Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  But now? Now the attention and the buzz heralding Michael's arrival at the British Museum was proving to have a rather unexpected effect on me. An aphrodisiac charge. In fact, I was seized by an impulse to offer him a fast and furious quickie right there and then in some random public lavatory. But he dampened my ardour somewhat by turning to me and muttering;

  “Right. I'll go and chat to the incontinence brigade. You wait with Brian.”

  “Brian? Who’s Brian?”

  “Who’s Brian? You are joking, aren’t you?”

  I shook my head. Michael looked skyward again. “Brian has been following us ever since we left the flat.”

  He stabbed a finger and I glanced over my shoulder. A burly looking man, dressed in dark colours, was about eight feet away from us; sporting an ear piece. Michael crowed;

  “A-ha! You really didn’t notice him, did you? I’ve said this before, but I’ll say it again. You do have dreadful observational skills, Rachael Russell. You’d never do well in the army.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment then. So… Brian. He’s another Trevor, is he?”

  Trevor had been the security man on the evening that I had stayed over at Michael’s Mottram cottage. Poor Trevor got to sit outside the house and watch out for recalcitrant bombs whilst Michael and I enjoyed copious amounts of red wine and - later on - a bit of how’s yer father. Well, I say ‘poor’ Trevor, but Michael had assured me that “the guys from Special Protection aren’t your usual minder-sorts. They’re highly skilled and are paid an absolute packet. More than MP’s, you know. Risk involved and all of that.”

  “Yes,” Michael nodded. “Brian changes shifts at midnight with another fella. Trevor’s back on tomorrow morning for me.”

  “So, has… was he walking behind us the entire time?” I lowered my voice. Not wanting Brian to realise just how slow on the uptake I can be at times.

  “They never leave our sides. Whether we're in the car, or on foot.”

  “What…? Hey. Hang on. Even when we met outside The Commons, earlier on?”

  “Of course. Following your senior Ministers about has to be taken a lot more seriously back here in London than in the constituency. Because, despite the odd happening north of Watford, most terrorists are surprisingly lazy. They prefer to have a pop at you in the capital.”

  His eyes moved from mine to Brian’s as he beckoned the man over.

  “Brian – Rachael. Rachael – Brian. Although Brian’s colleagues do like to refer to you as ‘Giant Haystacks’, don’t they?”

  “’Fraid so.” A surprisingly high-pitched voice for such a mountain of a man. I held out my hand and he shook it;

  “Well, I think that that’s very rude of people to say that, Brian. I saw Giant Haystacks in a wrestling tournament at Hyde Town Hall back in the '80s. And you’re much better looking than him. And a lot less sweaty. Less hairy, too.”

  Brian stared at me, unsure as to how to reply. But Michael answered breezily;

  “Oh, never mind her. She’s a northerner. No airs and graces. Now Brian, do keep an eye on Rachael, won’t you? She’s been fretting that no-one will talk to her because she doesn’t own a pashmina.”

  He gave us both a wink and then wandered off to a group of fawning elderly ladies, one of whom appeared to have a dead peacock stapled to her hat.

  I grinned at the bodyguard;

  “So, Brian. Can you show me how to do an elbow-drop on Michael, then?”

  Poor Brian. Gobby, common bird for companionship, nothing but farty little canapés to nibble at and a lecture on rotted military corpses from over two thousand years ago. Still, as Michael was forever claiming, Brian and his type were apparently paid more than your average MP was, to put up with this sort of thing.

  I already knew that the Minister was a gifted orator, and his speech went down well. But to be fair, it would have been hard not to please this room full of folk who were enthusiasts of all things short and stabby from several centuries ago. Afterwards, Michael ushered me to the museum courtyard and to where a government car had mysteriously manifested and was waiting for us. Brian was to be our all-singing and all-dancing driver, bodyguard and romantic chaperone for the evening. He drove us to one of North London’s most fashionable restaurants – Bella’s. I had never heard of the place.

  “Not Bella Pasta, then?” I chirped. Michael looked blank. He had probably never experienced the joys of other 1980s fast food chains, either. Wimpy and Pizzaland would have passed him by during his Oxford days; it would have been Brown’s or The Randolph or dining in halls kitted out in scholar’s cap and gown, for the likes of him.

  I tried to relax and enjoy the meal, but the atmosphere of Bella’s – the blindingly white table linen (soon covered in my food and wine splashes), the swathes of air-kissing women in their designer what-nots and the minuscule portion sizes - soon had me fantasising about a proper bacon butty back at Holmfirth’s key tourist attraction – ‘Compo’s Café’. Along with a good old fashioned milky coffee to wash it all down with.

  Adam always made out to be Compo the Tramp – drinking his spilled tea from the saucer - whenever we visited our favourite haunt. I would tut at him and he would tease me further, leering; “Show us yer wrinkled stockings, Nora. An’ I’ll let you have a fiddle with me ferret.”

  Lydia could remember those laid back, laughter-filled Sunday mornings very clearly. She had recently asked me if it “would be a nice thing to do – to leave a big bacon butty and a cup of Yorkshire Tea on top of Daddy’s grave.” I had nodded, “Lovely. But we won’t take Matthew with us. He's such a little greedy-guts. And there’s probably a law against consuming things that people have left on top of graves.”

  Michael whispered to me;

  “Is that beatific grin because Colin Firth just sat down at the table behind us?”

  I shook my head and decided not to tell him about the fantasy fry-up at my husband’s headstone.

  “No. I’m smiling because the great thing about these small portion sizes is that you can scoff them all really quickly. And then you can bugger off back home, for more sex.”

  Michael looked surprised. But he was clearly happy to oblige as he began to clear his plate furiously.

  And I can't deny that bumping into the likes of Ewan McGregor, Jude Law and Mr Darcy himself that evening had me feeling somewhat friskier than a ferret myself.

  Shafts of sharp autumnal light spliced naked legs and crumpled sheets. We lay together, gazing out at a teal-blue Bloomsbury sky. We had made our recreation. Time and again. Pink-fleshed, blue-veined; a few stretch marks (mine) and greying hairs (his) between us. But there was still plenty of charge there. Hardly Gone To Seed yet. And the only noise pollutant - aside from our own grunts and murmurs - came from the lustful cooing of the pigeons, their interim pecking at the windows as they stabbed for the Autumn dead-leg wasps. (Damn those wasps, reminding me of the row with Shaun. Again.)

  My eyes roamed the sparseness of the whitewashed walls for a while.

  “Michael – this place. Your flat here. It baffles me. It’s so very different to your cottage in Mottram…”

  He hoisted himself back onto one arm and double-bent a pillow, propping his head up against it, as he gazed at me.

  “How do you mean? Because there are no marauding Stalyvegas types? No die-hard constituency evangelists like Graham the Griper - getting his knickers in a twist about the latest scandal over the timing of traffic lights and cars that queue-jump the outside lane on Mottram Moor?”

  I smiled. “No.” He kissed the hollow between my collarbone and neck. “No, silly. I mean that your place in Mottram is a bit more… well. Mad. Messy…”

  He shrugged.

  “I suppose that it does seem rather peculiar. Given that I spend a lot more of my work time in London than up in the constituency. You’d think that this place would be a bit more of a bomb-site, wouldn't you? But actually, I’d say that my home here is less about me. More detached, if you like. I always feel that…�
��

  But his words were interrupted as my phone began to beep. I shuffled off the bed and rooted around in my bag to switch the sound down. The constant pings and burps of emails and texts had irritated me all night after retiring to bed, but I hadn’t had the wherewithal to leave the arms of Michael in order to tackle it.

  “Oh, bollocks. Just look at this!” I brought my hand back out of the suitcase pocket and showed him the phone. It was covered in something brown and sticky. “Before we left the house yesterday, I asked them both to help me with a quick tidy up and one of them - Matthew probably - shoved a piece of ‘Marmite toast’ into the pocket.”

  The little git had also stashed away some broken chalk in there. And a popped balloon.

  “God, even my suitcase is a shambles. You should see my house, Michael. I mean, how the hell do people manage to keep their homes clean and tidy? How do you keep your place here so pristine?”

  “Easy,” answered Michael. “You make a very conscious decision never to have children because they’re horrid, demanding little things. And instead, you opt to hang about with the slutty sorts who can’t even keep a clean and respectable suitcase – but who at least you can get a good, hard shag from once in a while…”

  His fingers beckoned me back to the bed and I shook my head.

  “No. Bugger off. You’re a right one, you know, Michael. Most people who aren’t keen on kids at least try and pretend to like them when faced with the parents of small children…”

  He considered this.

  “Well, I’m not a complete ogre. If there did happen to be a couple of kids hanging around the place today, I’d at least try and be nice to them. I’d let them go and sit outside in the ministerial car with Brian, or whoever, for twenty-four hours.”

  I crawled back onto the bed and he began to kiss the back of my neck, but the mention of Special Protection outside reminded me;

  “Do you ever wonder if the flat could be bugged?” Michael moved his face away, looked around the bedroom and then whispered in my ear;

  “Does it matter? Can we not be a bit exhibitionist about these things? Would it really bother you if someone was listening in?”

  I chewed my thumb. “I don’t know. I’ve never really had to think about it before. Well. I wouldn’t want my parents hearing this. Or my children. Or the woman next door…”

  “It’s a man next door,” said Michael “He’s very high up at City Hall. Good pal of the mayor.”

  “No. I meant the old lady. The woman who lives next door to me. Mrs Finnigan,” I replied.

  “Well what on earth would Mrs Finnigan be doing here in London?” he asked, nibbling my earlobe.

  “Oh, stop it!” I answered. “No – not the earlobe thing. You can carry on with that. I mean, joking about being bugged. I can’t believe that you could be so blasé about that kind of thing.”

  He half sat up, but moved his hand to my inner thigh and murmured;

  “Yes, well. It goes with the territory, I’m afraid. Unpleasant as it is – the thought of someone listening to us right now - it’s hardly like we’re talking government secrets, is it? It’s not like I’m in bed with the Secretary of State for Home Affairs, is it?”

  I scowled at him.

  “So, you don’t mind – because you’re in bed with some bit of fluff from Up North. Someone whose brain wouldn’t be able to retain a state secret, if you happened to mention one …”

  He dropped his head to one shoulder and fixed me with the steely-Chiswick gaze. The one he liked to whip out of the bag for evil journalists and members of the Opposition.

  “Actually, Rachael, I don’t mind being ‘listened in to’ anytime. Because in my opinion, if you’re going to get to the top of this profession, you’d be pretty stupid not to think that you aren’t – sometimes – being listened to by others. You have to think ahead in this game. For example, if you assume that every conversation is being overheard, well, it can put you on a different playing field to the rest of the amateurs….”

  I prodded a finger into his chest.

  “Get you – Mr Politician Big Shot. Mr Risk Taker… Mr Bring 'Em On!”

  He shut me up by pinning me down and attempting to tickle me. I only managed to get him off me by threatening to wet the bed. Well, it always works for Lydia when Grandad is getting a bit silly with her.

  We spent the rest of Saturday morning horizontal, but headed out for a lazy lunch in a local coffee bar. By the end of the afternoon, as the light was fading, we were back in bed and remained there, ordering a pizza delivery - rather than leaving for the outside world again. I wondered how Michael was managing to ignore his mobile phone, but he simply said;

  “This is one weekend that I decided to have a proper break from everything. So, if they want me, well – the people that really matter – they've got my landline number.”

  So much frenetic sexual activity was accompanied by the best sleep that I had had in nearly two years.

  Adam and I had barely found the time for sleep - never mind the opportunity or the energy to have sex – during our last couple of years together, what with the jobs and the kids.

  But Shaun and I? Well. We found the time for sex, alright. At the price of a considerable chunk of my sanity.

  On Sunday morning I awoke to a peculiar cooing noise. But it was just the pigeons again. I squirmed up against Michael, snaking my hand around to the small of his back, my fingertips brushing up against the welts of scarring. “War wounds,” he had joked - the first time that I had noticed them. But he hadn’t elaborated on his comments. I kept meaning to ask him about them but the time never seemed to be right.

  My phone began to trill and I scrambled out of bed - a naked scamper over to my bag.

  “Rach?” It was Vicki. “There’s been a bit of an accident.”

  At those words my spine seemed to crumple.

  Somehow, I found myself sitting on the bedroom floor. Trying to speak, but only managing a half-croak – What? - into the phone as it very nearly slipped from my grasp.

  There was a pause as Vicky collected herself.

  “No, sweetie - nothing bad! God, no – don’t worry – not that type of… Oh, sorry petal, no. It’s just me. I got out of bed, half-asleep, to let the cat out and I tripped down the stairs. They think I’ve broken my ankle.”

  “Oh…Oh, thank God. I thought…”

  “I know. I’m sorry… for making you think…”

  “No, it’s just that…”

  “No – no. No. Really – it’s just me. I should have… Sorry. Look. We’re okay. We’re at the A and E now. Me and Lydia. Liddy even phoned for an ambulance for me - bless her. She’s been a little star.” I could hear Lydia’s voice in the background, protesting;

  “And I’ve had no breakfast yet. Nowt!”

  “So, they’re just going to x-ray me and see what’s what. But I can’t really look after her for the rest of the day. And… I think I could do with a bit of help getting home from the hospital…”

  “Oh. Of course. Thank God. Sure.” Relief pouring through my veins. The blood began to pound in my ears;

  Left, right, left, right. Like soldiers marching a drill in my head, as my heart tried to unscramble itself. Back to normality.

  Michael shuffled to the side of the bed, concern etched into his face.

  Return to Logic, Rachael. Rationality, please.

  “Okay, Vicky,” I folded my hand over my eyes, trying to screen out Michael’s piercing stare. Trying to dredge up a semblance of privacy. “So, Vick… tell me where you are? I’ll come and get you. We’ll get a… we’ll taxi you back, or whatever.”

  From having lived in London many moons ago, I knew that St. Tommy’s was just a hop and a skip away, on the Northern Line. I promised her that I would be there ASAP. Then I hung up. At this point, all attempts at mustering some sort of dignity collapsed. My hands began to flap at my face as I tried to gulp down oxygen. Michael moved off the bed. He was kneeling beside me;

  “
What’s happened?”

  I tried to explain, but the words didn’t seem to be arriving in the correct order. His hands were on my shoulders.

  “Jesus. You’re freezing, Rachael. You’re… you're shaking like a leaf.”

  A rapid spooling back from my subconscious. To the day when the police arrived on the doorstep. I suddenly remembered all of it.

  I had been catching up on The Archers - although Lydia had been drowning out the crisis over effective silage as she watched her DVD of ‘Cats’ at top volume for the umpteenth time. Matthew had just tried to eat a fading poinsettia because Lydia had told him it was a magical plant from Father Christmas.

  We were due to attend the birthday party of some random kid from Liddy's class – a child who I had never even met. But all of a sudden, it was a change of plans.

  The female police officer had urged me to take a seat at my own kitchen table. She had a small hole in her black fifty-denier tights, just below the knee. I thought:

  Bet she bought them from Primark in Leeds. Because I tried to get a pair that were ribbed like hers were, the other week. And Huddersfield don’t offer the same range. And it's not like I want to go all Harvey Nicks but it'd be nice if provincial towns got a look in on a decent hosiery selection, once in a while;

  This blokey copper-fella wants to tone down the aftershave a bit. And it's true what they say about the police looking younger these days. Bet he's never even heard of Adam Ant;

  I’ve just spent a fiver on a crap birthday present for a five year old kid who’ll never get to see it. Who can we give it to, instead? Or should I just send it in via school in the morning with an apologetic note – sorry for our absence yesterday - but Daddy had just been killed and I didn't fancy chatting with competitive mums about SATs scores and gluten-free biscuit products.