Friday Night 19th March 2021:
He wasn’t coming. She could feel it in her veins. Lizzie picked at her last few stone-cold greasy bacon and cheese loaded fries, rubbing her bare legs to keep warm. An unpleasant fluid flowed from her nostrils into her mouth. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. How could she forget to bring a hankie with her on a night like this? She checked the time: ten past eight. He was an hour late. Perhaps she should give him up, go home?
The kindly man in the snack wagon trailer sitting in the corner of the empty car park asked her if she would be alright? If she felt safe? A woman, alone on a damp bench after dark, miles from home. Lizzie thanked him from the bottom of her heart for caring about her when thousands of men didn’t.
‘I’ll be fine,’ she assured him, ‘I can take care of myself.’
If she was attacked, alone at night, she always had her phone. Lizzie was sitting near the bus stop opposite a row of dingy cottages lining the main road. If all else failed, she would hurdle the chain-link fence, leap into the middle of the road, waving her arms, and stop a passing car. Wouldn’t she? Suppose he was stronger than her? Supposing, he fooled her?
Her bottom froze at the thought beneath her thin candy-striped dress. She wriggled on the bench to restore her blood circulation, rubbing her blueing hands, shrugging into her navy woollen coat to keep warm. Lizzie checked her phone: no texts or messages. His entreaty to her and, she suspected, millions of other lonely hearts on the dating app, had taken her breath away, being sexist, arrogant, self-centred – and intriguing. She scrolled his grinning face up on the screen and read his plea to women, for the tenth time that day:
I am looking for a beautiful woman, early 30’s, to love, cherish, worship and adore. A woman seeking attention to herself. A Boudicca or a Helen of Troy to stand on my glass pedestal for all the world to see and fill the empty space in my heart.
Her heart sank. He wasn’t coming. Lizzie stood up, brushed herself off, threw the greasy chip box into the convenient green bin and began her long trudge home.
Her sullen mood was interrupted by the crunch of tyres on gravel. She stared in disbelief at the silver-grey Porsche 911 Carrera S glinting under the streetlight. The car interior lit up. The passenger window slid down. Lizzie recognized his warm-friendly, smiling, handsome, boyish face at once. He spoke to her calmly, eloquently in a sophisticated tone: clear, refined, and hot.
‘Sorry I’m late. You must be frozen, Lizzie. Jump in. Let’s get you home, shall we?’
She held back, nervous, frightened yet exhilarated, unsure of what to do next, ‘Simon?’
He pushed at the car door, ‘Yes, Simon. Are you coming with me or not?’
She had missed her last bus home. The forest walk was dark, cold, and lonely. His car offered her warmth. Without hesitation, Lizzie climbed inside, and firmly closed the door.
The car heater was on. Lizzie could feel its warmth heating up her bare legs, constrained, hemmed-in, unable to move through lack of room. Her legs were too long for the footwell. He regarded her slim bare legs. Perfect. Her legs were perfect in length and shape, aside from the pale beige skin imposed by the recent chill. He suspected they’d tan well enough, as would her arms, chest, back, neck, and soft face. Lizzie’s dress was hitched high. Her thighs were on full view. She felt his eyes fall on her legs, felt vulnerable, alone with him,
‘You’re staring at my legs.’
He pulled his head away to face the windscreen, the dark void constituting her escape,
‘Your legs are cramped,’ he said, twisting in his sunken seat to face her, ‘Open your legs.’
Lizzie was terrified, looking at him, horrified. Her stomach heaved, she felt a strong desire to purge out all her fatty, smoky, half-chewed, barbecue chicken morsels, fat-soaked twice-fried chips, sickly caramel apple slice. An even stronger urge to purge him out of her. But she couldn’t resist her desire,
‘What did you just say?’
‘I said, open your legs. So that I can adjust your seat?’
Lizzie exhaled, ‘Switch off the light.’
He dimmed the light. She opened her legs. He rolled the sleeve of his angora sweater as far as his elbow and felt her. She felt his forearm, resting on her thigh, the subtle flick of his wrist, anticipating Simon’s next command,
‘Push back with your legs.’
Lizzie pushed, hard. The seat jarred back. His hand slid up her thigh. She felt his warmth, opening her mouth for him. They kissed. The kiss of the starving, the lonely, the unloved. It had been months since she last enjoyed a man’s touch. She offered him no resistance.
Simon slipped the clutch, released the handbrake, the car edged forward. Their way ahead was filled with promise, the road behind dark and foreboding. Lizzie relaxed in the leather seat, thrilled by her new-found luxury, watching the man’s white knuckles grip the wheel. His eyes were fixed on the gloom ahead. She buttoned up her dress, clumsily, dreamily – in the dark.
‘Look out for the deer, Simon,’ she said, searching the forest verge for signs of life.
He glanced appreciatively at the umber silhouette of her beautiful face, ‘The who.?’
‘The deer. They’ve a nasty habit of running out in front of your car on this road. A driver hit one last week. It smashed his windscreen, flew through the shattered glass, and pulped his head and chest. The poor man didn’t stand a chance.’
Simon eased his foot off the accelerator, ‘Neither did the deer, innocent creature.’
Lizzie warmed to him, wanting to touch his face, feel his smile, his heartbeat. So, he loved animals? Could she love him one day? The intimacy of his caress just now wasn’t lost on her; she’d liquified under his touch. At the age of thirty-two might she have finally found love? She studied his facial features fading in the shade: serious, noble, intent. Could he fall in love with her maybe one day? She hoped so very much being lonely, soothing him,
‘I suppose not. I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. Would you come home with me, Simon?’
*****
‘I’m sorry I touched you like that,’ he said, climbing the concrete stairs to her flat, ‘It was forward of me.’
She brightened, ‘Don’t be! I enjoyed it.’
He’d broken the rules, touching her there. They broke the rules. Supposing rules are there to be broken? Lizzie prepared to break another one. Her hands were shaking. She felt gut sick with nerves. She stood outside the door fumbling with her keys, then turned the lock, flicking a switch, holding his hand,
‘Shall we go inside?’
Lizzie led. Simon hesitated. At the bus stop, in his car: Lizzie had projected the grace and dignity he was looking for: an intimate, sensual charm. He hadn’t expected to find himself in this shit hole. The room was an absolute dump, a sordid stain on her refined personality.
On the left-hand side stood a broken flat-pack cabinet, torn-up Formica work surface over grubby pine cupboards, a fridge, microwave oven, and a bronze aluminium chair. Next to the microwave squatted a plate of half-digested mozzarella pizza. Simon estimated, from the dried sauce crust covering its rim, the dish must be at least two days old. He grimaced in disgust. Lizzie read his mind, and confessed,
‘I live in a mess, Simon.’
‘You live here?’
‘It’s all I can afford.’
He refused to comment.
At the lighter end of her abyss hung a woeful net curtain, full of soot from the trunk road outside. Lizzie’s unmade single bed occupied the far right: the sad bed of a single woman. There was no art on display, pleasing ornaments or cameos, no book to read, evidence of learning, or culture. Just filth. Even the air smelt stale, a sickly-sweet odour of curry from the Indian takeaway downstairs mixed with an acrid stench of vomit. A thick brown drape cordoned off whatever lay behind.
Her sanitary facilities?
Hanging off the wall, opposite her bed, was a plasma tv screen, her only contact with the cruel world. He took in the threadbare crimson rug, the remote lying by the kettle, shaking his head with sadness, pitying her for living in such dire straits. If only he could help her change her life somehow. Frustrated by her mess, he made up his mind to leave,
‘I think I should go.’
She begged him to stay, ‘Please don’t, Simon.’
He left her wringing her hands, without so much as a goodbye.
After he had gone, Lizzie closed the door behind her, took off her coat, and hung it on the back of the door. The room felt cold and lifeless without him. The emotional strain he put her under, excitement, anticipation, drained her energy. Reverting to her ugly stereotype, she withdrew into her protective shell, a hermit crab’s solitary confinement, drawing back the curtain on her real self to reveal her unsavoury innards.
The box of tissues sat waiting for her on the cistern. The mustard-yellow lid and seat were flipped back, primed for her. She untied her lemon satin waist sash, unbuttoned the amber studs on her dress as high as her chest, then took it off. Lizzie knelt before the toilet as if in prayer, purging herself. Once she had sloughed out the entire contents of her stomach, she dry-retched, pulled the handle, closed the lid, and stood up. Wiping clean the corners of her mouth with a moist tissue, she appraised herself in the mirror: gaunt, tired, and lost to love. Lizzie brushed her teeth, found her phone, put on a nightie, then she went to bed.
For the last time, she scrolled his face up on the screen:
I am looking for a beautiful woman, early 30’s, to love, cherish, worship and adore. A woman seeking attention to herself. A Boudicca or a Helen of Troy to stand on my glass pedestal for all the world to see and fill the empty space in my heart.
He wasn’t there for her anymore.
She cried herself to sleep.
*****
Simon couldn’t stop thinking about her. He returned to his apartment on the village green, made himself mint tea, which usually worked, then stayed awake, tossing, turning, trying to remember her face: her short, wispy, quiff of black hair, teak eyes, unusual skin, thin lips, glamourous high-set cheek bones.
The next day was a blur of fading memories, a vain attempt to put her out of his mind, to move on. Conquering his mourning for her took a monumental effort of will. He spring-cleaned the hall, bathroom, bedrooms, lounge, kitchen, and veranda to a state of hygienic perfection, sterilizing his Porsche in the residents only car park.
After a light salad lunch, he went online and reviewed the hundreds of options on offer. None of them compared to Lizzie. For all her squalor, filth and neglect, Lizzie the woman was naturally beautiful. Her stench had made him nauseous. He couldn’t wait to leave the flat. In Simon’s pristine world the slightest blemish, stain or smear made the difference between impression and distaste, excitement and disappointment, sensation, and disgrace. That was how his world was – in glass.
In the end he wiped her from his mind with a gruelling seven-mile run through the forest as the light began to fade. Only for Lizzie’s face to return to haunt him at night, as he lay in bed trying to pluck up the courage to say sorry to her.
Next morning felt different. The clouds parted overhead, the sun came out, his spirits rose with the sublime warmth of spring sunshine through his windscreen. Shielding his eyes from the glare, Simon pulled into the deserted church car park, killed the engine, and felt for his phone. He imagined she’d be standing legs akimbo on her mat in her grey tracksuit, laptop open, tuned in to You Tube, waiting for Body Crew to start issuing her instructions. He wasn’t wrong. The phone rang eight times before she answered in her rich, plummy, breathless voice,
‘Hello?’
‘5-4-3-2-1.’
‘Mum?’
‘And shake it off.’
‘Just a minute, darling.’
He waited while his mother signed off. The video stopped playing in the background. She gave him her full, undivided, attention,
‘Simon, how lovely to hear from you!’
‘How’s it going?’
‘I’ve lost two pounds already! Two pounds! Oh, and I had my first jab on Friday.’
‘Well done, Mum!’ he enthused, ‘Keep going!’
‘I will! I will keep going. How are you, dear?’
‘Busy as ever.’
Diana tutted, ‘You’re always busy. What are you busy with now?’
‘I’m planning the re-opening,’ he informed her, appreciating her vested financial interest.
‘What is it this time, sharks, newts, frogs, jellyfish, snakes, not those dreadful eels I hope?’
Simon laughed, ‘No, no, no, not the eels! I’m going for something different this time.’
‘I’m all ears, dear,’ she keened.
‘I can’t tell you, it’s a secret.’
‘Ah! But I love secrets!’
‘Sorry Mum, you’ll have to wait until the opening.’
‘Will I be invited?’
‘Naturally.’
Her voice cheered up, ‘Good! Then I shall wear my new dress!’
There was a brief pause. Simon pushed the car door open and listened to a cackle of crows cawing in some nearby pine trees. He took a deep breath of the sweet fresh country air, preparing to break the news.
‘Simon?’
‘I’m still here. Mum?’
‘Yes?’
‘I think I’ve just fallen in love. Think I’ve found the woman of my dreams.’
His mother’s voice broke, ‘Oh, darling, I’ve gone all teary. Your father would have been so pleased. What is her name.’
‘Her name’s Lizzie,’ he said proudly.
‘Lizzie! How delightful! And is she pretty?’
‘Very pretty.’
‘And is she like us?’
‘No, I’m afraid she’s not like us, not OCD.’
‘Then if you really love her, you must help her, dear, and learn to accept your differences.’
Simon cut the call and climbed out. His stout walking shoes and rucksack were in the car boot. Once changed, he set off on his solitary walk, leaving a bunch of fresh daffodils in the car. The public footpath took him over a metal stile into a bumpy field full of horses. His spirits soared when he saw his faithful old friend, the piebald, grazing in a corner of the meadow away from the other horses. They stood out from the crowd, the two of them. The horse was black and white, unlike his future.
The lockdown almost put his gallery in the West End out of business. Almost. Had it not been for his mother’s financial support his unique aesthetics would have been lost to the world forever. The animals were sent away to a private zoo in Kent while he decided what to do next. They were in safe hands, unlike him. Simon was lonely, emotionally insecure, a stifled flame of creativity waiting to flare, his glowing embers of suppressed passion freshly stoked by a red-hot poker called Lizzie.
He reached the muddiest stretch of the walk, a hoof-trodden bog of potholes by a brook, taking measured steps to avoid sinking in the quagmire. Simon lost his footing, wobbling, nearly falling over. Steadying himself at the last moment, he focused on the path that lay ahead.
The re-launch of the gallery, tentatively scheduled for Friday 25th June to coincide with the anticipated lifting of all restrictions four days earlier would be a private viewing, the likes of which had not been seen since 1991 and, he hoped, just as shocking. His attempts at emulating his idol’s stunning art using live animals had paid the bills, earning Simon considerable notoriety as proprietor of a novel arthouse zoo in Mayfair before dwindling into insignificance.
The Physical Impossibility of Death in the Mind of Someone Living is an artwork created by Damien Hirst. Consisting of a tiger shark preserved in formaldehyde, displayed in a vitrine, it was sold for an undisclosed amount estimated to be eight to twelve million dollars.
Simon crossed the second horse field in a daze, passing through a metal stile to a wildlife conservation area criss-crossed with badger setts, pitted with foxholes, erupting molehills. He remembered the illuminated skull, another Hirst masterpiece, that he first experienced inside a tiny blacked-out room at an ancient stone gallery off the main square in Florence.
For the Love of God is a sculpture. It consists of a platinum cast of an 18th century skull encrusted with eight thousand six hundred and one flawless diamonds including a pear-shaped pink diamond located in the forehead known as the Skull Star Diamond. The skull’s teeth are original and were purchased by Hirst in London.
The bomb-hole was filled with crystal clear water – no-one knew its true depth – situated in a vast stubbled cornfield off the main footpath. Simon wouldn’t be disturbed here. He could swim wild, swim free: unclothed, unshackled, uninhibited. He stood at the lakeside stripping off his clothes, then plunged into the icy water, his invigorated mind fermenting innovation, culturing thrills, cultivating adventures in contemporary art.
He struck out for the far bank, imagining Lizzie’s face embedded in glass.
*****
She slipped off her nightie and stood in front of the mirror, inspecting herself: tall, slim, graceful, as beautiful as ever,
‘You’re looking great today, Lizzie. Not a single hair out of place. Not a spot, mole, pimple, wart, birthmark, cut, bruise, sore, chafe, abrasion, weal, burn or graze. Beautiful!’
‘Thank you.’
She smeared her armpits with deodorant: no pulls or lumps or ouch, twinges in her breasts,
‘See, you haven’t got breast cancer. In fact, you have the perfect body, a lovely skin, and a perfect complexion. Life could be worse, much worse. Not a good time to fall ill, is it?’
Lizzie pushed her right leg forward, bent at the knee, stretching upwards, trying to touch the ceiling as if she were reaching for the stars, repeating the lunges for forty-five seconds,
‘Suppose you’re right. Should count, myself lucky,’ she breathed, switching to her other leg.
Conversations like these were not uncommon in Lizzie’s lonely life. Ever since she was a little girl at the orphanage, she had kept a confidante, an invisible friend, on her shoulder. Who looked like her in the mirror. Who talked like her. Almost.
Same, same but different as Kim taught her in Vietnam. She closed her eyes, threw up her arms, and stood with her feet one hip-width apart. Remembering the Chinese lanterns swaying in the hot breeze over the river at Hoi Ann at night. The water puppet theatre in Ho Chi Minh City. The tunnels of Cu Chi. Their struggles. Kim taught her their struggles for freedom. How to carry on against impossible odds, when all seemed lost, and triumph over adversity. Lizzie side-lunged for forty-five seconds, then changed sides,
‘I dreamed of him last night,’ she admitted.
‘Tell me about your dream.’
‘I dreamed we fell in love, and he worshipped and adored me, his Venus de Milo with arms, standing there before him, on his glass plinth, in all my naked glory. I dreamed we made love on glass.’
Lizzie shut up while she got down on her hands and knees, working herself hard with two minutes-worth of burpees. She prepared to lateral deep squat,
‘You should have been a writer, Lizzie,’ she told herself, ‘with an imagination like that!’
‘Could have been a lot of things,’ she pushed-up off the floor, raising and extending one long, bare leg at a time, ‘a model, air hostess, actor, a celebrity. A shining star for all the world to admire.’
Her other self interrupted her, ‘But you’re a dental receptionist. Not much fun, is it? Being a dental receptionist. Why didn’t you?’
Lizzie curtsied, ninety seconds of curtsy lunges, ‘I suppose I lacked the confidence after what took place at the orphanage.’
Mountain climber. She became a mountain climber, pushing up, legs extended, bending at the knee, raising one leg, then the next,
‘And now you’re lonely.’
Push-up, jumping jacks, push-up, jumping jacks. Come on Lizzie, you can do this, you can change your life, come on, cross the t off can’t, you can do this, change your life…
‘Yes, now I’m lonely.’
Relax, lie on my back, knees bent, feet flat on the floor, shoulder-width apart.
Imagine I’m with him.
Push up my glutes and trunk as far as I can, engage my muscles.
Imagine I’m making love to him.
Her best friend, her only true friend, spoke up for her,
‘You loved him, didn’t you, Lizzie? Loved his touch.’
Push-up to plank.
Imagine I’m under him, all over him.
‘I loved the way he challenged me. I want excitement, crave adventure, seek the struggle, demand the triumph only he can give me. I’m changing my ways for good. Goodbye to my sick, my bulimia, I can beat that, fight that. I want him back. I’ll start by cleaning out this tip.’
Push-up to plank. You can do this, Lizzie. You can do this.
She lay on her back, naked on the floor, raised her legs, arms, bent her knees: a dead fly.
The Crunch:
‘But he left you, didn’t he?’
She curled up in a ball and held herself, ‘Yes.’
‘Gone,’ she wept gently, the tears of the lonely.
‘Forever?’
Lizzie felt the acid bile rise in her gut – the mountain berry fruit and fage from breakfast.
‘Yes,’ she cried, crumpling on the floor, ‘forever.’
*****
Simon left the daffodils on his father’s grave, drove to his luxury apartment, and entered a period of self-imposed isolation which he was prone to do when planning his next move or licking his wounds. Lizzie hadn’t made contact. He didn’t expect her to. She probably felt too hurt, wounded by his rudeness, moving on, ready to start another search for love.
His was the next move.
He spent the mornings creating a concept for his exhibition in June. Defining exhibits. Designing displays in terms of capacity, shape, form, colour, texture, size, environment, atmosphere, content. Then there was the frequency of openings to consider. How many guests to invite. The all-important admission fee for his ‘fantastic never-to-be-forgotten experience’. His client’s safety: face masks, hand sanitizers, sanitation, social distancing.
Simon planned on giving a brief personal welcome to no more than thirty clients, half the usual amount, in the foyer over a glass of Prosecco, peach Bellini, cranberry, melon juice. Or one of his famous traffic light cocktails: red cherry brandy on amber amaretto on green crème de menthe. That should set tongues wagging! Oh, and some dried, non-greasy eats: toasted naan-style flatbreads with brie and cranberry crusts, dry snacks: corn chips, salted macadamia, wasabi, the sort of thing he could knock up at home. He never used caterers, preferring to host the evenings himself, four evenings a week:
Thursday to Sunday: matinee 530pm for 6pm followed by a late-night display 730pm for 8pm kick-off.
After his introduction, guests would be invited to enter the blacked-out viewing suites in pairs to marvel at his creations, illuminated by ceiling mounted accent lights directed at the displays. Flash photography would be prohibited, as would eating, drinking, smoking, and touching exhibits. Autographed portraits of the displays would be made available for clients to buy in a choice of colourful frames, together with virtual reality tour CD-ROMs of the suites, the latest computer-generated digital montages of exhibits in different poses, and copies of his book from the foyer. All that was missing were the displays themselves.
The afternoons, Simon spent working out with weights, intense floor exercises, keeping his magnificent body in shape for her, thinking of her, his beloved possession, his future. How to win her back? He decided to order her an unusual gift, a token of his affection for her, befitting her grace and style, an invitation that might yet change her life.
After his routine power naps, he listened to expressive music: Arcade Fire, his favourite creative group, cooked himself light healthy suppers, checked his social media messages, took early baths, then went to bed to read: the latest futuristic science fiction and fantasies.
Saturday nights were reserved for click-and-collect and pay-at-pump sessions at the local supermarket. Life in lockdown took a structure, a framework Simon used to stop himself going insane. His sense of loss, his grief for Lizzie, turned to heartache. Throwing caution to the wind, he went online and ordered her surprise.
On Sunday night, he watched his favourite film, Nocturnal Animals.
He didn’t return to the bomb-hole until Monday, a beautiful, warm sunny day with a mild south-westerly wind, perfect for swimming. Alone with his thoughts, Simon plunged into the ice-cold water, crawling as far as the mass of tangled brambles, lichen-petrified trees, and bushes covering the far bank. Treading water, he swivelled his body, breast-stroking back to the solitary fishing swim where he left his clothes, and heard a foreign voice,
‘Hi, I’m Joely. Mind if I swim here, too?’
She spoke in a Deep Southern drawl: Alabama, Louisiana, Mississippi? And had the most achingly beautiful face he’d ever seen clear blue eyes, a sexy snub nose, thick strawberry lips, a pronounced chin. Her face was surrounded with shade-upon-shade of fiery red hair: copper, chestnut, ginger, amber, an ocean of full and flirty waves that rolled over her chest and shoulders, ending in delightful oaken ringlets. Her skin was as pale as clotted cream. He worried that she might burn in the fierce afternoon sun.
Joely: my perfect redhead.
‘You’re American,’ he said.
She dropped her jute bag on the ground and took off her ash grey t-shirt, running shoes, and tracksuit bottoms, revealing a striking magenta swimsuit. Standing, hands-on-hips, her pretty head cocked to one side, she watched him tread the underwater current with his muscular legs,
‘Is it that obvious?’
She sounded worried.
He reassured her, ‘You have a lovely voice. Where are you from?’
Joely stooped and splashed her face and chest with water, it was freezing cold, it felt great,
‘Mississippi originally. I live here in the village now. Share a house with six other girls.’
Simon recalled a house that he drove past on the way to the church: its high walls, locked gates, closed-circuit security cameras, the flag, fluttering limply in the mild spring breeze,
‘The one with Stars and Stripes?’
An American in Essex.
‘That’s right! I think I should swim now, don’t you? Before I catch cold?’
There was a sunken bench, a relic of long-lost summer picnic outings, before the crater was formed by an enemy bomber shedding its payload after a midnight raid, then flooded, forming a natural lake. Simon swam over and stood on it. The water came up to his waist. He flexed his biceps, triceps, pecs, and abs in a valiant one-on-one attempt to impress her,
My Darcy, Joely imagined, flushing, only hotter.
She crouched on the bankside preparing to dive in. He admired the perfect musculature, her poise, her strength. Suspecting, she worked out in a closed private gym to keep herself slim and fit. Suspecting, Joely could hold a pose, control her breathing, hold herself rigid for him. She was nearly in his grasp, at touching distance. He thrust his pelvis at her. A naughty smile spread across her face as she sized the eel dangling between the man’s legs.
He blushed, ‘Sorry, I forgot my trunks.’
‘That’s okay. I’ve seen a man’s cock before.’
I bet you have, he dreamed, ‘I’m Simon.’
‘Good to meet you, Simon. Let’s swim, shall we?’
Joely dived into his life headfirst, powering off across the lake face down in the water, her strong arms cutting through the chill, throwing her head back every few strokes to suck in the tepid air.
Admiring her from afar, Simon turned in the water, then followed her, calm, preoccupied with her future. Joely’s body was well-toned and perfectly proportioned. He imagined her head and torso mounted in glass.
She had different ideas. Men, particularly lean, mean, charming men were hard to find in a rural village during lockdown. Joely decided to take matters into her own hands.
After swimming fifty lengths past two disinterested geese, exhausting herself, she headed back to the bank. The water was deeper than her five-foot six height. There was an orange lifebelt suspended over her head on the bank, next to a sun-blanched sign which read:
DANGER DEEP WATER
With immense effort, she grasped the side and heaved herself out, falling flat on her face in the grass. Laughing, dripping wet, skin coated in goosebumps, Joely hauled herself up and tugged a beach towel out of her jute bag. Simon was swimming towards her, ten yards out. She dabbed the sun glare from her eyes. He reached the bank, watching avidly as she pulled the straps down on her swimsuit, exposing her bare creamy shoulders, her chest, a subtle invitation to him,
‘Come in, Simon.’
You sound like my mother when I was young, he reflected, Come in, Simon, it’s teatime.
He clambered out of the water, instinctively covering himself with the ridiculously small white hand towel, he stole from a luxury hotel in New York. Embarrassed, he reddened, looking away from her, drying himself as best he could. Other than some fine hair on his forearms, a line of fluff running down his belly, his body was bald, solid muscle. Simon shivered; the veins jutted out of his biceps. Joely was thrilled to bits. She encouraged him,
‘No need to be shy. You’ve got a lovely body.’
‘It’s been so long since I met a woman.’
‘I know how you feel,’ she sighed, ‘this lockdown’s been tough for all of us. Look at me.’
He watched Joely peel off her swimsuit, leaving it slopped in a wet heap around her feet.
She handed him her towel,
‘Dry me.’
Simon dried her roughly: her head, torso, arms, and legs.
‘Let me hold you.’
She held him tenderly in her soft hands.
They kissed and embraced. They lay on her towel.
After they’d heavy-petted, Simon escorted Joely to the main footpath, following a freshly excavated ditch bordered by piles of stricken branches, clumps of mud, a ridge overgrown with brambles, hawthorn bushes in bridal blossom. Joely explained that she was single, an unemployed actress waiting for the theatres to re-open, barely surviving on furlough. Seeking excitement. She stared at the olive-green water in the ditch, a messy vinaigrette leading nowhere, like her life, and asked him,
‘Can I see you again?’
‘If you want to.’
‘I do want to.’
They exchanged numbers as they reached the three red fir trees where the path diverged: left for the church, right for the village. There was a crude wooden footbridge, planks over a muddy stream, steps leading to the primary school. They listened to the sound of children playing. Joely let go of his hand and kissed him on the lips,
‘This is me, I’m afraid, Simon,’ she said, ‘This is me.’
*****
Thursday 1st April:
The door buzzer sounded just as the phone started to ring. Lizzie answered the phone,
‘Dentists, would you hold a moment, please?’
Quickly, she edged out from behind her desk, crossed the small reception area and opened the door. It was Montgomery, wearing a crooked black face mask, looking to all intents and purposes like a masked bandit, for his five o’clock with Ashkira. Lizzie adjusted her mask and checked,
‘Mr Montgomery?’
‘It is!’
‘Would you like to come in and take a seat? The dentist will see you in a few minutes.’
‘Thank you.’
Lizzie gave her patient a polite smile, shut the door, and returned to the desk,
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. How may I help you?’
‘I’ve got toothache,’ a miserable voice complained at the other end of the line.
‘Sorry to hear that. May I take your name, please?’
‘Smith. Ned Smith.’
‘One moment.’
She scrolled through the database on her screen,
‘Ah, here we are, Mr Smith. Can I just check your date of birth?’
‘Twenty-ninth of April 1997.’
‘Thank you. And what seems to be the problem?’
He sounded irritated, ‘I told you, didn’t I?’
She frowned, an awkward customer. Never mind, going home in half an hour, ‘Sorry?’
‘I’ve got toothache. I want to see a dentist.’
Very awkward.
Lizzie stayed calm, ever the professional,
‘I’m sorry, Mr Smith, our appointments are all taken today. We close at five-thirty. If you’re in pain I can see if I can fit you in on Tuesday.’
‘Course I’m in pain. I can’t wait till Tuesday. I want to see a dentist.’
Unpleasant callers like this patient were increasingly common during lockdown. Selfish, arrogant, rude. Montgomery gave out a worried look that asked if everything was alright. Lizzie returned him an appreciative, if false, smile, struggling to retain her composure,
‘Tomorrow’s Bank Holiday I’m afraid,’ she explained, ‘We’re closed until Tuesday. I’m really sorry.’
Smith’s acid retort shook her to the core, ‘Fuck off, Bitch!’
The line went dead.
Ashkira appeared just as Lizzie burst into tears, her face barely distinguishable in the see-through visor and mask, eyebrows flagging, forehead wrinkled with concern, wishing she could console her friend,
‘What is it? What’s the matter?’
Montgomery intervened, ‘I think some idiot just upset your young lady on the telephone.’
‘Thank you,’ Ashkira said, stony-faced, ‘Lizzie, if a patient has abused or threatened you in any way you must tell me. I can have him or her struck off our list.’
‘I’ll be fine. I just need a good rest, that’s all.’
Ashkira wasn’t surprised by her reply. It had been a long, hard slog for both of them since the reception team was cut in half. Added to that, the practice manager was on long-term sick leave, so Lizzie had to work every Saturday with the hygienist. She was shattered, emotionally, physically exhausted. Ashkira suspected, there might be something else the matter: love hurts, loneliness, a lack of will to carry on?
She persisted, ‘Would you like to have a chat over a mug of coffee when we finish? I’ll pay.’
The receptionist wiped her eyes, ‘I’ll be fine.’
Montgomery was ready for his filling. He requested a pain-killing injection. The dentist beckoned him towards her sparkling, squeaky clean clinic. She turned to face her friend,
‘Go home and have a lovely restful Easter holiday. Spoil yourself. See you on Tuesday. Now take care of yourself, Lizzie, and stay safe.’
‘Thank you, Ash, I will. You, too. Have a nice Bank Holiday.’
Lizzie donned a black face mask, walked into the Indian corner shop, and bought six large Quality Street Easter eggs for herself to enjoy. She planned to eat them when she was lonely, three on Friday, three Monday, vomiting them up afterwards to keep herself slim. She wondered if she could face going back to work again next week. What was the point?
The grey polythene package lay on the doormat outside her room. She slammed the door, knelt down, tore off the wrapping, and read the bizarre message typed inside:
If you would like to be that woman, come to my apartment wearing my gift under your dress: bare arms, bare legs, no make-up, at 7pm on Easter Saturday night.
Simon
Apartment 10, The View, Aigburth Green.
For the first time that day, Lizzie’s face lit up in a genuine smile.
*****
Saturday 3rd April:
Lizzie coughed, blew her nose, threw the tissue away, and washed her hands. Standing in front of the mirror, she took a swab and opened her mouth, running it over both tonsils, trying hard not to gag. Cautiously, she inserted the swab in each nostril, rotating it slowly, soaking it before leaving her deposit on the testing device.
Her gift was on the bed. Intrigued by his message, she slipped it on, put on her favourite candy-striped dress, some sensible shoes, buttoning on her mauve cardigan to keep warm.
Two weeks had passed since their intimate encounter in the car. Lizzie missed his touch, his fragrance, his kiss. Her heart leapt into her mouth, contemplating the night ahead. Would he take precautions? She assumed he hadn’t been so careless as to expose himself to the virus while they were apart. Assumed she was the only woman in his life. She sat on the bed reading The Mail, crossing off the minutes until her result flashed up.
The coloured control line next to the C indicated a valid test result. There was no line next to the T. Breathing a sigh of relief, Lizzie put on her mask and coat, and left.
The downhill stretch to the station was bleak and empty. In happier, safer times she might have expected to meet a group of theatregoers, partygoers, heading for the West End. She wondered if those days would ever return. Desperation borne of loneliness made her risk her health to meet Simon. He could at least have offered to collect her in his car. But that wasn’t his way. He was a dark horse who enjoyed exerting control over her, she relished that. It never occurred to her that she might be putting herself in danger. Until she reached the stone steps.
The road ended abruptly, narrowing to an unlit concrete footpath. There were ten flights of five steps (she’d counted them often enough), leading to a blind corner, the shortcut to the station. Lizzie glanced at the smashed streetlights, gave a little shiver, then descended the leafy stairs. She reached the bottom. Who was waiting for her on the corner? A masked abductor, a rapist, a murderer, a gang of teenage thugs with razors and slash-face knives?
These are the fears sent to test women on the streets, to test me, she thought, the Reclaim the Streets vigils still fresh in her mind. I won’t be cowered into submission by a warped minority of pathetic men. I deserve my freedom as much as they do and intend to take it.
She took a deep breath and turned the corner: no boogie man, no man with steel claws, no bloodthirsty beast wearing a clay mask. The coast was clear tonight. The old tarmac path skirting the carpark was illuminated with spotlights. She felt safer, but still hurried to the station. The booking hall was silent. There was a train. She swiped her card and boarded. Her carriage was empty. The doors slid closed, trapping her inside. The train rumbled off into the night, leaving the lights of the town, passing sombre fields, forbidden forests, until she reached her destination.
It was impossible to miss The Green lying at the heart of the village surrounded by a parade of shops, a closed village hall, a derelict pub at the north end, private residential homes on either side. Lizzie found the modern apartment block by the hall. The entry gate was signposted:
THE VIEW – PRIVATE RESIDENCE – NO ENTRY WITHOUT AN APPOINTMENT.
By the gate was a panel: numbered buttons, a grille. Inhaling sharply, Lizzie pressed 10.
A bell chimed, a mesh voice said, ‘Come in.’
The gate clicked open. As she crossed the car park, Lizzie saw his gleaming Porsche. She smiled to herself. He clearly treasured his privacy. A secure door. She pressed his button. Simon answered immediately,
‘Come to the first floor. I’ll meet you by the lift.’
She ran up the fire stairs, taking him by surprise,
‘I hate lifts,’ she panted.
He opened his arms, ‘I’ve missed you, Lizzie.’
Simon was wearing the same angora sweater as last time, faded chinos, loafers, no socks.
Pleased that he hadn’t changed, Lizzie stepped up to him, ‘Missed you too, Simon – lots.’
They embraced. He made her feel warm, loved, secure. Made her life worth living. Simon cherished her. She felt his heartbeat against her chest. Happy, warm, content, Lizzie held his hand, letting him take the lead. They left the lift lobby. His pad was the one with owls faces on the doormat, at the far end of the corridor,
‘We shouldn’t be doing this, should we?’ he teased, opening the door for her, ‘After you.’
‘I want to. Rules are there to be broken, aren’t they?’
He didn’t reply, just removed his loafers. Lizzie brushed off her shoes and stepped inside. There was a built-in wardrobe on the left. She let him take off her coat, bent at the knees, took off her shoes. Barefoot. He stood on the parquet floor, beckoning her. His apartment was pristine. Lizzie wandered past a glass partition into a bedroom, which was dimly lit.
For romance?
Other than a giant-sized black bed, the room was unfurnished. Hanging over the bed was an illuminated photo of a neon green frog. It took her breath away. She felt him join her. Felt him put his arm around her waist, loving him, holding her tightly there, she smiled,
‘It’s beautiful. What is it?’
Simon gave her hips an affectionate squeeze,
‘It’s a treefrog. They spend their days sleeping under leaves in the rain forest. If they’re disturbed, they bulge their red eyes at you, flashing their orange-webbed fingers, startling you while they leap to safety. At night, they ambush flies, moths, crickets, with their long sticky tongues. Like to see some more?’
Lizzie was entranced. ‘I’d love to.’
Simon ushered her into a second bedroom with sliding glass partitions leading outside to a small balcony, and a mirrored fitted wardrobe. There were men’s magazines: GQ, Men’s Health, scattered on the floor beside the bed. Lizzie assumed this was where he slept. Otherwise, the bed was identical to the first: jet black duvet, sheets, pillows. The image on the wall was even stranger, if more familiar, than the frog: a hedgehog with red eyes and lemon-yellow spines. Lizzie was amazed,
‘Why?’
Simon explained, ‘It’s an albino, they’re extremely rare. Like it?’
‘She’s lovely.’
He laughed, ‘It’s a ‘he’ actually. I cooked us dinner. Hungry?’
Her tummy was rumbling, ‘You cooked dinner? For me?’
‘I wanted to make up for the way I treated you. It was wrong of me to leave you like that, after I led you on.’
She held his hand, ‘Simon, you didn’t lead me on. I loved the way you touched me in the car. This is my fault for living in such a mess.’
He turned to face her. She looked beautiful, sad. He would change her life. If she let him,
‘Lizzie, I suffer from OCD.’
She shook her head in surprise, ‘OCD? How strange! That makes us complete opposites!’
‘They say opposites attract.’
‘Yes, they do say that.’
‘Shall we eat?’
‘Can we? I’m starving.’
Simon guided her to the lounge. Lizzie’s jaw dropped. The lounge was in darkness, other than the moonlight shining on its glass door. There were photos scattered round the walls, starlets spotlighted by discreet accent lights,
‘My goodness,’ she gasped, ‘What are they?’
Simon introduced his friends: an albino koala with pink eyes, ears, and a leathery nose, a purple salamander, a mandarin dragonet, a blue, poisonous dart frog. Lizzie stood still, mesmerized by the creatures’ beauty, their explicit colours. As a child, she hadn’t owned so much as a cat or a guinea pig. Pets were not allowed at the orphanage. She found her voice,
‘You seem to have quite a fascination with strange animals.’
He corrected her, ‘Not strange. Rare, exotic species. I display them as art. At least, I used to.’
Lizzie was shocked, ‘You killed them and put them on display? Simon, how could you?!’
‘I didn’t say they were dead. Have you ever heard of Damien Hirst?’
She rubbed her chin, ‘Vaguely. Didn’t he display a pickled shark in a cage or something?’
Simon gave her hand a squeeze, ‘That’s right. Hirst preserved a dead shark and displayed it in a vitrine. I used the same technique, displaying unusual creatures in glass cases except that mine were alive, preserved in warmth and colour, bathed in light.’
‘Isn’t that cruel?’
‘On the contrary, all of my creatures were comfortable, well-fed, cared for and safe, which is more than you can say for most animals. Since we seem hell-bent on destroying their environments: the rain forests, savannah, tundra, grassy lowlands, we leave these species fighting for survival. Unless we change our ways quickly, thousands of animal and plant species will be lost to future generations.’
Lizzie thought of her humdrum existence, the room, exercising to stay trim, her dull job, feeling helpless, inconspicuous in the grand scheme known as life on Earth. She never seemed to find time to consider other people’s feelings let alone the future of wildlife, her planet. She resolved to do more. Separating her recyclable plastic, cardboard, paper, and food waste might be a good start. Meanwhile, her mind filled with images of the animals, lit up in glass cases, presumably for the pleasure of richer human beings, until they died,
‘You said ‘were’, Simon,’ she ventured, ‘What happened to them?’
‘I had to close the art gallery when the lockdown hit us. Don’t worry, all of my creatures were donated to a private zoo. They’re well looked-after. Unlike us. We forget sometimes, we’re only animals. We need caring for too. Shall we eat?’
He seated her at a black glass-topped dining table set for two lit by a single candle. A dish of queen olives, an open bottle of organic Fiano on ice. No fuss or flowers, quite simply, romance. She loved that. He wore his heart on his sleeve, treating her like a woman, with surprising respect.
What did he want of her?
Before Lizzie could ask, he pulled down her napkin, filled her glass, pushed the olives in her direction, and started to question her,
‘Tell me about yourself.’
Lizzie spiked an olive and sucked it off its stick,
‘There’s not a lot to tell. I was abandoned at a food bank, soon as I was born, grew up in an orphanage. I have no idea who my mother is.’
He sipped his wine appreciatively, ‘I’m sorry. That must’ve been extremely hard for you.’
‘It was hard. I was bullied by the other girls. They hated me for the way I looked.’
‘How did you look?’
‘Like a big fat dumpling? Soft, doughy, round?’
Lizzie stared sorrowfully into her glass, her eyes aflame with candlelight. Simon reached across the table and gripped her wrist, impaling olives with his free hand, easing them off with his teeth, swallowing them whole,
‘I find that hard to believe, you’re beautiful and slim.’
She blushed, ‘I met a man who changed my life.’
He found her intriguing.
What was it she said? There’s not a lot to tell.
We all find a story inside ourselves if we probe deeply enough,
‘Are you still seeing him?’
‘Of course, I’m not.’
‘How did you cope with the girls bullying you?’
‘What is this, Simon? An interrogation?’
He shook his head, ‘I need to know.’
‘Why?’
He didn’t answer. She gestured with her hand, accidentally slopping wine over the table,
‘I learned to live with it. Hid myself from them, when I could, with my invisible friend.’
‘You had an invisible friend?’
She finished off her wine, mopping up the spillage with her napkin. He refilled her glass,
‘What was her name?’
‘Her name is Lizzie Two.’
‘Is Lizzie, too?’
‘Yes, is,’ she giggled like the little girl she once was, spouting proudly ‘I’m Lizzie One.’
‘Why do you remind me of Thunderbirds? 5-4-3-2-1! Lizzie-birds are Go!’
She put on her happy face and burst out laughing. Simon sagged with relief. He preferred this childish Lizzie to the sad, dull, adult version, couldn’t wait to find out more, but first,
‘I think the salmon’s ready. Would you excuse me?’
He stood up abruptly and ambled over to the oven, part of the open plan kitchen that sat in a corner of the lounge. Lizzie blinked as the lights phased on, absorbing her environment, his chic, minimalist, unadulterated luxury: white modular sofa, state-of-the-art immersive home theatre and audio system, contemporary shaker kitchen, all modern, all new, and meticulously arranged on the spotless polished wooden floor. Lying incongruously in the centre of the living space was a soft touch, shaggy, dense pile, teal blue rug. She wondered who that belonged to. Not him, surely?
‘Can I help?’ she called.
‘No, you’re my guest tonight.’
Only tonight?
He was wearing mitts to remove the baked salmon steaks from the oven. The night was young. Lizzie helped herself to a third glass of wine while he served the meal.
She let the salmon melt in her mouth: moist, tender, succulent, cooked to perfection, no less than she expected of Simon. Everything about him, his home, his looks, lifestyle, was perfect. Except for the gallery. That wasn’t perfect. That was a closed crab shell waiting to be occupied.
With what?
‘This is delicious, Simon,’ she said, masticating, ‘What’s in the glaze?’
‘Oh, just honey and mustard. Do you cook?’
He cast his mind back to the snack wagon. Lizzie, freezing on the damp bench. The dried up, half-digested pizza in her room. No, she didn’t cook, from fresh. How did she stay so slim? And her skin. Her skin was blemish free. He might have expected a few fat spots on her chin, the amount of junk food she poisoned her body with. He watched her wrestle with her asparagus. If anything, it was slightly under-cooked by his standards. Tough. She would have to manage. Lizzie raised her head and studied his face, his earnest face,
‘I’m a terrible cook, I’m afraid. I survive on pizzas, burgers, fish and chips, takeaways.’
He interrupted her, forking new potatoes as he spoke,
‘I can’t understand how you manage to stay so slim. You have such a lovely complexion.’
She dreaded this moment, saw it coming, the moment she brought up food.
Brought up food: bad choice of words, Lizzie.
I know, do you think I should tell him?
I think you have to be honest, don’t you? He cares about you. Can’t you see it in his face?
Simon stopped eating, resting his knife and fork, waiting for her answer, real concern written in his eyes. The candle flickered between them. The air felt thick, sluggish, gloom-in-the-room, stifling her. For the first time that night, she needed to be sick. Instead, Lizzie took a mouthful of wine, refreshing her palate, gulped it down, and told him the truth,
‘I purge myself.’
His face creased, ‘Purge yourself? What’s that supposed to mean?’
Lizzie stared at a blank space somewhere above the man’s head,
‘I throw up the bad food I eat, all the fat and muck, cleansing myself. I cleanse my body. Gastric detox. Keep myself looking young. For everyone to admire. For you, maybe.’
She fell quiet. The silence sat on them like a heavy beef meal stuffing full a vegan’s gut.
‘You binge eat to cope with being lonely?’
‘Yes,’ Lizzie lowered her head to face his.
He pitied her: the sight of those glistening tears welling in the corners of her eyes, shining in the candlelight as they rolled down her cheeks, breaking his heart,
‘You’re bulimic?’
‘Yes’, she was crying freely.
‘I can help you. Will you let me help you, Lizzie?’
‘Yes, please help me,’ she implored, ‘I can’t live like this any longer.’
They ate the rest of the meal in silence.
*****
Christ! He was difficult, emotional, hard for her to manage. Sometimes he would behave, focus on the assignment, not stray into her mind, her feelings for him. Others, he’d bare his heart to her, his love, send his intimate cravings to her. Scenarios, he called them. And she, in need of the money, agreed to record them for him. Trouble was, she was starting to connect, to empathize with him. Starting to enjoy herself. And she didn’t know where to stop.
Joely flicked up her e-mails and read his deranged love letter to her one more time:
Hi Joely,
So glad I met you at the lake. I think about you every waking hour. You’re brilliant, know that? You capture his voice perfectly, English, middle-class, arty-farty type. Wasn’t sure you could do that, being American. I love the vulnerability you impart to her. She’s just like that: emotionally vulnerable, susceptible to his charms. I should add, Joely, that she’s desperately lonely, seeking adventure, a way out, and bulimic; she spews out food to keep herself slim. Disgusting, isn’t it? Think I should let him help her?
Sorry, a few changes this time:
Can you make her voice sound more Essex? Not common, Essex – maybe West Essex?
Forest: it’s pronounced forest as in forage, not ‘for rest’. She’s not going to rest, not yet!
Thank you, Joely.
I love how you bring them to life. Can’t wait to hear you again.
I miss you,
Simon x
Her reply:
Hi,
Sure! I’ll do those for you. By Monday if that’s okay? Ready for more. If you are!
Take Care of Yourself,
Joely
Her phone pinged. She stared at the unusual present lying on the bed, hand-delivered, left deposited outside her door, smiling knowingly to herself as she opened his message,
Who can this be from, I wonder?
The invitation she was waiting for:
Meet me at the bomb-hole wearing my gift under your tracksuit, bare arms, bare legs, no make-up, 3pm Easter Sunday.
Simon x
*****
Fresh strawberries, fage, Sauternes, cheese, Port. Other than a moderate excess of alcohol, which left Lizzie feeling merry, the meal was healthy. For the first time in days, there was no queasy tickle at the back of her throat, no heaving stomach. She felt happy, loved, and well. Wondering how much out-of-season strawberries cost, Lizzie decided to visit the market early on Monday and begin a new regime of healthy eating: five fruits a day. Her mind strayed into unchartered territory: his bold invitation, Simon’s unusual request. She wanted to ask him what it meant, but he hadn’t finished with her yet. He leaned forward and blew out the candle. Lizzie caught the faint smell in her nostrils. Black smoke. Rising.
He pressed her, ‘You were telling me about your life.’
Eager to move on, she related a few highlights of her life as Simon listened, attentively. Lizzie told him she was adopted at the age of ten by the loving Clements family, growing up in their thatched cottage, attending the village school, making new friends. Her teenage years: her shame at being fat, the fruitless weight loss diets, punishing exercise routines. College: training to be a receptionist. Her thankless search for love. The job at the dentist. What it felt like to be lonely and unloved – the endless drudgery of it all. Her face lit up,
‘I won the lottery.’
He was stunned, ‘The lottery? How much did you win?’
‘The Postcode Lottery,’ she grinned like the proverbial cat with the cream, ‘I won £5,000! Not a lot. Still, it was enough to treat myself to a holiday.’
‘Where did you go?’
Lizzie perked up, ‘I went to Vietnam on a guided tour. Have you been there?’
‘No, I never travel to the Far East.’
‘You should. I had the time of my life. Everyone is so different. So friendly. Proud. I met our tour guide on our first night in Saigon. He took me to an all-night bar for a beer. We sat and talked into the early hours about the struggles of the Vietnamese People, The War, napalm bombs, the hideous deformities the children still suffer to this day. He taught me to have pride in myself, never to give up the fight, however hard life might be. Taught me to purge myself, cleanse my body of all the fat, oil, and grease. Cleanse my inner soul. I sat behind him on the coach to Cu Chi, followed him into the tunnels where his family hid from the enemy until they emerged, victorious. The tunnels stretch for miles, Simon. There were hospitals built underground.
We went out to a different restaurant every night. One day, we paddled in boats along the Mekong until we reached a floating restaurant. They served us fish baked in river mud. Can you imagine?! In Ho Chi Minh City they cooked us street food in the gutter. In Hue I drank an iced coffee. Never eat the ice cubes if you go there, Simon. They’re made of dirty water. I was so ill, weak with the trots. In the end, Kim brought a huge bowl of rice stodge up to my bedroom and made me eat it all up. It tasted like cement, but he clogged me up inside.’
Simon raised an eyebrow, ‘He did, Kim?’
‘Yes, he was my guide.’
‘Did you?’
‘What kind of woman do you take me for?’ she licked her lips, teasing him unashamedly.
He held up his hands as if under arrest, her arrest, ‘Sorry, Lizzie, I didn’t mean to imply.’
‘A nun?’ she went on, ‘Of course we did. Every night. On my bed.’
‘Sounds like you had an incredible holiday.’
‘I did, I’ll never forget Vietnam,’ she said, sounding wistful.
He returned to his first love, ‘Did you see any wildlife: monkeys, water buffalo, snakes, lizards while you were out there?’
Lizzie cast her mind back to the creature that ran in front of the coach as they entered the grounds of a Buddhist temple, ‘I think I might have seen a gibbon. I can’t be sure.’
‘A gibbon?’
‘Yes,’ her eyes sparkled, ‘And Kim hung a live snake around my neck for a photo in the jungle. He told me it was a python?’
Simon perched on the edge of his seat, ‘A python? Good grief, what did you do?’
‘Would you believe, I stood very still?’ she laughed at herself, ‘Now I work for Sparkler’s Dentists. That’s me, I guess.’
There was nothing left for her to say. He was about to make coffee, stack dirties in the dishwasher, drive her home, kiss her goodnight, say goodbye, she suspected, – except that,
‘You haven’t told me why you asked me to wear this basque?’
Lizzie walked to the teal rug, untied her lemon waist sash, slowly unbuttoned each amber stud, and slipped out of her dress. She threw it on the floor, her gauntlet, turning to face him. He was shocked by her transformation. She looked sensational. He wiped sweat out of his eyes. The basque clung to her like a comfortable sheath, begging the question,
‘What do you want me to do?’
He sat on the modular sofa, brandishing a Galaxy S21, ‘Pose for me while I video you.’
Lizzie felt her pulse hurtling round her bloodstream, ‘How would you like me to pose?’
‘Lie on the rug. Imagine you’re cramped inside a box,’ the artist said.
She lay on the rug, held her knees, and drew her legs up to her breasts, in a human ball,
What must I look like? He must be able to see my.
‘Like this you mean?’
The artist stood over her, circling her like a mongoose about to bite a snake, videoing her, capturing her head, limbs, her torso, from every conceivable angle, aroused by her shape,
‘Yes, like that,’ he sank back into the sofa, ‘Bend your arm at an angle. Push your hand through your hair. Splay your fingers. Pretend you’re pressing them against a wall.’
She interpreted his instructions, ‘How does that look?’
‘Great. Hold your left arm up straight, spread your fingers. Imagine you’re touching the ceiling.’
As if I’m trapped inside a coffin trying to push off the lid.
This was easy; she performed stretches every day. Her heart pumped love into her mind.
‘You’ve caught the sun,’ he told her, ‘Your limbs are tanned. You have a beautiful body.’
‘Thanks, I try my hardest.’
Try my hardest for you, Simon.
‘Look the other way. I don’t want to see your face.’
‘Why not? What’s the matter with my face?’
‘Nothing’s the matter. I just don’t want to see it, that’s all. Now, do as your told.’
Loving this, aren’t you?
She smiled, looking away. Simon pulled his angora sweater off over his head, shed his chinos, sitting on the sofa in his boxer shorts. Seeing her, posing for him, felt as if all his birthdays had come at once,
‘Push your body up with your left leg. Arch your body. Balance on your toes. Imagine you’re in a cage. Press your knee against the side of the cage.’
The instructions flowed thick and fast as the artist became more excited. Lizzie thrilled.
I’m in his cage.
‘Bend your knee. Rest your foot on your thigh. Knee to the ceiling. Toes to the wall.’
I’m his caged animal. I want him to set me free.
The artist stopped filming. He set the Galaxy to mute, left it on the sofa. He set her free,
‘I love you, Lizzie. Lie on your front. Stretch your legs.’
She hyperventilated with excitement, obeying his commands, waiting to be released. He straddled her thighs and unlatched the five silver clasps that held her bodice together. She felt his lips brushing the nape of her neck. Felt his lips kissing their way down her spine, plucking at each vertebra until he reached her L12. She murmured through her clenched fingers,
‘How will you help me?’
He unfurled her basque, peeling it off her back, pressing the furls neatly into the curve of her breasts, her slender waist,
‘I’ll care for you.’
He ran his hand over the fine black down on the small of her back,
‘I’ll create an environment for you to live in that’s warm, comfortable, safe and secure, ensuring that you’re well-fed. I’ll make you happy. Make your wildest dreams come true.’
Warm? Comfortable? Secure? Well-fed?
‘You make me sound like one of your animals.’
She wanted him.
Natural instinct took over.
They prepared to mate.
He pulled down his shorts.
She unfurled her basque freeing her breasts, her cleft, then she got up on all fours.
Like an animal.
*****
Sunday 4th April:
Lizzie sat up in bed, stretched her arms, and yawned – after the happiest night of her life. They had spent the night having sex but she wasn’t ready to have his baby. There was too much uncertainty in her life: the job, Simon. Was he ready to commit to her? It occurred to her that they hadn’t taken any precautions. Should she be worried? He wasn’t there to ask. She checked her i-phone: nine-o-six. How she missed the peal of church bells on Sunday mornings.
She blinked away her sleeps and scanned the bedroom. Her basque lay in a bundle on the duvet: soiled, saturated. Perhaps she could wash it off before she left? If she left. The sun burnt her skin through the glass. Her basque would soon be dry. Lizzie didn’t think to bring her bra, briefs, suspender belt or stockings. His instruction had distracted her. His side of the bed was empty. Missing his body warmth, the musky smell of his skin, she got up.
It wasn’t until she went for a pee that she found his second gift to her, an unexpected gel in a white spray-bottle labelled Nestorone / Testosterone. Lizzie had read about this in a newspaper: the male contraceptive. Simon must be on the trial. She felt deeply touched. To think, he took the gel to protect her while they made love.
She found him working on his laptop at the dining table – in his birthday suit. He took a good look at her, standing still, across the table. If anything, Lizzie looked more radiant than ever. She blushed, then she went to be with him,
‘Hello Simon, did you sleep well?’
He rubbed his eyes, ‘Hardly at all, precious. You?’
Lizzie wrapped her arm around his shoulder and gave him an affectionate hug, ‘I barely slept a wink.’
She kissed his forehead, ‘You look exhausted. Come back to bed.’
‘Will in a minute,’ he yawned, ‘I’ll just finish this.’
‘What are you writing?’
‘A story.’
She was fascinated, ‘You write stories?’
‘It’s nothing really, just a bit of fun. I took up writing during lockdown to kill the time.’
Lizzie peeked over his shoulder: something about a neon green tree frog, ‘Can I see it?’
He sounded irritated with her, ‘I’ll let you see it when it’s finished. Let’s go back to bed.’
She persisted, ‘Does it have a name?’
‘It’s called Basque.’
‘Basque? What a strange name for a story.’
Simon clicked ‘save’, closed the laptop, and stood up. They embraced. She felt his hands slide down her back, grip her buttocks, feel between her thighs. Felt her legs turn to jelly,
‘Lover,’ she hissed.
He pressed his flesh into her belly, felt her soft breasts rubbing his chest, gasping, ‘Yeah?’
‘Write a story about me.’
*****
Joely felt the wind chill slice into her cheeks and shivered. He was late. She checked his text again to make sure she had the right time:
Meet me at the bomb-hole wearing my gift under your tracksuit, bared arms, bare legs, no make-up 3pm on Easter Sunday.
Simon
A group of walkers approached the lake: a middle-aged man dressed in a white t-shirt and shorts, an auburn-haired woman in her early twenties wearing a red mini skirt, and an old man with long greasy hair and a black tracksuit, carrying a cane. Joely felt conspicuous. For some irrational reason, they unsettled her. She didn’t want to be left alone with them.
She cursed under her breath, ‘Where are you, Simon?’
The woman, who was baby-faced, screeched like a child, ‘Teddy, can we sit by the lake?’
‘Course we can, Carlie,’ soothed the younger man, ‘You can dip your toes in the water.’
The old man tapped his cane impatiently against his leg, as if he were in pain, and leered at her.
Joely climbed out of the grass and strode off across the field. He wasn’t coming. Hadn’t even bothered to call. She decided to go home, hurrying to the main footpath. The phone vibrated inside her tracksuit bottoms. She pulled it out: Simon,
Can’t park. Church car park full. Meet me at The Hart.
‘Of course, you can’t, moron,’ fumed Joely, ‘today’s Bank Holiday Sunday. Walker’s Day?’
‘Sometimes, Simon!’ she shouted, at no-one in particular, ‘Some-times!’
When she had calmed down, Joely ambled down the path, past the firs, over the planks, up three steps, past the empty school, out of a dark alley into The Hart’s car park. He was sitting in his immaculate Porsche, his usual smug self. He opened the door to admit her,
‘I couldn’t park.’
‘Don’t give me that crap. I’ve been waiting ages for you. I’m frozen. I’m going home.’
She was misbehaving herself, hoo-hooing like a crazed gibbon, embarrassing him in front of the silent crowd of onlookers that thronged the beer garden eating pudding. He cringed,
‘I think you should get in the car, Joely.’
She stamped her foot in anger, ‘Get lost!’
‘Get in the car. Everyone’s staring at you.’
‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ she said, sullenly, ‘Be nice to me, won’t you?’
Simon apologized. Joely climbed into the car. He drove her out of the village, into the open countryside, past the horses, until they reached the church. Other than a dusty black Fiat, the car park was empty. Joely couldn’t decide whether Simon had lied to her earlier, about the car park being full. They parked on the verge, a grassy slope that led up to the church. The grass around the weathered graves was freshly cut. Dotted around the bank were tiny memorials to dead children, Joely presumed, white wood crosses, metal baskets filled with dried flowers. The lawn was covered in tulips, daffodils, early bluebells, dying crocuses. She couldn’t help but feel overwhelmed; the scene was so peaceful and tranquil. The sun broke through the clouds, lightening her mood. Joely felt much happier, relaxed.
‘I’m sorry I lost it with you, Simon,’ she said, faintly.
He shook his head, ‘I’m the one who should be sorry.’
There was a pleasant silence. The sun felt warm on their faces. He felt guilty, tired, worn out by Lizzie who he’d left, asleep, in his bed. Joely held a different fascination for him. Her poise, her posture, and shape captured his imagination.
They watched an old man in a wide brim hat sit in a deckchair by the church porch and paint. The scene was idyllic, the air soporific. Joely shut her eyes, content to sink into her snug leather seat and doze. But Simon broke her magic spell, gently nudging her to her senses,
‘The weather’s warm. How about a walk in the woods? I brought a rug for you to sit on.’
Joely rubbed her eyes, only half-awake, ‘For me to sit on? I don’t understand.’
‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’
She perked up, ‘What kinda surprise?’
‘I’ll tell you when we get there. Shall we go?’
The horse field was empty. They crossed the sundried bed of a brook and walked towards a metal stile beyond an electricity pylon in the corner of the second field. Joely heard the rumbling noise first. She looked back at the horses galloping in their direction, and yelled,
‘Run Simon!’
‘What?’
He froze when he saw the rag of colts stampeding towards him. Joely tugged at his arm,
‘Quickly! Move!’
They fell through the stile just as the first of the horses reached the barbed wire fence. Simon stood, bent at the waist, gasping in lungsful of air,
‘What, what, happened there?’
‘I think they expected us to feed them,’ Joely laughed, barely out of breath, affectionately ruffling her man’s hair, ‘Are you alright, lover?’
She called me her lover.
Simon felt an inexplicable thrill coarse through his veins. He pictured Joely stretched out on a towel by the lake naked drying off in the sunshine. He straightened. She took him in her arms, whispering naughtily in his ear,
‘That’s what we are, isn’t it? Lovers. Haven’t shown you my lovely gift. Like to see it?’
There was a sign, nailed to one of the trees:
CONSERVATION AREA – PLEASE KEEP YOUR DOG ON A LEAD AT ALL TIMES
They had reached the woods. He led her through the trees, past badger setts, swathes of bluebells, until they found a lonely, grassy space, bathed in sunlight. The air was vibrant, alive with birdsong. Simon thought of Lizzie, lying in his arms after making love. Could he possibly love more than one woman? He shook her from his mind and spread the rug on the ground. Joely undressed, sitting unlacing her trainers, pulling them off. Barefoot. She pulled the grey tracksuit over her head then wriggled out of her bottoms, leaving her clothes in a neatly folded pile in one corner of the rug. Simon marvelled at her creamy skin, her astonishing physique. She was wearing a patterned magenta basque with a black lace trim. She crossed her legs, stretched her arms, and sat bolt upright, staring up at him,
‘How do I look?’ she purred.
‘You look incredible,’ he commented, breathlessly, ‘How does it feel, comfortable?’
‘I hardly feel I’m wearing it. I’m really pleased with my basque. Thank you, Simon. What did I do to deserve this?’
He couldn’t answer her directly. He flushed and looked away. They heard a rustling noise in the undergrowth: fox, deer, rabbit, a hare? A hare had bolted across the field in front of them before the horses stampeded. The sun went in, the clouds rolled over. Joely felt the first specks of rain smack her bare shoulders.
What have I just done?
‘Simon? What is it?’
It was raining, quite hard. Joely stood on the rug and dressed. She broke his heart. Joely broke men’s hearts. He struggled to find words to describe how much he loved her, and Lizzie, he loved her just as much. Joely laced up her trainers, feeling empty, cold inside,
‘I’d like to go home now,’ she said with a heavy heart, ‘Would you walk with me, please?’
Simon picked up the rug and shook it off. He wrapped it round Joely’s shoulders, covering her head, choking back tears as he spoke,
‘Here, keep you dry.’
The rain streamed down his face. His hair was soaking wet. He held her close, protecting her from the driving rain. They left the woods, reaching the sign. She reached up for him, the rain splashing her face, in her eyes, running down her neck. Joely kissed him, fully on the lips, murmuring to him,
‘I love you, Simon. Talk to me.’
They stood by the hawthorn hedge; its bridal blossom blurred by the teeming rain. Joely clung to him, caressing him, stroking his firm face with her soft hand, until he confessed,
‘The woman in the story, she really exists. Her name’s Lizzie and I love her. We had sex.’
A fresh wind blew in Joely’s face, the clouds rolled on, the sun came out, Joely laughed,
‘You had sex? When?’
Simon, expecting a hefty slap around the face, was confused.
Why is she laughing at me? What’s there to laugh about?
‘Last night, this morning,’ he admitted, in a feeble voice.
‘This morning! No wonder you look so tired! Mind if I ask you a question?’
Her eyes sparkled like dewdrops glistening in the summer sun. Her face flared with joy. He was stunned, amazed by her. They rubbed noses like horses, dogs, rabbits, deer, tapirs, animals. Human animals, rubbing noses, expressing love for one another. He breathed on her face: pure, warm relief,
‘No, go on.’
‘Do you love me, too?’
Simon said, ‘Yes, I love you, Joely. As much as I love her. But in a different way.’
‘We can always be lovers,’ she ventured.
They stood holding hands like first dates, by the metal stile, watching the horses. Some of the colts were frolicking, rolling on their backs, waggling their legs. Joely popped her question,
‘You said you had a surprise?’
Simon turned to face her, gripping her hands, staring into her eyes, broaching her surprise,
‘I’d like you to perform for me. That’s what actors do for an audience, isn’t it? Perform.’
Joely cast her mind back to the animals she saw lolling on the rocks at the top secret naval base south of San Diego when she was just a child, pictured herself, running to his stage,
‘Yes, we do,’ she reflected warily. It had been six months since she last appeared onstage. Joely trod the boards – carefully, ‘I’m not prepared to be your performing sealion, Simon.’
‘I don’t expect you to.’
‘What do you want of me?’
He told her what he wanted.
Joely sounded relieved, excited, ‘Really? Is that all?’
‘That’s all,’ he confirmed.
‘And what do I get in return?’
‘I’ll care for you,’ said Simon, ‘I’ll create an environment for you to live in that’s warm, comfortable, safe, secure, ensuring you’re well-fed. Make you happy. Make your wildest dreams come true.’
*****
Basque opened for private viewings at an art gallery in Mayfair on Friday 25th June.
Described as an artistic interpretation of the effects of environmental destruction on the survival of rare animal species, the exhibition features two permanent displays:
An Intimate Intrusion into Animal Love is a living model resembling the sculpture of a woman in a patterned magenta basque. Her head, torso, and creamy skin are discreetly lit by accent lights, sealed in a transparent orb. She crosses her legs, stretches her arms, sits bolt upright, then she studies your face, like a monkey at a zoo.
The Frustration of Captivity for Humanity is an artwork depicting a woman wearing a black satin basque, fully illuminated, displayed inside a sealed, rectangular glass box. She lies on her back, holding her knees, her legs drawn up to her breasts, creating a human ball. Her arm bends at an angle, her fingers tear at her hair, her splayed digits feel the glass trying to touch the ceiling. She pushes her body weight up with her leg, arching her torso upwards. Balancing upon her toes, she presses her knee against the side of the cage, desperately trying to break free. She is looking away from you. You cannot see her face. Slowly, she rotates her head. Beguiled by her, you stare at her beautiful, frightened face, mouthing at you,
‘Let me out.’
Their polygamy continues.
*****
Sadly the Basque audio file is too large for Starsrite: catch the full audio featuring sensational Isla Furl as Lizzie and Joely on SoundCloud! Enjoy! Harriet-Jacqui xxx
PS Basque: Love Stories by HJ Furl is out now on Audible as an audiobook with 21 love stories! xx
