Lettie sat at her kitchen table with purpose. Having changed out of her black and white uniform into a more comfortable pair of cut-off jeans and T-shirt, she gathered together the items she felt she would need. Full teapot, jug of milk, mug and bowl of raisins ensured she would be satiated without having her judgment affected by a full-on sugar rush. A pad of paper and two pens were laid neatly on the table. Lisa and Rizzo were engrossed in front of some rubbish on the television and Lettie had quietly closed the kitchen door: her way of requesting privacy.
She took a deep breath, picked up the phone and began to dial.
Alex pushed the kitchen door open one hour later and found a somewhat dishevelled Lettie sat in front of her, pieces of paper spread across the table and a look of incredulity on her face.
“Bloody hell, there are some right saddos out there. I’ve had twenty-six replies!”
“No!”
“Yes!” Lettie pulled out the chair next to her, barely even wincing at the noise it made as it scraped across the floor; the same noise that had been the sole reason for evicting one of her previous lodgers. “Come and look – I’ve written down the salient points.”
Alex whooped as she scuttled into the chair. “Go on, let’s see. Twenty-six! I can’t believe it.” She read through Lettie’s notes, which started out as transcripts of the messages and ended as phrases that, to her, had summed up and written off, the caller – notes such as “still married”, “four kids” and “good at phone sex”. Alex read through the list, nodding and mentally ticking off as if she were checking a delivery note at her florist’s. Lettie sat watching Alex with her hands cupping her chin, willing her sister to come to the same conclusions as she had.
“Well,” said Alex eventually, “you’ve got a right mixed bag there. Any you like the sound of?” Lettie pushed over a chart that would rival Rizzo’s revision timetable for its procrastination potential. It was a matrix with twenty-six rows and a series of ticks and crosses against a line of measures listed across the top of the chart.
“So, these are your “essential” and “desirable” criteria?”
Lettie nodded.
Alex chuckled quietly as she read through the list. The “Nice Voice” box was next to “Slimy Toad” and the column of ticks against these two were apparently fundamental to the success of the applicant. “Normal” adjoined “Odd”, whereas “Alleged Marital status” stood alone. “Funny”, “Sad” and “Desperate” were important, whereas “Mention of Dogs” didn’t really seem to matter that much. Alex was impressed; it was the highest level of academic attainment that she had seen out of Lettie since she’d gone wayward with that smelly hippy at seventeen. Different coloured pens too.
The final column had a score in it that reflected the performances of those on trial, depending on the weighting of each of the criteria. Those with a nice voice earned a score of five, whereas the slimy toads had eight points deducted. Five had scored over twenty points, ten had minus totals (including one who mentioned dogs).
Lettie busied herself making a fresh pot of tea, desperate for a bit of normality in such a strange situation, still feeling awkward about what she was doing.
“Oh, bugger that, Lettie. Get the wine out girl; this needs a celebration!”
Lettie’s beam spoke of her relief that Alex wasn’t laughing at her and appreciated the importance of the situation.
Alex and Rich had been best mates at school and their friendship had blossomed into puppy, and then young, love. When their friends were swapping partners with the regularity of a fashion victim’s style, Rich and Alex had eyes and furtive hands only for each other. They had matured and grown together, just like the books said they would. Lettie had always envied Alex her love, happiness and constancy. Unbeknownst to anyone, Alex had at times envied Lettie her variety, spice and sexual adventure; even soulmates fancied a rummage with someone else every now and then, just for change’s sake.
Therefore, although Lettie was being both the adventurer and the surrogate adventurer, both sisters pored over the “applicants” with great fervour, although the level of discernment became a little wanting as the wine began to flow. Bottle one brought confidence and assertion. Bottle two, heated debate and bickering over what were the essential and desired criteria. Predictably, bottle three was going to bring huge phone bills as the messages were played over and over again to allow a critique of their quality, sincerity and, eventually, ridiculousness. Additional categories were added to the chart and those that were lucky enough to possess deep voices gained extra points in the “Elephantine Bollocks” category, whereas the poor soul that scored high in the “Wiener” category did so solely on the merit of his pronunciation of “midnight moonlit walks”.
By the time the Twiglets had been finished and the pair felt the need for coffee, they had decided to concentrate on the five that had scored over twenty points, keep the two that had between twelve and twenty on a reserve list and discard the remainder. They had transposed the five finalist’s messages, and had given each of the men their own identities in order to remember and discuss them without having to keep referring to the chart.
Desperate Dan was from Bristol. His pleadings with Lettie not to shag the lodger when he was only an hour away had not fallen on deaf ears and she liked his honesty, although appreciated that romance may not be his strong point.
Lottery Lawrence had a deliciously soft Cornish accent that both Lettie and Alex were transfixed by. His claim that he’d already been lucky in the lottery was taken with a large pinch of salt, but his love of the sea and offer to sail round to Lyme Bay to take Lettie and her dog out for a couple of jars were appealing.
Brian the Snail somehow managed to score over twenty, mainly because he did nothing particularly wrong. In slow careful tones he had wooed Lettie with all the right words and phrases, expressing sympathies for her battle scars whilst offering no real insight into his own character – unless it was one of a considerate but careful small business owner with a slow voice, in which case, his message was a large print open book.
Dougie Bach was the Welsh guy, the forester, with a top score of twenty-six. He scored well in the “Nice Voice” and the “Funny” categories and she felt sure he would have a dog. The idea of a butch forester sitting up against a tree, whittling love spoons had upped his scores in most of the categories.
Lastly, the Cheeky Chappie was a whirlwind of wit and energy. Sounding as if he was standing next to the jukebox in a busy pub with a glassful of Dutch courage in his hand, he reeled off his hobbies (socialising, playing pool and watching the footie, with an afterthought of walking in the park thrown in to help boost his compatibility rating).
He was an office worker, but was currently sorting out the final details before he launched his own business. He looked forward to coming to Dorset on his white charger (“In his white van, more like,” smirked Alex) and whisking Lettie off into a new world of excitement and companionship in which he would look after her and be a perfect gentleman until he was duly declared the luckiest man in the world.
“So, what happens next?” Alex queried, taking the empty wine glasses to the sink.
“I need more information. I can’t just ring these people and start chatting. Perhaps a photo?”
“Yeah, then you can dump the really ugly ones.”
“Alex, you are so politically incorrect. Anyway, ugly folk have to develop personalities – just look at your Rich…” Alex flicked a Twiglet at Lettie and justice was done.
“What if I ask for a photo of them that reflects their personality? I can’t phone them to ask though – otherwise I’d have to chat to them and I can’t do that yet.”
Alex guessed correctly that this would also be the role of an older sister. Agreeing that this would be done the next day, Lettie walked Alex to the front door and hugged her good night. She watched as her sister walked down the quiet street and disappeared round the corner and hugged herself in excitement at what lay ahead.
&nb
sp; As she turned the lights off and clomped upstairs, she no longer felt ridiculous, she felt empowered, as if she were actually calling the shots for once. This time, she wouldn’t let people choose her, she was going to choose them and those that didn’t fit the bill wouldn’t get a look in, let alone be able to inflict several years of misery.
And, that night, while Lettie slumped into an easy sleep, dreaming of being driven through town on the roof of a white van, by a driver whittling a fishing boat, Lisa lay awake, wondering why Rizzo kept talking about the lustre of her hair…
Chapter 14
A Fine Granary Sandwich filled with the Most Delicious Fresh Produce, Wrapped in a Cotton Neckerchief and Tied to the End of a Stick
Rizzo walked for hours on the beaches below Black Venn. Black Venn is an unsettled range of cliffs that is continually shifting and has small rivulets of muddy slurry slopping onto the beach below. This erosion is mainly gradual, but occasionally dramatic, providing a renewing canvas for fossiler and geologist alike, combing the beaches with varying degrees of skill and knowledge, hoping for that one find that will set them up for life.
Anning Road, the home of Alan Bentley and his parents, had been named after Mary Anning. She was the young girl who had collected fossils to sell and, having discovered a plesiosaur, convinced middle England that fossils being millions of years old was a fact and not just a ruse put about by clever scientists. Rizzo was a bit of a snob and had already decided that Charles Riser Drive would not contain a row of, albeit it mainly ex-, council houses, but an exclusive development, interspersed with open spaces and tasteful landscaping.
At the moment, he gave more thought to the opening ceremony of his Drive than he did to his means of attaining it, and was beginning to wonder whether a change of career may be in order. If he were an architect, he could design his own houses. The psychology wasn’t going too well – perhaps utilising his imaginative bent was the way forward?
The beach is a potentially dangerous place to be as the relatively easy walk to neighbouring Charmouth can turn into a dash for life by those who have not heeded the signs or noted the tides. Great mudflows have slumped onto the sand and rocks and although the material is gradually removed by the tide, it is regularly replaced, leaving a large dangerous cowpat of grey mud, thick, clayey and capable of sucking the welly boot from a grown man in seconds.
Rizzo was well aware of these facts, but his weak point was his daydreaming and the ability to lose precious essay writing hours whilst he wondered about tapping rocks with his expensive range of fossiling hammers. His idea of paying his own way through college this way, when he and his father had fallen out, had petered out when two days of hard labour was transposed into five pounds fifty, a ten percent discount voucher and a dismissive look when he had presented his collection to the owner of Lyme Fossils.
“We don’t sell many of these, mate. Any muppet can just pick them off the beach. And, these’ll need cleaning up properly – you know, by someone who knows what he’s doing.” Seeing the look on Rizzo’s face, the owner softened, “See this chip here? Someone’s hit it too hard and therefore that’ll go for fifty pence, rather than a few quid for an intact one.”
Rizzo nodded knowledgeably, “Oh, right. I see, yes; I’ll tell him.” He bought himself a couple of crystals that promised peace and wellbeing and used up his meagre wages, his discount voucher and a bit more and then went home to phone his dad. But, like any good fossiler, Rizzo had not been deterred and still scoured the cliffs, looking for his very own plesiosaur, or suchlike, that would secure his name in fossil history, and if he found a little Fool’s Gold in the meantime, well, so be it.
However, on this particular day, Rizzo had only half an eye on the cliff face. His notebook was burning a hole in his pocket and he needed to get his dissertation moving. After his early victories, it had ground somewhat to a halt and he was in danger of letting the situation slide. He spotted a good rock that would serve as a fine perch for a thinker such as himself. The large hunk of sandstone was smooth from the years of pounding that it had endured at the mercy of the waves, but today, although the waves were fresh they were not a danger to its resting place. Rizzo settled comfortably, putting his sandwich in the little dip to his left that could have been specially carved for the purpose.
The wind was up and the waves beyond the beach were tipped by white horses that rose and fell in their rhythmic dance. Rizzo pulled up the collar of his bright red jacket, bought purposely for fossiling, so that he could be found if buried in the daring excavation of his plesiosaur.
The weak rays of the sun just managed to warm his face and he felt that it was too nice to be working and that perhaps he should have a little nap instead. But, as he shuffled to get more comfortable, the notebook shifted in his pocket and the corners of it jabbed his ribs, as if a little reminder of why he had combed the high street to buy such a robust book. He had felt that it would be needed to survive the pressure that his intensive flow of direction and ideas would surely put upon it. A mixture of his conscience and a vision of having to explain further delays to his tutor merged together and it was with reluctance that he took the book from his pocket and removed the lid of the silver pen that went so well with it. He had thought it worth buying the pen as well as he would be bound to wear it out in the process. He opened the front page and wrote in as authoritative lettering as possible, “Week Four”.
Week Four
Regular but subtle levels of interest have been directed at the Subject and these are the first such attentions that have been received in her mature life. Eye contact is sustained, acknowledgement of the female form given and an active interest paid to conversation and debate.
Results
Rizzo knew only too well the results that his work was producing. He had not only noticed but was genuinely surprised by the results of this work. His observations of the washing line that could be seen from his window showed that Lisa’s recent shopping trip to Exeter hadn’t been solely for new work blouses, and lace had replaced function in an almost extrovert manner. The off-duty ponytail was occasionally left upstairs and a yellowish sheet hung loose around Lisa’s shoulders, pushed back in a way that was almost seductive. The contents of the bathroom bin revealed evidence of feminine grooming and through the open crack of her bedroom door, he was sure he had seen Lisa hurling herself into sit-ups.
Feeling relieved to have started, he felt that perhaps his sandwich might further inspire the thought processes and started tucking into the concoction of granary bread, grated carrot, fresh lettuce and beetroot that it had taken him the other half of the morning foraging the town for.
Rizzo’s dilemma was that now Lisa had responded so remarkably well to his method of inspiring and self-esteem, he was able to consider changing the goalposts slightly. If the confident wearing of new underwear, lower cuts to her blouses and even the beginnings of a fitness regime had been inspired by such simple actions as the occasional, albeit well-timed, comment and a level of interest taken in what she was saying and her life in general, what would be the outcome of still greater efforts? Rizzo hardly dared to think, but think he did, sat on the beach, with dogs being walked around him, and children peering into rock pools alongside parents who vowed silently to continue the levels of family interaction when they returned home at the end of their holiday. Of Lisa.
He imagined her sat astride him as he reclined into the deep pillows. He had an attractive pair of boxer shorts on – probably the red and blue checks – and she had a lacy white bra and a matching pair of white French knickers that flattered what he knew would be large, accommodating hips.
“Do you know, Charles,” she would say coyly, “no one has ever made me feel this way before.” And he would rise up gently onto his elbows, gently stroking her upper thighs with his fingertips and thus intimating his complete acceptance of her problem areas and inspiring further confidence in herself. “I just feel, so, well, comfortable with you. In fact,” and she would unclip
the large slide that held her neat chignon in place and shake her tresses free and drag them seductively over his face, persuading him to drop back down into the cool linen-covered pillows. Looking him straight and mischievously in the eye, she would reach behind her and release the wonderful breasts from the structured, but delicately lacy, bra and they would bounce down in doubly slow time under gravity, replacing the golden hair as the tool to tickle his face.
Hearing a noise, Rizzo opened his eyes to see a small child standing in front of him, holding out a bucket.
“Look, I caught crabs,” he said and tipped it forward for Rizzo to see.
“Yeah. Lucky you,” said Rizzo and stood up, adjusting his trousers before the proud parent got the wrong idea, and walked away smiling as he wondered whether he was the only person on his course whose dissertation was able to inspire an admirable erection…
Chapter 15
Mutton Dressed as Beef
The sisters had been right in their assumption that a request for a photograph would reflect the applicants’ personalities, but what would have been more telling would be being privy to the ways in which the individuals concerned went about sending them.
****
The Cheeky Chappie thought about the request for at least five seconds. He fiddled about a bit on his computer, pressed print and then grabbed his pool queue and headed for the door.
****
Desperate Dan spread a pile of photographs on the floor and flicked through them. Not being able to decide on just one photo, he set about making a collage of a selection, putting his best assets together to make one supreme Dan.
****
In a neat semi on the outskirts of Cirencester, a neat man carefully wrapped a small box of hand-picked chocolates into shiny paper and blue ribbons. He scored the ends of the ribbon with scissor blades until they bounced into spirals that he then smoothed into the correct position. He packed the box carefully into an addressed, purpose-chosen envelope with stiff gussets, and slipped another protective envelope containing his photograph in beside it.
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