Bedtime Reads

by Janet Pywell

  ‘But these people are ruthless. Is this what life is about?’ I squeeze my eyes closed. I don’t want them to see my tears.

  ‘It is for them. Perhaps you should take up a hobby and focus your energy on other things.’

  ‘Like cricket?’ I smile. ‘It used to be fun when I read you articles from the newspaper and you explained what a googlie was.’

  His laugh rumbles across the sky like thunder.

  ‘Bugger that,’ says Dolly. ‘Tell your supervisor that you’re not putting up with some young kid bossing you around. Demand they send you on a course, brush up your skills. Fight back.’

  ‘I haven’t got the same energy I had at thirty. I’m too tired.’

  ‘Well then, say nothing and do as little as possible and look for an early retirement package.’ She folds her arms angrily. I’m not in favour of her contribution.

  ‘They don’t do those packages any more. I’m stuck in this job forever. How they expect people to go on working until they’re 68 – soon it will be 70 or 80? We should strike. It shouldn’t be allowed. We should stand up to our government, shouldn’t we?’

  No-one answers and a fingernail moon appears like a sliver of cut glass from behind an ink-coloured cloud.

  ‘What’s it like to do nothing all day?’ I ask them.

  ‘I travel all the time.’ Marjorie’s voice tells me she’s smiling. ‘I can visit anyone and see what they’re doing. I can go to any country and watch the sunrise or sunset. I can fly with the eagles, sing with the birds, gallop with wildebeests and visit my family. I watch them grow.’

  ‘It’s very quiet here,’ says Trevor.

  ‘But you can watch the cricket whenever you like now - can’t you travel to Australia or India?’

  ‘It’s not the same as touching a rose petal, smelling a freshly cut lawn or holding the hand of someone you love.’

  ‘Is that what you miss?’

  ‘I miss the human touch. The softness of skin and making love-’

  ‘Dirty git!’ Dolly laughs. ‘You’re like Frank. He couldn’t keep his hands off the girls. He still can’t. His latest has just dumped him. He buys them expensive gifts and then complains they overspend. Then they argue. Same old pattern - they take him for a ride – and I’m not talking sex.’

  Mitzy cuddles into the crook of my arm. She’s lovely and warm. Her heart is beating against my arm in small rhythmic bumps like she’s trying to keep up with my heart.

  What would I miss if I died?

  ‘It wouldn’t be so bad if you stopped avoiding the real issue,’ says Dolly interrupting my busy head, ‘the main problem that you refuse to face.’

  ‘Go away.’ I breathe in Mitzy’s doggy scent and hide my face in her fur.

  ‘You bury your head in the sand all the time. You always have-’

  ‘He still loves you,’ interjects Marjorie. ‘He never stopped loving you.’

  ‘I don’t know how you don’t see it, dopey cow,’ adds Dolly. ‘He keeps phoning you, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’ My voice is hoarse.

  ‘He’s back from India now. He says he’s found himself and he’s over it all. Didn’t he say he forgives you? You know he wants you back, don’t you?’ insists Dolly.

  ‘But I let him down. I don’t deserve him.’ Mitzy struggles from my grip.

  ‘You do,’ says Marjorie. ‘You were together for over thirty years. He loves you and you love him. You were made for each other.’

  ‘We couldn’t have been otherwise how could have what happened – happen?’

  ‘It was a cloud on a summer’s day. Nothing more or less. Don’t make it out to be so important.’

  ‘But it was important,’ says Trevor angrily. ‘It was real.’

  ‘Trevor needed you and you became dependent on each other. Emotionally attached,’ explains Marjorie.

  ‘If we’d been happy then it wouldn’t have happened,’ I repeat and curl on my side trying to make sense of it all and ignoring the damp seeping into my clothes.

  ‘It happens in life but if he wants you back-’

  ‘Don’t you understand?’ I shout at the stars. ‘I haven’t forgiven myself. I let him down. He was worth so much more than that-’

  ‘He wants you back.’

  I turn to look up at Marjorie twinkling in the sky. ‘Should I go?’

  ‘Yes,’ says Dolly.

  ‘Definitely,’ says Marjorie.

  ‘Trevor?’

  He doesn’t answer.

  ‘Am I’m letting you down?’

  The clouds gather into a dark blanket that covers the sky. He still doesn’t reply. How easy it would be to lay back in the earth and let it swallow me up. I could sink like quicksand into the ground. Earth to earth. Could I just stop breathing? Can I stop my heart from beating? What if I never moved again?

  ‘Get up you silly cow, you’ll catch cold – probably pneumonia. No one will want a sick old biddy.’ Dolly’s voice floats over me.

  ‘It’s time to go home.’

  Beside me Mitzy stretches and yawns and above our heads the clouds part to reveal Orion’s plotted course and it shines like choreographed diamond steps.

  ‘Trevor, what do you think?’

  He stays silent.

  ‘Trevor!’ I shout. ‘Trevor?’

  I dust down my jeans and brush the wet grass from my jacket, straighten my bobble hat and pick up Mitzy’s lead. ‘Come on, sweetie. Let’s go home.’

  Wind rustles through the trees and whips around my ears and the faint whisper of Trevor’s voice is carried on the undulating air and I pause to look up to make sure I hear him properly.

  ‘I’d lie in the road for you,’ he says. ‘But he’s your husband.’

  The Bar

  The bar is full. The Spanish hotel seems to have the normal mix of people: holidaymakers, business travellers, golfers - and me. It’s five star, situated on the Mediterranean and the bar where I’m sitting overlooks the pretty bay.

  It suits me perfectly.

  It attracts a decent class of people who aren’t interested in free drinks, happy hour or an all-inclusive tariff. A professional waiter balances a tray with one arm behind his back and pours expensive gin from the bottle over glistening ice cubes with a slice of lime. Not an optic in sight. He places bowls of nibbles on the table: nuts, sunflower seeds and salted crisps.

  This is the part I like best.

  I’m sitting on a high stool and the decorative mirror behind the bar allows me to see over my shoulder; who comes in and who goes out, who looks interesting and who has a story to tell.

  I prefer older, mature company. They invariably have more confidence and a similar outlook of the world to mine. I like conversations and discussions with strangers and enjoy them more if they’re eye-candy - foreign or exotic-looking.

  It feeds my imagination and stirs my excitement.

  I feign interest in The Alchemist lying open and face down at my elbow, my mobile phone lies inert on the bar. I don’t want to appear that I’m waiting for anyone special.

  I look up as a group of Scandinavian golfers jostle for position at the bar and take my first sip of gin, allowing the ice cubes to bounce off my teeth and the lime to touch my tongue.

  Ummm.

  It’s easy to spot a foreigner – especially a golfer – the colour co-ordinated clothing and V-necked jumpers give them away. For example, there are two men who stand nearer to me and slightly to one side of this group. The smaller man is wearing olive green trousers and a checked white and brown shirt, his jumper draped casually across his shoulders. By contrast the taller man wears pink trousers and a red jumper and because of his white hair I find him more distinguished and definitely interesting.

  I cross my legs and watch them in the mirror.

  It doesn’t take them long to attract the attention of the waiter and order drinks - or to notice me. Although it’s not cold I’ve worn black tights and my short skirt, after I cross my legs, has risen up my thigh. At the moment my c
leavage remains covered by a lilac shawl over my low-cut purple dress and I toss my blond hair over my shoulder and look the other way.

  Once their drinks are ordered they turn their back to the bar and survey the scene. They lean closer together pretending to talk golf or business but they’re secretly studying the women: a beautiful Iranian girl with her boyfriend sitting near the window, a plain woman with two children, and an older woman who sits staring into space beside a man she has begun to look like; grey hair and denim shirts.

  When the golfers turn their attention to me I happen to look up and I smile.

  ‘Hello,’ the taller distinguished man says. He raises his glass. He’s the flirter one. His cheeks are soft and I think I can even smell his aftershave. He’s my type of man. His blue eyes shine and crinkle in delight even though he’s pretending not to look at my thigh.

  ‘Good evening.’ I raise my glass in salute.

  The small man leans forward to see who his friend has spoken to and he grins at me. They’ve ordered gin and tonics too. It’s all quite civilised.

  ‘Cheers!’ He raises his glass to me then looks up at his friend and smiles.

  ‘Salud.’ I reply. My phone becomes suddenly interesting. I tap out a message and tilt my head so that the men can see my profile and the beauty spot on my left cheek. My hair, recently shaped and blow-dried, tumbles onto my shoulders and emphasises my carefully applied makeup. My lipstick is a perfect lilac to match my shawl. I frown, tilt my mobile toward the light and utter a small groan leaving my shawl to fall slightly from my shoulder.

  ‘Can’t you get a reception?’ says the tall man.

  ‘I did – it seems to come and go.’

  He nods and pops a sunflower seed into his mouth.

  ‘Like the tide,’ I add.

  ‘Ha, yes, the sea, of course,’ he pauses. ‘Where are you from?’

  ‘London,’ I lie Everyone loves the capital. Most people have visited.

  ‘Ah…a beautiful city-’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Sweden.’

  ‘A lovely country,’ I smile.

  ‘You’ve been there?’

  ‘I’ve been to Stockholm a few times.’

  ‘I live a little north of there.’

  ‘Beautiful.’ I widen my smile and look interested.

  He takes a step closer and leans on the bar near my elbow. ‘Are you on holiday?’

  I flip my hand. ‘A bit of both – holiday and work.’

  He raises his eyebrows and looks impressed.

  The smaller man, not to be out done, picks up his drink and walks boldly to my other side. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’

  ‘I was, but they just texted me to say their plane is delayed.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to my ex husband in five years.’

  They join in with my laughter and the taller man with pink trousers moves closer to my shoulder.

  ‘It’s my business partner,’ I explain. ‘She was catching a later flight but she’s missed it.’ I place the mobile on the bar. ‘Oh well, she’ll be here tomorrow morning for our meeting – that’s the main thing.’

  ‘We’ve just arrived,’ explains the smaller man inching closer.

  ‘To play golf?’ I ask.

  His eyes are deep set and serious. I guess he is probably an accountant back in his native country.

  He nods. ‘Do you play?’

  ‘Yes, but not on this trip.’

  The tall man takes surreptitious glances at me, eats another nut and sips his gin.

  ‘It’s a shame your business partner isn’t here.’ The small man looks meaningfully at the taller man. It’s a look that says, we might all have had dinner together.

  ‘These things happen.’ I sip my gin and smile at the taller man.

  ‘What business do you have?’ He’s thoughtful and calm. I guess he’s probably a lawyer.

  ‘Interiors. I’m a designer. I import fixtures and fittings…’

  ‘Do you own a shop?’

  ‘I supply small shops – the ones that charge a fortune in the marina,’ I laugh.

  The tall man checks out my jewellery, earrings, gold bangles and discreet rings. I reposition myself on the stool, pulling my shawl to cover myself but I manage to reveal my enhanced breasts.

  The smaller man finishes his drink and rattles the cubes. He utters something in Swedish but his friend doesn’t respond, instead he pops another nut in his mouth and seems to consider while the smaller man puts his hands in his pockets and rocks on his feet.

  I pick up my book.

  ‘Would you like a drink?’ asks the smaller man.

  ‘That’s kind – thank you.’ I place my book to one side. The Alchemist can wait. He summons the waiter and orders three more gins.

  ‘Where are you playing golf?’

  They list some courses and I nod – yes of course, I’ve heard of them – and yes, I think Tiger Woods has lost the edge and no I missed the Open but I do like Rory McIlroy. The Swedish golfer? Who? No – I don’t know him…

  ‘So what hobbies do you have?’ The smaller man tells me his name is Nikki.

  ‘I like walking and gardening.’

  ‘Do you sail?’ asks Erik, the distinguished man.

  They’re standing one each side of me and I defer my attention to them both equally, so neither feels excluded, and occasionally my gaze lingers on Erik in the mirror. Sometimes his deep blue eyes fleetingly meet mine and I wonder what he’s thinking. He’s a challenge and I like that.

  ‘I love the water but no, I wouldn’t know one end of a boat from the other; stern and aft or something?’

  Erik smiles. His lips are full and and he pouts comically.

  Nikki says. ‘We could rent a boat when your friend comes over. If you could get a couple of hours free from your work. There are dolphins out there…’

  ‘Really? I’d love to see them-’

  Erik signals the waiter for another round of drinks and Nikki’s hand rests on the back of my bar stool. Occasionally his palm brushes my shoulder.

  I pull my shawl over my shoulders allowing them a flash of my brown breasts. ‘But aren’t you playing golf everyday?’ I ask.

  Nikki says something in Swedish and when I look in the mirror Erik winks at me.

  A few minutes later when Nikki disappears to the toilet, Erik taps my glass with his. He leans closer to my ear and his breath is sweet on my cheek. I imagine his kiss would be soft and persistent and he whispers. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Marcia.’

  ‘And you, Erik.’

  His rests his fingers lightly on my knee and his touch sends the skin on my arm into goose bumps. ‘Look what you’ve done,’ I laugh.

  He traces my hand and my wrist with the back of his index finger. ‘Oh dear!’

  We both laugh.

  ‘I don’t think I should have any more to drink. I was waiting to have dinner with Sheila but now she’s not coming, I’ll…’

  ‘We could have dinner together,’ Erik suggests just as Nikki returns He overhears and says. ‘Shall we eat in the hotel or go out?’

  Erik looks away. His attention strays to a long limbed redhead who joins her boyfriend at a nearby table.

  Nikki speaks in Swedish but Erik doesn’t reply. He pops another nut in his mouth and seems to consider his answer.

  I pick up my book and make to leave. ‘I should leave you men to eat dinner on your own. It’s the first night of your holiday, I’m sure you don’t want me-’

  ‘I don’t want you to eat with him on my own,’ says Nikki laughing. ‘Come with us. What do you fancy? Steak, fish, pasta?’

  ‘It would be lovely to have company. I wasn’t looking forward to an evening on my own…but only if you’re sure I won’t be interrupting...’

  Erik smiles. ‘It would be a pleasure.’

  Nikki’s fingers trail across my back in a rotating massage as Erik leans across the bar and asks the waiter about a restaurant close to the h
otel.

  ‘It would be easier to eat here,’ says Nikki. His touch is gauche and his fingers smaller.

  I say, ‘But what would your wives say about you eating dinner with a foreign woman you met in a hotel?’ I giggle - the gin is taking effect - and I’m feeling good.

  Nikki blushes and pretends to slip his wedding band off his finger.

  Erik shrugs. ‘We’re on our holiday. Boys can be naughty when they go away.’

  ‘Really?’

  Erik shrugs. ‘Why not?’

  ‘One more before dinner?’ Nikki suggests and leans across the bar to attract the waiter’s attention. In this split second Erik’s finger moves to my thigh and his hand slides under my skirt. His finger is gentle and it’s over in a second. But it’s enough to make me want him.

  When Nikki turns around he knows something has passed between us but we all clink glasses and toast in Swedish, English and Spanish.

  Nikki’s arm rests on my shoulder and Erik’s thigh is pressed against my knee. Occasionally his fingers trace the underside of my thigh and we’re giggling drunkenly at the Swedish they are teaching me. I love you – and - I want you – but - come to my room – is much harder to pronounce.

  ‘I must visit the Ladies before dinner.’ I pick up my book and mobile and place them in my bag. ‘I won’t be long.’

  ‘We’ll wait for you outside the dining room.’

  ‘Lovely.’ I slide from the bar stool and totter toward the reception but instead of turning left to the Ladies, I turn right. In a few seconds I’m outside. I walk briskly laughing at the fun we’d had. Steak would have been nice but-

  Within five minutes I’m home. I take the lift up to the apartment which is dark and airless. I kick off my shoes and head into the lounge.

  Dan is watching television and he barely looks up.

  ‘Are you alright, honey?’ I ask.

  He grunts.

  ‘Sorry I’m late. I met some friends.’

  He blinks.

  ‘Tonight I was a businesswoman from London. I think next week I might be an off duty policewoman – what do you think?’

  Spit dribbles from the corner of his mouth and I bend down and reach for a tissue and wipe it away.