Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  So she had had a good practical think about it all. She decided that possibly it was time for her to move on a little. Perhaps she wouldn’t look for Mr Right straightaway. Maybe if she just had a fling with someone, practice a little, that would be good preparation. An older man might be a bit more mature and gracious. Maybe even a married man to start with; he would have to behave better as he would have more to lose.

  Then, in the middle of her preparations, along came Malcolm Jarvis. His eyes had twinkled at hers and she had been so surprised that she hadn’t had time to try and twinkle back. The next time they met, he hadn’t noticed the packet of Jammy Dodgers in her shopping basket, but had instead laughed with her about it being good weather for ducks, but unfortunately ducks didn’t buy his coffee cake. He would wave at her across the street and she would hold her nerve and wave back instead of turning to look in a window. And, now, here he was in her office!

  It was the perfect opportunity for her to be observed in the environment in which she excelled. The piles of files on the surfaces about her were numerous enough to show her level of professionalism and neat enough to demonstrate her efficiency and competence. The office that she had been allocated was basic and grim and, although it would have sufficed when accountancy practice was a man’s world, it could not be tolerated by a thirty-year-old female with no other home to call her own. The safe magnolia walls simply did the job and no more; the brown lino beneath her feet could be swept clean of the sand that would find its way through the door, but the cleaner moaned at her for wearing heels because of the pits that she bored into its surface.

  Therefore, in spite of the canvas that she had been given, Lisa had contrived to make her office her own and Malcolm sat and absorbed the brief insight into her personality. Beautifully framed black and white photos of the seafront were set off by the rich colours of paintings that Malcolm recognised as Lettie’s. Lush plants crowded the windowsill, hiding the opaque plastic sheets that had been stuck over the lower windowpanes to protect the confidentiality of the clients from the nosy street outside. But, most of all, Malcolm looked at Lisa.

  She sat in her crisp white blouse that was buttoned high over her bosom. A pencil was tucked into the back of her chignon and occasionally she retrieved it and scribbled a few more notes. Her unmade-up face was flushed slightly pink, partly from the summer heat encased within the stiff blouse and partly from the frustration she had in trying to deal with the fool on the end of the line whilst being watched by Malcolm.

  As she stood and reached another file from a shelf, Malcolm was treated to the sight of her curvaceous buttocks, squeezed snugly into a blue pinstripe skirt and, in his eyes, they begged to be released from the hot lined fabric. A double treat was afforded him as, returning to her chair, her blouse shifted and, if he leaned just slightly to one side, he was able to sneak a peep between the taut buttons. He was delighted to see that the bra was not as functional as the shape suggested.

  He compared the excess of her soft flesh to that which was tightly stretched over his wife’s skinny frame. Jill had gotten out of the habit of eating some years ago because she “just never had the time”, and although her clothes would never gape or strain in such an unprofessional manner, they would equally never arouse either.

  Since the Jarvis’s had moved to Lyme Regis, they had nearly regained that spark that had been missing for so many years and Malcolm had almost felt that they had made the right decision. However, the sight of Lisa’s curves had stirred the lust that had muddled the last ten years of their married life.

  Therefore, as Malcolm sat in the neat office idly surveying Lisa’s lace-covered breasts, he considered once more the perfect timing of Jill’s decision to leave London; the women in his office had had a girl’s night out and three of them had discovered that they were each Malcolm’s special soulmate. It had been the right time to make a quick exit.

  The tea rooms had been his idea and the last few months had been hard if rewarding work but he had felt relieved that his days of juggling names, nicknames and improbably timed meetings were finally over. That is, until Lisa’s soft rounded stomach stirred his loins once more into action.

  Explaining his business arrangements to Lisa, he was careful to drop in that he and Jill were really only business partners, rather than life partners and that he was glad that he felt that he and Lisa understood each other. She glowed as he told her he was looking forward to a useful and close working relationship with her.

  As he left the office, just a little earlier than she would have liked, he left a woman feeling more feminine and powerful than she had felt in years. If it weren’t for the opaque plastic sheet, he would have seen her walk to the mirror and, turning to the side, smile as she saw the gaping blouse and thank her lucky stars that she hadn’t worn the comfortable wash-day-grey bra after all.

  Chapter 9

  A Pint of the Usual, Please Guv’nor

  It was a night when the pint had won the debate. It had been another hot day in the forest and a skilled tractor driver had kept Dougie’s chain saw glowing as he had felled and stripped the trees marked with yellow crosses, leaving them to be towed away.

  They had stopped only for a quick bait break and a late lunch and therefore, Dougie, his business partner Rob, and the farmer with his tractor had made good progress. It was a scheme that would bring some element of management to woodland that had been allowed to develop in its own uneconomic way for far too many decades.

  As Rob had dropped him off at the park, Dougie had felt his mouth smacking in the way that implies beer: long, cool, refreshing beer. The walk across the park had been resolute and the wave to his parents brief.

  The Llew Coch was busy with the regular crowd that would pop in for various derivations of the quick-pint-after-work theme. The habits were dictated by each individual’s dedication to and happiness with their home life. The characters in the pub were no doubt replicas of regulars throughout the land, but these had a Mid Wales tinge.

  Dave “Too Nice” Price, whose quick pint was literally just that, was watched over by the fireside clock as it ticked through his allotted twenty minutes. As his time neared its end, he ritually necked the last half pint, downed a shot of the most effective medicinal and, muttering, “Christ, she’ll kill me,” sprinted for the door. Big Al, who had moved onto pints of wine after the doctor had told him to give up the beer, could afford to take things a little slower. His wife had long since moved out, and he was actually ashamed to say (until after his fourth pint) that he didn’t really notice she was gone. Skinny Twat collected the glasses for the none-EU-conforming wage of one pint per hour that allowed him to retain the hazy level induced by the four cans of Special Brew he had every morning for breakfast.

  Dougie had known the majority of the barflies from his school days and the bantering hadn’t matured a great deal since then. Melfyn “Slackarse” had been thus christened in Year Three for wearing the cast-offs of a brother four years his senior and, despite now being the owner of a successful solicitors’ practice, was still battling to simply be called Melfyn. No one could remember why Dai “Peach” was called Dai Peach, but most had their theories.

  That night, the bickering was about one of the favourite topics – women – and the noticeable lack of performance with same within the group. Unbeknownst to everyone, including Skinny Twat himself, Skinny was actually the most successful in this arena. Every night, his housemate, Big Eve, would wait for him to return home. The passion of a drunken man would gain momentum as Skinny meandered and sang his way up the hill and he would love Eve in a torrent of flaccid delight. Exuding over nightdresses that would send a shiver through a sober man, he would pass out gratefully onto her pillow-like breasts, caressing her vastness with appreciative but sticky hands. It was a happy arrangement. She would leave the boudoir early to see to the toilet of her elderly mother, three doors down, and Skinny would greet his hangover alone a few hours later.

  He did sometimes wonder how his bed
was regularly changed and his room remained neat and tidy, but the exact movements of the magic pixie never really concerned him. He was well aware of the capacity of a drunk to carry out the most unusual of activities whilst under the influence and recall absolutely nothing of them. It was like when they had found a turd on the floor of the rugby changing rooms; he had had a funny feeling that it was one of his, but had no recollection of how it may have got there.

  Big Eve, on the other hand, was unaware of Skinny’s lack of awareness. She rejoiced in his delight of a body that had repulsed and incited contempt during her previous attempts at romance. This mutually beneficial partnership would continue as long as Skinny Twat was working hard by day and Eve’s mother continued to defy her own premonitions of her impending demise. Flies were booking their spot on the wall for the day of reckoning when either Eve was allowed a lie in, or Skinny reached even Step One of a much-needed Ten Step Programme.

  Tonight, however, it was Dougie’s turn to be the focal point of the Llew Coch regulars.

  “What about you then, Dougie? You courtin’?”

  “What? Him? He’s not had it in years! Forgotten what it’s for, haven’t you, Dougie? If you’d been a woman, you’d have healed over years ago!”

  “Ah, it’s just that I’m a little choosier than you, mate. Mine need to be human for a start,” Dougie returned, ducking a pork scratching as it flew past him. “And anyway, I saw that girl from Clyro not so long ago.”

  “Maybe, but she was only after pups from old Alfie there. You’re just bitter and twisted because your dog has more allure than you do.”

  Dougie sniggered, having to acknowledge the truth in the statement. But, the pups had fetched a good price apparently, so he could understand the tactics in hindsight. “But I did see Hannah ‘Home Farm’ for a while. She was smart you’ll have to admit.”

  “Just a pity that Denny thought so too, eh? Face it Dougie, you’ve lost your touch, mate. Nothing else for it, you’ll have to go on the internet.”

  The giggles started without prompting as the tale of Cled the Cwm’s excursions into cyberspace flooded into everyone’s mind. Fifty-year-old Cled had decided that perhaps fate wouldn’t take care of his heirless existence without at least some help from him. Being a very thorough man, he had spent six months researching a home system deal. He spent a year on a basic computer course and many, many hours researching chat rooms to find the ideal Welsh lady of good farming stock that he wished to pursue. To date, his anonymous conquests had turned out to be a pair of giggling twelve-year-old boys, a Nigerian immigration seeker and a distant cousin – none of whom fitted the bill.

  “What’s a twenty-year-old Nigerian woman going to know about taking fat lambs to market? I ask you…”

  “Nah, not my cup of tea,” said Dougie. “I’ve got fingers like gateposts – it’d take me hours to type just my name, let alone seduce some dried-up cousin.”

  “This is what you want, Dougie,” John Haskins said, throwing over an old Sunday Times. “Classifieds. Lonely Hearts.”

  John Haskins originated in that uncertain place known simply as “from off”. No one knew really where it was or, admittedly, cared. A knowing nod accompanied by “He’s from off,” would justify any kind of unusual behaviour or oddness and John was as happy with the description as he was with his adopted new home. He would sit by the bar, nursing a steady train of halves, watching and enjoying the banter, throwing in an occasional witticism or what he thought was a wise word.

  Seeing Dougie’s look of “Oh, here we go,” John warmed up and took his stage. “Let’s face it – you know pretty much every woman in Glan Llanfair?”

  Dougie had to acknowledge that this was correct.

  “And, you’ve not found Ms Right here, have you?”

  Again, fair enough.

  “Well, are you going to meet stunning blonde who wants to share large, firm chest and life with cute forester on some woodland slope? Or are you more likely to spend the day chatting with some hairy-arsed farmer who wouldn’t know a good sense of humour if it squeezed the blackheads on his neck?” Another nod from Dougie as the crowd silenced and looked from one to the other in amused interest.

  Dai Peach reached for the paper and, with much embellishment, found the required page. “Here we are – attractive female, 62, seeks companion for golf, theatre and friendship. Hmm, maybe not – you don’t like golf, do you, Dougie?”

  “Bugger off you lot. I can’t bare all that ‘lovely slim attractive wants solvent male’ nonsense. No, it would have to be ‘Moose seeks mate. Full training given.’”

  A short, grey-haired man joined the crowd and tiptoed to look over Dai’s shoulder, “Boiler available. Anything considered?”

  “No, this is it! This is it!” said Dai, slamming his glass down as if it were a gavel passing sentence. “‘Wanted, 35ish yr old bloke 2 stop me shagging my lodger. If it works, you’ll be the luckiest man alive.’ There you are, Dougie!” he said, throwing the paper around the bar. “Meet your future wife.”

  Chapter 10

  Dial-a-Pizza

  Dougie sat at home, a pot of tea at his side, plus mug, bottle of milk, packet of biscuits, paper and two pens (in case one ran out). He took the crumpled broadsheet page from the sideboard and spread it out on the table.

  His eyes jumped easily to the advert, thanks to the sticky fingerprints around it. He skimmed through the other adverts in the Female Requires Male column but no, this one was special. As he poured himself a drink he acknowledged that it was, indeed, his cup of tea.

  He gazed around his kitchen-cum-dining room and took in the surroundings as if analysing them from a woman’s point of view. The window faced north and the terrace of houses that angled across his front path compounded the gloom. The clutter of houses that made up the little square was an informal mix; large stone houses adjoined tiny rendered cottages. Glaring plastic windows were next to crumbling sash and the wooden bench that kept an eye on them all was occupied during the day by the old folks of the street, gossiping and reminiscing, and at night by the younger ones, gossiping and planning.

  Dougie enjoyed his house and spent many a happy summer hour sat on the doorstep reading the paper or just watching the world walk by, raising his arm in recognition to nearly everyone who passed and losing his place time and time again. His kitchen had been painted to make the most of the ambience of the wood burner that chugged away day and night during the winter. He had given up trying to make it bright and airy in the summer and therefore had plumped for cosy for the winter. A deep-orange curtain separated the kitchen from the dining room and this would be pulled across in the winter evenings to stop the fire’s precious heat escaping out of the necessarily large dog flap that blew open in the back door and let both a large dog in and a large amount of heat escape.

  Although not exactly neat by nature, Dougie had few belongings and his house was homely but uncluttered. His furniture consisted mainly of remnants handed down from friends or family as they moved or passed away and Dougie appreciated the stories behind the pieces. The drawers in the sideboard still smelt of toffees to him; Grandpa used to hide his stash there, handing them out secretly to Dougie when Gran wasn’t looking.

  The round burn mark on the oak table was from when Dad ran screaming with the Sunday chicken to the table from the oven, having somehow forgotten to use the gloves. As his hands had been dragged to the cold tap, the scolding from his mother had matched that which the table suffered as the roasting dish sank slowly into the wood. But, none of these trusted loved ones were here to help him now as he faced the blank sheet that could shape his future, should he wish to indulge.

  Dougie was not an adventurous man; he was careful and considered. He was the one who sat quietly within a group, interjecting occasionally but never dominating a conversation. He was surprised to find himself in this position, his normal reaction would have been to have tittered and moved on to the next topic. He still wasn’t sure how the newspaper ended up in his
bag – had he put it there, or had someone else stuffed it in?

  Dougie had never expected to have a life such as this. He had always assumed that he would do the usual, average thing, only just a bit nicer. He had expected to leave school, meet his girl, woo her, love her, get married and reproduce. Just like his parents, his relatives and so many of his friends. Instead, he was single, with nothing on the horizon both in front or behind him. Perhaps that was why Dai had stuffed the paper into his rucksack.

  He read through the instructions twice and then a third time to make sure. Right, he had to ring the main number and then dial the reference number of the lady to hear her recorded message. If he liked the sound of her, he could then leave his own message and if she liked the sound of him in return, she would ring him. Easy. Then he read the instructions again.

  What I should do, he thought to himself, is ring a few of the other numbers to hear their messages and then he could compare them with hers. He went back through the adverts and picked a couple that sounded as if they were after someone of his age and type. Liz was forty-two and was a slim, bubbly strawberry blonde. She liked walks in the park and eating out and wanted to meet someone between thirty-five and forty-five for friendship and possible romance.

  Alison was thirty-five and was a busy receptionist who enjoyed pubs, clubs and entertaining. She wanted to meet an easy-going guy, thirty to forty for good times, perhaps more.

  Dougie took a large tongue-burning slurp of tea and phoned for bubbly Liz’s sales pitch, one of his pens poised at the ready. After an agonising introduction by the slowest speaker in the world, Dougie reached Liz.