WIDE EYED AND LEGLESS
That bloody alarm clock! That bloody snooze button!
I leapt out of bed and skidded across the bedroom on the July issue of Marie Claire. The mirror wasn’t my friend that morning. The massive zit that had been amassing for several days very helpfully chose today to erupt out of my forehead and my hair was a complete fright. All I could do was tie it back and cover it with a hat. Which hat? I shouldn’t be allowed to make important fashion choices when I’m still technically asleep.
Like an idiot, I grabbed the beret that had been lurking in a dark corner of my wardrobe, unworn since the day I bought it. I’ve no idea why it was even there – it had no place among my other clothes which tend to be quite dull and practical. I remember picking it up from a lovely stall on Camden market and imagining how Cosmopolitan and French it’d make me look. That had been a good enough reason when I was all giggly on Chardonnay but in the cold light of day I realised that all I looked was, at best: kooky, and at worst: completely deranged.
Who on earth wears a beret to the office on the day they’ve got an important marketing meeting at 9.30? I obviously wasn’t thinking clearly. I should have just gone back to bed and phoned in sick.
Clothes-wise, I put on the nearest things to hand which happened to be a pink blouse and a trouser suit that luckily wasn’t too creased. Only later when I was sprinting down the street to the tube station did I recall that the jacket had a tzatziki stain on it from Friday’s lunchtime bagel.
I was way too late for my usual train so I missed any encounter I might have had with my mystery man. Most mornings, it’s only the thought of seeing him that gets me out of bed at all. Two or three times a week we end up in the same carriage – that is, I make sure we end up in the same carriage if I’m quick enough to spot him through the window as the train slows down. He gets on somewhere further up the line and gets off somewhere further along, I’ve no idea where. One day, I’m going to book the morning off and follow him just to see where he works.
I imagine him being in publishing, possibly because he’s always reading when I see him. Not the Metro or a newspaper, it’s always a novel, usually written by some French author with loose morals. He has these cute little wire rimmed glasses and slightly overlong hair that’s elegantly dishevelled and makes him appear all arty and serious. I wonder if he’d been wearing his distinctive scarf that morning? I was probably thinking of him when I bought that damn beret.
We’ve never spoken or anything but the time is getting closer, I’m sure of it. Whenever he’s there, I sit as close to him as I dare and wait for him to look up so that I can catch his eye. Surely he must have noticed me by now.
But maybe it’s for the best if we never speak. What if he’s not half as alluring as I imagine him to be? What if he’s a tabloid journalist or a telemarketing guy? What if, when he opens his mouth, there isn’t a refined and gently accented Scottish or Irish burr but a broad Liverpudlian twang?
God, it would ruin my commute!
That day I was on the later train, the one that’s always packed. I had to squeeze in behind some exchange students and my face was in the sweaty armpit of a fat man all the way to the office. I tried my best to put on at least some make-up but what with holding onto the hanging strap and balancing my briefcase between my knees, I ended up with panda eyes and decidedly wonky lipstick. It would have to do.
No time for my usual Chai Latte pick-me-up from the Italian café outside the station or a friendly flirt with the security guard at reception that morning, I went directly up to my office and tried to make myself look as though I’d been there ages. I was just booting up my computer when my boss, poked his head round the door.
‘All set for the meeting Rosalyn?’ he said.
‘Oh yes, Mr Hague. Just spell-checking the final agendas.’
Then he saw my beret and physically flinched.
‘Er, that’s an interesting hat,’ he said.
I brazened it out. ‘Why, thank you Mr Hague,’ I replied, without looking up. He was too polite and old-fashioned to start giving sartorial advice to a woman twenty-five years his junior. I’d managed to get away with it.
There was barely enough time to print out the agendas before the meeting. As I headed upstairs in the lift with Mr Hague I noticed a glaring typo on the second line – typical!
The executive from the marketing agency and the photographer were already there when we arrived. I didn’t notice them at first because I was too busy juggling with an armful of files. I nearly dropped them when I saw who was positioned at the table opposite me.
‘Miss Bedford, I think you know Mr Henrion from the agency?’
‘Hi,’ I gasped at the exec.
‘And this is Jack Miller, our new photographer.’
He stood up and I shook his hand. Was that a glimmer of recognition that flashed across those piercing blue eyes?
‘Hello Miss Bedford,’ he said. It wasn’t Scottish or Irish but thankfully, it wasn’t broad Liverpudlian either. Definitely northern though, Manchester maybe? He’d worn that distinctive scarf today after all.
‘Nice beret,’ he added, with a smile.
29 November 2009
20 November 2009
Neural Waste
A coastal town, out of season. A narrow street lined with tall Edwardian townhouses. I was at work in the attic of one of them using a drawing board and T-square instead of a Mac. The studio had wooden beams and high ceilings that followed the slant of the roof.
There was a girl there wearing a dark coloured cardigan, white blouse and black trousers. She was small and pretty with long, straight black hair. I’ve never seen her before but I know that we knew each other very well and I trusted and respected her unconditionally – like an older sister rather than a girlfriend.
She took me into the storage room at the back and pointed up to the skylight set into the roof. The wind was blowing clouds across the sky. As I watched, the clouds broke apart and began forming into distinctive shapes. They became cars and trains but not realistic ones, these were blocky and oversimplified, the kind of cars and trains a child might draw.
The wind changed direction and the clouds now came towards us, forming into the shapes of fighter planes – Lancaster bombers, Tornadoes and Spitfires. They floated silently lower and lower until they were close enough overhead for me to see how detailed they were. Every rivet and strut and panel was perfectly formed but the planes themselves were all gunmetal grey and solid as if they’d been carved or injection moulded.
They glided past, following the line of the street. Soon they were level with the window and my friend pulled me back as a Harrier Jump Jet clipped the side of the building with it’s wingtip, demolishing most of the wall in front of me.
Scared and confused we ran from the house and along the street. The fresh, sea air had a calming effect and before long we were walking steadily, so content in each other’s company that we didn’t feel the awkward pressure of having to make conversation.
There was a field on a hill leading up from the cliff. Lots of people were gathered there, many of whom I recognised - close and distant friends; work colleagues; casual acquaintances. They were standing together in loose groups of five or six and looked as though they were waiting for something to begin. I smiled and waved at a few who spotted me but I didn’t stop to talk to anyone.
I saw a lad I remember from University. His name was Phil but I don’t recall his surname. He was on my course but we didn’t know each other very well. He was one of those people that I neither liked or disliked, we just had nothing whatsoever in common so simply never became friends. I haven’t seen him or even thought about his existence for over twelve years which is why it’s strange that suddenly, it seemed very important to me to say hello.
He was striding across the field along with four very attractive women. They were heading for small, squat building that looked like it could be a cricket pavilion. As I ran over to them, they were almost at the door and inside it didn’t look like a pavilion or clubhouse at all. The interior was like the foyer of a block of very new flats – lots of strip lighting and bare white walls. Phil had opened the heavy fire-door by the time I got to him. I gently tapped his shoulder and he turned around to face me.
‘Phil! How are you? Remember me?’ I said, and told him my name in case he’d forgotten.
He obviously had because he looked at me as though I were a complete stranger. Was it him after all? Yes, I was positive.
‘Come on Phil, Nottingham? Graphic Design? 1997?’ I repeated my name but again, got no response. The four women were confused and looking at him for instruction.
I just presumed he’d forgotten. I explained over and over again who I was and how I knew him but he never said a word. Eventually my friend grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards a few steps.
‘He’s blanking you, you idiot.’ She told me. ‘He knows who you are and he’s deliberately ignoring you. Just leave him be, walk away.’
‘No, surely not.’ I said. But then I heard the women giggle and knew it was true. I glanced round and saw him whispering to them, a smirk on his face.
‘Right, well fuck him then,’ I thought and turned around to tell him exactly that but he’d already gone inside the building. The fire-door slammed shut behind him.
I shook my head in total outrage and my friend quietly led me away.
There was a girl there wearing a dark coloured cardigan, white blouse and black trousers. She was small and pretty with long, straight black hair. I’ve never seen her before but I know that we knew each other very well and I trusted and respected her unconditionally – like an older sister rather than a girlfriend.
She took me into the storage room at the back and pointed up to the skylight set into the roof. The wind was blowing clouds across the sky. As I watched, the clouds broke apart and began forming into distinctive shapes. They became cars and trains but not realistic ones, these were blocky and oversimplified, the kind of cars and trains a child might draw.
The wind changed direction and the clouds now came towards us, forming into the shapes of fighter planes – Lancaster bombers, Tornadoes and Spitfires. They floated silently lower and lower until they were close enough overhead for me to see how detailed they were. Every rivet and strut and panel was perfectly formed but the planes themselves were all gunmetal grey and solid as if they’d been carved or injection moulded.
They glided past, following the line of the street. Soon they were level with the window and my friend pulled me back as a Harrier Jump Jet clipped the side of the building with it’s wingtip, demolishing most of the wall in front of me.
Scared and confused we ran from the house and along the street. The fresh, sea air had a calming effect and before long we were walking steadily, so content in each other’s company that we didn’t feel the awkward pressure of having to make conversation.
There was a field on a hill leading up from the cliff. Lots of people were gathered there, many of whom I recognised - close and distant friends; work colleagues; casual acquaintances. They were standing together in loose groups of five or six and looked as though they were waiting for something to begin. I smiled and waved at a few who spotted me but I didn’t stop to talk to anyone.
I saw a lad I remember from University. His name was Phil but I don’t recall his surname. He was on my course but we didn’t know each other very well. He was one of those people that I neither liked or disliked, we just had nothing whatsoever in common so simply never became friends. I haven’t seen him or even thought about his existence for over twelve years which is why it’s strange that suddenly, it seemed very important to me to say hello.
He was striding across the field along with four very attractive women. They were heading for small, squat building that looked like it could be a cricket pavilion. As I ran over to them, they were almost at the door and inside it didn’t look like a pavilion or clubhouse at all. The interior was like the foyer of a block of very new flats – lots of strip lighting and bare white walls. Phil had opened the heavy fire-door by the time I got to him. I gently tapped his shoulder and he turned around to face me.
‘Phil! How are you? Remember me?’ I said, and told him my name in case he’d forgotten.
He obviously had because he looked at me as though I were a complete stranger. Was it him after all? Yes, I was positive.
‘Come on Phil, Nottingham? Graphic Design? 1997?’ I repeated my name but again, got no response. The four women were confused and looking at him for instruction.
I just presumed he’d forgotten. I explained over and over again who I was and how I knew him but he never said a word. Eventually my friend grabbed my arm and pulled me backwards a few steps.
‘He’s blanking you, you idiot.’ She told me. ‘He knows who you are and he’s deliberately ignoring you. Just leave him be, walk away.’
‘No, surely not.’ I said. But then I heard the women giggle and knew it was true. I glanced round and saw him whispering to them, a smirk on his face.
‘Right, well fuck him then,’ I thought and turned around to tell him exactly that but he’d already gone inside the building. The fire-door slammed shut behind him.
I shook my head in total outrage and my friend quietly led me away.
13 November 2009
Writing Clichés
COLOR ME DEAD
Inglewood, West 33rd Street. I was parked outside a neat little redbrick building out in the ‘burbs at the request of a broad named Talula Monsoon. She’d wiggled into my office that afternoon and given me the sort of smile that can loosen a belt at ten paces. Just a simple job she said, a routine stakeout. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that nothing’s routine in my line of work, especially when my fee’s agreed with no questions asked. That amount of dough is enough to buy my curiosity and besides, Talula’s got the kind of figure that makes it hard for a guy like me to refuse.
It can get awful lonely at 3am in a dark suburban street. That’s why I always bring a friend. His name’s Mr Daniels but when you know him as well as I do, you just call him Jack. He’s a good buddy, very easy to get along with. He always travels light but he can pack a hell of a punch just when you need it. Boy, I needed it then. I reached across to the glove box to bring him out for a chat. I was a little jumpy, there was something in the air that night.
That something turned out to be a slug from a ’38. It missed me but caught Jack right in the neck. He was bleeding liquor down my suit before I even realised what had happened. Two more bullets slammed into the bodywork of my sedan before I took the hint and got the hell out of there.
I only just made it. The guy with the itchy trigger finger was now out in the street and he sure was mad about something. Not as mad as my mechanic was going to be, with two more shots my back window was gone and my trunk suddenly had air conditioning. He fired again, wide this time, then turned and ran for his car.
I headed for the hills with the guy right behind me. The roads out there are windy and unlit but I floored the sedan and hoped for the best. When I’d put some distance between us, I rounded a blind bend, skidded the car to a halt and killed the lights. It was time to have a little talk with my angry friend. In situations like this, I always find it best to do my talking with a Colt semi-automatic.
When he came around the corner, my gun was in my hand and I was ready for him. I put three, quick rounds into the space between the headlights and hoped I’d caught the engine block. At least one of them must have hit home as the car swerved to the right and into a ditch. Then, silence.
I waited a while, the smoke from my cigarette mingling with the smoke from my gun. Nothing moved.
Ten minutes later and the sound of those damn crickets was driving me crazy. I crushed my fourth cigarette under my heel and went over to see the damage I’d done.
The engine was ruined. So was the driver. Clunk click, every trip – I guess he forgot that. When the car hit the ditch he’d popped out of his seat like a champagne cork, straight through the windscreen and into the field.
He was very dead.
He was lucky, it would have cost him a fortune in chiropractor bills to fix that nasty crick in his neck.
I pulled out a torch and turned him over with my boot. I recognised the face immediately, especially the mouth, the guy had more teeth than a Ferrari gear box. I’d seen it enough times leering at me out of the gloom and more often than not, that view had directly preceded a lengthy sleep and a trip to Hopewood Infirmary.
Grinning Mike McGee, a hired goon running with Hoagy Winston’s mob. But Hoagy Winston ran his outfit on the Southside, what the hell was he doing in Inglewood?
I had no idea what Talula Monsoon had gotten me into but one thing’s for sure, I was suddenly in a whole heap of trouble...
Inglewood, West 33rd Street. I was parked outside a neat little redbrick building out in the ‘burbs at the request of a broad named Talula Monsoon. She’d wiggled into my office that afternoon and given me the sort of smile that can loosen a belt at ten paces. Just a simple job she said, a routine stakeout. I’ve been around the block enough times to know that nothing’s routine in my line of work, especially when my fee’s agreed with no questions asked. That amount of dough is enough to buy my curiosity and besides, Talula’s got the kind of figure that makes it hard for a guy like me to refuse.
It can get awful lonely at 3am in a dark suburban street. That’s why I always bring a friend. His name’s Mr Daniels but when you know him as well as I do, you just call him Jack. He’s a good buddy, very easy to get along with. He always travels light but he can pack a hell of a punch just when you need it. Boy, I needed it then. I reached across to the glove box to bring him out for a chat. I was a little jumpy, there was something in the air that night.
That something turned out to be a slug from a ’38. It missed me but caught Jack right in the neck. He was bleeding liquor down my suit before I even realised what had happened. Two more bullets slammed into the bodywork of my sedan before I took the hint and got the hell out of there.
I only just made it. The guy with the itchy trigger finger was now out in the street and he sure was mad about something. Not as mad as my mechanic was going to be, with two more shots my back window was gone and my trunk suddenly had air conditioning. He fired again, wide this time, then turned and ran for his car.
I headed for the hills with the guy right behind me. The roads out there are windy and unlit but I floored the sedan and hoped for the best. When I’d put some distance between us, I rounded a blind bend, skidded the car to a halt and killed the lights. It was time to have a little talk with my angry friend. In situations like this, I always find it best to do my talking with a Colt semi-automatic.
When he came around the corner, my gun was in my hand and I was ready for him. I put three, quick rounds into the space between the headlights and hoped I’d caught the engine block. At least one of them must have hit home as the car swerved to the right and into a ditch. Then, silence.
I waited a while, the smoke from my cigarette mingling with the smoke from my gun. Nothing moved.
Ten minutes later and the sound of those damn crickets was driving me crazy. I crushed my fourth cigarette under my heel and went over to see the damage I’d done.
The engine was ruined. So was the driver. Clunk click, every trip – I guess he forgot that. When the car hit the ditch he’d popped out of his seat like a champagne cork, straight through the windscreen and into the field.
He was very dead.
He was lucky, it would have cost him a fortune in chiropractor bills to fix that nasty crick in his neck.
I pulled out a torch and turned him over with my boot. I recognised the face immediately, especially the mouth, the guy had more teeth than a Ferrari gear box. I’d seen it enough times leering at me out of the gloom and more often than not, that view had directly preceded a lengthy sleep and a trip to Hopewood Infirmary.
Grinning Mike McGee, a hired goon running with Hoagy Winston’s mob. But Hoagy Winston ran his outfit on the Southside, what the hell was he doing in Inglewood?
I had no idea what Talula Monsoon had gotten me into but one thing’s for sure, I was suddenly in a whole heap of trouble...
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