Loss

 Dr Blake smoothed breezeblock grey strands of wilting locks back from his forehead with fingers purposely boned for paperwork only.  Adjusting the silk bow tie his mother-in-law had presented him with at Christmas to the angle a windmill might pause in a westerly wind he strode across the vintage marmalade colour floorboards of his office and clanked along the corridor towards the Gents.  Pockets full of change.

 

Before seeing a client (formerly known as patients) he liked to practise facial expressions in the spotless oval mirror above a far too small, in his opinion, sparkling white basin.  The facial expressions were not for the sake of the client; they were for the sake of the client’s companion.  Head on one side with a little cluck showed sympathy.  A set mouth with staring eyes disapproval.  Chin in; nose down and eyes lowered suggested deep thought.  He had a complete intellectual dictionary of non-verbal communication to rival any modern TV pseudo Doc.

 

Eyes to the left consideration, eyes to the right disbelief, eyes heavenward total distraction when he needed time to think.  When he clasped his insignificant knuckles he hoped it showed sincerity and when he scratched the side of his long nose he inadvertently revealed he was feeling anxious so he tried to avoid that one. Also it drew attention to burst blood vessels, a sign of age to be detracted from like so many others.

 

Today’s client had been complaining that his wife found him forgetful, distant, down right obstreperous at times.  They’d chuckled about how usual all these traits were in any man who likes to avoid his wife.  His wife had not joined in the joke. This chap didn’t seem too bad to Dr Blake, a bit of a fantasist perhaps but retirement often made chaps feel redundant and if they could elaborate on a mediocre past it made them feel, well more important.  Dr Blake couldn’t see much wrong in that.  He liked to exaggerate a bit himself at dinner parties,

 

with the fellows in his private club, to the young bit of crumpet who dug her apparently sharpened fingernails into his ever stiffening back muscles.  Ego and Id, perfectly normal, whatever normal was supposed to be.  Hah.

 

They’d had a wonderful chat about cricket at their last meeting.  Dr Blake enjoyed a man’s man.  His chosen career seemed a bit of a minefield these days, so much political correctness, so many lawsuits, it hemmed in all the stuff that seemed like plain common sense to him.  If a ‘client’ cried these days, he was not permitted to offer a hug, a pat on the shoulder, a squeeze of the hand, should it be misconstrued.  Misconstrued for God’s sake, how times had changed.

 

Ridiculous programmes on television, over-analysing every thought, deed and deviation to distraction, lawsuits American style, stress blamed for every last ill while mental patients roamed the streets knocking off heads with Samurai swords apparently trusted to ‘care in the community’.  What could psychiatrists do in a world gone mad?

 

Dr Blake chuckled without humour.  Madness would perhaps be the last refuge for a man like himself.  He’d seen all the horror of man’s inner mind, the turmoil of torture submitted to the human brain thanks to genetics, chemical imbalances, the evil of others, guilt, abuse, inadequacy, low self esteem, blame.  The causes were endless, the cures intermittently effective and often difficult or impossible to administer if a cure was possible to give at all and at many times it was not.

 

Ah the blame for lack of success. While he had a brilliant mind, those who did the day to day caring did not.  While he could write endless academic reports making suggestions and analysing conditions, neurosis, personality disorders et al he could not take the mind of the carer and mould it to necessarily understand the mind of the patient, oops client.  Some were good.  Mabel Clarke had been marvellous, a matron who in the seventies had created a

 

mental health ward in which he would have happily resided himself.  Mabel had been rare enough to take the most heinous condition and create something positive through understanding those who were beyond understanding.  More rare than the most expensive truffle was dear Mabel.  Unfortunately she met her end at the hands of a paranoid schizophrenic who took exception to the shape of her nose.  Even those who try to understand cannot expect the unexpected.  Dr Blake sniggered without mirth.

 

He hated the Victorian mental institutions he visited.  He hated the smell of desperation, of hopelessness, of fear.  He hated the smell of a society that cannot deal with illnesses that have no end until death.  Human beings cast into what amounted to cells with greying walls, high windows and echoing floors.  We know not what to do with them, he thought with a beleaguered frown, so we hide them in vile places, then one by one we shut the places down saying it is better that the community deals with those that we cannot.  And there bedlam begins and ends with tragedy after tragedy with no lessons learnt.

 

Such heavy thoughts for a Friday afternoon, he raised his eyebrows and expelled a long breath releasing the stress, the perpetual exhaustion of a lifetime spent trying to help others.

 

“They’re running late.”  Maggie, her fleshy open mouth, all he ever seemed to notice of her, shaped the words he knew were coming before they tripped along the airwaves in her soft Scottish lilt.  Soon to be followed by “would you like some tea Doctor?”

 

Dr Blake smiled, regularity, repetition, predictability, all could lead to depression.  The security of knowing what was to come had a double-edged flow.  Knowing what was to come could alleviate uncertainty or become as monotonous as the white dot that used to signify the end of programmes on TV.  Smiling as he stretched his legs, Dr Blake eyed his secretary with weariness from too long an association.  How to break the mould?  He couldn’t help

 

 

himself.  “With a dash of whisky?”  Seemingly Maggie always found this to be a huge joke, though he wondered.

 

“Oh doctor, you can’t be serious.  It’ll just be your usual splash of milk I’m afraid, no whisky in the workplace sir!”  She tittered as if she hadn’t heard his mischievousness a billion times before.  And for the billionth time he waited until her sandy corkscrew curls had disappeared from view before opening a drawer and taking a swig from a malt-filled hip flask.  Medicinal purposes hah!

 

So, he would wait, good thing he had no other appointments today.  He curled up a piece of paper with a fingernail, Mr Sanderson.  No face fitted the name only a vague recollection of pleasant reminisces.  Scribbled notes, dates, neurological reports, letters from a GP somewhere in East Grinstead, blood tests, no brain scan yet, perhaps he should request that though the fellow had seemed pretty much on the ball to Dr Blake when last they met.

 

He got up and walked over to the long narrow window he relied on for scant natural light.  The courtyard outside was over grown with clematis, ivy, shrubs that never got trimmed, a slimy moss rugged the paving slabs.  The wall and railings separated it all from the gravelled car park, which so far was empty.  He didn’t know if Mr Sanderson, and Mrs Sanderson he supposed, would arrive by car.  He waited there in case they did, he liked cars, you could sit in a car and no one could reach you.  His new Mercedes felt like the womb, cocooning him from the outside world, shutting off the sound, taking away the intrusions of daily life.  The Mercedes would glide along the streets and no one could talk to him, interrupt or annoy, the car was safer than even the study at the top of his townhouse. 

 

No car came and he glanced at his watch.  Only ten minutes had passed. 

 

Jingling change in his pockets he decided to call his daughter. 

 

“Hetty dear, you are there.”  He paused as if this were a doubtable fact when she had answered the phone so obviously was there.  He cursed his own habits.  “Had a few moments so I thought I’d see how you are.  Good, you got back all right.  Journey down?  Ah yes, of course, what’s his name, yes I remember, Martin, drove you down of course.  Lovely.”  Martin, the boyfriend he supposed.  Couldn’t picture him, he could only see the face of Ray, Hetty’s Grammar school boyfriend all ruddy from soccer, giving him nervous glances, as if he were some kind of ogre.  “Yes well I suppose I’ll see you this evening, Ma is cooking lamb I believe.  Oh Martin’s a vegetarian; mmm… well you better tell…ah she already knew that.  Good.  Well until later then.”  As he dropped the receiver back down, Maggie appeared again with such silent stealth he twitched.

 

“The Sandersons, they’re here.”

 

Mrs Sanderson, round with middle age, sherry and jam doughnuts, didn’t feel nervous, didn’t feel relieved, didn’t feel.  This had gone on and on and on, this merry-go-round of not knowing what was wrong with Mr Sanderson.  She knew, sitting here right now he would smile, nod and make appropriate responses as and when required when he saw the doctor.  She had made sure his clothes were clean, his shirt tucked in and that his socks were not odd.

 

The creaking chair in Dr Blake’s waiting room made her grit her teeth.  Glancing at her husband she fingered the strap of the dark leather handbag in her lap and thought of it as a noose.  Not for him, but for her.

 

Mr Sanderson shuffled his feet; he stared at his shoes intently, as if he’d never seen them before.  They shone, rubbed and polished to perfection; he could see a face in the reflection.  He eyed it with suspicion.

 

 

Mrs Sanderson watched the Scots receptionist return all smiley nice and reassuring.

 

“Follow me.”  She chimed, as if they were off to a party.

 

“Gerry!”  Dr Blake grinned, revealing cigar stained teeth.  Firmly shaking Mr Sanderson’s hand he gestured for him to take a seat in the bay of the window.  “Less formal.”  He gave Mrs Sanderson a brief dismissive nod then remained standing for a moment.  It was time for small talk.  “Lovely day out there, quite spring like don’t you think?”  He kept the tone light and airy, fun and free.  “Suppose the traffic was dreadful, always is.  I try to get in before the jams start and leave late enough to avoid them but these days the roads are clogged up pretty much all the time.”

 

Gerry smiled at this tall friendly fellow “quite so, “ was all he said. 

 

Dr Blake perched himself against the window ledge.  Mrs Sanderson didn’t notice that it was well polished, no dust, no dead flies.  She thought instead of how she’d had to forcibly pull her husband out of his car a week ago to stop him driving into town.  A few days before that his erratic driving; overtaking on bends, speeding in a residential area, failing to spot a child run out in front of the car, had caused her to grab the wheel to avert an accident.

 

“So how have you been Gerry?”

 

“Very well thank you, and you?” 

 

“Blasted arthritis plays me up sometimes but that’s a curse of growing older I suppose.  That and too many tackles on the playing field no doubt.  Play any sports yourself Gerry?”

 

 

Gerry smiled “oh yes, cricket, tennis, football.  I love tennis, but I only watch now.  Great game that Borg plays, loved to have had a shot at him all the best players seem to be foreigners.”

 

Ignoring Gerry’s error in time, Borg was of another era, Dr Blake clucked in agreement.  “So how is work?”

 

“Oh busy, tiring, you know.”  Gerry frowned and folded his arms.

 

Mrs Sanderson glanced at her husband.  The groove at the bridge of his nose had deepened through the years, a subtle measure of time’s toll.  Her husband had been blessed with handsome features, though never vain always well groomed, his resplendent silver-dappled hair brushed back from his face, shone with health.  Outer health, inner sickness, the outer belied the inner. 

 

“Any problems at work?”  Dr Blake asked the question as if it were of no importance whatsoever.

 

“No.”

 

Mrs Sanderson shifted in her chair and Dr Blake gave her a look as if silently commanding her to remain still.  “So coping all right then?”

 

“Coping?  Yes of course.”  Gerry grunted somehow confused by the question. 

 

Yes, he was coping all right, thought Mrs Sanderson; he was just fine and dandy.  He would leave at the usual time and turn up at a completely different office to the one at which he

 

 

was supposed to be working.  She’d get calls from a secretary who spoke to her in whispers.  And she didn’t know what to do.  She shook her head.

 

“Your wife doesn’t appear to agree.”  Said the doctor giving her a look, not of understanding but seemingly of pure indifference.

 

It seemed so disloyal to speak up, to humiliate her husband in front of this apparently affable man who had barely acknowledged her existence so far.  How to tell of the way her husband sat at dinner, not speaking much when before he’d been such a chatterbox.  What to say about his snapping at Jessica and Andrew when they tried to ask him questions, everyday questions that he should have understood.  His wandering off to places his parents had taken him as a child and not being able to explain why he felt the need to do this.  He would return even more confused.  How could she put all the changes in Gerry’s behaviour into easy, uncomplicated sentences when they twirled and twisted in her head, unrelenting in their confusion?  What was the cure for all this disarray?  Did this fellow with his daft bow tie and ‘old boy’ mentality have any idea what she might be going through?  He appeared to be treating this meeting as some kind of pleasant afternoon social occasion.

 

Gerry looked at her, “well I’m not at home so much these days, and it isn’t easy for her looking after…” He faltered.

 

“Oh I see.”  Dr Blake tried to help him out.  “Got a few chores for you to do around the house I suspect.”  He laughed.  “That’s the trouble with us chaps we don’t know one end of a duster from another now do we?  Egging you on to early retirement is she?  Got a ‘To Do’ list eh?”  His bony fingers tapped apostrophes in the air. 

 

Mrs Sanderson thought she might like to snap those fingers off one by one.  Dr Blake would wriggle in agony as she did it, then he’d feel how she felt every time her husband repeated a

 

question she’d answered twenty, thirty times before.  The stabbing pain of impatience when she knew she had to be patient, it wasn’t his fault, but it wasn’t her fault either. 

 

Gerry grinned.  They were in the same club, he liked this jocular fellow who didn’t interrogate but seemed to understand.  Maddy was always going on about something.  Did it matter if his socks didn’t match or that he’d forgotten to shave, he supposed it did if he was off to work, but then he thought he had scraped his face with the razor that morning, black and blue socks can look the same in the half light of early morning.  Not his fault, not his fault.  Sudden tears welled in his dark eyes.

 

For a split second Dr Blake met Mrs Sanderson’s gaze.  He had to do something so he shrugged.  “Stress can affect us in so many ways, men have to work, to provide, it’s only natural.  We are still cave men in many ways and we like to retreat there from time to time.  Not physically of course but certainly in our minds.  To escape the pressures of modern day living.”  He stood up, folded his arms and moved his sharp jointed body to the window turning away from them both for a moment.  “Funny thing the human mind, it can play tricks.  We all forget things as we get older.”  He turned suddenly.  “Can you tell me what you were doing last Tuesday Mrs Sanderson?”  He smiled as if he’d just told some great joke.  Was she expected to giggle and agree?  Of course she could not remember; well if she thought about it for a while she could, she could remember repeating to Gerry when he called, that dinner that night would be at seven, approximately eight times before he hung up.

 

Mrs Sanderson sighed and touched Mr Sanderson’s hand, he stared at her without comprehension but squeezed her fingers nevertheless.  She looked directly at Dr Blake, who didn’t return her gaze, “look, you don’t seem to understand why we are here, it’s difficult to have to put everything into words, it feels so, well wrong, to talk about it to a stranger.”  Her

 

 

throat squeezed shut, her tongue felt arid.  Mrs Sanderson started to tremble, her knees giving involuntary little shudders. 

 

“When we last saw you it was just forgetting names, little things like that.”  She paused, hoping for Dr Blake’s recognition of her discomfort, silently begging for his help to continue.  No response.  “Now he forgets to shave, to brush his hair…” Such simple, apparently inconsequential deeds, the rudimentary behaviour of everyday living “Gerry is failing in such basic” she faltered with the word “tasks.”  Swallowing the guilt in her throat she simply could not carry on.

 

Staring out of the window Dr Blake seemed not to hear.  A few moments later he confirmed his inattention by turning sharply and moving towards his desk.  “I think,” he said, cutting her off mid sentence, “that probably what is needed here is perhaps a little holiday, a break from all the pressures.  Got anyone you can go off to see?”  He smiled quizzically, blanking out her begging eyes; they reminded him of those of a dog, beaten for no good reason.

 

A holiday?  Is he mad?  Mrs Sanderson stared back in disbelief.  Did he realise Mr Sanderson could barely remember where he lived without the upheaval of moving location to confuse things even further.  “This is ridiculous, you’re not listening to me.”  The words spluttered out of her mouth “we can’t go anywhere, let me tell you how it is.”

 

“Oh I hear you Mrs Sanderson, do not fear.  Gerry here is probably under a lot of stress with work but what we’ll do,” he paused, wondering for a moment what to do, what to say to placate this lady, to stop her becoming irate, “what we’ll do, is a few more tests.  Check things over.  All routine Gerry no need to worry.”  Fixing Mrs Sanderson with a firm stare, he sat at his desk and began to scribble some notes.

 

 

 

“Tests?  Tests for what exactly?  Can’t you give us some idea now what is wrong with my husband.”  The tortured housewife wrung her hands unable to stop frustration coursing through her veins, filling them fit to burst.  Hearing her own strangulated voice she wanted to weep, to fall down upon her knees for mercy from this daily torment, tests meant waiting, possibly no conclusion, or even worse a terrible conclusion.  But Dr Blake threw her such a look she felt her lips clamp shut like a trap door shutting on her woeful demands.

 

Gerry’s expression had become very blank.  The dim light that briefly passed behind his eyes had gone, he stared ahead and made no sound.

 

Dr Blake glanced pointedly at his watch.  “Do you know my daughter’s come all the way from Cardiff to stay for a few days?  I have to get home for dinner and the traffic will be bad tonight, there’s that concert on in town, bound to be bedlam.”  He smiled, “it’s dreadful of me to turf you out I know but I didn’t realise it was getting so late.”  The couple before him appeared as two solitary heaps, defeated lumps unready to move.  “So if you don’t mind…” His voice tailed off, at once hopeful and commanding.

 

Silence erupted around the room.  Only Mrs Sanderson could hear the rushing flow of anger hammering her eardrums.  What next?  Who could help?  Was this all on offer?  An indifferent man more concerned with dinner than her deteriorating husband.

 

All that was left was pride; a desire to escape before desolation drew humiliating tears.  Her face burnt and her head ached as she pulled her distant husband from his seat.  Not even able to mumble another word in this idiot’s direction, Mrs Sanderson left Dr Blake’s office.

 

He watched them go, down the mossy path to iron gates that would swing with a clank, red rust flakes dropping in their wake, the slightly plump lady dabbing at her eyes as she led the tall stooping man away to a home no longer a haven. 

 

It wasn’t so unknown to him.  He knew, all too well he knew, that slowly with the drift of time, the man that woman loved would fall away cell by cell to nothingness.  A blank unseeing stare from an emptied shell, devoid of emotion, comprehension, love and understanding, all that she had to look forward to, nothing.  A loss of all they had known together.

 

All the idiosyncrasies a human being encompasses would become a parody of its very own nature.  Repetitive phrases, trying to remember and failing, trying to climb back to the top, swim to the surface, breathe the air that he once knew but forever being pulled down, down and down to that empty space as the cells diminished.  No way out, sinking sand with no stick offered to pull him back to dry ground.

 

Of course he knew what she was trying to tell him.  He knew every word she wanted to utter, to explain, to beg his understanding, his help.  Dr Blake snorted without humour, without scorn, without realising his own reaction at all.  He knew he wouldn’t think about this for long.  Soon he would pull on his beige wool coat, pick up his Italian leather case, bought so kindly for him as a sixtieth birthday present by his daughter, edge out of his office, call to Maggie to have a good weekend, stride to his gleaming motor, hear the reassuring clunk of the car door shutting and then he would be safe again.

 

There is no place for Mr Sanderson, he knew.  No better place than his home, with a woman who cared to care for him in the coming twilight nightmare of his life, for better for worse, but nothing worse than this.

 

He could have offered sympathy, but what use?  He could have patted her arm and clucked at her every worry but why?  False hope he could not offer.  No, she would cope with the incontinence to come, the inability to dress or care for himself, the repetitive behaviour as he

 

tried to remember who he once was.  Community nurses would visit, they would listen to her, visit again, listen, visit again.  How many years before the final release? 

 

The only alternative was a nursing home; they would drug him to cope.  Dr Blake didn’t approve of this behaviour; it would be more dignified for the man to have his wife care for him.  Much more appropriate, this is what he would want for himself.

 

Driving home, he listened to Mozart, soothing orchestral sounds, slowly Mrs Sanderson’s pleading eyes drifted from his memory and he instead tried to remember his daughter’s boyfriend’s name.

 

If you would like further information about Alzheimer’s Disease or Dementia please visit http://www.alzheimers.org.uk

 

Copyright PetraKidd11

 

Short Stories by Petra Kidd

The Manstress

 “You don’t understand me.”  An accusation from my Manstress.

 

Isn’t that what I’m supposed to say to my husband?  “That’s what made me have this affair, it’s because you don’t understand me.”  Holding my hands out wide in exasperation I crossed the room and held his face in my hands.  “What is there to understand? Surely you didn’t expect anything more from this?”  I laughed, it wasn’t a serious question and I didn’t want an answer.

 

Liam’s eyes were filling up so I dropped my hands and backed off quick.  “Come on Liam, why the sudden histrionics?”  I began to fiddle with the TV remote, hoping to divert an argument I’d never expected in a month of stolen Sundays.

 

Liam crossed to the window, standing with his back to me while he tried to regain his composure.  I liked his shoulders; they were part of what had attracted me to him in the first place.  Wide, angular man-boy shoulders like those of an Olympic swimmer, not yet fleshed out with grown-up years.

 

Drowning the silence with a soap opera theme tune I moved towards the kitchen of his tiny basement flat.  “Got any beers in that badly stocked fridge of yours?”  I ignored his lack of response and helped myself to one anyway; I didn’t bother to get him one.  This was supposed to be my escape time, recreation, a bit of fun to drown out all the daily responsibilities that had ground me into this deception.  Stress relief, that’s what the doctor had ordered so I’d refused the Prozac and created my own medication.  The gorgeous young student who’d always stared at me in the local wine bar.

 

Paul hadn’t even noticed this tasty young morsel that appeared to hanker unashamedly after the older woman.  He was too concerned with his golf handicap, how his shares were doing and which pension plan to choose.  It wouldn’t have occurred to him in a million millenniums that I might want something more than a washed up broker whose pecs had retreated beneath sagging man-boobs.  Yes he was hot once but now all I could see was Mr Boring Reliable who took me to be as boring and reliable as he was, well no more. 

 

“Come on Liam.”  I sounded like I was talking to one of my children and this was not sexy, this was not naughty or fun.  The medication was wearing off.  “Got a cigarette?”  I knew I shouldn’t smoke but he was driving me to this.  What I didn’t want was aggravation during my recreation time.  I had a big deal to put to bed the next day, an upmarket chain of boutiques that wanted my exclusive collection of hand created jewellery.  What I didn’t need was a petulant lover cramping my good mood.  Paul would do enough of that when I got home.  “Come on lover boy, come and amuse me with your tales of college and rugby scrums.”  His youth, his merry cobalt eyes, his mocking mouth and hard curved belly, that’s what I longed for, not a stupid argument over whether I understood what he wanted from all this.  That was far too like an argument for grown ups when here I was trying to recapture my youth.

 

My mobile bleeped, Liberty.  “Mel Ellis, yes Liberty, what is it?”  Taking a deep breath I looked over at Liam who had perched himself on the windowsill looking up at the street above.  Probably trying to see up women’s skirts.  I’d known his bad humour wouldn’t last long.  “I can’t be there until ten so you’ll have to get all the figures ready for me.  Put them in the clear plastic folder like I said and wear a short skirt, that’ll distract Monsieur Chigan from the less palatable figures!”  I laughed; the irony being that Chigan was far too sharp to be distracted by anything.  Liberty’s legs would be far too chunky for a Frenchman anyway.  “Yes I’ll see you then.”  I switched off the phone and sighed.

 

Liam had obviously decided to sulk and I wasn’t up for this, I might as well have gone to the gym.  Glancing at my watch I decided it was getting too late for sex anyway.  If we started anything now I wouldn’t make it home in time to see Miles before he went to bed.  “I’m off in a minute Liam.”  I hoped this would spur him into some kind of reaction but he just sat and stared upwards as if transfixed.  “What are you looking at that’s so fascinating?”  I stood up and started to walk over to him but he slid off the sill and turned towards me.

 

“So it’s all a bit of fun?  I didn’t understand that, I seriously thought…” He faltered.

 

“That we would have a future together? Oh Liam please, I know you’re young but I didn’t think you were that naïve.”  I smiled encouragingly to show I wasn’t angry with him but I hoped that this wasn’t going to get heavy again.  I noted my reflection in his wall mirror decorated with little pint glasses stamped around the edge.  My face glowed with good health, as it had done ever since I’d taken the plunge and invited this young man to become my lover.

 

Six months of bliss, my friends were beside themselves with curiosity and the few in the know, envy.  You can’t be a woman and not tell someone.  Shady Katie approved with great gusto.  Porno Pearl thought Liam a tad tame.  Outrageous Olivia wanted all the details, darling.  These were the only trusted pals I dare share my indiscretion with, and then only because I had enough on them to bring their houses a tumbling down.  The others, I knew, would give me disapproving cold shoulders. 

 

“But what about poor Paul?”  I could hear lanky Lydia chime with her holier-than-thou steely glare “he will be devastated.”  Like I’d ever let him find out.  Radical Ruth would be against the morals of it all despite her constant feminist stances on every issue.  How would a die-hard lesbian understand the needs of a fervently heterosexual lady of today?  Bah Humbug to equality, I want supremacy.  Actually that’s somewhat pretentious, the stress relief excuse is more realistic and one that even Paul could probably understand.  A bit of passion love, that’s all I wanted.  I could see him nod his head while not listening.  You know, we’re not exactly hot and crazy in the bedroom department these days, no animal growls to wake the kids from our neck of the quarter.  How could he disagree with that?

 

He would no doubt argue illogically with some male pride, his ego had to be considered of course.  But then why even go there?  It would kill the thrill to lay all-bare to a wounded husband who no doubt was doing it on the sly himself anyway.

 

“I’m sorry Liam.”  Suddenly I really did feel so.  I wasn’t treating him very well; I was letting down the fairer sex by acting like some bloody-minded male.  For goodness sake, whatever us women do, we end up being in the wrong somehow.  Liam hadn’t deserved my cold-hearted usage of his heavenly body, not without paying some homage to his mind.  He was after all a bright lad, studying political science, with strong opinions of his own.  I smiled, I hoped with real sincerity though it was hard to remember what that was these days.  I could imagine my younger niece Jade bringing him round for supper and moaning about him being immature.  And she was only sixteen.

 

“I’ve been, well it’s difficult to explain, but well euphoric about being with you.  I know it’s only been the odd snatched day or afternoon which is difficult for both of us but you…” I hesitated to use the word ‘understand’, given his earlier accusation.  “You have to know I’m crazy about you.  Relationships are always more physical to begin with.”  I didn’t know how to continue, I was at risk of sounding like one of his lecturers.  Besides, I wasn’t remotely interested in anything more than the physical.  If I’d wanted intellectual debates around the living room fire, I’d have been satisfied with Paul.  “Well what do you want?”  There it was; I’d finally had to give in and ask the one question I didn’t want to, so very selfish, so very tedious.

 

Liam’s shaven head glinted with shades of blue black in the lamplight.  I quite liked the continuous twilight of his underground flat.  It seemed to make our secret safe. 

 

“You make me feel like a kid when I’m not.”  His deep voice grunted in older tones than his face portrayed.  “Y’know at first, I felt in control, like a man.”  He shifted uncomfortably and for the first time I acknowledged his status as an actual human being.  I felt embarrassed.

 

“But you’re just using me.”  His words were a slap of reality.  Undeniable and sharply contrasting with the heady passion we had been sharing up until this day of reckoning. “Y’know.”  I wished he’d stop using that sloppy teenage language.  God I now wanted to leave so badly I’d started tapping a foot impatiently, I forced it to stop.  I hoped he hadn’t noticed but as he struggled to find the words I noted his preoccupied expression.  “Y’know, when I first saw you in the bar, I felt like I’d seen you before.  It was like all this was meant to happen.”

 

Please God; don’t let him say he loves me.  I thought this over and over and over again.  It would give a delicious second of power followed by what?  Stalking, pleading, an embarrassing and humiliating confession to Paul?  Midnight silent phone calls.  Red roses on Valentine’s Day oh please no.

 

“Mel.”  Again a pause and I hoped he wouldn’t say ‘y’know’, again.  “Where are we going with this?”

 

Surely he wasn’t going to ask me to leave Paul.  How ridiculous was that?  I lifted my face to his and thought about kissing him instead of answering.  That was it, I’d been slow with distraction techniques today, he needed to be reminded the proper purpose of my visits.  I smiled provocatively and reached for his hand.  To my surprise he gave it.  “Oh Liam, where do you want to go with this?”  I made my voice silky as I pulled him down beside me.  There really wasn’t time to go too far but I desperately needed to remind him of who was boss and how things really were.  “Mmm?”  I stroked his hand and stared deeply into his eyes, they flickered with confusion.

 

“You’re such a lovely intelligent… man.”  I knew not to use the word boy and besides it didn’t seem healthy even though it was clearly appropriate.  “You and me, well it’s just a thing.  A bit of fun, it’s not mean to go anywhere.”  I smiled.  “You do know that you are the best thing to have happened to me in well longer than I can remember.  You are gorgeous and handsome and everything any woman could want.  But it can’t go anywhere; you wouldn’t want to be stuck with an old biddy like me.  A few years from now and I’ll be taking up knitting just as you’re ready to start a family.”  The pain of this reality hit me out of nowhere and I choked as I tried to grasp how to retract the statement.  I tried to gauge his reaction but his face appeared closed to my remonstration.

 

“I felt truly flattered when you responded to my advances, you know that don’t you?  But I’m married and one day you’ll understand all the implications of that daft old institution.”  I tried to keep my voice light but it didn’t sound entirely sincere.  It was a daft old institution.  The thought of being with Paul in crippling old age daunted my progress with an illuminating shadow of fear.  But what of the alternative?  A young super fit Liam, with an eye out for the ladies who didn’t have sagging breasts and cellulite around their bellies, not to mention the dreaded crow’s feet.  Unlike Paul I would be super sensitive to my lover’s fragilities.

 

“I can’t offer you anything except now Liam.  I’m sorry.”  It sounded hopeless.  It was hopeless.  Oh where had the glamour gone?  And so soon, my first foray into infidelity already a disaster.  I hadn’t thought Liam would think of our liaison as anything more than I had, fun and frolics for as long as we could get away with it.

 

“I didn’t think you would.”  He said this slowly as if still thinking out his response.  I imagined he was trying to regain some manly credibility.  Poor boy.  “I mean I thought, I think, that perhaps I went into this too quickly.”  The words slurred through his adorable mouth.  All I wanted to do was kiss him and say goodbye and look forward to our next meeting.  It would be easier; I’d booked us a night in a delightful country hotel.  No worries about time, just the

two of us.  Somehow I had the feeling this afternoon was setting out to destroy this future plan.  My stomach knotted with disappointment.

 

“Y’know, I like you very much but well I can see what is happening.”  Could he?  For the first time I was caught off guard.  He was intelligent certainly but emotionally mature enough to be ahead of the game?  I had dismissed him out of hand it seemed.  No fun recounting this one to the girls.  They had relished all the juicy near misses.  Paul had come home too early one day and Liam had to leg it out of the conservatory in only his boxers.  Another time Lydia had spotted us at a restaurant and I had to explain my attractive young companion as a distant nephew.  Lydia would buy anything if you were assertive enough.

 

“Yeah, you don’t understand me, but I understand you very well.  You want a bit of fun with no strings, just like we agreed.  And I like that but I can see where we’re going to end up and I don’t like it.  Y’know I have a girlfriend.”

 

A slap across the jawbone with chunkily ringed knuckles couldn’t have hurt more and I wasn’t prepared in any way shape or form, he’d given no hint of a girlfriend.  Why did it suddenly matter?  It had never crossed my mind.  Why should it matter?  After all, who was I to say he should be singular for my enjoyment.  Check mate.

 

“I get that you like to think this is a cool game and you’re buying my affections but I have a life already.  What, you think I was happy to play, now let me see, what is the opposite of Mistress?  How about Manstress?  I’ve listened to you go on and on about how men have it all, so why shouldn’t you? How I’m your ‘medication.’  Yeah, it’s been fun but you don’t understand that I can drop you as easy as I picked you up.  I don’t need the complications that this is bringing me.  I’ve fallen in love with my girlfriend, she’s my age and yeah, you were right, we have no future in this. 

 

In fact, I feel a bit disgusted at myself that I allowed it to happen.”  He expelled a long pent up breath, it had taken a lot for him to say all this, of that I was sure.

 

Silently I got up, trying to keep my composure.  I smiled as kindly as I could manage.  “So, I misunderstood, I’m sorry Liam.  I truly am.”  My ego crawled behind me across the floor; it had developed a decided limp.

 

Back home Paul was full of his new assistant and I wondered.  Miles sat quietly finishing his supper, his shaggy fringe flopping around his luminous green eyes.  I sort of felt relieved that I didn’t have to find an excuse to leave the next evening.  No more clandestine meetings.  No Liam.

 

Paul flopped in front of the TV, the remote firmly grafted onto his right hand.  “Anything on?”  He said as if I should know.

 

“Got to prepare for a meeting tomorrow.”  I stuttered out the words as if he needed the explanation.

 

“Good oh.  That deal thing is it, with the French chappie?”  He still managed to make my business sound like a housewife’s little hobby even after all my successes, the hours I worked; the money that rolled in.  I thought for a moment about telling of my infidelity.  I imagined his shock should I get his attention away from Jeremy Clarkson for more than a minute.  He raised his head toward me and I nodded.

“That’s right.  Won’t be long.”  I watched him for a moment.  Glasses perched at the end of his nose, newspaper on one knee and fingers working the remote as if it were a matter of life or death that he find something to watch.  How many more years of this?  I’d have to find another Liam or I would surely go mad.

 

I’d read all the agony aunts.  You’ve got to work at a relationship, they said.  Recapture the romance, buy some sexy underwear, book a weekend away.  I just couldn’t see it.  I couldn’t see Paul hanging on my every word, ripping off my clothes with wanton abandonment.  Nor would I want him to.  I shuddered. 

 

How to find another Liam?  I stared at my lovely face in the mirror.  I was still attractive, a little worn but if that had attracted Liam then surely it could attract others too. 

 

Reality strikes harder at night.  I couldn’t get comfortable physically as my brain rattled around the problem of how to replace Liam.  I desperately needed to sleep or I’d resemble a hag by dawn.  If I let time flow away there would be no man who would look at me, an older man just wouldn’t do.  This wasn’t about grown up relationships with complications.  I needed an outlet for all the frustrations that welled with daily life, a re-affirmation of my youth. 

 

It drove me insane to hear single girlfriends prattle on about finding ‘Mr Right’, their dating agency nightmares and never-ending disappointments.  I thought my request so much simpler than theirs.

 

Paul shuffled into the room.  “You all right?”

 

“Yes, I just can’t seem to get off to sleep.”

 

“Yup, I heard you sigh.  Everything ok?”

 

I wanted to cry.  Me cry?  How ridiculous.  “Mmm.  Need to sleep that’s all.”

 

“Want one of my pills?” 

 

I didn’t, I wanted Liam.

 

“Ah Monsieur Chigan!”  I held out my hand as his custom of course dictated he should kiss it.  My eyes felt tight and sore, so I wore thick-framed glasses and only briefly looked him in the eye.  Not good when trying to do business.  Damn that boy.  “Coffee?”

 

Monsieur declined while I gulped three cups of Expresso one after another. 

 

Two hours later and my head thumped hideously.  Liberty rattled a box of tablets under my nose.  “You should take one, you look like death.”  I snatched them out of her hand and popped a couple into my mouth.  It took a while but the pain did eventually subside.  “I need some fresh air.  I’ll go for a walk.  Can you arrange a taxi for Monsieur Chigan.” 

 

I didn’t have an umbrella and it began to rain.  I couldn’t even feel happy about the deal I’d just struck.  How did men manage to put their feelings into boxes and shut out emotional rubbish while us women seemed to worry at everything all the time?  I suddenly felt so angry I caught my breath. 

 

An elderly woman gazed at me.  “You’re getting awfully wet dear.”  She said.

 

“It’s only bloody water,” I snapped, feeling instantly ashamed.  “I’m sorry.”  I strode on and on, through puddles, across roads, past the park, I vaguely heard school children laugh in the

distance but none of it registered in my consciousness.  How dare the little brat turn me away, he damn well knew what it was all about.  I’d told him at the beginning how it was.  Why the sudden about face?  I’d paid for his books, designer shirts, a new watch; I’d enjoyed every moment of spoiling him and so had he.  I slowed down, beginning to get breathless.  This is what I had to get used to, I was being dumb, yes, had lost the plot.  A young mother tending to a small child swaddled in its pushchair glanced up with a ready smile and I smiled back.  There simply wasn’t time for self-indulgent behaviour, wallowing in disappointment would not bring results.

 

My mobile bleeped, Liberty.  “Yes I’m coming back.”  Dripping and perspiring I turned on my heel and half jogged back to the office.  I’d be ok, I always was.  Tonight I had book club, tomorrow a boozy dinner with the girls, the ones in the know.  I smiled, I’d keep this little blip to myself and present them with details of a new model soon enough, a businesswoman like me would relish the challenge.  Liam had pretty much fallen into my lap, a chase would be much more exhilarating.  I’d have to find a good hunting ground and trap the right prey carefully.  I heard someone laugh and it was me, I realised the tense knot in my stomach had released and a new warmth of anticipation begun.

 

I dried my hair under the hand drier in the loo, and then slicked my bob back into place with a fingertip of smoothing cream Liberty had the genius to place in the ‘in case of emergencies’ cabinet.  A quick dab at mascara smudges, a little lipstick and my demeanour had returned to its casual chic best. 

 

Striding into my office, head held high I stopped dead as the door slammed shut.  “Er, who are you?”  I addressed the young man sprawled casually in my high-backed leather chair.  He wasn’t a freelance designer, I knew them all and Liberty hadn’t mentioned any meetings other than Chagin for the day.  No temp would risk annoying the boss on the first day of appointment or any day after that by being so presumptuous as to sit in her chair.  I didn’t know quite what to say as my mind rapidly worked over the possibilities of who this might be.

 

He proffered a hand across the desk.  “Marcus.” 

 

Very long eyelashes flickered flirtatiously about eyes as grey as the North Sea, auburn hair curled Romanesque across his short forehead, appropriate, I thought for his name.  “The replacement.”  He smiled, barely whispering the words. “Liam said…”

 

I marvelled at the whiteness of his molars, such clean beautiful youth, enjoyed the arrogant way he lolled in my chair, instantly took to the obvious humour dancing about his mouth.  Surely not, I couldn’t believe that the tearful Liam I had left the day before would have sorted out a replacement so rapidly; he must have had this on his mind longer than I had any indication of his discomfort.  I half laughed at the audacity of his certainty, wondering how many young souls he had canvassed for this position.  It was hard to know what to say or do, given the circumstance.  But I had a busy agenda, plans to write up, contracts to read, and a table to book for dinner with my friends.  How convenient was this?  There were enough challenges in my life already, I felt immediately grateful to Liam for my gift.

 

 “Well the first thing you need to learn is that my office is out of bounds.”

 

Copyright Petra Kidd11 – Please note these stories are fictional.