Real Tigers полностью

“I’m aware of what they get called. I’m just not sure why you feel the need to ask me.”

“Well, you’re a document shuffler yourself,” Shirley couldn’t keep from saying. “I thought you might know.”

There was a lengthy pause.

“Prolonged exposure to Jackson evidently has its drawbacks,” Molly said drily. “I suppose, like him, you eschew most official communications?”

If eschew meant what she thought it did, Shirley probably did, yes.

“You really ought to check your inbox, young lady.”

And Molly Doran was gone, her voice replaced by the windless vacancy of a dead connection.

She had kind of a bite to her, that one. Maybe, Shirley thought, she’d chewed her own legs off.

Which had got her nowhere, except she might as well check her inbox, just in case that was a clue. But when she looked there was nothing there bar the latest all-Service newsletter circulated by HR: in-house transfer possibilities (slow horses need not apply); health-and-safety; promotions and retirements. Shirley had never encountered anyone who opened these, let alone read them. This was a personal first.

And there it was, under Miscellaneous Information: recent info-storage issues have now been resolved . . .

If Marcus had been there, she’d have raised a palm for him to slap, or at the very least to deposit a chicken baguette in; as it was, she had to settle for a quick victory lap round her desk—you go, girl, she told herself. inyourFACE. It felt like a natural high, making up for all the bullshit of her personal life these past few weeks, and as soon as that thought occurred to her, she knew she should have kept it at bay longer; should have enjoyed the moment for what it was, rather than taken it as consolation for the bad stuff . . . There wasn’t anybody back home she could share this with later. There wasn’t even Marcus, now, to high-five or fist bump. Jesus, this switch in mood; it was sudden as gravity. She sat down, read the email again, tried to recapture the sense of achievement, or at least of blind stupid luck. But it was gone. You couldn’t fake that sort of high.

Luckily, there were other kinds you could rely on.

Judd watched Diana Taverner leave the small park, enjoying the sway of her hips, and the way she paused briefly at the gate, giving him an extra second or two to study the goods. It was important to treat women with respect, but crikey, he was looking forward to rattling her bones—so much so it was politic to remain seated for a while. Last thing he needed was some citizen journalist bagging a shot of him in this state. Unrolling the paper he spread it on his lap as an extra precaution, and tried to concentrate on the matter in hand: Dame Ingrid Tearney. All outward appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, her Dameship currently had his dick in her handbag, a situation he couldn’t allow to continue—one word from her to Number Ten, and he’d be out on his ear before you could say reshuffle. Disloyalty was the one political sin you couldn’t survive being discovered committing; though of course, without it, your career would be one long tug at your forelock. That’s what made public life such a balancing act. Which, let’s face it, was why it was so exhilarating.

It’s not so much that you have to go waltzing across the occasional minefield, my boy, some old fart had told him, his first week in the House. It’s that you’ve got to do it with a smile on your phiz.

Yes, well, anyone who didn’t have a game face for the plebs didn’t deserve their vote in the first place, was Judd’s view. Not that he’d say it out loud, of course—always important to stress that. Never say “plebs” out loud.

These ruminations having calmed him somewhat, he felt able to get to his feet.

Heading for the gate, he called Sebastian, his chief scout and bottle-washer—the ghost in his machine, you might say. Some of the bottles Seb had washed over the years weren’t the kind you put out for recycling—more the sort you buried at night, in landfill—but his admittedly rather limited range of solutions had seen his master safely over a number of minefields in the past. You never could tell when the need to impose such a solution might arise. And Judd didn’t plan to be caught with his trousers down a second time.

Maybe it was that phrase that triggered it, but while waiting for Seb to answer, Judd experienced an almost physical memory of Diana Taverner gripping his crotch, her tone as calm as if she were choosing an avocado. You don’t feel disappointed to me. Ha! He hadn’t felt that much innocent pleasure since choosing Clash tracks for all eight of his Desert Island Discs. He’d afterwards learned that an old Trot in the Isle of Dogs had literally had an apoplectic fit while listening. Which just went to show you couldn’t please everyone.