Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  Singledom – even the word had seemed a character slur. “Cooking for One is Fun” was the kind of title that she received for Christmas. Not “How to Make the Male Ego Work for You” or even “Sex Guides for the Woefully Inadequate”. No one even remotely happy in a relationship ever remembers the times when they lay on their bed with every under-appreciated sexual gland in their body screaming for attention. Her hair needed stroking so badly that her scalp tingled. Her skin was aroused and alert, but with no audience to appreciate its gentle flush. How sad when the soul is bored of masturbation; the imagination so dry that she would rub away as ineffectually as a geeky teenage boy.

  She remembered looking down at herself and being aware that, actually, singledom had its benefits. Her pubic hair was tufted and split; the bleaching effects of her pee didn’t quite match the sun-kissed look of St Tropez, but it did make for a feature. As she had picked out a piece of toilet roll, she had recalled the words of Helena Rubenstein about how there was no such thing as an ugly woman – only a lazy one. What about ugly and lazy she had mused. Just exactly how hideous could I get if I really let myself go? She had nudged the dog with a hairy toe. The dog shifted in her sleep, leaving a new down of the most contrasting dog hair possible on her navy blue duvet cover.

  The feeling that she was having an out-of-body experience, looking down at the slob on the bed, added to the later ponderings that it was meant to be. The upshot was, she got up, showered, shaved, trimmed and cajoled herself into something actually quite presentable and, feeling the indestructible femme fatale, she went out – and pulled.

  But she’d pulled Alan. That was the first mistake. Falling happily into the role of being in love, she never really stopped to ask herself whether that was the right role to assume. His irregular presence sustained the honeymoon period for far longer than the relationship warranted and by the time the rot began to show, both parties were well and truly established in their cosy rut. And that was how she came to be in her current position. Sat with her pen and pad on her lap, Lettie took a deep breath and gazed out to sea, seeking the inspiration needed to grasp the phrases that had been dancing around in her head for the last few days. How do you tell someone that it is over in a way that they will know that this time it is really over. They’d argued before and somehow it had started up again. But she needed it to be really over. If she made accusations, he might feel he deserved the right to reply. She didn’t want a debate, she didn’t want him to try and win her back, she just wanted to never have to speak to him again.

  She took the lid off her pen and with a flair that would have made Rizzo want to buy a new notebook, she started to write:

  Dear Alan,

  Why I start with “Dear” I do not know, probably habit, as I don’t think of you as dear anymore. I used to think that I loved you, but there is nothing for you in my heart now. You used to make me laugh, but now the only emotions you provoke are tears and pain. How can you possibly expect to return to my life and my bed after what you did? Why, if you are capable of such disgust and hatred of my person, would you even want to?

  You entered my life at my request, but I never gave you permission to do what you did. You’ll know deep down that I did not deserve it and if you do not take a long hard look at yourself, you will go through life leaving a trail of destruction and hurt – is this the legacy you really want?

  We’ve split up before and then you always come round clutching your apology in your hand, but a bottle of wine and a few comforting words will never be enough to right the hurt that you dole out with such ease. This letter is in no way forgiveness for what you did or to benefit you in any way. This is purely because I want ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with you ever again. Something clicked in my mind when I sat on that kitchen floor and I just know you will not take me in ever again. I am not even scared of you any more. I just want you gone and away from my thoughts forever.

  Don’t call, don’t ring, just don’t bother.

  Lettie.

  Lettie read the letter through, muttered, “Oh, bugger it,” to herself and stuffed it into the envelope taken from her bag. Sticking a first class stamp on the corner, she addressed it to “Alan Bentley, His Mum’s House, Tideways, Anning Road, Lyme Regis,” smiling at that final little kick to the bollocks. Clipping the lead onto Molly, she stood up and watched as a last group of sun-kissed teenagers did a hand-holder-and-somersault to a spectacular round of applause. Then she and her faithful hound walked up the middle of the high street in order to overtake the laden holidaymakers on their journey hotelward, and resolutely posted the letter.

  There.

  Over and done with.

  All finished.

  Chapter 7

  The Chocolate Selection Box

  “OK, you lot,” said Lettie, bringing the tray of tea into the sitting room, “God knows why, but I have decided to take Jill’s advice and bare my soul in the Classified Ads. Enough of this small pond – I need new blood, new genes, not that mutant I had hanging around for so long.”

  Lettie passed around the tea and a packet of biscuits to Alex, Rizzo and Lisa as they were all sat in the small lounge early one evening. She still felt the need for a fresh start and this was simply another bit of it. Her hair had been cut, she had been shopping and even gone to Spanish lessons for two weeks, but if she meant what she had said, then this was an important rung on the ladder.

  Lettie’s was an unconventional sitting room in that from the outside it still looked like an old shop. The curved panes of glass either side of the shop door were the same as when it had been Rattenbury’s Confectionery. The heavy shelves that ran along one wall added to the commercial feel, although they didn’t have nearly enough sweets on now for Lisa’s liking.

  The deep red of the chimney breast contrasted richly with the cream of the other walls and gave a glow to the room. The cast-iron, pot-bellied fire belted out heat in the winter, but on this early May evening, it was empty, save for a pile of rubbish awaiting the next cold spell. The thick lined curtains in the same red as the wall were drawn back to let the evening light in.

  None of the house’s residents used the lounge often, Lettie preferring the ambience of the kitchen and the radio, or conservatory, Lisa, her solitude and bedroom furniture and Rizzo, his piles of rock and thoughts about sitting down to study. The coffee table taking centre stage was covered in the old National Geographics that had made up Rizzo’s mind to become a lodger – although in weak moments, he might confess that the thought of sharing a laundry basket with Lisa had also been quite a tug.

  The downside of such an unusual room was that passers-by often thought it was still a shop; its lines of books on the shelves and many of Lettie’s paintings hanging on the walls gave it that “living shop” feel. Occasionally the occupants had been disturbed from their relaxation by the feeling of being watched, only to look up and see a sea of faces pressed to the window, hands cupped around them to allow better vision. Alternatively, they would be interrupted by some exasperated soul trying to climb in through the locked door, muttering about the stupid inefficiencies of gift shops that kept to conventional opening hours during summer months.

  On that evening, Alex had called by after she had closed her shop and was pleased to see Lettie in higher spirits. The sound of the kettle being filled and the cupboard rifled for biscuits had soon brought Lisa and Rizzo tripping downstairs from their rooms. The windows were open and the sounds from the tourists trudging back from the beach floated through to mingle with the conversation. It was as if both parties felt they were looking through a one-way mirror.

  Those in the sitting room imagined they were immune to scrutiny and sat and sniggered at the various states that walked by: people who had left their usual style and self-consciousness at home when packing for their holiday. Men in tight swim trunks, socks and shoes were accompanied by obese wives wearing large white bras (“no one’ll notice it’s not a bikini top”) with floral shorts wedged snugly up their backsides. They would
struggle by with their bags and cool-boxes, empty from the day’s feasting on the beach.

  “Their geraniums aren’t very good, are they, love? Not as good as ours, eh love?” (Mrs Birmingham).

  “Ah! Look at the state of those shorts: I would NOT like to be that pair of shorts in this heat.” (Lisa).

  “I don’t like their chair covers much. I’d have gone for a pale blue perhaps? Or maybe a mint green.” (Ms Putney).

  “Is there really a need for couples to wear exactly the same as each other to prove their love? Did we miss that bit out of our vows?” (Alex) and so on.

  Lettie sat down on the smaller of the two sofas with her back to the window and wriggled to try and get comfortable. The suite had been inherited from Lettie and Alex’s grandmother and Ms Putney was actually correct in that it probably should have been a pale blue. Instead, the hardwearing chintz was a mass of cream flowers on a brown background with a little foliage to break up the monotony. But it refused to ever look worn and Lettie felt that her frugal grandmother would not approve of her getting it re-covered until absolutely necessary and therefore, the chintz stayed.

  Rizzo felt that he was possibly the only one who could legitimately people watch. To the others, it was a sport; entertainment to help them feel superior over the cattle that were limping by outside. But he was using the experience as a learning one, in his professional capacity.

  “Oh, wash your hands, per-lease!” cackled Lisa as a man adjusted his crotch within his “keep them special for your holiday” shorts, unaware of his audience.

  “He’s just out of his comfort zone,” observed Rizzo. “I expect he wears a shirt and tie usually and those shorts were probably bought by his wife who wants him to project a more youthful image. You can see the stressed look he has just given her. It’s not a ‘my bollocks are too big for these’, it’s more of a ‘you made me wear these and look how uncomfortable they make me feel’.”

  Rizzo caught the quizzical looks and misinterpreted the “oh shut up and drink your tea” gaze for “you know, he’s right! I’d never have guessed that, but yes, you can see it now. Gosh he’s clever.”

  Lettie cut in, “come on you lot, enough of this voyeurism – I’m slowly coming round to this idea, but I refuse to submit the standard “slim, thirty-something would like to meet man with good sense of humour must have own teeth etc” – even if it were true,” she added quickly, pinching at the tyre covered by her T-shirt.

  “What about ‘Wanted, blind man. Must have nice dog – with good sense of humour,’” said Rizzo, prodding a sleeping Molly with his bare toe. “We might as well set up Mols at the same time eh?”

  “Thank you, Rizzo. Your turn to make the tea next, I think?” said Lettie. “Do you reckon I can just say what I don’t want and let them administer themselves? Something along the lines of ‘No twats, no dickheads, no one who still lives with their mum, no wife beaters, no alcoholics…’”

  “No train spotters – don’t forget them.” That was Alex.

  “Or psychology students – remember that Rizzo’s not had it in months,” giggled Lisa.

  “Or estate agents – I don’t want Rich sneaking off before he’s finished my patio.” Alex gazed out of the window looking for inspiration to say something else to keep her sister smiling. Conversely, they fell upon a man in a white shirt that was ironed by a woman of many years his senior. The salesman tie in inoffensive blue was still knotted at his neck and in his hand was an expensive bottle of wine and some exotic-flavoured crisps.

  Alex could see that Alan Bentley had a quiet reunion on his mind, a reunion in which he would waltz into the house, smelling all clean and lovely with that “how could anyone dressed as smartly as me do something as dreadful as that? You must have misunderstood the argument. I mean, come on…” look. As he said his lines, he would be quietly opening the wine and before Lettie knew it, she would be sipping hers and thus, they were sharing a bottle of wine. Therefore: discussion over.

  Outside, Alan had stopped in his tracks, viewing the scene in front of him. He’d received Lettie’s letter and had read it with indifference and had tossed it to one side, wanting to hurt her by sending it back with “big deal” written across it, but had never got round to it. But that was a few days ago and these things blow over; Lettie often got a bit hysterical about things.

  However, he had to think about whether his tactics could be effective in front of such a hostile crowd. Through the window, he caught Alex’s eye, saw a single brow raise, the lips purse, and quickly changed his mind. It was only Thursday; he’d catch Lettie at the weekend when Alex was with her kids. So, trying to look as if he had no intentions of coming to see Lettie, he turned and walked onwards, cursing Alex as he’d have to walk the long way round in order not to double back past the fishbowl sitting room. Alex nodded to herself; Lettie was still too fragile to deal with him yet, despite the hilarity going on around her.

  “What’s the matter, Sis’?” smiled Lettie.

  “Sorry, miles away. Why don’t you just go for ‘Wanted, nice bloke. Previous applicants need not apply.’”

  “No, I think you need honesty. People appreciate honesty,” said Lisa. “Show your character, make it stand out from the rest.”

  “Yeah,” said Rizzo, “there are any number of petite, slim blondes wanting men for friendship and fun…”

  “You sound pretty familiar with this, Riz,” laughed Alex. “Anything you haven’t told us?”

  “No, I think you have to go for humour. Humour is important to you, Lettie, so make yours appeal to the ones who will like your humour.”

  Lettie wrote a few words on her page and then groaned, “Oh, this is so difficult. No wonder people stick to slim brunette.” The banter went on around her and she wrote a few more words. Then she crossed them out. Then she wrote some more. Then Alex took the pad. Then she showed it to Lisa. Lisa smiled and passed it back to Lettie. Lettie laughed. “Best not show Rizzo,” she said, “I really, really don’t want a date with him…”

  Chapter 8

  Full Fat Milk

  Lisa was on the phone when Malcolm Jarvis first walked into her office. She was talking patiently and was so engrossed in conversation with her client that she barely noticed him and just motioned for him to be seated.

  This was perfect for Malcolm. He’d been quite keen to meet this Lisa Hartley properly for some time. He’d been introduced to her when she’d come to collect Lettie once after work and then had bumped into her a couple of times in the local shops. He’d been trying to work out how to see a bit more of her – going round to the house to borrow something was a bit cheesy and, anyway, Lettie knew exactly what was in his kitchen cupboards. If he really needed a bowl of sugar, he should simply ask Chef to order a bit more.

  Being Lettie’s lodger made it a bit risqué, but sometimes that was half the pleasure. He’d never really seen Lisa with any friends and he had the feeling that she was a bit of a recluse – and hence not so likely to brag about any dalliances. Then he had decided that it had all been Fate, as when he had been thinking about how best he might get to know her independently of both Lettie and the Sea View, Jill had made some comment about their accountant being an arse and that they should consider getting a new one.

  She had seemed most surprised when he suggested that he get onto it straight away; he’d always left the organisation side of things to Jill. She must have thought he was turning over a new leaf. No harm in just looking, he smiled to himself and dusted down his already immaculate shirt.

  Under his scrutiny, Lisa was finding it hard to maintain her concentrating face. She had seen the name Malcolm Jarvis in her diary that morning and had wondered whether it might be the Malcolm Jarvis who was Lettie’s boss. She had met him a few times before, once with Lettie in the restaurant and a few times in the shops by herself and had been quite flustered at the attention. There had been few people in Lisa’s past who had made it through her frostiness. She’d never been particularly popular or grega
rious and her boyfriend in university had blown out any pilot light that she might have had.

  She’d always wanted a partner, a husband and a father for her intended children, but she didn’t really know how to start to find someone. She couldn’t bring herself to meet people’s eyes in the street. If she felt someone looking at her, she would feign busy-ness and walk away. She certainly never went out in the evening anywhere beyond the cinema with Lettie and the sad thing was she didn’t really mind any more.

  That ex from university had not only damaged her cheekbone, her wrists and the tops of her legs, he had said such cutting things that made any interest in her seem to be a dare, a joke between boys who would then say, “Did you really think I fancied you?” and run off laughing. She hadn’t yet noticed that men of her age rarely ran anywhere anymore and most of them would have given at least one eye tooth to sleep with her simply because she was female and warm-blooded.

  Rizzo would have been extremely excited to know that it was actually something he had said that had set her slightly back on track. He had been twittering on about when people say hurtful things it is usually due to their own insecurities and that, quite often, they don’t even mean what they say – but their victim can be scarred by them for life and what a waste that was. At the time, she had mumbled “Oh, really,” to him and carried on with her omelette. It was probably incorrect anyway; Rizzo had a habit of not understanding the things he quoted to people.

  But she hadn’t been able to get the words out of her head. She even went into the bathroom to look in the mirror and, actually, Davie had been wrong. She wasn’t pig ugly. A bit plain maybe, but she didn’t look like a great fat sow. She had known for sometime that she didn’t smell because she always showered each morning and used a huge amount of products that promised that she wouldn’t.