by R J Gould
She looked up to Tim. ‘OK, I get the picture, no need to just stand there. I’m doing it now.’
Ten minutes turned out to be an optimistic assessment of how long it would take to turn a spreadsheet into graphs and bar charts that made sense and looked good. It was more like forty-five minutes when she called Wayne back. He was in his van delivering lunches, too busy to speak but would call her back in about thirty minutes. Rumbling Tummies was doing well and Wayne was now a partner in his mate’s sandwich enterprise. The healthy food slant had proved popular. To add to their more standard offerings they were now providing sushi, Thai noodles, and Greek salads wherever possible, with fruit added to the savoury dishes. Halloumi cheese, mango, and walnut salad with pitta bread was their current meal of the month. Wayne enjoyed the responsibility of ownership – it was up to them to make things work with no one telling them what to do.
It was nearer an hour before Wayne called her back and Clarissa wondered whether this was deliberate revenge for her cutting short his call.
‘Sorry about that, we’re really busy today and one of our drivers is off. I’ve got about five minutes then I need to head on.’
‘I’m in the middle of preparing for a corporate presentation so how come I can make the time? Can’t you appreciate that it’s vital we talk, far more necessary than delivering bloody sandwiches?’
‘I forgot you’re so important and my work is nothing.’ And with that the line went dead.
Wayne Briggs
The situation was ridiculous, Wayne realised. A mountain out of a molehill. They were in love, of course she wasn’t in a relationship with another man a few days ahead of their engagement party. She liked expensive things so what was wrong with just taking the underwear and telling Si to get lost?
After his final delivery he went to a boutique florist in Covent Garden and bought the shop’s entire stock of white and red roses. Eighty-eight pounds’ worth of flowers, nicely arranged – but for that price they should be.
His heart was pounding with anticipation as he entered Clarissa’s office. She wasn’t in her usual spot so he asked around. There were several don’t knows until someone suggested he tried the thinking cabin, one of the few enclosed spaces on the floor. He saw two silhouettes through the frosted glass and knocked.
‘Come in,’ called the unmistakeable voice of Clarissa.
When he opened the door with the bouquet held out in front of him he saw Clarissa perched on the desk and a man close by her side, his hand resting on her shoulder. Before he could speak the man looked across.
‘Very nice,’ he said. ‘Just put them down on the cabinet there, will you?’
Wayne was speechless and Clarissa remained silent.
The man continued. ‘Do you need payment? Just get my PA to give you the money. She’s the one in the green dress. Oh, and do ask her to add a fiver for the delivery. Beautiful, aren’t they, Clarissa?’
Wayne dropped the flowers on the floor, turned, and walked out.
‘Stop, Wayne,’ he heard Clarissa cry out. Her stilettos clicked against the floor as she chased after him.
‘Will you stop, for God’s sake!’
He continued and reached the reception desk.
‘If you think I’d dream of sex with this moron instead of sex with you, you want your fucking head examined!’ she yelled, just ahead of an almighty clatter as she collided with a display stand, sending it tumbling with her landing on top.
This last bit of dialogue and the subsequent crash stopped Wayne in his tracks and halted all other activity on the office floor. It was like an instant freeze in time, everyone totally silent and completely still, awaiting what would happen next.
Then simultaneously, Wayne and Si walked towards the fallen Clarissa, Wayne reaching her first. She put her arms around him just as Si was approaching.
‘Just get lost will you, Si? Maybe it’s time you stopped chasing everyone in a skirt and two-timing your wife.’ She looked up. ‘Warning, everyone, keep away from this lying toad, who, by the way, is a joke in bed.’
Wayne helped her up. ‘Let’s go for a coffee.’
‘Yeah, let’s.’
Tim was standing close by, his arms folded again. ‘What about the presentation preparation?’
‘Get lost will you, Tim.’
Sarah approached. ‘My project, Clarissa. I really need it done quickly.’
‘And you can get lost too, Sarah.’ She turned to face the audience, gathered in a semi-circle around her and the collapsed display stand. ‘I’ve got my engagement party to this wonderful man on Sunday and I think I deserve a break ’til after then.’
She smiled. It felt so good to smile, such a release of tension. She looked across to Wayne, who was smiling too.
‘Thanks for the underwear, Si,’ she called out as they left.
Suzie Ambrose
They were on their way to the party to celebrate the successful sale of the Hounslow shopping centre.
‘Look at this, Suzie, isn’t it brilliant? A camera with night vision. I can see exactly how far to go when I reverse.’ Reginald caressed the monitor on his dashboard.
‘Why don’t you look in your mirror like everyone else?’ she snapped, unforgiving since Saturday when he had returned to the flat gone eleven and had expected her to rustle up some food for him.
‘Don’t be such a fun killer. I’ve never had a car as cool as this.’
‘I’m not sure men in their mid-fifties should say “cool”.’
‘Very funny, Suzie,’ Reginald responded, insensitive to the fact that she wasn’t joking. ‘Let’s put on some music.’ Tom Jones’s ‘Delilah’ began to blare out of the double quadraphonic speakers.
‘Jesus, not that. Please.’
‘I’ve also got The Supremes and the Bee Gees. Take your pick.’
‘I’d rather play something on my iPod.’
‘If you must, but I won’t be able to hear it if you put your headphones in. Any conversation will die a death, too.’
‘You’ve got an iPod socket, Reginald. I can connect to your system.’
‘Really? How did you find that out?’
‘There’s a jack on the panel.’
‘Well, I never. OK, do it then.’
So Suzie took her purple Nano out of the new Dior bag, connected it, pushed some buttons, shifted the wheel a few times, and the music began.
‘Stop looking, Reginald. Keep your eyes on the road.’
‘I just wanted to see what you were doing.’
‘But not when you’re driving.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Arcade Fire.’
‘That rings a bell. I think Clarissa went to see them the other day.’
‘With me, Reginald. Don’t you remember, I got her and Wayne tickets as an engagement present.’
‘Oh, yes, so you did. Can’t see what you all see in them though, it’s not as if the singer can actually sing.’
Suzie couldn’t be bothered to rise to the challenge of explaining the beauty of the intense, pained vocals. She wished she’d brought earphones.
‘Not talking?’ asked Reginald, looking across at her and placing a hand on her thigh.
‘For fuck’s sake, look at the traffic will you,’ Suzie snapped and Reginald removed his hand.
He had insisted on driving his new car and she had agreed on condition that he stuck to one drink at the reception. Reflecting now on his careless driving, she wished that she’d been more resolute and used her car, even if it would have provided a carte blanche for him to get rat arsed. Mind you, being a passenger did have its advantages. She never tired of a journey through the centre of London and particularly welcomed an opportunity as they now had to travel by the side of the Thames between the City and Chelsea.
Win Butler, his voice burning with anguish, was singing about his older brother disowning the family. ‘Jesus, what an absolute moron in front of us. He keeps indicating right then cancelling. Is he turning or not? Bloody hell,
Suzie, now he is turning right. Indicate, idiot!’
Suzie savoured the serenity of St Paul’s Cathedral, a giant floodlit cake with icing. It was prettier than ever with a dusting of snow that reminded Suzie of a paperweight she’d once had. It was of the Eiffel Tower. You shook it and the tower became engulfed in a blizzard.
‘It’s snowing,’ Reginald stated.
‘Sure is,’ Suzie replied, with little enthusiasm to prolong the dialogue.
‘I can’t believe some drivers. The road’s completely empty and they travel at less than twenty miles an hour.’
‘Maybe they’re worried that the road is getting slippery. Reginald, you can’t overtake here. Just be patient, we’re in no hurry.’
‘If I close up it might make them speed up.’
‘It might alarm them.’
‘Then they shouldn’t be on the road. Thank God, they’ve turned off.’
Amid crashing guitar chords, Win Butler was pleading for Alexander to return to the fold, as they drove past the majestic Houses of Parliament and around Westminster Abbey. Big Ben struck ten.
‘Did you see that cyclist, he cut right across me. I could have killed him. It wouldn’t have been my fault, it would have served him right.’
The car was too hot. Suzie’s eyes were dry and heavy as she lapsed into the uncomfortable feeling created by repetitive dozing and waking. She woke with a start as ‘Baby Love’ was belting out at high volume.
‘Reginald!’
‘Sorry, I thought you were asleep, I’ll make it quieter.’
They drove along King’s Road listening to The Supremes’ greatest hits. The street was heaving with pedestrians prepared to risk their lives as they casually strolled in the road or sprinted across it to greet a friend. Reginald’s impatience grew.
‘They’re probably too drunk to appreciate the danger,’ he surmised, missing the irony of the statement from a man who made a habit of collapsing on the pavement blind drunk. ‘I think I can take a right turn here and cut through Cale Street. It won’t be as busy round there.’
And with that he accelerated and shot across the oncoming traffic. Unfortunately not quickly enough, because a Porsche smacked into the passenger door. Suzie screamed as she was thrown sideways then pushed further towards the centre of the car as the side air bag opened, painfully embedding her thigh tight against the handbrake. The engine continued to run, its beat matching The Supremes’ ‘Stop! In the Name of Love’ and the throbbing of her neck.
‘I do not believe this,’ Reginald declared. ‘How could that dickhead drive so fast in this weather? God knows what damage they’ve done.’ Suzie was groaning by his side. He turned and was surprised to see her so far removed from the customary passenger’s position.
‘Are you OK, Suzie?’
‘No.’
Reginald Montague
Reginald sat in the Chelsea and Westminster Hospital A & E waiting room reading Hello, the one magazine on offer. He flicked through the trite pages full of photos of so-called celebrities he’d never heard of. Their dream homes were no better than his own flat. He had reason to thank Suzie for that, she chose things he wouldn’t have considered acquiring, but it all seemed to work.
Suzie hadn’t spoken to him since the crash. In the ambulance she had refused to respond to his frequently asked, ‘How do you feel, darling?’
‘Probably in a state of shock,’ the paramedic consoled with a wink. ‘Don’t worry, she’ll be as right as rain.’
By contrast, the Porsche driver had been anything but silent and hadn’t turned out to be a dickhead either, on the assumption that dickhead was reserved for males. This was very much a she, a young beauty though without the language to match.
Suzie sat in the ambulance getting checked over while a policeman interviewed the two drivers about the incident. He remained commendably relaxed despite the antics of both Reginald and Tanya Dixon. It turned out it was Tanya’s boyfriend’s car and tonight was the first time that she had driven it, out to collect takeaway sushi. She obviously hadn’t realised how powerful a touch on the accelerator could be, Reginald offered the policeman as an explanation for the accident. No idea of braking distances needed in icy wet weather either. He was shocked by the counter accusation that he had turned right without waiting for her to pass and had given her absolutely no time to stop.
‘No, I am not admitting responsibility, not at the speed you were driving,’ he declared.
‘You are a complete and utter wanker,’ Tanya replied. He thought it was rather sexy hearing a girl with such a posh voice swear. Actually, Clarissa swore like a trouper. ‘Most drivers don’t fucking shoot across in front of other cars, it’s not dodgems,’ Tanya continued.
Eventually, the policeman got all the details he said he needed, including two drawings of the crash, one from each of the two parties. This caused Reginald and Tanya to rekindle their argument, disputing the accuracy of each other’s glaringly conflicting sketches which were rapidly smudging as snowflakes dropped on the paper.
Finally, the policeman lost his patience. ‘Madam. Sir. I’ve had quite enough standing here in the freezing cold with you two bickering. I suggest you exchange insurance details and I’ll call for the recovery vehicles.’
He turned to Tanya. ‘Anyone available to take you home?’
‘Yes. I’ve texted my boyfriend, he’ll be here soon.’
The policeman turned to Reginald. ‘Now you can see how your daughter is getting on, sir. I think the ambulance is ready to set off.’
‘She’s not my daughter, she’s my partner.’
‘Disgusting. You pervert,’ Tanya hissed.
Reginald turned and walked towards the ambulance. Very pretty, but what a mouth.
‘Sir,’ the policeman called out, ‘leave your keys with me if you’re travelling in the ambulance. We need to move your car.’ Reginald walked back past the other driver who had the cheek, the sexy cheek, to poke out her tongue as he went by.
‘Thank you, sir,’ the policeman continued, as Reginald handed over the keys. ‘I’ve ordered a tow truck. We’ll let you know where your vehicle is deposited. Almost brand new, isn’t it? What a pity.’
That was over two hours ago. Two hours of flicking through this excuse for a magazine and watching others pass by, on crutches, with head bandages, with arms in slings. Some flat out on trolleys with drips and bleeping machines. He knew tragedy was around by the looks on the faces of some sitting with him in the waiting room. There was quite a lot of crying going on. The selfish thought that the death of a seriously ill casualty would release a doctor more quickly to see Suzie than if the patient stayed alive and needed intensive care brought on a moment of self-disgust. That moment soon passed.
He hadn’t been inside a National Health hospital since childhood, and during the wait his prejudices surfaced. The huge waste of taxpayers’ money to fund administrators rather than medics so there was never enough staff to do the jobs that really mattered. Then there was the shoddy environment, with chipped paint, ripped chairs, and notices and posters dangling off the walls. And this magazine which he had absent-mindedly been holding since arrival. It was open at a page with the headline Please Don’t Do That! There were ten numbered photos of women in outfits considered inappropriate for either their age or size. Some faces or names he recognised. There was that actress from the car chase film whose name he couldn’t recall and that pop star he used to like a lot. Admittedly, the combination of short skirts and fat legs didn’t appeal to him but he disagreed with the magazine choice for number one, a heavily pregnant woman in a skimpy bikini. Nothing wrong with that, he thought as he stroked her paper belly.
‘Jesus, Reginald. Getting your thrills looking at naked pregnant women, are you?’ Suzie was standing behind him.
‘She’s not nake … my God, Suzie, poor you,’ he uttered as he turned to face her. She was wearing a neck brace and her left arm was in a sling.
‘Are you OK?’
‘No.’
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br /> Margaret Briggs
Margaret closed the café early. What with the sleet, snow, and strong winds, all further trains had been cancelled so there was no point staying on once the mothers had left to collect their children from school.
Although it was Thomas’ day off, she didn’t want to disturb him playing with his train set. So despite being a day earlier than usual, she set off to do the weekly food shop at Morrisons. It was a joy having the new supermarket in town, it allowed her to do the café and home shop all in one go. For the café she always prepared a list, but for Thomas and her she liked to wander up and down the aisles deciding on the spur of the moment what to buy even though she usually ended up with the same things.
It was the coldest day they’d had all winter; real snow, not like the light and fluffy stuff of the previous weekend. The hard flakes stung as they thudded against her cheeks. She walked slowly, as it was getting slippery.
Soon after entering the supermarket a large woman who she vaguely recognised blocked her path through the aisle with biscuits and chocolates on the left and pasta and sauces on the right. Her trolley stretched across the width of the aisle and in front of it was a small girl dressed in a shiny blue tracksuit with a Union Jack on the back.
The woman dropped two packets of bourbons into her trolley and the girl added a packet of chocolate digestives.
‘Not those, Victoria, take them out.’
‘But I like them,’
‘I said take them out. Now!’
‘No.’
‘Don’t you ‘no’ me.’
The girl lifted out the two packets of bourbons and stacked them untidily against the ginger snaps before carefully adding two more packets of chocolate digestives. The mother edged around the trolley, stretched out, and slapped the girl on the arm.
‘I want those digestives out now and the bourbons put back in.’ The girl did as she was told, ensuring that the bourbons landed with a survival-threatening thud against the cans of baked beans.
The trolley continued to rest perpendicular to the aisle as the drama continued by the pasta. The woman put in two packets of spaghetti and the girl added one of fettuccini.