Acquired Tastes

by Simone Mondesir

  'I like this one,' Hugo announced waving a letter, 'it's full of visual possibilities. Some middle-aged bank manager wants to be dressed up in nappies and frilly baby clothes and sleep in a cot. I can really conceptualise this one,' he continued excitedly. 'We could build a giant nursery but give it a slightly nightmarish quality - more Angela Carter's Magic Toy Shop than Disneyland. Check that one out for me.' He threw the letter across the table at Vijay, who picked it up between two fingers as though it were soiled.

  Philip swallowed hard. 'There does seem to be a certain amount of potential here, if we are careful in our selection of the subject matter.'

  'We could have a section called “Housewives' Choice”,' Vanessa laughed. 'A lot of women seem to have intimate relationships with their washing machines and vacuum cleaners. Or even better, how about a consumer advice slot? Very Channel 4. I can just see it: how to remove baby oil from black satin sheets; where to buy size 13 stilettos; or how to complain if your vibrator doesn't give you satisfaction. And can you imagine Gabriella giving advice on how to repair punctures in inflatable dolls?'

  Philip looked stern. 'I suggest you think about mending bridges with Gabriella rather than inflatable dolls, Vanessa. She is not very happy about working with you after your behaviour at lunch last week. I have, of course, done my utmost to convince her that you are the best person for the job, so I hope you won't let me down with any lamentable lapses in taste.'

  He left the room.

  Hugo raised an eyebrow at Vanessa. 'Who's been a naughty girl then?' he asked, following Philip out of the room.

  Vanessa turned savagely on Vijay. 'I want this lot sorted out by the end of today.'

  She scooped up her handbag and swept out of the room and past Heather's desk.

  'I'm out to lunch,' she called over her shoulder, as she exited through the main doors.

  Nineteen

  Vijay gazed at the greasy film on his tea. His Guardian newspaper lay unread on the ketchup-blobbed, formica-topped table in front of him. Every few seconds, the windows of the cafe in which he was sitting rattled, as yet another juggernaut thundered past on the Al.

  Vijay sighed. Somehow this was not how he had imagined life as a television researcher. He had pictured himself doing a Bernstein and Woodward, revealing corruption in high places, or maybe grabbing his flak jacket as he rushed off to catch the last flight into some war-torn country, where he would sit in the bar of some bomb-blasted hotel, cracking brittle jokes with the other battle-hardened journalists. At the very least, he had hoped to doorstep the odd villain or two.

  He sipped his tea and grimaced. It was strong and treacly sweet. The customers of Fred's Place clearly liked their tea ready sugared.

  The woman behind the counter had gazed at him a little oddly although not altogether unkindly, when he asked for lemon tea. Pushing her straggly hair back off her forehead, and wiping her large, rough hands on her purple nylon overall, she considered his request.

  'Best I can do is black, ducks. We don't get much call for lemon in these parts,' she said finally.

  Vijay had agreed to this, and ordered egg and chips as well. The woman had slapped two slabs of white bread and margarine on a plate next to his tea.

  Vijay had hesitated. 'Er … have you any wholemeal?'

  The woman's voice had begun to rise, 'Look ducks, if you don't like what we've got, then you can …'

  Much to Vijay's relief, she had been interrupted when the hatch behind her shot up. Two impressively large, tattooed arms had appeared, and banged two plates down on the counter.

  'Two sausages, two eggs, chips, beans, fried slice and black pudding twice!' bellowed a voice which matched the arms. The woman took a plate in each hand and began to repeat this litany of cholesterol in an equally loud voice, but, before she could finish, a man in paint-splattered overalls scurried to the counter to claim them. Vijay seized the opportunity to escape to a table. He now looked surreptitiously around at his fellow diners. Most were either silently munching or staring fixedly at a newspaper. One was absorbed in excavating the dirt from his nails with the help of a fork.

  Where was the glamour and the excitement he craved?

  Vijay caught the eye of the woman behind the counter.

  She leaned forward and winked at him, her good humour restored. 'Don't look so worried ducks, it may never happen.'

  But it had already happened, Vijay wanted to cry out. It was bad enough that he was working on a programme that went against all his political principles, but what made it so much worse was that it was making him so painfully aware of his own sexual inadequacies.

  He was twenty-five years old, and his sex-life so far had consisted of a number of fumbling encounters in the dark. To call them one-night stands would be wilful exaggeration. None of them had lasted that long.

  Everywhere he looked he seemed to see sex. The very air throbbed with it. So why was he not getting any?

  When he walked down the street sometimes he found it painful to know that, underneath their clothes, every woman he saw was naked. He didn't mind whether they were short, fat, thin or tall - he just wanted them. All of them.

  His mother didn’t help. She kept arranging parties so that he would meet suitable girls, in the hope that, since he had not chosen a sensible career, at least he might marry a sensible girl. But although Vijay had considered marriage, which at least offered the guarantee of sex, and was tempted by the soft-skinned young girls, with their glossy waist-length hair, whom his mother thrust at him, he could not marry one, not yet. For the same dark eyes which looked so demurely down when his mother addressed them, slyly flashed their knowledge of his inexperience at him, when his mother wasn't looking.

  He had abandoned the idea of asking Heather out. No matter what his mother said about her, Heather was a nice girl, and the last thing he needed was a nice girl.

  Sometimes he felt ready to burst, but dare not do anything to relieve his frustration. His mother and his sister, Arundhati, refused to respect his privacy. They came into his room at any time of the night or day without knocking, as though he was still a child. He had once tried putting a lock on his door, but his mother picked it with a hair grip and was waiting, sitting on his bed when he got home that night. How could anyone who had sprung from her flesh have any secrets from her, she demanded? When he remonstrated with her, she burst into floods of tears and rushed weeping to his aunt's house next door. Within minutes, the house was full of women wailing about ungrateful sons and husbands.

  Vijay put his head in his hands. If things carried on like this for much longer he was in danger of becoming a pervert, just like the people he was interviewing for Forbidden Fruit.

  He had spent the day before in Leeds, where his first appointment had proved a wasted journey. Mr Randy Mills had turned out to be a twelve-year-old with a colourful imagination, or so his mother said when a red-faced Vijay was forced to explain why he wanted to interview her son. Mrs Mills had seemed quite unconcerned by the precocity of her son's imagination, and his unhealthy attachment to his computer. According to her, it was better than him being out on the streets and joyriding and such.

  Vijay had hastily made his excuses and left, without meeting the pre-pubescent computer and sexual prodigy, but as he glanced back at the house, he was sure he had seen the lace curtains at an upstairs window moving, and a youthful index finger being held up at his departing figure.

  His next appointment was at a small terraced house on a run-down council estate on the outskirts of Leeds. The taxi drivers he had unsuccessfully approached to take him there had seemed unmoved by his threat to take their license numbers and report them to the local council - the possible damage to their vehicles or to themselves, seemingly outweighing both his threats and his offer of a large tip. It eventually took him three lengthy bus rides to get to his destination, one of which took him ten miles in the wrong direction.

  The door of the inappropriately named 23 Greenacres Avenue had been answered by a small, slim
woman dressed in tight scruffy jeans and a faded, black T-shirt on which a screaming skull, pierced by a dagger, announced the 1992 World Tour of a heavy metal band. Her long dark hair framed a pale, unmade-up, face. She inhaled deeply on a cigarette held between nicotine-stained fingers, as she wordlessly looked Vijay up and down. With a jerk of her head, she invited him in.

  Vijay followed her down a shabby hallway into a living room bare of furniture, except for a badly beaten up couch and a fridge. The room was dominated by a gigantic sound system with six-foot high speakers. Hundreds of albums lay stacked around the walls.

  The woman indicated the speakers. 'The neighbours love me,' she said a faint sneer, 'and I just love to get them going. They're such a load of old farts. Do you like music?'

  'Some,' Vijay replied uncertainly.

  She motioned at the wall behind him. He turned. 'I sold my soul to rock and roll' was daubed across the Sixties orange and green psychedelic wallpaper in two-foot high black letters.

  'Sex, drugs and rock and roll, it's the only way to go,' she said. 'Want some coke?'

  Vijay hesitated, he didn't want to appear uncool. 'Well, I…'

  'Diet or straight?' She said as she opened the fridge which was packed with cans of Coca-Cola.

  Vijay blushed. 'Er … straight, please.'

  She tossed him a can and snapped one open for herself. 'I can offer you some of the hard stuff,' she said, indicating half a dozen bottles of vodka lined up in the fridge door, 'but I don't touch it before twelve or after six in the morning. You've got to have some sort of system.'

  She settled cross-legged on the floor and took a long drink from her can. 'Shoot,' she commanded.

  Vijay looked around then settled himself gingerly on the edge of the couch, trying to avoid a spring that had clawed its way through the threadbare cover. He opened his notebook and sat poised with a biro.

  'Mrs McKenna …' he began.

  'Call me Boots,' she interrupted, 'everyone does, on account I've got so many.' Vijay noticed the decorative, Cuban-heeled cowboy boots that stuck out from under her jeans.

  'Boots,' he began again.

  'What's your handle?' she asked.

  Vijay looked blank.

  'Name,' she explained.

  'Vijay.'

  'VJ,' she repeated slowly, 'nice.'

  Vijay shifted uncomfortably. She had a way of saying 'nice' that wasn't quite … well, nice.

  'Mrs McK… Boots,' he tried again. 'It's about your response to our advertisement. We're interesting in your, er … car seat.'

  Boots pushed her dark hair back from her face. The movement revealed a tattoo of a writhing green snake on her forearm. 'You mean my passion wagon?' she asked. 'Want to see it?'

  She jumped to her feet and led the way upstairs.

  The top of the house looked like a building site. Where there had been three bedrooms, there was now just one, but it had not been decorated since the dividing walls had been demolished, and peeling patches of wallpaper were the only bright splodges of colour on the exposed brick and plaster. A double mattress covered with old fur coats lay on the dusty floorboards in the centre of the room, and lined around the walls were at least fifty pair of boots, from thigh-high patent leather to demure short, laced, granny ones.

  Dominating the room like some kind of strange tribal throne was the back seat of a car, which was raised about eight inches off the ground on a wooden plinth. The wall behind it was decorated with car number plates, assorted metal wheel hubs, and a large motorway sign from the Ml.

  Boots stroked the cracked leather seat, a faraway look on her face. 'I lost my cherry on this seat in 1956. I was fourteen and he was my father's best friend.'

  Vijay did some mental arithmetic and looked shocked. She was much older than he had thought.

  Boots misinterpreted his shock. 'It wasn't like you think,' she said quickly. 'I really fancied him. It took me a year to seduce him and then it was only because he was off to Suez that he finally did it, just in case he didn't come back. It was just beautiful.'

  She reached down beside the seat and flipped a switch. A motor began to purr and the seat vibrated. She stretched out along its length.

  'It feels just beautiful under your bare bum. Want to give it a go?'

  Vijay shook his head.

  'Cars aren't the same anymore. I'm into bikes now. Ever done it on the back of a chopper? It really blows your mind. Me and the old man do it all the time. There ain't nothing better than a 1000 cc between your legs, unless it's a 2000cc man.'

  Vijay swallowed hard. 'I wonder if you would agree to us filming your, er … passion wagon?'

  'Only if you'll come for a ride with me. Snake don't mind me playing away from home occasionally, says it does me good to find out there ain't no competition. Want to try and prove him wrong?'

  Vijay looked at his watch. 'I'm afraid I must rush, I have another appointment.' He ran quickly downstairs.

  As he fumbled with the front door lock, Boots stood at the top of the stairs, laughing.

  'You make sure you send a good-looking camera crew, now. I like my men real big.'

  Vijay slammed the door shut behind him, just as a black leather-clad figure roared up on a Harley Davidson. His helmet was emblazoned with a golden-eyed snake. The rider lifted one long, leather clad leg over the bike, and stood to remove his helmet at the same time. A mane of blond hair fell over his broad shoulders. He looked barely older than Vijay and his physique suggested he spent a lot of time working out in the gym. Vijay had scuttled past him, not daring to catch his eye.

  Supposing he had said yes to the woman's invitation? Vijay shuddered. He could see the newspaper headlines: TV RESEARCHER KILLED BY JEALOUS LOVER IN CAR SEAT SEX ORGY. But Mrs McKenna had been rather attractive and perhaps an older, experienced woman was what he need. Vijay closed his eyes and imagined her wearing only a pair of cowboy boots. He felt a pleasurable glow between his thighs.

  'I'll have to have words with Fred again about what he's been putting in the tea.'

  Vijay opened his eyes. He was the centre of attention in the cafe; the other customers were all grinning at him.

  The woman behind the counter, who had just spoken, winked at him and held out a plate. 'You're going to need this, ducks, if you're going to keep up your strength.'

  Vijay blushed and hurried up to the counter to collect his lunch. Fred, if indeed it was Fred with the tattooed biceps, didn't believe in healthy, low fat cooking. As Vijay carried his plate back to his table, the fried egg slid from side to side on a film of oil. He sat down and squeezed the tomato-shaped, red plastic sauce bottle. Nothing happened. Vijay shook hard, and then in desperation, banged it smartly with the flat of his hand. His chips disappeared under a satisfying stream of ketchup. He speared two with his fork, and poked them into the golden yellow yolk of his fried egg before cramming them into his mouth. They tasted delicious.

  Five minutes later, he was finished.

  He drank a second cup of sweet tea and then, feeling almost cheerful, tucked the Guardian under his arm and left a twenty pence tip under his plate. Outside on the pavement, he checked his A-Z again. According to his calculation, his next interviewee lived not far from Fred's Place.

  Wellington House proved to be a grim 1960s, twenty-two storey block of council flats on the other side of the Al. The entrance stank of urine and boiled vegetables and was daubed with racist graffiti.

  Vijay picked his way uneasily round the rubbish on the floor to the lifts. One had an 'out of order' sign on it, and two whey-faced boys of about fourteen were sitting on the floor of the other. They had wedged the door open, and one held a brown paper bag to his nose.

  Vijay hovered, hoping they might move, but they sat gazing hollow-eyed at the ceiling. He began the long climb to the fifteenth floor.

  Panting, he knocked on the door of number 153. There was the sound of several bolts being drawn back and then the door - still fastened by a safety chain - was opened two inches. A small voice dema
nded identification.

  When he eventually opened the door, Alfred Burton proved to be a small wispy man wearing comically large glasses. He swiftly pulled Vijay inside and bolted the door again.

  'Now,' he said with a little giggle, 'you've come to meet my friends. They've been all a-twitter since I told them you were coming. We don't get many visitors up here.'

  He wiped his hands on his frilly apron. 'I'm going to get into trouble whoever I take you to meet first, so in for a penny, in for a pound,' he said as he opened one of the doors which led off the dank hallway.

  It led into a bedroom. Perched on the bed, on the floor, and in every available space were life-size, inflatable dolls, staring back at Vijay with dead eyes, their lips forming a chorus of noiseless 'O's.

  The collection filled every room of what would otherwise have been a neatly kept, two-bedroom flat.

  'When mother was alive, I had to keep them in my room. She said it wasn't proper for a grown man to collect dolls. But since she passed on a year ago last Spring, I've been able to expand,' Alfred explained happily.

  Vijay dazedly wondered whether the departed Mrs Burton had known what the dolls were for.

  'I hope you don't think me morbid, but Elsie here,' Alfred indicated a doll wedged into a high-backed chair beside the gas fire in the main room, 'reminds me of mother, so I gave her one of my mother's wigs, and dressed her in mother's favourite lilac chiffon. She liked lilac chiffon, same as the Queen Mother. They even had the same birthday. She never missed a year at Clarence House. It was her birthday treat, too. She would get done up to the nines in chiffon, with matching hat and gloves. Sometimes tourists used to think she was the Queen Mother and take pictures. It fair tickled her pink.'

  Alfred wiped a little nostalgic tear from the corner of his eye. 'Anyway, I thought it was right she should have pride of place in her throne, so to speak. There'll never be another one like her, she understands royalty. Now I'll give you that her daughter wears some nice hats, but the rest of them are a bit common to my mind. '