This is it, thought Lisa. It’s all arranged. She tried hard to keep the smile from her face and instead played along with his game. “Oh dear, why is that? Is it his wife?”
“Yes, he said he tried my mobile, but had the wrong number – he usually phones me at the office, you see.”
“OK,” said Lisa. “What now?” Dinner she thought, perhaps some wine and more than a little heavy duty flirting as the cream silk was activated. Perhaps even a room for an hour or two – or the whole night, now that would be lovely.
“Well, we might as well go home,” said Malcolm, “no point in hanging around here is there. Unless…?”
Unless?
“You need the toilet?”
“No, I’m fine thanks,” said Lisa – flirting people never need to go; it ruins the image.
On the return journey, Dylan was swapped for Van Morrison and Malcolm continued to sing, interspersed with idle chit-chat about this and that. Lisa just sat. She felt a fool: a stupid little girl. How could someone like Malcolm be interested in her? She felt ridiculous in her short skirt and tried desperately to pull the front slit together. The stomach that may have been perfectly flat when it was on a standing model, now seemed to have exploded into a large tyre, accentuated nicely by the tucked-in blouse. She tried hard to answer his comments in a cheerful enough fashion and hoped that she had got away with it. Malcolm felt a little sorry for her, but he also knew that he had played the perfect cast to have her hook, line and sinker at the moment of his choosing.
Meanwhile, Rizzo sat at his desk thumbing through volumes in the way young lawyers do in films, when they work all night. Everything was going well, but he needed a control element to his project and that would be difficult to find. Lettie was Lettie and was unlikely to respond to any of his comments, let alone be disappointed if he didn’t make any. His only real option was to use Lisa as the control also, and to see what happened if he not only withdrew his attentions, but perhaps put out a few negative ones.
Therefore, he was sat in the sitting room, idly watching television, when he heard the front door slam. Lisa occasionally worked overtime and the late hour of her homecoming was not unusual.
Lisa clomped into the kitchen, her heels now a positive nuisance, and rummaged through the cupboards for solace.
Rizzo stood casually in the doorway, enjoying the way she wrenched her blouse out of the confines of her waistband. “Hiya,” he said, casually.
“Hi,” she clipped back, not really needing his company tonight.
Rizzo opened the fridge door and scanned the contents in case they had changed since he put in his selection of salad items, having read an article on immune systems. “Good day?” he asked, deciding against a raw carrot and looking instead for his cheese.
“All right,” she mumbled, annoyed that he was watching her search for chocolate.
Putting his cheese on the table, he looked at her and said, “Cor, you’re looking a bit rough – are you not sleeping or something?” Looking closely to analyse any hint of a reaction, he was overwhelmed by the result as she slammed down the biscuit tin, burst into angry tears and stalked out of the room. “Bluddee hell!” said Rizzo, more to himself than the vanishing Lisa. “This stuff really works,” and he started to make a cup of strong coffee in preparation for an all-nighter writing up and analysing his results.
Chapter 25
A Spoonful of Sugar
Lettie had a miserable week. Work had been hectic, but her tips were down and even a holiday waitress had beaten her at the tip count and crowed about it ever since. The days seemed long and nothing seemed to bring her much pleasure. Walks on the beach became simply a means to empty and tire the dog, and cups of tea with friends were endured rather than enjoyed, the long conversations resolving nothing.
She knew it was all her fault, but saw only her weaknesses, rather than Alan’s manipulation, sensed her unassertive worthlessness without recognising the pattern of fear and submission that she had trodden for so long and felt unable to stray from. Her shame at having fallen for the old tricks prevented her from contacting Dougie, as she saw herself as simply being unable to be in a relationship and hadn’t really thought that other partners may not be quite so destructive.
She even turned her mobile back on, on the Thursday, but found only text messages from friends that she deleted, barely taking in their content. However, none were from “Doug Mobe”, the ones that she knew would make her laugh or go soft. There, she thought. That proves it. He’s not interested anyway.
She was persuaded to phone him from Alex’s house on the Saturday night after supper and enough wine and intensive cheering up to convince her that it was worth a try. Preparing herself for far too long to be able to leave a light-hearted spontaneous message, she eventually dialled and let out her bated breath as she found the phone turned off. She turned to Alex in a sad and resigned “told you he’s not interested” kind of way and turned her own phone off once more. How was she to know that his phone lay broken, in the same drawer where it had rested since he picked it up, shattered, from the tiled floor a week ago?
One hundred and fifty miles away, Dougie was receiving a different sort of tender loving care from his mates in the Llew Coch. Word had got out and his comrades were delightedly offering condolences, advice and sharing their own tales of woe.
“Well, I told you she was a bloke, Doug. Obviously couldn’t get his razor to shave close enough on the night, mate, and had to call it off.” Doug nodded in thanks, glad that the bar was busy that night, so that Dai “Peach” had to shout to be heard over the din.
“No, she was busy, that was all. Aren’t chatline operators really busy on a Saturday night? Sixty pence a minute – too good a wage to compete with you in the flesh, I’m sorry to say, mate.” Yes, very good, thank you, Barry.
Dougie signalled to the girl behind the bar that he wanted to buy another round, praying that his inattention would get the subject changed.
“Hey, you keep your eyes off our Rowanna, Doug. She’s too good for you! She can pull pints, what would she want to pull you for?”
Rowanna smiled, coming to Doug’s rescue like any good barmaid. “Ah, don’t be so sure, Barry,” Dougie looked relieved. “The bitter’s a bit flat tonight!” Much more hilarity and Doug gave up and signalled to Rob and Mandy that they should leave the crowded bar and try and find space somewhere in the snug.
“Ah, ignore them, Doug,” said Mandy with a motherly smile.
“Yeah, they’ve just never forgiven you for taking Fat Carol over the bonnet of your dad’s car after the Young Farmers’ dance.” Dougie laughed at the memory. How was he to have known that the three mates that he’d promised a lift to were waiting patiently, albeit rather worse for wear, inside said car and weeping in silent uncontrollable mirth as Dougie inexpertly pumped away and Carol hung on tightly to her burger.
Rob took a long gulp of the bitter that Dougie had passed him, leaving a moustache of froth around his mouth, which Mandy tutted at and wiped off with the sleeve of his coat that she had slung over his arm. “Well, onwards and upwards I say, mate,” and he raised his glass. “To Dougie’s next conquest – bird, bloke, Alsatian, whatever it may be.” The three clinked glasses, but to Doug they rang hollow amid the thumping of the jukebox and the shouts and laughter around them; only Mandy caught the look, very nearly masked by a smile.
The door banged open and another group of marauding males crashed in, their red shiny faces and trendy new shirts going some way to make up for the baggy-arsed trousers that they were unable to hitch up high enough to cover their burgeoning guts. The lack of full-length mirrors in their houses gave these men the confidence in their appearances that women everywhere would do well to emulate. Rob excused himself, muttering about needing to borrow a trailer, and ambled over to chat to one of the new group, leaving Dougie and Mandy alone.
“Why do you really think she cancelled, Dougie?” asked Mandy. She’d been trying to “see Doug settled” for year
s, but she had never seen him like this.
“I don’t know, but I just get the feeling something has happened – she was fine the day before. I reckon it’s something to do with that ex-boyfriend of hers – she says that he tends to pester her until she goes back to him and it’s been a few weeks now.”
“You don’t think she was just nervous?”
Dougie smiled as he sheepishly told of their pact to text each other – one X meant Quite Nervous, two X’s meant Bloody Hell and three X’s meant Help Me! Mandy laughed at the soft look on Doug’s face as much as at what he was saying.
“Isn’t it worth another try?” shouted Mandy, as the landlord cranked up the volume and the bar staff and surrounding customers started to sway and sing along in varying degrees of tune and tone and a whole host of different lyrics.
“What do you mean?” replied Dougie, his puzzled look getting through to Mandy more effectively than his words.
“Write to her – or better still, flowers. Yes, send her a beautiful bunch of flowers with a little card. Say something that she’ll trust or make her laugh. Then if it is the ex-boyfriend, she’ll know you are still around and if she doesn’t take any notice, well, at least you’ve tried. What have you got to lose?”
Mandy sat back with her pint, leaving Doug to chew over the suggestion. He was a quiet man, a thinker, not prone to irrational or impulsive responses. Mandy had known him from school days and knew how to handle him. Let him come to his own decisions, but just prod him in the right direction. It was she who had prompted him to buy his house and also to go into partnership with Rob. And, in turn, he’d listened to her and been there for her and Rob when they had needed someone. He’d been their best man, the godfather of their only son and had made the little wooden coffin that had carried the lad to his grave just a few weeks later.
Dougie sat and supped his pint, savouring the cool hoppy flavour as if for the first time and observing the crowd around them. All over the pub people were catching eyes and smiling. Couples that were in separate conversations maintained contact by their feet or a couple of stray fingers, some illicit, some coyly, some openly.
Dougie imagined himself sitting on a stool by the bar in the crowded pub: his arms resting on the bar towel, gently soaking up the beer into the elbows of his shirt. A woman with a white frilled blouse stretched around a wonderful cleavage approaches him, a big smile on her beautiful, but cheeky, face. The long shapely legs end in a pair of strappy sandals not chosen for comfort and out of the ends of these peep toes with red glossy nails. She winds her way through the people that are packed into the bar, smiling and passing the occasional comment, but the deep brown eyes always return to lock his. Resting on her raised splayed hand is a small silver tray and on its crisp white doily is a platter of home baked scones, thick with jam and clotted cream…
Yes, it was worth a bunch of flowers.
Mandy pulled Dougie to his feet and beckoned him to come and join the crowd. Grabbing his jacket, he allowed himself to be towed through the throng of people in varying and worsening states of inebriation. And, before he knew it, he too was swaying and doing his best Van Morrison impression to Brown Eyed Girl.
Chapter 26
The Icing Without the Need for a Cake
The huge bunch of lilies, intertwined with ivy, artistically supported with a wicker trellis nearly got stuck in the door of the café as the pair of legs that was attached to it stumbled making their way in. Alex was pleased to see that the tip counting was still in session as flowers made so much more impact when there was an audience. Five coffee cups clattered to their saucers and five hearts rose to mouths. “For me?” five people wanted to say, but caught themselves just in time.
“Oops, sorry, wrong shop” Alex couldn’t resist saying, but turned quickly back so as not to ruin the moment. “Good afternoon, ladies, does a Ms Lettie Howells work here?”
All the women were allowed to squeal now, apart from Lettie whose hands rushed to her face as quickly as the colour did. “Who? Why? Er, for me?” She gulped and Alex nodded. “Who from?” she said again quietly.
“Well, you’d better open the card and see,” said Jill, desperate to do just that.
Lettie was not used to receiving flowers and for a moment she just held the bouquet, overwhelmed by the weight and beauty of the perfect blooms. She buried her face in them and the others laughed and she returned for air with a blob of orange pollen on the end of her nose. The foolish expectation that a husband, who was far too involved in himself, or boys who had been met at a beach party just nights before, might be thoughtful enough to send such a delight was soon overcome, therefore allowing the others to make a fuss of Lettie and enjoy the fun.
“Who are they from?” asked Lettie again, looking to her sister for reassurance. Alex’s beam told her straightaway and anyway, if they had been from Alan, he would have brought round a bunch of carnations from a garage forecourt, as he would have been far too embarrassed to face Alex in her domain.
“Open the card and see!” chorused the others – Jill impatiently and the waitresses full of romance. Lettie took the small envelope that was tucked amongst the foliage and smoothed it, enjoying the rich cream texture and intrigued by the small hard lump inside.
“Open it!!” The screech rose and five pairs of hands had to be sat on to prevent them from grabbing it from her.
Lettie opened the card and reached inside. To the gasps of those sat around her she pulled out a small wooden object. She looked at it and realised that it was a tiny carved lovespoon. It nestled in the crook of her palm, the dark wood sanded and polished to a smooth finish. It ended in a point and a beautifully carved vine of flowers ran the length of the handle. The spoon bowl was the size of an acorn and she could see the striations of a tiny knife and realised how many hours the delicate work must have taken.
She raised her eyes to the others who were now silent and reached back into the envelope to pull out the card. She stroked the thick paper and ran her finger gently over the painting of poppies that decorated the front. Ignoring the urgency of the others, she slowly opened it and peeped inside.
Dear Lettie,
In Wales we have a tradition. A man will whittle a spoon for his loved one and within the design he will carve his intentions. If the spoon is accepted, then these are accepted too.
I have carved this for you, hoping that you will accept it and therefore my intentions. The vine and flowers signify gentleness and a growing friendship and affection.
I miss you: please ring,
Dougie x
Her eyes moistened as she read it a second time just to make sure. She folded it shut, pulled it back to her chest and her cheeks flushed with emotion. It was too much for Alex who, overwhelmed by anticipation, grabbed it from her.
“He sent the card to me; said he couldn’t just quote something over the phone… Oh, Lettie, it’s beautiful,” she said, smiling softly at her sister. The others were finally satiated as they got their chance to read it and, like dominoes, they sighed in turn as the card and the spoon went around the circle.
“And they say romance is dead,” said Jill wistfully, and the twinkle in her eye and the gentle grasp of Lettie’s arm spoke of her happiness for her friend.
The flowers called for a fresh pot of coffee, although the holiday waitresses made their excuses and left, each privately vowing that they wouldn’t have one more beach shag again until their latest beau had whittled them at least something. Jill, Alex, Lettie and the flowers were left – Lettie fingering the lovespoon and beaming, Alex re-tying one of the pieces of wire that held the structure of the bouquet in place and Jill casually rolling a slender cigarette – flowers, fresh coffee and Malcolm’s afternoon for the supermarket run, lovely.
“So,” said Jill, voicing what everyone was thinking, “what are you going to do?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lettie, her mood suddenly dropping. “All this – is it really worth the effort? I know what I’ll do, I’ll fall he
ad over heels – again – and he’ll turn out to be another no-hoper – again – and I’ll be battered and bruised and have to sort myself out – again. I’ll just end up another few years older, miserable, broke and back where I started. I’m just not sure it’s worth the hassle.”
“But…” said Alex, and then fell silent. If she were going to say anything, she had to get it right. Lettie may have a point – it is exactly how it had happened with every other man she had fallen for. Alex remembered the call to her florist’s four days before, when she had picked up the phone to hear a rich Welsh accent:
“Hello, is that a florist in Lyme Regis?”
“Yes, this is the Floral Dance, how can I help?”
“I want to buy some flowers.”
“Yep, you’ve come to the right place.”
“But they have to be special flowers. They are very important, see?”
Alex had suddenly clicked and had become alert, wondering if it could be him? Doug had explained that they were for a very special lady for a very important reason, but he didn’t know what he wanted. Alex had tentatively asked the name of the lady in case she knew her and might be able to help in the choice. When he’d said Lettie Howells, Alex had played it very professionally, not letting on that they were sisters.
“Yes, I know Lettie Howells. She does come in here quite often and as it happens, I know exactly what she would love. She was in here just the other day and although she only bought a small bunch of the cheaper flowers, she said how much she loved the lilies that were being delivered and how beautiful they’d look in her kitchen. I could do you a really nice bunch of those if you would like?”
Right. Yes. Perfect. Any message? Ah, yes, but it was rather too personal to say over the phone, could he send a card? He gave the time and the day that he wanted them delivered and that would mean that he would be free to be at home and answer the phone should she ring.
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