The Soulmate Agency

by Ivan B

  The matter settled that walked out into the sunlight. Ben steered her towards a tea shop, “I’m not sure about the ethics of hanging onto that £82,000.”

  She stopped dead, “What’s £82,000 for 27 years of my life?” She demanded.

  He decided that, perhaps, now was not the time for ethical arguments

  Chapter 29

  Excursion: George & Treasa

  George balanced his body against the swaying train and put down two coffee cups and a couple of wrapped biscuits before sliding into the seat opposite Treasa. “Not been on a train for years,” he said as he took the top off of his coffee cup.

  She selected a shortbread biscuit. “I use them all the time, trains and taxis.”

  He glanced up, “Don’t you drive?”

  He followed this by slapping his forehead, “Of course you do, you’ve got a yellow Lotus.”

  She giggled and wagged her finger, “That’s a studio car, you really must learn to separate reality from television. Do you ever see me really drive it?”

  She giggled again, “If you see it moving then it has somebody else driving, somebody who can reach the pedals. If you see me getting out of it, I’ve probably only just got in it and if you see me at the wheel the scenery is moving by back projection.”

  She decided to let him off the hook. “But I do have a car, it’s an MGF. MG kindly built me a special after I did a children’s Christmas party for them. It has a raised front seat so that I can see, a smaller steering wheel with beefed up power steering and they moved the pedals closer to the seat, you can wind them back and forth using a little handle.”

  He gave her a sideways look, “You kidding, or is this one of your jokes?”

  “Straight up, a modified MGF, bright red with a two-litre engine.”

  “Use it often?”

  “Hardly ever, but it’s nice to have and know that I can be independent if I have to be.”

  They rattled over some points and Treasa wondered if this was a good idea. He’d diplomatically asked her what she’d like to do and she’d offered to show him her flat. Now she was desperately trying to remember what sort of state it was in. His place had been pristine, she feared that hers would look like a tip.

  She inspected her tiny bracelet watch, she had at least an hour’s more worry before she got to the front door. The train gave a lurch and coffee slopped over his cup and down his shirt. He mopped himself down and headed for the toilet. She carefully replaced the lid. Ten seconds later a middle aged woman with kind eyes and a worried frown sat down in his seat. “Excuse me butting in dear,” she said in a Hertfordshire accent, “but do you think you’re being wise?”

  She glanced towards the toilet door, “It may be exiting to run away with him, but it’s probably not a good idea.”

  She gave a benevolent smile, “And won’t your parent be worried?”

  Treasa internally cringed. She’d done her very best not to look like a child and obviously failed. She said carefully, “Thank you for your concern, but you are mistaken, I’m an adult.”

  The woman peered at her and then became wide-eyed and held her hand over her mouth, “Oh I am sorry, you’re obviously not a child, it’s just that from across the aisle you look like…”

  Treasa reached out her hand and touched the woman’s arm. “I understand, it’s an easy mistake. However, I could have been under age and he could have been luring me away, in which case you would be doing exactly the right thing. Thank you for your concern.”

  She nodded, “Oh my, what a fool I must look.”

  “Not a fool, a vigilant adult.”

  She gave a half-smile and went back to her seat; once again Treasa wondered once again if this was a wise move.

  An hour later she swung open her front door, “Welcome to my palace,” she said grandly, if somewhat falsely.

  George stepped inside and looked at the higgledy-piggledy pile of tiny shoes just inside the door. He moved on to the kitchen and immediately noticed the lowered worktop and the absence of any wall cabinets. The loo had a raised wooden step in front of it and the hand basin was low down. The bedroom was normal, if somewhat untidy, and the lounge/diner full of peculiar Danish furniture that offered more style than functionality. She rubbed the back of a curvaceous dining chair, “Present from Danish TV.”

  She hopped up into a chair, she fitted perfectly. “Made to measure,” she announced. It has slightly longer legs and a smaller seat. All the other chairs are normal, try one. He gingerly sat down, it was surprisingly comfortable. He gazed at her across the table for a minute or two as if cast in stone and thinking hard. Eventually he lent back, almost toppling the chair over. “I see why you’ve brought me here, you’re trying to say that my height would add complexity to your life.”

  Actually she’d be trying to say the exact opposite, namely that her height would add complexity to his life, for a start he kept all his cups in high wall cupboards.

  “Something like that.”

  He drummed his fingers, “So what? People manage, must be much the same if you have a partner in a wheelchair.”

  Having ascertained his attitude to the material physicality’s she set about part two of her investigation. She hopped off her seat, “Coffee?”

  “Tea if you don’t mind.”

  “You go and sit in the armchair – the big one – and I’ll bring it in.”

  He ignored her and followed her to the kitchen and watched her make the tea. As he watched his mind remembered a Jewish household he’d visited, the kitchen had been split down the middle and was in effect two kitchens. They’d done it for religious reasons, but the idea was still valid. “Always have a split kitchen,” he said, “half your size and half mine. Then you wouldn’t have to stand on tiptoe and I wouldn’t get a crick in my back.”

  She paused from poring out the coffee and set the kettle down. “It’s more than that,” she said softly. “There’s no point in wall cupboards if only you can get the stuff in them. I can’t reach the standard height rail in a wardrobe without a real stretch. I can work in a normal kitchen, but often I can’t each the taps on the sink as they are usually at the back of the sink. It’s a real pain.”

  “Oh come on,” he said, “stop being so impracticable. There are such things as step-stools and who cares if the wardrobe rails are lower, I don’t.”

  She went to speak and he wagged his finger, “And I saw you with my double fridge freezer, so I know such tall appliances are out the question, but who cares? Life is too short to get hung-up over trivialities. These things can all be overcome or circumnavigated.”

  “If you went out with a normal woman you wouldn’t have to circumnavigate them.”

  “You are a normal woman, he replied, “just a bit shorter than most.”

  She took the tea into the lounge and put it on the coffee table as he sat in the armchair. She paused, put the teapot down and climbed on his lap to sit astride his legs, his eyes proclaimed his surprise at this manoeuvre. “you said I’m a normal woman.”

  “I did, and I meant it.”

  “Did you?” She asked earnestly. “Did you? I may have a child’s body, but I am a woman inside and I want to be treated like a woman, as an adult woman. I don’t want to be patronised like a child, treated like a child or regarded as a child. I want adult conversation, I want adult equality I want…” She hesitated for a moment wondering how he as taking this. “I want a full and normal sexual relationship and emotional fulfilment, is that too much to ask?”

  He sat for a few seconds as if mesmerised. He looked into her eyes, “If I have patronised you I’m sorry. I don’t want to patronise you, but it’s difficult. You’re almost exactly the same height as my niece and it’s difficult to swap mindsets especially when you’re so…”

  “When I’m so what?” She asked.

  He moistened his lips. “So delicate, so fragile, so alluring. I’m worried that if I squeeze you your eyes will pop out.”

  She sat on his lap and laughed
at the image he’d portrayed. He looked away, hurt. She tickled his chin, “I’m not laughing at you George, I’m laughing at the idea. How can I be alluring when most people mistake me for a child?”

  He looked back, “But I know you’re not a child. I know you are an adult. Grief if I had the intentions towards a child that I have towards you I’d book myself into counselling.”

  He reached out and put a hand on each side of her hips. “I know that if we go into a full-blown relationship it’s not going to be all plain sailing, but we can tackle the obstacles together. That’s if you want to.”

  He shifted position slightly, but he kept hold of her hips. “Let’s just do one of your imagination thingies. You imagine you’re my height and I’ll imagine I’m yours. Would you still want to continue seeing me once your holiday is over?”

  It was a good question, and one she hadn’t considered. She closed her eyes, was George the man for her? She knew wealthier men, handsomer men, men with broader conversation, men with ambition, men with… “Yes,” she said definitely. “Yes I would.”

  He sighed with relief, “And so would I. Forget the size thing lets try and have a normal relationship.”

  She looked into his eyes, “Can you?”

  “I’ll give it a damn good try.”

  She moved forward and put her arms around his neck, he gently held her to his chest. After a few moments they kissed, not a gentle touching of lips, but a stimulating caress of the mouth.

  When they parted she wriggled off his lap and poured the tea, she noticed that her hands were trembling. Much more of this and here in-built physiological responses would take over, and that was not what she wanted, for the moment at least. She handed him his tea and gazed into his eyes. “You could help me cope,” he said softly.

  “How?”

  “If you did something to your looks that defined you as an adult, anything would do. I know what the lady on the train said to you as she apologised to me in the corridor.”

  She cackled in frustration, “What could I possibly do if make-up and adult clothes don’t work?”

  She suddenly held her hands up, “OK, I confess my looks aren’t all natural. I’ve had a few wrinkles removed, had an eyebrow job and a tuck under my chin, but my looks are my life. If I can’t work as Molly Mint I probably can’t work anywhere.”

  She flopped to sit sideways on his legs. She sipped her tea. He sensitively murmured, “Don’t do yourself down. e

  She sighed, “I must admit I’m fed up with being taken for a child, stupid isn’t it? I spend a small fortune to keep looking young, enjoy the attention TV gives you and then resent being mistaken for what I strive to pretend to be. Maybe I’m just a female Peter Pan, always wanting to be the child.”

  He nervously horizontally rotated his saucer. “How about a nose-ring, children don’t usually pierce their noses.”

  She narrowed her eyes, “You’re asking rather a lot.”

  He shrugged, “Just an idea, anything would do.”

  She squiggled round to be between the arm of the chair and him. “You’re wrong,” she moaned, “some children these days do have their noses pierced, I’ve seen plenty of them on the show.”

  She licked her lips, “Maybe I should get a facial tattoo, don’t se any children with them, least not in this country.”

  She glanced at him, his face was aghast at the idea. She giggled and kissed him on the cheek, “Joke, my studio would kill me. Covering up the odd piercing is easy, tattoos are difficult, besides my contract forbids me to have tattoos, use henna or have cosmetic enhancement, apart from my freckles that is, the real ones faded years ago.”

  She sipped her tea, “Always have a boob job.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” he said firmly. “Let’s deal with each other as we are.”

  She made a couple of swift decisions, she might regret them in the future, but she felt they were right for now. “Good idea,” she said as she wriggled off of his lap after a quick peck on the cheek. Now drink up, we’ve got some shopping to do and a dinner at Minton Hall to make.”

  He drank his tea like a lamb.

  Chapter 30

  Excursion: Gwen & Derek

  Derek dumped the cool-box he had been carrying down beside the wooden bench that faced across the fields towards the front of Minton Hall, which must have been just over a mile away. The previous night’s storm had cleared the air and the day was fine and sunny with just enough cumulus to prevent instant sunburn. Derek was in deep mauve jeans with a matching short-sleeve shirt, Gwen had chosen a tennis outfit with a pleated skirt that fell halfway between knee and thigh, on anybody else it would have been absurdly short, on her it was the modicum of decorum. They sat down and stretched out their legs, “You sure this is what you want,” he asked, “We could have gone out like everybody else.”

  “No,” she said firmly, “You’re right, we need to talk.”

  He reached into the cool-bag and pulled out a couple of chill Coca-Colas and handed her one. “Got diet?” She asked.

  “No, and you don’t need it anyway.”

  She opened the can and watched a wedding party drive up to the hall, she mentally started counting. “What’s in the bag?”

  “A few Cokes; some crisps, Black pepper and sea salt or Parsnip or Beetroot or Cheese; some cheese rolls and a couple of pieces of cake plus a thermos flask full of ground coffee.”

  She gazed at him, “How did you get that?”

  “I asked Tom.”

  “Tom who?”

  “Tom Clarke the chef, Angela’s husband. He used to be a TV chef and I dubbed a couple of programmes into French and German for him.”

  “You speak French and German?”

  “My mother was Swiss and spoke both, when she died it sort of seemed right to keep up with both languages.”

  Gwen smiled, “Tom Clarke, wasn’t he the cheese chef?”

  “Indeed he was.”

  They sat looking at the view and sipping their drinks with Gwen wondering why Derek had been fairly insistent about the need to talk. Still she wasn’t complaining, from here she could keep an eye on what was happening at the hall and in any case she too knew that she had some things to talk about.

  Derek put his arm round Gwen’s shoulders, thought about it and withdrew it while turning on the bench to half face her. “I rather thought,” he said seriously, “That I needed to say a few things. As I don’t want to mislead you.”

  Gwen eyes became mere slits, “Is this the ‘we can be good friends, but’ bit?”

  Horror crossed his face. “Certainly not, I rather thought that you knew by now that I am rather endeared to you and that the endearment is growing every day.”

  He groaned, “Why does it always come out wrong? That sounded like something from a Noel Coward movie.”

  She reached out and grabbed his hand. “I get the idea, so if it’s not ‘lets part and be friends’ what is this all about?”

  He looked away, “I rather thought that we, no I, needed to clear the air a little. And try to bring a bit of reality into what is frankly a dream-like situation.”

  She giggled, “As long as it’s not a nightmare.”

  “No, but I’m worried it might turn into one for you.” He paused to gather his thoughts. “I’ve been told,” he said almost carelessly, “that going out with me is rather like having a diet of Cream Crackers with no butter. In other words I’m boring and hard to digest.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Brother of an actress I took to the theatre and a restaurant.”

  Gwen went to speak, but he squeezed her hand. “Look, I’m a trained rat. I read phonetic English and I say the words out loud for the Great British Public, end of story. I’m not an intellectual wonder, probably have little small talk and I don’t want to you be under any illusions.”

  Gwen rubbed his hand, “You’ve also published two books, your novel A Kenyan community and a textbook, Extensions to standard phonetic English to incorpora
te Japanese, Arabic and Slavic pronunciations. And you’re a co-author of a software programme that converts written English into Phonetic English.”

  His eyes widened, “However do you know that?”

  “Internet. The BBC keeps rather succinct résumés for all their news announcers. It also said that you are now their first port of call on all matters to do with correct pronunciation.”

  He nodded, “But it hardly makes for scintillating conversation does it?” He put on his best announcer’s voice, “When pronouncing the name of the Solar system’s seventh planet does one adopt the current Americanised form or revert to the once widely accepted English form. Is it ‘Uran-us’ or ‘Your-anus?’”

  Gwen laughed. “You’ve managed fine with me so far. I don’t think you’re like eating Cream Crackers with no butter, more like…” She thought. “More like a rich Arabian banquet.”

  He gave a half-smile. “I’m also told that I’m rather obsessive about my hobby; I suppose that’s because it’s all I have to talk about.”

  “Hobby?”

  “Kenyan history.”

  “Are you writing a book?”

  “Not yet, just collecting information.”

  She picked up his hand and kissed it, “Your fine by me, I’m not exactly the conversationalist of the month either and I’m sure,” she gazed into his eyes, “really sure, that we can find things to do together. For a start I’ve never been to Kenya.”

  He relaxed slightly and took a pull on his drink. Gwen wondered if he would get round to telling her of what she had read in his file. If he didn’t then maybe their relationship was doomed; if he couldn’t tell her, she couldn’t trust him. She shuddered, if the relationship was to be doomed there was a bigger potential fly-in-the-ointment and it came from her nocturnal activities.

  She watched a third wedding party go up the drive to Minton Hall and took a deep breath. “Actually there is something I haven’t told you. I didn’t mean to lie to you, but I’m in a difficult position.”