Fifteen Modern Tales of Attraction

by Alison Macleod

  ‘No.’

  ‘Once, when there was no answer at the front of a particular property, I took the liberty of going around to the back, and I spotted the couple through the kitchen window – a couple in their sixties, mind you – crouching on the floor next to the breakfast bar. I’m afraid I heard the whole sorry argument through the cat flap!’ He listens to his own voice as it gathers strength in the tasteful surrounds of Mrs Richardson’s sitting room. Yes, he can be entertaining when he chooses to be; when he deems it appropriate.

  ‘I’m sure my husband will be home any time now.’

  He nods. ‘Did I point out that our Probate Department’s fees would be at least 40 per cent less than those charged by any of the major banks?’

  ‘You did, thank you.’

  ‘And that, if you sign up to the Will Deluxe Service, Mrs Richardson, we will store your house deeds absolutely free in a fireproof, high-security vault.’

  ‘I’ll have to ask Mr Richardson but I believe they’ve been with our bank for absolutely yonks.’

  He brushes biscuit crumbs from his napkin into his now empty tea cup. ‘Have you had a chance to read the testimonials I posted to you?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says grinning. She can’t help herself. ‘ “Mr H of Milton Keynes says thank you,” ’ she recites. ‘ “He could never have managed the whole terrible business on his own… Mrs Trollope” – always an unfortunate name to marry into – writes, “I’m very grateful. You’ve relieved my family and I” – “me” would be correct, I believe – “of a very heavy burden.” ’

  ‘Yes,’ he nods, hardly listening. He wonders if he can bring himself to ask if he might use the cloakroom. Somehow the request seems awkward without the presence of Mr Richardson. ‘Over seventy thousand satisfied clients,’ he adds.

  ‘No doubt, Mr… Mr…?’ She feels giddy. The truth is, she doesn’t give a damn what the man’s name is.

  He reaches into his breast pocket and offers her his card.

  ‘Oh look!’ Mrs Richardson bends like a girl and, delighted, picks up a blue paper ticket that has fallen from his jacket. ‘Your dry-cleaner, if he’s anything like ours, will simply torture you if you turn up without it.’

  ‘Actually, it’s a raffle ticket,’ he confesses, and he wonders why he said anything; why he should have spoken of it at all.

  ‘A raffle? How exciting. What might you win? I’m potty for all of it. Raffles. The National Lottery. The gee-gees. Russian roulette when a dinner party gets dull, as they mostly do, even my own, no, especially my own, though no one else ever seems keen – on spinning the cylinder, that is – after the cheese and biscuits. You must be the same. You must like the occasional flutter, am I right?’ Why, she wonders, does she feel drunk? Hasn’t she been dry for six months now?

  ‘No,’ he says, pretending to chuckle. ‘I’m afraid not.’ In his line of work, it is important to appear calm, stable, yet friendly. ‘I was just passing. A stall, I think, at the local shopping centre while I waited for my wife to emerge from Tesco’s. It’s for a car. Or maybe an SUV – that’s a “Sports Utility Vehicle” to you and me. A charity raffle. Not that there’s any hope. Not that there ever really is in these things.’ He tucks the ticket very carefully into his wallet.

  ‘No,’ she agrees, moving across the room to switch on a floor lamp. ‘Not that there ever really is.’

  The will writer watches her face age unexpectedly as it is caught, briefly, in the light. He glances at his watch.

  ‘Another cup of tea perhaps?’ she offers.

  ‘No, thank you. I’m fine – though, please, don’t let me stop you.’

  Thankfully, he is rarely lost for words. They discuss London’s Congestion Charge, the state of the NHS, her son Joshua’s summer wedding, seasonal rainfall averages, the latest property boom, and the reduction of postal services to just one delivery a day. At last the will writer gets to his feet. ‘If you’ll forgive me, Mrs Richardson, I’ll leave you in peace. But you have my card and the number for Head Office – that’s Croydon – should you and Mr Richardson wish to make another appointment.’ He snaps his briefcase shut. He thanks her for the tea and biscuits. Privately, he decides he can wait till the next motorway services for the loo.

  ‘Has it been raining?’ she asks – herself more than him – as she passes him his damp overcoat. He slides into one sleeve, then the next, awkwardly. He is a big man, she observes. Burly even. Why didn’t she notice as he sat, taking up room on her sofa? She opens the door and peers out. ‘Will the days ever start getting longer?’ Suddenly she is eager to have him on his way, gone, lost to the encroaching dark of the late-November afternoon.

  ‘When your number’s up, it’s up. It doesn’t matter if you live in Middle England or in the middle of a bombardment in bloody, barking Basra.’

  It’s the Exeter chap sounding off again. Everyone’s off the road. Grounded for a staff-training day. On the radio in the canteen, a well-modulated voice is saying that no one knows how many Iraqis have been killed. Iraq Bodycount says 17,000. An Iraqi political group, People’s Kifah, reports 37,000. The Lancet claims that Operation Iraqi Freedom may have led to as many as 98,000 civilian deaths.

  The will writer unpeels the sweating cellophane from the sandwich he’s bought from the machine. In spite of himself, he wonders if this new chap, the one from the Exeter office, is right; if there is a day, an hour, a moment on the clock when you have to punch out.

  He smiles to himself. He rarely thinks like this. Unlike the ‘cowards’ he laughed about with Mrs Richardson, he is not susceptible to bouts of existential panic. Indeed, in planning for the deaths of others – day in, day out, year in, year out – it is surprisingly easy to forget that he himself is not exempt; that he is not so very ordinary that Death won’t take notice of him some ludicrous day. Perhaps this is why, when asked to complete a recent Investors in People questionnaire, the will writer ranked his job satisfaction as ‘high’.

  Nor will he waver on that point when, on his way home tonight, from Croydon to Surbiton, he is cut up twice during the forty-minute drive: once on the A232, just before Hackbridge, and again on the A240, after the Beggar’s Hill roundabout. He will blare his horn, braking only just in time. He will hit the foglights and tailgate each offending driver. He will hold his ground, relentless in the rear-view, until he or she is forced from the lane.

  As his ready-meal defrosts in the microwave, the will writer finds the brochure he picked up at the stall and staples the ticket to it, so it can’t go astray again. Number 1009. He paid £15 for it. DATE OF DRAW: November 30th.

  Less than a week to go.

  The brochure is already well thumbed. The Hummer SUV instantly became the most functional off-road vehicle ever made available to the civilian market. So what makes it the real deal? In a world where SUVs have begun to look like their owners, complete with love handles and mushy seats, the H2 proves that there is still one out there that can drop and give you 20.’

  And doesn’t the will writer himself do his best to stay in shape? Twenty press-ups and eighty sit-ups as part of his ten-minute callisthenics routine at the foot of his bed each morning.

  He leafs forward: ‘The Hummer Driving Academy is the ultimate experience for any Hummer owner. The H1 and H2 were created to handle deep water, nasty inclines and harrowing vertical ledges. On the same course where the US army and Allied Forces have trained drivers, you’ll face twisted, muddy terrain… Unfortunately, after the training is over, you will have to return to civilization.’

  And Croydon is civilization, make no mistake, thinks the will writer. Surrey. The Home Counties. Head Office. After all those years at the Leeds branch. He considers the colour he will choose, given the chance. He’s narrowed it down to two: Stealth Gray Metallic and Desert Sand Metallic.

  The microwave bleeps. He shakes himself from the desert sand, lopes into his kitchenette and switches the cooking dial on to high power. ‘With the addition of a transfer case shield and a heavy plastic fu
el tank shield,’ he reminds himself, ‘such complete undercarriage protection ensures that, even if you’re in a HUMMER, the best offence is still a good defence.’ He knows the words, even as the delicate, reckless Mrs Richardson knew those customer testimonials.

  He knows, too, that nine point seven inches of ground clearance allows this premiere urban-assault luxury vehicle to clear obstacles, both on- and off-road. He knows that it can ford an impressive twenty inches of water, pass through deep ditches and traverse large dirt mounds without suffering any front- or rear-end damage. He knows the H2 can tow up to 6,700 lbs in the toughest situations; that it can scale a 60 per cent slope and climb a sixteen-inch vertical wall. The H2 has to exude power and authority. It has to inspire driver confidence. In a word, it has to be overbuilt.

  Like the will writer himself. Six foot three in his bare feet. With a strong frame. Like his grandfather before him, a Yorkshire man.

  He doesn’t bother with a plate, making do instead with the plastic tray provided. What’s more, he recalls, shovelling forkfuls of chilli into his mouth, the integrated DVD Navigation System can be adjusted to switch between audio prompts and displayed text messages to help guide drivers. The OnStar Advisor includes services such as directions almost anywhere, searches for hard-to-find tickets for most major shows and sporting events, plus help with vacation planning. He smiles, shaking his head – whatever next? Why, you can even send a bouquet of flowers to your wife from the comfort of your driver’s seat.

  Yasmeen. She’d be Yasmeen. Arabic for Jasmine. He’d send her fresh bunches of the stuff on every anniversary, because he’s sentimental. She’d have come to London on one of those English-as-a-Second-Language courses. She’d be lodging in Surbiton and struggling to make herself understood at the post office on the High Street when he’d ask if he could help.

  He has always liked the idea of Arabian mystery; of soft, dusky skin and shaking bracelets.

  She’d photograph him on her mobile phone and, giggling, send pictures of him to her girlfriends at the language school. That’s how it would all begin.

  He counts two roadside shrines today, the plastic wrap of the assorted flora twinkling in the early-morning sunshine. He spots the first at the site of a large and ancient oak as he sits in traffic on the edge of Nonsuch Park. A sad display of stiff carnations and fading chrysanths. The other is more plentiful, a blur of colour at a steel guard rail by a pedestrian crossing. When do people do it? he wonders. You never see anyone out there, with their scissors and twine and petrol-station bouquets. These things turn up, literally overnight, he decides, like graffiti. Like something slightly shameful.

  At the office, where he hot-desks with three colleagues, there’s a message waiting for him. Mr and Mrs Richardson have requested another appointment. For today if possible. Ring back to confirm.

  ‘Mrs Richardson… Certainly. No, I understand… And that suits Mr Richardson…? Jolly good… No, not to worry. She’ll keep dinner for me – I’m afraid she knows all too well that it goes with the job… Yes. Righty-ho. Six it is then.’

  He walks past the thin, chest-high partition wall that divides the will writers from the Your Will call centre. The company slogan flutters on a royal-blue banner overhead, caught in the stale breeze from the heating duct, YOUR WILL – WHERE YOUR WILL IS OUR COMMAND. Kirsty waves to him absentmindedly as she chirrups into her mouthpiece the greetings she reads off her flickering monitor. He waves back, then enters the Richardson appointment on the whiteboard on the back wall. His colour is black. Only the Exeter chap, in red, has been anything like serious competition on the numbers front in recent months. But while he’s great at lining up the appointments, relying very little on the cold-callers in the office, he’s less impressive at getting the signed deal. And, in the end, only a signed deal is the real deal.

  The will writer scans his day. Mrs Ogilvie’s at ten-thirty, wanting, no doubt, to change her will yet again to pit niece against nephew or nephew against second cousin. ‘Such fun I have!’ she grins, lopsidedly since the stroke. Or she’s merely looking for company. Isn’t she on the phone to Your Will every other week? The will writer begrudges the time he’ll lose to her. Although she’ll have to pay for the extra home visit, it’s hardly going to help him hit this month’s target. But Kirsty tends to put the widows and widowers his way. He’s more well spoken than the other will writers, she says, and the older, more respectable client values that.

  Yasmeen, he thinks, will value it too. He’ll be able to speak for her in an impatient world. She won’t be lost to the sea of asylum-seekers he sees swelling every morning on Wellesley Road, outside the Home Office, before its doors even open for the day.

  Twelve-thirty is an introductory visit to a Mr Carradine and a Mr Pembury in Brighton. ‘Gay as the day is long,’ Kirsty smirks as she gives him the address. Then it’s back to his own turf, Surbiton, for a two-thirty appointment, also introductory, with the newlyweds who had to cancel yesterday. ‘Apparently,’ Sheena informs him – Sheena’s at the desk next to Kirsty’s – ‘the husband’s got a fatal bee allergy. His throat could swell and close within a matter of minutes, and, to top it all off, he’s always forgetting his Epi-thingamajig whenever he plays golf. Now, no word of a lie, by the time Kirsty finished with the poor wee wifie, she was in tears on the other end and practically begging for another appointment.’

  He should be finished with the newlyweds by four, which leaves him time to swing by Burger King on his way out of Surbiton, eat, complete the day’s paperwork, and be on the road again by five to reach Mr and Mrs Richardson by six, even allowing for rush-hour traffic. In eighteen years, he’s never once been late. It’s true, he’s been tediously early, but he’s never been late. As the Skills Facilitator says, it’s important to show the client you’re in control. ‘At a time like that – when they face the grim task of weighing up their lives’ worth – you’re making it clear you’re in charge, come what may.’ And that, the will writer tells himself, is precisely what he does. He takes charge.

  Except he didn’t expect them to be Muslims. Sheena didn’t say anything about the newlyweds being Muslims. Since when do you find Muslims on the golf courses of Surrey? It threw him, frankly. He found himself worrying about making accidental eye contact with the wife. Weren’t there rules about that sort of thing? He was determined not to offend, but it didn’t help that the coffee she served was as black as Saudi oil. Had he done the wrong thing by asking if they might have any Nescafé to hand instead? Worse still, he forgot key parts of his introductory patter because the husband kept murmuring ‘Inshallah’ after everything he said. The will writer found himself blushing, even before they both bent down to help him gather up the payment-plan leaflets that had slid from his lap.

  No matter. He checks his watch. He’s right on time. The wide arc of Mr and Mrs Richardson’s drive beckons. It returns him to himself. He slides a breath-freshener strip on to his tongue and checks his teeth in the mirror for any bits of lettuce left over from his Chicken Royale.

  Mr Richardson opens the door. He’s a well-built man with a firm handshake and a shrewd face. Nothing drunk or cowardly about him, the will writer decides.

  ‘Tea?’ Mrs Richardson offers as he steps once more into the decorous calm of the sitting room.

  ‘Or something a bit stronger?’ asks Mr Richardson, taking the situation in hand. ‘It’s gone six, after all.’

  ‘Thank you,’ says the will writer, finding his former place on the leather sofa. ‘But, much as I’d like to, it’s only right I keep a clear head when attending to your business.’

  ‘You don’t mind if I do?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Felicity, anything for you?’

  She looks up, her eyes narrowing. ‘No,’ she says slowly, ‘not for me.’

  He smiles at the will writer and rolls his eyes, as if to say, ‘Women. What can you do?’

  Mrs Richardson doesn’t join in on the joke. ‘Where did I leave those lists, Jack?’r />
  ‘Lists? What lists?’

  ‘The lists I was showing you this morning.’ A strand of pale yellow hair keeps falling across her face as she rummages in the magazine rack by the sofa. ‘The lists where we started to write out which things we’d like to go to whom.’

  ‘The Personal Effects & Gift List,’ adds the will writer, trying to be helpful.

  Mr Richardson pours himself a shot of Jameson whiskey. ‘I don’t see how that matters just now, Felicity. It’s the will itself that’s important. That’s the purpose of this meeting. There are fates worse than death and, the way I see it, “dying intestate” is one of them. When I first heard the word, for Lord’s sake, I thought it was a type of impotence!’

  He can joke about death, the will writer observes, for Mr Richardson too is a man in control.

  ‘Surely we can simply send this Gift list’ – he looks to the will writer for confirmation – ‘surely we can just send it in by post whenever you’re finished with the thing, Lissie.’

  She straightens. ‘When ‘I’m finished with the thing?’

  He looks perplexed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why, Jack, is it my job? Why, Jack, is everything my job?’

  He brings his shot glass down somewhat too suddenly on the cherrywood mantelpiece. ‘Because, Felicity, it so happens I’m the one who’s dying. Forgive me if this means I must occasionally bow out of some of our forward planning!’ He forces a laugh for the will writer’s benefit.

  ‘But they’re your things, Jack. How am I going to know what to do with your fishing rods, for goodness sake? Only Josh had any interest in fishing and you know very well he turned vegetarian when he met Sophie.’

  Mr Richardson rolls his eyes, again for the will writer’s entertainment. ‘My only son, a vegetarian.’

  ‘Then there’s your antique atlas collection. I suppose I could hold on to that in case India or Daniel become interested as they get older, but –’