by Gill Mather
But Milton is sitting down and asking me how my week's gone. However before I can communicate any supremely mundane facts about what I haven't done, he's off on a monologue of his achievements and conquests in the realms of corporate legal practice. I've been pumped full of details of his expertise this week in about six or seven different cases and we haven't even looked at the menu. I take up mine and peer at it and Milton just carries on. It doesn’t appear to matter if I'm listening or whether I'm the least bit interested in what he's saying. He just continues regardless. This is doing nothing for my self-esteem. I start to worry that he must figure I haven't anything of the least interest to impart and therefore he has to hold the table otherwise we'd descend into an embarrassing, cloying silence.
I reverse my earlier speculation about Milton maybe having a soft centre and realise afresh that despite the accolades everyone has heaped on him, I’m unable to get worked up about him. Perhaps he is clever, or at least I suppose he must be being an ace corporate lawyer, a city high flyer, but he seems a cold person to me, an opportunist, a fair weather friend.
Inevitably I just switch off and decide what I want to order. Milton notices at last and clicks his fingers at a waitress in a condescending way. She comes across pen brightly poised over a small pad and looks at me expectantly.
"Thanks," I say, "I'll have the pâté for starters and the partridge for the main course."
"No, no," says Milton laughing. "Pâté's far too….er….heavy. I'd already decided on the oysters. We'll both have the oysters." He turns to the waitress who understandably displays uncertainty.
"But I don’t like oysters," I say.
"Have you ever had them?" says Milton.
"Well no but…."
"So how do you know you don’t like them? You'll love them. It’s the end of October. Don't you know what that means?”
“Hallowe’en?” I believe that on Hallowe’en a woman is supposed to walk upstairs backwards with all the lights off at midnight, turn round and she’ll see a vision of her future husband. Or is it facing away from a mirror looking into another mirror? Whatever. If I were to do either and see an image of Milton floating ethereally in my vicinity, I’d think it was the Backside dabbling in the occult, and successfully too as befits an A list lawyer, not cack-handedly like my attempts.
“It's oyster week in Colchester of course,” Milton corrects me. “I went to the Mayor's Oyster Feast yesterday. We've got to have oysters."
"I can't eat something that's still alive," I say.
Milton brushes my protest aside. "It's like custard sliding down your throat. You'll love it."
It sounds repulsive to me. "I don't want to have custard for a starter,” I say. “I'll have some with my pudding if I want any."
Milton takes this seriously at its face value and says, "There won't be time for pudding. We'll miss the start of the film if we stop for pudding."
"OK, I won't have pudding but I'm not having oysters."
"Suit yourself. Oysters for one," he tells the waitress, "and I'll have the trout for main course."
She scribbles down the order and hurries off and I don't blame her. We talk in a desultory way as we wait for Milton's oysters and my pâté to arrive. I assume it won't be long since the poor old oysters don’t have to be cooked and the pâté just has to be hacked off a loaf and laid on a plate with some toast and garnish. Indeed the oysters arrive in no time at all.
I sit and watch Milton tipping his head back and lifting shell after shell to his mouth and the custardy living contents presumably sliding down his throat. Happily I can't see it in any detail from where I’m sitting the other side of the table, though I still start to feel sick and wonder when my pâté will turn up to divert my attention. But it doesn’t. At last Milton wipes his mouth with his napkin and pushes his plate aside and I realise that somehow he's effected to deprive me of my starter, that the waitress interpreted the interplay to mean that I wasn’t going to have a starter.
She comes and takes Milton's plate away and I can't be bothered to remonstrate with her, though it worries me as I've already had a glass and a half of strong red wine. I call her back and ask her for some more bread as Milton's eaten the lot while tossing back his oysters.
The one-sided conversation continues while we wait for our main and apparently last course. Milton’s telling me that in the current climate, a lot of operatives are being “severed”. This sounds awfully painful. Quite dangerous in fact. I ponder what he means. Didn't the CIA used to have an expression: to be “terminated with extreme prejudice”. A euphemism for being murdered. I don't know if they use such daft terminology now. It sounds ridiculous, like schoolboys playing at being spies.
Actually I do really know what Milton means by “severed” but to lighten the atmosphere, I ask what they do with the body parts so accumulated and if it covers all extremities. He gives me a scathing look. He doesn't dignify the question with an answer. There is a minute or so of blissful silence.
Then: “Do you ride?” Milton asks me suddenly. For a moment I haven't a clue what he’s talking about. Does he mean motor bikes? Because if he does (and I know that a lot of professionals these days like to don leathers in their spare time, straddle a machine of immense and more or less overwhelming power and ineptly test their inadequate reactions against the challenges of the open road) quite frankly I think they’re death traps. I once had a matrimonial client who was decapitated whilst riding a motorcycle leaving two young children to be cared for by a drug addict mother.
Then I realise of course that he was talking about horses and, because I now understand, I smile and….I must have nodded. In fact I know almost nothing about horses, not really. So far as I’m aware, they mostly stand about in fields looking glum and having enormous erections. I look at Milton and try to force from my mind visions of equine tumescence. One shouldn't talk to men, or indeed be talked to by them, while thinking about erections, though I have to confess that I quite often do. While attempting to re-arrange my thoughts, I don't really listen to what Milton is saying. I think I faintly hear the word “tomorrow”, but I’m quite sure I haven't agreed to anything.
We progress through our main course. Milton’s trout gazes lugubriously up at him and apparently at me too with sad resentful eyes as well it might. Its mouth is open as it must have been when it took its last desperate gasp. This is one of the reasons I don't usually eat fish; the fact that they have to suffocate to death, though I acknowledge that possibly trout get despatched a bit more quickly by being tapped on the head. However I rarely raise my feelings in public as I know it tends to cause offence, though more often derision.
And tonight I can't really talk. The poor little partridge I’ve nearly finished, served up whole on my plate just so that I can see how pathetically small it actually is, was probably blasted out of the air while innocently trying to fly away from beaters. Doubtless it had to experience a literally heart-stopping plunge to the ground where it may have lay flapping uselessly until an excited dog seized it and shook it to death. I try to focus instead on the fact that at least it had some wild time before being chased down by bloodthirsty hunters and rabid dogs in the countryside where it ought to have been able to live peacefully and….
No. As a means of justification, this isn't working. And anyway Milton’s trout will presumably have lived in the wild as well and done all the things trout like to do before it too succumbed to the needs of man to put whole creatures on plates in restaurants in order to impress, or alternatively in my case somewhat depress, the paying public.
At last the meal’s nearly over. Despite my over-sensitivity and many reservations, I’ve enjoyed my partridge or at least I think I have but since I’m almost brain-dead from the bombardment of facts about Milton I’m not too certain about anything. I’m feeling as though I’ve been mentally steamrollered. I’m sure it’s not the wine.
I look up and frown as the door opens and for a moment the wind whistles in and a flurry of leaves
enter with it. The man who is bespectacled with brownish hair gallantly sweeps aside the small carpet they make just inside the door with his foot for the woman. I realise it’s Dennis. When I think of my behaviour the last time we met, I hope he won't notice me. I try to bury my head in the pudding menu at which Milton looks annoyed. He’s just drawing breath to no doubt tell me I’m not having pudding, when Dennis comes over to our table and the woman follows.
“It’s nice to see you again,” Dennis says smiling broadly. I adjust my mental state so as to be able to utter a coherent sentence as I’ve hardly been allowed to speak since arriving here. I hope Dennis doesn't think I’m drunk again as I struggle to respond.
“Oh yes, and you too,” I say. “Er this is Milton Rosenberger. Milton this is Dennis Barrow, a surveyor-cum-arbitrator.” Dennis nods at Milton then turns back to me. “We’ve just been to see a live transmission of Guillaume Tell from the ROH at the Odeon. It’s had mixed reviews but I enjoyed it.” The woman is standing behind and to one side of Dennis and she and I say hello. Dennis introduces her as Andrea. Andrea looks classy and is dressed smartly though in an under-stated sort of way. Just exactly right for a live screening of a classical work but not so fancy as would be necessary for the actual thing at the actual live venue. I assume Andrea is a lover of opera. She excuses herself to go off to the ladies.
“Well I’m glad,” I find myself saying, “that you’ve found a fellow opera-lover.”
Dennis shrugs. “Apparently,” he says vaguely still smiling down at me. He must be finding it all immensely amusing. “How’s the corn dolly making going?” he says.
“Oh. You know. It’s the devil of a job these days to get the materials.”
He laughs. “Yes I’m sure it spells disaster if they’re not quite right.”
“I must have used the wrong PIN when trying to pay for them online. And I’m not sure I can magic up the initiative to bother any longer.”
“Not even the sympathetic variety?” says Dennis laughing. He obviously thinks I’m a complete pillock after our last meeting and he’s just playing along with me.
“No. I think if I turn to the arts again, they’ll have to be the white variety. Speaking of the arts, we,” I say by way of keeping my end up in the cultural league tables, “are going to see a Japanese film called ‘Carved the Slit-Mouthed Woman’ at the Northgate Theatre.”
“Well very good luck to you then. I hope you enjoy it.” He sounds so sincere. I can't detect even a trace of sarcasm, at least in the second sentence.
It’s about then that I notice Milton’s reaction to all this. He’s bristling like a pit bull at an illegal dogfight. I fail entirely to understand why. After all it isn't as though I’ve plighted my troth to him or anything like that. I barely know him and the impression received is that he’s singularly not attracted to me, finding himself of far greater interest in all possible respects. Dennis either doesn't notice Milton’s hostility or pretends not to and then Andrea’s back and Dennis has to say goodbye and go off to their table.
Soon Milton and I leave, after he’s made a big thing of paying for both of us.
I’m glad I didn't put on my highest of high heels as I decidedly don't want to rely on Milton for support of any kind and he doesn't offer an arm for me to take either as he’s punching away at his smartphone the whole time. He has he says to “keep an eye on a deal for an overseas client”. Even so, two and a half inch heels can be tricky and by the time we reach the theatre my feet are quite painful but I’m buggered if I’m going to admit that to Milton. I curse inwardly that we have to queue and transfer my weight from one foot to the other hoping Milton doesn't think I’m dying for a pee.
We have tickets so we could have left the restaurant a little later when the queue would have dispersed and avoided waiting, thereby also allowing me to have had that pudding and to have surreptitiously checked how Dennis was getting on with Andrea. I’d detected some indifference in his attitude towards her. You can't help noticing these things.
But now we’re inside and sitting in our assigned seats.
The movie is breath-takingly terrifying. It’s quite possibly the worst, most nauseating film I’ve ever seen. It even has children in it. The gratuitous carnage is completely unnecessary. I’ve no idea why anyone would want to write this sort of material much less put it on a screen to horrify people and give them bad dreams for years to come. I wonder if I can sue the makers and the theatre for PTSD as I’m sure I’ll suffer after-effects. I’ll ask the PI department on Monday. I don't even consider however hiding behind Milton’s arm. He’s watching the film critically. He’s not scared or even remotely affected by it yet it’s the sickest thing I’ve ever seen.
As we leave I ask him: “Did you know it was going to be like that?”
“Oh yes,” he says. “I’ve seen it twice before.” I cringe and decide to call for my taxi home straight away.
“Don't forget,” Milton says as he stands at the open taxi door. “I’ll be round for you at ten tomorrow.”
“But….but….” I mouth as the taxi draws away however my protests are lost in the late October wind that whistles along the road and the taxi bears me off back to my home.
I WAKE EARLY the next morning. I know that something is terribly wrong and for a moment I can't work out what it is. Then the words “tomorrow” and “ride” flick up in my brain like fair ground targets but although I try to shoot them down, I keep missing.
Quickly I text Milton that I don't have any riding clothes.
He texts back almost immediately saying it doesn't matter. The stables will lend me some. Just come in anything. He’ll be round to collect me at ten. Yes I did remember that bit and I think about putting a “For Sale/Sold” sign up in the window, drawing all the curtains and pretending I’m not at home but I feel sure he’ll see through this.
As I dress, I think about Milton but I just can't work him out. He doesn't seem interested in me in any recognisable way. He’s asked me out twice but I can't fathom why. Perhaps like me he’s been fed the line that I’m the perfect mate for him and he’s still trying to work towards how that could possibly be the case. I’m afraid I’ve by-passed that stage myself and after this morning, unless he redeems himself somehow, I doubt if I’ll see him again.
MILTON BRINGS OUT two mounts, one for me and one for him. I quake at the size of them. Mine is pale and dappled with a blonde mane and beautiful soft brown eyes whilst his is a dark shining chestnut colour. My girlie, in keeping with the rest of her kind, has an enormous posterior. A bit like the Backside has. I wonder if the Backside has the equine facial features to match. I do so hope she does.
And wouldn't you know it; Milton’s horse has a hard-on the size of Cleopatra’s Needle. Milton doesn't seem to notice so either it doesn't matter if a horse does this and it’s just to be expected, or else he’s far too well bred to react to it, or possibly he’s shit scared of the beast as I definitely am; or maybe he’s the sexless humourless automaton I’ve begun to believe he is.
I heave myself onto my horse which blessedly seems to be a docile creature while Milton’s prances around and stamps backwards, forwards and sideways as though it’s waiting to take off in the Grand National. The wild beast is snorting and rearing as Milton desperately holds the reins taut. I did have a few horse-riding lessons in fact in my girlhood. I just never took to it like some other girls and one or two nasty experiences with hooves and teeth put me off for good. Even the tales that the exercise of gripping hard with the knees and thighs would result in wonderful orgasms didn't at the time act as much of an attraction. And who wants thighs like tree trunks anyway?
But I retain the rudiments of horsewomanship so as Milton is trying to whip his steed into some sort of submission, I bend over and kiss the neck of my placid mount and whisper in her ear what a lovely girl she is, then I dig my heels softly into her sides, say encouraging words to her and we take off at a leisurely trot over the picturesque fields.
I’m jus
t appreciating the calm of the country scene, the beautiful muted autumn colours of the little copse off to the left, the band of mist partially hiding the distant house roofs and church spire, when a bolt of chestnut fury passes by me at a trillion miles per hour, thundering over the ground, digging out and distributing divots a yard in diameter from the soft turf. Mud splatters my face. Before I have time to yell at Milton to be careful, the pair of them have disappeared over the rise. I see in the distance a fence. It looks quite high from here but it’s difficult to tell. In what seems like a fraction of a second, Milton and the Medieval destrier he’s chosen are climbing up the other side of the valley and are fast approaching the fence. I can't tell if Milton is in control or not. Perhaps this is his thing; taking charge of the most furious animal a stables has to offer and pitting his wits and his ability against it.
As I watch with mounting horror, it doesn't seem like it. The pair of them run at the fence as though it’s not there. When the animal should have been, at the behest of its rider, pacing the steps to the point of perfect take-off, instead the animal’s pace doesn't falter and it carries on implacably apparently towards the fence and inevitable doom. Milton and the stallion charge into the fence full-on. I can hear it from here a second or two behind the horrifying sight. The crash. There’s a sickening rending of timber and a high-pitched scream. If it’s the horse or the rider I don't know.