by R J Gould
‘Twenty Marlboro King Size, please, Carol. Everything all right with you?’
‘Mustn’t grumble, Penny. That’ll be £7.60, love.’
‘Here we are, I’ve got it exactly. Lil OK?’
‘Same as ever.’
‘See you soon.’
James had returned to the book collection. He came back to the counter as Penny headed out.
‘I was thinking about your utopia and dystopia,’ Carol said. ‘Don’t you think one person’s utopia is going to be someone else’s dystopia? It has to be. A man in charge, and it usually is a man, does something just to suit himself, that’s his utopia. Then everyone else suffers because of it, there’s the dystopia.’
‘An interesting idea.’
‘It’s what politicians are all about. The government thinks they’re setting up something or other to improve matters and the rest of us are in for a hard time. You know, even wars, awful for most of us, but there’s always going to be a person, again probably a man, saying how it’s needed to make the world a better place. And even worse, there’ll be others happy to be making loads of money selling weapons. I saw a TV programme last week about arms dealers, they’re a disgrace.’
Carol looked up and saw a smile that was either mocking or encouraging. She couldn’t tell which. ‘Dear me, I am rabbiting on.’
‘No, not at all, there’s a lot of truth in what you’re saying. I really do hope that you’ll come to my lecture, I think you’d enjoy it.’
‘I think I might.’
He pulled out a wad of crumpled sheets from his tweed jacket pocket. ‘Here, take a flyer.’ He stuffed the remainder back in his pocket with no attempt to keep them tidy. ‘I look forward to seeing you, Carol, it’s been a pleasure meeting you.’ He turned and headed for the door.
‘Excuse me!’
‘Yes?’
‘Erm, you ain’t paid for the newspaper.’
Jack Collingwood
Jack was peeved. Daft, really, because there was nothing wrong with Carol having a night out even though a lecture was an odd choice to say the least. But leaving him to make his own tea simply wasn’t right. He took the glass dish out the fridge and peeled back the silver foil. A third of yesterday’s meat loaf remained with gravy swilling around the base of the container. Four down and out roast potatoes were heaped in a corner. He replaced the foil and returned the dish to the fridge. He’d enjoyed yesterday’s meal and it would no doubt be fine heated up today, but he needed to make a point by leaving it, though exactly what that point was he didn’t know. A matter of principle, he decided.
He went to the pie shop, his first visit for months, and sat on the barstool facing the street with pork pie, chips, and two gherkins on a plate in front of him. He watched the first snow of the winter, too fine and infrequent to settle. Rather tasty, the food was. After eating he crossed the road to The Spread Eagle, considerably earlier than usual. None of his mates were in. In fact, it was completely empty but for Bert, the barman, and a couple in the far corner. They were huddled near enough to touch noses. Jack watched as they moved closer still and kissed; he was pleased for them. Then the woman pulled away from her man, looked up, and caught Jack’s eye. Clearly startled, she turned away and began to kiss again. Jack was equally shocked – it was Mary. He felt a tinge of jealousy, when he dumped her she’d said that she would never be able to to go with another man. What a lie that was. He spun round towards the bar and downed his pint.
‘Well, well, look who it is.’
He turned to face a voice he recognised. ‘Hello, Shirley,’ he said, alert to the possibility of attack, verbal or physical. ‘How are things with you?’
‘Great, I’m fine. It’s been a long time, ain’t it, Jack? Fancy another drink?’
‘Why not. Same again please.’ He handed Shirley his empty glass then sat down at the nearest table. He watched Shirley as she stood by the bar chatting away to Bert. Both of them were laughing away like old mates. Her black hair was bunched up and scruffily held together with a gold clasp. When he’d been going out with her she’d had her hair down, but what she’d done with it now suited her. She had on one of those padded jackets that made the wearer look like a tyre even if they were as thin as Lil, who had a black one with wide silver zippers at the front. Shirley’s was metallic brown, the same colour as the bronze statue in the foyer of the Camden Council building.
‘Wine? Thought you was a beer girl,’ he said as she rested the glasses on the rough wooded table. He could hardly get a word in as she chatted away about what had happened since they last spoke. Soon after their separation, and she was really sorry for that last night when she’d embarrassed him in front of all his mates, she’d gone up to Manchester to live with her sister, Lisa. She’d got a job as receptionist at Renaissance, quite a posh hotel near the centre. It was true what they said, people were much friendlier up north. Yes, she had a few flings, but nothing serious, she didn’t want that. Lisa had a lovely daughter, Charlotte, Charlie to everyone, and Shirley helped look after her. She could do that most weekdays as she mainly worked evenings. Then Lisa took over when she got back from her own job. Charlie’s father had nothing to do with them, Lisa didn’t even know where he lived any more. When a new bloke arrived on the scene there wasn’t really room for her anymore. Not just that, it got a bit complicated with the three of them, she’d rather not talk about why. Just to say that she had to leave quick and she decided to head back to Camden. She knew that hotel work was what she liked most and got a good reference from the manager at Renaissance.
‘Another drink, Shirl?’
‘Yes, Jack, it’s the Shiraz I’m drinking.’
How she’s changed, he thought as he stood up. So full of confidence and he’d forgotten what a looker she was. Such a coincidence meeting her during her first week back, too. Maybe there was such a thing as fate. By the time he’d returned she’d taken off her jacket and he must have been ogling at her low cut blouse because she fastened one of the buttons.
‘Ain’t you goin’ to give me that drink, Jack? Sit down.’
She asked about him, but once he’d got Carol and their marriage out of the way there wasn’t much else to tell. Same old work, or lack of it, same friends, going to the pub, the Gunners. So she went back to talking about herself, and blimey, she hadn’t half changed. Quite sophisticated what with salsa dancing, Indian and Thai cookery courses, an exercise that sounded something like “piratees”, and a reading group – why were so many women reading these days? He told her that Carol was at a lecture about books.
‘So that’s why she’s not with you tonight.’
‘She never comes up the pub.’
‘Why not?’
‘Don’t know really, I just come here to be with me mates.’
‘Same lot, I see,’ she said, looking across to a table at the far end of the room. He hadn’t noticed them come in, but was happy to stay with Shirley.
‘Another one?’ she asked, lifting his empty beer glass.
‘Lovely.’
A few beers later she invited Jack to see her new place. She was very proud of it, she said. It was right near the Holiday Inn where she had started work the day before. So they left the pub together, unsteadily tottering down Arlington Road and into Gloucester Crescent. Shirley lifted up her head and opened her mouth to catch the snowflakes. Jack copied her and when he started snapping his teeth together like a crocodile she laughed. She was still giggling as she tried to fit the key into the lock at number 24.
‘Here, let me do it,’ Jack offered.
‘Together.’
So he took hold of her hand, found the hole, turned the key, and entered a cosy, warm hall. It was getting quite nippy outside after the mild Christmas and New Year.
‘Another key, I’m afraid,’ she said, standing by the first door on the left. She held it up and he took hold of her hand again and found the lock. He was enjoying this, his head fuzzy from the eight beers.
‘Fully furnished it
is,’ she said proudly as they entered the lounge. She dropped into a red leather sofa. ‘Me feet are killing, Jack. Do us a favour, take me boots off, will ya.’
He knelt down beside her and started to undo the long run of laces on a high-heeled boot that went up to her knee. When he pulled the first one off she let out a long sigh and parted her legs a little, which made Jack hot under the collar. When the second one was off she put her hands on his shoulders and pulled herself up.
‘Going to change into something more comfortable, Jack. Help yourself to a drink. Beers are in the fridge, wine’s on the kitchen table, I think. You can find the glasses.’
By now Jack was drunk, confused, and aroused. To ease his arousal he tried to focus on Carol but instead thought of Lil, which didn’t help. He got up unsteadily. ‘Where’s the loo, Shirl?’ he called out.
‘In here, it’s en suite,’ she replied. He stumbled towards her voice and entered the bedroom. ‘Don’t mind me, Jack,’ she said, her back to him, wearing just a bra and a thong. ‘On your left there.’
He thought about plumbing to get his erection down to allow him to piss. Coupling – no, not coupling. Cock stop – no, not that either. Washer. Elbow. 28mm copper pipe. Hacksaw. Flux. Radiator. Valve pump. Finally, his strategy worked. By the time he left the toilet Shirley was out of the bedroom, back slumped on the sofa, a glass in each hand. She held out his beer. He looked down to a dressing gown of such thin material that he could clearly see through it and she was wearing nothing underneath.
‘What you looking at, you dirty old sod?’ She rested the drinks on the floor. ‘This better?’ With that, she opened her dressing gown and Jack was given a wonderful reminder of their time together as he caught sight of her small, firm breasts and dense bush of jet black pubic hair. ‘Fancy doin’ something for old time’s sake, Jack?’
‘Blimey, Shirley. You bet.’
‘Better take off your clothes then, hadn’t you.’
He tried to undress quickly but the alcohol slowed him down. He struggled to undo his shirt buttons and had to grab hold of the sofa arm to steady himself when taking off his trousers.
Shirley waited, smiling. Eventually he stood naked in front of her, apart from his socks pulled high up his ankles.
‘Socks off, Jack.’
He balanced precariously, first on one leg then the other as he pulled them off.
‘As beautiful as ever,’ she declared softly. ‘A photo, I must have a photo of you. I never got one when we were together, it’ll be a lasting memory.’ She leapt up, far more agile than he, searched through her bag and pulled out her phone. ‘Look at me, Jack.’
‘This is silly, Shirley.’
‘Come on, Jack, just one. Give us a really lewd look, like you’re just about to fuck me.’ He wasn’t too sure what a lewd look was like but gave it a go with his mouth open and tongue hanging out, ‘Perfect, that’s perfect,’ she continued. ‘Lewd Jack, lewd. Think fuck, Jack, fuck.’ The phone camera flashed. ‘There we are, all done.’
She replaced the phone and sank back into the sofa. Jack remained standing, unusually embarrassed. He put his tongue back inside his mouth and moved his hand to his side. Shirley’s head was bowed. She was quite still, almost sad looking.
‘What’s up, Shirl?’
‘I can’t do this, Jack. It’s not fair on Cheryl.’
‘Carol.’
‘Carol. It’s just not right, you gotta get dressed and go.’
With that she stood up, retied her dressing gown, and left the room. Jack just stood there, unsure whether to try to get her to change her mind. But when she came back she had winceyette pyjamas on underneath and he knew that was it. Clearly she had made up her mind so he did as she said, he got dressed and prepared to leave.
At the front door he turned and reciprocated her broad smile.
Fiona Derbyshire
Fiona had told Henry that she was meeting up for dinner with a long-lost school friend.
Riddled with guilt, she drove to Waitrose to buy the best she could find for Henry’s meal. It was the least she could do. Between parking the car and getting out it began to snow, soft blobs of white floating down and melting as they touched the pavement. She held out both hands to catch some flakes then wiped her moist hands across the sides of her coat. Her anxiety waned as she entered the supermarket. A visit to Waitrose had a calming effect on her – the range of high-quality produce, the wide aisles, the polite staff, and never a long queue at the check outs.
She was going to treat Henry to either fillet steak or Dover sole, depending on what was recommended at the fresh meat and fish counter. Brussels sprouts to go with it, her least favourite vegetable but Henry loved them. Potatoes with rosemary for roasting, and she would get them going before she left. For dessert, a slice of New York cheesecake and some Green and Black’s vanilla ice cream.
Ahead of her a woman was deep in discussion with a young girl, a pretty little thing with wild, curly blonde hair rolling over the collar of a cherry red and pistachio green-striped coat that had OshKosh B’Gosh in silver italics across the back. They were examining yoghurts.
‘Not that one, darling, it’s full of sugar.’ The mother was wearing fabulous looking ankle-length grey suede boots, tight-fitting blue denim jeans, and a black leather jacket tapered at her slim waist. Fiona pined for her shape. She’d been like that once but was a long way off it now.
‘But I like the picture on mine, Mummy. It’s a clown, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, you clever girl, it is a clown. But look what Mummy’s holding, a different pot. See this very long word. C-a-r-b-o-h-y-d-r-a-t-e. That spells ‘carbohydrate’ and we don’t want too many of those.’ She lifted the pot closer to her daughter. ‘What’s the number next to that big word, Melissa?’
‘A one, then a two, then a dot, then more two.’
‘The dot is a decimal point.’
‘What is a detinal point, Mummy?’
‘It tells you how to divide a number.’
‘What is divide, Mummy?’
‘Err, breaking up a number into smaller bits, darling. This number is 12 decimal point 2. Now look at the pot you’re holding. Is the number bigger or smaller than this one?’
The little girl looked perplexed. ‘Smaller,’ she guessed.
‘Is it?’
‘No, bigger.’
‘Yes, well done, Melissa. What a brilliant girl you are. Let’s take the pot with the smaller number.’
‘But I like the other pot more, Mummy, I want the clown.’
‘Never mind, Melissa, just put this one in and then we can return the clown pot to the shelf with its friends.’
With as much force as she could muster Melissa threw the pot her mother had handed her into the basket.
‘You shouldn’t throw it, Melissa, you’ll split the cart … oh dear, you have. Never mind, let’s take it out and get another one. Shall I put it in this time?’
‘No, me.’
‘No, I’ll do it, Melissa.’
‘No, me.’
‘No, I said I’ll do it.’
‘Me! Me!’
‘All right, but do be careful, darling. You mustn’t drop it on the raspberries, they’re very delicate. If you squash the poor things they’ll be very upset.’
End of Act 1, thought Fiona, deciding to move on. Guilt resurfaced as she arrived at the meat and fish counter to ask the assistant for his advice on whether to buy Dover sole or steak.
‘I’d go for a steak any day,’ he said, completely misinterpreting the point of her question.
‘But what is freshest today?’
‘Everything we sell is fresh, madam.’
‘I’ll take the fish. Just one, that one please.’
It was Sally Butler who had sown the now-blossoming seed. It’s just like shopping, she had said.
JusttheOne.com had a list of men from Aaron to Zak, each with a photograph, brief autobiography, and an outline of what type of woman they were looking for. Emerg
ing from a cursory browse on the day of her discovery, over the past weeks the website had become an obsession. Each weekday morning Fiona would wave Henry off, make a cappuccino, line up two biscotti, and begin to browse, setting her favoured age range as 45 to 55 with London her chosen location. Every day some of her favourites disappeared and new men arrived. Before long she extended her research well beyond those men who might be of interest to her, accessing a diverse range of women and men’s profiles and having a go at virtual matchmaking.
Man (35-45) passionate about the arts with Woman (35-45) new to London and keen to explore its art galleries.
Woman (25 to 35) who loves her two dogs seeks a partner to love too with Man (25-35) enjoys taking his dogs for a walk in the countryside.
As she progressed, Fiona experimented with some less conventional pairings.
Wealthy but lonely man (55-65) seeks young attractive woman to care for my every need with Woman (25-35) looking for older man to be my sugar daddy.
At weekends Fiona grew restless as Henry’s presence prevented access. It was a particularly irritating weekend that finally made her decide. Henry returned from school one Friday afternoon as end of term was approaching. By coincidence there was a girl with the same first name as her in his sixth form and this Fiona was, he claimed, good enough for Oxbridge. He described her essay about H.G. Wells in intricate detail – apparently the girl argued with great skill and conviction that Wells was an underrated author well ahead of his time. On and on the praise went, over dinner and throughout the next day as he worked out his strategy for getting her an interview. Fiona declined the offer to read her namesake’s composition. ‘Oxford is better than Cambridge for English Literature, don’t you agree?’ Henry had asked. How the bloody hell was she meant to know?
The Oxford obsession resurfaced during Saturday evening as they watched an Inspector Morse episode featuring murders at a university college.