Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons

by Lorraine Jenkin

  Being a wedding, time was finite and romance, in the loosest sense, was almost compulsory. As the established couples sat in silence, having exhausted their ration book of non-domestic chat, Clive and Lettie spoke of nothing and no one in particular, intelligent debate interspersed with gutter humour – or was it the other way around? Was there really a piece of potato that needed removing from her hair, or did he just want to touch it? And did the pollen from his flower really need brushing away, or did she just want to check out his muscle tone?

  They trod on each others toes during the ceilidh, do-see-doed during the disco and laughed hysterically at movements thankfully not seen since Saturday Night Fever. Then they fell into each other’s arms during Chris de Burgh.

  She didn’t know whether he suggested it or she did, but all of a sudden they were in a taxi, speeding away to his hotel. Lettie’s subconscious (oh dear, need a drink of water…too much wine) knew that she ought to be thinking like a wanton vamp, a temptress and seductress. But she really didn’t feel like any of them. How had she managed to get into this position? She’d set out for a good night, but surely that should have involved a quick peck on the cheek and maybe the exchange of telephone numbers as she left the hotel, not begging a taxi driver to get her as quick as he could to Clive’s bed.

  Why had she been so coy about meeting Doug if she were so available to this guy? Did she think that a one-night stand would make the difference when it never had before? Was this really the bit of fun that she had been looking for?

  On reaching their destination, Clive gave Lettie an unnecessarily generous tip to pass to the driver and then hurried her through Reception. They shushed each other, tiptoeing loudly up the stairs. She tripped over a step and landed on her knees and he laughed, pulling her to her feet then running her down the corridor. She began to get a bit annoyed, but didn’t have the sobriety to sort the situation out. As Clive fumbled with the door key, she took deep breaths to try and clear her mind. She felt out of control, two steps behind the action.

  Once inside Clive immediately sat on the bed and started taking his shoes off. Lettie sat on the stool at the dressing table feeling the room spinning around her and tried to steady herself. “Come on, Lettie, over here,” he said in a way that might be a precursor to him perhaps showing her some photos or passing her a cup of tea. Lettie held up her hand, her head still trying to pull itself into shape.

  “Inaminute,” she slurred. Now she just wished it was all over. She wanted to be sober, back in her own room on her own.

  “Come on,” he frowned, as if to a dawdling child.

  “Justaminute,” said Lettie and headed for the bathroom. “Give me five minutes.”

  She stayed in there for an hour and a half. She drank three pints of water from a dusty toothbrush glass, each time slumping back against the bath, sat on a soggy bath mat that she would not have walked on with wellington boots on had she been sober. Her head spun, her eyes hurt and her stomach churned.

  She eventually plucked up the courage to leave her retreat and to her relief found Clive asleep, lying face down in the bed. She quietly took the top quilt and a pillow, rolled herself in it and lay down on the floor.

  Lettie woke first and, lying as still as she could, allowed herself the opportunity to piece together the hazier moments of the night. She wanted time to mull over the series of events that she felt had transported her from “Dancing Queen” to hungover slag. She sat up and rubbed more mascara over her face. Her hair was all a-tangle and her head was pounding.

  There was a creak from the bed and Clive rolled over and looked over the side. “Good morning!” he whispered, his voice hoarse from the previous night’s singing. “Do you feel as bad as I do?”

  Lettie nodded.

  “It all went a bit wrong last night, didn’t it?” he smiled.

  Lettie agreed, “Yeah, somewhere between ‘Greased Lightning’ and ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’.”

  “Perhaps we should start again. Maybe from where I passed you the potatoes and you gave me the gravy.”

  Lettie managed another smile. “I should go,” she said. “I have to get back.” She dragged herself upright, trying to pull herself into order. She returned to the bathroom where she washed her face and removed the worst of the mascara with soap and a flannel. She twisted her hair into a knot and tied her scarf around it.

  Standing by the bed she hesitated. How did one say goodbye in such a situation? “Um, I have to go. Er, goodbye.” Clive sat up, but did not bother to follow her out or try and stop her. “I’ll call you, yeah? I’ll call you; perhaps you could come up for the weekend, yeah?”

  Lettie nodded and then fled.

  Chapter 45

  The Small Portion

  Lettie arrived home on Sunday lunchtime still feeling a little rough, but in higher spirits. The journey home had been tough, starting with having to ask the receptionist if he could call a taxi for her. But as she drove home, the Wotsits and Coca Cola saw the hangover off and she began to look back on the better parts of the day. She smiled as she thought of Sally being carried over the shoulder of her new husband, she cringed when she thought of herself dancing to La Bamba and she sniggered when she remembered Clive slipping over in a puddle of beer.

  Oh well, she thought, put it down to experience. All a bit of fun really, that’s what she had been after. It had all got too serious with Doug and she hadn’t even met the bloke. No, bit of fun was what she needed and a bit of fun is what she’d had.

  Lisa was sat in the garden, rather surprisingly in a bikini, in the vain attempt to transform herself from the whitest white Lettie had ever seen.

  “So,” said Lisa, propping herself up on her elbows “How was it? Excuse me for not getting up, but then the rays wouldn’t be able to penetrate between my tyres.” Lettie laughed and flopped down on the grass beside her, kicking off her shoes and stroking Molly who had rushed over from her shady spot to greet her.

  “Any fights? Was it a meringue or a Little Bo Peep? And what was the worst hat like?”

  She listened, laughed and probed some more as Lettie regaled the events of the night. Lisa wished that in return she could tell about her thoughts of Malcolm, but felt that somehow it would be inappropriate and that Lettie might just tell her some facts about the Malcolm and Jill partnership that she didn’t want to know.

  Lettie embellished her details just slightly, avoiding the part after leaving the party and not mentioning the group of teenagers that shouted “slapper” at her as she waited outside Clive’s hotel for her taxi, still dressed in her wedding garb.

  “…But, he’s going to ring on probably Tuesday and then I might go back up to his place for Friday night.” Lisa was excited for her and rolled onto her stomach so that she could do her back and interrogate Lettie more fully.

  Rizzo heard the laughter that provided just the right stimulation for a study break and he wandered out to join them. He too was rather startled to see Lisa in her bikini and cursed himself for not wearing his sunglasses so that he could gaze unnoticed at the breasts that rested on the ground. Lettie delighted in his awkwardness and winked at Lisa as he settled down onto the grass.

  “So, how’s the big thesis, Rizzo?” smiled Lettie. “Exposed Freud for the obvious storyteller that he was yet?”

  “Very nearly,” said Rizzo stretching out onto the roughly cut lawn. “You may mock, but they shall be quoting Riser in the lecture theatres of the future.”

  “Mmm, as a perfect case study of someone discovering bugger all,” laughed Lisa, unknowingly using the phrase that had haunted Rizzo’s career to date.

  Lettie was excitedly pretending to be nonchalant for the next couple of days and playing up to the interest shown by Lisa, Alex and everyone at the Sea View. Not everything needed to be happy ever after – it was fine to live for the moment occasionally too. On the Tuesday night, she gathered her teapot and a bunch of grapes and pottered around the kitchen alongside the silent phone, with knowing giggles from Lisa. On W
ednesday night she cleaned the cooker and then on Thursday night she went out. The phone finally rang for her on Friday and she was somewhat surprised by the chirpy voice that said, “Comin’ up, then?” to which she replied, “Well, could do, I s’pose.” She still felt it was her due to have her bit of fun, but something inside her whispered that perhaps this was not quite the way to be having it.

  A quiet, frowning Lettie arrived home late Saturday morning, just in time to change and race off to her shift. She didn’t stop for the tip count and spent the evening unobtainable – on the beach, then a long bath, then an early night.

  “Aye, aye. Up shaggin’ all night, that’ll be why,” chuckled Rizzo smuttily.

  “Don’t be crass,” replied Lisa, eyeing the slices of coffee cake that Lettie had taken from the restaurant but then had forgotten to give to Clive. But, then she thought better of it and did a couple of surreptitious leg raises instead as they lounged in front of the television.

  Meanwhile, Lettie lay in her bed, holding her novel, but having to read the same paragraph over and again as she realised that she still hadn’t taken it in. Once more she felt stupid; like an inexperienced teenager. She’d met Clive at a service station on the outskirts of his town on Friday evening and then followed his car to his house. Not the most romantic meeting spot she concluded. When she arrived at his house, he’d quickly started piling dishes into the sink and then ran upstairs to flush the toilet, whilst Lettie stood awkwardly in the kitchen. She thought back to the efforts Dougie had made and reluctantly compared the two…

  During their meal out, Lettie had tried to recapture some of the sense of romance, the twinkling eyes and the humour of the week before, but the conversation was stilted and Clive rather inattentive, as if wanting to race through the preamble in order to get to the nitty gritty.

  She didn’t feel like the wine that he was so obviously plying her with and felt humiliated by his intentions, but, well, it had nearly worked last week, hadn’t it? He’d made more of an effort when they got back to his house, but too late for Lettie; the bubble had burst and its contents had left a nasty stain on the carpet of her dreams.

  Seeing him lighting candles in the sitting room and flicking though his CDs for a suitable album of seduction, Lettie ruined the moment by declaring she was tired after a busier than usual shift and the drive and that she’d take the spare room and would see him tomorrow.

  She’d taken him a cup of coffee in the morning and perched on the side of his bed to chat, but she could sense his annoyance had lasted through the night and thus she had brought her afternoon shift forward a few hours and fled off into the early morning sun.

  Lettie remembered her glib comments to Alex about bringing on the next one and dreaded the inevitable conversation. Why couldn’t she learn to keep her opinions under wraps, play down her enthusiasms – then she wouldn’t have to choke on her own words so regularly. She leaned back against the headboard and idly tickled Molly under the chin; Molly embraced such miserable times as it meant that she was allowed to sleep on the bed.

  Meanwhile, downstairs, a different element of the game of love was being played. Lisa lay on the floor, her head resting on a cushion. She was watching the film, but thinking about Malcolm. Every now and then she would raise her upper body, ever so slightly, in a kind of sit up that Rizzo hopefully wouldn’t notice and therefore wouldn’t mock her for. She daydreamed that Malcolm sat beside her on the floor, his elbow leaning on the sofa and his hand resting on her flat stomach, caressing softly as it crept up towards her softer bra. She, however, would be completely unaware of his tactics and continue to give her opinion on high pressure marketing techniques as he gazed at her, unable to keep his hands still.

  Rizzo was also aware of the film, but he was watching Lisa’s stomach tense and untense, and he was dreaming that he was sat astride her, resting gently on her plump thighs whilst she laughed and tried to do sit ups that would raise her face up to kiss his. After one particularly strenuous attempt, her front-fastening bra would burst open and she would squeal in coy lust and delight and would grab his hands to cover her breasts and retain her modesty.

  Both enjoyed the film far more than the cheesy rubbish actually warranted.

  Chapter 46

  Choosing from the Menu

  In a bid for transparency and fairness, and in an attempt to encourage youngsters’ interest in current affairs, the Essence of Wales Competition’s shortlisted paintings had been hung in the gallery in the St David’s Centre in Cardiff and were being ogled by a thousand uninspired teenagers from local schools. They wandered between the works of art, clutching their clipboards and glad for the chance to miss double maths. Bags large enough to cross the channel in were slung over their shoulders as they tried to out-cool the judges from the other schools.

  Some of the more extrovert students actually chattered with peers from other establishments, but the majority hovered in their little cliques, sniggering and outwardly being thoroughly unimpressed by everything around them. Art teachers hovered around, pointing out use of light and dark and the importance of framing, whilst the air was full with the silent throb of incoming text messages.

  The pupils had the task of ranking the pictures against the statement, “Which picture do you think best demonstrates the Essence of Wales and would most inspire you to visit?” They ranked their thoughts, made their comments for the artists as appropriate, stole the clipboards and reluctantly re-boarded their buses. Journalists hovered by the buffet of noticeably non-Welsh produce and impatiently awaited the results.

  John Haskins stood gnawing at his knuckles. If Lettie’s picture did win this, he may have some explaining to do. Should he, as the organiser of the Mid Wales Region, have framed it for her? Would that not amount to unfair assistance? He hung the pictures on the wall in the Community Arts Challenge Centre. Perhaps, unintentionally, he had hung Lettie’s in a preferential position? The Town Council would have a field day if this got out – almost as big as they did over the Naming of the Teddy incident…

  With great and under appreciated pomp and ceremony, the Mayor of Cardiff got to his feet and called for attention. His speech had been prepared for him by someone else and his recital thereof made the fluent Welsh speakers in the room wince. But, after great deliberation and the involvement of the community, he was very proud to announce that the winning picture was— (massive intake of breath from John Haskins, barely even an intake of breath from the rest of the hall) The Worm Gatherers by Lettie Howells, representing the Mid Wales region.

  The quiet ripple of applause was concluded by the snapping shut of notebooks as the reporters moved to photograph the Mayor shaking a worried John Haskins’ hand in the usual tired photo, shot adjacent to the winning picture. Please, please do something different, thought the photographers as a group. Perhaps just look at the picture? Point at it like a tourist, but don’t just stand, grin and shake. But, stand, grin and shake is what they did and what would appear in the inside pages of the next edition of the newspapers, along with Mayor Opens Fete and Mayor Shakes Hand of Centenarian and Asks Her What Her Recipe is for Longevity.

  John shook himself out of his panic. Oh, it’ll blow over; this will be good for the town. Even Haskins the Teddy was rarely mentioned any more. He fixed a smile onto his face, spat out a slither of fingernail and decided to enjoy the occasion.

  By the time he was led over to be interviewed by the journalists, he was hardly able to contain his grin. What a coup for Glan Llanfair! The picture was not only good, but its subject matter was just what was needed to bring a bit of fresh interest in the town. The town was full of characters, perhaps not all as rich as the Pryces, but characters nonetheless and that’s what tourists wanted. They wanted real people to watch while they supped their local ales. Not the crowd that worked in the offices and popped out for a breath of fresh air and a fag break now and then, but the odd buggers. People fashion passes by and the need for warmth makes wear two hats… The man who puts his false
arm out to dry on the window sill after its weekly wash, the bandy-legged old boy who pushes a wheelbarrow into town for his shopping and the Pryces… Yes, they were the essence of Wales.

  He tried to say all of this in his interview, but was aware that he was sounding like a pompous fart. In desperation, he gave up trying to express himself and blurted out, “Come on up to Glan Llanfair! Yes, come up and meet these people. Yep, I’ll offer a formal session for you to come up and meet them – then you can see what the artist has captured so perfectly.”

  John knew the Pryces well, being a keen fisherman and therefore regularly coming across Mr Pryce who would creep quietly along the bank, being a little less legitimate in the eyes of the water bailiff than John. They had got chatting and now it had become a habit to take a couple of different whiskies in silver hip flasks in order to debate their flavour and quality with the lithe old man, who had an unusually good nose for such things considering that he rarely indulged. John was sure that the Pryces would enjoy the opportunity to put a fine show on for the city reporters, especially if there was a bottle of the finest single malt in it for them.

  Most of the reporters simply chuckled, thanked John and headed off to their next centenarian, but one tall fellow with a goatee beard and a blue and white checked shirt came over.

  “I’d love to meet these people if I may; here’s my card, can you contact me and set up a date?”

  Chapter 47

  It has to be Chocolate Mousse…

  “Oh, bugger it,” said Jill out loud as she put the phone down. Bloody waitresses – they think that as long as they tell you more than ten minutes before they’re supposed to be on duty that they can’t make it, then that’s all right. She sat on the large sofa that had looked great in their spacious London flat and thought for the thousandth time how ridiculous it looked in the cramped over-restaurant accommodation. No, the room should have small, sturdy, old-fashioned furniture with chintzy fabrics that would compliment the sloping ceilings and exposed beams. And considering the extra it cost to get the bloody thing up the stairs, they might as well have bought new ones anyway.