Red Notice

11

Delphine sifted through the evening’s bookings, then glanced at her watch for the twentieth time in as many minutes. The seventeen months she’d been working at the Green Dragon had gone in a flash, but this afternoon was crawling by.

A warren of low beams, bumpy walls and creaking floorboards, the old coaching inn felt as if it had been around as long as Hereford had. It was ye kind of olde place where the Rotary Club met every Friday, and Saga coach tours stopped for scones and tea after a trip to the nearby cathedral. It also had a grand Georgian frontage on Broad Street that often led visitors to expect a level of style and service that the hotel simply could not offer.

Delphine had a degree in hotel management from the University of Paris-Sud 11, and was working her way up through the ranks of the chain that owned the Green Dragon. She didn’t find Hereford the most exciting of places. At first it had seemed like any other six-month posting, one to be endured before she moved on with barely a backward glance.

The youngest of three girls, she’d been brought up in a small guesthouse their parents ran just outside Nice, on the Monaco side of the city, overlooking the sea. Both her sisters were now married, with children, and lived in Paris. But Delphine wasn’t ready for that just yet. She wanted to see the world.

She worked in the office by day and on Reception at night, soaking up the hands-on experience. All being well, within a year she would be ready to manage one of the three compliance teams that travelled the world checking the chain’s hotels, making sure the guests’ ‘high-comfort experience’ was everything it should be.

The two previous years on the management course had gone according to plan. She had excelled in Dubai, Berlin and Vancouver. But then, in her first week in rain-lashed Hereford, she’d met Tom Buckingham.

Until then she had never heard of the SAS, but had known immediately that they were trouble. The group gathered around the bar were men who carried themselves… if not with a swagger, then with complete self-confidence, as if life held no surprises for them and presented no problems they couldn’t solve. Their clothes were casual — blue jeans, T-shirts and tight leather jackets — but seemed almost like a uniform. As soon as they appeared, the local girls hovered around them, like bees.

Delphine had seen one reach into his jacket, heard the rasp of Velcro. She gave her flatmate a quizzical glance. ‘Are buttons and zips too complicated for your British men?’

Moira, a bottle-blonde a couple of years ahead of her, had put a finger to her lips. ‘It’s not just their pockets. It’s everything. Work and play. They like everything well fastened. You can ask them stuff, but you’ll never get an answer.’

One of the group was in a wheelchair, another on crutches, with a shiny new steel leg that glinted beneath his trouser leg when he sat down. They were treated as part of the gang and subjected to the same relentless banter, but complex emotions could be read in their more unguarded looks. Delphine had wondered if the pleasure they took in being reunited with their friends was not outweighed by painful reminders of a life that had once been theirs and would never return.

‘I think maybe these boys are a little bit sad…’

Moira took her to one side. ‘Trust me, Delphine, they’ll all be chasing you. Even the ones with no legs. You’re a beautiful girl.’

Delphine felt her cheeks go pink and shook her head. She was tall and slim, with jet black hair cut into a bob and a fringe that brushed her dark brown eyes, but she never thought of herself as special.

Moira was in full advice mode. ‘If you want my two-penny-worth, pick one of the townies, not these guys. The Men in Black are full of charm and chat, but everything’s a competition — and that includes who’ll be the first to screw the new girl.

‘And don’t ever make the mistake of falling in love. The Regiment isn’t just a job, it’s the whole of their lives. That doesn’t leave much room for wives or girlfriends. No matter how hard you try, you’re always going to be second best.’ Her lips had tightened and there was a note in her voice that was both bitter and wistful. Her gaze shifted to the window and she stared, unseeing, out into the darkness.

‘What is this “Regiment”?’ Delphine said.

Moira had stared at her, astonished, then burst out laughing. ‘My, you have got a lot to learn about Hereford, haven’t you? It’s the SAS. You know — the Iranian Embassy siege, the boys who cleared the caves in Afghanistan?’

Nothing was registering with Delphine.

‘The fit-looking guys? They’re soldiers — Special Forces.’ Moira winked. ‘But, trust me, they’re not half as special as they think they are.’

As Moira had predicted, a succession of them tried their luck with Delphine that first evening, and over the following nights virtually all of them put the word on her at one time or another, but she brushed them off. They were young, fit and strong, and some were good-looking, but she had watched the succession of local girls coming and going, leaving with one or other of the men one night and ignored the next, and was determined that that was not going to happen to her.

The one they called Posh Lad hadn’t spoken to her, but she was aware of his eyes on her, and as she talked with Moira and her friends she found herself glancing surreptitiously at him in return. He seemed more thoughtful than his mates; she sensed there were depths to him that most of the others didn’t share. She was captivated by the way that, when he was deep in thought, his fingers often strayed absently to the crinkled white scar etched across his temple, beneath his short, side-parted dark brown hair. He traced its contours like a blind man reading braille.

Gavin was the first to notice. He’d tried — and failed — to chat up Delphine once before, but then decided on a change of tack. When it became clear that the West Country magic still wasn’t working, he took half a step back and said, ‘But I’m wearing one of his shirts…’

She just looked puzzled.

‘And his jeans.’ He stuck out a denim-clad leg for her to admire. ‘A new pair.’

Delphine frowned.

‘I know I’m not up there with Posh Lad, but I thought you might fancy me a bit if I was wearing his clothes.’

Now she was embarrassed. ‘Why do you call him that?’

Gavin smiled. He knew he was about to do Tom’s groundwork, but so what? He was a mate. And if he scored, Gavin would take all the credit. ‘One: rich family. Two: he always uses the right tense. Three: he owns a fountain pen. Four: he’s got name-tapes in his socks. That’s pretty posh to trogs like us.’

‘Why do you make so much fun of him? He sounds a good man.’

‘He is. A very good man. There’s nothing grim — nobody thinks any the less of him because he’s posh — it’s just banter. Anyway, happy days. See you around.’

When Tom had asked her out about two weeks after they’d first set eyes on each other, she had turned him down. But she’d hesitated as she did so, and found herself blushing again.

He’d held her gaze for a moment. ‘I’ll only ask once more, and that’s it.’

‘That’ll be a relief for us both.’

His look had darkened for an instant, and then he burst out laughing. ‘You don’t like us soldiers much, do you?’

‘How can I tell? You’re the first ones I’ve ever met and I don’t know you all.’

‘Then spend your time getting to know just me. It’ll be easier than trying to learn so many new names.’

She smiled. ‘Was that the “only once more” you were talking about?’

A grin had spread across his face. ‘I’m not sure. It might be. Would your answer be the same?’ He paused, trying to read her expression. When he spoke again, to her surprise it was in flawless, almost accentless French. ‘Don’t believe everything some people tell you,’ he said, glancing towards Moira. ‘We’re not all heartless bastards.’ There was another pause. ‘So… now or never, what will it be?’

She had studied him in silence for a moment. ‘Now,’ she said, and surprised herself by doing so. ‘And then perhaps never again.’ She wrote her mobile number on a scrap of paper and handed it to him. ‘Better go back to your friends now,’ she said. ‘And tell them you’ve won the bet.’

He laughed. ‘Don’t knock it! The winnings will pay for dinner tomorrow night.’

‘I’m working,’ she said, switching back to English.

‘I’m sure Moira wouldn’t mind covering for you, would you, Moira? Call her in sick?’

Moira had looked up from the paper she’d been pretending to read. ‘Me do you a favour, Tom Buckingham? Why on earth would I want to do that?’

‘Because you’ll be doing Delphine a favour, too.’

She’d smiled, despite herself. ‘I’m not so sure about that.’

‘Sorted, then.’ He turned back to Delphine. ‘I’ll pick you up at eight. Where are you living?’

‘She’s renting the spare room at mine,’ Moira said. ‘You still remember the way there, don’t you?’

Delphine’s eyes narrowed, but Moira’s expression gave nothing away.

As Tom had walked back to the bar, there was a burst of banter and barracking from his mates. ‘Mate, better luck next time. Maybe she just wants a bit of rough.’

‘Yeah, nice try, Posh Lad,’ Jockey said. ‘But not even your best parlay-voo could break down the ice maiden, eh?’

‘I think she wants a real action man like me,’ Keenan said. ‘Not some limp-wristed, boater-wearing nancy-boy.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ Tom had said, savouring the moment. ‘I was a fool even to try. On the other hand…’ He’d flashed the scrap of paper. ‘I do seem to be the only one around here who’s got her phone number. Your round is it, Jockey?’