One Of Our Jeans Is Missing

by Paul Charles

  As the sound of Hendrix increased a few decibels, my beanbag companion said, ‘Ah, Tiger’s reappeared.’ She took a sip of her wine and continued, ‘It’s not as bad as you say it is. But then again they tell me the secret at parties is to tell everyone your favourite drink is crap so that there’ll be more of it left for yourself.’ She then looked at my drink, next at me and she broke into a smile as her green-eyed stare returned to my drink again.

  I raised it to her.

  ‘Right then, at least we all know where we stand.’

  ‘Or sit.’

  ‘Or sit,’ she said, before laughing and raising her own glass.

  ‘Listen, I’m David Buchanan.’

  ‘Oh I say, you’re not going to try to pick me up now are you?’

  ‘No, not at all! And besides, it’s a devil on the old back lifting someone out of a beanbag.’

  ‘Ha. Ha. Ha,’ she mocked.

  ‘No, I wasn’t trying to pick you up. I wouldn’t, I’ve come with someone else.’

  ‘So you really are a gentleman,’ she said, going for another sip.

  ‘Well,’ I replied, I could actually hear the surprise in my voice, ‘no, not really. It’s just not something I would do, gentleman or not.’

  ‘By any chance is this someone else you’ve come with, your girlfriend?’

  ‘Well, not exactly, no,’ I offered, surprised at the honesty of my own answer. I was trying to figure out if this was because I didn’t consider Jean to be my girlfriend or, because, I liked this new girl enough to be subconsciously sending out a ‘perhaps later’ signal? And anyway, how do you send out a ‘perhaps later’ signal? Is that what I’d been doing my whole life? I mention this here because there just might be a degree of truth in it.

  ‘Either she is your girlfriend or she isn’t, David,’ she replied, seeming to be enjoying the conversation.

  I loved the way she said my name. She said it gently and, to my ears at least, she imbued it with great importance. People of breeding (and money) can do that. But you need the breeding and the money together.

  ‘Well, what about if she was my friend?’ I asked.

  ‘If she was your friend, commonly referred to as just a good friend, then you could go find her now and tell her you’d met someone and you were chatting to them and something might happen and would she, your just good friend, be okay to find their own way home.’

  ‘That would be a bit rude though, wouldn’t it?’ I replied, barely resisting the temptation to inquire whether something might happen.

  ‘Well okay, so how would you deal with that situation, were that to be the situation?’ She said, emphasising her italics – she sure liked her italics did this girl.

  ‘Well, I’d tell the girl I just met that I’d arrived with someone, a friend, and that a friend is always a friend and never just a friend. I’d tell her I’d like to see her again and try to exchange numbers for another time and I’d see my original friend home.’

  She eyed me up and down as she took in all this information, apparently assessing what I’d just said. I think it was during this moment that I fell for her, fell for her hook, line and sinker. In those precious few moments she replaced Barbara Parkins as the most attractive person I’d ever seen.

  It’s amazing, all the things that float round your head when you first meet a woman. We all seem to be doing the same thing, even if only subconsciously: ‘Is there a potential relationship here?’ you ask yourself. Your brain replies ‘No!’ but then you go, ‘Well why on Earth not?’ And the why on Earth not bit can be down to a million different things, ranging from the fact that they’re married to they’re too big, too small, too short, too tall, too forward, too shy. And each and every one of these factors has numerous sub-sections. Then if you miraculously manage to come across someone who finds his or her way through that series of assessments, then what happens? Well, then you’ll discover that they are currently running their own series of equally stringent assessment tests on yourself. How much of this assessment is simply for a quick bonk and how much of it is to find the perfect life partner? Or is that all part of the same assessment? ‘Yes, he’s fine for a quick fling but not for a husband.’ I’d be ever so lucky if that was what Mary Skeffington was thinking.

  ‘What is your problem then, David?’ she asked, adopting a serious tone, ‘you’re good looking, you dress well, you’ve got excellent manners, you don’t swear all over the place and you don’t seem to chase everything that’s in a skirt, so there must be something wrong with you? I’m just intrigued to know what it is.’

  To be perfectly honest my vanity hadn’t let me get much further than ‘you’re good looking’ – in fact, I was stuck in that statement for a few revolutions. Oh yeah, and then there was the bit about dressing well. What this? This little old waistcoat? Did you know it cost me thruppence at a jumble sale? These corduroy shoes (by that point I’d given up on the desert boots)? They’re very comfortable. This clean, self-ironed, white shirt? It always seemed to look its best under the waistcoat and with simple black trousers. Before I’d a chance to bask too much in this glory she hit me again.

  ‘So, are you going to tell your friend you’ve met someone?’

  I hesitated for literally just one heartbeat too long while considering whether or not to ask, ‘Have I met someone?’ And whether or not I should tell Jean Kerr. But that moment’s hesitation gave me away and she was down on me like a ton of bricks.

  ‘My case rests, Your Honour,’ she crowed. ‘Guilty as charged. Take the man in the green corduroy shoes back to the cells. I’ll charge him later when I find out the mitigating circumstances.’

  ‘Ah, woe is me. It would be just my luck to get the hanging judge,’ I groaned. The music was so loud that I now ventured to lean in close, in order that we could hear each other. But I wasn’t expecting anything quite so exotic as the mixture of aromas that filled my nostrils as I moved in. I was scared I was going to start sniffing her in public – maybe that would also be another charge to add to my conviction list. But it nearly would have been worth it. Firstly she smelled clean, incredibly clean. I don’t really know any other way to describe it; perhaps there was a lingering scent of the soap she’d used. Then there was a drop or two of her heather-tinted perfume and then just the ever so slight hint of perspiration. Yes, a totally intoxicating concoction.

  ‘Okay, I’ll save the black cap, but just for the moment. What facts do you want to be taken into consideration?’

  ‘Well look, no disrespect to her or anything like that, but it’s just that we seem to have drifted into some kind of relationship,’ I reluctantly started off by way of explanation, and then I found that I was quite happy to be voicing these things. Since my conversation with Jean Simpson about Jean Kerr’s plans for me, I had to admit to myself that I was genuinely concerned.

  ‘Oh that old chestnut,’ my new acquaintance said, chuckling before she helped herself to the remainder of her wine.

  And you’ll never guess what happened, at that precise moment the drunk lady in black was making her way very unsteadily towards us. This time she was balancing four glasses of wine in her hands and she mumbled and muttered something along the lines of ‘I knew you’d be ready for another by the time I came back and this just seemed easier,’ before she offered us the front two from the precarious cluster.

  ‘I hope that generous gesture will encourage you to be lenient,’ I said to my new friend. ‘Look, I’m with a girl, but it’s like we’ve jumped several of the stages in… all this.’

  I swung my free hand out over the masses of partygoers all chatting to each other before continuing.

  ‘And it’s not that’s she’s even head over heels in love with me, but I do appear to fit the bill as far as she’s concerned. I’m house trained and I don’t go around getting into trouble or insulting people, or at least that’s what she says. To be perfectly frank, I think she’d been in love once already and it didn’t work out, so, you know, it’s a bit like anything or a
nyone will do – I think she just wants to get on with it and get to the next part of the game. I think she’s hoping that this is going to be a more enjoyable round for her. But she hasn’t particularly enjoyed it so far. She’s been getting herself down about it recently and I just keep thinking that it’s not fair to pull the rug out from under her.’

  ‘Have you ever told her that you love her?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Never?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Never even when it meant you might get lucky?’

  ‘I haven’t, honest,’ I replied, and before I thought about what I was saying, I continued, ‘I haven’t needed to.’

  I felt like I was betraying Jean Kerr in a way. Sure, this girl didn’t know her but whatever Jean’s faults were I shouldn’t really be talking about her behind her back with a stranger. On the other hand I had never been able to discuss it with Jean herself, either. She would run a million miles rather than discuss something that didn’t fit into her master plan.

  ‘I apologise for being so indiscreet. I wasn’t meaning to be disrespectful, it’s just–’

  ‘I can see your problem,’ the judge began, ‘and when I return from the toilet I’ll give you my judgement.’ With that she placed her glass of wine in my free hand, rolled out of her beanbag onto the floor, stood up, placed her hands in her back pockets, Betty Davis style, and headed off in the direction of the bathroom.

  I sat amusing myself by watching people grow progressively drunker. I like a wee drink, as I have said, but I’m continuously intrigued by a human’s capacity for alcohol. I think if you were from another planet and you visited Earth for a few days, say, for the purposes of this particular point I’m trying to make, on a Friday and Saturday, and you observed mankind, well, you literally wouldn’t believe it. I mean, we spend most of our hard-earned cash pouring this vile liquid down our throats in vast quantities and then we either fall down, get aggressive with our fellow men or amorous with our fellow women (or sometimes even our fellow lamp posts, on both counts). Then we’ll be sick and vomit the drink and very probably the day’s intake of food all over our bathroom floor, which would need to be cleaned up the next morning, possibly even bringing up round two, which… well, hopefully you get the picture. Yes, I think our alien friends are going to report back to their masters that they don’t need to worry about us strange Earth Beings; just give us several pints of lager and we’ll be a pushover, literally. Don’t be alarmed about this though; by the time they manage to make the return trip to invade Earth you, and your children, and your children’s children, will be long gone.

  I’d reached this point of intergalactic comfort just at the moment that Jean Simpson came wandering past.

  ‘Any sign of John yet?’ I asked, from my lowly position.

  ‘No, David, no John!’ she hissed in uncharacteristic bad humour. She also sounded a little drunk (due to the cider in her hand no doubt) and a lot preoccupied (due to the missing Mr Harrison). She wandered off without either looking at me or saying a further word.

  Otis Redding’s classic album Otis Blue was now being played at full blast. I was lost in ‘Down in the Valley’ when a thud to my left brought me to my senses. The hanging judge had returned and she had plonked herself back down in the beanbag beside me.

  ‘Tell me David,’ she said, clearing her throat for what sounded like her final statement before the sentence was passed, ‘have you ever told any girl that you loved them?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You say that with such conviction, not a moment’s hesitation.’

  ‘But I haven’t! Believe me; I would know if I’d told someone I loved them. It would be the biggest moment of my life so far.’

  She seemed to grow lost in her thoughts. I thought I was losing her so I said, as you do, ‘Have you ever told anyone you loved them?’

  ‘I have,’ she replied, solemnly.

  ‘And has anyone ever said those words to you?’

  ‘They have.’

  ‘And,’ I said, continuing in my best Perry Mason voice, ‘is there any chance that the person you’ve told you love is the same one who has told you they love you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I declared, finding myself feeling slightly disappointed.

  ‘That was then,’ she muttered, glumly.

  ‘And now?’ I asked. They say in court you should never ask a question unless you are completely sure you want to hear the answer. I wasn’t completely sure that I wanted to hear the answer. I wasn’t sure I even cared. I just wanted to shift the burning hot spotlight away from myself.

  ‘Now he’s fallen for someone else.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Yes!’

  ‘Gagh,’ I whistled. ‘Ah well, you’ll find someone else.’

  I realised how crass I sounded as the words left my lips. But luckily the wine seemed to be taking effect on her, as she didn’t register that little misstep.

  ‘Yeah, I suppose so,’ she said, not even trying to hide the fact that she was now indulging me, ‘and you’ll find someone else as well?’

  ‘Well, that’s not exactly true,’ I offered, hoping I wasn’t sounding like Leslie Philips (ask your parents if you need to).

  ‘But you said…’ she began, fluttering those eyelashes at me.

  ‘Well, I suppose, you know, my friend is also with two other friends and maybe…’ The ideas flowed and I was racing ahead of myself.

  Honestly, before I’d a chance to say ‘No, it wouldn’t be right, another time perhaps’, the judge had pounced on me with, ‘There! Caught you! You’re not quite the gentleman you appeared to be after all. You leave me no option but to sentence you to listen to Tiger talk about Jimi Hendrix for an hour! I hope you learn from your mistakes.’

  I’d been well and truly wound up and it had worked, worked a treat, for her that is. Now I knew what it felt like to have the shoe on the other foot.

  ‘So all of that stuff you told me about your romantic life wasn’t true?’

  ‘Sadly, it’s all true,’ she said, before sighing.

  She put a hand on my shoulder to steady herself as she leaned in closer to my ear and once again her scents were hypnotising. I wondered if my breath smelled okay.

  ‘In my case, my boyfriend and I had been friends since we were about eleven. Goodness, it sounds like that Cher song, ‘Bang Bang’: “We rode on a horse made of sticks. Bang! Bang! He shot me down. Bang! Bang! I hit the ground.” Isn’t that how the lyrics go?’

  ‘Never been a fan, to be honest. I was already sickened by the number of times I had to endure ‘I Got You Babe’ on the radio.’

  ‘Oh I loved it! Or at least I used to love it. I could see my boyfriend and myself in the words of that song.’ The mention of her boyfriend appeared to realign her train of thought. ‘Anyway, we went from friends to falling in love hook, line and sinker. I resisted it in the beginning – I knew what was happening and I resisted it. I just thought it was too easy. Neither of us had experience of the real world and we’d never known anyone other than each other really. I was convinced, in spite of my feelings, that we were just going through some pre-ordained motions. And I felt I wanted to have some say in the matter, you know. Yes, society does want to continue and for it to continue man needs to lie with woman and create more of the species, who do more of the same ad infinitum.’

  ‘That’s incredible,’ I said, if only so that I could turn my mouth towards her ear and smell her instead of her smelling me. The scent was so intoxicating it made me forget what I was about to say. ‘That’s incredible,’ I repeated, stumbling somewhat but then finding a thread. ‘I think the same thing sometimes. I keep wondering what the whole attraction game is about. I mean, why are boys attracted to girls? You know, it’s got to be more than hair, and smell and lips and eyes and–’

  ‘Breasts and rears,’ she added, filling in the awkward bits for me.

  ‘Yes. Quite. Now you come to mention it, it’s got to be more than
that really, hasn’t it? There’s got to be something else that connects.’

  ‘Yes there is, David – I was just getting to that point. There’s the soul. That’s when it all clicked for me. When I realised that he and I were meant to be together because our souls had connected. That was the point I stopped fighting it. Yes, there were other things as well. Like I didn’t want the first time I made love to be with a stranger, a strange body. I knew him and he knew me. We’d grown up together. We’d seen each other’s bodies maturing. I wasn’t scared of him physically or sexually. I felt that was important. I felt that it was important that I didn’t get to know a man through sleeping with him. I didn’t want to start a relationship off with sex and mix up all the signals from there on in. That’s why it was easy for us to do what we did; we were making a spiritual connection. Of course I wanted to do it with him; it wasn’t a step I feared.’

  ‘And I thought it was perfect, but it obviously wasn’t. You see, I keep getting back to this: society and its rules, and the rules it uses to protect itself. If we hadn’t slept together at the point we did, would we still be together? You know, okay, so you’re not allowed or supposed to know this big secret until you vow to stay with each other forever and ever, Amen. It’s a great secret and it’s so important that you need to make a legally and spiritually binding agreement before you can partake. That way society ensures, to a degree, a monogamous relationship which is conducive to producing children, whereas if one thinks that one can keep changing partners, you know, trying to taste all the forbidden fruits out there, well you are less likely to want to bring children into the world to slow you down now, aren’t you?’

  ‘Good point,’ I said, completely spellbound by her story. It was certainly better than any of the fantasy stories in the Mayfair magazine. I couldn’t believe my ears really. Here was this beautiful young woman lounging beside me, telling me about sleeping with her boyfriend and the thought process she went through while deciding to sleep with him. Then this guy leaves her for someone else. I needed to hear more.