I assign you to crime, I have to pair you with an officer qualified to drive the squad car, which means taking one of the other constables away from his duty.

You mean Tweedledum and Tweedledee can’t bear to be apart, she says, nodding her head back in the direction she came from.

Sergeant Walker laughs and instantly tries to turn it into a cough.

Now Constable, he says gruffly, this is an equal opportunities place of employment, and disrespectful language is no longer tolerated.

But it’s not like they’re on some important case. They’ve spent all day buggering about on the computer.

Buggering – yes, well that’s the nub of it, the heart of it right there, that you’ve put your finger on. You see, if I make one of them do something the other doesn’t, they have a tendency to become less than completely manageable.

She stares at him.

And why is that my problem?

bob

Ah, well, it’s not of course. It’s ah, mine. And it’s not a problem I want to have, but in this job we are often given tasks we don’t want, and it’s up to all of us to face our responsibilities, and… get on with them. He nods, as if to summarize his argument. We must all get on.

Daisy takes a calming breath.

You say this is an equal opportunities station.

Of course, all my officers have equal rights.

Did you get my application for the pursuit course?

Ah, now yes, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.

He reaches a hand out towards his ‘IN’ tray and lifts the top piece of paper from the huge stack in it.

I received it, he says, but I have not actioned it.

Why not?

bob bob

"Dais- Constable Dean. The pursuit course training is run by Covert Ops at Divisional HQ in Glasgow. It lasts two months. It costs a lot of money. That has to come from my budget."

It’s a good course.

Undoubtedly. A wonderful course. Of that we are in concurrence. Attend this course and you will not only be able to drive the squad car, you will be exceptionally qualified as a pursuit driver. A real hot shot. He smiles at her. She can tell it’s meant to be warm and ingratiating, but it makes the skin on Daisy’s neck burn. And I would love for you to have such skills – I really do think you have great potential as a police officer. The point… and now he bobs. …is what use have we for a fully qualified pursuit driver here? The pursuit course is in Glasgow because it’s a big city where serious crimes happen – I see in the news today that there’s a new panic about bad drugs flooding the city. But here in Portross? Our most serious crime in the last calendar year occurred last July when a drunken fisherman urinated in Wee Jock’s guitar in the pub. When I present your application, he waves the piece of paper, to Chief Inspector Wolfram at Divisional HQ and ask for his budgetary approval, I think I would be wise in guessing that laughter would be the first sound my ears would register.

So you’ll ask him.

He won’t agree.

You’ll ask.

For a second Az’s eyes flash. He sits up a little straighter.

Perhaps I need to remind you who is the constable and who is the sergeant here?!

Her eyes flick to his arm. She tries to stop them, but it’s too late. It’s like she needs confirmation. He sees her eyes go. Checks where they’re looking. And just as involuntarily, his left hand moves across his body. His fingers delicately press the stripes. Like they’re fresh wounds.

Daisy leans back from the desk.

I’m sorry. But Sergeant Walker, it’s different for you – you’ve worked in the city. I’m nineteen years old.

Exactly – you are one of the youngest police officers in the country. You have plenty of time.

So you’re saying only young officers should do the crap jobs.

Not exactly.

That’s ageist. And I’ll tell you something else, I’m not going to spend the best years of my career shambling around Portross telling lost golfers where they can stick their niblicks.

He looks at her. His eyes are muddied behind his lenses.

He bobs once more.

Then sighs.

I’ll pass your application on to Chief Inspector Wolfram. But in the meantime, I must insist that you perform your allocated duty. We all have to get on.

And he slots the piece of paper neatly onto the thick stack in his ‘OUT’ tray.

♥

chapter 2

like she was a doll

Daisy ditches her sopping uniform at home. Kicks off her horrible boots. Rubs her poor feet. God she needs to sweat this week out.

Checks her watch – five-fifteen. Still got time.

She steps into two layers of thermals, adds gloves, a buff and her heavier trainers. Then she skips downstairs and pops her head into the sitting room to check on Dad. Fine, he’s asleep in his wheelchair. Daisy can only see the back of his head, the side of his beard and the tops of his shoulders. She smiles – his pure white hair makes him look like he’s been snowed on too. Suddenly a little face pokes up over his right shoulder.

Gordon.

Dad’s aged Jack Russell terrier lifts his nose in the air and sniffs once. Then he hitches his jowls above his teeth and growls at her.

Same to you, you old grump, says Daisy, and turns for the front door.

She trots out past the snow-covered Rascal, her Dad’s toy-like mobility vehicle, and turns left at Dame Clara’s house. The old dear’s garden is looking nice for once – it could be sculptures under that snow rather than bags of mouldering newspapers.

Poor old bird.

Daisy cuts up the lane and sprints until she’s clear of the Estate. At the copse of oak trees the lane bends left to loop back to town, but Daisy takes the uphill path. This hugs the bank of the Shellach Burn, the feisty stream that runs down from the high mass of mountains behind the town. The edges of the burn are encrusted with ice. The woods end at a deer fence and then it’s open scrubland all the way up to the dam. Daisy crosses the burn by the shaky footbridge and takes the Land Rover track that leads up into the hills.

The snow is thick on the path with ice underneath. For every two steps she takes up, she comes skidding back one. Her thermals are soon slick with sweat despite the cold.

It takes her over half an hour – her slowest time ever – to get up to the top of the dam. When she reaches the concrete walkway she droops herself over the railing, her lungs hauling at the spiky air.

To her left and right, two great craggy arms reach down from the cloud-covered mountains. Between them arcs the grey curtain of the dam, which closes off a U-shaped corrie.

She looks down, the grey concrete sheering away beneath her feet. Below her, the old conduit runs out from the heart of the dam, curves round the craggy shoulder on the right and heads away towards Glasgow. Daisy can remember when it used to flow, supplying the city with drinking water. But it hasn’t been used in years.

To the left of the conduit is the Land Rover track, and beyond that the town itself, nestled between the high hills and the frozen sea.

Daisy smiles. She can’t see the Estate from here. Just the ancient heart of the town, the stone buildings huddling together against the wind.

Behind her, the snow has settled on the reservoir ice. It’s been a long time since it was this cold. And above this white plain, scree-scattered slopes rise up to the peaks of the hills, which lie beneath the clouds like sleeping wolves.

The wind howls round the corrie, throwing hail against the back of her neck. It’s getting dark. She turns for home.

Thoughts of dancing keep her warm all the way.

♥

Hey Dad! she shouts, stepping into the narrow hall. I’m back. And she drops her keys into the chipped old dog bowl on the shelf behind the door. Six-thirty. Time for a quick bath, then-

She hears it.

Clack clack clackety WOOF

Oh no.

Clack clack clackety WOOF

Oh shit.

Daisy paces down the thick-carpeted hall.

Not now…

She pokes her head round the sitting room door – and lifts her hands wearily to cover her face.

On top of the ancient Grundig TV and VCR there sits an empty videotape box. The Adventures of Robin Hood. To the right of the fire stands a battered tailor’s dummy. It’s dressed in a green felt shirt and jerkin, which hang from the torso in tatters. In the gaps between the shreds, the pink plastic of the dummy is cut and chipped. A feathered hat is taped to the dummy’s head. Green woollen stockings stuffed with newspaper have been attached as legs. The feet of the stockings are half-shredded.

And then, the reason she’s sighing:

His wheelchair rolled right forward in front of the fire, her father is attacking the dummy with a sword. And attacking it with quite startling violence. Sweat flies from the ends of his white hair. Chunks of plastic zing into the air as Gordon dances below, savaging the stuffed-stocking legs.

Clack clack clackety WOOF

Ha ha! Dad shouts. Die, you traitorous villain!!

If he keeps this up, he’ll wake Dame Clara next door…

Daisy turns and heads for the kitchen.

She grabs a highland cow mug from the wooden tree beside the fridge and runs some water into it. Then she reaches into the cupboard and pulls out a big plastic pill bottle. Unscrews the cap and tips three large lozenges out into her palm. Then she picks up the mug and turns back-

Drop that tankard, you varlet!

Shit! What a fright.

Dad sits in the doorway in his wheelchair. Sword in hand. Pointed right between her eyes. Gordon is by his side, wiry frame tensed, one paw lifted.

Daisy stares down at her father in his wheelchair. Even though he’s sitting and she’s standing, she always feels like he’s looking down at her. It’s something in the proud way he tilts his white bearded chin up.

As usual, the sword bothers her. It shouldn’t – it’s just Dad, after all. But there’s something about his eyes… they’ve always been remarkable – ice blue and razor sharp – but these days they’re really incredible. It’s what you see through them that does it. One minute they are empty, a clear window to a vacant mind. The next they swirl with life and vicious brilliance.

The eyes look much more dangerous than the sword.

She pushes the blade casually downwards.

Hey sheriff, you haven’t taken your tablets, have you?

He raises the sword again. Waggles it. For a second, she wonders if he really might hurt her. Not deliberately, he’d never do that. But his coordination is not great. His body is almost as damaged as his mind.

Question me not, you rogue! he cries.

It’s getting more frequent, thinks Daisy. It’s only been about two weeks…

Dad, she says softly, raising her eyebrows at him. It’s me. Daisy.

And then, in an instant, the swirling in his eyes fades and blankness fills the void.

Oh, I’m sorry, my girl. He stares at the pills in her hand. I was going to take them, really I was, and then…

Ha hah! cries Errol Flynn from the other room. Gordon’s ears perk up. Dad looks around fearfully.

"…and then they came."

God grant me patience…

Let’s go through and turn that off, shall we?

Daisy ushers him back into the sitting room. She turns the TV off and looks out of the window.

Where did you see them, Dad?

Out there, my girl. Right on my own back lawn. I swear they’re getting bolder.

It’s funny, she says, half smiling to herself, you’d think they would have left some sort of footprint in all this snow.

He glares at her. His eyes starting to swirl again.

You should know by now, he says, his voice getting louder, that nothing is beyond the Outlaws!

She opens her palm and proffers the tablets.

Come on, Dad.

There was a new one today, he continues, his eyes distant.

Is that right?

Yes, nods her Dad. A fat one. His eyes looked in different directions and he was dressed in yellow. With black stripes across his body here and here. Looked like a giant bumblebee. Isn’t that clever?

She stares at him.

This is a really bad one…

Uh, clever… why?

They know Gordon doesn’t like bees. Do you, Gordon?

RRROWWRRFF!!

He leans towards her. Puts his hand to his mouth and says to her in a stage whisper:

It’s his one weakness.

Aha. Take these now, Dad.

He ignores her. Looks back down at the dog.

But that didn’t stop us, did it?

RRRROWWWFF!!

I made him this. Come here boy.

Just pop them on your tongue and-

But she’s too late. His eyes are swirling like washing machines on spin cycle. The little terrier leaps up into his lap. Dad reaches down the side of his chair and removes a triangular piece of cardboard, around six inches long. He presses two of the edges and it pops out to form a baseless pyramid. A length of elastic has been stapled to the bottom. He stretches this back and pops the pyramid over Gordon’s muzzle. It fits snugly. He then produces a couple of feathers and tucks these into the elastic. Patiently, the little dog lets his master do all this without once even flinching. Dad and Gordon both look up at her.

You see?

This is definitely the worst it’s ever been…

Um, I see something. Not sure exactly what, though.

He’s an owl! This is his beak and these are his feathers. Bees don’t like owls because they hunt and eat them. Oh, my owl and I gave that Outlaw such a scare, didn’t we Gordon?

MMMWWFF!! barks the old terrier through the cardboard. Then he jumps to the floor and begins whirling on the spot, chasing an imaginary and, thinks Daisy, presumably circular foe.

That’s the spirit, faithful hound! cries Dad. Now, come on, my girl, let’s go out on patrol.

Left hand on the wheel of his chair, the right still clutching the sword, he spins himself round and starts towards the hall.

No, Dad!

He stops. The muscles in his broad back tense. The sword begins to twitch.

She stares at the nape of his neck. His white hair is trimmed to a perfectly straight line.

Dad, I’ve had a hell of a week. I’m going to meet Miriam.

He sits up straight. Like she kicked him. He’s not really in pain, she knows that. Mere words can’t damage this man. But when he turns, there is hurt on his face.

And then he says it:

Pansy would drive her father.

And way down deep, Daisy’s soul flinches. Cowers in pain like a cat with a scalded paw.

Why does he say such shitty things?

Because he loves Pansy and hates her and doesn’t care that she knows it…

Daisy drops her head and turns away, eyes burning hot and wet.

And then, for just a second, she sees him as he used to be. When she was a girl. Standing tall in front of her – impossibly tall – the buttons on his uniform gleaming, his boots shining. His big craggy face would crack into a smile and he’d bend down and pick her up like she was a doll. And she’d nestle into the crook of his arm and he’d take off his cap and put it on her head and she’d lift her head and see the world from his incredible point of view. Looking down on the TV, the bookcase, looking down on mum, even…

But that’s when the vision fades.

And now all Daisy sees is a wild-eyed, white-haired old man in a wheelchair by the electric fire. A fierce-eyed dog with a cardboard beak on the tatty rug beside him.

And although he’s been shitty, Daisy loves him more than ever. Her heart feels light in her chest. She sighs.

Okay, Dad, we’ll go.

Ha-hah! he shouts in triumph, and thrusts his sword at the dummy.

MMRRRFF!! manages Gordon through his beak.

On the condition, continues Daisy, that you swallow these right now.

And she thrusts the lozenges and the highland cow mug towards him.

Of course, my girl. Anything for you.

And he downs them in a oner.

♥

The Rascal is a converted Mini, with its roof raised and a rear door added to accommodate a wheelchair. Her dad peers backwards out of the high window like a tank commander. Gordon sits on the passenger seat, one eye on Daisy as she pulls slowly out onto the Shellach Burn Road.

Dad bangs the roof with his fist.

Slower! he yells. How are we ever going to catch them if you’re going so fast?

Dad, we’re doing eleven miles an hour. If I go any slower we’ll go back in time.

Do as you’re told. Slow down!

Daisy drops the Rascal into first. Her right foot twitches on the accelerator. It’s all she can do to stop the car from stalling.

She checks her watch.

Shit, nine o’clock already. Miriam won’t be happy.

She looks in the mirror. Dad is peering hard out at some youths who hurry out of an alley leading up from the harbour and duck into a brightly lit basement bar – Route 66. Music spills out over the snow.

When are those pills going to kick in? They’ve been round the town three times already…

Okay, Dad. That’s enough. Let’s go home.

There’s one! he cries, and Gordon starts barking.

Dad, that’s Sandy. The lobsterman.

He’s not an Outlaw?

Not unless smelling bad is illegal.

Then why’s he walking so suspiciously?

He’s had a drink, Dad. Like most normal people on a Friday night.

Dad rolls down his window.

Well, it’s a DISGRACE! he yells as they pass Sandy.

MMRRFF! squawks Gordon.

Sandy starts and staggers and topples into a snowdrift.

Good work, Gordon, says Dad, patting his hound. Then he turns to Daisy. Right, my girl, let’s go round again. And slower this time. For God’s sake, slower!

♥

Ten o’clock has come and gone by the time Daisy scampers up the narrow stairs.

God, she hopes she isn’t too late. If Em’s been too long on her own…

Daisy opens the front door and rushes straight in to a remarkable room. Every square inch of the walls is covered in images of famous men. A movie poster of Robert Redford and Paul Newman as Butch and Sundance has pride of place above the gas fire, and spiralling out from that, images have been tacked, taped, nailed and glued with frenzied intensity. Between the light switch and the doorjamb alone Daisy can see a publicity still of Tom Hardy, a signed photograph of Ewan MacGregor and an action shot of Ryan Lochte.

Below these images, every flat surface is filled with flowers – daffodils, roses, carnations, offering something of a feminine counterpoint to the walls of maleness. They spring from pots and boxes and a George Clooney mug with earth in.

And in the middle of all this colour, recumbent on a sagging orange sofa, wearing grey exercise shorts and a too-small T-shirt with a picture of David Bowie on it, is Miriam.

Miriam has a face so round it could be painted on a plate. Round, moist brown eyes, a little round nose amid round apple cheeks, and a big, sensuously circular mouth are all framed by a round brown bob. Her bodyframe is tiny, but she has huge boobs, a neat potbelly and a rounded, protruding bum. All these perfect little circles make Miriam look like she has been blown into being out of a giant bubble machine.

As Daisy steps into the room, Miriam is emptying the last of a bottle of red wine into a glass. Her hand wobbles a little as she sets the bottle down on a stained wooden coffee table.

Hey hun, smiles Daisy.

I got one for you, says Miriam, pointing to another bottle that stands on the table. But there was an accident. Daisy clocks the second bottle – empty.

Too late.

Oh Em, I’m so sorry. Dad was unbelievable tonight. I just couldn’t get him calmed down. Five times we had to drive round town.

Six months.

What?

Since I had any.

Here we go…

Maybe you should share that wine out, hun.

Miriam clutches her overflowing glass to her chest.

Half a year since I had my hands on any perks.

Em, you’re not making much sense.

Perctoral muscles! Miriam says, grabbing her own boobs and slopping wine all over John. Perks! I haven’t had my hands on any perks in ages. She takes a huge slurp of wine. Let alone a cock.

Daisy sighs.

That’s tonight out the window.

Why don’t I put the kettle on? she asks. Make some tea?

Fuck tea, roars Miriam. We’re going dancing! And she stands up.

Em, it’s minus ten degrees out there.

So?

So you’re wearing your nightclothes.

Cold’s good for the nipples, says Miriam, and turns towards her front door.

Sit down, Em. We’ll go dancing next Friday.

No! I can’t stand another week in this fucking town without any fucking… life! We’re going now!

And she turns for the door again, takes a step forward, catches her foot on the coffee table and topples hard onto the floor, wine slopping wildly.

Daisy dashes across the room and drops to her knees. Puts her arm round her friend’s head and pulls her gently upright.

Oh Dee, one of us has drunk too much, mumbles Miriam, big round eyes pleading. And I have a terrible feeling it might be me.

It’s okay, hun, says Daisy, smoothing Miriam’s hair down the side of her crimson cheeks.

I’m just so sick of this place, Miriam goes on. I had a hell of a week in the salon, and I was so looking forward to seeing you and then I thought you weren’t coming and so I had a glass and the next thing… Miriam sighs. I’m sorry I spoiled your night.

You haven’t spoiled anything, says Daisy. Wait here. And she jumps up and steps over to the little CD player that lives on the window sill. She picks up a CD from the pile on top, slots it home and presses play. Then she steps back over to her friend. She stands up on the sofa, reaches a hand down to her friend and says in a deep voice:

Hello beautiful, would you do me the honour of accompanying me in a dance? she asks.

Miriam smiles and takes her hand. She wobbles to her feet and they stand up facing each other on the sofa, feet in the middle of the cushions.

You ready to boogie, old pal? asks Daisy.

Miriam nods, eyes shining, tongue flicking over her lips with excitement.

There’s a delicious half second of silent anticipation, then the beat drops and the singing starts in and the two of them are smiling and dancing, hands all over the place, bums stuck out and wiggling, voices warbling in happy harmony. And by the time they get to the na na nana’s, Route 66 is a thousand miles away.

♥

The house is dark when