Nomance

by T J Price

  ‘Louisa?’

  ‘She’s a very calm person and . . . consistent. Not uptight or anything like that. And when she sets her mind on something, you better believe she sticks at it to the bitter end.’

  ‘Good. You’re a lucky man, Mr Chalcott.’

  ‘And she loves the idea of kids. She’s already going on about them and we only got engaged last night down the pub.’

  ‘A very healthy sign.’

  ‘Yes, healthy.’

  ‘And yet, you are perhaps worried she may have . . . difficulties.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘In conceiving, Mr Chalcott.’

  ‘Who said that?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘She ain’t got no difficulties!’ Gwynne was fervent in his assurance. ‘She’s as strong as a horse. She’s broad like Carla. But nothing like Carla in any other way. And that’s my point. She wouldn’t be a one off. She comes from a very good family and she knows if you sign a contract you keep to it. And what it is too, we’re setting up home and all that. We’re going to need the extra money and if I tell her we’re going to buy Romance then she’ll see that we’ll need to put out five or six kids at . . . lets say eight thousand each – ’

  ‘Let me stop you there, Mr Chalcott.’

  ‘How about ten at seven thousand each?’

  ‘Look, I love what you’re telling me, but the fact is, I’m relocating to Switzerland soon.’

  ‘Louisa loves to travel.’

  ‘But you see, I’m also changing the line of work I do, so to speak.’

  ‘You’re not going to be into pregnant women anymore?’

  ‘No. No more pregnant women . . . well, I shouldn’t think so. At this early stage at least. You see, I shall be running a clinic dedicated to offering the terminally ill assisted suicide. I did mention this to Carla. I’m surprised that she hasn’t told you.’

  ‘Well you know, we don’t do a lot of chat, she and I.’

  ‘No. So anyway, you see Louisa wouldn’t have a future with me.’

  Gwynne slumped. ‘She’ll be disappointed to hear that, doctor.’

  ‘But Mr Chalcott, there are other fertility clinics she could try. If you like, I can send you a list of names and numbers.’

  ‘That’s an idea!’

  ‘Though I can’t tell you anything about their fee structures and so forth.’

  ‘We can only find out.’

  ‘Just so! Got a fax?’

  Gwynne had a gift for numbers and he rattled the shop’s fax number off without having to think about it. Gerald had to get him to repeat it.

  ‘Well, that’s that then,’ Gerald said, ‘I’ll send the list now.’

  ‘Okay. Cheers.’

  ‘And congratulations on your forthcoming marriage.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks.’

  ‘I hope, Mr Chalcott, that you both have many happy and prosperous years ahead of you . . . but how about if I append the details of my new clinic, just in case?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know whether you should, man. Might be unlucky.’

  ‘I’ll do you a discount.’

  ‘Right O!’

  Sixteen Me Jane You Jane

  Head down, zig-zagging between the knee-high ferns, Carla pushed on in the sweltering heat till she could pitch herself down behind a cluster of palms. She paused just long enough to wipe away the sweat beading her forehead and, sick with dread, she clawed aside some of the glossy fronds and peered out.

  Juliet was standing on the other side of the street.

  Carla recoiled, letting the fronds spring back into place. She cringed in the sweltering green shade. Had she been spotted? She cursed herself for not being more careful and hunkered down lower so that she could squint between the leathery leaves of a yucca.

  Juliet had begun to pace along the pavement, trying to look casual, but she was casting suspicious glances up and down the empty street.

  Carla craned round as far as she dared, so that she could also scan the street. There wasn’t another soul in sight. She just couldn’t understand it. The street outside Romance was always crowded with pointless pedestrians. In the past, she had spent whole days watching a perpetual stream of non customers stroll by. And now, when they could at least act as witnesses to the movements of Juliet before she murdered her, they didn’t even bother to turn up!

  Carla cursed.

  Juliet looked more likely than ever to commit murder. She had gone downhill pretty far since her divorce from Philip, five months ago, piling the pounds on and dressing in cheap sports wear (fighting gear). As usual she was carrying her large handbag, a piece of boho chic left over from a previous lifestyle and into which you could all-too-easily fit a sawn-off shotgun.

  The blood pounded in Carla’s ears. Juliet had stopped pacing so as to study the palms, yuccas and ornamental grasses filling the shopfront of Romance. Inspired by Vietnam, Carla had installed the ‘green’ in order to provide cover, and yet she couldn’t help feeling that those burning, haunted eyes were able to penetrate it and expose her.

  She whimpered and inched back. Too late. Juliet was now crossing the road. Carla scrambled away, crawling through the dense undergrowth of potted ferns till she could stand upright and make a clear dash for the counter. There was a click at the door. Carla ran like she was wading through mud and hit the counter with a dull thud. The counter top was up, but the low swing door below tended to stick on its catch.

  It stuck now.

  Carla flapped at it like a circus seal.

  The bell over the shop door tinkled.

  She swung around and pressed herself back against the counter.

  Juliet was standing at the threshold. She swept the scene with a hooded gaze, familiarising herself with the lie of the land.

  ‘Good morning.’ She said in a low, deliberate voice, just before her blazing eyes rested on Carla. ‘Here again.’

  She smiled mechanically as she closed the door behind her.

  Carla faced her with a frozen smile, while scratching for the catch. It sounded like she was hiding a rat behind her back.

  ‘And lovely to see you, I’m sure,’ she answered, a tremor in her voice.

  Juliet responded by coming at her, at a slow, steady pace.

  Carla’s hidden rat scrabbled at the catch in wild desperation and suddenly it flipped.

  She lurched backwards, almost crashing to the floor as her foot caught on the tub of fertiliser. The one she had been meaning to move for the past six months.

  ‘Shit!’

  She brought the counter top down with an almighty bang.

  ‘Beautiful morning,’ she gasped, tottering back against the shelves for support. ‘I’ve never known it so quiet.’

  Juliet reached the counter. ‘They’re all on holiday.’ Her voice was robotic. ‘Normandy, Algave, Tuscany.’

  She stopped dead and was immobile for a moment. Abruptly, she jerked back to life and began to rummage round in her boho bag.

  Carla’s heart missed a beat. She had forgotten about the sawn-off shot gun. The sweat prickled at the back of her neck. Her own weapon was in the kitchen – the extra powerful airgun that Gwynne had been so generous as to leave her when he and Louisa moved to Billericay.

  Bleeding typical! Like the pointless pedestrians, Gwynne had buggered off just when, at long last, he had come in useful for something. I.e. to manhandle Juliet out of the shop whenever she became hysterical.

  Carla had been loathe to call the police for help, because by stalking her, Juliet had become one of Romance’s best ever customers. The last thing Carla wanted right now was Juliet locked up where she couldn’t buy anything. Why upset the status quo when she was doing such wonders for Romance’s balance of payments? Especially when Carla was starting to get serious interest from potential buyers.

  But Carla had been playing a dangerous game. Juliet patronised Romance in the hope that she might one day snatch Porchester. However, if Carla had locked the baby up in total safety then Juliet w
ould not have any reason to visit the shop. Carla, therefore, had positioned Porchester, in his buggy, on a spot behind the counter where Juliet could see, but not reach him. Even so, she had added a stockade of selected cacti after a close call – maternal craving had once got the better of Juliet and she had jumped the counter. That’s when Gwynne had stepped in and got her into an arm lock before marching her out of the shop. He would defend that kid to the death, he said.

  With a twenty per cent stake in the final sale of Porchester for adoption, who wouldn’t?

  Except, true to form, Gwynne hadn’t died trying to protect Porchester. He had married Louisa instead, and gone to live in Billericay. Carla wasn’t saying he’d taken easy way out, but it did mean she might have to die instead of him . . .

  Juliet was still groping around in her bag. Perhaps she couldn’t get her finger round the trigger. Meanwhile the corner of her red-rimmed eye was fixed on the empty spot where the buggy used to stand.

  Carla swallowed. Perhaps she had already pushed Juliet too far.

  Today the kid was out of sight, under lock and key in her bedroom. Juliet would need to gun her way into the shop to get him. But perhaps that was the plan, because she still didn’t know that Gwynne was gone, and Carla had to concede that a sawn-off shot gun would be her weapon of choice if Gwynne was the obstacle.

  The sweat burned on Carla’s skin. She wanted to run, but her legs wouldn’t move.

  Juliet’s arm jerked out of the boho bag and a silvery object flashed in her hand.

  Carla shrieked.

  ‘Gorgeous, isn’t it?’ Juliet grated. She was holding a designer purse made of metal. ‘Exclusive to Chrysalis.’

  Carla didn’t understand what this meant, but that didn’t matter – she could see it didn’t fire bullets and that was the main thing.

  Now that she was not definitely going to die, Carla asked, ‘Is there anything I can get you?’

  The monotonous, grating voice began at once.

  ‘I’ll have a pot mum, the red. A tray of pansies. A Busy Lizzie. A can of flyspray, Pine Fresh. No, make that Jasmine. Okay, Lily of the Valley. A tub of petunias and a . . . ’ Juliet was speaking faster and faster. Carla got into a flurry as she piled the stuff up on the counter. ‘ . . . and a geranium. That one there. And another pot mum. The yellow this time. The purple rather. No both. Carla!’ Juliet’s sudden exclamation brought Carla to a dead stop. Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the pot mum.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘A bunch of cut dahlias.’ Juliet blubbered. Eyes welling over with tears. Carla hurried to the bucket of dahlias. ‘And, by the way . . . ’ Juliet’s voice became tiny and squeaky, ‘may I see Porchester, please?’

  ‘Oh Gawd!’ Carla grabbed a bunch of dahlias and stomped back to the counter. ‘I knew this would happen!’

  ‘Why not?’ Juliet wailed.

  ‘He has to stay in my room,’ Carla said, slapping the dahlias down onto the wrapping paper that she had spread over the counter. ‘He’s got a big day tomorrow.’

  Juliet’s features writhed around for a bit. ‘Why’s that?’

  Carla began to wrap the flowers.

  ‘Oh, I’m taking him shopping first.’ She paused to look at Juliet. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m sure you understand that I can’t tell you where.’ Juliet nodded, her lower lip trembling. Carla went on, ‘What I want to do is get him a complete new outfit. Something nice. Not too dainty though, because he’s a little man. After that, we’ll go to the park for a lovely, lovely couple of hours in the sunshine, where we can listen to the birds singing in the trees and the little kiddies laughing and splashing in the paddling pool . . . ’ Juliet’s face developed a crippled smile and Carla assumed she had calmed the situation down. She sellotaped the wrapping paper around the dahlias and, to promote the happy vibe still further, added, ‘And then after the park we have a really, really important appointment – we’re off to Richmond-upon-Thames.’

  ‘Such a lovely place!’ Juliet’s voice cracked.

  ‘Gorgeous, gorgeous. And the clinic is right on the river. Brilliant views. I’m sure Porchester won’t kick up a fuss when they give him the MMR jab – ’

  Carla fell silent as Juliet’s expression became riven with horror. Her eyes were ablaze.

  ‘You fucking bitch!’ Juliet jabbed at her with stiletto fingers. Carla stepped back and raised the dahlias like a club. Juliet screeched, ‘You’re going down!’

  Carla shook her head in perplexity. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because you’re not going to do it. You’re not!’

  ‘You’ll wake the baby!’ Carla remonstrated in desperation.

  ‘You don’t care about my child,’ Juliet hissed.

  ‘Of course I care,’ Carla said with feeling. After all, Porchester was worth twenty thousand quid in the States. ‘And anyway, he’s my child, remember?’

  Juliet pressed her fists to her eyes and shuddered. ‘Don’t do it,’ she begged, her voice drained of emotion – that was reassuring in a way. ‘Don’t give him the MMR. I’ll pay for the separate jabs,’ She dropped her hands to reveal dulled eyes.

  Carla looked into these with a throb of regret. There was fifteen quid’s worth of stuff on the counter. If she didn’t agree with her, Juliet might not buy. Carla had recourse to cajolery.

  ‘Now that’s silly. You don’t want to waste your money on doctor’s fees, do you Juliet? Not when the doctors themselves say MMR is as safe as houses.’

  ‘No it’s not,’ Juliet intoned.

  ‘But they should know. And anyway, he’d have to have three jabs otherwise. He’s not a pin cushion, is he?’ She gave Juliet a coaxing smile. ‘Come on, what’s wrong with getting it all over with in one?’ At this Juliet’s eyes began to well up again. ‘Oh fuck,’ Carla said, in lieu of please don’t cry. Glancing around she noticed a can of deluxe weedkiller. She picked it up. ‘Look, Juliet, it’s the same thing.’ She read from the can. ‘”Perfectly safe for lawns, while counteracting dandelions, nettles and squitch.” See? Three in One. Like the MMR jab. Measles, Mumps and Rubella. It’s progress – that’s all.’

  Seemingly lifeless, Juliet stared at the can of weedkiller for a moment.

  Suddenly, shockingly, she came alive again.

  She leaned forward and using the whole of her arm she swept the pot plants off the counter.

  They hit the floor with a collective smash.

  Carla flourished the dahlias. ‘Right.’ She directed her voice to the doorway behind her. ‘Gwynne!’

  ‘Gwynne!’ Juliet sneered. ‘Gwynne’s busy picking his nose in a Billericay semi.’

  ‘No he’s not,’ Carla said, without a trace of conviction.

  Juliet emitted a cheerless laugh. ’Check it out in the Daily Telegraph’s special announcements.’ She glanced down at the floor. ‘I’ll leave you to clean the mess up.’ She turned and started towards the door.

  ‘Hey! You should pay for these,’ Carla hollered after her. Juliet kept walking and Carla’s hollering took on a wounded undertone. ‘I was hurt too, you snotty cow. I loved David . . . I didn’t make him run off with your damned husband!’

  Juliet stopped, turned and gave her a chilling look. Carla closed her mouth and was silent. Juliet produced a smile – a thing of pure malice and sauntered out of the shop.

  With a juddering sigh, Carla threw the dahlias and the can of weedkiller to one side and raised the counter. She hesitated for a second and then hurried straight to the shop door. The street was adorned now by its usual quota of pointless pedestrians. Juliet had disappeared. Carla debated for a moment whether she should close the shop for the rest of the day . . .

  She started in surprise and wondered at herself.

  Running Romance for all these years had left her with a cavalier attitude to mere death, and yet here she was, fretting like she had something to live for after all! Then she remembered that she had a hardware franchise waiting for her in Milton Keynes.

  Oh yeah, that’s why she wanted to go on living.


  Or was it?

  All of a sudden Carla needed to check on the baby, and to check it right now.

  She hurried back behind the counter and through into the house. Upstairs, in her bedroom, she found Porchester fast asleep. For the merest instant she saw something other than a bag of cash lying in the cot and before she knew what she was doing she gave him a tender little caress.

  Carla jerked her hand away and backed off, disorientated.

  What the hell?

  She clawed her hair away from her sweaty forehead.

  ‘Too hot,’ she murmured to herself.

  Trouble was, she had to keep the heat up in the shop for the palms, ferns and other exotic greenery. It was tough to work in there now. On the other hand, she had noticed some of her older customers almost swooned in the torrid atmosphere and she glimpsed the tantalising possibility that one or two might pass away through heat exhaustion, thus providing Romance with gratifying funeral orders.

  She would keep the heat up.

  Turning, she went to the bathroom to douse her face in cold water. Then she stood by the opened window to luxuriate in the breeze. Feeling fresher, she went downstairs and took the secateurs from the cutlery draw before going back into the shop.

  First she cleared the mess away that Juliet had caused, and then she set about pruning the miniature roses on their trestle opposite the Green.

  From time to time she would go to the door to check on the street. Her anxiety about Juliet nagged her, yet she refused to give into the temptation of closing the shop. She had to admit locking up would give her nerves a rest, and yet she couldn’t bring herself to do it. If an old customer couldn’t get in and die of heat exhaustion she would never be able to forgive herself.

  Oh no, Carla had let too many glittering prizes slip through her fingers before now. The shop must stay open.

  A half hour passed quicky, as it always did when she dwelt on her customers’ funerals . . .

  She couldn’t remember when she’d stopped pruning, but she found herself staring into space, her secateurs poised, inactive in her hand.

  Somehow, a dreamlike longing to go upstairs and look at Porchester had stolen over her. Carla fought the impulse, but it refused to let her alone. At last, she banged the secateurs down on the trestle and galumphed back up to her bedroom. She was beginning worry about the state of her mind. No doubt about it, Juliet’s persecution was taking its toll.