able to assure them there was no rush. D-Blazer was setting a very easy pace in order to maximise his chances of being recognised.
‘Subject is proceeding south south south and moving as though he is the Pink Panther bursting for a shite,’ she informed them, describing the ludicrous gangsta gait he was rocking.
He was affecting an air of being lost in the music playing through his absurdly encumbering gold Beats headphones, trying to look like he was in one of his own videos.
Jasmine privately suspected he had the music way down just in case somebody called his name and he didn’t hear it, but as she monitored his progress through the mall, she observed that he wasn’t short of attention, and came to understand the real purpose of the headphones. They were a prop so that he could select whose solicitations he had or hadn’t noticed. His hearing was pretty sharp if you were young, female and pretty, though apparently he would settle for big tits as a substitute for this last criterion. The first two were non-negotiable.
Jasmine stopped and had a glance at her reflection in a shop window. She wasn’t wearing jogging bottoms and an Aran sweater, but nor was she looking ready to hit a club right then.
Harry had only secured her services last night: he hadn’t divulged the details until she showed up at Galt Linklater’s offices this morning. She was wearing a reliably flexible (i.e. very lived-in) pair of jeans and a rather shapeless long-sleeved top, chosen both for comfort in the event of sitting for hours in a van, and to prevent anyone being able to peek through gaps in her blouse in the event that she was sharing said van with certain GL personnel.
She got out her phone and called Harry. He took a while to answer, and sounded a little distracted when he finally did.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry. It’s me.’
‘Who’s me?’
‘Jasmine,’ she told him, trying not to sound irritated. Time could be an issue.
‘Jasmine. Christ, sorry. Have you got a new phone? If you have, you should really update us on your—’
‘I don’t have a new phone.’
‘Shite. That means I must have deleted you as a contact on mine.’
‘I hope that’s not a roundabout way of letting me go.’
‘As if. No, just me being a techno-numpty as usual. What can I do for you?’
‘I need budget approval on a couple of emergency items.’
‘Like what?’
She told him.
‘Just as long as you keep receipts for your purchases. And you wear them to the Christmas night out.’
‘Sure, Harry. That’s totally going to happen.’
She hung up then told Martin to make ground and take point.
‘I’ll intercept him on his way back to his car,’ she explained.
‘Why, where are you going just now?’
‘Where do you think? I’m in the Buchanan Galleries and I have no Y chromosome. I’m going shopping.’
‘Delta Four,’ broke in Andy. ‘Where do they sell those?’
She assumed he was joking.
Jasmine engaged in an unaccustomed bout of speed-shopping, quickly scouring the stores for the most pneumatic push-up bra she could find, then hunting for a top that would best showcase the resulting cleavage.
She knew she had to pitch it just right. It wasn’t a question of grabbing something low-cut or popping open a few buttons on a tight blouse. The look was not supposed to suggest she was about to start her pole-dancing shift. She needed to carry off an image that seemed plausible for cutting about the shops at this time of day, but that in D-Blazer’s eyes would be interpreted as ‘I don’t mind showing my tits off at half eleven in the morning, so just imagine what else I must be up for’.
Once she had bought what she needed, she headed back to the changing room she had most recently visited, showing the woman on duty the carrier bags and receipts. Her name-badge said Collette.
‘I need to wear these now,’ she explained.
‘Prêt-à-porter right enough,’ Collette replied, with a precisely pitched combination of
‘Subject is proceeding south south south and moving as though he is the Pink Panther bursting for a shite,’ she informed them, describing the ludicrous gangsta gait he was rocking.
He was affecting an air of being lost in the music playing through his absurdly encumbering gold Beats headphones, trying to look like he was in one of his own videos.
Jasmine privately suspected he had the music way down just in case somebody called his name and he didn’t hear it, but as she monitored his progress through the mall, she observed that he wasn’t short of attention, and came to understand the real purpose of the headphones. They were a prop so that he could select whose solicitations he had or hadn’t noticed. His hearing was pretty sharp if you were young, female and pretty, though apparently he would settle for big tits as a substitute for this last criterion. The first two were non-negotiable.
Jasmine stopped and had a glance at her reflection in a shop window. She wasn’t wearing jogging bottoms and an Aran sweater, but nor was she looking ready to hit a club right then.
Harry had only secured her services last night: he hadn’t divulged the details until she showed up at Galt Linklater’s offices this morning. She was wearing a reliably flexible (i.e. very lived-in) pair of jeans and a rather shapeless long-sleeved top, chosen both for comfort in the event of sitting for hours in a van, and to prevent anyone being able to peek through gaps in her blouse in the event that she was sharing said van with certain GL personnel.
She got out her phone and called Harry. He took a while to answer, and sounded a little distracted when he finally did.
‘Hello?’
‘Harry. It’s me.’
‘Who’s me?’
‘Jasmine,’ she told him, trying not to sound irritated. Time could be an issue.
‘Jasmine. Christ, sorry. Have you got a new phone? If you have, you should really update us on your—’
‘I don’t have a new phone.’
‘Shite. That means I must have deleted you as a contact on mine.’
‘I hope that’s not a roundabout way of letting me go.’
‘As if. No, just me being a techno-numpty as usual. What can I do for you?’
‘I need budget approval on a couple of emergency items.’
‘Like what?’
She told him.
‘Just as long as you keep receipts for your purchases. And you wear them to the Christmas night out.’
‘Sure, Harry. That’s totally going to happen.’
She hung up then told Martin to make ground and take point.
‘I’ll intercept him on his way back to his car,’ she explained.
‘Why, where are you going just now?’
‘Where do you think? I’m in the Buchanan Galleries and I have no Y chromosome. I’m going shopping.’
‘Delta Four,’ broke in Andy. ‘Where do they sell those?’
She assumed he was joking.
Jasmine engaged in an unaccustomed bout of speed-shopping, quickly scouring the stores for the most pneumatic push-up bra she could find, then hunting for a top that would best showcase the resulting cleavage.
She knew she had to pitch it just right. It wasn’t a question of grabbing something low-cut or popping open a few buttons on a tight blouse. The look was not supposed to suggest she was about to start her pole-dancing shift. She needed to carry off an image that seemed plausible for cutting about the shops at this time of day, but that in D-Blazer’s eyes would be interpreted as ‘I don’t mind showing my tits off at half eleven in the morning, so just imagine what else I must be up for’.
Once she had bought what she needed, she headed back to the changing room she had most recently visited, showing the woman on duty the carrier bags and receipts. Her name-badge said Collette.
‘I need to wear these now,’ she explained.
‘Prêt-à-porter right enough,’ Collette replied, with a precisely pitched combination of
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