Anne Billson - Suckers

'I thought you'd given up.' That was the trouble with non-smokers. They invariably helped themselves to other people's cigarettes, never bought their own.

'I have,' he said, lighting up. 'I just feel like one.' He took a couple of puffs, grimaced and stubbed it out so heavily there was not even the possibility of my being able to straighten it out and slide it back into the packet. 'There,' he said. 'I just gave up again.'

I thought I deserved a pat on the back, at least, for having trekked all the way to Docklands on his behalf. 'There's Dino's address,' I reminded him.

'Dino,' said Duncan. 'Yeah, maybe we should talk to Dino.'

'Have you met him?'

'I've run into him once or twice. He's a wanker.'

'You can see that from his work.'

'A runt. His real name is Phineas Dean.'

'I thought he was Italian-American.'

'He wishes.' Duncan examined the sugar bowl and stewed silently about something. By the time he spoke again, he'd made up his mind he wanted to go straight round to London Bridge Road and give Dino the third degree. When I said I had work to do, he tried to get me to postpone it and tag along as moral support. He didn't have to try very hard. He called for the bill and began to sort through the change in his pocket.

'Hang on a minute,' I said. 'At least let me finish my coffee. There's no rush.'

'Yes there is. There is now. Lulu had a summons.'

'Oh Lordy, not again.' I thought he was referring to Lulu's habit of stuffing parking tickets into her glove compartment and forgetting about them. She had been sent a clutch of summonses for non-payment, but she forgot about them as well. Stern men had been sent round to deal with her, but she always won them over with entreaties and promises and much fluttering of her eyelashes, and they always patted her on the head and went away satisfied. She never did pay up.

But Duncan wasn't talking about that sort of summons. It turned out that someone from Bellini had contacted her agent that morning. There was a lot of flu around; the model they'd booked had gone down with it and they needed a replacement at less than a day's notice. They'd come across Lulu's card and she was exactly what they were after: blonde hair, blue eyes, 34C-22-34, 5'10", 110lb. Face like a Botticelli bimbo and bosoms like a tit-man's dream. Jack had once described her like that. To her face. And she had taken it as a compliment.

'She won't listen to me,' Duncan said. 'She's got it into her head this is her big break.'

'Isn't she a bit old?' I asked, and I wasn't trying to be catty. By modelling standards, Lulu was well past her sell-by date.

'That's what I said, and she just got mad. I said I didn't want her to go, and she got even stroppier, said I was trying to tie her to the cooker. I said I was game if she was, but she didn't think that was very funny.' Duncan tipped a small amount of sugar on to the table-top and, apparently without thinking, arranged it into a small, neat line. 'Only the other day, she was wanting to start a bloody family. Now she's wanting a bloody career again. How can I tell her that it might be dangerous ?'

'Duncan, it's a magazine , for Christ's sake. How could it be dangerous? I've been there: the security was tighter than a duck's ass, and — you know how these things work — she'll be the centre of attention. There'll be make-up people, and hairdressers, and stylists and fashion directors and photographers and assistants, and PRs and lots and lots of hangers-on. Anyway, Lulu can look after herself. She's a big girl.' And in all the right places, I wanted to add but didn't. It was odd taking her side against Duncan, but I thought he was being excessively cautious. He had never been that worried about me.

'You don't know her,' he said. 'She's far too trusting.'

I wanted to say, Oh no she's not, she's a calculating bitch. Instead, I asked, 'You sure you're not jealous they've asked Lulu and not you?' Judging by Duncan's reaction, I'd hit the nail on the head. He huffed and puffed and declared he only had Lulu's best interests at heart.

'Oh, let her do it if she wants;' I said, draining my coffee cup and getting a mouthful of bitter sludge. 'The worst thing that can happen is Dino will take her clothes off and hand-tint her. Then you'll be able to act like a real man and punch his face in.'

We went down to London Bridge Road in Duncan's car, which was small and black and flash-looking. Dino's studio turned out to be only a few blocks away from Patricia Rice's flat, in a row of old office buildings which had been knocked through into one big hangar and tarted up with green paint. We stepped through the door into an open reception area. I'd had enough of receptionists to last me a lifetime, but at least this one looked human. She was lolling behind a chunky metal desk, twirling a fibre-tip pen between her fingers and looking incredibly un-busy. The direct route to the desk was blocked by a large, empty cardboard box which was standing in the middle of the floor; we walked around it.

I went straight to the point. 'Where's Dino?'

She shrugged. 'How should I know?'

'Because you're the receptionist.'

'I'm the manager ,' she said sniffily. 'I manage this place.'

I'd made a faux-pas and she hated my guts already. Duncan was forced to take over. 'He's an old friend,' he said. 'We went to the same school.'

This was news to me. I wondered if he was improvising. Meanwhile, the receptionist who said she was a manager was looking at him with goo-goo eyes. 'I know you, don't I. You're Duncan Fender.'

Duncan nodded, pretending to be embarrassed but in fact enormously flattered. She got to her feet and held out her hand. 'I really like your work.' As he clasped it she suddenly leant over and kissed him full on the mouth. He winced and pulled back in some alarm, though not too far, because she was the kind of girl men like Duncan always find attractive: a wild mane of hair, a dress which fitted like cling-film, and enormous squishy please-hit-me lips.

'Absolutely thrilled to meet you,' she said. 'I've always been a fan of yours, ever since I first started in this business. I'm Francine, by the way.' She delivered an appreciative resume of Duncan's career, called him a genius more often than was good for him, and popped one or two technical questions about F-stops and fill-in flash. She described some photographs she had recently had published in a music paper. It was obvious she had taken on this administrative job in the hope of meeting people and making contacts. She was the kind of girl who would go far; I sincerely hoped it would be somewhere like the Outer Hebrides.

But she and Duncan were getting on like a house on fire; he was radiating charm like a chat-show host. She offered to make tea, rounded up three or four dirty mugs, and disappeared. Duncan turned to me and winked, even though he should have known better.

I scowled. 'Were you really at school with Dino?'

'Mmm, he was one or two years below me.'

'Why didn't you say?

He shrugged. 'It didn't seem important. I don't think we ever spoke. Oh, except one time when a couple of us beat the crap out of him.'

'You did what ?'

'He was a disgusting little toad, even then.'

'You beat him up ?' I couldn't believe what I'd heard.

He shrugged again. It was no big deal. 'He insulted my mother.'

He fell silent as Francine came back and picked up where she'd left off with the flirtatious chit-chat. I was still stunned. I'd always imagined Duncan as a sensitive and artistic little boy, a loner who preferred library books to the rugby field. Never in my wildest dreams had I seen him as a violent and obnoxious bully.

When the tea had brewed, Francine poured some for Duncan and offered him biscuits as well. As an afterthought, she poured a cup for me but forgot to hand it over, so I had to go round to her side of the desk to get it. She stood up to allow me past her chair, and a blast of garlic caught me full in the face. No wonder Duncan had recoiled from her kiss.