The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 1

by Maxim Jakubowski

  Pink, barking viciously in a valiant attempt to protect her mistress, was hurled bodily into the ocean by one of the assailants, a former star quarterback on the high school football team who was later heard to brag that it was the longest pass of his career.

  When interrogated later, the culprits admitted that they had in fact recovered money that night, but only a lone twenty-dollar bill. Camille was very unhappy to hear that someone had managed to slip a twenty in the pink.

  It made her feel so cheap.

  Usherette

  Jacqueline Lucas

  Sweet Kill

  (aka The Arousers) (Curtis Hanson, 1971 US)

  I’m on the late shift so I mosey down Portobello to the Electric in my black leather hot pants which’ll be wasted on the morning kiddies. They call me the sweet lady. They get dropped in for the double bill by their upper class parents who wander down Portobello for the antique shops. But it’s a mixed crew really and I used to think they thought I was sweet. I mean, me. I can be really slow. In this case I should know cause it’s my job to lay out the nosh. We have Liquorice Allsorts and Marathon bars. Curly Wurlys and M & Ms. Ripples, Rolos, Revels and Opal Fruits. KP Choc Dips, Lion Bars and Milky Ways. Rowntrees Fruit Pastilles as well as Jelly Babies and Wine Gums. Munchies, Maltesers, Mars Bars, king size Double Deckers and Fizzy Chewits. And Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons. Toffets, Nerds and Dweebs. Bought in specially for the Saturday morning crew. And I’m the one who gets the ice creams out last minute so they don’t go soft, and the popcorn maker, which is no joke, I can tell you. And the cakes from down the road, three types which I lay out, and nosh, always the staff helping ourselves, it goes on all the time. But you get tired of them. There’s a walnut loaf type, a carrot cake and a chocolate shaped like loaves of bread and you have to be careful: if you don’t take care, like Ian, they end up all dried out. I take pride in keeping them going and not wasting a poorly cut slice.

  The Man in the Glass Booth

  (Arthur Hiller, 1975, US)

  Michael’s in the box and gives me a friendly wave, we tell each other everything and share snacks, always egging each other to help ourselves to stock. Ian’s not even awake tearing tickets. Michael looks at me with a touch of interest and fear – like a parcel that might detonate. But Ian looks at me with complete bewilderment – in fact we eye each other up like two species meeting in a forest, not knowing if a curious noxious substance might spring from the rear end or tail. Michael is sort of camp but seems to like girls and black and an artist and we have a sort of understanding. I think it’s sexual chemistry. We’ve never done it but it’s always there. The fact we’ve never done it.

  The Company She Keeps

  (John Cromwell, 1950, US)

  Ben comes in for one of his spurious visits which everyone looks at distrustful – from Lucy now parked all sullen in her booth to Michael and Ian pinning up posters. After all they’ve seen the results and they’re not pretty and we all know he only comes on the odd occasion like a doctor to his mental patient, all solicitous. I pretend to be consumed with laying out my sweets like I can’t really have visitors when everyone knows I’m not done up like this for nothing and by the end of my shift there’ll be twenty odd “friends” who’ll have stuck their head in down the Portobello Road.

  Goin’ Down The Road

  (Donald Shebib, 1970, Can)

  I nip out regularly so I almost feel I’m one of them, socialising down Portobello market on a Saturday afternoon. But it beats that job I had hawking secondhand books on the corner, always watching your back and far less cachet. I mean, all the others here have film degrees or art ones. I’m the only one with “O” levels.

  Driving Me Crazy

  (Nick Broomfield, 1988, GB)

  Ben gets the message that everyone thinks he’s a spineless slimeball who’s screwed up in every department so he leaves in a cloud of contempt which follows him to the door and he’s not said when can I see you with red eyes from crying, he’s in self-preservation where’s this going guilty mode. I take some pleasure in checking out his spots, he’s really going off the boil. I take out my anger on the popcorn machine which burns my fingers as I load in the kernels, exploding in unison as I have a “what-am-I-doing-behind-this-counter-on-a-Saturday-with-my-life” panic attack. So when the kids arrive it’s all I can do to get the confidence to peddle my sweets.

  In The Best Interests of the Children

  (Elizabeth Stevens/Cathy Zheutlin/

  Frances Reid, 1977, US)

  My favourite is a blond called Rupert, I could wrap him in my arms and take him home, he looks so vulnerable. And you can see the haves and have nots. The ones who buy Loseley ice creams even parents wouldn’t go for, or Ritters at a quid a go, and the ones that can hardly buy Curly Wurlys. I give them stuff but I have to be careful and make out like I made a mistake. No wonder they like me.

  During Bugs Bunny I go in half a dozen times cause there’s a bit of a ringleader called Bruce who gets them all going, crying and running about the aisles. But that’s what I’m here for. I wouldn’t let them come to any harm. When Anna Paquin takes her flight with the geese when Jeff Daniels get wounded I’m so choked up I can hardly speak. Just as well cause the owner arrives and he likes an usherette in the movie house. I hate the word. Usherette. They almost had us wearing ice cream trays but I said no way.

  Love in the Afternoon

  (Billy Wilder, 1957, US)

  What’s he doing here? And he hangs about for ages and pretends to need a stocktake on ice creams but I smell a rat and reckon it’s the hot pants. I feel his eyes on my arse all the way to the deep freeze like in Short Cuts where the husband follows his wife to the diner and watches men admiring her arse as she bends over to scoop ice cream but when they slag off her fat arse he puts her on a diet. From the Raymond Carver story; it’s my favourite. He gets her on such a strict diet and when he catches her noshing he makes her spit up her food. It’s awful.

  Anyhow this is all going round in my mind in a split-second sort of way as I bend over when he asks me to count all the flavours we carry: stem ginger and acacia honey; traditional butterscotch; country fudge with almonds; flaked milk chocolate; peaches and double Jersey cream; old-fashioned vanilla; rich chocolate; strawberries and double Jersey cream. And still I can hardly contain a scream when he puts his hands on the waistband each side of my hot pants.

  Body Heat

  (Lawrence Kasdan, 1981, US)

  And the worst thing is that this middle-aged bearded slightly fat Rolls Royce-driving entrepreneur summons a thrill like those corny flowers opening they use in art movies that’s supposed to remind you of a woman’s vagina and I’m only on 3.85 and the odd shift. Time stands still which is another of those corny film metaphors, I’m learning a lot here after all, and I mustn’t turn round or he’ll have his dick in the opening of my leathers and there’s no one on my sweet counter and the cash box is out. Luckily he gets embarrassed or cold feet and his voice breaks into a shaky Great hot pants and I turn round and pass him an armful of stem ginger with an awkward smile. This way I flatter him that he doesn’t repulse me which he didn’t when I couldn’t see him but let’s face it. I follow him awkwardly into the foyer and his wife’s waiting with a quizzical look that says Since when are you dishing ice creams with usherettes!

  My Name is Nobody

  (Mio Nome e Nessuno)

  (Tonino Velerii, 1973, It/Fr/W.Ger)

  The kids are off with barely a look at me like they’ve forgotten I was the centre of their world when they came in. This is the bit when I sweep in, binliner in hand. I don’t want the kids seeing me doing this, I have more dignity behind the counter. This is when I feel I’m only a cleaner and not an aspiring film student. But everyone knows I’m well over thirty and only at an access course.

  Sudden Impact

  (Clint Eastwood, 1983, US)

  Me and Michael start bagging, I get a needle would you believe. I knew those two weren’t into Fly Away Home. There�
�s more sweeties here than the kids bought, like bubble gum wrappers and gobstoppers half digested. We meet in the middle and that’s when I get a sense that my slimmed-down arse from nerves and black coffee is being weighed like old-fashioned sweets. You know. The sherbert fountain when the flying saucers are already in the bag. That’s how I feel. A curiosity but a fear that it’ll ruin things. After all Michael knows everything from my ex to Ben to all the characters in between including the actor that keeps coming in to hassle me – no doubt of the out of work variety and into medication.

  Between Friends

  (Donald Shebib, 1973, Can)

  Michael knows it all cause we sit round for hours guilty that we ought to be catching The Magnificent Ambersons or Lawrence of Arabia but when your head’s crowded it’s an effort to get ice creams never mind a refill for the coffee machine. Instead we sit in the foyer pissed off at the inconvenience of filmgoers and anyone who has the temerity to turn up late and want coffee . . . I won’t mention the stock take till the memory of my response to that fat git wears off. It’ll do the rounds. Anyway, back to Michael and I in the middle of the aisle with a bin liner apiece and a look that says I’m curious. I could do you. Just for the hell of it. As well as one that flashes. Not clever.

  We head back to Lucy who’s come over all deputy manager so I restock my table for the Patrick Keiller double bill and look diligent while visitors from abroad stick their heads in for a peek at the architecture of the oldest cinema in London us lot don’t notice.

  Interlude

  (Douglas Sirk, 1958, US)

  This man comes in enquiring after his little boy. A little late for that I reckon. My voice goes up a few notches cause I think we’ve a drama on our hands, a child stolen by a woman like me. The wife must have been, he says. You can tell they’re not together.

  Dogs in Space

  (Richard Lowenstein, 1986, Aust)

  He’s got an amazing dog in tow and once we establish the kid’s not abducted I lavish my maternal untapped energies on the black and white four-foot mutt who slobbers all over me, and Michael and Ian give me that look like I’m on the make with a thirty-nineish wealthy-looking dog-owner with almost no hair and kind blue eyes that are misleading cause you can tell he’s never kind.

  I straddle Oliver in my hot pants in a way that makes Lucy feel like cutting my shifts. I make a mental note to give her more time on that bitch of a girlfriend. And Keith brings down flyers and joins the dog love-in. Keith talks ten to the dozen and gives us a minute to pass a look back and forth that’s more than downright friendly and more than the curious one me and Michael share. This is the full McCoy and as I’m dragged into the chaos of Portobello Oliver’s owner says, I’m Ralph. See you next Saturday no doubt. And I say hope you find your kid! with such a huge smile it’s embarrassing, and pretend not to notice Michael, Ian and Lucy slagging me off, they’re such bitches, even Ian isn’t as mealy-mouthed as he appears.

  Telling Tales

  (Richard Woolley, 1978, GB)

  We all know each other’s business. Problems with love and money. Paranoias that come out on late night shifts waiting for The Tenant and Repulsion double bills to stagger out round 3 a.m., when it’s beyond pizza and guzzling ice cream and it’s down to not being able to hang on to our fears another second. That was when I heard Lucy’s girlfriend flaunted her latest blowjob in the loos of Heaven and told Lucy to get a grip, she wasn’t getting any younger, and Ian’s girlfriend was maybe off to India, and Keith. He’s all over the shop and drags in the strangest types. And Michael’s ex who was seeing his best mate at his place!

  The Misfits

  (John Huston, 1960, US)

  Graham’s the big secret, but all projectionists are odd, we’ve had plenty here. Couldn’t tell him about the bad moments. When they did the music one-offs even the bouncers joined our shrink sessions then came in like it never happened cause each dodgy story explains why we’ll sit here till 3 a.m. for frumpence on Saturday night and walnut cake. We’ve all got specialities. Lucy loves guided tours for foreign visitors, she knows her art history, and Keith likes little boys and handing out posters down Portobello, and Ian likes a trip to the shops and Michael loves it when it’s chaos for a special event, keeping the lid on double bookings, and me, well I’m developing an unwelcome reputation for turning up in outlandish outfits, for being the sweet lady and discussing life’s problems, and for having my feet in both camps.

  Posse

  (Kirk Douglas, 1975, US)

  But that’s largely down to the cookie crew who pop in regularly with people like Hanif or Anish or Harry (E) in tow, talking Lisson Gallery and Cobden Club en route to 192. My new gang take me up though they’d never dream of tearing tickets when they could be ambling down Portobello with their artist and writer shags who only acknowledge me on account of them. I strain to be twice as attractive and entertaining but I’m too old for this. Not quite married and not quite divorced and not yet educated and not quite penniless. No one can make me out.

  Half Life

  (Dennis O’Rourke, 1985, Aust)

  We hardly get a soul for Robinson in Space and it’s another one I ought to see instead of sharing gossip about the cinema’s takings while pocketing coins that slip the cashbox. Occasionally I sit in the booth and get the odd phonecall. No sooner am I here than that actor comes by and sidles up for a chat. My heart leaps and drops as I spot Ben slide past trying not to look on his way for his coffee and bagel ritual. At least I vary my intake. Today it’s half a slab of Ritters milk chocolate with crispy flakes of corn. A spoon or two of the hot veggie takeout I give to Michael. The potatoes and pasta with cheese bit. A handful of popcorn and a fizzy orange and half a pack of KP original salted.

  No Man of Her Own

  (Mitchell Leisen, 1949, US)

  I look at the actor with a tired smile cause after my boss, the dog man and Michael’s new attentions, I’m worn out and it only reminds me that the wimp who’s just passed by is happy without me. Relieved. Dying to spend his Saturday night with his ritual hot dish and TV. It’s that anal retention I find so fascinating. The actor looks strung out and I can’t remember how I encouraged his little habit passing by. I’m almost ready to give up the weekend outfits when Lucy turns up and I excuse myself to work in the office.

  Sunday Too Far Away

  (Ken Hannam, 1974, Aust)

  We all know there’s no office, it’s an airless box the manager pretends to do her books in but he’s not to know. It’s starting to drag, changing from bright and noisy to rotting fruit and vegetables. The boys turning up with boxes of over-ripe plums. I’m ready to ask if I can sit in for the next show. After London comes out I rearrange my goodies for Breaking the Waves. But no sooner than I tell Lucy there’s a problem, cause Keith wants to see it and he ought to mind the coffee.

  Alone in the Dark

  (Jack Sholder, 1982, US)

  I stand my ground and in no time I’m making more noise than the entire audience once her husband gets paralysed and particularly the hand jobs she gets in to please him now his bottom half won’t work.

  Someone arrives halfway through and wants me to show them to a seat. I can hardly look at them. Can’t they see I’m in the middle of a fucking movie? And I lose it after that. It’s broken my concentration and now when she talks to herself like the Virgin Mary it starts to grate. Keith has joined me and he’s taken over my crying jag. By the time I come out the day’s over and now it’s the long drag of the late shift. I don’t want to call a friend and be reminded some people have a social life.

  The Desperate Hours

  (William Wyler, 1955, US)

  I feel like calling Ben and putting the phone down. It’s that time of day. Michael can see I’m getting low and that attraction thing has gone and we’re back as mates on a shift. And he starts to ask me my news, which means has Ben called but it’s not like he cares. He’s got that look of concern I don’t trust. Lucy slinks up with that same look. I’ve been here since el
even, it’s not authentic. I share a butterscotch ice cream and a coffee with Ian to kickstart me for Hamlet. We all know the types that’ll be in for this one. Notting Hill and Holland Park dressed for movie and dinner with friends.

  The Line

  (Robert J Siegel, 1980, US)

  I see friends of friends and that makes it worse, they think I’ve fallen on hard times and so do I. And we don’t need to tear tickets cause they know I know they’ve bought their ticket, it’s stupid. We slag off culture vultures. Michael can get really nasty and the giggles get us through to The Big Blue.

  The Last Movie

  (Dennis Hopper, 1971, US)

  My actor again would you believe, with an odd-looking companion. I think he’s a dealer. But I’m doing it again, offering free coffee and an end slice of carrot cake. I’d kill for a veggie hot dog. Instead we spend our wages on pizza delivery, even Graham who normally nips out for a Chinese takeout, and it’s the one with the egg on top and spinach even though I’ll have one bite and give my share to Michael. Still they’re not into sweeties like I am. I’ve got that much Ritters at home it’s embarrassing.