Page 96 of Marley
Yes, so fucking what. I’ve admitted it. I love her. I knew it a month ago and I sure as shit knew it now.
I took off my cap and scratched my head.
“Ah, Ashley Morrison, what are we gonna do with you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
1989
I contacted Andrea and asked her to send a cleaning crew to my place.
It only took the supervisor one look at my bedroom to tell me that I needed new carpet and a new bed. I decided to play it safe and opt to leave the original timber floor exposed instead of having new carpet laid.
Chances were, this wouldn’t be the only time I’d piss Ashley Morrison off and she’d pull another stunt like that.
I eventually showered and changed and left my house to a team of cleaners, who had also, for an undisclosed amount of cash, agreed to rip up and dump both my carpet and mattress.
I arrived back at Ashley’s just after five. There was a brand new silver Ford Fiesta sitting in the parking spot assigned to the flat at the back of the shop.
The problem I had now was that I didn’t know if Ash was in the shop or at home. I really didn’t fancy arguing with her in the shop, so I walked to the nearest pay phone and called Georgia’s old number, assuming Ash has kept it. It picked up after the third ring.
Like the complete coward that I was, I hung up. I walked back to her flat and went up the stairs and pressed the buzzer.
“Hello?” A bloke answered.
Fuck, a bloke. I wasn’t counting on that. Fuck my luck. Oh well, I’ve come this far, I’m not backing down now.
“Delivery for Ms. Morrison.” I held my nose and said.
Fuck knows why I held my nose, but I did.
“Yeah, come through.” The bloke, fuckhead, told me.
I cracked my knuckles, unsure of what I was about to encounter as I headed through the first set of doors and along the short hallway to the front door.
What I wasn’t expecting was a bloke of about a hundred, holding a screwdriver.
“All right, mate. She’s just popped downstairs to the shop for minute. I’ll take...” He trailed off, pushed his glasses up his nose and looked a bit closer at me.
“‘Err, ain’t you one of Frank’s boys? The rock star one?”
Ha, result. I knew this bloke. He’d worked for my dad for years.
“Yes, mate. Bloody hell, Joe, ain’t it?” I held my hand out to shake his.
“Sammy, actually, but close enough, son.” I’m so shit with names.
“Sammy, of course. Sorry mate.” He shook my hand anyway.
“I’m here putting a new bed together that that young Ashley had delivered. She shouldn’t be long. I was just hanging about till she came back, but if you’re here, I can shoot off.” He said.
“Yeah, yeah, you go, mate. Get off home.” I pulled a twenty out of my pocket. “Thanks for helping my girl out. I’ve been away, else I would’ve done it myself. Get yourself a beer on the way.”
“Well, that’s very nice of you, boy. Cheers, I’ll do just that.” He gives me a salute and heads off out the door.
And that’s how you dealt with fuckheads, or in that case, really nice eighty-year-old handy men.
I knew it was wrong, like really wrong, but I nipped into Ashley’s bedroom and bathroom and checked for any blokey stuff. There was only one toothbrush, which was a good sign, no aftershave, deodorant, or hair gel in any of the bathroom cabinets, and nothing hanging in her wardrobe.
