‘But, let’s be honest,’ he says, folding his arms across his broad chest, ‘it requires a lot of dusting.’
‘That’s not fair, Jack.’
‘Neither is a high-grade brain tumour, Felicity, but you don’t see me fussing, do you?’
‘No. I just don’t see you at all. You’re hardly home these days. Even Mr… Mr… can vouch for that. Most dying men at least make an effort to do the hearth-and-home scene. It’s only seemly after all, but you, you won’t make it as far as our next wedding anniversary, and you still can’t tear yourself away from you-know-who.’
He downs his whiskey. ‘Ruby, isn’t it?’
‘What did you say?’
‘Our Ruby Wedding Anniversary. Forty years in April.’
She lowers herself into a wingback chair and crosses one leg over the other. ‘Not now, Jack,’ she says, lowering her voice. ‘Don’t play the romantic now.’ In the other room, her heirloom clock wheezes and chimes. She looks up, shaking herself free of the sudden weight of memory, and seems to brighten. ‘On second thought, yes. I’ll have that drink. Why not? I’ll have whatever you’re having.’
Mr Richardson’s thread-veined face stiffens. ‘Now you know you, Lis,’ he says, emphasizing each word, ‘you know you’ll be fast asleep before EastEnders even starts, and tomorrow you’ll wonder where the evening went!’
‘No. Really, Jack.’ She folds her hands in her lap. ‘I’ll have –what is it? – a whiskey too.’ She turns to the will writer. ‘Are you sure we can’t offer you something?’
‘No.’ He smiles shyly. ‘Thank you all the same.’
Mr Richardson ignores his wife. ‘Right,’ he says, clapping his hands, ‘where do we start?’
The will writer blinks, then snaps open his briefcase. ‘Well, first I’ll need to make sure I have the names and addresses of all your beneficiaries, as well as those of your trustees.’
He looks up. Across the room, Mrs Richardson sits very upright in her wingback chair. The drinks coaster she has placed on the side table next to her is bare. Tears run down her face.
The will writer clears his throat. Mr Richardson turns to his wife, sighs and digs for his hankie. ‘Come on, Lis. We don’t want a scene, do we? We really could do without a scene, don’t you think?’
‘I’ll have that drink, Jack.’
He turns to the will writer and lowers his voice. ‘It’s difficult, of course. Of course it is. She’s still adjusting to the news.’
‘Liar,’ she murmurs.
‘Lissie…’
‘My drink, please, Jack. You offered me one not two minutes ago.’
His smile is brittle as he looks from wife to will writer and back again. ‘Lis, you know very well that you –’
She stares at the carpet as she speaks. ‘I won’t sign anything without it. Do you hear me, Jack? Your fancy-woman will have to sue to get as much as a pair of monogrammed cuff links.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you, Lis? This is about you and me.’ He closes the door of the drinks cabinet quietly behind him. ‘Now let’s begin again, shall we? This gentleman is going to prepare our will, you and I are going to sign it, and that will be an end to the matter. I’m not asking for much, Lissie. I am simply asking that you help me to die with my affairs in order. Am I not entitled to that modicum of dignity?’
She laughs, girlish and grim all at once. ‘Dignity? When will you understand, Jack? Death isn’t going to buy you dignity! Your “affairs” will never be in order! There have been a few women too many for that!’ She swings her crossed leg so energetically, her low-heeled court shoe seems poised to fly off.
‘You’re talking nonsense, Lissie, and you know it.’
‘The sad truth is, I honestly don’t know what I know any more.’
Her foot continues to tap out its angry dirge on the air. Mr Richardson rubs the bridge of his nose, downs the rest of his shot, and turns to the wall.
The will writer sighs – not audibly, he hopes. He waits as long as he dares, then finally closes his case, releases himself from the powerful suck of the sofa and clambers to his feet. What else can he do but reach into his jacket pocket and pass Mr Richardson his card? His last hope. ‘I suspect it’s best if I leave you for the moment,’ he says quietly. He doesn’t say he truly wishes it were different. He doesn’t say how much he would appreciate the contribution their signed consent from would make to his monthly tally.
‘I understand.’ Mr Richardson chews the inside of his cheek. ‘I’m sorry to have wasted your time.’
‘Not at all. Should you require my services again, the office is open from nine till eight daily. You also have my personal mobile number there,’ he says, pointing to the fine print.
He crosses the room. ‘Mrs Richardson, it was very nice to see you again. I hope I may be of some assistance in the future.’ He repeats the well-worn words, though he knows very well there is no future for him here. There won’t be another appointment. Mr Richardson will choose to forget that the will writer, the silent witness to his life’s mayhem, ever existed.
Mrs Richardson turns. ‘Let me see you out.’
‘No need, really.’
She smiles her nervous, delicate smile. ‘I insist.’ She motions him into the hall, passes him his coat, opens the door, and steps into the night. She stands there on the threshold for so long a moment, it almost comes as a surprise to the will writer when she remembers him behind her.
He looks down. She is offering him her hand in spite of the tears sliding down her powdered cheek. ‘Good luck with that raffle,’ she whispers. ‘I’ll cross my fingers your number comes up.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And you’ll give my apologies to your wife for keeping you?’
He nods and steps on to the drive, the security light suddenly flooding the night. He hits the central locking, tosses his Your Will briefcase on to the passenger seat and slides across the driver’s seat, adjusting the lumbar-support knob. When he looks up, he doesn’t expect to see her still at the door, hugging herself against the cold. She stands watching, even as he moves into gear, even as he glides on to the street. She stands watching as if he is driving away with all the luck in the world.
And indeed, the next morning, it is as if Luck herself has climbed into the seat next to him. All the usual bottlenecks are clear. The roadworks have vanished. The car that, according to the Traffic Line, was rear-ended on the A240 slip road has already been recovered. He even arrives at the office early enough to nab a prime parking space.
Yet, in spite of the auspicious start to the day, the will writer’s breakfast churns. It’s the last Friday in the month. Targets Day. Or ‘Name and Shame Day’, as it’s more commonly known. By ten, ten-thirty at the latest, the monthly completion figures will have been tabulated and the spreadsheet tacked to the Regional Manager’s door.
He is hovering by the nearby stationery cupboard when the RM’s door opens and his PA appears. A big-boned girl, he recalls. A girl whose broad back and bottom are spreading into an affront as he waits for her to post the sheet and leave; as he anticipates the figures that will confirm his worries have indeed been needless.
At last she walks away in the direction of the call centre. He straightens his tie. He looks to his left and then to his right. There is no one in the immediate vicinity. Nevertheless, he ensures that he is not too quick in his approach. He is, after all, just passing.
Only he does not pass. He does not move on. He does not return to his desk and knock back his second caffeine-hit of the day. He blinks. He rocks slightly on the balls of his feet. He feels his mouth go dry. For the first time in his eighteen-year career, the will writer beholds his name and his figures among the ranks of the lower third. Only the four probationers have performed less illustriously.
And Exeter Man is suddenly behind him – of course he is – tapping the spreadsheet with a stubby finger. ‘Now the interesting thing about numbers,’ he announces, ‘is that they don’t lie. Peop
le lie, but numbers don’t.’
The will writer feels his temples throb, his throat tighten. Say nothing, he tells himself. Say nothing.
And remember – keep remembering – 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 twenty.
Just days till the draw. November 30th. Ticket number 1009.
He is still blinking in front of the one-way glass of the door when it opens and the Regional Manager himself appears. ‘A word?’ he says.
The will writer nods. ‘Certainly.’
‘You’ve seen the figures, I take it?’
‘I have.’
The RM motions him towards a plastic chair. ‘Problems?’
‘No,’ he smiles, shaking his head, ‘nothing I can’t handle.’ One of the chair’s legs is slightly shorter than the others so the will writer wobbles as he crosses his legs. ‘Just a rather erratic month. Too many introductory appointments thrown my way by the call centre and not enough follow-ups.’
‘It’s up to you to get the follow-ups. You know that.’
‘I only meant –’
‘We’re lowering your targets.’ The RM glances at his nails.
‘Excuse me?’
‘We’re lowering your targets.’
‘I can hit my targets.’
‘You haven’t. That’s the problem. I’m reducing your road-time by a day a week. Possibly two. Let’s see how you manage.’
‘Pre-Christmas is always slow. It’s the same for everyone. People are, quite simply, too merry.’
‘Muslims, too, it would appear.’
The will writer swallows.
‘If you meet your revised targets, I’ll reassess the situation in a few months.’ The RM turns over a sheet on his desk. ‘You’re fifty-two in February. Is that right?’
‘Yes.’
‘You haven’t considered our early-retirement package?’
‘I thoroughly enjoy the job.’
The RM looks up. ‘Never too early, I always say, to start investing in your hobbies.’
Like the Hummer Driving Academy. ‘On the same course where the US army and Allied Forces have trained drivers, you’ll face twisted, muddy terrain… ‘Hasn’t he bought the ticket? Isn’t he counting down the days?
The will writer sits on the rear of one driver after another most of the way back to Surbiton. Who are these people who pull into the outside lane and fail to overtake? He dreams of the chrome grille guard. Once used for pushing oryx out of the road in Namibia, the grille guard, in the urban landscape, adds that final touch of authority, especially when viewed through a rear-view mirror.
He’ll opt for the wrap-round variety. ‘Made of one-inch-thick tubular steel, its chrome outshines most anything on or off the road.’ And he will outshine. Exeter Man. The Regional Manager. Sheena and Kirsty and their pitying smiles from over the wall in the call centre.
Make no mistake. He’ll shine all right. With Yasmeen there in the passenger seat beside him. With her bracelets tinkling at her pretty wrist. With her English-language CDs playing on the premium digital sound system. With the fresh bouquet awaiting her at home to celebrate. With Michael, his son, already a flutter in her tummy.
Of course he’ll shine.
With no memory whatsoever of the day his own slow death began.
Rosie’s Tongue
My mother said she should have seen it coming.
At the age of five, I could roll my tongue into a fat little sausage and swallow it whole. By the time I was ten, I could out-twist any tongue-twister while chewing gum at the same time: she was selling seashells down by the seashore faster than it was ever thought possible. And in the schoolyard, in the bite of midwinter, my tongue would glide lickety-split off the frosted metal of the monkey bars while other kids were left dangling by the tips of their tongues. It was when I turned thirteen that my mother said she would have to take me to see Dr Freeman. Things had got out of hand, she said. I couldn’t hold my tongue.
Dr Freeman’s office was in the five-storey Shopping Village on the main road. While my mother window-shopped our way to the waiting room, I made a mental plan of the nearest exits.
There were none. Only potted plastic palm trees as far as the eye could see.
Dr Freeman’s receptionist was wearing a badge on her peach lapel. It read HI! I’M RAQUEL.
‘HI, RAQUEL!’ I joined in. ‘I’M ROSIE!’
Raquel looked up from her appointment book, a little shaken. She had wings of yellow hair that defied gravity. The sight of them made me want to fly. She turned and addressed my mother. ‘You can go right through. Dr Freeman’s expecting you.’
With her stalwart handbag on one arm, my mother guided me up the narrow corridor with the other. The door was open – I could just see upholstered walls – then it shut without warning.
‘Please, have a seat.’
Dr Freeman leaned forward, across his desk, and smiled comfortingly. On the windowsill behind him was a picture of his wife with two slavering Labradors. As I took my seat, I noticed he wore contact lenses that turned his eyes a Technicolor green. He was trying to mesmerize me, and I knew it. So did my mother, but she only looked on, smiling her you-know-best, I-sacrifice-my-only-daughter-to-you smile.
‘Rosie,’ he began, ‘I want you to tell me why you are here.’ He hadn’t blinked once since we had walked into the room.
I swallowed. ‘I –’
‘Go on.’
‘My mother –’
She stopped smiling. ‘That’s right, Rosie. Blame it on me. Tell the doctor it’s all my… ‘Her words died away. She was wearing half-a-dozen stray rubber bands around her wrists, household finds that were always on the verge of coming in handy. Now she was anxiously twisting a thick red one, threatening her own blood supply.
I slapped her martyred wrist and returned to the doctor. ‘My mother says I’m crazy with hormones.’ I gave him a flirtatious little wink.
His green eyes didn’t so much as flicker. But I heard them say, ‘Tell me about your dreams, Rosie.’
I looked away. I wouldn’t give in. I took a deep breath. ‘Right. Pencil ready? By the time I’m sixteen, I want to be in the Ice Capades. I want to wear one of those little silver skirts, and when I spin, I’ll wow the crowd because I won’t be wearing any underwear. By the time I’m twenty-one, I want to be a starlet, a heroine with yellow ringlets who wins the hearts of all by tying the hero with the square jaw to the railway tracks. Are you with me? And by the time I’m old, I want to be a grand dame with a mouth full of curses and plenty of cleavage.’
Dr Freeman was tapping the dangerous point of his pencil against his clipboard. ‘Rosie,’ he said, ‘it would seem you deliberately misunderstood me. Shall we try again? I would like you to tell me what you dreamed, say, last night.’ The Technicolor green was flashing. I couldn’t find my reflection in his eyes. He was making me his own, and my mother’s hand at the other end of that thick rubber band was looking blue and lifeless.
‘I dreamed…’
‘Yes, Rosie. I’m listening.’
‘Tell the doctor, Rosie.’
‘I dreamed I was at the entrance of the twenty-four-hour supermarket where my mother shops by day, but never at night. Never at night.’ My voice was slowing down in my head. It was gathering strange echoes. ‘My face was pressed to the big glass pane, and the whole store was lit up like some kind of fluorescent heaven. There were people there, too many people for the middle of the night. Something wasn’t right. I – I was about to turn away when I realized that everyone was asleep except me. Everyone was sleep-shopping.
‘Then the automatic door opened by itself and I walked through. But I was so scared that I was going to wake someone…’
‘So what did you do, Rosie?’
‘I slipped off my loafers so they wouldn’t squeak and shelved them with the day-old bread. I was heading for the meat chiller when I
saw the butcher with the blood on his apron.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘No – I’m not sure. You see, I jumped into the arms of a passing stockboy and pretended I was his bride until I was safely past. Then I followed the cold breeze to the meat chiller.’
‘What were you looking for, Rosie?’
‘I didn’t know, not at first. I crept past the lamb chops that bleated at me from the cold, and the chicken silicon breasts. That’s when I saw them.’
‘Saw what, Rosie? Tell me what you saw.’
‘The cows’ tongues. I could see them through the clouds of dry ice. They were lying there, silent on those styrofoam trays. Dozens of them. My hand was reaching for one. My mouth was watering. I could feel the blue, wrinkled skin of the cellophane. I picked up the tray. That’s when the tip of that tongue began to wriggle and flex. The cellophane started to rip. I tried to seal it up again. I tried to put it back. “They cut out my tongue!” it shrieked. “They called me a silly cow. A silly, silly cow!” The sleep-shoppers were waking up. The butcher was coming my way. I dropped the guilty tongue. I ran back to my stockboy. I jumped into his arms. “Happy Anniversary, sweet stockboy of mine!” I sang.
‘That’s all.’ I looked up. I felt cold. Exposed. I had surrendered to Dr Freeman.
But there was no Dr Freeman. There was no mother. I stood up. I seemed to be alone with only the clipboard on the chair where Dr Freeman had been.
Then I saw them – on all fours in the shag pile. Dr Freeman had dropped one of his contacts. The spell was broken.
‘Right, Rosie,’ he said with his one green eye, ‘I think you’ve made genuine progress here today. What do you think?’
I stuck out my tongue. I grabbed my mother’s handbag, slung it over her arm, and pushed her, sobbing, out of the office, past Raquel, and into the Shopping Village.
It was that night, in my sweet-teen bedroom, that I received the gift of tongues.
Fifteen Modern Tales of Attraction Page 16
