Part 1 - The Silk and Satin Honey-trap
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Chapter 1 : Walt meets Delma
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For fuck's sake, Walt man, you're 19. Use this bleedin mirror to have a good think. Hmm. Yeah. To be fair, I'm not just good - I'm the fuckin' best. A hunk. A legend. Who in God's earth has a better blond quiff than that? Better hair than the Mom who gave it to me. Yeah, but that's the rub, isn't it. What kind of a guy - thinking here about a bull of a Titan - can still be living with his Mom? Where are the girls, calling me non-stop on my i-phone, sexting me with their pussy-cams, promising me night after night of sex? Sure I've dated a few, but don't they all turn out to be Princess Prudence - grumble-pusses who look bored when I'm telling them how I build my six pack, and get weepy when I tell them they'd be better with long, glossy blond hair. Then they stop my fingers as soon as they wander under their skirts looking for panty. God, I hate that double handed way they block the pass between their legs. They want to watch the movie, they say, then they get a head-ache on the way home. Their loss, the heiffers. They can fuck off and find themselves a donkey. Me, I'll go play with the A-listers and part-yyyy! Hey what's this with my shirt - and my pants. Furkin'ell, this is all last year's. I need some new kit. What the hell, isn't that what Moms are for? Let's see: designer app - give, give. Should I go Armani? Or D & G? She'll pay. She'd better. 2,450 bucks, on her card. I said, on her card. Payment not received! Wha'dya mean, payment not received? I'll have it out with her right now. I go down the kitchen first to grab some o' the apple pie she made, and isn't she there on a high stool, crouched over the bar with her head in her hands. I pass her by to hit the fridge. I hope she's not gonna drag me into grumbles over why she's under the weather today. I look down every shelf of the fridge. Dammit. "Hey Mom, there's no sign of the pie box in here. What gives?" She mumbles from under her blond hair. "I finished it." I nearly shout: "Hell you did!" but keep it in. "What am I gonna eat? I'm starved." She mumbles again. I think I hear: "I don't know and I don't care," but that can't be right. "Mom I need some pants and a shirt and your card's not working. What gives?" I stand leaning on the fridge, watching her act like she's a statue. "Mom, I need something to eat, like now. Can you get off your ass?" Her face leaps into sight, her hair flying down her back. "Yeah, Walt, I'll get off my ass, and outa this house. I've had it with your eating, your spending, your - your dates, your monkey-tricks, your cheating and lies. I get you everything you want, and all I get back is attitude. It's been like that for years so I'm guessing it's not going to change." I hear her out as she runs me down, for no reason. She's got this look of justification about her as she gets off her stool and gives me daggers as she passes me towards the stairs. "What's the point me going on, Walt? I'm going to live with your Gran and you are most definitely not coming with me." By this time she's walking away from me. "Whattt!" I cry out, ready to spit feathers. "Why are you treating me like dog-shit? I'll damn stay here. I don't mind if you've done a bunk." "Too late, Walt. I've sold up. I'm going now, and you have to be out by Friday." A hot wave burns my scalp. "Fri- That's two days!" She has stopped in the doorway, only half turned round to me. "Where in God's name am I gonna live. How'm I gonna move out my games and my X box, my DVDs and - " "Stop." She's annoying me the way her face is serious and her voice so calm. Her head tilts as if she's talking to me as a child. "I've mailed your cousin Delma," she says. "She might put you up. She's thinking about it." "Who?" "Delma Pensforth. Your cousin in England." Who the shit? - "What's she like?" I say as Mom goes out. "No point me trying to tell you," she says from the hall. "You're going to find out." Then she calls back from the stairs: "Maybe if you make out you're a nice guy, maybe - just maybe - she won't mistake you for dog shit." *** The arrivals lounge - Heathrow International - more like a flamin' cattle market. JFK was busy, but this is mad. I texted my cousin, this Delma person. No kid, by the sound of it; she tells me she's a divorcee. Probably getting on for a grandmother type. These old dears, they do things like take in abandoned American cousins. But this place is heavin' with every mother-fucker under the son. What a rabble, and I haven't heard a word of English yet. Phoarr, some of these English gals are okay - even the older chicks like that one in the purple coat. But where's this Delma then? If there's one thing that gives me the dicks, it's waiting. Wouldn't ya think she'd fix a PA announcement: "Walt Wisconsin is being met by Miss Delma Pensforth at the information point" etc. Or she could have had a board with - "Hello Walt." I look round. Oh my God. The purple coat. Well, not a coat - a suit. "Walt Wisconsin, right?" She speaks like smooth chocolate and her face  is so - so - perfect! With blond bobbed hair and a cute little hat."Er, yeah - that's me. How did you - ?" "From your blond hair. Nice. Have you eaten? We can catch a late lunch here, or on the way to your new home." Her face rounds off everything she says, like she's a screen actress. "Er, no thanks, I ate on the plane." "So you have more luggage to collect, Walt?" "No. No, this is it." I feel ashamed. She thought I couldn't possibly fit everything I've got into this little case. "Then I'll take your hand luggage and we'll get a taxi." We make our way through the crowd until it thins out a bit, me walking along in company with this - this fashion model. She's the smartest piece in sight, except maybe for that flight doll over there, but she's looking at us and thinking what a swell guy I must be with a bird like that meeting me. We get out to the concourse and she gives this guy a bill. Nothing said. A second later, he's got a cab for us and we're on our way. I'm totally on edge with her sitting next to me. Her perfume is smooth in my nose - spicy and sweet. I try saying something to take my mind off how smart she is. "Do you have a car, er - Delma?" "It's pure hell trying to park, then walking a mile." She turns to me - she looks down on me by a couple of inches - and smiles: "but this has turned out okay, don't you think? We'll be at my place in two minutes." I try hard to find something meaningful to say. "Er, Delma, w-what do you do?" She look at me, perhaps expecting more, then says: "I work in business, darling." I give up making conversation. I've got this sickening feeling I'm out of my league. We stop at an apartment block, and a doorman meets us in uniform: "Good afternoon, Miss Pensforth. Sir." I get a bow. "Here is your mail. You had a call from Renaissance, delivering these packages. Allow me to bring them up for you." "Thank you, Sanders. You're very kind." He says more to her in the lift than I said since meeting her. She stands very straight, in towering heels and a narrow skirt. I imagine trying to get my hand up that skirt, with little success. ***
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