Strange Taste LIVE 5: Bonhomie

Bonhomie:

He slept on until early afternoon, then lay still, calm, reflecting on his unforgettable night. How the girl imbibed the small phial of concoction which he brewed for her in a saucepan at home. The spectacle she’d made of herself, dancing for him. He hoped she pulled thru. It was never his intention to hurt her. He tried to imagine how she felt, having her stomach pumped out in A&E.  

Then he’d met Georgie and fallen in love with her. He recalled how she played with him, on the swing. How tenderly she made love to him. Her kindness and understanding when his immaturity brought their lovemaking to an abrupt end. He’d listened to her afterwards, making noises through the thin wall: her muted cries of passion.

He realised he was inadequate as a lover. Moreover, he felt overwhelmed by his failure to satisfy her, to consummate his love, for her. He couldn’t believe she wanted to see him again,

‘Tomorrow night,’ she’d whispered, ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night. I love you.’

His hand groped around under the hospital-frame bed for his cheap plastic alarm clock. He checked the time: 1pm. He was meant to be in work by three! His soiled pants lay on the rug from last night. He pulled them on and flew downstairs to the kitchen. There were two large aluminium saucepans filled with water sitting on the fat-caked gas cooker. He brought them to the boil then carefully carried them upstairs to the bathroom. The first pan he used for a cat’s lick, washing himself from head to toe with a flannel, the other he used to shave. Soon as he was dry, he sprayed the great smell of Brut on his armpits, tore into his room, threw on a t-shirt, shorts, dirty plimsolls, grabbed his wallet, a key, skipped past the living room, kitchen, and scullery, and went outside.

His back door faced the Munt’s back door. He hated Munt with a vengeance. Denis Munt was a boastful show-off who’d relished the opportunity to tear off butterfly wings in front of him when he was prepubescent. His brother Bruce had thwacked a cricket ball through the window four years ago. He couldn’t afford to have the glass replaced. It was covered with cardboard and heavy-duty tape. Thankfully, their door was closed.

He crossed the crazy-paved patio his father laid when he was little, sadly overgrown with weeds, and passed the raised front lawn, striding to the pavement. Cassie, a girl he played hopscotch with as a child, always told him never to step on the cracks. Stepping on the cracks was bad luck. He wondered how she was enjoying life in Australia. His thoughts returned to Georgie, his need to satisfy her on his mother’s bed, spend the night wrapped in her arms, her surprise when she woke up in the morning.

First, though, he had to excuse himself from work.

The nearest telephone box was ten minutes-walk away in Farndon Close. He wasn’t at all surprised to discover that it was vandalized. Telephone boxes were always being smashed up on the Ifield council estate. The next kiosk was in Trenton Road, by the local shopping parade, a ten-minute walk. Fifteen minutes later, he slotted one of the new decimal coins into the coin slot and was put through to the airport grill.

He was relieved when the call was answered by Katie Kaltman, the German floorwalker, whose job it was to greet diners, show them to their tables, and present the menu, ensuring they were comfortable. Katie was tall, elegant, refined, with high cheeks, pursed lips, fine auburn hair, and ink-blue eyes. The married woman had seduced him in the Chef’s Office. His coming-of-age moment endeared him to her; they’d remained close friends ever since. She spoke eloquently, in a crisp, stilted, halting, stuttering voice,

‘Hallo, Air Grill, how may I help you?’

‘Katie, it’s me.’

She brightened for him, ‘Ah, how lovely to hear from you. Will I feel you later?’

Lies came easily to the weekend waiter, ‘I’m really sorry, I can’t come in to work today.’

Katie dropped the bonhomie, ‘Ach, is that so? What is it this time? Headache? Have you overslept?’

‘I’ve been up sick all night with vomiting and diarrhoea. I’m sorry.’

The floorwalker checked her gold wristwatch, ‘The time is two o’clock. Your shift starts at three. Why have you left it late to call me? Your unfortunate,’ she stammered, ‘illness causes me great difficulty today. You know, I have d-delayed flight in little under two hours for two hundred passengers.’

He cringed with guilt at his latest deception. First, the desecration of the girl. Now this. His time was nearly up. He thought of the chaos that his absence would create. The Grill seated 256 customers: 128 in black leather booths, 128 on round tables of four. Eight staff were needed to service four tables with four customers on each. Delayed flight passengers were invariably rude, stroppy and unappreciative. They complained about the menu: boil-in-the-bag chicken in mushroom sauce, peas and chips, followed by vanilla briquette. And they never tipped. Thanks to him, Katie would have to serve them.

The phone made a bleeping noise. He didn’t have any more change. He bleated, like one of Georgie’s sheep,

‘I’m really sorry.’

Katie lost her Bavarian mountain cool, ‘Please!’

‘Yes?’

‘Janis c-called in sick, also. Lindsey is in hospital.’

His heart fell into his stomach. The line went dead. He thought of the sachets of fungi lying in the fridge’s tiny freezer compartment at home.

Au Pair:

Friday night was one of those hot, clammy, sticky July nights when they couldn’t sleep, not even with just a sheet over their bodies. Restless, tossing, turning in their attempts to relax, Kayleigh and Matt kicked off the cotton. Still, they perspired: wetting, crumpling the crisp-fresh sheet like incontinent children, until it was hard for them to find a dry strip of bed to lie on. Eventually, they rolled off each other, clinging to the edge of the mattress, and drifted into a fitful sleep.

Matt dreamed of Kayleigh on the sandy beach in Oz dressed for volleyball in her stringy bikini, holding hands as they waded into the warm surf. While she dreamed of him, manly and muscled, embracing her, kissing her, on the crumpled rucks, lifting her petite body off the bed in triumph, his trophy, as she pleaded with him to love her, to give her a child.

She rolled over to face him, her twisted beak brushing his lips. He ran his fingers thru her wet hazel hair. A frisson of need scintillated her soft body, pulsing inside her spinal cord, electrifying her. He ran his thumb over her pouting lips. She felt between his hairy legs…

He gasped in frustration, ‘I can’t do it, not again, Kayleigh. I’m too knackered.’

‘Please, Matt! I want to try for our baby!’

The au pair appeared, bearing a tray laden with white egg omelettes, grilled mushrooms, vine tomatoes, thick-cut slices of toast, churned butter, coarsely shredded Seville orange marmalade, strawberry jam, Marmite, and a large pot of freshly brewed Brazilian coffee,

‘I made you some breakfast,’ she said.

Kayleigh twisted herself under Matt, craning her neck to see the girl, ‘Put it on the side.’

‘Sure!’ the au pair did as she was told, ‘Kayleigh?’

‘Mm?’

‘I’ve cleaned the kitchen floor, dusted, hoovered, hung out all the laundry, emptied the dishwasher, prepared you a buffet lunch, rolled your towels for your trip to the pool. As it’s my day off today, I thought I might go into Town, meet a few friends, stay the night?’

Kayleigh hesitated, ‘Okay…’

‘See you tomorrow morning then?’ the au pair pretended to leave.

Suddenly, Kayleigh yelled at her, ‘Wait!’

The girl paused in the doorway, ‘Yes?’

‘Come and join us on the bed.’

Georgie casually slipped off her baby negligee and joined Kayleigh and Matt on the bed,

‘What would you like me to do?’ she murmured.

Sweetheart:

He was starting to think that testing the concoction on the girl might have been a bad idea. If she died in hospital, and her twin squealed, there was every chance that he would be convicted of her manslaughter and see out his life in prison. He dreamed of making love to Georgie on the funeral pyre where he was created, sleeping with her, loving her until sunrise. His sacred surprise. Her eternal dream. He was so preoccupied, preparing for her arrival, that he failed to notice O’Brien bearing down on him.

O’Brien lived across the road at no.12, a childless widow and close friend of his mother. She blocked his passage, politely interfering, as she invariably did,

‘Oh, it’s you! Would there be any news of your dear mother, sweetheart?’

He cringed: Sweetheart.

‘No news I’m afraid. She never changes.’

O’Brien explained, ‘It’s just, I was fond of your mum when we worked at the mushroom farm. I thought I might send her some flowers, a nice box of chocolates?’

He studied the ground, lost for words. The world needed more kind souls like O’Brien. When he lifted his head, he was close to tears, choked by the incredible stress he endured,

‘That’s so kind, but inmates aren’t allowed flowers or gifts, in case they cut themselves.’

O’Brien recognized the strain, his grief, their mutual loneliness. She reached out for him,

‘I’m sorry. I understand, believe me. Been lonely since Phil died. Give me a hug.’

She took him in her arms. They hugged in the middle of the road. For one lovely moment, he was with Georgie, she was reunited with her husband, and neither of them had a worry in the world. After a while, they found themselves standing on the pavement by her gate. O’Brien wanted him, badly. She hadn’t enjoyed the feeling of a man since Phil passed. To hell with what the neighbours said. She was only thirty-two, young enough to love again. Her eyes shone with hope: no harm in asking after all,

‘Would you like to join me for a cup of tea and a slice of my homemade chocolate cake?’

He moved close to her, smelling her, ‘I can’t, not today. Perhaps another day?’

She smiled, ‘Of course, another day. I’m sorry, I got carried away. I am nearly old enough to be your mother, after all.’

He comforted her, brushing her cheek with his hand, ‘No, you felt good. You were great.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, sadly, ‘You don’t know how much that means to me.’

‘Be seeing you, then?’

‘Yes, be seeing you. Take care of yourself.’

The sun burnt his face. He watched O’Brien walk the shady alleyway, back to loneliness.

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