GIRO DAY

I wake to a stale smell and a fuzzy feeling. There’s a damp patch on the ceiling in the shape of a love heart. I reach for you and we hold each other. It’s Giro Day.

 

We were up on time on Sign-on Monday, so the money will be in our accounts today with no effort required. However, there’s no point in hanging around in bed. I can feel the thirst and the tension it brings. Neither of us can keep still. It’s on with our clothes and I stop by the mirror to perform my health check - ensuring the whites of my eyes are not bloodshot or, Heaven forbid, yellow.

 

It’s a perfect, sunshine day. There’s a spring in our step as we head for breakfast. We alternate - the One Stop at the top, the Co-op in the parade... Today it’s the turn of the Corner Shop and you go in first. When you’ve staggered into a display of cheap make up and knocked it over and you’re screaming at the shop assistant to get a fucking life, I slip in, hide a bottle of White Lightning under my coat and creep out again.

“For-fucking-get it!” you roar as you lurch into the blinding sunlight. We hurry down the street, laughing our heads off.

 

By 9am we’re at our favourite bench by the lake. The old couple sitting on it hurry away sniffing when you sit one side of them and me the other. As I take the first luxurious gulp of White Lightning, Regular Becky arrives, with the black market fags.

“Spend anything?” she asks, lighting up.

“Naw, got this for free,” I hand her the bottle and the three of us smoke, bathed in the sun’s early rays.

 

Round the bottle of White Lightning goes and just as we’re wondering where the hell he is, BJ turns up with vodka.

“Woh! Livin’ it large!” you cry.

BJ’s half cut already, the vodka bottle is a quarter empty and he’s jigging round our bench, grinning like a lunatic. He pulls me up into a waltz and I feel his sour breath on my cheek.

“I’m in the money!” he’s singing, “the old cow croaked it!”

“Yer Ma’s finally dead?” cried Regular Becky.

“As a fuckin’doorknob! Been to loan shop, haven’t I? Can’t wait for that inheritance to come through, all that bureau-crazy, they know I’m good for it. I’ve got five grand!”

You leap to your feet and gather up Regular Becky and it’s me, you, BJ and Becky all dancing round our bench, because we know BJ will share his good fortune and it’s going to be Giro Day, every day on our bench in the sunshine.

 

The White Lightning is empty, neck down in the bin. Round the vodka bottle goes and we sit comfortably, the sun on our faces, staring out over the lake, at the ducks and the swans.

 

THE FIEND

We were on holiday and I believe we were wandering around Sienna. We’d had a couple of bottles of wine between us at the restaurant and subsequent bars. Earlier on, we couldn’t have been more in love, congratulating our good fortune in meeting each other ten years ago. At a subsequent stage of the evening, however, you resorted to sarcasm and I took to overreacting. That’s right, you were walking and it was me who was wandering, getting left behind with each drip drip drip of sarcastic comment; plodding slower and slower until suddenly, I saw them, the footprints on the tarmac. Black, the colour of tar, long and narrow with talons at the end and I recognised them. Last seen ten years ago, the evening I met you.

Could I have drawn them to your attention? No. Only I can sense The Fiend and then I can only perceive its traces – footprints behind you, shadows in the bedroom with us, a soft mocking laugh when I whisper that I love you. There was nothing I could do, except make the last of your time with me as nice as possible. After all, you couldn’t know that with each passing day, wherever you went, around on holiday, then back home, those footprints followed and each time I checked they were a little closer behind you...

The evening you returned from work with the footsteps just one pace back from yours, I took a little time out to remember the parties, the laughter, the good times, the love making and the sound of your key in the door. Then I quietly put those things away. I sat in the corner of the living room, watching the big black shadow rear up behind your armchair. You made the mistake of turning round, your eyes widened with fear and you screamed. Only, no sound came out because your head had disappeared inside the blackness, your torso followed, then your legs and finally your feet. I didn’t cry, because you no longer existed to me.

“All right?” the new man is leaning over me in bed.

“I’m fine,” I whisper, “go back to sleep.”
He does so. I switch on a bedside lamp and glance round me. A different room, but the same handwriting is on the wall. I get up and rub it off before he can wake again. These men I’m sent always come with instructions. I must adjust and comply, because the moment I relax, switch off or lag behind, is the second the Fiend’s footsteps will appear and I will endure the horror of failure again.

THE OUTLET

“John, I want that report finished by close of play.  I want quality and attention to detail.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  Your partner’s on the phone.”
“I’ll take it here ... Sweetheart?  ... No.  Tell them if they don’t have someone out immediately, we will change service provider ... I don’t care about the hassle ... all right, I’ll sort it out, I’ll call them later ... The children’s lunches?  Avril has wholemeal pitta, she’s on one of her faddy diets and Peter has the white bread sandwich.  I wish you’d remember these things  ... The washing machine’s still not working?  Right, buy a new one ... any make you like ... All right then, I’ll come with you ... love you too ...  Bye.  
“John, I’m presenting on Monday, please could you ensure the presentation is on my laptop.”
“Absolutely, with bells on.  They want a decision on Syria.”
“Delay them.  I’m going out in three hours.  I’ll have a decision when I get back.”
“Absolutely.”

At lunch break I find myself in that familiar bare tidy room of that anonymous suburban house, lying on my stomach being fucked.  Will is very good at his job, an absolute professional.  He knows I don’t want to talk when I come in; I just want to be thrown on the bed, stripped and seen to, precisely what he’s doing.  Halfway through he’ll mutter ‘OK?’ just to check I’m all right and I’ll say rather impatiently ‘Yes!  Yes!’

If John says ‘Absolutely, with bells on’ one more time I swear I’ll fire him.

Will is rather good with his hands ... I can feel the tension being squeezed right out of me.  I’m going to cum and it won’t be the first time this afternoon either.  Will usually gets me off twice.

“OK?”
“Yes!  Yes!  Shut up!  I’m going to cum!”
Ahh, so much better!  Now I’m being beaten with some kind of paddle.  It really hurts, really fucking hurts.  Oh yeah!

Maybe I won’t fire John ...

It’s over, it’s done, Will is untying my hands, gently now, stroking my sore skin, soothing me.  I take a deep breath.  Then he kisses the back of my neck, he’s never done that before ...

“Are you coming next week?” he asks as I dress.
“’Fraid not.  Out of the country.  Tell you what, I’ll pay you for then anyway, I know times are tough.”
“It’s not that, I’ll miss you,” he stares at me with wide, sincere eyes.

Another avenue of pleasure closed.  There can be no more Will.  From now on, it’s only going to be Whitehall and its corridors of decision, power and stress.  Then home, the chaos of the children and choosing new washing machine, because my partner is incapable of making the simplest decisions ...

So fucking irritating!  Will, getting unprofessional  like that ... If John doesn’t have that report ready, I am fucking firing him.

DADDY'S NEW FRIEND

“So, how was your weekend with Daddy and his new friend, darling?   ... Yes, she is pretty ... You sat on her knee?  ...  Daddy told her he loved her!  What did she say to that?  ... Commitment?  It means staying with someone ...”

So, there’s another woman in James’ life and he’s serious about her.  I saw her when he dropped Jodie off.  Lovely designer clothes she wears, apparently she doesn’t have kids.   She mentioned commitment, I wonder why.   I’ll show her commitment.

“Play a fun game with Daddy’s friend this weekend, darling.  Call her Mummy and give her lots of cuddles, even when your hands are dirty ... Yes!  Clever girl!  Definitely, when you’ve finished eating chocolate pudding with your fingers.  You know Mummy’s shown you how to throw food, but remember you’re only allowed to do that when you’re with Daddy.”

Can’t wait till Sunday J

“Oh, what’s the matter, sweetheart?  You got ice cream on Daddy’s friend’s white jeans? ... And then she shouted that she wasn’t your Mummy?  ... Oh dear!  What did Daddy do? He told her to shut up, did he?  ... Then she played computer games on her Ipad and ignored you and Daddy on the car journey here? ... I don’t think I like Daddy’s friend ...”

I could barely suppress a smile.  The atmosphere between James and That Woman was somewhat strained and she did look stupid with a great big chocolate stain on her Armani’s.  There’s no time to get changed when you’re on the road with a toddler.

“You know I told you, Jodie, never to play with Mummy’s laptop or Ipad?  Well, it’s OK to play with Daddy’s friend’s Ipad.  Just take it when she’s not using it and when you’ve finished playing with it, remember to throw it on the floor like you do with all the toys Daddy gives you.”

You see, I can’t have James gallivanting round the country with another woman when I haven’t got a man.   It’s not like I want him back; he’s a pain in the arse, but he mustn’t be happy.  As for Miss White Armani Jeans, she doesn’t have what it takes.  James turned up just with Jodie this Sunday, looking awful, eyes all red rimmed like he’s been crying.   I do wonder though, who would have the strength to endure these games Jodie and I like to play.  We make a formidable team and here, at home with me, she’s good as gold.

THE DARKEST DREAM

I love Mariam, that’s why I told her. I couldn’t let her keep thinking I’m a saint when I’ve cheated. Problem is, she’s so fucking fragile, a depressive, haunted by that darkest dream – suicide ideation.

When I ‘fessed up, she didn’t cry or register surprise. She asked politely if she could have a moment. I grilled her as to her next move and she replied; “What do you care?” which really pissed me off. I left her to it and seconds later she was in her car, driving off at speed, no bags packed and she didn’t take her medication. I gave her time, and then rang, but her phone was switched off. At 3am, I panicked and went out to look for her.

This is the last place I’ve tried, I don’t want to face the truth, but here’s her Vauxhall at Beachy Head car park. I’m in bits, imagining the conversation I’ll have with the cops; “We were having problems, I cheated on her.” They’ll look at me like I’m a bastard. I park up, tears are starting and I’ve got a lurching feeling in my stomach. Nothing seems real. Running up to the cliff top passes in a blur. I see her silhouette in the dawn light. Thank God! “Mariam!”

She faces me, the wind blowing her black hair forward over her face, so I can’t see her eyes.
“I’ve been waiting,” she says.
She’s right at the cliff edge, oh fuck she’s going to do it in front of me! I put on my most reasonable voice; “Mariam, be sensible, think of yer Mum, yer friends,” then I beg, “please don’t do this to me!”
She doesn’t move. I take a step closer, if I can get near enough, I can grab the front of her blouse, pull her forwards, into my arms, hold her and tell her how fucking sorry I am. Another stride and she’s staring at me as if transfixed. I lunge, reaching forward and she dodges gracefully to the side, I nearly go over the edge, stupid cow! Then I feel the push and I’m falling, there’s cold air in my face, I can see the sea and the rocks rushing up and what’s that howling in my ears? Oh Jesus, it’s me, screaming.   It seems I was wrong, her darkest dream was murder ideation – mine.

ELFRIDA THE BEAUTIFUL

I am Elfrida, daughter of Ordgar, Earl of Devonshire.  I was roaming free in the gardens of our castle, when a servant interrupted; Mother meant to speak to me.  I ran eagerly into her morning room, for she was full of stories of handsome princes rescuing princesses in dragon guarded towers.  I will never forget what she said; “Elfrida, you are beautiful.  Nobles will want to marry you, they may even fight for you.  You must love whoever wins.”

“And if I don’t?”
“A knight has armour to protect him from injury and death.  Your armour must be kindness, affection and obedience to this man, even if these things be not true.  Dark things happen to maids who do not love.”  She had heard that Earl Aetholdwold, best friend of the King, was coming.  It was time I put my dreams of handsome princes away.

Earl Aetholdwold looked upon me once and did not speak to me.  He discussed my dowry with my father.  The following Friday, we were married in a Church on Ordgar’s land.  That night Aetholdwold came to my bed chamber and I pretended to love him just as my mother advised.  Afterwards, I believe he took solace in my arms, that he liked it when I stroked his hair and let him rest his head upon my shoulder.

Aetholdwold had deceived everyone; the King had sent him to look upon me, trusting his best friend’s judgement.  Aetholdwold’s message said I was ugly, but it had not taken King Edgar long to hear this was a lie and that Aetholdwold had married me himself.  He intercepted us on our journey through Hampshire.  I wish I could say the King himself fought for me, but his soldiers did.  Aetholdwold, who had the night before, rested his head upon my shoulder and murmured words of love, was slain.  I was claimed by King Edgar.

King Edgar looked upon me but did not speak to me.  He sent word to my father informing him I was a widow yet he intended to marry me.  I had been going to Winchester with Aetholdwold, but I arrived there with King Edgar.  The following Friday, we were married at Old Minster.  That night Edgar came to my bed chamber and I pretended to love him just as my mother advised.  Afterwards, I believe he took solace in my arms, that he liked it when I stroked his hair and let him rest his head upon my shoulder.

I am Elfrida, wife of King Edgar the Peaceable and I pretend to love.  I am decoration, property and status.  I provide comfort, a false sense of security - my ownership could change at any time.  The life growing inside me is but a distraction from my captivity.  If it be a girl and I could submit but one plea to the faerie folk, it would be that she spend all her days in an ivory tower, protected by a dragon that no handsome prince can defeat.

THE PLANT

The most beautiful thing in my garden and life was the plant with its big leaves, gorgeous flowers and deep evening scent. Unfortunately, the plant was dying.

“Can I take a cutting?” Dana my colleague asked, “I think I can save it.”
I frowned; “If you can handle it.”
“Course I can! I’m an excellent gardener,” she said with a smug smile.
I didn’t reply, but I should have.

Dana arrived at work in the cafe after her holiday, there was a skip in her walk and she sang softly as she made tea. I recognised the symptoms; plant happiness - the thing must be thriving in her garden. I didn’t raise the subject, I didn’t want to know. The plant had completely died on me and there was a gap where it had been that I hadn’t got round to filling.

Two weeks later, the boss took me aside; “Dana can’t concentrate. She comes in late, leaves early. What’s going on?”

How could I tell them how demanding the plant could be? Dana walked past, her expression distant, there was a plant leaf on her sleeve; she saw me and brushed it hastily out of sight. I rolled my eyes. Maybe she thought I was jealous because the plant hadn’t survived under my care. She had no idea.

When Dana called in sick and hadn’t returned after a week, I phoned and got no response. There was no answer when I visited, but her front door was unlocked. What if...? I told myself it couldn’t happen, Dana was a good gardener. I found the house neglected though, days’ worth of dishes in the kitchen, dust everywhere and un-vacuumed carpets. My worst fears were confirmed in the garden. The plant had spread over her borders, lawn, and patio and was pressed against her back door. All other shrubs were dead, choked by domination, deprived of light. The scent of flowers was overwhelming.

I walked into the tangled jungle the plant had made. Where it was at its thickest Dana was suspended in branches, wrapped in leafy tendrils that completely covered her body rendering her immobile, only her closed eyes were visible. She was unable to speak, because there were stems bound tightly round her mouth. As I approached, the plant possessively tightened its grip on her, a warning, I stopped.

This was my fault. You see, I should have warned her that she wouldn’t be able to handle the plant. The reason it had died on me was that I’d kept it in its place, hadn’t let it spread and rule. Dana had failed to control it. A vine wrapped itself gently round my waist, a gesture of recognition and friendship. After all, the origin of the plant was a cutting from my garden; it wanted me to accept things and stay. Like I’d fall for that! I reached into my bag. The plant knew me of old, did it really think I’d come into its presence without a pair of secateurs and plenty of weed killer?