Doug stopped on the way home at the chemist to buy hand cream. Previous girlfriends had insisted on it, but the habit of applying it tended to dry up, usually about the same time as the conversation did. It would never get rid of the rough pads of leathery skin that had grown on his hands over the years, to protect them from the heavy chainsaw, but it would demonstrate good intentions.
His hands were definitely those of a labourer, swollen and clumsy, but strong. However, he’d always felt that it wasn’t the softness of the hands that counted with a woman, but the softness of the man attached to them. And he could be soft – if he were allowed to be. Anyone who had taken any notice of Doug that morning would have detected an air of sprightliness about the usually quiet man…a lightness of step and a cheeky smile ready to break out, even though he was walking alone.
Reaching home, he checked his watch, plenty of the time for his shit, shower and shave routine, and then he’d be ready. His new shirt hung on the back of the door, the creases from the packaging carefully ironed out. His trousers were clean and his boots polished so that they appeared nearly new – although necessarily retaining some essential character.
His work partner, Rob, and Rob’s wife, Mandy, called round to wish Doug luck and to snigger at his nervousness on their way into town. They handed him first one condom, then Rob said, “Oh, go on – you’d better have two,” and Mandy added, as per the obvious rehearsal, “Have you not heard his reputation, no, he needs at least three.”
“And, no, they don’t go over your bollocks as well, mate,” said Rob and all three laughed at the memory of Wayne Roberts who’d done just that and had then foolishly confided in one of his fellow sixth formers to ask why sex had to be so painful.
Rob ruffled Dougie’s newly cropped hair, Mandy straightened it again and pretended to spit on her hanky and polish his face clean. “And to think they say,” said Rob, “that you can’t polish a turd.” They laughed their good wishes and walked away, hand in hand. Dougie laughed, waved his hand in farewell and closed the door.
The sound of the door very nearly drowned out the bleep, bleep of his phone, indicating the arrival of a text message, but not quite. His heart leapt, as it always did at the sound; no one ever sent him text messages, or indeed ever phoned his mobile, apart from Lettie. In fact, it had been her that suggested he get one and now it rarely left his side.
Yes, it was her. His large thumbs carefully worked their way through the menu to read the message about five times slower than it would take the average teenager.
“Dougie – sorry, something has happened. Tonight is off. I can’t explain, but am so sorry. Take care of yourself, Lettie. I am now turning my phone off; please don’t contact me.”
Dougie sat down slowly, his heart thumping, and read it again, but it still said the same: “Please don’t contact me.” So, was that it? Over before it began? He felt sick to his stomach as he contemplated what it meant. No more Lettie. No more having something to look forward to, someone to receive post from – no one had ever sent him nice things in the post before, and now it was over. There was no ambiguity in that message. All over.
He took a deep sigh and tossed the phone casually onto the table and didn’t care that it slid across the polished surface and dropped onto the tiled floor. Standing wearily up, he saw his ironed shirt hanging, mocking him, on the back of the door and he batted it gently to the floor. He tiredly put away the old iron and the rickety ironing board, picked up his jacket and went resignedly out of the door.
He didn’t know that Lettie was sat weeping in the small park by the Leper’s Well, a pathetic figure of sorrow amongst the beautiful flowers. He didn’t know that her feelings of shame and inadequacy were too great for her to handle meeting him. He wasn’t to know that she felt so hideously ugly with her bruised cheek, eyes puffy from crying and so little sleep that she felt he would hate her anyway. He just felt rejection. He’d felt it before, he knew the signs and, to him, the signs were as clear as day.
Chapter 23
Forgot to Turn the Oven On
The respective friends of Lettie and Doug handled the situation very differently and Rizzo would have appreciated the case study in male / female dynamics.
By five o’clock on the Saturday afternoon, Lettie had received five good luck phone calls, none of which she answered, and the messages left on her answer machine were desperate for her to contact the owners straight away about the night’s forthcoming events – be the news good or bad.
Lisa, who knew the situation, knew to keep out of her way and just provided regular cups of tea with a cheese and tomato sandwich brought in at lunchtime, “I made a bit much, can you eat this one?” Then some fruitcake, and then some chocolate.
Dougie’s phone was silent and he went about his chores with a black gloom that no one noticed.
By six o’clock, Alex was at Lettie’s front door, having been “just passing” and a bit concerned about the unanswered phone. Her inquiring look as the door was opened to her turned quickly to concern, as Lettie walked away from her into the kitchen, leaving Alex to shut the front door and follow her in. They retired to the conservatory with a large pot of tea and the remains of Lisa’s fruitcake and Alex gently wheedled the sorry tale out of her.
“I’m just so pathetic. I’m just not worth bothering with.”
“You are not, you are lovely and funny and beautiful. You’ve just had a rough time, that’s all.” More tea, re-tell the argument. Re-tell the feelings of despair.
“Oh, I am just bloody hopeless. Why couldn’t I see him coming? I’m just sick of men. I can’t be doing with any of them any more. It’s just too much grief.”
“Not all men are like Alan, Lettie,” said Alex. “I doubt very much that Dougie is.”
“Well, we’ll never know, will we? Sorry Alex. I really appreciate you coming round, but I’m off for a bath. I didn’t sleep very much last night.”
Alex knew the signs. She looked at her sister and saw the straggly hair, dirty from so much handling. Her eyes were red and puffy from the day’s endemic weeping and the slovenly comfortable clothes she had wrapped herself in did nothing for her self-image. Yes, despite the beautiful evening sun glowing though the conservatory roof onto the grateful plants, Lettie was ready for bed.
“You run your bath. I’ll change the bed for you.”
Lettie nodded, appreciating her sister’s understanding and practical common sense. She hadn’t thought of the bed, but to sleep in the same sheets as him, to smell him on her pillow and to brush his dark brown hair from her bed would be abhorrent. Her room already felt soiled, as he had left it in a complete state with the blinds pulled shut and the bed unmade. Clean sheets and a loving sister’s eye would make the world of difference and would re-establish the air of calm retreat.
Alex handed Lettie a fresh towel and put the old ones in the washing machine, along with the bedding. She dolloped a large blob of the aromatherapy bubble bath, perhaps inappropriately named Serenity, into the bath. Alex hugged her sister goodbye, promising to call her tomorrow, and took her leave, torn between wanting to absorb her sister’s sorrow onto her own, less weary, shoulders and the urge to shake her hard.
Lettie slowly undressed, noting the still unshaven legs that she had been “saving” for the grooming process that should have taken place late that afternoon. The thick socks that she had worn with her oldest trainers had left deep weals about her shins, reinforcing in her an image of her own unattractiveness. In contrast to Doug’s, Lettie’s eyebrows were shaped and immaculately groomed, having treated herself to a session at the local beauticians on Thursday in order to prevent red puffy eyes on the big day. The irony wasn’t wasted on her as she gazed in the mirror, fat tears beginning to well up once more as her reflection, as well as her hopes, gradually disappeared into the steam.
Chapter 24
The Collapsed Soufflé
Malcolm was as pleased with the results that he was having with Lisa as Rizzo was with his. T
hey now bumped into each other most weekdays and Lisa had even taken to having the occasional tea and cake in the restaurant, but Malcolm had remained in the kitchen on those instances, not wanting to arouse any of the suspicions that were second nature to Jill.
He was pleased to see that Lisa was always freshly made-up before she stepped out for lunch and that her hair shone. She had taken advantage of the advancing summer to leave her suit jacket in the office at lunchtime and take her walk in her increasingly flimsy blouses. Malcolm’s stomach flipped as the sea breeze brought her nipples out to play and to his delight they weren’t always symmetrical, and although to everyone else this gave the impression of cross-eyes, to Malcolm, it was wonderful.
He felt the next stage of the plan was in his grasp; first to not do what she expected and instead be as business-like and professional as he could and then she would be putty in his hands, desperate to show what she was capable of. It had worked many times before and although it was difficult to get through the first stage intact, the wait was always, always worth it.
Therefore, the next time he saw her teetering along the front, her strappy sandals giving her grief that she would never grimace at when he was in her company, he quickly bought a large portion of chips. As an afterthought he cruelly dolloped curry sauce over them and set off towards her, planning to be in his own world when they bumped into each other.
Being completely unaware of her flushed “Hello, how are you?” he asked her to do him a favour and give him five minutes of her time. She happily agreed and they sat on a bench together, overlooking the sea that rippled gently onto the beach. He offered her some chips without looking at her – although he did manage to watch out of the corner of his eye as a greedy blob of curry sauce was dropped, scooped up and licked off, leaving yet another greasy turmeric stain on the best of her new set of three.
He ate a couple of chips, pretending to be deep in thought whilst she continually rearranged herself, trying to show as much leg as was accidentally possible, without it being a fat bit. Then he turned to her, swivelling his body round until he pretended he hadn’t even noticed that their knees were touching, and pointing a chip at her, he said, “You’ve got a good business brain, Lisa; I’d appreciate your input…”
She gulped and just managed to stop herself saying, “Er, have I?” and instead said, “Go ahead,” shifting slightly to lean forward in what she felt was bound to be an enticing manner.
“My business partner, Jill, and I have been talking about taking the Sea View to the next stage. You know what I mean?”
“Sure,” she nodded, trying to disguise the “eh?” look on her face.
“Perhaps an upgrade, more added-value products… Update the name for starters – I mean, the Sea View, I ask you!”
“Yes,” said Lisa who had never really noticed what it was called. “It hasn’t even got a sea view, has it?”
Malcolm looked sideways at her. “No, um, I suppose it hasn’t, but I want it to be less of the “cup of tea and sit there for hours whilst it’s raining” coach trips, and more of the business class. You know, folks like you and me who would have, I don’t know, a shellfish salad and a bottle of good wine, or something from a selection of coffees. I want it to be somewhere you, for example, could take a client.”
“Yes, yes, I see what you mean,” said Lisa, feeling fraudulent about her track record of chip butties and sausage sandwiches.
“Yeah, I am going to see my business advisor soon – I was wondering whether someone from your practice would join me? It was always helpful to have the counsel of an accountant when we had such meetings in London.”
“Well, I am sure, yes, I am sure that someone could go. When were you thinking of?”
“I used to take Geoff out for dinner and we’d chew over the fat a bit. It was more productive, we found, than a formal meeting.”
“I understand; just to talk over ideas, that sort of thing?” said Lisa, helping herself to another chip, this time being careful not to get one with curry sauce on – it was just too dangerous.
“That’s the idea,” said Malcolm, turning back to watch a rounders match on the beach, seeming to return to his own thoughts.
Lisa remembered her resolution to play it cool and sophisticated and got up to go, but couldn’t help grabbing a few more chips as she did, saying “If you ring the office, I am sure we can sort something out. Would you excuse me, I have to go, I’ve got an, er, two o’clock,” and she sashayed her way up the promenade. Malcolm smiled as he saw her wipe her greasy fingers on her black drill skirt.
The appointment was booked for Thursday evening, seven-thirty, in Bristol, which allowed the London business advisor to meet his clients half way.
Much to Rizzo’s delight, Lisa threw herself into a regime of sit-ups that compounded his theories and accelerated his dissertation. To her delight, they enabled her to get back into the grey pinstripe skirt that went so well with the matching jacket and a cream silk blouse.
Additional beauty products littered the shelves of the bathroom, trimmed blonde short and curlies lined the shower plughole and blonde eyebrow hairs were scattered onto the toothbrushes left on the sink. The more ticks that filled Rizzo’s spreadsheets, the more angst was being suffered by Lisa.
On the day, she luckily managed to spill coffee down her front and therefore went home at lunchtime to change. Matching underwear, gleaming legs that were newly shaved and moisturised and a fresh face of make-up were complimented by the grey pinstripe and Lisa returned for the afternoon’s toil feeling irresistible. A quick re-touch of powder and a spritz of perfume as his car drew up would allow her to be saying, “Gosh, is that the time?” when he knocked on her office door.
Malcolm was the perfect gentleman arriving to take a respected professional to a meeting. He opened the door of the freshly valeted car for her and she dived in, forgetting all she’d read about how a lady steps into the car without displaying her pants to all and sundry. Malcolm thanked her for coming at such an inconvenient hour and got in. During the journey, Malcolm discussed his thoughts about the business, interspersed with a few jokes and lots of interest about her work and what made her want to be an accountant. He then briefed her on the meeting ahead and she tried to focus her mind away from the patch of stubble that she’d missed, glinting in the sunlight on her knee, onto the case in hand.
Lisa tried to sit as seductively as she knew how, but Malcolm chatted on regardless. Geoff Bartley was an old college friend, but they’d kept in touch, mainly because he was good at what he did. His wife was very ill, so sometimes he was late or a little otherwise occupied, but he always came up with the goods, even if he seemed a little vague at times.
Lisa looked at Malcolm and nodded, trying to look as if she were making mental notes. Instead, she was assessing him in a way she rarely got a chance to do. She loved his neat little beard and couldn’t help but wonder if it would tickle her when they kissed. The only person with a beard she’d kissed before was her Nan, and that didn’t really count. He had an open-necked shirt on that allowed him to look smart, but comfortable and she suddenly felt overdressed in her stiff suit. As if reading her mind, Malcolm turned to her and said, “Well, you certainly look the part; you look fantastic in that suit.” He then carried on chatting about Geoff’s credentials and jobs they’d worked on before, while she beamed in the glow of his careful one-off comment.
The journey went too quickly for Lisa, who felt they could have driven all night. She pretended to like Bob Dylan when Malcolm told her to select a CD from the black zip-up case and then listened hard to try and remember sufficient lines to allow her to join him in singing along to the chorus. She so desperately wanted to just reach a hand across and squeeze his thigh or turn to face him, with her hand sitting on the back of his neck, stroking it gently.
Unbeknownst to her, Malcolm was using all his reserve to stop himself blowing the bigger picture, the carefully laid plan, by caressing her thighs, held so carefully off the seat to
ensure they wouldn’t spread and thus look twice the size. The thought of gradually riding his hands up between them to the bit that would be warmly stuck together, the goal that he had been flashed earlier, was almost more than he could bear. But he adjusted his trousers, turned up the volume and concentrated hard on the fate of that honest gangster, Joey.
They pulled off the motorway far too early for Lisa’s liking and took the turning to the hotel that sat on the side of a roundabout.
“Not a very exciting location, but convenient for both parties,” said Malcolm, as he scrambled round the car as quickly as possible to open her door. He was not disappointed by his efforts as Lisa gave a repeat performance and hauled herself out of the bucket seat displaying the inadequate panties for anyone who cared to look. And Malcolm did. And inside the carefully selected slacks, his loins throbbed once more.
Lisa fumbled for her briefcase and handbag and then tottered after Malcolm as he locked the car remotely and bounded up the steps to the hotel. He strode over to the desk and Lisa admired the way he chattered to the receptionist who batted her false eyelashes at him out of the made-up face. Malcolm turned and smiled at Lisa and she returned the smile, bracing her shoulders in order to feel assertive once more. She was a professional. She didn’t need false eyelashes to ply her trade, but she had to admit that they did look good and she made a mental note to try them.
The receptionist handed Malcolm a fax and he read it and sighed in an annoyed fashion. Walking over to Lisa, he frowned as he flicked at the page with the back of his hand. “Typical,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, Lisa, Geoff has had to cancel.”
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