Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  I answered with a shrug.

  “The thing is… I don’t actually have a change of clothes with me. Although I did bring a nice pair of shoes. Won't I do like this? Well, when I’ve got my knickers and jeans back on, of course.” I glanced down at my t-shirt. It already possessed a dodgy looking stain from where Lydia had coughed her yoghurt drink all over me during the train journey. The jeans? Well, they weren’t great either. They contained a wadge of stickiness in one of the back pockets. I suspected that this was a result of Matthew and his recently acquired fixation with Swizzel Drumstick lollipops.

  Michael was biting his bottom lip. But then he tried to flash me an ebullient smile.

  “Oh no. That’s fine. Really. You look absolutely lovely in those. Don’t worry about that for a minute. I mean, I don’t mind if you don’t. You look great. And Black Sabbath. Well. They’re just fantastic, aren’t they? Great rock band. Or metal. Whatever you call it.”

  I burst out laughing. He looked surprised. And then relieved, saying;

  “Oh – you! And that bloody sarcasm of yours! I’ve not missed that bit of your repertoire.”

  He grabbed me, pulling me back down and onto the bed. A kiss (“to shut you up, before you even start!”) as his fingers walked their way back down towards my thighs. I nudged him away.

  “Look, if you really do want to go out for the evening, then yeah – I admit it. I need a good twenty minutes. So, you’d better stop this right now. And I do happen to have something with me that might make me look a little bit less like a dossy old trollop.”

  After a slapdash shower, slipping on a frock and adding a dab more slap to my face, I was ready.

  “Right. Am I looking respectable enough?”

  He cast a pair of appreciative eyes over me.

  “Lovely. Perfect.” Green-grey pupils travelled downwards and locked themselves onto my chest as he nodded. “And you’ll be giving the busts at the British Museum a good run for their money there.”

  “Hmm. But it’ll be nice to visit the British Museum again. I used to love wandering around the Elgin Marbles when I lived in London myself, many moons ago.”

  I hesitated. Very nearly confessing to him that the first time I visited the museum, I had been surprised to discover that the Elgin Marbles were not, in fact, great big round balls; bigger, shinier versions of the tiny glass things that you got in ‘Ker Plunk’. But I didn't follow through. I didn’t want him to think that I was a complete ignoramus; I’m not. It's just there are certain elements of information that don't get covered in your average northern comprehensive school education (i.e. artefacts in the British Museum) and certain stuff that does (whether it’s possible to whip off the screws on your maths teacher’s moped in the three minutes it takes him to have a fag break).

  “Ah yes,” said Michael. “Back when you were a mere slip of a lass and doing your assistant for MP's side of things. Larry Underwood, wasn't it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lecherous leftie lunatic.”

  I punched his arm.

  “Well, I liked him!”

  His dimples twinkled;

  “Well you would. Older men. In politics. Getting a bit of a track record, aren't you?”

  I was about to wallop him again when he tapped his watch.

  “Alright. Enough of the domestic violence, you hypocrite. Best be off then.” He locked the front door and we made our way down the steps and into the chilled air of an early October evening. I asked him;

  “So, what’s this speech going to be about? Are you going to be revealing just how much of the contents of the museum - how most of our so-called ‘British Heritage’ - has been nicked from inferior and uncivilised cultures?”

  “No. Not quite. Although I’m sure that your Marxist pals - like your friend Jake up in Manchester - wouldn’t agree. It’s exclusively about real British history; an archaeological thing. Roman excavations from East Anglia - military stuff, actually.”

  Should have known.

  Something else that happened to provide occasional pluck at the strings of discord between us, was the fact that Michael also didn’t Do The Pacifist Thing. Which Rachael Russell - former member of CND - definitely did embrace wholeheartedly.

  He turned to close the gate behind him. I asked;

  “Were you asked to do this speech because you served in the army - before you went into politics?”

  “Sort of. But more so really because I’ve always had a huge interest in military history. My first degree at Oxford was in History. I specialised in ancient warfare and weaponry.”

  We were walking towards the British Museum, my arm linked through his.

  “History?” I asked. “All career politicians plump for Politics, Philosophy and Economics, don't they? Jolly old PPE.”

  He shook his head. “Well you shouldn’t make such presumptions. And I would have thought that you should already be aware that no one in politics likes to be referred to as a ‘career politician.’”

  “Ah well. I’m sure that you’re all capable of getting over it…”

  “…No, history was the first great love of my life. With the second being the military, the army, as you know. The third love must be politics, I guess.”

  I wondered what the fourth love of his life might prove to be. Embarking upon professional board membership. Most likely earning megabucks as Chairman of some huge multinational company after retiring from politics. Presiding over the inadvertent massacre of a rare breed of innocent penguin on the other side of the world in a desperate fracking bid, no doubt.

  He interrupted my internal ruminations on the lives of the privileged with;

  “And besides - you’re wrong on the PPE front. Most people who end up in politics didn’t study that sort of thing. Blair did History at Oxford, too.”

  “Great. Shame he didn’t pay more attention. We might not have ended up with the Iraq side of things…”

  We were strolling slowly through Bloomsbury Square itself, our fingers entwined together, but his phone rang. He let go of my hand and gestured ‘one minute’, whilst he took the call.

  I perched on the edge of a wooden seat as he moved a couple of yards away, tucking the phone under his chin and managing to light a cigarette whilst tossing the empty packet into a litter bin at the same time. The bench and the bin suddenly reminded me.

  Of Shaun and the Attack Of The Wasps. Of the huge barney that had taken place between us just a couple of weeks ago, in the park next to the Women’s Centre. An argument that he had goaded me into, when I had refused his job offer. In fact, this had been rather a monumental row for me; the only time ever that I had let rip in such a direct way. I had told him, in no uncertain terms, just exactly what he had put me through in our relationship; both the first time around - back before I had met Adam - and then the damage that he had inflicted on me more recently, trucking up after the funeral and resurrecting our affair. Yes, Round Two proved to be even more devastating for me, because our sequential attempt at sneaky sexual shenanigans had somehow involved him forgetting to tell me of one small fact. That he was now married to Saint Jess.

  Yet even the insects buzzing around the litter bins during that lunch time slanging match hadn’t managed to sting him. Shaun Elliot; both Teflon coated and wasp resistant. Was this the fault of his adoptive parents? Had they unintentionally taught him that he was God’s Gift? Or was the bugger just lacking the cognitive ability to process emotional empathy? In the past, my best friend Kate had veered between referring to him as either ‘an overbearing emotional illiterate’ or ‘your typical moral coward.’ When she wasn’t calling him a ‘total and utter dick', that is.

  CHORLTON-CUM-HARDY, SOUTH MANCHESTER. SEPTEMBER 2001

  “Jesus Christ, Rachael! Jesus! Look at that!”

  Shaun lay on his back. My cheek squished against his chest. Fragments of glitter – my lipstick and his sweat - sparkled along his torso, down to his belly button and beyond. We had planned a secret early afternoon liaison a
t my place in Chorlton and it had been a busy lunch hour so far. Thanks to the joys of flexitime. In fact, it was rare for us to ever stop and pause, to snooze for a minute during our encounters. Rabbits had nothing on Shaun and me.

  “What?” I groaned, all semi-slumber. “Post-coital telly-viewing is incredibly impolite, you know, Shaun. Especially if it's the bloody news.”

  “Shush!” he growled and sat up. Nudging me to one side and grabbing one of my pillows. For one minute I thought that he was going to smack me round the head with it – start a play-fight. But instead, he clutched it to his chest.

  I followed his gaze. The picture on the TV was of an enormous building – a skyscraper – azure skies behind it, above it. But there was a squall of white smoke billowing out its side. And then the camera jerked. And the tower collapsed. Just went.

  My first thoughts were of Fred Dibnah. Britain's most legendary expert on all things detonation and tall chimneys. Fred lived just a street away from my Uncle Will and Auntie Sue and he was more northern than a slab of parkin. My Dad's claim to fame was that he had once bought ol' Fred a pint of dark mild in the Talbot Arms. He was a real character, was Fred.

  “Oh, my God! Shit!” said Shaun. “Jesus. Shit!”

  Shaun's outburst shook away all thoughts of what Fred must be up to these days.

  “What’s… what?”

  “Twin Towers in New York. How did we miss…? One just collapsed – about an hour ago, they said. And looks like… we just saw the other one go.”

  I removed myself from his chest and sat up in bed, my eyes blinking away the blurriness, peering at the screen.

  “You’re kidding!” I said. “How the hell would... can that have happened?”

  “Plane hit the first one a bit ago, they said. And then another plane flew into the second one. Few minutes ago. They've both… gone.”

  “No way! No! That’s just – that would never happen. Are you sure that’s what…?”

  “Shush! Let me listen!”

  So, we sat there, spellbound. Propped up against the crappy MDF and foam headboard, huddled underneath my purple paisley duvet. Shaun was rarely stuck for words or for opinions. But here we were, both captivated, both horrified as we watched the re-runs of the footage of planes colliding, of buildings collapsing. Over and over; again, and again. I got out of bed at one point to make us both a cup of tea. But Shaun let his go cold. And then we heard reports that another plane had smashed into the Pentagon.

  At around three-thirty PM, I commented;

  “Now this is all a bit different for us, isn't it? I mean, we never get the opportunity to watch films together in bed, do we? And this is real life. Bizarre or what? And far more morbid and horrible than the usual crap action films that you’re always going on about…”

  At that moment, we both jumped at the sound of loud rapping on my bedroom door.

  “Shit,” Shaun said.

  “Jake’s back already,” I whispered. “That’s a bit weird.” Shaun glanced at my bedroom door. It didn’t have a lock.

  “Rachael, honey?” Jake called. “Are you in there? I just saw your car outside. Is everything alright?”

  “Yes, fine, Jake. Everything’s fine.”

  “Because I’ve just been doing some visits on Moss Side and came past and noticed that you're home. You’re sure you're okay?”

  “Yes. Course I am.”

  “Only… I just wondered. What with you and all of that listening to Celine Dion a bit too late at night when you're on your own… and… and oh - the news just now! Have you heard? Isn’t it awful? New York! They’re saying that it’s those Al Qaeda lot who’ve done it.”

  “Yeah. It’s terrible. Terrible.”

  “Can I come in? Are you decent?”

  “No. Not really, Jake.”

  Jake was surprisingly slow on the uptake today, but after a few seconds of silence we heard;

  “Ah. Oh. Oh, right. Right. I’ll be… I guess I'll be off then.”

  “Yeah, ta. See you later.”

  “Right. Sure. I’ll return home, when…” his voice became flatter, “in whatever amount of time might allow Shaun sufficient leeway to be able to cover his tracks. Yet again. Do let me know when it’s convenient for you both - for me to return to my own flat - won’t you?”

  I heard the front door slam and then, a few seconds later, his car engine start.

  “Dunno how you can stand living with Bamber-boy,” Shaun muttered. “Thinks he’s your mother.”

  “Yeah, no doubt she'd have a negative impact on my sex life, too, if she shared this place with me.”

  “Shush,” said Shaun. Eyes back on the TV.

  “No, I won’t 'shush'!” I poked his ribs with my thumb and then gave his stomach a sloppy kiss. “What’s wrong with you? We took the afternoon off to be together. I’m not at all happy about your bloody terrorists, interrupting my afternoon of rampant sex!”

  Shaun shifted himself upwards and away from me. He folded his arms. He looked straight ahead and then I saw the spark of light in the brown-black pupils vanish.

  “Poor you,” he said.

  And then I realised what I’d said – what I’d done.

  The TV blathered on. A woman - early forties, maybe – an office worker from the City, in London, was being interviewed outside a dreary British workplace by a journalist.

  “I mean, people from our company work in those buildings over there in… I mean, I’m on the phone to them every day. I know all about their kids, their lives, their... It’s just. I can’t get my head round it. I really can't. And to be honest… I just want to get home and to my family now. On a day like this, you just want to be with your family, don’t you?”

  Fifteen minutes later and Shaun was back on the other side of Chorlton. At home with Jess. And with Ozzy the cat.

  And that was the last time. That we were together.

  For some twelve years.

  End of Round One.

  Sixteen years later and I still hadn't quite figured out Shaun's overall psychological profile. But one thing was for sure: his natural tendency towards egocentricity central had mushroomed even further as his career reached loftier heights – matching his six foot five inches frame. But, if I’m going to be brutally honest about it, what naffed me off more than anything else was the fact that an ever-present sexual frisson remained between us. No, that's the wrong word. Not frisson. I had frisson with Michael. And with Adam it had been deep love and camaraderie. What did I have with Shaun? Something akin to a binge-purge cycle. Hardly sounds attractive, does it? Unless you've been there yourself. In which case, you'll be catching my drift.

  Michael had finished his phone call.

  “Chief Whip. About today’s vote. And he's heard on the grapevine that the News of the Nation journos are still after my blood. God knows why. You'd think these muck-rakers would be more interested in your B-list celebs rather than an old duffer like me.”

  Only a handful of people happened to know the identity of the newspaper mystery gal. They included Dawn, the woman who we rescued from getting beaten up by her partner, Vinnie Murray, and Shaun - who had recognised the mole on my shoulder in the photograph and who chose to further ratchet up the pressure on me by accusing me of jeopardising the reputation of Sisters' Space and his local authority. Oh, and then there was also this other bloke who calls himself the 'Prime Minister.' Along with his top PR aide, Alex The Twat (a name that I bestowed upon him after he referred to me as 'The Merry Widow From Manchester'). Still, Michael – a man possessing an unusually blasé attitude to political life – seemed only to profit from the tabloid tattle; enjoying the fact that the narrower minded souls of the British population were now commenting along the lines of; 'and we all thought that he was gay! The little tinker!'

  Ha-bloody-ha.

  “Oh, God,” I said, trying not to nibble at my already worn-down nails. “Don't tell me that Simone Shaw and that arse-wipe of a newspaper think that they've got something else on you?”
r />   He slipped his phone back into his pocket and took my hand, pulling me up from the park bench.

  “Oh, no. Nothing to worry about. The Brindleford Biker story is yesterday’s news. Although I’m still receiving plenty of cryptic messages from colleagues in relation to Michael and my mystery squeeze.”

  “Well, thank God that you could only see my back in the photo…”

  “And a very nice back it is too,” Michael added. “That dress that you’ve got on does it superb justice. I’m looking forward to getting you out of it again after we’ve had dinner…”

  I wobbled on my heels and nearly fell over. Can a shoe with a quarter of an inch wedge be counted as a ‘heel’? For a woman who has dyspraxia and who lives in walking boots for most of her life, believe me, it can.

  Iron railings girded the hulking mound of the British Museum. Michael had told me that we were attending a private reception. An exclusive little soiree for intellectual military history buffs.

  As the last dregs of the tourists exited the grounds, the invited guests clip-clopped in, white cards clutched in their hands. I couldn't fail to note the expensive standard of attire adopted by The Romano British Military Appreciation Society - as they liked to refer to themselves. And there was I – clad in my charity shop frock. But these days I was surprising myself. It didn't really bother me. These days I felt every bit as attractive and as nicely turned out as the London lot. Perhaps Michael's endless reserves of happy self-assurances were rubbing off on me.

  As people began to smile and nod at him, I also noted that my initial fears of being 'out there' as the Minister’s current squeeze were fading too. A few weeks ago, when the photos had appeared in the press, I had been adamant that I didn't want my identity to be revealed. This was mainly because of my family. Michael did happen to be my parent's MP after all, and my dad and his mates – not fellas to mince their words – were none too keen on what they referred to as 'that slimey upper-class, nancy-boy, right of centre pillock.' Yes, they have quite a little group of pseudo political-intellectuals down at the Stalybridge Allotment Society. And, the thought of what Adam's parents might think of me having another relationship had been a cause for my concerns. Plus of course, there was Lydia's classmates to consider; “Lydia's mum is shagging some posh old bloke in London! Bleurgh!” - Yes, seven-year olds can be cruel.