Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  “Hi! I’m Liz, and as my message said, I am a slim strawberry blonde,” giggle, giggle.

  Hmmm.

  “I work in a busy office and have been divorced for three years. I am wanting to meet someone who’s up for a laugh and is honest, caring and romantic. I am only 5’3”, but I do like tall men, so if you are 5’10” or above and you want to look after a petite strawberry blonde,” giggle, “leave me your message and I’ll phone you back. I like both things and men of quality, so only phone if you are able to treat me in the manner I am accustomed to,” giggle, simper. The giggles turned to sultry: “I look forward to dialling your number…” Dougie slammed the phoned down, his palms wet with fear. What was he getting into? What if she could trace his call?

  Shuddering, he decided he would strike whilst the iron was hot and blow listening to Alison. Her paragraph sounded far too sensible to him. There was nothing left but to try the landlady with the potentially lucky lodger. Dialling again, he went through the painful, and painfully expensive, introduction once more, tapped in the specific number, took a deep breath, picked up his pen and listened.

  “Hello, my name is Lettie. I am not sure what on earth possessed me to do this, but I don’t think it was my idea. I live in Dorset and I am a waitress and an artist, unfortunately in that order. What do I enjoy? Er, I enjoy walks on the beach with the dog, preferably after the tourists have gone home to bed, good conversation, friends and the occasional beer.

  “If you decide you want to leave me a message, tell me a bit about yourself, what you do and also why you are such a desperado as to be listening to me. Also tell me what makes you laugh. I am not necessarily bothered about looks, although a real stunner would be a perfect match. I am a bit battle scarred from previous unworthies, so please – no nutters. Having found my town empty of eligible suitors, I have decided that they must all live elsewhere, and hence this message – so if you know of anyone, tell them to give me a ring… Umm… So, leave me a message and I will listen to it as soon as I have the funds.”

  Dougie liked what he heard. He liked the Dorset lilt in her voice, he liked the humour that lurked in the background and he heard the irony in her speech that told him that what she was doing was really not something that fell easily with her. Not stopping to plan his reply or wonder how he could best impress her with his next few sentences, he launched straight in, face first.

  “Hello Lettie, my name is Dougie. I live in a small town in Mid Wales which is not as cosmopolitan as I would like it to be and therefore I am planning to move to make my fortune in the City in due course – but I am having difficulties in finding an opening in forestry, which is my trade.

  “Why am I replying to this? I must admit I really don’t know. It’s quite out of character for me too, but something just felt right – as well as the fact that I expect I would be ostracised by my local if I didn’t at least try.

  “I am sorry to hear that you are a bit battle scarred. I’m afraid I sort of just missed the battle. I must have got the wrong field or something. I also think it’s quite lucky that you think that looks aren’t necessarily that important as my mates are always telling me that I’m a right ugly git.

  “You asked what makes me laugh. Well, lots of things I suppose. Er, I don’t know really – I, er skidded on a worm once and fell down a flight of steps – that was quite funny, I suppose.

  “Anyway, it would be great if you could ring me and I hope that I am not too dumbstruck to allow my sparkling personality to shine through. Did I say my name is Dougie? And, er, oh, and my number is 01002 473338. Umm… Goodbye.”

  Dougie put down the phone and tipped back on his chair (until he heard his mother’s voice: “Dougieee, no tipping.”). So he leant forwards and put his face in his hands, as if drained of energy. It was only then that he realised how much he was sweating.

  Chapter 11

  Serve the Sauce on the Side, Please…

  Malcolm had taken to going for short walks towards the end of the lunchtime rush and this annoyed Jill. It wasn’t that they didn’t have sufficient staff to cover, they did, but it was the lack of commitment that she felt that this action showed. It was as if they were a café that shut for lunch, a pub that was closed of a Saturday night, or a tat shop that shut on Bank Holiday Mondays.

  “But the doctor said I just needed to make time for myself. And this is my way of doing it. It’s only twenty minutes – are you saying that the place will grind to a standstill if I am not here?”

  “No, but—”

  “Well then. You should try it. Why not come with me?” So she did for a few days, but didn’t get the point. She felt no more relaxed after the stroll and slunk quietly back to cleaning up the tables and allowing the waitresses to have their fag and left-over-specials’ breaks.

  Jill wouldn’t ever have got the point; because she was never going to notice the slightly clumsy, awkwardly dressed woman with the over-stretched blouse taking her lunchtime walk along the Parade to get a harbour-side sandwich, or – a little too often for it to be a special treat – chips and curry sauce. Jill wouldn’t have an appreciable flutter in her loins as the inevitable blob of curry sauce was scraped carefully off the substantial bust and then ground into the very fibres of the cotton, the surrounding flesh bouncing back up after every downward stroke. Jill would have no interest in trying to time her walk or plan her route, so as ideally to look up at the woman as she came down a flight of steps.

  A thought had passed through Jill’s mind that there may be more to this walk of Malcolm’s than just following doctor’s orders, but she had dismissed it, knowing that there wouldn’t be any women in Lyme between one-thirty and two o’clock on a week day that would be Malcolm’s type. He went for professional, immaculately dressed, powerful businesswomen. Not pretty girls in aprons caked with ice cream residue serving buckets and spades to tourists and certainly not the typical holidaymaker that lazed in splendid unselfconsciousness on the sandy beaches. However, Jill had not appreciated one other element that had connected all Malcolm’s conquests to date. Breasts. Great big huge unmanageable breasts.

  The women in his past may have all happened to have worn suits and carried sharp briefcases, but only because that was the environment they had worked in. Malcolm used to love meetings in which these women would take off their stiff and structured jackets and he would feast on their beautiful curves. Catching a glimpse of lace through a blouse, or the slipped strap of a bra that had been defeated by the strain, signified their weakness and he would no longer be in awe of these smart women, allowing the deal to be struck.

  Not long after he had first visited Lisa Hartley in her office, he had been looking through the Sea View’s kitchen window one lunchtime, his hands absentmindedly polishing the cutlery on a soft white cloth, when he had noticed her teetering down the street, her too-high heels struggling on the flagstones. He had finished the cutlery in record timing, groaned about how hot it was in the kitchen, grabbed a glass of water and gone outside.

  He had stood on Bell Cliff, looking over the peeling railings at the promenade below and had watched as Lisa’s pinstripe skirt clung deliciously to her haunches. Perfect, he thought, she is out of the office and I am out of the restaurant. And so a hobby was born.

  The first few times he’d passed her without even acknowledging that he knew she was there. This was to establish a registering of his lunchtime habit back at the Sea View. The fourth time he pretended to be fiddling with his watch and looked up at the last moment to greet Lisa as she walked by. The next time was a “Beautiful day!” and eventually a “Hello again, how are you?” By the time he’d bought her an ice cream, they felt like old pals.

  In turn, Lisa was pleased that she had a lunch slot that seemed to coincide with his. She had been thinking about how she could meet Malcolm a little more often. It would be very unprofessional to call another meeting with him so soon to discuss an aspect of his accounts. If he weren’t interested in her then she would just look stupid ask
ing him to clarify details that he had already told her. Also, her boss may not consider chasing married men an appropriate use of her time.

  The more Lisa had thought about Malcolm, the more she admired the City businessman; a man who had made it yet knew when it was time to reap the rewards, a man who was not too big to enjoy the quiet life and a man who had nothing to prove, but everything to display. The idea of Malcolm began to outgrow the actual Malcolm. He became kind, considerate, misunderstood and thoughtful. The real Malcolm, however, became devious, manipulative, calculating and cruel. As Lisa began to look forward to bumping into him so his tactics changed.

  The day Malcolm spotted her walking down the street with a low-cut blouse displaying her newly-discovered cleavage and pretending she wasn’t even remotely aware of the Sea View, he ‘lost the track of time’ and didn’t take his walk until three o’clock. Lisa really had no idea that the oldest trick in the book was being played so well upon her fragile ego and not by the usual perpetrator… All this activity had coincided nicely with Rizzo’s research dissertation coming on a treat.

  Chapter 12

  A Pint of Lager and Lyme

  Lettie was having a bad day at work. The hectic nature of the cluttered tea rooms usually meant that the waitresses were flat out. They cajoled and pleaded with the chef, charming and multitasking to such a degree that they barely stopped for breath, let alone had time to rue how long the day was dragging. Today, however, was different. The sun was beautiful and the crowds that took shelter in the tea rooms when the weather was poor, had decided to take to the beach en masse – crowds, the like of which hadn’t been seen since the new Tesco was built in neighbouring Axminster and replaced the seaside as the favourite family day out.

  Those that had ventured into town seemed to be far more demanding than the usual holidaymaker who was just happy to have a chair to rest their weary legs, before attempting the rest of the hill, and a soft carpet to clean the sand off their shoes. Sensing that the waitresses had time on their hands, the customer felt it fair to be as difficult as possible. Chef, who usually rose to meet the pressure, was also taking it easy and “Delicious Hot Quiches” were coming out cold, corned beef hashes were coming out with the finger temperature test being far more obviously employed than was fair and the salad dressing was having so much mustard powder put in that people were getting nose bleeds.

  To make it worse, the amphetamines taken by the two summer waitresses who had thus been up all night, were now wearing off. Their fatigue was perceptible through a slid-off-the-plate pasty and three “real banana” milkshakes instead of three “real strawberry” milkshakes – all of which took up far more kitchen space and emotional effort than was warranted.

  Lettie had followed the advice of the newspaper’s guidelines and was waiting a few days before listening to her messages, in order to give people the time to pluck up courage to respond, and tonight was the night she would listen in. Different waves of thought swept over her throughout the day as she pondered what she was getting into.

  “How would you like your coffee, sir?” Oh, yes – in the cup. Hot? Yes, ha ha, very good. Yes. Indeed. Why on earth am I bothering with this – am I really that desperate?

  “Are you sure the child wants cream and ice cream on the treacle pudding? It is very rich, you know.” Actually, it could be really good fun. I could get to meet some really interesting people.

  Coffee in the cup – and hot – oh, ha ha! Yes, very good indeed. But they could all be nutters / tossers /nerds who can’t get it any other way. Just like me I suppose. What a thought…

  “Sorry, Sir, I was sure you said strawberry, rather than banana. No, it’s no trouble at all.” Quick nudge to his shoulder and a wink as she whispers, “I like making mistakes like this; they are my favourite kind to clean up after!” The sound of a tip chinking into her jar saved her irritation from flooding over as she scampered off to demand that Chef rinse out the hated milkshake jug once more…

  The usual add-up-and-gloat session was not well attended that day, as the staff body was otherwise pre-occupied. The summer waitresses were divided between going straight to bed for a much needed sleep and replying to the phone texts imploring them to do more of the same. Chef was trying to find an excuse for not going to Mother’s for tea again tonight and Lettie wanted to sit with her kitchen door shut and listen to her scores of messages in peace.

  Scores? What if there were none? What if she had pitched it completely wrong? What if they all thought, “Oy, boiler, just shag the lodger. Give the boy a break.” And of course what was worse was that people knew. If it were a disaster, she would be for evermore in everyone’s mind “the one I told you about. The one who applied for sadomasochistic threesomes over the internet and ended up running a brothel in Coombe Street.”

  Lettie, following her usual pattern, took her shoes off as soon as she left the restaurant. Not because they were a sexy pair of stilettos that had taken their toll on her corns, but for the same reason that Lisa swapped her chignon for a ponytail after she finished at the office. She walked down the pavement to the vantage point at the bottom of Bell Cliff, where cannons dating back from the early seventeen hundreds had been placed to oversee the safety of the town. Glad to see that the cannons, for once, weren’t occupied by a row of children, bickering as to who should sit at the front, Lettie perched on the wooden plinth and looked out over the sea, welcoming the breeze that aired the residue of stewed coffee and harassment from her hair.

  Every now and then, when the gods are offended by items that are washed up on Monmouth Beach, the steep hill that is Lyme Regis’ elegant backdrop sends another chunk of land surfing down the precarious greensand slope, to land in a big pile on the beach. And another homeowner wakes up owning a shorter garden than that with which they went to bed. Thus it was that the views Lettie painted varied from year to year.

  As Lettie sat down on the old cannon, the sea beyond her was calm and blue. Unknowingly, she broke out into a smile as she gazed over the deep beauty that was always so different. The Sailing Club was out in force; the white sails of the Mirror dinghies flashing in the early evening sun. Lettie could see the despairing actions of the Club Captain as he shouted instructions through a loudhailer at his prodigies as they dodged precariously in and out of each other’s paths. She too had learnt to sail in those boats, and the current occupants would earn the same scars on the sides of their heads, where the swinging boom would catch its naïve victims with painful regularity.

  Further out to sea were a few larger yachts, anchored where they would not only avoid getting grounded, but were also out of reach of prying eyes and useless dinghy sailors. Behind these was a speed boat, hacking back and forth across the gentle waves; the alternate “boom-roar-boom” echoing around the whole bay as the boat took off and crashed back onto the water with a monotonous drone.

  Lettie looked over to where Lyme Bay is bordered to the east by Chesil Beach and the imposing range of cliffs behind it. Visited by every school geology field trip in the land, the erosion of the cliffs owed as much to each child who had collected a range of pebbles that demonstrate longshore drift, as it did the geological make-up. The chalk peak of Golden Cap, the highest point on the south coast, glowed in recognition of its name and Lettie glowed within as she thought back to the Sixth Form camping perched on top of the cliff, with campfire stories, flagon’s of Dave’s dad’s home brew and prodigious amounts of shagging.

  What would the seventeen-year-old Lettie have thought about what thirty-five-year-old Lettie was doing now? Whatever had happened to the dreams of world travel, degrees in zoology, and a job doing something impressive with the Great Barrier Reef? Serving milkshakes, all be they real fruit, to disinterested grockles and living five hundred yards down the road from her mother had not been part of the master plan. Nor had indulging in Classified Ads…

  Seventeen-year-old Lettie, with her long, beaded hair, revealing T-shirts and figure enhancing jeans had certainly not needed such
a device. But if seventeen-year-old Lettie had got off her pert young arse and gone to university rather than moving in with a thirty-five-year-old artist for eight years, things may have been different. Appreciating that his straggly beard and severe body odour owed more to their belonging to a lazy man, than one who wanted to make a statement against society, might have seen her in a different position today.

  At twenty-five she had struggled free from the relationship with no qualifications, self-confidence or any idea about how to plan a comeback. The pattern had repeated itself as she was “saved” by various dead losses who sapped her vitality and played down her intellect and talents. Jobs that should have been a means to fund college became her annual salary, as she worked her way through Lyme Regis’ hotels, restaurants, chip shops and cafés. Deck chairs were issued, trampolines overseen and pedalos rescued.

  Eventually, she had settled on waitressing, mainly because of the additional income from tips which at least somewhat reflected her talents, but also due to the involvement with the public that she not only enjoyed but was good at. To add to the case for waitressing, her previous interactions with the public had included chasing their pubic hairs down plugholes, taking their used condoms and sanitary towels out of beds, and serving them stingy portions of flaccid chips. Serving fairly traded coffee in an establishment that she could actually share the vacuuming of, must surely be the better option?

  But, tonight could open a new book in the library of life and there was no point in delaying any further. Lettie hopped down from the cannon, surprised to see a couple of children perched astride it behind her, picked up her shoes and sauntered off on the short walk home.

  Chapter 13

  The Doughnut or the Eclair?