Cuckoo in the Chocolate

by Chris Longden

  “Right. I do hear what you’re saying. I wish that…”

  And now he stepped closer to me, so that the tip of my nose was only inches from his chest. I said nothing. I let him continue.

  “Okay. So. You’re serious about this? About me signing this stuff for you? You really think that you can make a go of it; turn your women’s centre into something successful? Bring the money in big time. You’re certain of it?”

  “I know I can.”

  His hand moved to my hair. He tucked the strands behind my ear, smoothing them down.

  “I think – know - you can, too. If anyone can make it happen. You can.”

  His hand continued to stroke my hair. A slight rustle of starchy shirt as he moved even closer to me. I inhaled a puff of fabric conditioner - but beneath the domestic overtures, I breathed in his scent. The traces that had first spiked my own lunatic pheromones some sixteen years ago, were still there - powerful and sweet, behind the citrus tones of proudly pressed cotton and of designer aftershave.

  “Look, Stan, I didn’t mean to mess you about like that. In the past. And in many ways things… are okay between me and Jess. But I just… miss you. I miss the fire. Your fire.” His fingers began to massage my shoulder gently. It felt good to be touched by him again.

  Damn. Shit and Bollocks.

  He continued;

  “I don’t understand it myself… how I’ve behaved before. And I know that it’s not been the usual way of ... being involved. Me and you. Having a relationship, or whatever you want to call it, I mean. But I can’t imagine the thought of the rest of my life. Going without you.”

  His fingers moved up to my neck. To my earlobe. I stood, rooted to the spot - as the ritual began. This wasn’t supposed to be happening; not ever again. I’d sworn off this – I had gone cold turkey for long enough now. But paralysis to any resistance was setting in. A dark, velvet-coated voice whispered to me, to go on. To forget about the bitterness, the disappointments of today, of the last few years. That it would be easier to give in and to enjoy something that I hadn’t felt in a long time.

  Remnants of my conversation with Dawn began to drift forwards from the recesses of my mind. Endorphins and chemicals. I tried to think about de-coding again, about common sense and psychological insight. Logic can be a very powerful tool for changing one’s behaviour of course but…

  His bottom lip brushed against mine, urging me to kiss him back. He was drinking me in before he devoured me. He always did that.

  I didn’t push him away.

  But I didn’t respond either. Even though he was the instigator. Was I testing him - or myself?

  His fingers toyed with the opening of my dressing gown as his mouth moved to my ear, hushed tones;

  “You want your loan. You want me. And I want you. Let’s not have any more talk about you having had a crappy deal of it in the past. Let’s make a better arrangement. One that works for us both. I’ll sign over the loan for you and you can… “

  His mouth was back onto mine as he nudged my backside against the window sill.

  Bad move, Shaun.

  Because I suddenly remembered that Mrs Finnigan might be able to see us from her kitchen window and that this little performance would certainly scandalise her more than the recalcitrant bin men ever could.

  And then Matthew joined in the moment; a lusty bellow echoing from upstairs;

  “No! Not jam! I want Marmite! Not Hovis! White bread!”

  I broke away, knocking the edge of a wine glass with my elbow and hoping that I hadn’t knocked red wine all over the living room carpet. Well, sod it if I had. Perhaps even a mollycoddled-Shaun was capable of finding some kitchen roll and a cloth. I took the stairs two at a time. Normally I would ignore the odd night time call-out from my son - especially if it was only about Marmite as opposed to mutating monsters, that he might have accidentally been exposed to on a fifteen-rated film last week. But fortune had granted me a reason to get away from Shaun for a few seconds.

  Matthew was fine. He was the kind of kid who often shrieked out strange connotations of conversation in his sleep, but Shaun wouldn’t know this. Shaun’s only experiences of nocturnal interruptions involved Ozzy, his cat, scratching the front door to be let out. Or an over-enthusiastic accordion player going for it big time on Chorlton’s Beech Road.

  Matthew was fast asleep, nestled against a rather uncomfortable-looking bed fellow – a large cardboard cereal box which contained four dummies that he hadn’t seen in over a year. Little swine must have found where I had hidden them in the back of the pantry. Rosebud lips puckered as he slumbered; a smooth brow and that chunky little chest rising and falling beneath his Incredible Hulk onesie. So much like Adam when he was asleep. He even used the same deep sleep posture; on his back, arms raised above his head as though he was halfway through doing the Mexican Wave.

  I tiptoed into the bathroom, locked the door and took out my mobile which I had stuffed into my dressing gown pocket earlier on. (Good move, Rachael). I jabbed my finger onto the word ‘Kate’. This was definitely the kind of situation that required a check-in with my oldest pal.

  Kate and I had met at Saint Christopher's at the age of eleven when, lured by surplices and song, I had started attending the choir. At first, we had been churchy-rivals, her having been chosen to be the Rose Queen and me not even getting a look in. This was because her mother was very much involved in the church and happened to be dead good at sewing. Yes, Kate’s mum had pledged to the Rose Queen committee that if her daughter was elected as Queen, she would be able to run up dresses for the Queen and her retinue - no-problemo - because she was already a seamstress and ran the big-knicker stall on Stalybridge market. My mum, however, couldn’t even be bothered to make a pitch to the committee as to what our little family could offer the church, advising me;

  “You know full well that we don’t have a sewing machine. And that your dad won’t allow you to stick paper roses onto his Datsun. And he’d never let you sit on the car – for fear of you denting it. In fact, this time next year you’ll be even bigger if you carry on with the Mars Bars like you're doing at the moment. No. I can't help you, I'm afraid.”

  At the time, I had felt rather embittered about her lack of interest in my ambition to become a local celeb - plus her blatant ignorance on such matters; because everybody knew that Rose Queens represent Christ on Earth and are dignified in all manner of church and civic affairs. Yes, everybody across the whole of the North West knew that it was the Carnival Queens who did the car bonnet thing; who got to sit on the front of their dad’s car when it had been plastered in a bed of fake roses as they toured every Mancunian summer Sunday festival. These lasses had velvet capes, fake crowns and they waved demurely at the crowd. They were surrounded by a procession of local performers - kazoo majorettes - or those long lines of girls who wore lots of medals and slapped their mini-skirted thighs in time to the music. (Now there’s a talent that we no longer fully value in today's society.) Yes. The Carnival Queen scene was all very secular.

  Later, however, I was relieved at my parents’ lack of interest in Anglican society. Because after Kate had been crowned - during one of the beetle drives to raise funds for the Rose Queen minibus - her dad was caught with his pants-down; having it away with the mother of one of the retinue girls named Becky Kavanagh. The fornication took place in the vicar's vestry. And the congregation only discovered their philandering ways when it turned out that Nosey Norman –the church warden – had installed a fully functioning video camera in the poky little room; a mission to catch the person who had been pilfering communion wine and the Cadbury’s crème eggs for our Easter service distribution. On hearing the scandal, my dad had commented to me;

  “See love – it’s a funny old world. Your mother always knows best. If I’d let you plonk your arse on the bonnet of my car and be the Rose Queen – it might have been me having a bit of rumpy-pumpy with Becky Kavanagh’s mother in the vestry. Come to think of it, she’s not a bad lookin
g woman actually…”

  I had said;

  “Dad! Don’t you know anything? It's the Carnival Queens with the car bonnet thingy! A Rose Queen is…”

  But my mother had shot him a filthy look, so he quickly changed tack;

  “Mind you, Becky Kavanagh's mum is a bit on the hefty side for me. And speaking of arses, how the hell she managed to fit that one of hers - into that tiny little vestry at all - is beyond me…”

  So, it had been a fast 1980s divorce for Kate’s parents. And an early political awakening, involving much anti-royal sentiment, for Kate. Plus, a lifelong hatred of the Anglican church and fondant-filled chocolate eggs.

  The phone rang out for what seemed like forever and then she answered with;

  “Oh. It’s you. All shagged-out from your rampant sex sessions in London? Finally decided to pick up the phone and call your best mate?”

  Kate, Vicky and Jake Bamber were the only people aware that I had been seeing Michael. Although Shaun had clearly cottoned onto the whole thing.

  “Later, Kate. I’m in the middle of a bad situation right now. I need some advice.”

  “Well, it better be good – ‘cause I’ve got a stack of parents’ reports to write for my year twos again. I’m boring myself shitless with having to put things like; ‘He’s been trying really hard this term’ when what I really want to put is ‘Can’t stand the little git, what were you thinking? Had you never heard of the Abortion Act?’ Plus, Rachael, guess what? I’ve got headlice again. I seriously need to change careers — ”

  I cut her off with a hissed;

  “Kate! Shut it. This is an emergency!” and then gave her a twenty second update. An outline on the argument with Michael and that Shaun had just called round to see me. She gave me calm and unbiased words of wisdom;

  “What the frig? Get him out of the house! What the hell are you thinking of? Tell him to sod off back to West Didsbury or wherever he lives - and shove some stuffed olives up his arse or something!”

  “I can’t, Kate. I’m in a real palaver here. I’ve got to get him to sign these documents - saying that the council are going to back our social enterprise loan. And if we don’t get the loan… we go bust - ‘cause the council can’t fund us anymore.”

  “Oh, right. So – I’m guessing that Shaun is playing around with you here. Maybe asking for a piece of the action in return for his signature — ”

  “Hey - God, you’re good at this — ”

  “And are you tempted?”

  “He sort of… kissed me.”

  “You don’t sort of kiss someone, Rachael. And… oh, whatever. Look. I know you. And I know all about him and you and just how bloody stupid you can be when you’re around each other. So, okay. And you don’t need to answer me on whether you’re tempted or not. I’m not a total div. But just stop and think for a moment. I mean - what happened to you and Michael? It sounded good. Positive.”

  “It was. But Lydia ruined it all with her Jesus badge.”

  “Come again?”

  “Don’t you watch the news?”

  “No! I’m a teacher for Christsake! I’ll check it out at three AM or something. But look… whatever. This is Shaun that we’re talking about! Fair enough, we’ve all got our womanly drives. But come on! Not Shaun. If you end up doing that, I mean sure - you’ll get the signature that you need. But you’ll be back there again. Broken your vow. Dancing to his tune. Back in his pocket. At his beck and call. Every cliché in the book. Every sad case scenario that you warn your women at the centre about.”

  “I know, I know. But…” My phone bleeped and I saw ‘Michael Calling’ flash up on the screen. I told Kate this.

  “Take the call! Take the call, you daft sod! I’ll hang on – keep me on the other line!”

  I obeyed, answered the call and immediately Michael’s voice came on;

  “Rachael. I just wanted to say that I’m profoundly sorry for all the misunderstanding today. I didn’t mean to upset you and — ”

  I interrupted him, gabbling,

  “Michael – I’m really sorry too. And I’m so glad that you called. But I’m just having a bit of a crisis right now with Matthew. I’ll call you back in ten minutes, I promise.”

  His voice sounded surprised, but not hostile, “Yes, of course. Fine. Speak in a bit.”

  Back to Kate.

  “He apologized, Kate. Things seem okay. I’ve got — ”

  “Great. So, ring Michael back in a bit, when you've got rid of Shaun,” Kate told me. “Now. I’ve just been thinking. We’re… what? A good fifteen minutes’ drive from you. But. Ah. Hang on. Yes. Listen. Just stay in the loo for another ten minutes. I think that we need a double whammy here. Yes. Stay in the bathroom for ten. And then go downstairs and tell Shaun that Matthew has the squits, something terrible; and you need to go and sort out the mess that’s everywhere. A good dose of diarrhoea usually dampens the ardour of most randy buggers in my experience. And then… you need to threaten him. So's that he'll sign your document thingy.”

  “Threaten?”

  “Yes. Bribe him. He’s done it enough times to you over the years, in his own very particularly charming and manipulative way. And from what you just said, he’s still clearly happy to engage in a bit of that this evening.”

  “I’m not sure how… I could.”

  “Oh, come on Rachael. Stop being so bloody naïve. You tell him that if he doesn’t sign, you’ll turn up at Jess’ workplace or whatever. Present her with the evidence. From back in the old days. And that you’ll let her know about the stuff that happened between you two again after the funeral, last year…”

  I breathed hard. “But I couldn’t, Kate. That’d be… just nasty. Horrible. I’m not that sort of a — ”

  “Tough shit. You probably wouldn’t have to do it. ‘Cause the tosspot is a coward at the end of the day. A total and utter, twatty… twatty-arsed moral coward. And what’s more important? Playing your hand with a bit of bribery? Or keeping Sisters’ Space open?”

  “Well. Hmmm. Right. Yeah, right. You might have a point there…”

  “You know that I bloody well do. Now, man up. Grab a cold shower or whatever - just in case meladdo tries it on with you the minute you open the bathroom door. And I’ll be calling you in a bit. So, you had better answer the phone. Don’t ignore it. You’ve done that to me before, Rachael - when you explicitly asked me to ring you if you were at risk of having a shag yet again, with His Nibs. So, you bloody well owe me for that. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I side-stepped the idea of a cold shower. But never one to waste time, I spent the next ten minutes cleaning the bath. Shaun would be getting annoyed a bit by now. Good.

  And then I returned to the lounge. Shaun had propped himself against the windowsill, awaiting my return, but he had turned the TV on and was watching Channel Four news, arms folded. He pointed the remote at the TV and switched it off. Held his hand out to me; let’s resume matters.

  No. I’m staying put.

  “Sorry about that,” I shrugged and offered up the fib; “Matthew’s got diarrhoea. It’s an awful mess up there. I’ve had to put him into my bed, but I do need to go back up to him. It’s going to take me ages to sort it out. I’ve tried scraping the worst of it off the sheets, but…”

  The outstretched hand now flipped into Stop mode. “Spare me the details.” Shaun didn’t do chatting about bodily functions unless it was dirty sex talk, slap bang in the middle of the carnal action.

  I scrunched my nose up.

  “Yeah. I probably stink of shit myself! Ha! Anyway. I’d best get back to up there. But before you go home, let’s sort out the signature thing…”

  He shook his head. Taking a stance.

  “No go, Stan.” His eyes twinkled. “Unless we come to some other kind of agreement. Like we were talking about just now.”

  But I breezed right on, wind beneath my sails for once.

  “Okay. Well. I’ve got another kind of ar
rangement in mind. Just after getting the worst of the cack off the sheets upstairs, I had an idea. I used Matthew’s Spiderman notepaper to draft a little missive. As you know, I’ve got a cracking memory for random things like phone numbers and Andrew Lloyd Webber song lyrics. And it also works for times, dates and places.”

  He sighed. What's she on about now?

  “So yeah, Shaun. I thought that Jess might appreciate a letter – or two – about all those times. You know. When she was away on her religious retreats or when she was skydiving to raise money for lepers in the Congo. I’ve even got a wee list of B and Bs that we stayed at. I can dig out receipts as the proof, too. You know that I’ve always been a bit of a hoarder.”

  He jerked forward from the window ledge; I carried on

  “And for our more recent liaisons, I've even got a long list of car parks. With the exact dates of when we frequented them and where you told me you were supposed to be. And of course, the fact that I know where every mole and every birth mark on your body happens to be located.”

  I saw his fists flex, but he tried to resume with his usual unruffled mode. Pretending that the words hadn’t hit their intended target. He said;

  “You wouldn’t do something as underhand as that. You’re not that — ”

  But that muscle at the corner of the left eye was a dead giveaway.

  I shook my head and finished the sentence for him.

  “… kind of a person. No. But needs-must. Think about it. As much as I’ve enjoyed shagging you over the years, keeping Sisters’ Space open is a little bit more important to me. For the women. Other people's jobs and – my job too. Ensuring that my house isn’t repossessed.”

  I gave him a big smile. See? He clearly didn't, so I carried on;

  “So, if I can find a way to do this, that makes me feel empowered - as opposed to what you’re offering me – which sounds worryingly like little old me having to perform blow jobs for you - entirely on your terms - then I’d be an idiot not to do it, wouldn’t I?”