by BarnaWilde
"Champagne," I say. I find it hard to keep the note of smugness from my voice.
"What the hell are you blathering about, Fletcher? What the hell have roses and champagne got to do with selling houses?"
I'm beginning to wonder if I've got it wrong. Maybe this isn't a wordgame after all.
"She gave me the champagne after I gave her the roses. Your roses. The ones I got for your birthday. Well not for your birthday, of course, because it wasn't. Not that I think there is anything wrong with men receiving flowers even if they aren't homosexuals. Only she thought they were for her. And now she's got my trousers."
Things aren’t going well. I can see he's having a problem with this. Perhaps it's the champagne bit he doesn't like.
"I didn't drink any of it, of course. I wouldn't while I was on duty. Well maybe one glass. Yes, I think she gave me one glass while I was in her bed, but I was still concussed then, I think. I don't remember clearly."
Mr Hudson doesn't look happy. He’s playing with his spectacles, folding the arms and then unfolding them again. I can see that I'm not improving matters with my explanation. That seems to happen to me a lot lately. It seems clear enough inside my head, but somehow it all gets a bit muddled by the time it gets to my mouth. I think it's something to do with the that milisecond delay circuit that makes me spill coffee and not be suave. He pushes the spectacles back onto his nose.
"How long have you worked here, Fletcher?" Mr Hudson asks.
"Five years now, Mr Hudson. Almost exactly."
I wait for him to reply, but he seems to be in no hurry to speak.
"Have you ever thought of doing anything else?" he asks eventually. "Something less taxing?"
"Oh no. I like selling houses. I'm quite happy here, thankyou."
"When did you last sell a house, Fletcher?"
I have to think about that one a bit. Actually, come to think of it it has been a while. While I am thinking, Mr Hudson seems to come to a decision. He takes off his spectacles again. They leave a little red mark on each side of his nose. I find myself trying not to look at them.
"I think it might be better for both of us if you started looking around for some alternative employment," he says suddenly. "Let's say work til the end of the month shall we?"
I'm trying not to look at his nose. The two little red marks are still there, one on either side. I think he just fired me. I'm not sure why. I don't know what to say. Is he giving me the choice?
The phone on the desk rings before I can answer. He picks it up.
"Hudson," he says. That's all he says. Just 'Hudson'. He makes us do the whole business, 'Hudson, Hudson and Hudson' and all the works about estate agents and valuers and how may we help you? And all he says is 'Hudson'. It seems hardly fair.
He's talking to a woman. I can tell it's a woman because he's got his patronising tone of voice on.
"Yes. I'll get someone on it right away.....No, not him. I'm afraid he won't be available in future....I'm sure someone else will do an excellent job for you....Yes, of course.....No, certainly.....If you insist madam.....Yes.....Yes.....Yes.....Today for certain.....Of course.....Yes.....Thankyou for calling."
He looks irritated, and slams the phone back down onto the rest. The little red marks are still there on his nose.
"That was Mrs Carroll, Fletcher. It seems she wants you to sell her house for her. She won't accept anyone else."
My heart sinks.
"She has your wallet, too. You must have dropped it in her house yesterday. Lucky for you, eh?"
He picks up his spectacles and puts them back on. The little pads on the specs line up exactly with the red marks on his nose. I wonder if he realises.
"You'd better get round there now, Fletcher. I want that house sold within two weeks. This is your last chance, do you understand?"
I sit with my mouth open, but no words come out.
"And you can take Miss Green with you," he adds. "It's about time she started to get more involved, and she can keep an eye on you at the same time. Well, what are you waiting for?"
I'm not sure whether I'm still sacked. I'm not sure if this is the time to ask. I'm not sure I want to go to Mrs Carroll's, Carole's house again. But then, if I can take Julie with me, surely that will be ok?
"Thankyou," I say. I'm not exactly certain what I'm thanking him for, but it seems an appropriate thing to say. He just shakes his head and starts reading something on his desk. I think the interview is over.
"I'm sorry about the roses," I say as I leave, but he doesn't even look up.
When I get back out to the office I am aware of a man doing deep knee bends in front of his desk. He has pulled his tie up around his forehead. From the guffaws of laughter, I assume the others find this amusing. The laughter dies away as I walk out, and he pulls his tie down around his neck again.
"How was it then, Fletcher?" he asks as I get back to my desk. "I hope we're not going to have to arrange yet another office collection." There are sniggers at this comment, but not from Julie, who looks embarassed by the turn of events.
"Just a sales conference," I say. "Mr Hudson wanted my advice on a couple of small points."
There are some knowing glances exchanged around the room.
"Actually, I shall have to go out shortly," I continue. "Mr Hudson has asked me to take Miss Green for some training in the field. Said he needed an experienced man for the job." I look across at Julie and smile.
"Oh, Mr F. Do you mean it?" she asks.
"Whenever you're ready," I say. "And you'd better bring a pad to make notes on."
We leave the office together ten minutes later. No one says a word.
CHAPTER 13
Julie's perfume fills the car. I don't recognise it, but it smells expensive.
I breathe it in as I drive, drinking in the scent. Pheromones. But they aren't hers. She has disguised her natural odour with a mixture of smells extracted from flowers and animals.
I wonder what her natural scent is. I sniff experimentally to see whether I can detect it beneath the perfume overlay. I imagine a fresh scent. Newly washed skin. Hair drying in the breeze. The scent of youth. Summer.
All I can discern, beyond her bottled perfume, is a car sort of smell. Slightly oily, mixed with a hint of exhaust and stale sweat.
Yes, definitely stale sweat. Surely that can't be right. I sniff again. Two or three times.
"It sounds as though you are coming down with a cold, Mr F," Julie says.
"No. No. I'm fine," I reply. "And please call me Tom."
"Yes, Mr F. I will."
I can still smell stale sweat. I lean over towards Julie as we take a right hand bend and sniff deeply. She smiles at me and takes a tissue from her handbag to dab at her own nose.
It isn't her. The stale sweat. All she smells of is flowers. But I can still smell it.
It must be me. Oh, God. The first time I get to be with Julie on my own and I stink of stale sweat. I edge across to the right hand side of the driver's seat, but the smell doesn't go away. In fact it's all I can smell now. It's almost overpowering.
But it can't be me. I showered before I came out this morning. Surely I'm not one of those people like in the adverts. You know, the ones whose best friends won't even tell them. Please, not me. I edge even closer to the side of the car. My right buttock is overhanging the gap at the side of the driver's seat. Julie is glancing anxiously at me. It isn't easy driving like this.
"Darned leg," I say, with a sophisticated chuckle. At least, it should have been a sophisticated chuckle. It comes out more like a chicken with a hernia.
"Pardon, Mr F?"
"Old war wound," I add. "Piece of shrapnel lodged in the left knee. Can't bend it as well as I could."
She looks puzzled. Or is she wrinkling her nose at the smell? It's difficult to tell. God she looks lovely.
"But Mr F, surely you can't be old enough to have been in the war?"
"The war? What war?"
"Your leg, Mr F. You s
aid you had a war wound."
"Did I say war wound? Ha. I meant wall wound. Yes. Fancy you thinking I was in the war." The stench of sweat is overwhelming. I press myself against the door of the car. But it makes no difference. Surely she can smell it, too. She doesn't show it though. What self control she has.
"What's a wall wound, Mr F?"
She looks lovely. I'm sitting almost sideways to the car. The sun is creating a halo effect through her hair. I love her. I know I do. But I have to do something about this smell.
"Mr F. What's a wall wound?" she asks again.
"Oh. It's nothing. Happened a long time ago."
"Why won't you tell me, Mr F? Are you teasing me?"
I can feel the winder of the window pressing into my back. With difficulty I can reach it with my left hand and I try slowly to lower the window. A blast of cold air screams into the car.
"Brrrr. That's chilly, Mr F," she says, pulling her coat around her.
"Just thought you'd like some air," I reply. I take a couple of deep breaths for effect. I notice that we are about to pass a garage and swing hard down on the wheel. There is a screeching of tyres as the car swerves into the forecourt. We clip the metal sign as we go past. Not enough to cause damage, but it flips the sign over to 'closed' with the impact.
The forecourt is deserted, and we slew round to come to rest near the pumps.
"Just in time," I say. "Almost out of fuel."
Julie looks alarmed and pulls her seat belt tighter around her. I leap out and start to fill the car. It takes only a gallon before the pump cuts off. I whistle nervously as I saunter over to the kiosk to pay.
There is a bored looking teenaged girl sitting behind the counter. I lean over and enquire confidentially "Do you have any deodorant?"
"Ya what?"
"Deodorant," I repeat, glancing around to make sure that no one can overhear me.
"What do ya want deodorant for?" she asks.
"What does anyone want deodorant for?" I reply, with a hint of irritation.
"This is a bleeding garage," she says helpfully. "Not a bleeding chemists. You should try Boots."
For some reason this reminds me of a joke that I heard once at a party. It was about a newly wed wanting to buy contraceptives. Someone said 'you should try Boots' and he said 'I did, but it all ran out the lace holes.' I'm about to say 'I did...' but I decide that now isn't the time. Anyway I can never tell jokes. Always get the punchline wrong.
"What have you got?" I ask.
"Petrol," she says. "And oil. Boiled sweets, cigarettes, digital watches and air fresheners."
Did I hear right? Did she say air fresheners? I almost decide that I must have misheard. I don't have luck like that, but there they are. Next to the till. A whole display of air fresheners. Green cardboard xmas trees that are alleged to smell of pine. Specially made to hang in cars.
"I'll take three," I say, ripping them off the display before the girl can stop me. The wretched things are wrapped in clear plastic film with no obvious means of entry. I scrabble away at the pack with my fingers getting nowhere, and finally, in desperation, I tear at the packaging with my teeth, spitting plastic and bits of foul tasting green cardboard onto the floor.
"Hey," she says. "Cut that out. I have to sweep this place up. You'd better pay me for all those."
I thrust five pounds at her, and while she is using a calculator to multiply by three, I slip off both shoes and remove my socks.
As I push the green xmas trees into my socks the girl stands up and peers over the counter at me. "Here, are you some kind of pervert? I've got a phone you know. I can call the police."
With one shoe on I limp towards the door struggling to get the other one replaced. "Keep the change," I say as I lurch out and hop back towards the car with the third xmas tree dangling from my hand.
"You poor thing," says Julie, as I climb back into the car.
"Why's that?" I ask.
"Your leg," she says. "I could see you almost doubled up inside that kiosk. Is it really very painful?"
I give her the last air freshener. "Free with the petrol," I say. "Some sort of gimmick. Not sure what it's for."
We pull out of the petrol station. I can feel the xmas trees in my socks. My feet are being bathed in pine oil. I resume a more normal driving posture.
Julie relaxes beside me. She is clutching the little tree.
"I'm ever so excited to be with you, Mr F."
She said 'excited to be with me'. She didn't say 'excited to be coming with me', she said 'excited to be with me.'
"I'm excited to be with you too," I reply.
"But, Mr F, you've done this dozens of times. This is my first time."
She must think I'm really sophisticated. She probably thinks I'm always with beautiful young women. Perhaps she thinks that just because she finds me attractive, that all women find me attractive. Perhaps they do and I just don't notice.
Listen. I know they don't. You don't have to snigger. But there has to be some reward for writing this stuff. Surely I can dream in my own story. Can't I?
Listen. Are you telling me that you don't dream?
"Oh, don't imagine that I respond to every woman that finds me attractive," I say. "I have had to learn to say 'No' sometimes. Gently, of course. Don't like hurting people."
"I know you don't, Mr F. But this is my first time going out on a house valuation. I'm glad it's with you. I feel safe with you."
Disappointment comes in many forms, and I can smell that sweat again. I thought the xmas trees would do the trick, but it's back. As strong as ever. Surely she can smell it. I start to whistle gently to myself.
It must be my armpits. I remember an advert on the radio when I was a boy. Radio Luxemburg it must have been. It said ` make your armpits your charmpits`. I think mine must be more like cesspits, but why haven't I noticed it before?
"I like to hear a man whistle," says Julie. "My Dad used to whistle when I was little."
Now it's a funny thing about whistling. You can only do it when you think no one else is listening. As soon as someone comments, a chemical reaction sets in which immediately dries up all your saliva. I don't know why. It's just one of those things like.... Well, like... Well, just one of those things.
It happens almost instantaneously. One second it's air on a G string, and the next it's chapped lips and a silly sizzling sound. Instead of accepting the inevitable, I try licking my lips and blowing again. All that comes out is a Hooo Hoooo sort of noise. And that smell. It's still there.
I wave my arm enthusiastically, as though indicating some distant sight, and take a surreptitious sniff of my right armpit in passing. It's inconclusive. I create an opportunity to check the left one by adjusting the rear view mirror, but that is no more successful. The strain is starting to bring out beads of perspiration on my forehead. At this rate I shall need a change of clothes before we get to Carole's.
Carole's! The thought makes me sweat even more. I have to do something. I see a small parade of shops ahead and pull into the layby.
"Are we there?" asks Julie.
"Just need to get a fresh battery for the tape," I say. "First rule of doing a house valuation is to make sure there is a fresh battery in the sonic tape measure."
Julie nods and writes a note on her pad.
"What are you writing?" I ask, alarmed. Perhaps Mr Hudson has asked her to write a report on me.
"Always put a fresh battery in your sonic tape measure," she reads. "I just wrote down what you said, Mr F. I want to learn everything from you."
I leave her in the car as I get out to look at the shops. There are only three. A butchers, a newsagents and a dry cleaners. No pharmacy. Not even a general store. What do I do now? I can't imagine the butcher or the dry cleaner will be much use. It will have to be the newsagent. I hop over the low wall bordering the layby and push open the door to the newsagents.
"Do you have any deodorant?" I ask the indian behind the counter. I can smell curry comi
ng through from the back of the shop.
"I'm sorry?" he replies.
"Deodorant," I repeat.
He smiles patiently at me. "I am thinking, have you tried Boots, Sir?"
"Yes, but...." No, this isn't the time. "I'm desperate," I say. "Don't you have any in your house? Doesn't your wife have any? I'll pay."
He looks at me quizzically. "This wouldn't in any way be a hold up, Sir, would it?" he asks.
"A hold up? Whoever heard of anyone holding up a shop for deodorant?"
"Yes. But you are just wanting me to be out of the shop so you can be robbing the till, Sir. I am knowing these things you see, Sir, because I am watching Crimewatch on my television every week."
"This isn't a hold up," I say. "Look I have money." As I reach into my jacket the man dives down behind his counter.
"Don't shoot me, please, Sir. You can have the money."
"I don't want the money. I have money. I want deodorant."
"I am not having any deodorant, Sir. I am telling you that once already. Please don't shoot me."
"I'm not going to shoot you, you silly man. It's my wife I want to shoot. I just want deodorant from you."
"Please Sir. I'm not having any deodorant. I have whisky. You want whisky?"
"I don't like whisky."
"You can have my wife, Sir, if you wish. She is a very desirable woman. I can fetch her for you if you want, but please don't shoot me. I know you are having a gun in your jacket."
This is ridiculous. "OK, I do have a gun," I say, reaching for my pocket again. "Now get me deodorant or I shoot."
"You see, Sir. I am knowing there was a gun." He looks almost pleased, but he disappears into the back of the shop. He reappears an instant later, before picking up the till and taking it through with him. I stand in the shop for what seems like an age waiting for him to return. I try not to notice that there is a row of girlie magazines on the top shelf, but every way I stand my eyes are drawn to the pictures of carelessly dressed women with big bosoms and miniscule knickers. The bosoms seem to follow me around the room. I can see them out of the corner of my eye. It feels as though I am lined up in front of a firing squad of double barrelled shotguns.
I begin to study the other shelves, but I know those bosoms are there, boring into the back of my neck. Even when I study the opposite side of the shop, I become aware of the magazines reflected in the security mirror above the door. Eight magazines. Sixteen inflated bosoms all aimed at me. I start to whistle again. Hey, my whistle has come back.