It takes two

They say never judge a book by its cover and they are bang on the money in this little tale...

 

She has a double chin and the hips to match. They swing with every step, calling all men’s eyes in their direction. Some women look away, envious or appalled. Others gaze in wonder, admiring their own sex for what it does best. You wouldn’t find Lilly Packer on the pages of vogue but then you wouldn’t find vogue on her coffee table either; so it was tit for tat. Clothes tight to every curve emphasise nature’s bounty. High heels lift her rear making it ride behind her, a cheeky wave of exuberance.

            Today is a special day; today the package arrives. It has been two weeks in coming, traversing the globe to reach this sunny little corner of England; the final destination. Inside this brown paper clad box lays a carefully wrapped gift. It is a gift that Lilly feels she deserves and so she bought it for herself; click went the mouse and zoom went the money; invisible over the ether setting in motion a scrambling for goods in a dusty store room out in the back end of nowhere. What a wonder technology is, she thinks, here I am on the edge of an island and from way across the sea this comes, all because I clicked a button on a screen. It makes her giddy to think on it; how compact the world has become. She prefers to think of it as wide open; big and ready for anything like she is; this is the world she wants to inhabit. In part it explains why she lives by the sea. Life feels unbound with that endless horizon; it is a vista to free the mind.

            At the post office counter the man winks when Lilly sways in, all crimson lips and mascara lashed. He mistakes her appearance for an invitation; a common misconception and one she graciously lets pass.

“Could I collect my parcel?” she asks and he hears a purr, a gentle caress of words in his slightly hairy ear that sets his pulse racing, flooding his cheeks as red as her lips. She slides over a docket. Below the counter he is standing to attention; the opportunity to turn away and hunt for the package is welcome relief. Breathe, he reminds himself, breathe. When he returns all is under control; he’s professional and courteous as he likes to be. Suddenly the wife with her chunky legs and frazzled hair is dearer to him than anything. He’d not last a week with a girl like that. He’s careful not to let their hands touch as the package slides between them; afraid of what actual contact with a being such as her might do.

            The package is clasped to her ample chest, forcing cleavage up and over, she glances down at it and smiles. Her ladies; once a curse but now a comfort. Every caress, wanted or unwanted she has matched, letting her hands reclaim the body that so many feel they own. One hand now keeps touching the box, as if testing it exists at all. Heels click and clatter on the pavement; a feminine tattoo leading her home. Hips swing in time but she is oblivious to the twisted necks of the men she passes as they contort to cram in a second glance. Today is special. Today the package has arrived.

            A sea view they said, the room has a sea view. Only if you lean out the window and squint sideways; which she does on occasion when the weather is too bad to take a walk out along the blustery shingle. No matter how warm the sun a breeze light and airy seems to inhabit the shore; stalking it like a lost soul stuck between worlds. Sometimes Lilly talks to the wind, soothing it with her tales of her own. And what a tale she will have to tell it after today. Her gift is finally here; in this very room with its thick rug and big bed; the dressing table crowded with cosmetics, lotions and potions to enhance what nature has granted and the large oval mirror to reflect back the masterpiece she creates daily. A fat vase squats on a small table, bursting with fragrant roses that seem too perfect to be real. She hates roses, especially pink ones. Roses come with thorns to remind women that all beauty comes at a price and it is this she resents. Given the choice she would have chrysanthemums, white ones. A flower glorious for its simplicity; but he does not go in for the simple things in life; hence his attraction to Lilly. What he does not understand is that she is primped and painted because she is protecting herself; the larger than life exterior shelters her thoughts from prying eyes. She’s been in this game too long to allow everyone access; it chips away who you are if you do. And he has no idea who Lilly is or he wouldn’t treat her the way he does. She peels down the skirt to inspect firm thighs, counting one, two, three bruises turning that ugly shade of purple. He only ever goes for the thighs so he can appreciate the rest of her guilt free; if you can’t see it then it didn’t happen. Well, two can play at that game. She opens the package slowly, relishing the power creeping into her veins like wine.

            When he arrives he gets down to business; a brief hello and he’s naked expecting her to do the same.

“Oh Boyce” she sighs, emerging from behind a screen in stockings and a corset, “Boyce, look here.” 

Eyes are dragged from navel to head slowly; he frowns, unused to instruction from this pliable plaything. Those eyes widen as he sees what is in her perfect white hand as it peeks forward from behind her back, pearly nails glinting in a shaft of sun.

“Goodbye Boyce” she says softly, almost as a prayer. There is no time for him to reply.

            Afterwards she sits in front of the mirror and removes all her makeup; a new yet familiar face emerges, gently she experiments with a smile. A loose shift dress slips easily over her curves, creating a softer silhouette; the heels remain. She is a heel kind of woman. A suitcase packed ready emerges from the wardrobe and a passport comes out from hiding at the back of a drawer; the name inside says Annabel Cleaves. Now, after five long years she can set foot out in the wide, wide world free to be herself once more.

The seaside widow

For a while I had a job which involved taking photos of OAP's and I often wondered about the lives they might lead...this is a short story about just that.

 

The toes flop out from beneath the heavy feather duvet, feeling for the floor like a pair of newborn blind things, uncertain and wary of the world. They point down, dipping into the air slowly, as if into the chilly waters of the channel, which rock and heave just a short walk away. Nails flaked and yellowed beneath a clumsily applied layer of frosted pearl nail varnish lead the way to moccasins, the leather shiny with use. A watery light filters through the pattern of the curtains, providing enough illumination to avoid turning on the bedside lamp. Bunions slip out of sight and it is only then that the rest of the body emerges, slowly, with creaks and complaints, dismayed to be doing it all again. Evelyn Wainright and her body have fallen out these last few years; they don’t see eye to eye.

She perches on the edge of the bed, finally upright, pausing at the shock of gravity. This is always the hardest part, the morning. At least she has stopped feeling the empty space next to her, willing the worn, warm body of her Albert to be there. She’s grateful that time has been kind, erasing the memory of his cold lips as she kissed them goodbye, before they sealed the oak casket. It wouldn’t have been decent to bury him in anything cheap, Albert had standards, and even in death she felt obliged to honour them. No, it wasn’t that last kiss that she sighed over. Instead she allowed her mind to drift backwards, to Morecambe Bay; those fledgling days as husband and wife. Such magical words, transforming them from lovesick teenagers to a unit of two. Fingers intertwined they had strolled beside the waves, thrilling in the novelty of each other. And for them the feeling lasted, even when novelty slipped into familiarity. Windswept and sea salty Morecambe Bay was the reason they came here in the end; looking to find that same happiness for their twilight years. Albert had always loved the sea. Janet laughed when she’d told her where they were going at his retirement party, “Mum, Brighton is full of students and crazy hippies, what’s wrong with Devon or Cornwall? There’ll be loads more people your age there.” Evelyn had wanted to slap her daughter then, instead she said, “Your father and I want to stay active.” As if that explained everything. Truth be told she hadn’t fancied Brighton much herself, it had all been Albert’s idea. But now she wouldn’t be anywhere else in the country. Her twice yearly visits up to Bristol were a trial, missing the shush of the waves and the unique buzz of the seaside town. Janet had begged her to move up there after Albert passed away but she’d said no. What she hadn’t told her was that she needed to be in a place that had so many visitors. She needed fresh faces and new smiles. She needed her audience to change daily; because her stories changed with every sunrise and in a place where everyone knew you after a time she would be caught out. Now it had to be Brighton, because her stories were what she looked forward to each day.

“Well, I can’t sit here all morning”, she says to the empty room, half hoping for an answer. Silence snuffles around the slippered feet, gently she kicks it away. With a soft plop she’s standing and the day truly begins. These moments before she leaves the bedroom behind are savoured. This is her dressing room. Brighton is her stage. She is getting ready for her performance, using the solitude to find that space insider her head where confidence lives, confidence to get out there and pretend. For a good five minutes Evelyn stands stretching her arms high into the air. Up and down. Up and down. Because today is special she bends low, aiming fingertips at the feet, getting as far as her knees before the tendons rebel, still she holds the stretch there breathing deeply. With a “humph” she’s back upright and heading to the mirror. For a woman of seventy two she can, and frequently does get away with being ten years younger. The hair dye helps. They say that as you age you should go lighter but that is nonsense, Evelyn knows the auburn shade she favours is the key to her success. It brings out the hazel of her eyes, flecked with tiny spots of amber. Tiger eyes, Albert called them. Playfully she pulls at the skin either side, instant face lift, eyes open wide to catch the light, what there is of it. “I’m a tardy one this morning” she says, pulling the dressing gown off the back of the chair, wrapping it tightly round her body. It wouldn’t be right to open the curtains in her nightdress alone. Even though it is a second floor flat, standards must be maintained. With a flourish she pulls back the patterned fabric, and daylight floods the room. No dust dares settle; instead it floats in motes on the air, dancing away from surfaces cleaned daily. She swishes her hand through a beam of light and watches the motes scatter and weave, admiring their agility and pining for her own. “Still, not bad for my seventh decade, eh Evelyn?” she tells herself before heading to the bathroom for the first of twice daily ablutions. The cleansing ritual has five steps, ending with a generous amount of anti wrinkle cream. Albert had always admired her skin, even now in her dreams he would visit and whisper in her ear, “Evie my love, you’re as soft and scrumptious as ice-cream.” Often she would wake up giggling with a blush creeping over her cheeks. Today had not been one of those mornings, which was a pity. The encouragement would have been nice.

The air follows her out of the bathroom, scented, as she is, with vanilla and roses. The smell is old and young all at the same time, like apples on an ancient tree.  Now the hands go to work, the nails painted the same frosted peach, but neater than on the feet. Next the face is hidden behind a mask of gunk and goo as Albert called it. He liked her best without the make-up. “Gunk and goo, where are you?” she sings quietly as she hunts for the essential ingredients to turn her into a Russian matriarch, a Brazilian ex-pat and a Bulgarian lace maker, all of which she will be today. When she goes out on her story telling expeditions she’s always careful about the look. It has to be plausible for each person and the life they’ve lived; there is purpose to the charade and no room for public humiliation.  Especially not today; today is her wedding anniversary and in honour of Albert the Bulgarian lace maker will be crafting a veil for a society wedding; something timeless and classy just like he was.

On the coffee table in the living room sits a pile of travel guides and history books, biographies, anything that will help her get the details right, she doesn’t simply make it all up, that would be foolish. Her wide choice of subject matter confounds the librarians, “Mrs Wainright, you do have broad reading tastes”, they say every visit. Whether it is a compliment or a question she can never tell, but she always gives the same response coupled with a smile, “Thank you, it keeps me occupied since my dear Albert passed away.”

Peek-a-boo People

 Three people sat on a sofa; they looked ordinary, one with dirty blonde hair to a jutting chin, wearing jeans and beat up converse; she was Jenna and she was in charge. Next to her sat the brains of the unit; Billy knew all there was about computers and some more on top; he was geek through and through, down to the adidas vintage blue flash on his feet. Billy understood that it was the geeks who would inherit the earth and smiled his gap toothed smile at Melanie. Ah sweet Melanie with her dark bob, all neat and compact like a fold up version of a human, a factory model someone, a careless cleaner perhaps,  let loose on the streets. Beneath that perfectly plain exterior lay a mind like a bomb. Melanie brought energy to their little gang; surplus energy that leaked out of her fingers, tap-tapping their way through this planning meeting. Yet another planning meeting; what was up with all these meetings? What about some action? Yet she sat and tapped and smiled vaguely back at Billy, wondering if she would sleep with him or not. Perhaps it would help him get over her; or maybe she’d fall for him. It happened. One minute you’re having casual fun and the next, bam, without them you’re a wreck. If she thought about it too much it became alarming. Best not to think; just do.

            If you saw them you would think, students for sure; they all wore that slightly impoverished bish-bash style which involved no real style at all. It was anti-style, retro-style, ironic-style; ultimately anonymous, it blended. And they wanted to blend. To stand out from the crowd was to invite curiosity and they all knew the tale of curiosity and the pussycat. These three wore their individuality on the inside, where it counted. These three had a plan. It was Jenna’s plan really but she knew that without Billy and Melanie there would be no plan at all. Need was too strong a word she felt; glancing sharply at them both. A better word for it was valued. Yes, she valued what they could bring; their talents, gifts if you will. Both had been gifted with traits that afforded them a certain perspective on life; it was random luck when you thought about it. Which Jenna did, often. She liked to think things through. There’s nothing wrong with being thorough is there? Her attention to detail is what has brought them this far. This is what both these two beside her come down to; details pure and simple, components. Without them her plan cannot function. Soon it will all come down to Melanie and this makes her nervous. She can’t figure her out. Billy is infatuated; he thinks he’s hiding it behind those NHS specs of his but Jenna is a woman above all else and her feminine instinct is never wrong. Melanie seems not to notice, or at least not to care; Jenna would care if someone loved her like that.

            “I’ve been into their database and we’re all set. I’ve reloaded the code through the back door and when you go in it will all be there waiting. You simply ask and walk out with it.” Billy bit his lip to stop more info spilling out. These girls didn’t want the tech-specifics. He made it sound so easy, reloading code, huh, seventy-five hours of programming went into that last week alone and a hundred the week before. Billy was earning his share and more. It wasn’t the pay off though, that was only money. Billy’s heart quickened at the thought of another programmer, someone in-house, discovering his backdoor Trojan and how they couldn’t fail to admire the flourishes in his work. By the glaze skimming across Melanie’s eyes he knew there would be no appreciation of his efforts from her. Instead of feeling annoyed his gaze softened in her direction; the buzz and hum of suppressed motion all around her like a halo. She would play her part beautifully he was sure; as Jenna had played hers. Billy beamed at Jenna, wanting her to know that he was glad to do his bit; that her plan was worth his time. Jenna frowned.

            Melanie bounced gently in her seat, ready to propel her self forwards at any moment. “Right then, so, one hour, yeah? I’ll go in and do the do and meet you all back here.” She twiddled a poker piece of hair around a finger, red varnish glowing at the tip. It gleamed like a cigarette butt in the dark and Billy wanted to inhale her. Instead he nodded and held back the words good luck, which seemed unlucky to say out loud. Jenna curled her toes up, scrunching them into the floor secretly, while her face remained a calm mask.

“Yep, one hour. Any longer and we’ll be at the depot as planned.” This was the fall back, should it all go wrong. They would be safe there; Jenna needed a plan B. After Melanie left Billy and Jenna sat and looked at each other or the clock. In one hour they could do anything; go anywhere, be anyone. Sixty minutes is a long time when you count it out second by second. They could not stop the relentless flick of their eyes in the clocks’ direction. The TV was just noise, conversation was impossible and tea sat cooling in untouched mugs. The tick and tock towards all or nothing absorbed every corner of their consciousness.

            The door bounced open after fifty-eight minutes; Melanie threw down the satchels knocking the tea mugs off the table. Jenna didn’t even tut; it was done. Two years of careful planning came down to this moment; two bags on a table holding all their futures in clean, useable notes crisp and perfect. Melanie danced round the table throwing Billy a wink. She’d made up her mind; she would sleep with him tonight. It was her thank you, just as he’d said all she’d done is ask and it had been there.

            Perhaps it was the wink, Jenna wasn’t sure; she’d planned on sharing it, but maybe not. Why bring the gun otherwise? Billy and Melanie looked at the steely snub nose pointed in their direction and laughed; Jenna took up both satchels and left without a word. Melanie stood still for once; Billy gap toothed took in her beautiful simplicity with an open smile. She nodded and headed for the bedroom. The bam had happened.