The Birds and the Bees

by Milly Johnson

  ‘Okay, let’s do it,’ said Stevie, taking a deep breath as the scissors went in for the kill.

  Two hours later and she was staring at herself in the mirror, from varied angles, admiring the shorter, chopped style, brighter in colour at the front and the sides and infinitely lighter in weight. She was astounded how much thinner her face seemed. If only it could have done the same to her bum.

  ‘I’m stunned!’ said Stevie, who was. Whatever the damage on her Switch card was, it would be worth it. It cost a lot, but she didn’t care. The plan had started to work. Now there was just the rest of her body to sort out.

  Adam smoothed the plaster over the wall with the trowel. Apart from the colour, there was no evidence that his temper had given way and that he’d cannoned a fury-loaded fist into the wall. He knew that losing it was not the way forward, not this time. He had tried that one with Diane–and where had that got him? Shouting and screaming and breaking things and being totally out of control had done nothing but drive her right out of his life. And scare the neighbours. And lose his cat for him.

  He thought back to that fateful day. The scene of devastation was burned onto his brain like a top quality colour photograph: Diane screaming and running out towards her car with a hastily packed suitcase and Humbug the striped tabby in his basket whilst Adam stood there holding a roaring chainsaw. The neighbours’ curtains had twitched, but no one dared to ring the police. Diane had given him that look he had seen in his mum’s eyes too many times when his da’ came in from the pub. Some folks turned jolly with spirit, not big Andy MacLean. The whisky went straight into his fists, and then the fists went straight into his mammy and his sisters and little Adam. Blood will out–that’s what they said, wasn’t it?

  Adam MacLean knew what he looked like with his archetypal boxer’s nose, scarred cheek, powerful build and a voice that could vibrate owls out of trees. He also knew exactly how Jo would suppose him to behave if she left him for another man. And, likewise, what old Matty Boy (who was probably enjoying the last days for quite a while when he could maintain total control over his bowels) would expect from him. So, as he did the plastering repair, Adam MacLean had been thinking it all calmly and methodically through. And now he had a plan.

  Chapter 7

  Kitted out in her new tracksuit bottoms, trainers, snazzy Adidas top and a very strong bra that totally flattened her generously proportioned chest so that she didn’t give black eyes to either herself or people on adjacent treadmills, Stevie presented herself at the gym for her induction hour with Hilary. She was horrified to find that Hilary was in fact a bloke. Not just an ordinary bloke either but a young, fit, tall, love-god bloke with a killer smile and a backside that could crack open Brazil nuts. Then again, she of all people should have known that a name didn’t always guarantee the sex. Midnight Moon had asked her to use a pseudonym, as ‘Stevie’ suggested she might be male, and Midnight Moon readers were very specific that only women writers were able to tap into their feminine needs. Their pen-names needed to conjure up softness and romance and sweetness, which is why her fellow writers Paul Slack and Alec Sleaford became Paula Sheer and Alexis Tracey, and why she herself was published under Beatrice Pollen, her darling late granny’s name. It was from Granny Bea that Stevie inherited her creative talents, her warm, considerate heart and her big, sky-blue eyes.

  As if monitoring her whilst she went on the workout machines to ascertain what she could, or rather couldn’t, manage wasn’t embarrassing enough, Hilary weighed her in the office, took her height, blood pressure and worked out her body mass index, which basically classified her as a crate of lard. To be fair, the gorgeous Hilary didn’t seem all that horrified by the way she puffed after doing three sit-ups or turned aubergine on the StairMaster. At least the weighing scales didn’t flash up ‘one fat bird at a time please’.

  She paid a huge cheque over for a year’s subscription, because that way Stevie knew she was fully committing herself to her cause, plus she was seduced by the offers of a free month and a special ‘mystery’ gift pack. Catherine was sitting in Reception when Hilary officially welcomed Stevie to the club, alas not with a big tonguey snog, but with a complimentary water container, a gym bag, an introductory booklet of money-off vouchers for the sun-bed, various massages and treatments, and a free seven-day pass for a friend of her choice, who at that moment was eagerly waiting for it, clad in some pretty impressive pink and grey gear. Stevie wolf-whistled as she approached her.

  ‘It’s our Kate’s,’ explained Catherine.

  ‘Must be nice, to be able to fit into your seventeen-year-old daughter’s clothes,’ said Stevie.

  ‘It is, until you see me naked and discover that most of my body is made up of stretchmarks,’ exaggerated Catherine who, considering the major brood she’d had, had managed to stay remarkably slim, give or take a little rounded tum that she was always moaning about. ‘By the way, Steve, the hair is fab.’

  ‘It looked better when I’d had it done this morning, before I had fourteen litres of sweat dampening it down.’

  ‘Makes you look a hell of a lot younger. No bull.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really.’

  Stevie beamed. First stage of ‘getting Matthew back’ was mission accomplished, then.

  The two gym-bunnies had a go on a few machines. Catherine was surprisingly fit. Then again, she was forever running up and down stairs and gardens after the kids, plus she took the dogs out walking and she went to a yoga class every Thursday evening. She liked yoga and did a lot of fifteen-minute stretches during the day and evening, which helped her relax in a way that smashing plates against the wall and tearing her hair out wouldn’t. She knew that for definite because she’d tried those too. Then they went off for a coffee in the very luxurious café after a slow walk past the spinning class to check out some very nice male bottoms.

  Stevie’s stomach suddenly made a noise like a mortally wounded hound as they waited in the queue.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ said Catherine.

  ‘Not really,’ Stevie said.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean? You either have or you haven’t.’

  ‘Er…no, then.’

  ‘You won’t lose weight by not eating.’

  ‘Try telling that to people on hunger strike.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ said Catherine, who was suddenly concerned. She had been waiting for Stevie to start cracking up. Her friend was far too composed for it to last. Not eating sounded suspiciously like the start of it. Again.

  ‘I’m not deliberately not eating,’ said Stevie. ‘I just haven’t felt hungry.’

  ‘Right, well, you’re having something now. You go and get those seats over there and I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  It was no good protesting with Catherine. It was never any good protesting with Catherine. Eddie had tried that one quite a few times and had been beaten back into a perpetual state of ‘give in’, so Stevie retired to the small metal table by the window as instructed. She did feel a bit shaky, all that exercise and hairdo-ing with nothing in her stomach but cappuccinos and half a slice of unbuttered toast–well, since Madman MacLean came around smashing up her life anyway.

  Catherine brought over big frothy coffees in pseudo-soup bowls, two flat toasted panini sandwiches, the length of Stevie’s leg, filled with ham and Brie, and two enormous chocolate-covered slabs that smelt suspiciously of peanut butter.

  ‘Do they sell this sort of stuff here?’ said Stevie open-mouthed. She had been expecting two lettuce leaves and a spring onion on something brown and inedible.

  ‘Course they do, it’s not Stalag 17. Some people just come in for lunch, not to exercise.’ Catherine stuck the sandwich in her mouth and pulled it out quickly. ‘Ow, ow, ow–watch it, that cheese is molten.’ Then her face froze and she gave Stevie a sharp nudge. ‘Braveheart alert at three o’clock,’ she said through one side of her barely moving mouth, like ventriloquist Roger De Courcey with Nookie Bear.

  �
�What?’

  Stevie twisted around to see the unmistakable figure of him, resplendent in black tracksuit bottoms and a black T-shirt, with his luxuriant red hair flowing behind him. He looked like a muscular Duracell battery.

  ‘Oh bloody hell, he’s seen me,’ said Stevie, as the big man’s eyes locked onto hers and he started to come over. In slow motion–like the Terminator.

  ‘Want a minute to yourselves?’ said Catherine. ‘You are in this together, after all.’

  ‘Don’t you dare leave me with that…that caber tosser without an armed escort!’ said Stevie.

  ‘Don’t be daft, Steve. He’s not going to do anything to you here–the place is packed. Anyway, I really do need the loo and he looks as if he wants to talk to you.’ Catherine got up, just as Adam MacLean reached the table and nodded her a stiff hello as they crossed paths.

  ‘I didnae know you were a member of ma gym,’ he said, looking down at Stevie.

  His gym? Crikey, he was possessive!

  ‘Well, I am,’ said Stevie, taking a diversionary sip of coffee, which burnt her lip, and then she accidentally bit it as well in an unfortunate reflex action.

  ‘Can I sit down forrr a wee minute, please?’ he said. Civilized for him, thought Stevie, who glared at him but didn’t say no, which he obviously took to mean yes, because he dropped his big-honed body into the chair that Catherine had vacated.

  ‘Have you hearrrd anything?’ he asked, his eyes compulsively drawn to her swelling split lip.

  ‘No,’ Stevie lied. ‘Have you?’

  ‘No. Jo left her mobile behind too, funnily enough. Probably so I couldn’t ring her. The number she left for the health farm doesn’t exist, of course. No doubt she’ll tell me she wrote it down wrang.’

  ‘Oh.’ Stevie felt a little guilty about fibbing then after he had been so candid, but she didn’t want to give him any details that might trigger him to go off and kill Matthew. She had one dead lover, she didn’t want another, she thought with black amusement. It was, however, a thought that quickly soured in her head and made her feel slightly sick.

  ‘I have a plan to stop aw this nonsense,’ he said.

  ‘So have I,’ said Stevie stiffly. She suspected her plan of hair-dos and gentle body toning might be slightly different from his, which would involve hi-jacking a plane and forcing Matthew to jump out of it above the bit of sea with the most sharks in it.

  ‘You see, ba ma way of thinkin’, it’s aw to dae with basic psychology…’

  Stevie cut him off with a mirthless little laugh. Like he would know! The only thing he knew about heads was that they were meant to propel forwards at great speed into someone else’s nose. Most likely someone he was married to, too.

  ‘Please don’t take this wrongly, Mr MacLean but I’ll handle this in my own fashion,’ she said bravely. Her lip throbbed and she was fighting back some annoying tears, and she didn’t know if they were down to bodily pain or his frustrating, hateful presence and all he stood for.

  Adam pulled out a card from his tracksuit pocket and slammed it on the table, which made both her and the plates jump.

  ‘Sorry, I’m a wee bit heavy-handed.’

  You can say that again, she thought.

  ‘Here’s ma card. If you change yer mind and want to hear whit I have to say, then gi’ me a ring. We could smash this thing up before it gets too big and get back tae being happy.’

  She didn’t like the way he said ‘smash’ with such relish, or maybe it was just his accent. Either way, she wouldn’t have fancied his chances in a lullaby-singing competition.

  ‘That is, if you seriously want tae get yerrr man back.’ He looked accusingly at the feast on the table. Not exactly food for a seriously devoted body sculptor, he thought. Then he was off, just as Catherine made her perfectly timed return.

  ‘So?’ she said, and then jumped back. ‘Shit–your lip! He didn’t hit you after all, did he?’

  ‘Like he’d dare,’ said Stevie, but knowing he’d dare quite easily. ‘No, I burnt my lip on the coffee.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Then I bit it and it hurt.’

  ‘No, you clumsy tart, I meant “and” as in “and what did he want”?’

  ‘Oh, he says he has a plan to break up Matthew and Jo,’ Stevie said unenthusiastically.

  ‘What was it then?’ Catherine leant eagerly forward.

  ‘Haven’t a clue,’ shrugged Stevie. ‘I said I wasn’t interested in hearing it.’

  ‘Why not? You could at least have listened to what he had to say! You do have something in common here, after all.’

  Stevie shuddered at the thought of having anything in common with him.

  ‘I think I could guess at a push what he’d suggest,’ she said. ‘Something to do with sawn-offs and hitmen.’

  ‘Ooh look,’ said Catherine, picking up his card. ‘He’s the General Manager here.’

  ‘I hope you’re flaming joking. I’ve just signed up for a whole year!’ said Stevie, snatching back the card to see it there in black and white, and red and a touch of navy blue–Adam MacLean, General Manager of Well Life Super-gym, Dodmoor, Barnsley, and the scribble of his mobile number. The information knocked Stevie for six because he looked more like the head of ‘Thugs International’ than something sensible, respectable and managerial.

  A picture came into her head of him pushing past her and coming into the house. If she hadn’t opened the door, she would still have been in blissful ignorance. Jo and Matthew might have just had a quick fling and that could have been the end of it. Maybe that’s all it was: a last-minute explosion of freedom before he finally settled down and got married. It happened. Stevie was thirty-six; she wasn’t the naïve baby she’d been nearly five years ago when she had found out about Mick, even if Mick and Matthew were very different animals. Mick wouldn’t have felt the slightest bit of guilt, but she knew Matthew would be crippled with it and most likely pacing the Spanish hotel foyer vowing never to do anything like that again. But then he had to go and tell her just because he found out about it and got upset and wanted to upset everyone else too. No, she’d heard what McBigmouth had to say once; she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  ‘He can go and stuff a live haggis up his backside,’ said Stevie decisively. Then she bit down and burnt the other side of her mouth on the panini.

  Chapter 8

  Paris smiled that special smile of hers as Brandon took her into his arms.

  ‘I love you so much,’ she said, her red lips parting slowly to alert him to the fact that she was ready for his kiss. Brandon let her fall heavily to the ground.

  ‘I’m sorry, love, but I’m mad crazy bonkers over another woman. She’s got everything you haven’t, so no one can blame me really. So this is the big El Dumpo, I’m afraid. Well, have a nice life, pet.’ And with that he expertly mounted his Spanish black stallion and, bearing a rose between his teeth, stuck his boot spurs into the side of his horse, who whinnied and galloped him away to his new love La Joanna, which in Spanish means ‘crafty two-faced cow’.

  Stevie sighed, pushed back her chair and looked at the words that plopped out of her printer on the page. Yet another sheet to join the ream of bad writing destined for the recycling bin in the garage.

  ‘Yeah, this is really going to pay the bills, pratting around like this,’ she said to herself. She had a block as big as Everest in her writer’s flow. In fact, she might as well log off for ever, then get a job in a factory sprinkling cheese on pizzas.

  It was not often that writing felt like hard work, but today it did. Not that she usually wrote at the weekend, but seeing as she hadn’t touched her keyboard since last Monday, she thought she might take advantage of the hour whilst Danny played Harry Potter on his GameCube. He was busy zapping toadstools to get Bertie Botts beans to buy some spells at Hogwarts, and he seemed quite content, although Stevie felt guilty that she wasn’t doing anything more exciting herself to entertain him.

  She always tried to do something specia
l at the weekends–take him for a walk to the park, or do some gardening together, or play board games. It was a kickback, she supposed, from her own childhood. She would get piles of games for Christmas and birthdays, but find there was no one to play them with. Her mum was always too busy to sit down and shake a dice, and even though their tiny home was like a new pin, Edna Honeywell was continuously scrubbing or Brasso-ing the ornaments. Later, Stevie suspected that was probably just an excuse to avoid getting roped into playing Frustration or Ker Plunk and, much as she herself liked a nicely kept home, she vowed never to make such a god of the housework that she was too busy to play with her own children. Her dad worked long hours and so when he did get home, he could barely manage a ‘hello’, never mind a game of Cluedo. He needed to save his energies for the rabid arguments that Stevie listened to as she lay trembling in her bed.

  So one day, Stevie simply stopped asking her parents to play and turned to herself for entertainment, drawing and scribbling, reading and writing, constructing little books and stories of love and happy families that became longer and more structured and crafted. She never showed them to anyone, they were her own private treasures. Her diaries were highly detailed too. In them, she found an overflow pipe for her frustrations and ambitions and crazily mixed-up emotions. Especially when her father ran off with the woman with a really thick neck a few doors away, and her mother, in vengeance, took a slimy lover whose eyes were too close together and who stared too long at Stevie’s budding breasts for her comfort. It had been a difficult time and stained her teenage years with some memories she would rather forget. She had burnt the diaries in the end; they had been useful to write but far too painful to read.