by Gill Paul
She had enough for a love poison now. But should she go the other way, her love potion still needed work. How could she make a man like Dave desire her apart from dose him with neat Viagra and stand close by in her best underwear, hoping he would pounce?
‘Serotonin,’ she muttered, running a finger along the shelves of boxed medication. ‘Yes, Claire. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitor. Excellent idea.’
There was a certain satisfaction to be had from the exercise. For the first time since she had given birth to Dillon, Claire felt like she was about to create something wonderful. Pharmaceuticals made art.
Into her handbag, she tossed a cocktail of happiness: Priadel and Citalopram that brought mirth and relief even to the depressed. Buspirone, an anti-anxiety medication that she had recently read was being used in trials to boost the libido in women.
‘Sod it. Why not?’
That too went into her magic glad bag. Considering the chemicals of love, she included Caramet, the dopamine-inducing meds used by Parkinson’s sufferers. She almost threw in some ergometrine, or syntocinon, as they called it on maternity wards when labouring women’s contractions failed to progress. Oxytocin, their main ingredient, was a major player in love, after all.
As Belinda returned from her lunch break, Claire hastily zipped up the now-bulging handbag. Her pharmacist’s mind was purring and whirring like a fine-tuned engine. If she could have bottled her enthusiasm for this task and dosed her treacherous yet beloved partner with it, she would surely succeed in her quest.
‘I’ve got a thumping migraine coming on,’ she told her assistant, who sported a light dusting of pasty crumbs in her hair and the faint whiff of steak-bake. ‘Lights and everything. I’m going to have to go. Sorry.’
Belinda nodded sagely. ‘I can well believe it, Claire. You don’t know how these things is gonna affect you ’til it happens. I seen people go proper mental on telly when they found shit like this out. You go home. I can hold the fort, yeah?’ She spun her nose ring around twice in its infected hole, as if to remind Claire how unlikely it was that Belinda could hold anything health-related in a satisfactory manner.
But this was an emergency, and work would have to wait. Claire ran all the way home.
*
Within the confines of her modest kitchen – now, a makeshift laboratory of sorts with all the medication spread out before her on the Formica worktops – Claire started to grind up her ingredients with the pestle and mortar, where normally she might mix cumin and coriander seeds and myriad other ingredients for a family meal. With pestle in hand and a head full of imagined scenarios of Dave athletically screwing young blondes on unforgiving divans in functional hotel rooms (the kind of hotels one finds next to motorway services), she transformed from ordinary chemist to something between a master chef and an alchemist. She concocted two Michelin-starred recipes. One to delight; one to ruin.
*
When she collected Dillon from school, Stephen Warton was standing at the door to the classroom. Waving goodbye to his tiny charges and congratulating them on their mastery of simple addition.
‘Ah, Ms Sykes,’ he said, patting Dillon on the shoulder and ushering the boy out towards his mother. ‘Feeling better?’
There was something behind his benevolent smile, beyond that patchwork complexion, that terminally limp hair and those indeterminate coloured eyes that Claire could not put her finger on at first.
‘Not bad, actually,’ she answered, allowing herself a flicker of a grin. ‘What you said gave me food for thought.’ She glanced over her shoulder to check that she would not be overheard. Lowered her voice. ‘I’ve concocted a potion of sorts! A love potion with a twist. And, by the way, really, you must call me Claire.’
‘A love potion, indeed! Well, Claire …’ he said, looking uncertain. He smoothed down the front of his green, cable-knit jumper. ‘Good luck. Do let me know how you get on.’
*
Selecting the correct outfit for Santorini’s was tricky. Dave bought almost all of Claire’s clothes and influenced heavily what she chose, by way of sitting outside the changing rooms, vociferously voicing his disapproval of anything remotely ‘flashy’, and heartily approving anything drab. Though she had found his keen interest overbearing in the first few months, she was so flushed warm with love that she had quickly determined to interpret his active participation in her shopping endeavours as a show of genuine interest. It was only now, after his appearance on Tinder, that she acknowledged this had been yet another form of subtle manipulation.
‘Fuck it,’ she told the mirror, rifling through the browns and greys until she found the only thing in her wardrobe that was glamorous and short – a little black dress she had bought from Jigsaw whilst still a student. In middle age and after one pregnancy, it was a testimony to her self-discipline that she still fitted into the dress, albeit snugly.
Rummaging at the bottom of her make-up bag, she pulled out the brightest eyeshadows and lipstick that she could find. Remnants of a Christmas Cosmetics Compendium that had been a gift from her childhood best friend, Michelle. Five years old, now. Complete with brushes and multi-coloured palettes of glittering powder, it was not unlike Dillon’s paintsets. The stale make-up had survived the tempestuous festive drinks, where Dave had declared Michelle a ‘shit-stirring, boring cow’ to her face. The long-standing best friendship, sadly, had not.
‘You wait ’til you get a load of me, David Crosby,’ Claire told the mirror. The woman looking back at her was unfamiliar. But she recognised something beyond the make-up, beneath the dress, beneath the backcombed hair and the raw, biting hurt. The same thing, it occurred to her, that she had spotted in Stephen Warton earlier. It was promise.
Having kissed Dillon goodnight and left the babysitter with instructions, Claire stepped into the taxi. She wore a veneer of excitement, just masking the heartbreak that had permeated the very core of her being. In her handbag were concealed the two vials.
Santorini’s swung into view – a ludicrous Italian restaurant, named after a Greek Island, lit up in pink neon. The kind of restaurant that small town people did not question, inside which they gladly celebrated birthdays, seated at rustic tables covered by red and white gingham tablecloths. Dave said the meatballs were very meaty. The wine was cheap Sicilian plonk. The staff was largely Polish. Dave said it was the best place in town.
There he was. Her handsome man-mountain. Already waiting at their table for two, sipping a half of lager. Everything looked slightly too small for him. Before tonight, the restaurant fittings might have seemed to Claire a ludicrous toy-like backdrop for her fabulous man. Now, it was Dave who looked incongruous and idiotic. A tyre that had been overinflated. Time to let some air out.
She took a deep breath and walked in.
‘Blimey,’ he said. Incredulous. Scrutinising the short dress and the show of leg, as though she were the only naturist on a beach of fully dressed pensioners. He stood to pull out her chair. Leaned in for the customary peck. Grabbed her hand once she was seated. ‘You smell a treat. You wearing perfume?’
‘Beyoncé.’
‘Nice. If you put enough on, will you start to look like her too?’ Wink.
Claire withdrew her slender fingers from his firm grip. Folded her napkin demurely across her lap. Appraised her partner. Straight from work, he had changed into his Autograph For Men suit and had applied some hair gel. Now that she knew about his presence on Tinder, she wondered if it was for her benefit or merely to impress the leggy waitresses. The father of her child led a double existence. Claire Sykes – qualified pharmacist, savvy mother and forty-year-old voting adult – hardly knew what to think any more. The very bedrock of her assumptions about her own life had been swept away, just as a hundred-year-old house might crumble into the sea, subject overnight to the vagaries of coastal erosion.
‘I reckon we should go for bruschetta to start,’ Dave said, his phone pinging somewhere on his person. ‘Your appetite’s never all that, is it, baby?�
� Wink, over the top of the oversized Santorini’s menu.
They had eaten out so many times and this was always the routine. Dave suggested what her selection should be, implying that he would not stump for a bona fide starter and a full main. Why was it that before this night, before Tinder-gate, she had never seen his suggestion for what it really was? Dave, exerting financial and calorific control over her life. She could barely stifle a gasp at his arrogance and her own naivety.
‘God, I’m starving,’ he began, closing his menu. His phone pinged again.
Fixing her with those sharp blue eyes, she now realised that his irises were not the same shade of azure as Mediterranean swimming pools, as she had previously eulogised to her friends. His eyes were slightly too close together and small. And they were just blue. Not azure. More like municipal swimming pools full of five-year-olds’ piss. Utterly unexotic, they also sported the telltale white rings that marked him out as a high cholesterol sufferer. Should she warn him to get his cholesterol checked? No. Dave wanted ‘spanking and kinky fun with firm blonde beauties’. Fuck him. Let him keel over with a stroke at fifty and wonder why karma had been so unforgiving.
‘You should have seen the state of this guy from the council that I treated today,’ he began, phone pinging for the third time. ‘Morbidly obese and wonders why his back’s knackered.’
No pleasantries. No ‘how was your day, my love?’ The insignificant dramas of a high-street pharmacy had never been of any consequence to Dave. But though his disinterest felt like an affront, tonight, of all nights, Claire would brook no argument with her partner. She crossed her legs beneath the table and perused the menu as coquettishly as possible. Let this bastard see what a desirable woman she was; what he stood to lose. She sat up straight and stuck her chest out. Sucked her cheeks in. Raised an eyebrow archly at the two additional pings his phone emitted, one straight after the other. Then she flagged. Felt suddenly absurd in the dress. Self-conscious of the cleavage she was showing.
Playing the ice-cool seductress did not come naturally to Claire. The last time she had pouted on a date – in the days before Dave – her suitor had mistaken her vampish efforts for choking on a fish bone and had nearly fractured her ribs with the Heimlich manoeuvre. So, what came next?
Beyoncé popped into her head, brandishing a bottle of fragrance like the one she had just bought from the pharmacy with her staff discount. Telling her Dave should have put a ring on it; that Claire needed to put everything he owned in a box to the left; that she was an independent woman. A diva. Yes, that was it! Claire resolved to be demanding and contrary. She would try high-maintenance on like a pair of daring and impractical stilettos. Beyoncé would be proud.
‘Do you know what, love?’ she said. ‘Let’s push the boat out tonight. It’s Valentine’s Day. Why don’t we go for the Valentine’s menu?’
She watched carefully as Dave eyed the hefty pricetag of the special menu, which comprised very un-Italian langoustines and sirloin steak and which had to be ordered for a minimum of two diners.
‘Sure, baby. Whatever you want, my love. It’s a special occasion.’ Wink.
Claire frowned. Would he have always relented so willingly if only she had been that little bit more demanding? Was the wisdom according to Beyoncé all she had been lacking? Maybe she didn’t need the potion to speak for her after all. Cold clammy palms enveloped her hand. Dave’s lower eyelid twitched involuntarily. His mobile phone had pinged for the sixth time during the fifteen minutes that Claire had been seated in the restaurant. The scent of fear was strong on the air.
‘Busy with work?’ she asked, glancing towards his jacket pocket. ‘Your phone’s in overdrive.’
Dave kissed the back of her hand. He spoke quickly. Focussed on something over her shoulder. ‘I had this premiership footballer this morning. Before the fat guy. Told a couple of mates, you know? My phone’s been red hot ever since.’
Claire reasoned that Dave must have been satisfied with his delivery, because in the next breath, he turned to a Polish waitress with shapely knees and pronounced, ‘We’ll both have the bruschetta, followed by the meatballs.’
Meatballs. Not sirloin. Even a diva’s charms seemingly did not work on this philandering, overstuffed tosspot. Inside her handbag, Claire fingered the potent hors d’oeuvres of intestinal cleansing. But she was still undecided.
The starters arrived.
‘You alright?’ Dave asked, shovelling cherry tomatoes absently into his mouth. ‘You seem preoccupied.’
Claire nodded. This was the cue that the universe had sent her to have it out with him. That’s what adults did, wasn’t it? They talked things through. Resolved matters through earnest exchanges. And yet, in her mind’s eye, all she saw was that kindly, slightly fungal man, Stephen Warton, who had reminded her that she was a pharmacist. Hers was the simple, silent language of chemicals; building blocks of life, health, sickness and death that dwarfed all the empty words and treacherous jibber-jabber of normal people.
‘Beyoncé has left the building,’ she muttered, reaching into her handbag.
‘Happy birthday to you …’ the staff began to sing.
A small boy being brought a birthday cake that was speared with flickering sparklers was all the distraction Claire needed. Everyone in the restaurant turned to the boy’s table and started to join in. Happy Birthday, dear Ethan. Egged on by the manager’s pantomime hand gestures and encouraging smiles.
Love potion or poison? Sweet or sour … or sweet and sour? Wasn’t that the nature of love?
As Dave joined in, facing the other way, she sprinkled a little from both vials onto the meatballs. She wondered if he would see her heart pounding up and down beneath the fabric of her dress or notice the goose bumps that prickled her skin in a warm room.
‘Have a bit of parmesan, love,’ she said, sprinkling the meatballs liberally with the strong cheese, praying that the bitterness of the ground-up medication would be masked by the salty tang.
Dave turned back to his meal and tutted. ‘My fitness regime!’ he said.
‘Special occasion, David. You adore parmesan. Go easy on yourself for once. You can afford to.’
He patted the perfectly sculpted torso that lay beneath his blue shirt. ‘That footballer complimented me on the definition of my abs today.’
‘There you go, see?’
As the hour passed and Claire listened to his revelations about reps, cardio and the importance of a high-protein, low-carb diet to muscle tone, Dave’s behaviour and posture began to change. Where he had been sitting upright, eyes frequently appraising the women in the room, he was now slumped over his place setting. Dark sweat stains blossomed on the pale fabric of his shirt. A pained expression contorted his pink face. His stomach began to emit clearly audible sounds, like the groan and creak of a beleaguered, storm-tossed freight ship succumbing to a cracked hull. Sinking fast.
‘Let’s pay up and get out of here,’ he said, abandoning his fork with a clatter. ‘I don’t feel good.’
He was careful to hold his coat bundled up before him, though the February evening air outside was bitingly cold.
‘Put that on,’ Claire said with no small measure of glee, knowing precisely what the heavy overcoat concealed. ‘You’re going to catch your death.’
‘No!’ he snapped.
But judging by the array of alarmed expressions, titters and smirks, the diners in the restaurant had already caught more than just a glimpse of Dave’s giant erection, poking through the fabric of his trousers. And if that hadn’t attracted their attention, the cacophonous, orchestral sound and breathtaking stench of Dave’s failing bowels surely would have.
‘Get to the car before I blow,’ he whimpered.
*
In the privacy of their own bathroom, with the babysitter gone, Claire watched Dave writhing in agony.
‘My God,’ he cried. ‘What’s happening to me? Call an ambulance.’
‘It’s just a dicky tummy,’ Claire explained from
the safety of the threshold. ‘Maybe you should have ordered the Valentine’s menu after all.’
‘But the hard-on,’ he sobbed, prodding his rock-solid penis. ‘It just won’t go down. I’m dying, Claire-bear.’
Claire mused that watching Dave suffer was more enjoyable than a good film. As the symptoms began to calm, however, she realised that this punishment was pointless without an explanation.
She told him that she knew.
‘You poisoned me?’ he asked, bewildered and sweating freely on the toilet.
‘You deserved it,’ she said. ‘You humiliated me publicly. You betrayed me.’
He nodded. Contrite for once, or perhaps just frightened that he was about to lose everything.
‘I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I swear, they meant nothing. It’s you I love. With all of my heart.’
Claire handed him a new toilet roll. ‘Save it, David,’ she said, smiling sweetly. ‘I’ve heard enough. After all these years of thinking the sun shone out of your arse, and being made to think I was lucky to bask in its glow, I realise you’re nothing. Just a vain and boring little man with a puffed up sense of your own self-importance. You’re quite literally full of shit.’
‘I love you. I’ll always love you, Claire-bear.’ His eyes had an imploring, crazed quality about them.
‘I know you will, Dave,’ Claire said, allowing herself a smile that bordered on smug. ‘And that is precisely the nature of your punishment.’
Questioning eyes, now. Dave bit his bottom lip uncertainly. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I’ve altered you chemically.’ She stroked his cheek. Knew he’d swallow every word, as he’d swallowed every mouthful of those poisoned meatballs. ‘You’re doomed to be in love with me forever. Hooked like a smack-head. But I don’t want you.’ She took several steps back towards the door. ‘So, you’ll always be a junkie that can’t get his fix.’
‘But—’
‘Enjoy your withdrawals, Dave. I want you gone by morning.’
