by Tara Ford
“Huh, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he smirked, eyeing the woman’s curvaceous figure. Her white blouse and knee-length skirt gave the impression that she was an office worker, or maybe a personal assistant to some top-notch bigwig. Perhaps she was a doctor or a receptionist, but whatever she was, it seemed the poor girl had been working on a bank holiday.
“Try me.” She grinned seductively with parted lips.
A tingling sensation burst inside Grant’s mouth like a fizzy sweet, and his spinning head caused him to pull away. Their hot lips parted and he opened his eyes to gaze intently into hers.
“I can’t do this. I’m sorry... I need to go.”
Reality dawned and Grant cringed, knowing he had been bewitched for the last couple of hours by this sexy, voluptuous woman. Guilt washed over him like a tsunami as he turned away from her and cupped his hands to his face. “I’m sorry Rachel, I’ll call a taxi. I really shouldn’t be here.” Sobering with each word, Grant pulled the phone from his pocket and stared at the screen.
“It’s okay, I understand. Here, use my phone,” she whispered as she passed the handset to him. “I really appreciate you walking me home. Thank you,” she said, with a strange glint in her eye.
Grabbing the phone, Grant placed his mobile on the side table and dialled a number on the landline that he had remembered from years ago, and hoped it was still an active taxi service.
A few moments later, Rachel ran her fingers through his hair as she moved to kiss him again.
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” she breathed, as her hot lips pressed against his and her tongue began to probe at his lips. Grant succumbed to her advance once more and opened his mouth slowly. With no resistance, Rachel took his large, strong hand and placed it upon her breast. Slowly undoing her shirt buttons, she held his hand again and pushed it inside her bra. The soft, ample flesh swelled in Grant’s hand as she inhaled…
”I’ve got to go Rachel, I can’t do this. It’s wrong.” Carefully removing his hand, Grant pulled her opened shirt together and adjusted his manhood to a more comfortable position.
“I know you want me,” she whispered in his ear.
“Yes... no... I can’t. I’m a married man, I am sorry Rachel.” Jumping up from the sofa, Grant’s head began to throb as his sobering mind screamed at him to leave.
“Please stay, we could have some fun. I won’t say anything to anyone.”
“I’m sorry, but no.”
Luckily, within a few minutes a taxi arrived and Grant walked out of the front door backwards while grovelling, and uttering a thousand apologies.
The diesel engine chugged noisily outside the house as Grant paid the driver and tipped him the change. With a thumping, hung-over head he hauled himself out of the car and searched for his front door key as he shuffled up the driveway. At gone 4.30 in the morning, he was relieved to find that the house slept silently as he crept in. Tormented by his actions, Grant headed for the comfort of his new kettle as tidal waves of guilt resurfaced to try and drown him. If Alex ever finds out what I’ve done, it’ll be over, I’m sure. Recalling his ludicrous reaction to the weekend, when he was standing at the bar, he realised how drunk and vulnerable he’d been and how the alcohol masked his true emotions, turning unshed tears into absurd mirth.
Grant, Charlie and Dot
Tuesday the 10th of April. Grant stared, bleary-eyed, at Alex’s scribbles on the calendar, waiting for his faithful friend to boil. Boat – Mum & Dad’s house, 9am. Today was the day – Alex should be at home, everything should be normal, the kids should go to school normally, Aaron should go to college normally, Jack should chill out indoors or go out as normal, the kitchen should look normal, Joe’s bike should be in its normal place, the lawn should be normal and Grant’s head should feel normal. But it was the school and college Easter holidays and nothing was normal and worst of all, it was the 10th of April.
Grant dared not put the radio or the television on as they wouldn’t even be normal today. The centenary remembrance for the Titanic’s fatal voyage, which departed from Southampton on the 10th of April 1912, was already beginning.
How Grant had managed to be talked into taking part in today’s local events, he really didn’t know. It probably wouldn’t have seemed so bad if Alex was here. She could always make light of any mundane situation that involved her parents and although today was not particularly banal, it was in fact, very unusual.
It was most certainly Charlie’s special day and he had waited four years for it. Dot, Grant and Alex were supposed to be there to make sure the day ran smoothly and to ensure the launch was successful.
At six o’clock in the morning, seated on the patio, Grant ticked off the weather on his mental tick list for the day. He was starting to like these lists, whether they were imagined ones or real ones. Studying the sky, looking for any cotton wool balls floating by, he noted that there wasn’t a single one. A succession of cloudless sunny days was very out of the ordinary, and definitely fitting for the tasks that lay ahead today, the first one being to recover his car from the King’s Arms car park. He prayed it was all right after being left overnight, and undamaged. He would then nip into the supermarket on his way back and pick up some bread and fillings for the kids’ sandwiches, determined that they would remain salmon paste-free for as long as he was in charge.
Every year, the kids spent part of the Easter holidays visiting an outdoor activity centre which was linked to their local youth club, and Grant wished he was going with them today.
Emma would enjoy showing off her thumb to friends and telling a tale or two, while Joe took up every challenge available on the course, from rock climbing to caving.
As for Aaron, he was too old for it now and quite relieved about it, too, as the only activity he ever enjoyed was ‘Badger Watch’, as he didn’t have to do anything apart from... well... watch badgers.
Pulling into the drive, Grant glanced into the rear view mirror and spotted the Black Widow approaching the back of the car. Reverse, reverse – it could be an accident. The spider would be splattered under the tyres. Reluctantly switching off the engine, Grant grabbed the carrier bag of items for the kids’ lunches and hesitantly hobbled out of the car. His burnt toes were still sore, and more so since he’d started to neglect them.
“Morning lovely, is everything all right with your car? You had a late night at the hospital, how is Alex ? Where has your car been all night?” quizzed the hairy black predator.
“Morning Evelyn.” Grant mumbled. Aren’t people supposed to die when they get to your age? “I’m really busy this morning. I’ve got to get the kids sorted out; then—”
“Oh I know, you’re off to Charlie and Dorothy’s aren’t you?”
“Yeah, it’s a big day for—”
“Charlie, I know. I spoke to him last night, he’s quite nervous.” She grinned cunningly.
Well why don’t you just frigging get lost then if you already know everything? “Yes, I expect he is. Look, I’ve really got to go, Eve.” Grant lifted the carrier bag up. “Got to do the kids’ lunches ready for, ‘Go For It’.”
“Would you like me to give you a hand? You haven’t told me how Alex is. Why did you have to stay at the hospital half the night?”
“Alex is getting better and she’s started to move her toes again now.” Cringing at the thought of inviting Evelyn into the house, Grant knew he didn’t have any other option. If he said no he knew she’d go straight back home and phone Dot. How was he going to explain his late night and the car’s absence? Maybe she’s phoned the in-laws already. Maybe they’re wondering where I’ve been for half the night. Or maybe I’m just overreacting. Maybe guilt is playing tricks with my mind. Maybe I’m becoming completely paranoid. I’m turning into a vulnerable bluebottle caught in the spider’s web yet again. Or maybe there are just too many maybes.
“Come on, I can see you’re getting yourself in a fluster, Grant. Let me help you get those lunches done.” Taking th
e bag, Evelyn let herself in the door, leaving Grant stood on the drive, dumbfounded and speechless.
To Joe’s evident surprise and horror, Evelyn came crawling into the kitchen clutching a carrier bag as he munched and slurped his way through a large bowl of cereal.
“Morning Joe. Don’t mind me love, I’m helping your dad. He’s a bit muddled this morning.” She gave him a wrinkled grin and proceeded to empty the contents of the bag onto the worktop.
“Evelyn, I think I can manage, especially as Joe’s up now. You’ll sort out the sandwiches won’t you Joe?” Glaring intently, Grant’s piercing blue eyes sent a desperate plea of ‘rescue me’ to Joe.
“Yeah sure, I’ll do them Dad.” Draining his bowl of excess milk, Joe put it on the draining board and took the bread and a tin of corned beef away from the spider’s grasp. “Blimey – corned beef?” said Joe in disbelief.
“Well, if you’re sure I can’t help?”
“Thanks Eve, but we’ll manage. I need to get going soon myself,” muttered Grant, feeling completely stressed out. Unable to concentrate on any one thing, his mind darted around sporadically as he assisted Evelyn to the door. “We really appreciate your offer, thank you.” Gently shoving her out and onto the drive, Grant was just about to shut the door when she turned.
“Grant, are you sure you can manage? Something’s wrong, isn’t it? You seem incredibly harassed.”
“Yes, I can manage. I’ve got to go Evelyn, sorry. I’ll catch up with you later.” Gently closing the door, he slumped to the floor behind it and sat with his head in his hands. In his mind’s eye, Grant watched her cross over the road, creep back inside her lair and pick up the phone.
Majestic and proud, the wooden replica of the White Star liner RMS Titanic stood in its holder. A beautiful model of intricacy, patience and perseverance, every minute detail of the original historical ship had been etched into Charlie’s masterpiece. Four years of dedicated service to the design and building of his most ambitious project had finally paid off and the planning and preparation for this day had come to fruition.
Obsessed with the tragic story of the Titanic, throughout his life Charlie had had a fascination with anything to do with the liner. His idea had surfaced five years ago, in the ninety-fifth commemorative year of the rise and fall of the White Star Line’s most ambitious ship. Making his mind up then that he would sail his own scaled replica for the centenary. The last 12 months had seen Charlie’s enthusiasm grow and widen as he introduced the media to his idea of launching RMS Titanic 2 into the local lake for its maiden voyage on the same date as its mother ship, one hundred years ago.
Constructed from plywood and pine, the superstructure had several layers of metre-length pine strips meticulously glued to the ply formers to give shape to the ship. The promenade deck was made up of individual strips of plywood, each slat was just one millimetre wide and half a millimetre thick, and these had been laboriously stepped to create the effect of the decking and then glued together one by one. Deep within the hull, Charlie built the steam engines that would power the port and starboard wing propellers.
Once the magnificent ship had been assembled Charlie had spent month after month rigorously painting and then varnishing the model. After four coats of each, the glossy replica was ready. Pristine and glorious it took centre stage in Charlie’s workshop.
Standing with his hands resting on his hips, Charlie admired his work of art for the last time in his private room. Today would be the real test. The ship’s buoyancy had been tested to some degree in his bath, but its sheer length had caused some problems with the bathroom taps, which had to be removed temporarily in order to determine, for sure, that there were no leaks in the hull. Utilising his expertise and craftsmanship, Charlie had made a toughened glass casing which attached to a wooden tray base. Then he fitted supporting struts to the base which would hold the ship securely throughout its transportation, and protect the delicate fine details of the upper decks and the rigging when it reached its final resting place.
The new maritime museum was thrilled to accept his offer for them to house such a wonderful piece in its Titanic memorabilia and artefacts department.
The local newspaper and the South Coast Television Company had been informed about the launch of Charlie’s ship into the nearby park’s boating lake to coincide with the Titanic’s first and last voyage from Southampton. Buzzing with enthusiasm, the media saw this event as an apt link to the activities, ceremonies and memorials taking part along the coast.
Coverage had already started on Saturday, when countless photographs of the great model shipbuilder Charlie Stern and his creation were snapped, ready for today’s newspapers. A lengthy interview had been conducted to get some background information about Charlie for the half-page spread in their The Titanic – One Hundred Years On series of articles which would run for the five days leading up to the anniversary of the disaster.
During the photographs and interviews, Dot had opted for tea duty and presented herself as the doting wife. Her immaculate presence and lily of the valley fragrance filled the house with the overwhelming smell and feel of being in a brothel. As she hovered around the journalist, the photographer and the curator from the museum, her questions, opinions and irritating ability to dictate, left everyone exasperated. Itching to leave (including Charlie) and feeling consumed by the excessive flowery fumes emanating from her, the guests tried to complete their tasks speedily.
“Can I get you another cup of tea?” she had asked for the umpteenth time.
“No, really. No more, thank you,” John, the curator, had replied desperately. Having spent just an hour with Charlie, he’d drunk two cups of tea and been offered two more.
“So what have we got planned then?” Dot leant over the table and examined the paperwork closely.
“Well, I’m not sure when we’ll be taking it over to the museum,” said Charlie, rubbing his forehead. “I’ve said to John that our Alex is in hospital and we don’t expect her to be out before Tuesday.”
“What has that got to do with anything?” whined Dot, glaring at him with piercing eyes.
“I’ve told you. We’ll get the camera crews back out on Sunday the 15th and sink it in memory of the disaster.”
Mouth hung open in astonishment, John gawped from Charlie to Dot, then realising his appearance, he quickly snapped his mouth shut again.
“Oh for goodness’ sake Charlie, don’t be ridiculous. You can’t do that!” shrieked Dot as she put a hand on John’s shoulder. “The museum really wants this.” Dot pointed at the model with a shaky finger. “You cannot sink it, Charlie, just because your daughter won’t be there to see the launch. She can watch it on the bloody television.”
Nodding in agreement, John remained quiet and unassuming.
“Hmm, we’ll see.” Charlie pouted. “My little girl was supposed to be at the launch, I don’t want her to miss it and now she’s in hospital... very unwell.”
John and Dot had looked at each other, not knowing what to say. Charlie’s eccentric behaviour was a trait that had earned him the title of the ‘nutty professor’ and now he seemed to be getting ‘nuttier’ than ever.
Pressing the doorbell, Grant waited patiently for an answer.
“How many times do I have to tell you, Grant? You don’t need to ring the bell, just walk in.” Dot was highly agitated.
Stepping in, Grant struggled to make a snap decision as to whether or not to tell Dot that she had bright red lipstick heading off up towards her nose, as if she’d tripped whilst applying it. He determined that it was better to keep quiet, as she seemed very het up.
“Oh you know me Dot, I always ring the bell.” It’s no good... I’ll have to tell her, she looks bloody ludicrous. Raising his finger and pointing to her lips, Grant mumbled incoherently and pointed back to his own lips, miming a lipstick with his finger.
“Are you okay, Grant? If you need a cup of tea, you know where the kettle is, love,” she grunted as she turned to climb t
he stairs. “Make us one as well, would you?” Dot called after him.
Hopefully she’ll look in the mirror and see what a mess she is. Daft cow! Grant thought as he went through to the kitchen, still hung-over and increasingly weary of his aching muscles.
Grant’s mind swam with lists again as he switched on the kettle: 1) go to the police station and make a statement, 2) see a nurse about infected toes, 3) get some shopping, 4) sort out the mess with Alex, 5) make sure he never got within kissing distance of Rachel ever again.
It was simple. He’d definitely take the rest of the week off work and sort everything out once he’d got today out of the way.
Descending magnificently down the stairs, Charlie appeared in the doorway of the lounge. Tall and upright, he wore a dark grey suit, white shirt and blue tie. “Morning Grant, how are you?” he asked rhetorically. Charlie was nervous – to those who knew him well it would be apparent, but others would only see his eccentricity.
The sound of Dot’s hooves stomping down the stairs caused Charlie to move through the door and into the lounge as she charged past him and along the hallway.
“Is everyone nearly ready?” she shouted from the kitchen.
“We’re waiting for you,” Charlie bellowed back and rolled his eyes at Grant. Appearing at the lounge door, Dot stood proudly like a peacock displaying its feathers, in a blue paisley dress, navy Hush Puppies and a short navy cardigan.
“Well?” she beamed.
Nodding enthusiastically, Charlie smiled and Grant cringed – the red lipstick streak had not been removed and from a distance she looked like she’d been smacked in the mouth. Subtlety would have to be the key, predicted Grant as he tried to avert his eyes from the high-gloss, ruby-red botch. It would be down to him to tell her as Charlie wouldn’t even notice it... he never really looked at his wife.
