by A. J. Armitt
Jane would nervously pick at a granary sandwich, soaking up every nugget of bullshit that Bob served up: work, authors, and his dead marriage to his cold-fish of a wife. He gleaned little information about her life. Other than work, she had none to speak of. She rented a small flat nearby, had no car, no friends, no family. She was a real old soul.
Apparently, most nights, she would sit and sew cushions in her flat with just her cat, Melas, for company. She even made him a cushion embroidered with the company logo. She left it on his office chair one morning with a plate of homemade flapjacks.
It took Bob four months to finally wheedle himself into Jane’s bed, and he knew instantly that he must have been her first. The moment was tender, meaningful, and her body responded to him like no woman ever had. Sex with his wife seemed like pure torture after that. Jane was the girl next door, his hot wife, Char, was Jessica Rabbit, all smoke and mirrors.
Jane was a breath of fresh air in his half-dead, musty life, and he sucked in huge lungfuls of her whenever he could. For six months, he ran on auto-pilot when not in her presence. Not that anyone ever realised. That was the funniest thing about this whole situation. Not one person in Bob’s life had realised that anything was any different until the day it ended.
And then they ALL noticed.
One morning, Bob got a call from Richard, head cheese of the company. He sounded majorly pissed off. The next ‘Harry Potter’ had been found, and signed to a rival. In an interview the author had reeled off a few names that had rejected his book. Vernox had been one of them. Richard screamed that heads would roll and there would be a meeting in an hour. As he slammed down the phone, Bob shuddered.
Richard was a ball breaker and had no doubt gone off to locate his nutcrackers. Jumping up, Bob flicked on the news channel in his office and sent Beryl scurrying for the coffee machine. The headlines were clear. He had fucked up. He remembered the author and the book. He had rejected it. Shit! He had been so distracted by Jane lately that his submissions pile had grown huge and he had gone a bit trigger happy with the red ‘rejected’ stamp. Hell, he had not even read past the first page.
Waiting for Beryl to get him a latte, Bob sat on the floor behind his desk, hugging his knees and willing for the whooshing heartbeat in his red hot ears to subside. It was over; all over. He would be fired in disgrace for this, never work again. Lose the lot. His Barbie of a wife would take what was left, including the kids. Forty years old, and in an hour, his life would be in the toilet.
At that moment, Jane, his angel in drab clothing walked in, her face etched with concern. “Bobby, Bobby darling, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Staring into her brilliant blue eyes, Bob’s desperation dipped slightly. He may have been led by his dick, but his heart was still wrapped in a solid gold money clip. He began to form a plan.
*****
“I di-didn’t see it, Sir, I beg of you, I never saw any…” Jane spluttered and visibly shrank before them, losing inches within mere seconds. Her eyes, once bright were now dull and dark.
Whilst Richard nodded approvingly, Bob continued with his accusations, “Come now, Jane, you know there’s no point in denying this; it has gone on for far too long, but sabotage? Seriously? You’ve lost this firm a fortune, not to mention a great deal of respect!” His voice rose higher and higher. He hated doing this to the sweet, young woman before him, but the choice was simple. It was either her or him.
Offering the rotund Beryl a fully paid week at the spa on company time, in exchange for her co-operation, had been easy. His assistant was so bored with life and her ever expanding hubby that she would have sold her grandchildren for a week of sitting on her cottage cheese arse in a posh hotel with a Mills & Boon and a box of chocolates. Beryl had quite readily backed Bob’s claim that Jane had become obsessed with him.
The young woman had been hounding him for months, sending him gifts, making him things. Bob had turned Jane down of course, Beryl told Richard conspiratorially, after all, he was a respected family man and why would anyone look at the dowdy, young woman anyhow?
Richard put the events together and bought the story that she had ‘rejected’ a whole bunch of work that Bob had earmarked as future successes. She had sabotaged Bob’s work in order to trash his life and gain her pathetic revenge.
Bob was astounded as he listened to Beryl in action. His assistant was pure evil. She had always had his back, and even covered up his shoddy work these last few months. If any other future bestsellers were found to have been rejected, he was in the clear!
As Beryl finished her poisonous diatribe, Jane never took her eyes from Bob’s face. A plethora of emotions were whirling around her features: disbelief and pain turning to shock and heartbreak, finally settling into resignation and even hate. He could swear her eyes flashed from blue to black before him.
Richard levelled his gaze at the defeated office girl.
“I think we have heard enough, don’t you? Get your stuff and get out. You will never work in this business again.”
Richard nodded at Bob and Beryl, and walked straight out of the office, shaking his head as he went. Pivoting at the door, he glared right through the silently sobbing Jane.
“Bob, you take a couple of weeks off, and spend some time with your family. Beryl, you too. I’ll handle things round here for a while, damage limitation and all that.”
He vacated the space and Beryl scuttled off to ring her knitting club mate, eager to brag about the spa trip, leaving Bob to face the seething Jane. She stood there, shaking, staring at him as if she had never seen anything so disgusting.
“Jane, I...”
“DON’T. DON’T YOU DARE.”
Bob balked at the strong voice, thick with anger. He gulped soundlessly like a fish out of water before closing his mouth and setting his jaw. Jane straightened before his eyes, gaining height, shaking off her timidity. It reminded him of a book he used to read to his children when they were small. ‘The Mouse that Roared’.
Reaching into the huge carpet bag that seemed to permanently hang from her arm, she brought out a small, white cushion, stitched with red piping around its edges. Walking confidently over to him, she held it out. Bob, still unnerved by the change in her, tentatively took it from her pale hand. Why was she giving him a present after what he had done?
As if she could hear his thoughts, she smiled sadly. “I love you, Bob, I can’t help it, I do. I even kinda understand why you did what you did. Call this a parting gift.”
“Er, t-t-thank you, you really sho…Ouch! What the f…!”
His index finger bled from a small cut. Staring at the cushion he saw that a needle had been left in the stitching. Jane smiled back at him, not an apologetic smile though, a strange, unnerving smile. Her eyes seemed to pulse and dance.
At the centre of the gift there was an embroidered picture of him, smiling. The drops of blood dripped onto the cushion and smeared over his stitched forehead and eyes. The effect seemed pleasing to Jane who laughed a mischievous, dark laugh and swiftly covered her mirth with her tiny hands. Bob looked at the source of the unusual sound and did a double take at the sight of her. Jane looked different, glowing, radiant. Even her frumpy clothes looked sexier than normal. Her ice blue eyes were still dancing.
“I won’t forget what you did, Bob. And you will NEVER forget me.”
Giggling again, Jane turned and danced out of the office, even curtseying gleefully at a stunned Beryl on her way to the lift.
Bob had a terrible sense of foreboding. What the hell was that? Geez, a woman scorned and all that? His head ached and throbbed. Grabbing his briefcase and dark glasses from his desk, he avoided eye contact with everyone in the office. He made his way to the parking lot, and sped home.
*****
Zipping through the streets in his sleek, black Ferrari F430, scrunched into the bucket seat, Bob played over the events in his head. His finger throbbed from the cut. On the seat next to him, sat his briefcase. He could swear he could feel J
ane’s presence inside the car. He thought of the weird cushion in his case. Shit. If his wife saw that, he was in for too many questions he couldn’t answer. He would rest first, have a whiskey or two on the deck, and then sit her down and play out the ‘scared businessman versus weird, geeky stalker scenario’ for her; tonight over nice food, expensive wine and with an appropriate amount of crocodile tears. Gingerly opening the case, he reached for the gift, buttoned the window down and threw his face cushion into the nearest, deserted field.
When Bob returned home, the house was quiet. 2.30pm Kids still at school. No doubt Char would be out at the gym or sourcing more pointless blooms for the butt-ugly, giant pots on the deck. Yanking off his tie, he poured a large Johnny Walker and sunk his aching body down onto the leather couch.
He was so tired; he could sleep for a week. He felt shaky, unsettled, depleted.
He was awoken some time later by the sound of car doors slamming. He glanced at his watch. 4.10pm. Char must have done the school run.
Well, Bob, game face. Show-time.
He pushed himself off the couch, and turned to face the large hallway, listening to the shuffling and banging of school bags being thrown to the floor and coats being dumped on pegs.
Walking towards the door, he suddenly heard a god awful cacophony of sound. A high pitched, keening screech, like long, twisted fingers being scraped down a blackboard, accompanied by deep snuffles and grunts of various pitches and tones.
He covered his ears and slammed his back into the wall, terrified. The noises drilled into his brain, rattling his nerves, and chilling his spine like ice. It was getting louder.
Jesus, what was it? Was something coming to finish him off? Where was Char?
Staring wild eyed and sweating profusely, he saw the shadows getting darker and heard the noises getting louder. The images and sounds assaulted and battered his senses, and then a troll-like figure emerged from the doorway, swiftly followed by another. They were grotesque; hairy, snarling creatures, grunting deeply and loudly, long talons reaching out for him. Bob screamed. “Help! Help, get away from me!”
He tried to run but his legs were rooted to the spot. A thick, grubby hand reached out and slashed at his arm, and large, red, painful welts bled through his shirt before dripping on the floor. Bob squealed and his legs collapsed from under him. He rolled onto his back and gripped his injured arm. He screamed in terror as the trolls continued to grunt and scratch and tear at him.
They suddenly retreated from him and Bob spied the most terrifying sight of all. A harpy-like figure crouched over him, touching his head, pawing at his injuries, dipping its own gnarled digits into his bloody gashes. It continued to screech and his ear drums exploded, sending blood spurting everywhere and white hot pain coursing through his head. Bob pissed himself. Right there, in his living room, crouched on the floor. He closed his eyes and yelled at the top of his lungs for help, hoarse-throated, ignoring the razor blade slashes that continued to pick at his body, leaving him a bloody lump of eviscerated meat.
Char stared wild eyed at her husband. She barely recognised him; screaming and crouching against the wall, and soaked with his own sweat and urine. She grabbed their two boys and pulled them out of the room, ringing 999 and sobbing into the phone.
*****
Bob never recovered. Anyone who had ever known Bob now terrified him. All he saw were creatures of the night; snarling, toothed beasts that would scream and slash at him. His own reflection was worst of all. The first time he had the strength to even try and look in a mirror, he screamed at what stared back at him. Smashing the mirror against the wall, he gouged a broken shard into his eye sockets, swirled the reflective surface around and scraped out every little piece of seeing flesh he could before the horrified orderlies could manage to disarm him.
Now he was calm; disfigured but eerily serene. He spent his days locked in his own world, laughing to himself and rocking slowly.
*****
Six months later
Click-clacking her heels as she walked up the drive to the neat little semi, the attractive girl smiled to herself and winked at the jaunty collection of gnomes that painted their own version of suburban domesticity on the manicured lawn. Placing a neatly wrapped box on the porch, a slender, heavily ringed hand rang the doorbell and retreated. It had taken time to reach this door; time and a lot of reinvention. It had been worth it though. No-one would fuck this girl over again and live to tell the tale.
A bemused Beryl opened the door, resplendent in her vast Laura Ashley pinny, a tight bow resting on the rolls of fat around her waist. Looking around, she saw no-one. Rubbing her floured hands on the apron, she grinned greedily at the decadently wrapped package. A surprise, she thought, oh goody!
Taking it inside, she opened the package on the kitchen counter. A beautiful, blue silk and taffeta cushion lay nestled on the tissue paper inside, showing a lady remarkably like herself, floating under water. The smell wafting from the fabric made her think of sage. Beryl rubbed her fat digits over the delicate design. How beautiful, she thought. Must have been from her knitting club. Well, she had just paid for them to go on a spa day the following weekend.
Her prick of a boss going barmy had been very beneficial indeed, one innocent little conversation with Richard and she had been ‘retired’ with an eye-watering severance package. Beryl smirked to herself, remembering Richard’s face as she pointed out to him what a scandal an adulterous agent losing the plot would be for the firm. After all, who would want their writing careers tainted by being associated with a firm who employed secretary shagging nut-jobs? So cliché.
She put her face into the pretty gift and inhaled. Yes, a present like this was the least that she deserved. Beryl huddled the cushion to her and went to place it upon her bed. She could not wait to submerge herself in the soothing waters at the spa…
***
Rachel Dove is a wife, mother of 2 very boisterous little boys, frustrated writer, avid reader, blogger, teaching degree student, book reviewer for the Kindle Book Review and bad housewife. She is currently working on her first novel, and can be found on twitter @WriterDove Her two blogs: http://frustratedyukkymummy.blog.co.uk and http://thekindlebookreview.blogspot.com/
The Last Dance
By AJ Armitt
A sharp intake of breath and the heavy scent of sweat and cheap cologne invade my airways. It assaults my senses, and subconsciously, I wrinkle my nose in disgust. Looking into the bottom of my glass, I view only disappointment, and as I drain the last drop of wine from its base, I can’t help but wonder...
What the hell am I doing here?
The music has such a heavy baseline that a dull thump vibrates up through my chest, rattling my teeth and threatening to loosen my fillings. I hated ‘house’ music back in the day. It hasn’t improved with age. But at least it drowns out the inane chatter from the three ‘friends’ huddled next to me. Occasionally I nod at each one in turn, oblivious and totally disinterested in whichever direction their bland conversation has now taken. Were these boring, fat and frumpy women really the best friends I could muster in the later part of my high school years?
Twenty years ago, I was the class wall flower; an overweight, spotty teenager with bad hair and braces. Looking around me now, I quickly realise that after two decades of strict diet: a gruelling keep fit regime and an expensive rhinoplasty; I’m the hottest bitch at this sad High School Reunion.
Well, almost.
Tiffany Peters is holding court over by the bar, surrounded by the same hangers-on as she was all those years ago. The slinky, black dress she’s wearing does nothing to hide the length of her supermodel-legs, nor does it cover her absurdly pert and superbly formed breasts. If I’m honest, she still looks pretty much the way she did back then: luxuriously long, blond hair, flashing, white teeth, eyes the colour of the ocean, so deep that they could drown any man she ever cared to look at. And her skin? Like porcelain; pure white and blemish free. The sort of skin that looks like it shoul
d be in a beauty cream advert.
Did I say should be?
Tiffany Peters was the face of ‘Divinity’ beauty products almost fifteen years ago. She’s been dining out on that little nugget ever since.
One of her entourage says something funny, and she cocks her head backwards and lets out that same false laugh she used to use whenever anyone paid her a compliment. I feel a rush of blood to my head and so I turn and look the other way.
Have I mentioned that I really hate that bitch?
“Cathy?”
Hearing my name shouted over the top of another dreadful house track, I spin around hopefully, only to find myself meeting the unwelcome smirk from yet another would-be suitor.
“Simon?” The smiling man nods, no doubt appreciative that I still recognise him.
And no wonder. Back in the day, Simon Attwood was the school heartthrob. Now he just looks like all the other jaded has-beens and never-will-bes; overweight and balding. An air of desperation clings to him in the way that rain-clouds hug a mountain top. He moves closer to me, and leans into my ear. I can still barely hear him over the sound of ‘Yazz and the Plastic Population’.
