Mind Games and Ministers

by Chris Longden

  My appetite had vanished. I dropped the fork back onto the plate. The rattle of cutlery caused a short man aiming at the dartboard to pause and to look over at us. He hoisted droopy trousers further up his waist.

  “Get a move on, Gary!” his mates told him. Gary sniffed and resumed his aim. Shaun glanced at the group and whispered,“Can’t you see what you’re doing to us all here? All these blokes staring at you? I’m getting off knowing that everyone in this room is looking at me. Thinking that I’m the luckiest bastard going.”

  He was being sweet. In a Shaun sort of way. I told him so.

  “I’m not being bloody sweet, Stan. I’m being honest. The blokes over there – they all want to shag your brains out.”

  I glanced over. Two of them were gawping at Gary’s rather pathetic score on the dartboard. The third was examining a wet patch where he had just spilled Guinness onto his Leeds United shirt. The fourth was picking his nose. None of them looked particularly overcome with lust at my own wee feminine form. I tried to point this out.

  “Sorry, Shaun, but I think you’re living in a parallel universe to the rest of us. I wondered why your eyes are a bit freaky, like an alien’s …”

  He dismissed my words, exasperated.

  “That’s the thing with you, Stan. You don’t see it. You once spent an entire twenty minutes waggling your arse at me in the office. You were searching through a load of old house files on the floor of my room, remember? And I was trying to draft eviction notices. You’ve no idea how difficult it was, controlling myself.”

  “Oh, poor Shaun. It’s so tough being a man, isn’t it?”

  “Don’t give me the feminist diatribe. It is bloody hard. In every sense of the word. And a lot of women would have been down there, totally aware of the effect they were having on me, but no, not you.”

  “I can’t eat any of this any more,” I broke off. He was making me laugh. But turning me on, too. “Let’s go back to bed, you weirdo,” I said. “Come on.”

  Oh, Rachael. Did you really buy into all that?

  Chapter 13

  HERA IS A RIGHT COW

  Shaun had stopped walking, too. We were standing next to one of the densest and darkest clods of rhododendron bushes at the far end of the Secret Glade. Stunning when in full bloom. But I still retained a childhood fear of such hulking mounds of horticulture. My sister used to tell me that they were inhabited by scary tramp sorts who would flash their todgers at you if you weren’t careful.

  Shaun was pretending to look puzzled at my ‘what did I ever see in you?’ statement. He flicked his head towards the gothic town hall, which loomed as our backdrop behind the perimeter of the park.

  “I don’t see why I should apologise for having a bit of self-confidence. And I don’t get why you’ve got such a downer on me these days.”

  My anger piqued. Reaching flashpoint.

  “For crying out loud, Shaun! OK, let’s cut to the chase. Last time. Shaun and Rachael, Round Two. You lied to me, Shaun. You might say that it was lying by omission. But it was still a barefaced, twatty lie.”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Right. There we were. I’ve been newly widowed. And suddenly, we’re back to the old days. Doing the car-park thing. And Idiot here has no idea that while this is going on, you and Jess are planning a wedding. So, I end up finding out about it through the grapevine. The day after an encounter with you in the Arndale car park. Which happened to be just over two weeks after you got married. And when we were in the car, you told me that you’d got your tan at the weekend at Bolton Abbey. Not from your honeymoon in frigging Fiji!”

  And thank God for that housing-entwined grapevine. Linda Beveridge and her big gob. I’d bumped into her at Sainsbury’s in Medlock and she’d told me, “And guess what else? I’ve just heard that Shaun Elliot’s finally done the right thing by his girlfriend after all these years! Proper church wedding – over in Yorkshire!” Then, “and apparently, the little tinker didn’t let anyone at work know about it. But then, Shaun always hated a fuss, didn’t he?”

  Yes. The horror of hearing this little revelation in the frozen-vegetable aisles knocked me out of my grief-lust stupor. Yanked me back to my senses.

  Silence. A subtle shrug from Shaun.

  “So. Get me! Call me oversensitive and all that … call me Ms Fussy-Knickers. But yeah. I’m still well pissed off about that, Shaun. And you stand here now, with your usual incapacity for understanding the emotions of most normal people, wondering why on earth I wouldn’t return your phone calls or emails. Why I was no longer the perfectly reasonable and nice Rachael that I’d always been before …”

  I broke off for a second or two. Shaun’s hands were in his pockets. Scrabbling for words. You won’t find them in your bloody pockets, Shaun.

  “And even then, you hardly persisted in tracking me down to apologise. You know where I work. You know where I live. And now, eighteen months later, you’re back with your swanky new post at the council and you’re offering me a job. Regardless of equal opps codes. And while we’re sitting in a clandestine corner of the most blue-collar working men’s pub in Medlock? What’s that all about? Worried that someone from the town hall might see you with me? Might say something to Jess?”

  His shoulders slumped slightly at the mention of her name. He kicked at an empty drinks can that some scruffy sod had dropped onto the overgrown path. The word ‘Jess’ had had its desired, magical effect. His demeanour moving from Mr Cocksure to Mr Cockless. But he wasn’t giving up.

  “I understand that you’re upset, but …” Shaun’s attempt at assertive communication with a ranting female was laughable. It was ridiculous. Shaun Elliot had never been one for the management jargon. Until now.

  I sniggered, without any real humour, and caught myself standing with my hands on my hips.

  Adam used to call it my Fishwife stance. ‘A Rachael speciality’. I would always reply, ‘Yeah, well. So maybe I married a guppy.’

  I quickly put my hands down, moved them away and carried on.

  “So let’s have it out for once. Don’t you ever feel bad about us? Don't you ever feel the odd pang of guilt?”

  “Come on. You know I do. Did.”

  “So why do you carry on with it? With …”

  “With what?” He was frowning at me now. With his best Bruce Willis expression. I knew that little trick oh so well. This meant that Shaun was either making a pitiful attempt at acting. Or that was he planning to blow someone up.

  “With behaving as though something is still going on between us. It’s been eighteen months, Shaun.”

  He sighed and folded his arms.

  “I was just. I can't ...”

  He glanced up at the sky. The brightness of the noontime sun rendered the pupils in his dark eyes to pin pricks. I had once told him that he reminded me of a big sexy alien with those eyes. Now I just wished that someone would beam me up, Scotty and take me away from the git.

  I waited.

  “All right, Stan. It’s difficult to talk to you as ‘just a colleague’. After everything that happened. I mean – things were so mad between us, weren’t they? So … different. Not that I regret it or anything. Even … with the complications.”

  He unfolded his arms. Gesticulated with his right hand. Trying to explain himself to an imbecile. I kept quiet. Wanting to hear what he had to say. When it came to the subject of ‘us’, we had never ventured to this level of conversation before; the pheromones had always done the talking. And after hearing the marital headlines, I hadn’t stayed around to chat.

  “So I'm not sure I would change things if I could,” he continued. “Both times round, I mean. Well – the first time – way back when you and I first met, it was a bit traumatic for Jess with me wanting a break. But we’d been together a while then – since university – so ’cause she never knew about you … she just thought it was the seven year itch thing. And the second time round, after … after …”

  (Say his name, Shaun – say his n
ame. I dare you to say his name.)

  “Well. It was just … complicated. Again. Jess never found out then, either.”

  Unbelievable. The ‘complications’ that Shaun was referring to meant him and Jess.

  This was all about him and Jess.

  A person who I’d never met. Someone I didn’t wish any harm upon. Certainly, my ambition in life had never been to morph into the kind of person who screwed another woman’s bloke. (Many times. Over a combined total of three years and four months.)

  No, that element of the whole situation was definitely something that I wasn’t proud of.

  But, still.

  I looked away from him now, towards the Manchester skies. At a 747 creating a wispy, white trail as it arced round on the flight path towards Ringway. At a newly planted sapling next to me, waving tiny fingertip leaves at us. At the brassy blonde hair of the woman sitting with her back to us on the park bench, her child asleep in its buggy. I hadn’t noticed her before. She could probably hear every word of our exchange. But by now I was past caring. I caught a whiff of her cigarette. It made me feel nauseous.

  Shaun was still blethering on about a certain female saint and martyr.

  “Jess is a really good person. I know that. But the thing is. I can't stop myself when I see you. Wondering. What it would be like again. Wanting to ...” he reached out to touch my arm. I jerked it away.

  There was a litter bin not far from where we were standing. Overflowing with rubbish. Several wasps were buzzing with excitement around its contents. One of them darted over and began to harass Shaun. Attracted by his citrus-based, expensive designer cologne, no doubt. Another insect joined his yellow-bellied buddy. Not interested in me. A lady who smells of toddler-wipes and Marmite. Not waspishly attractive enough. Even for the wasps, it seems.

  I yanked my hair back into a messy ponytail.

  “So, that makes it all right, then? That Jess never knew. For God’s sake, Shaun! I feel bad enough for doing the dirty on Jess, even though I’ve never had the joy of meeting her. Nobody deserves that. But you … you were marrying – no, hang on – you were married to her, that last time we were together!”

  He curled his lip. “I realise that it doesn’t make sense, Stan. I know I’m with Jess for the long-haul and I always promised her that. But …”

  But what, Shaun? What, what, what?

  “… I still have these incredible feelings for you. Every time I see you it all comes back. What we have – you and me – I’ve never known anything like it. I probably never will again. I’ll be in some old folk’s home … living off the memories of what we’ve always done to each other.”

  His eyes locked onto mine and he smiled, knowingly. Expecting me to mirror it back, as I used to do whenever we talked about growing old and contemplating our lust-driven youthful pastimes. But this face was not cracking a muscle.

  His voice was becoming louder. He clearly hadn’t noticed the woman and her pushchair either, otherwise he wouldn’t have carried on.

  “Stan. Come on. You and me. We’ll always have this … whatever you want to call it – this sex thing. This mad, potent connection stuff going on for us. I’ll always want you.” He scratched the side of his head in frustration.

  I wondered whether he had head lice. Or scabies. Probably not. Shaun and Jess didn't have kids. They had a cat called Ozzy, but as yet they hadn’t experienced the delights of children. Maybe it was a flea infestation, then...

  He interrupted my increasingly bizarre thoughts. “And you’ll always want me. I know that.”

  I tried to keep the shaking, the tremulous fury, out of my voice when I finally answered him.

  “No. It’s different now, Shaun. Never mind the first time around when I was stupid enough to believe that we might have a normal out-in-the-open relationship at some point. Yeah, forget your Fatal Attraction crap. Think about this … about your complete lack of regard for me, the second time round. When I actually knew better. When I’d found my life with Adam. That’s what you should be hanging your head in shame about. Because it was you who came knocking on my door, in the middle of the night after he had died.”

  He held his hand up, abruptly.

  “Not fair, Stan. You saw me at the funeral with the rest of the crew from the biker club. You said that I should come over some time, meet the kids …”

  I narrowed my eyes. No red mist descending, but the blood was pumping hard and fast in my veins. My head was buzzing as angrily as the nearby stinging-things.

  A wasp zipped perilously close to Shaun’s ear. They could be vicious little devils at the tail end of summer. He tried to knock it away.

  “No, Shaun. Get logical about this. Adam wasn’t some complete faceless stranger to you. You’d known him through the bike club. You’d had a few beers with him over the years. And yet, when he was killed, you were back and knocking at my front door. A hell of a lot of people would find that to be morally dubious …”

  “That’s not how it was …”

  “No! You were on my doorstep. Trying to get us to return to the good old days. And then … I was the one, stuck at home with two little kids, wondering when our next ‘encounter’ would take place. I was the one who had to dump the children to meet you in one of your random car parks after work …”

  “I didn’t …”

  “Shut up! It was me who had to lie to my own family, to sneak around to see you when it suited your schedule. And all in case – God forbid – we upset poor Jess and her delicate religious sensibilities! So if you really want to talk about female victimhood here, take a look at the person standing in front of you!”

  He shook his head. At me and at the five or six stripy pests now skirting around him.

  “Sorry, Rachael, but you were hardly shy in coming forward —”

  I cut him off, hissing, “Don’t you dare, Shaun! I was zonked out of my head on medication when you first called round! I didn’t know what day of the week it was. I was a total mess. So don’t you dare start spooning out the old macho ‘she wanted it’ crap!”

  He swatted at the wasps, trying to muster some dignity as he replied.

  “Look, I know it was a really difficult time for you. I know that. I’m not saying — ”

  But I interrupted him.

  “So, your need for secrecy is sick, Shaun. Just sick. Both times round it was. You’re just a moral coward. A moral sodding coward who couldn’t face up to the thought of what your coupled-up luvvie mates in Chorlton-cum-Hardy would think if you and Jess ever split up. Mess with your dinner party arrangements, no doubt.”

  An unusual, startled look flitted across his face. That twitching muscle at the corner of his left eye. Yes, I’d finally doled out the truth. Time to go.

  “So I won’t let you shirk the responsibility for what you did to me after Adam’s death. Have you never heard of Jung’s theories about the closeness between grief and sex? Why cultures all over the world require women to enter purdah? To stay away from forming sexual relationships when bereaved? Have you never read about the biological and social impact of grief?”

  A bit intellectual for the middle of a blazing row. But, hey. He deserved it.

  I span on my heel and stalked away from him, leaving him to smack wasps about. Hoping that the little buggers would sting him to death.

  “No, I haven’t!” I heard him call after me.

  “Well, then!” I yelled back. “Go and read a fucking book for once. You ignorant bastard!”

  I swiped my security pass through the system and headed back into the building, making straight for the toilets. Funny how the loos are a place of sanctuary for millions of female workers across the world. It isn’t quite the same for blokes, though. Men hanging around a workplace toilet don’t get the same levels of understanding or sympathy. (“Oh, Barry – has she dumped you again? Come here, petal, and give us a hug! Rotten cow! Oooh, they’re all the same, aren’t they? Here, borrow some of my aftershave and cheer yourself up.”)

  Y
eah, in the old days when life got difficult and men were being complete and utter cads, us girls would have been able to check ourselves into the nearest convent. But all we have on offer to us in the twenty-first century are the ladies’ bogs.

  I sat in one of the cubicles, knickers down, bum on seat and with a baleful stare at the toilet door. One of the caseworkers had posted up some positive, reinforcing messages for women to peruse as we go about our business. Chirpy reminders like ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent’ and ‘I had no shoes and grumbled until I met a man who had no feet’. Adam would have called it “self-help-manual-inspired tosh.”

  I would have disagreed with him, of course. Thinking along those lines can be helpful. If you’re in a receptive mood. But I wasn’t up for counting my blessings right there and then. And while, overall, I was very grateful to have my feet still in working order, the sentimental slosh wasn’t cutting the mustard with me at that particular moment in time.

  No. It would be more helpful if I could leave my own little scribbled message on the toilet door.

  ‘Shaun Elliot is a tosspot.’

  And while I’m regressing back to my comprehensive-school days, why not also tag on, ‘Mickey C is 100% Fit’?

  But what about Adam? He would need to feature in my missive. I’d have to go for the sixth-form approach. Get a bit more poetic;

  ‘Adam. We love you. Where are you ...?’

  My vision began to blur. Shit. I was making myself cry now. No, that wouldn’t do. I’d have to scribble another bit below it. A bit more Morriseyesque.

  ‘Because your dinner’s in the oven, it’s burned to a cinder. And you promised me you’d sort out the funny smell coming from the drains ...’

  Maybe more Victoria Wood than Morrisey, in the end.

  I started to snigger to myself. But I was laughing with – not at – the dead. Adam would have got it, all right.