The Amateurs by John Niven Read Free Book Online Page A

added.
    ‘Aye, it’s no bad fur a boy from Wilton Terrace.’
    This was true: a big house like this up in the bloody Meadows for a boy from the hardest street in the town? A boy who left school at fifteen without an O level to his name? Findlay Masterson had taken his dad’s wee carpet firm and built it into the west coast of Scotland’s biggest carpet-clearance business, making himself a millionaire by the time he turned forty.
    She had been sweating a little from whatever she’d been doing to entertain the kids, her brown hair sticking to her forehead. She was a fucking wee honey right enough. Stonking. And the arse on it? Ye could sit yer pint oan it, so ye could.
    ‘Ye look parched, hen,’ he said. ‘Are ye wanting a wee drink?’
    They’d talked for a while in the kitchen while her assistant loaded all their stuff back into the silly wee jeep they’d parked next to his Mercedes. From a distance, with kids running around and having their hair ruffled, and guests coming in and out, it would have looked innocent enough. But, in Masterson’s experience, the experience of a wealthy, robustly priapic man, it never was. Sure enough, after a while–with him on his third vodka and Coke and her on her second bowl-sized glass of Chardonnay–she was laughing a little too hard at his jokes and holding his gaze a little too long. He’d been talking about how he had taken Masterson’s Carpets from eleven people in a small industrial unit to a turnover of eighteen million last year. She was talking about her own experience as a small businesswoman. It was perfectly logical that she accepted his offer–given sotto voce, when he could hear Leanne’s voice coming from far away in the house–of lunch. To discuss, in her words, ‘marketing techniques’. Ways to ‘grow the brand’.
    Aye, ‘grow the brand’. She still came out wi’ shite like that now and again. But, on the other hand, here she was now in room 411, letting his prick spring out of her mouth and turning away from him, getting on all fours and pushing that incredible arse towards him, a strip of late-afternoon sunshine not quite blocked by the drawn curtains burning across her bare back.
    Afterwards they lay breathing in the rented room, listening to the sounds the hotel made around them. Masterson scratched his thick moustache and sneaked a peek at his Rolex–just gone four. Did they have Sky Sports here? They did. Probably some football on the go, but would it piss her off if he turned the TV on? Birds could be funny like that. She was bound to go to the bathroom soon enough. Natural window.
    He’d told Leanne he was driving over to the Ayr showroom. Stock problem. Back in time for dinner. He was starving now right enough. Could really go a toastie or something. The beasting always gave him the munchies. She pressed back against him. Surely she couldn’t, not already. But no, she was just stretching, her back was wet from where he’d…she’d said she was on the pill, mentioned it twice now, but he wasn’t taking any chances. Not Findlay Masterson. Big FM? No way, man. Negatori. No fucken danger. He’d be getting off at Paisley as usual and nae mistake. Right wee fiend for the boabby this one. Then again, Masterson reflected, weren’t they all at first? Look at his Leanne. When they first started seeing each other? Daft for cock so she was: swallowing, touching herself up while they were doing it, even, that one time, in that hotel in Edinburgh, offering to let him…But nowadays? Ye’d need tae coat the thing wi’ sugar-covered fucken diamonds just tae get it intae the cow’s mouth.
    A tremor ran through his arm as Pauline’s jaw tightened into a yawn. What was she thinking about? Not about ham-and-cheese toasties and Rangers–Aberdeen, that’s for sure. Probably about her husband, the poor cunt. Ah well, Masterson thought– if he was taking care o’ business, ah’d be oot o’ business . Right, when she goes to the toilet, double