Rumours and Red Roses Read Online Free

now she worked in a shoes and accessories shop. It was in a central position in town and it stocked quality goods, medium to expensive.
    Becky was not a morning person, her mum’s constant breakfast chatter wafting around in direct competition with Radio 2. At 8.15 on the dot, they left the house together, parting company just before the bus stop because her mum worked at Crystals Unisex Hair Salon on the main road. This morning they had been whistled at by some guys on a building site. Becky had not liked to look at them too closely, particularly the one who had already whipped off his vest at this ridiculously early hour, his bronzed, toned body glistening, and tattoos everywhere you cared to look.
    The wolf whistles continued as they walked by, plus some choice macho shouts of appreciation about what they would like to do to them.
    ‘You’re not supposed to wolf whistle these days, you cheeky sods,’ her mum had yelled back at them with a big smile, remarking to Becky as they walked on that it lifted your spirits, something like that.
    It hardly lifted Becky’s because she knew damned well they were whistling at her mum. From a distance, with her long hair – coppery brunette just now – dancing round her face, clicking along on high heels with a wiggle she had perfected over the years, she looked half her age. Becky, slap bang in one of her bloated times of the month, was wearing her shop’s uniform of unflattering black calf-length skirt and white spotty blouse and her comfy workaday sandals so she knew she wasn’t a target for wolf whistles, even from short-sighted brickies.
     
    At the shoe shop in town, Becky had to work for her money this morning and shoe boxes were piled around the potential customer as she hummed and hawed about which pair to have. Fretting a bit aboutthe number of shoe boxes and loose shoes littering the floor, nicely positioned for another customer to trip over, Becky started to put aside the obvious rejections. She had spent more than enough time on these two customers already and she was determined they weren’t going to slip through her fingers. The danger point had arrived for there was now too many shoes to choose from and the girl was losing concentration and wavering. With no decision yet, it could easily go the way of ‘thanks but no thanks’ and she would be lumbered with a no-sale and a lot of clearing up all for nothing. The man was starting to fidget – a bad sign.
    ‘What do you think, sweetheart? Which ones do you like best?’ the girl asked him.
    She wiggled her foot, showing a lot of tanned leg in the process, and looked first at him and then at Becky. ‘What do you think?’ The girl turned the question on her, as the man merely shrugged. He had been, Becky realized, intent on looking down the front of Becky’s blouse, momentarily flustered by the question his fiancée – Becky had already clocked the enormous ring – had posed him.
    ‘I like the red ones,’ Becky said, straightening and depriving him of the view. ‘I have a pair myself.’
    The man winked at her and she felt herself blushing but luckily the girl did not notice, busy removing the silver shoes and squeezing her ugly-sister feet back into the red ones. Becky did not actually have a pair of the red Italian leather shoes, not at that price. She could not afford over £100 for shoes, not even allowing for her staff discount, but it was a sales ploy that sometimes worked, although she never could fathom why. It wouldn’t work with dresses, would it?
    The man was starting to grumble, saying he was desperate for a cigarette and could they get the hell out of here, so the girl, clever girl, ended up with the silver and the red plus a matching handbag, her beloved handing over a credit card and not even bothering to check the amount.
    Becky sighed as she watched them go, the girl swinging the bag containing her purchases and clutching his arm possessively. He had a nice bum in the tight jeans and she