Rizzo watched the worst film in the world and kept checking the front door.
Feeling very nervous all of a sudden, Dougie put out his hand out to Lettie and pulled her to him. She seemed happy to come. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her until she softened into him. “You OK?” he checked. She nodded. Dougie now knew enough about Lettie to know that she needed a little delicacy and a lot of time and he also knew enough about his own past to know that he hadn’t practiced this sort of thing much for a while.
He sat Lettie on the bed and took her shoes off, smiling at her pretty pink toes. He then removed his own boots, tucking them well under the bed and throwing his socks well back too. He motioned for her to lie back on the bed and he fumbled to undo her jeans. Lettie lay back and smiled at his serious face; she loved the way that he looked more nervous than she felt.
When all their clothes had followed the way of Lettie’s jeans, they lay there facing each other and just looking. They both tried to keep their eyes averted, but couldn’t help the occasional sneak down.
Rizzo pressed himself back into the sofa, trying to check that another body would be able to fit in front of him. Yep, he reckoned there was room.
Both seemed to be a little more at ease now, each kissing the other’s nose, smoothing their hair. Lettie smiled and Doug made an involuntary little groan and this made her smile all the more. Oh God, he thought, just let it work all right. Come on, don’t let me down…
Dougie eventually raised himself on his strong arms and rolled on top of Lettie. The rain broke at about the same time as their love, Dougie taking his weight on his hands so as not to crush the beautiful body below him; the same body that was silently yelling “Crush me! Just crush me!”
Lettie smiled as he finally fell upon her. He covered her eyebrows in kisses as their passion, sweat and pleasure mingled and the released emotion swept over them. They spent the next hour or two lying wrapped around each other, interlocked in the most ridiculously uncomfortable way.
But they were not as uncomfortable as Rizzo who was still lying on the firm, high-armed sofa in the sitting room below…
As the night wore on and the rain continued to drum through the open skylight, the two lovers eventually slept. Doug hugging Lettie as if to stop her every movement and she wishing he had a zip in him so that she could undo it and climb inside.
The film ended. Another started. That one ended – it had been crap as well. Oh God, Miss Marple re-runs – how could he make love to Lisa on the rug in front of Miss Marple?
As a rain-filled dawn broke, the satiated couple up in the attic awoke and lay with the covers pushed down, just looking at each other. Stroking this, gently brushing hairs from that and simply enjoying the sweaty cosiness that a much needed shower would erase.
Rizzo felt cold, stiff and grubby. His breath was beginning to smell and he needed the toilet. He was almost beginning to hope that Lisa wouldn’t come in and find him like that. It wouldn’t work if she ground him back into the sofa and he moaned because she was squashing his bladder. Trouble was, if he got up now to sort it, she would be bound to come in and, seeing that he wasn’t waiting for her, just go to bed. She was bound to be dog-tired after icing a whole night’s worth of cakes.
Chapter 65
The Food of Love
Rizzo was eventually awoken by Lisa – but it wasn’t during the hours of darkness. The clock on the wall showed seven forty and the children’s cartoons that were playing to his still blurry eyes told him it was morning. The crick in his neck told him it had been a long night.
Lisa popped her head round the door, “Oh, hello!” she smiled. “You’re up early.” She had on a tight charcoal skirt and a completely inappropriate navy T-shirt that obviously wasn’t one of hers. It was a plain T-shirt, but it might just as well have had a luminous slogan shouting, “Hey! I had sex last night, I had sex!” Her usually perfect hair was tousled and hung loosely around her shoulders. Her face had the glow of one that has been scoured by a man’s beard, her skirt had chocolate cake mix smeared over it and the bulge in her narrow hip pocket was topped by a frill of cream lace. And she carried her sandals in her hands in a way that Lisa just never did.
She wasn’t embarrassed, she wasn’t in a hurry; it seemed that she desperately wanted someone, Rizzo, or anyone to ask what she had been up to. But, the question wasn’t forthcoming. Instead, she yawned joyously and said, “Right, excuse me, I’m off to bed; I’m knackered,” and she hummed her way upstairs to her undisturbed bed, swinging her shoes at her side as she went.
She left Rizzo sat in the sitting room, his eyes gazing at the ridiculous cartoons that were employed as babysitters all over the country. But Rizzo couldn’t take in the fact that the dog never got the cat or the cat its mouse – only that he, Rizzo, never got anything he wanted – especially his Lisa.
He felt dejected; wholly cast aside by a society that aspires to success of the material, intellectual and amorous variety. Yesterday he had blamed his parents for never letting him hack clear his own path and then also for preventing him from fulfilling his chosen career. How cruel to allow him to progress so far and then snatch success from him at the cusp of its realisation.
Then today, cruellest of all, this had happened. His girl – the beautiful Lisa, whom he had nurtured and assisted from the confines of her chrysalis. Yet, on the day she emerged, some other bastard had stepped in and shagged the butterfly. And Malcolm? Surely she hadn’t shagged bloody Malcolm? What the hell had Malcolm got that he, Rizzo, hadn’t – apart from a restaurant, a degree in social interaction, friends and a Porsche? But, no, his Lisa wouldn’t fall for that? Surely she had greater depths and needs than to be rodgered by a big city fly-by-night?
He had no answers and realised that there was no longer any point in remaining on watch and therefore, he slowly climbed the stairs back to his bedroom, only to be met by Lisa scurrying across the landing in the pink satin dressing gown that skimmed her succulent thighs. She giggled an apology as she clutched it round herself, not having bothered to tie the sash; the result being as if a couple of seal pups were trying to escape from their capture.
Rizzo sat at the now-redundant desk in his room, a virgin pad of paper open on the surface in front of him. He selected a marbled fountain pen from a glazed pot and removed the lid with a flourish. But, as he had been disappointed in other areas of his life, in this area too he was impotent. He wanted to write, to vent his frustrations and the unfairness of his existence; he wanted the pain and the strife to flow from his gold-topped nib in a way that would purge his unhappiness and let the world see the hurt that his cheerful facade was hiding. But all he could write was Lisa… Lisa…
The seagulls mocked him as they rode on the increasing wind and rain outside his window, screeching their laughter through the open sash. At last, he could stand it no more; the rest of the house happy and in love while his life fell apart. Wishing someone was listening and cared enough to notice, he felt the need to cry his angst to the rafters and then, predicting his own doom, flee from the house – leaving people repentant and weeping at the strength of their previously unrealised feelings. Instead it appeared that no one gave a hoot, so he unhooked his jacket and fossiling bag from the back of the door, slung it over his shoulder and slunk out of the house.
Chapter 66
Soggy Sprouts
A short summer storm is always a welcome event on a Lyme Regis weekend. More exciting than just rain, it still draws the crowds, but pushes them into the town’s shops, galleries and eating establishments, rather than having them conserving their money on the beach. A sporting crowd had gathered around the Cobb Gate car park and watched delightedly as the waves crashed over the sea wall, dumping their weight of water and stones onto the bonnet and roof of a brand new Range Rover. How they cheered as the bonnet and roof was staved in; how they laughed as the embarrassed owner in the wax jacket scuttled back, moving the bollards that had closed the car park due to the storm, for the second
time that day.
The owner of the nearby chip shop wrung his gold-covered hands in glee as he turned the extractor fans full on, wafting the smell of his miserable portions over the gathering. The owner of the fudge shop sent a couple of her staff out incognito to loudly eat delicious lumps of succulent fudge and activate an appetite amongst the crowd, and the ice cream sellers clicked on their kettles, and took out a good book.
Rizzo took all this excitement with the snort of a local who has seen it all before. He strode purposefully past the crowds, stopping only for a turkey and cranberry panini from the Sandless Sandwich and a carton of organic pear juice from the delicatessen, both of which he placed carefully into his rucksack.
He walked along Gun Cliff Walk, the promenade that topped the new sea protection, enjoying the cooling spray of the rain and sea on his flushed face as the waves crashed against the thick walls. The people in the houses adjoining the new defences could now look out at such a storm. Although they were safe in the knowledge that there was no longer the risk of the sea piling into their sitting rooms, many missed the previous thrill of feeling their house shake as the seventh wave broke upon it.
A family in matching cagoules stood on the sea wall, the children squealing as they were soaked within seconds; Rizzo shook his head in the manner of a knowledgeable local who would know better than to risk his treasures, if he had had any, in that way.
He headed out past the back beach and onto Black Venn beach. It was, to his relief, empty and at last he felt able to slow his pace. The rain had eased to a drizzle and so he found a nook between two large boulders on the slipway leading down to the rocky beach and nestled down to watch the waves batter the curved sea wall that was trying desperately to hold back the cliffs above it. It would be foolish to venture onto the beach and Rizzo knew this and therefore he sat contentedly, munching on his panini and sipping at his pear juice, watching as nature vented her wrath on the scene around him.
Chapter 67
Being Put onto Dried Food
It should be so obvious, but it is not, despite the many times it is heard. Life needs a passion and it must be more than the passion of another person. It should be a restless urge to discover, to excel and to achieve. When their passion is snatched away, a person will require reinventing – whether from within or from external forces. Rizzo found himself, in the space of just three days, having had what he considered to have been a full and active passion of the mind and, hopefully, ultimately one of the body, taken from him. His work may not have been the eternal quest for knowledge that he liked to have believed, but its presence was an absorbing pastime that allowed him to do just that – pass time, although as much thought was given to preparing to be involved as it was to actually working.
His passion for Lisa had employed many hours. Passive thought was conjoined with actions such as coordinating tea breaks and the cooking of meals. The trophies to date hadn’t really justified the investment of time, but to Rizzo, it had been a perfectly acceptable means to spend a day.
But, now, the cupboard was empty. His vocation was a sham. Deep down, he accepted this and therefore the loss was not one of grief, but shame. His love, however, had fulfilled a more important role – and now it had gone, too and with it, a large chunk of his thoughts, hopes and dreams. He hadn’t realised how great a value he had put on the prize of bumping into Lisa on the way home from her office, of sharing a mutually desired pot of tea or meeting her on the landing wrapped in a towel.
For too many years Rizzo had portrayed the spoilt rich kid, playing about at the expense of his dad, his floppy blonde fringe and rosy cheeks compounding the image. This conflicted with his own self-image, which was that of the sensitive academic, thoughtfully investigating the world of the mind, always one step ahead of the ordinary man. Lisa had been part of that image – albeit unknowingly and against her will. Having a love interest, even if it were inherently unsuccessful, was far preferable to having an empty “who I fancy” list – it prevented friends and particularly relatives, presuming barrenness, unattractiveness or homosexuality.
But as Rizzo sat snuggled between his two rocks, the back of his coat sucking up a puddle of rainwater, he saw his carefully constructed persona floating away from him, as surely as an old Coke can caught in a rip tide.
He sat on his rock and looked out at the white horses that galloped across the bay and he felt empty and afloat. And the worse thing was, he thought self-pityingly, no one really gave a shite. Yes, his parents would be feeling something: annoyance and indignation at his inadequacy and ungratefulness. Lettie and Doug – well, they probably hadn’t even noticed that he wasn’t still sleeping. And, as for Lisa, she wouldn’t care what he did; wouldn’t care if he walked out into the waves and never came back…
Chapter 68
Missing the Potato from the Apple Pie
Doug and Lettie got up late and took a leisurely shower together. The rain had subsided and they walked, arm in arm, along the front, their raincoats protecting them from the wind and the spray. They sat side by side at a rickety promenade table and drank hot chocolate topped with a large dollop of cream and nibbled at blueberry muffins. They gazed idly at the sea seemingly growing in its ferociousness in front of their eyes. Waves crashed onto what remained of the beach, sucking pebbles back with them as they retreated. As the next wave hurled itself at the concave sea wall, the pebbles were flung onto the lower promenade, collecting in piles that would confuse people arriving after the storm had subsided and the water was back to its usual millpond status.
They watched as the angry clouds of the oncoming storm rolled in across the bay. Lettie pointed out the indications that she had come to be aware of over the years – the dull colour of the light reflecting from Golden Cap’s sandy tip, the gradual disappearance of Portland Bill and its accompanying island and the frantic ringing noise of rigging as it clattered against the masts of the boats bobbing about in the harbour. Offshore, the few remaining boats were hurrying back to the safety of the Cobb, racing against the might of the storm, desperate to avoid the shame of having to have the lifeboat out to rescue locals. At the opposite end of the scale, surfers, zipped tightly into their wetsuits, scampered barefoot along the promenade. Their boards were tucked cumbersomely under their arms as they answered the call of the waves and were eager to join their comrades already in place, sat astride their surfboards watching keenly as the swell grew around them. Lettie predicted the rain five minutes before they felt the first drops and they quickly paid their bill and were halfway home before the downpour hit.
They crashed, laughing, in through the front door, pushing back their wet hair and taking off their dripping coats.
“Yuk!” Lettie said as she pulled her wet jeans away from the legs that they were plastered to and Doug shook his head in a way reminiscent of Alfie and showered Lettie with yet more drips. Lisa stood in the kitchen door still in her satin pyjamas, a fish slice in her hand and the smell of bacon emitting from around her.
“Pretty wild out there, eh?” she asked them, smiling at their antics.
“I’ll say,” laughed Lettie, “I think it’s in for the day – and a nasty one too.”
“Kettle’s on,” said Lisa, returning to her pan. Doug and Lettie followed her into the kitchen and sat at the table, listening to the downpour thundering onto the roof of the conservatory. “There’s something nice about being indoors, warm and dry when its raining like this, isn’t there,” said Lisa, pouring boiled water into the teapot and putting three mugs on the table.
“Well, I’m not warm and dry,” said Lettie, wringing out her thick sodden hair and soaking her red top. “I’m just going to get out of these jeans,” she added to Doug, “they’re stuck to me!”
“I know,” grinned Dougie, “they look fantastic!” She laughed and wrung more water from her hair onto his lap as she walked past and planted a little kiss on his forehead, reflecting the still-new glow of being thought attractive.
“I’ll see i
f Rizzo wants a brew too,” she called over her shoulder as she went out of the kitchen door.
She padded up the stairs, her clinging jeans restricting her movements and took a towel from the bathroom. Rubbing her hair vigorously in a way that hairdressers would never recommend, she tapped Rizzo’s door and it creaked open under the pressure.
“Rizzo?” she enquired, “Rizzo?” She walked in and quickly saw that the room was empty. She wrapped the now damp towel around her neck and flicked her long hair over it to stop it soaking her back any further. As she turned to leave, she spotted a collection of mugs on the desk and muttering, “So that’s where they all got to,” she went to gather them and return them to the kitchen.
As she arranged them on her fingers, noting with annoyance the varying progressions of mould within them, her eyes fell on the pad of paper that lay open on the desk. She stopped still and then turned the pad towards her. The paper was covered with the word “Lisa” in varying sizes and styles of writing. Doodles were inscribed around the words making them stand out and showing just how much time Rizzo must have spent pondering the person behind the name. Lettie frowned in puzzlement over the spectacle and gently put the lid back on the pen that had been discarded by its owner. She thought for a moment and then picked up the pad and took it downstairs.
She put it on the kitchen table and pushed it towards Lisa who was tucking into a juicy bacon sandwich.
“I think we have a problem,” she said quietly. Lisa put down her sandwich and noisily licked the tomato sauce from her fingers.
Chocolate Mousse and Two Spoons Page 31