by Karen Botha
Paula is an ex-murder squad detective with an army of wild dinner party stories of a life now lost. She took a job at the council tracking down illegal fly tippers a few years ago. It doesn’t light the fire in her belly but it does pay her bills and she doesn’t have to do the unsocial hours of the force. Until now, her news today is that she’s been offered a promotion.
‘No, this isn’t impressive at all,’ she cries, outraged.
‘Why not? They appreciate you, they think you’re good, worth more money?’
‘Because it sounds like shift work again… I don’t want to go backwards. If I wanted my social life cocking up I could have stayed doing something I loved.’
‘Ah, I see,’ and I do.
‘Yeah, it’s unsettling. Someone else deciding my future. Wish I was like you and in control of my life.’ I consider whether any of us are ever in control of our lives, or if we just exist within different sets of constraints? I keep this to myself.
‘Well get yourself a B plan worked out. If you end up not wanting this new role, what would you do in an ideal world? What would give you control back of your life?’ This is me all over. If you’re not happy, go change whatever needs changing, but please don’t whine. Paula debates this internally for a second, and then for a whole minute, although it seems more like ten.
‘I miss the force. I miss the problem solving. I miss the drive.’
‘Perfect. You can work for yourself with your own hours as a private detective. Use your contacts in the police to pass you cases whilst you build your portfolio.’ Problem solved.
‘That’s actually not a bad idea,’ she concedes. I know. It could work.
Parking is easy, barring the close shave with a passing cyclist who bangs on the car in disgust. Giggling at the poor chap, mischief in our bellies, we hop out, keen to win tatt on the raffle that we’ll only throw away later.
A steel band kicks off as we slam the car doors shut. We’re in the midst of an instant carnival. I do a funny shuffly walk, swaying my hips as I cross the road towards the square field of action. I’m not alone, people are laughing and dancing in the sun to any rhythm other than that of the metal drums. It doesn’t matter. The sun is shining, music is playing, and it’s fun.
We head for the stalls nearest the beer tent and grab a cool drink to help us on our way. Tempted by colourful icing, topping large cupcakes, we each indulge. They’re dry. Guess the glorious sun isn’t universally great.
‘Are you still enjoying being a massage therapist?’ Paula asks, she’s obviously still mulling over our earlier conversation.
‘Yeah, totally,’ I decide to let her into a very unprofessional secret, so hush my voice, ‘I appreciate this isn't politically correct, but honestly; it’s way nicer working on a hottie than not.’ Paula wrinkles her nose, baring her teeth in a cheeky smile.
‘It’s just nature,’ I shrug my shoulders. ‘Nicer to be touching an incredibly handsome, toned body than a saggy one that faces south at every opportunity.’
‘Yeah, I can see that, I’d be happy to rub anybody down though!’ Her eyes sparkle.
‘It’s not like that, although I did have a real lovely specimen in earlier this weekend.’
My mind wanders back to Giles, and I’m lost in my thoughts.
Paula steers me towards a stall displaying scarves and home crafted jewellery. After browsing what any market stall sells for half the price, we wander on picking at trinkets proudly noted as ‘retro’ or ‘vintage’ by an array of charities.
It’s when we hit the bag stall I smell trouble. I have no idea how it happened. I’m not much of a handbag kind of gal; but somehow it all went wrong.
‘That’s so you!’ Paula exclaims. She makes a bee-line for a lime green number, arm outstretched and finger-pointing at the bag hanging from a makeshift clothes line. It is pretty.
‘I don’t need a new bag,’ she’s popping it over my shoulder. ‘You know I don't switch handbags. It always ends in tears, with the stuff you need left at home.’ I’m arguing ahead of Paula's persuasive nature. Forget detective, the woman should be in sales, she’d do a storm!
‘It’s perfect for you, you’ve had the one you’re using for at least 6 months now,’ she’s right, I have, and in my world, that’s no time at all. So, imagine my surprise when I am now the proud owner of this particular shoulder bag that will add no value to my life at all. It’s just easier.
My next purchase is a large, glass candlestick. The fashionable mercury type, all distressed mirroring that reaches as high as my shorter than average knee. They’re all the rage! It’s beautiful, I’m overjoyed with my new treasure. I have a corner earmarked for it and imagine it reflecting against the oval mirror that plays host to the others in my collection.
I’m roused from my reverie by a cacophony of noise.
Without realising it, we’re back at the stage. Gone is the tinker-bell of the steel drums, its replacement, a school dance show. Not really our thing.
‘I’m not against people having kids,’ I turn to Paula shouting above the din, ‘but I’d rather they kept their greatest moments to themselves.’
‘I know! And when they run at you with sticky fingers?’
‘Or a nose that has not seen the best side of a tissue in way too long,’ I join in, ‘I could barf.’ And we laugh, properly belly laughing at these gross creatures we’re supposed to consider cute.
With that, we’re off with purpose to the hog roast - the highlight of our Bank Holiday Sunday.
‘It’s a long queue, it’s not even lunch time yet,’ someone speeds up to jump in front of us. We leave them to it, exchanging a look of mutual derision for this unmannered individual.
‘It has the aroma of being somewhat overcooked,’ says Paula, and she’s not wrong. Never mind, I’ve been dreaming about this.
‘I’ll stand in line for ten minutes to pay an over-inflated price for bread lathered with more butter than pork,’ I roll my eyes.
‘And we will enjoy it because the smell demands we do,’ she throws in. So, there we are, queueing happily for guaranteed disappointment, when I spot a face in the crowd at the other side of the serving girl. There it is. That thump in my chest again.
‘Don’t look now, but that guy there is Giles, he’s the hottie client I was telling you about, the one who came on Friday.’
‘Where? Don’t look where?’ she hisses, eyes darting in every direction. I try to point him out discreetly. For once Paula does not do the embarrassing thing in retrospect I would have expected. She's quiet.
‘He's familiar… but I can’t place him. Handsome chap, I can see how he got your juices flowing.’
I try to keep my rapid breathing under control as the queue edges closer to the counter. Closer to him. I pray I’m not blushing and that my forehead isn’t shiny from the heat. Oh no, do I smell, it’s such a hot day?
‘Oh hi again,’ he notices me as we draw level.
‘Hi,’ I’m as cool as I can muster, ‘didn’t see you there.’
‘Fancy bumping into you here. You enjoy these kinds of things then?’ He asks, but I’m sure I mentioned the other day we were coming. It could have been another client, I can’t be certain.
‘Yeah it’s a lovely few hours out on a Bank Holiday if the weather is nice,’ I reply instead.
We stand in awkward silence, the hairs bristle on the back of my neck until the queue finally moves forward. I’m unable to remove a kind of polite half-smile that tells him I have no clue how to react beyond the initial niceties. I find myself fidgeting with my hands, wringing my fingers.
When I meet my clients at my treatment rooms, I’m in my comfort zone. They’re on my property and I’m in control. I run the show and use my confidence to set them at ease. It’s practised, and it works.
Here, I’m the real Lucy; thirty-two (just,) single and a little fatter in places than I’d choose, but not enough to bother me. I’m out with my also single friend of the same age, and my guard is very much down. It
’s unsettling, mingling the two aspects of myself without prior warning nor indeed preparation. I’m unready.
When we are past him and I’m sure he won’t notice, I sneak a wary glance to my left to judge Paula's reaction. She has remained quiet throughout the exchange. She is on her best behaviour today.
‘You've got a crush on him, haven’t you?’ I discard the sense there’s more to her throw away comment.
‘Yeah, he’s a bit of a dish, but he’s a client.’
‘What difference does that make?’ She shoots me a quick smile, then focuses on the tasks dictated by arriving at the front of the queue. We both order our much-anticipated slice of dry pork in a stale roll then head to the refreshments tent to grab a drink while we’re eating.
Lo-and-behold, Giles is loitering. I had kept a sneaky eye on him - just to be prepared, obviously. He’d headed in this general direction, but I lost him when I placed my order and was required to behave like a rational adult. I’m not disappointed to see him this time, I’m primed. We grab drinks and stand away from him, chatting. The floor space of the gazebo acts much like the standing area in a bar, groups huddle together catching up on elapsed time. Paula and I are no different, adopting our usual position of face on, drink held in front of our chests. I prep for a grilling about Giles.
‘Do you mind if I join you?’
Here he is. Perhaps he likes me too? I should put him right, he is a client and I have a rule. I will have to enlist caution though, I can’t embarrass myself if he’s only being friendly.
‘No of course not. Where are your friends? At the bar?’ These are the first words Paula has spoken to him.
‘This is my friend Paula by the way. Paula, Giles, one of my clients.’
They both smile small smiles, and he shakes Paula's hand.
‘No, I came on my own. None of my, erm friends are into this kind of, erm thing so I thought I’d take a solo trip. Grab a beer and some food on a rare day of rest.’
‘Why not!’ Paula and I both say in unison. We burst out laughing, our chorus a common source of our amusement. We once managed to get back stage passes to meet the members of Flyzone, one of our all-time favourite boy bands. We should have discussed outfits beforehand. There we are. Every photo. We beam as we flank one member of the band and then another; in matching white trousers and black tops. Great. It wasn’t even like we both had the same trousers but different top, no, we wore the entire same outfit. That’s the worst example, but not by any means the only.
‘So I guess this is your best friend?’ He gestures towards Paula with his arm.
‘Yes I guess so,’ my eyes warm, I'm confident again and happy to chat.
And so the afternoon happens. The mood is light, so light, that Paula decides to leave her car at the show in favour of a few more beers.
‘Boob has her dog door, she’ll be fine for a few hours,’ Paula says. Boob is the love of Paula's life, her very cute, if not overly friendly, French Bulldog.
The stage has quietened now and we’re listening to pop music playing over cheap speakers in the tent. It’s tinny and adds to the outdoor atmosphere. A few drinks make us chatty, we have a new friend and much to find out.
‘So Giles, tell us about you,’ Paula re-directs suddenly, ‘we’ve talked too much. You've listened to way more of our stories than we have yours?’
‘Ooh, where shall I start? I grew up in Zimbabwe, had a kind of average home life. Loved school, but I wasn’t a geek kid, my friends were all there so I had a ball, playing rugby and smoking.’
‘That sounds great,’ more about the rugby and the freedom than the smoking, ‘I was the swot that didn’t dare drop a grade for fear of parental retribution; would have been great to let my hair down…’ I say.
‘Ah, my parents were not like that at all. How about yours’ Paula?’
‘Mine were pretty poor parenting examples, they were way too strict, a bit like Lucy's, wanted 110% performance all the way.’
‘Ah, shame, doesn’t sound like too much fun?’
This conversation is getting a bit too serious for a sunny afternoon, so I interject. ‘Tell us more about the fun you had growing up Giles.’
‘Well, my parents loved me, they also had their own way of showing it, but I guess it’s easy to forget parents are also humans. We had enough money to give us lots of trips away. Pretty much every weekend we’d head up to our farm. We’d keep a braai going continually, whilst we hunted in the bush bare foot.’
‘Wow, so you hunted your own food?’ I need certainty.
‘Sure all the time, and we’d give any left overs to the workers, we always had too much!’
Oh, I take a physical step back. ‘Hmm, so you took pleasure from assassinating a defenceless creature?’
‘Sure, it’s the thrill of your patience paying off. You stand for hours waiting, and then one comes along, and boom.’ He makes a sniper action with his arms.
I eat meat and I understand it needs catching, or breeding. But I struggle with the joy people take in perfecting the art of stalking. To Venture into the home of a harmless creature and wait for the ideal point to put a cold piece of lead through its heart is cruel and one-sided.
I just don’t get it.
‘If you kill for food, that's one thing. Kill for pleasure and I’m not on board,’ I’m a little less keen on this guy than I was a minute ago.
He seems to sense my antagonism, ‘I don’t apologise. It’s how I was brought up. It’s normal. We all do it. I had my first gun at four, it’s natural to me. I don’t get this whole healthy living thing you have going on over here, what’s the point of living longer if you can’t enjoy it cos you’re hell-bent on health rather than fun? But hey, I don’t judge.’
I’m surprised at myself; I find him simultaneously shocking and appealing. He’s so pragmatic and unapologetic that I can’t help but be intrigued. Perhaps even a little keen to learn more.
‘The stalls are starting to pack up,' Paula breaks the slight atmosphere that lingers. The bar is being dismantled around us, I hadn’t even noticed.
‘Ah shame, best order a cab then,’ I say to Paula.
I rummage around in my handbag for my mobile. Even though the pocket on the inside wall is meant to avoid this exact situation, I always just throw it in. Then, I have a mad panic, believing I’ve left it somewhere by mistake. I never have. It’s usually nestled in my bag, as it is today.
I scroll through my contacts. I'm trying to locate the cab office I like, rather than the one that was an hour late picking me up. This lack of service has since rendered it unusable on principle.
‘I can give you both a lift if you like? Do you live near Lucy, Paula?’
‘Haven’t you had too much to drink aswell?’ we both ask, our synchronicity once more a source of amusement.
But, whilst we assumed he was on the vodkas’ it’s been tonic water the whole time. We assess the situation by way of a glance at the other; we accept. I hope he doesn’t expect a discount on his massage now.
Off we pop and in no time we’re out of the countryside and on the dual carriageway. I’m the closest, so he drops me first, drawing on my large drive at the end of my cul-de-sac and leaving the engine to idle while I get out.
I contemplate suggesting they come in, I can’t ask Paula without Giles. Whilst I’ve had a great afternoon, I’ve mixed business with pleasure more than I should and inviting this client into my home is a step too far.
‘Are you OK with heading home with Paula, we can easily order a cab from here if it helps?’ He’s fine, so I wave and shout, ‘See you tomorrow,’ to Paula as they back off the drive and reverse their route up the narrow close. I should have asked Paula to text me when she’s home. I note the time, I’ll message her in ten minutes, make sure she’s OK.
PAULA
I don’t like Giles. I have no reason not to approve of him, which is a shame because I want one. He’s a perfectly charming individual. And yes, he is gorgeous, although not my type, bu
t that’s what makes a good friendship, isn’t it? Not going after the same man.
And I do like Lucy. We’ve been friends since we both attended a hen do where neither of us were fond enough of the bride to shell out for a single room. We were allotted the other as our roommate for the oddest weekend ever. Quad biking, then wine tasting at a UK vineyard is a bit of a juxtaposition. But the maid of honour had worked time into the schedule for a siesta - we were still in our twenties! All this in preparation for a tepid meal in a live jazz bar. The masses bobbed on the dance floor like peg dolls to an offbeat, off-key jumble of randomness.
‘Shall we do a bunk?’ I remember asking my new bestie. She’d joined me when I nipped out for a fag. We never returned to the party, preferring the relative blandness of the hotel bar. Bad form? Maybe, particularly as the hotel wasn’t that great either.
We’re not the party animals we were, but events such as yesterday are perfect. We love a sunny afternoon of gentle drinking. And don’t get me wrong, I did have fun with Lucy - and with Giles. He's familiar, and he’s entertaining. But, I still don’t like him. I can’t put my finger on it. Somehow he makes my spine fizz, puts my nerves on red alert.
When I clocked him in the queue, he was pulling his mouth taught. That may seem odd, but you'll notice now, people find it hard to control their mouths. They hide their emotions by turning the corners up into a smile, but you can read so much about a character when they’re not paying attention. Giles had let his sag in relaxation, except that it was strained. He seemed to be pretending he was nonchalant, whilst being acutely aware of every activity around him. That makes me suspicious because why would you do that? And why would you go alone to that kind of social day? There's a chance a girl would, but a guy? I'm not sure, there’s something that’s not adding up to me.
Then, when he dropped Lucy off, the atmosphere changed. Yes, it does sometimes as the spell breaks down along with the group, but it seemed more.
He was polite, ‘what a lovely cottage, so quaint.’ He didn’t even complain about the parking issues, positioning his car in the centre of the road, chatting whilst I hauled my tipsy self out. But he’s like that jazz band, off beat and not sitting quite right in my gut.
