Living the Dream

 

by Roger Noons

midnight mint hot chocolate

The first pip of the alarm sounded three seconds too late to prevent me driving the knife up under the man’s diaphragm and twisting it, causing his blood to dribble down my fingers and drip on to the carpet.

‘Is this a scene from your latest novel?’ she asked.

    I shook my head. ‘I’m only three chapters into the current book, but I’d not imagined such a scene in the early stages.’

    She remained silent, perusing her notes. 

    ‘I’ve written a highly erotic, lesbian short story hoping it might influence my REM, but no luck so far.’ I grinned, but her look halted my attempted humour.

    I had been seeing Georgina Lovatt, Clinical Psychologist, at the local health centre, once a month for more than a year. My GP referred me after I convinced him my anxiety was not caused by alcohol or the fact that I was a novelist. She however, was convinced it was my imagination and the fact that my life had become a combination of fact and fiction without knowing which parts were which. If she was right, I needed her to help me sort it out.

    After our first meeting, Ms Lovatt proposed that I put writing on hold for six months and, as she put it, ‘Go out and live like a normal person.’ So she did accept that I was abnormal.

    My response was to ask if she could afford to not work for such a period. She obviously didn’t understand that when a publisher gave an advance, it was not so you could go off and enjoy yourself. The cheque was accompanied by a deadline. 

   ‘You’ve not had this dream before, have you Lawrence?’

    I shook my head.

    ‘Any changes in diet or medication?’

    ‘I used hydrocortisone on a bite I got while gardening, but nothing more.’

    ‘But your novels do include violent scenes, so perhaps this is one to store away for the future?’

    ‘Yes, but I don’t want such events to ruin my sleep. It’s enough to have to write them, without dreaming about it too.’

    It was a couple of minutes before she said, ‘You’ve begun writing erotica?’

    ‘Yes, under the name Sarah Lawrence, should you be searching for—’

    ‘I assure you I don’t read that kind of literature, if indeed it can be called such.’ Before I could comment, she looked at her watch and said, ‘I’ll see you again next month. In the meantime I’ll discuss your case with colleagues, I’d like to make some headway.’

    ‘Okay, thank you.’

When I arrived home, in my inbox was a message from Linda Nicholls, Editor of Caplet Mag. Sarah, love your story, please ring me asap.

I’d carefully drawn back the curtain, but I’m sure the two women knew I was there. The blonde peeled away her partner’s silky top and stroked her throat with the tip of her nose. When she reached her ear, she inserted her tongue. The redhead groaned, her breathing began to quicken encouraging hands to be pressed against her breasts.

Pip, pip, pip, pip—’

‘Bugger!’

Regular contributor Roger Noons has had more than 150 of his stories published on Café Lit.

Johnny

 

by Roger Noons

 a glass of cola

Johnny had acquired two plain gold bands but decided she deserved something special. Something unusual, so continued to keep an eye open. At the supermarket, carrying customers purchases to their cars, on to buses or into waiting taxis meant he saw many left hands. He also learned addresses or at least an idea of where a customer lived. At the first opportunity, he scribbled down the information in his notebook.

    Two weeks after beginning his search, he saw just the thing. While awaiting a taxi the tall, middle-aged, blonde absent-mindedly turned her wedding ring around her finger. Just before he closed the door after lifting her bags into the rear compartment, he heard her announce, ‘24 Poplar Avenue, please.’

    Johnny regularly walked Oscar, a Westie owned by his next door neighbour. Wherever he went, he was met with smiles, young women in particular fawned over the dog. It was two days later that Oscar and he turned the corner into Poplar Avenue, the dog salivating when he became aware of a tree every few yards along the route.

    He appeared to be preoccupied watching the dog, but as they neared Number 19, he tugged the lead and they crossed the road. He couldn’t believe his luck when as they arrived alongside the driveway of Number 24, the woman was just behind the low hedge that separated a flower bed and the footpath. She was dead heading roses.

    ‘Afternoon Missus.’

    She paused, looked in his direction and frowned. ‘Ah, you’re the lad from Reynolds?’

    Beaming, he nodded. ‘That’s me. How are you?’

    ‘All right, thank you. Just cutting off these flowers that are past it.’ She noticed the dog. ‘He’s a nice little chap. Your’s is he?’

    Johnny nodded. ‘He’s called Oscar.’

    When she crouched to introduce herself and stroke Oscar, Johnny noticed her ring finger was without jewellery. He waited until she stood up before he said, ‘He could do with a drink of water Missus, if you wouldn’t mind?’

    ‘I’ll … actually, if you go down the side there, the second door leads into the kitchen. You’ll find a bowl on the drainer, help yourself. Once I’ve finished this, I’ll come and get you a drink.’

    He nodded again and strolled along the path. He had to pull Oscar who had sniffed something interesting beneath a bush. 

    As soon as he entered, he saw the woman’s rings on the tiled sill behind the taps. He sneaked a look back; she was still busy, so he snatched the gold ring and pushed it into his pocket. He had just filled a bowl with water and set it down, when she arrived at the door.

    ‘You found what you wanted then?’

    He froze when he saw her looking at the remaining two rings. Cheeks burning he stared at his trainers, afraid to speak.

    ‘Is he house trained?’ she asked, nodding towards Oscar who was lapping water. After Johnny mumbled yes, she added, ‘Take him through there, I’ll bring us a drink.’

    Two minutes later she walked in carrying two glasses of cola. He took a glass but was afraid to drink in case he had an accident. She took a sip and put down the glass.

    ‘Why do you want the ring? You look too young to be getting married.’

    Head still down, he shook it.

    ‘If you don’t have a reason, tell me why I shouldn’t ring the police?’

    Oscar had settled and was arranging himself for a nap. Johnny murmured, ‘For my Mum.’

    ‘Is she not married?’

    ‘Dad walked out—’

    ‘And took her wedding ring?’

    ‘No, he went last year. Three weeks ago she was mugged. Her bag was snatched and her rings were in it. She works at a meat packers and has to take them off in the factory.’

    ‘So you want her to have a wedding ring and presumably cannot afford to buy one on what they pay you at the supermarket?’

    He nodded again.

    ‘Drink your coke,’ she directed. While he was doing so, she asked, ‘How many hours a week do you do at Reynolds?’

    ‘Five afternoons, two ’til six.’

    She waited while he drank half the contents of the glass. ‘You can have the ring … but you will come here, without the dog, each morning and carry out any jobs I give you.’

    ‘Honest?’

    She nodded. ‘I shall keep a record and when you’ve done fifty hours, I’ll consider the debt paid. How does that sound?’

    ‘Great, I promise you, I’ll do it.’

    ‘Starting tomorrow.’

    He nodded, finished his drink and grinned. 

As soon as he had returned Oscar to the dog’s owner, Johnny took out his notebook. He’d kept careful records, so was able to put each of the plain rings into an envelope and add the address. He would wait until it was dark before he returned the jewellery.

‘You look happier this morning Eunice?’

    ‘You know I had my bag stolen? Well my Johnny’s bought me a lovely ring. Cost him every penny he had in the Post Office. It’s beautiful, but I haven’t the heart to tell him it’s only gold plated.’   

About the author

Roger has had more than 150 stories featured on Café Lit. His Slimline Tales was published by Chapeltown Books in 2018.

Return

 

by Roger Noons

a bottle of Stella

After Mum died, I begged my father not to remarry. 

    ‘This house needs a woman,’ he insisted, but waited the acknowledged six months before he went through a private ceremony. So private, even I didn’t attend. In fact the first I knew of the event was after they returned from a weekend at the coast and she couldn’t resist waving her left hand around.

    ‘This is Shelley,’ he announced. 

    I nodded then left the room.

    Within a week I had acquired a new job; assistant manager at an hotel sixty miles away. I was provided with a standard room, so I could stay away from the newly weds.

It was the first week in December and we were beginning to become busy when she rang to say Dad wasn’t feeling well and acting funny. I’d had no time off since I started at The Crown, so my boss could hardly refuse my request. 

    I decided to walk from the station, use the time to get my thoughts in order and calm my attitude. I rang the bell four times before I heard the sound of a bolt being drawn back. I was confused when the door opened and my father stood blinking against the light.

    ‘Hello Son, come in.’

    ‘She rang me, said you weren’t feeling well?’

    ‘When?’

    ‘Three days ago. I couldn’t get away until today.’

    ‘Well, she’s gone … come inside; don’t want to talk on the doorstep.’

    I followed him along the hallway. He didn’t bother to switch on the light. In the kitchen, he waved me to a chair and opened the fridge door; handed me a can of Stella. He took a bottle of cider unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips.   

    Without opening the can, I said, ‘What’s going on?’

    ‘She left, yesterday.’

    ‘Did you have a row?’

    ‘No more than usual.’

    Each second I became more confused, sat, shaking my head.

    ‘You were right Adam, I shouldn’t have married her. She wasn’t right for me, nor I for her. Said my lifestyle was too unconventional.’

    Before we could continue our conversation, the doorbell rang. He left to answer it. I  ring-pulled my can, took a swig, and stepped up to the window to look at the garden. Not ten yards away, either side of a heap of soil, were two uniformed police officers, each holding a spade.

Summer Pleasures

by Roger Noons 

a cup of Yorkshire tea

‘I thought you were sitting in the garden?’ Melanie said, as she walked into the lounge.

    ‘I was, but I can’t hear the cricket because of those bloody bells.’

    ‘It’ll be a wedding.’

    ‘I know that, but it stops me listening to TMS.’

    ‘It was your idea to buy a house near the church. No nuisance there, you said. “Folks in the cemetery are always quiet.” You were dead keen.’ 

    ‘I thought less people were marrying in church these days?’

    ‘That was the case for a while, but it seems to be changing back according to Woman’s Hour.’

    ‘See, you get to listen to that.’

    ‘Ten ’til eleven on a weekday, Gerry. Not many weddings at that time. Anyway, sit in the conservatory, or watch it on TV.’

    ‘Too hot in there and it’s not on BBC, it’s Sky.’ 

    ‘I hesitate to tell you, but we’ve just had an invitation to your Brian’s wedding. In June next year.’

    ‘Bet he’s not getting wed in church.’

    ‘He is actually, a small church in Corfu.’

    ‘Is she Greek?’

    ‘No, she’s from London but they first met on the Island.’

    ‘Should be good then?’

    ‘Nice time of year to go there.’

    ‘Long time since we were in Glyfada. It was nice, I enjoyed it.’

    ‘We can revisit if we make a holiday out of it?’

    ‘Yes, let’s do that.

    Mel kissed her husband on top of his head, ruffled his hair. ‘I’ll go and make some tea.’

    When she returned, he stood up. ‘The bells have stopped, I’ll take mine outside.’

    ‘It was just on the wireless, England lost by forty four runs. The series is drawn.’    

    ‘Quiet, isn’t it,’ he mused.

About the author 

Roger Noons specialises in writing flash fiction and is a regular contributor to Café Lit. His Slimline Tales was published by Chapeltown Books in2018

Dinner Date

Roger Noons 

a glass of vintage champagne

When I peered closely at the joined-up writing across her white cotton-covered breasts, she blew smoke into my face.

    ‘Oh,’ I said, ‘there was I thinking you were an intelligent woman, and I find you smoke.’

    ‘Bastard.’

    That was my first encounter with Amanda-Jane. 

I met her again two weeks later. It was Open Studios, a county wide promotion for artists and artisans.

    ‘You,’ she said, looking up from a table on which she was cutting a mount.

    I smiled.

    ‘May I be of assistance?’ she asked.

    ‘Just browsing, if that’s all right?’

    ‘Of course, let me know when you would like to buy something.’ 

    I sauntered around the room. It was cool and well lighted, presenting her paintings and carvings in a manner that would have embarrassed many a municipal art gallery. I noted that several of the exhibits bore red dots, and a number of people called in to speak to A-J, as she signed her works. They seemed to be either fellow artists, or organisers of the event.

    When we were alone, I asked. ‘Will you join me for dinner tonight?’

    ‘Where?’

    ‘You choose.’

    She smirked. ‘The Lobster Pot.’

    ‘Fine.’

    ‘It’s expensive.’ 

    ‘That’s OK, I’ll reserve a table. Eight o’ clock all right?’

    ‘Yes.’ She frowned, then smiled. Turning away, she asked a woman who had entered, if she could be of assistance.

Ten minutes later, her friend Meryl came to speak to her.

    ‘I saw you talking to him, did he ask you out?’ 

    ‘Yes.’ A-J laughed. ‘He’s invited me to dinner, at The Lobster Pot, reckons he can get a table for tonight.’

    ‘He can, that’s Alistair Haigh; he owns The Lobster Pot.’

   

About the author

Roger Noons who specialises in short, short fiction is a regular contributor to Café Lit.

Étude

by Roger Noons

a glass of cava

The flight was straightforward, as was our passage through Palma airport. The woman at Herz was polite. ‘Senor, you reserved a Seat Ibiza. It is ready for you. The tunnel leading to Soller is now open,’ she added, just before I closed the door. ‘Enjoy your holiday.’

    The dual carriageway towards Palma was busy, but traffic moved smoothly. As I turned onto the Soller Road I sighed and Julie beamed. ‘Good to be back,’ she said.

As we approached the tunnel, I saw road blocks. There had been an accident, the Guardia Civil Cabo said. You need to use the old road.    

    5.8 km along the curvy road, we crossed the bridge into Valldemossa and were brought to a halt. There were raggedly-dressed people and animals wandering along the rutted road; in particular three men pushing a grand piano towards the church. A notice was handed through the window.

    Julie translated, ‘Frédéric Chopin is performing this evening; new works.’

    Five metres to my left a horse reared. ‘I’m sure that’s a woman.’ I said.

    ‘It will no doubt be George Sand,’ she laughed. ‘Must be a re-enactment.’

    The air in the car became damp and the chill encouraged me to close the windows and turn on the heater.

    We slowly made our way through the throng and leaving the town, were pleased to lose the smells of animal dung and mostly, unwashed people.

    After Deia we made good time and arrived in Soller an hour before our dinner reservation. As we checked into Hotel Vila, I mentioned what we’d seen to the Receptionist.

    ‘Really Sir,’ he smiled. ‘I’ve heard nothing about any fiesta. It’s the wrong time of year.’ Seeing my expression, he stressed, ‘We are always told of such an event.’

About the author 

Roger Noons has been writing creatively since 2006. He has come to specialise in short, short fiction and his Slimline Tales was published by Chapeltown Books in 2018.

Promise

by Roger Noons

a mug of hot chocolate

I had to go back. Sixteen minutes thirty two seconds before my mother drew her last breath, I made a promise.

    It was six weeks after her funeral, before I was able to board a train to Truro and then catch a bus to Falmouth. It had always been my mother’s favourite holiday destination. Many years we visited twice, staying in a boarding house, ten minutes walk from the sea. On this occasion I’d booked into an hotel overlooking Swanpool Beach.

    She’d asked for her remains to be scattered on Gyllyngvase Beach. I rose early on the Sunday morning and launched Maisie Cox into the water. With no wind, the ebb tide took her away, forty two years after she’d borne me.

    I was sitting in the garden reading when the owner of the hotel passed by. ‘Good book?’ He asked. I nodded. ‘There’s an excellent second hand book shop in town,’ he told me.

    I found Quay Books on the Tuesday morning, when I was seeking shelter from an unexpected shower. It proved to be my kind of place. Lots of volumes, a coffee machine and armchairs. I’d just opened a book of Ted Hughes poems when the proprietor wished me good morning.

    ‘Not many people come in here for poetry,’ he added. 

    The usual conversation followed, from where and how long are you staying. When I said ‘the Black Country,’ he asked where, which told me he knew the area. As I looked at him, he flicked his head back to remove the greying flop from over his left eye. He then scratched his eyebrow and I had a suspicion he would remember Cradley Heath and a girl called Maisie.     

Big Boots

by Roger Noons

half a litre of draught San Miguel

I laughed when he old me he was a clown. I assumed that was the correct reaction.

    ‘Retired?’ I asked.

    ‘Non, clowns never retire. We hang up our big boots and stop polishing our noses. There is no pension.’

    Our conversation was conducted in what could be described as Franglais with a touch of Catalan. We sat beneath a pomegranate tree, each with a glass of beer. He was not an apparent performer, wearing denim shorts and a mauve tee shirt with the words Clowns Cry Too printed on the front, he resembled a fit, not looking his age, old man.

    He had worked in theatre, travelling the world after beginning with a circus which took in only Europe. During ten years he was regularly seen on television. His motivation had always been children. He loved to engage and involve them, he told me, but nowadays he had been advised he was not to touch them; he’d even been warned by a police officer.

    ‘Is not the same,’ he confessed. ‘I think I will give up, write a book. That will be my pension.’

About the author

Roger Noons has been writing creatively since 2006. His book, Slimline Tales was published by Chapeltown Books in 2018. He also writes poetry.

Newly Weds

Newly Weds

by Roger Noons

a glass of well-chilled San Miguel

‘Denis, you are a shit, you’ve been staring at that girl all morning.’

    ‘How would you know? You were out shopping for over an hour. Brought any cash back?’

    ‘I only spent a couple of hundred.’

    ‘As we’re approaching parity with the euro, two hundred quid’s a fair whack. At least my entertainment was free.’

    ‘Bastard!’

    ‘She’s very sexy and she knows it. All the blokes have had an eye on her. She knows that and enjoys it. She also knows that none of us will do anything more than look.’

    Vicky mouthed bastard once again.

    ‘You see the guy with the pigtail and the tattoos across his shoulders?’

    ‘Is she with him?’

    Denis nodded. ‘He’s her minder and there’s not a man around this pool who’d want to upset him.’

    She sulked. ‘There’s no need to keep ogling her … after all, we are on our honeymoon.’

    ‘Yes, and we’re also in our fifties, been married before … you three times … so I think it’s more of a holiday, don’t you? You did say on our wedding day that you had little interest in the … physical side, was I think the phrase you used.’ He took a deep sigh, watched the brunette in the black, one-piece catwalk towards the bar.

    ‘Well, I’ve changed my mind,’ she pouted. ‘Can we go upstairs please?’

    Denis stood. After one last look at the model, he turned to follow.

    ‘Please bring those bags,’ she directed, as she set off towards the building. 

About the author 

Roger Noons has been writing poetry and prose since 2006. His speciality is short fiction, but also writes plays and film scripts. Hid book, Slimline Tales was published by Chapeltown Books in 2018.

May Contain Nuts

Roger Noons

a glass of sarsaparilla

‘Joyce, I’ve got an idea.’

    ‘What is it this time, Charles?’

    ‘I’m sick of one panel jokes. I’m sure I can make more of a boy and his dog.’

    ‘Don’t drop the dog.’

    ‘No, I won’t but I’ve an inkling for a four panel version.’

    ‘Make the dog the wise one who tells the boy what to do and throws up his paws when the lad goofs out.’

    ‘Don’t know if that’ll work.’

    ‘Course it will.’ Joyce stared over her spectacles. ‘Most dogs are brighter than their owners. Look at Mrs Rose over the road, her chihuahua has twice as many brain cells.’

    ‘Okay.’

    ‘And add some pals for the boy. They need to be unusual, kids with distinct personalities. But the dog must always be in charge. You could give him a pal … perhaps a chirpy bird, something like that.’

    ‘I could still use the name Charlie Brown, for the boy.’

    ‘What will you call the dog?’

    ‘Dunno … you got any ideas?’

    ‘They bark and poop … and snoop. Why not call him Snoopy?’

    Charles shook his head. ‘I’ll try it out on the Syndicate, but I don’t think it will work.’

    ‘Breed?’

    ‘Pardon?’

    ‘Keep the drawing simple but you need to suggest a breed, a smallish dog, I think, they’re the cleverest.’

    ‘I had a dog when I was a boy, a pointer, Spike.’

    ‘Beagle,’ Joyce shouted, ‘better than a terrier.’

    ‘Right, beagle it is unless the Syndicate think  otherwise.’

    ‘Tell them Charles, don’t ask. Assure them it will be a success.’

    He nodded but he didn’t have his fiancé’s confidence.’

Peanuts premiered in the Washington Post and six other newspapers on 2 October 1950.    

About the author

Roger Noons is a regular contributor to Cafe Lit. His Slimline Tales was published earlier this year by Chapeltown Books.

Reference

by Roger Noons

 

a glass of hot water containing a slice of lime

Beth read the letter again before taking up her pen.

Dear Dr Wilson,

What I could tell you is that since Toni came to work in my bookshop on Saturdays and during school holidays, our customer base has increased fourfold and the takings doubled. She has sold volumes of poetry and books on aromatherapy to six feet four inches, eighteen year old second row forwards, exchanged rude jokes with middle aged men and advised forty plus year old women on how to improve their appearance and sex appeal. 

All without complaint.

Each Saturday, she welcomes a ninety year old former GP and holds his hand while he drinks a mug of coffee; sells him at least twenty pounds worth of second hand books. He travels twenty three miles each way by taxi for the privilege.

What I should tell you is that she regularly ignores my instructions, borrows the latest popular novels for weeks at a time and mis-shelves them when they come back. She is casual about recording sales, particularly second hand books, rarely passes on messages and evicts noisy children and itinerant browsers who do not buy within minutes of entering the shop. She can be surly and unhelpful when in a bad mood. She ignores customers who fail to take her advice on what they should read.

I could and should tell you these things in the hope that you will reject her application and she will enrol at our local Uni and continue working for me.

But I won’t!

What I will tell you Dr Wilson, is that Antonia Mason is a highly intelligent, mature young woman who will prove a great asset to Somerville College, indeed the entire University. She will, I’m sure excel in English and Joint Schools, take a First and become so indispensable that you will not wish to lose her when she graduates.

Elizabeth Baines

Beth’s Books - Worcester.

February Evenings

by Roger Noons

 Magno Spanish brandy

The sun had warmed the land before it sank behind the mountain, but now there was chill in the air. I was grateful for the warmth of Sandy’s Bar, welcomed by Dave. Leonard Cohen growling in the background.

     The barman always had a faint smile, whatever the time, irrespective of the weather. ‘Usual?’ he said.

    ‘No, I’ll have large black, one sugar, please.’

    ‘No Magno, I’m afraid.’

    ‘Fundador will do, or Veterano,’ I told him. ‘Still quiet?’ 

    ‘How I like it.’ After serving me, he selected a goblet from the counter. Holding it gently by its stem, he began to polish.

    A man of few words, Dave, which meant you had to graft for a conversation. Two minutes later he changed the CD. Still Cohen, with remixed tracks. I was content to listen, sip my cognac and slurp my Nescafé.

    The door opened, cold air flew along the counter. I shivered.

    ‘Hola.’ A woman’s voice behind me. ‘Has he been in?’

    As I stared at her reflection above the bottles, Dave shook his head. Her lips formed a silent expletive. I took another sip.

    ‘Barry’s opened Grumpy’s tonight. You might try there.’

    ‘Thanks,’ she muttered and the door was opened again. Another blast of Santa Eulalia’s ozone flooded the room.    

    After Dave set the refilled glass on the counter alongside my right hand, he explained. ‘Two nights a week she locks Jock in their casa, goes off to play bridge. If he can’t find any booze, he breaks glass and climbs out through a door or window. She gets home and finding him missing, tours the town.’

    I shook my head.

    ‘She’ll settle his bar bill, load him up and take him home.’

    ‘What about other nights?’

    ‘When she’s there she serves his drinks, knows how much he’s had, puts him to bed at ten.’

    I shrugged.

    ‘Barry used to clean for them, might still do.’

    ‘Barry?’

    ‘A retired hoofer. Gets by tending bar and cleaning house.’

    ‘Does he wear a pinny?’ I grinned.

    ‘Not when he’s behind the bar.’ Dave didn’t smile. ‘Jock’s like a lot of them here. They work all hours God sends in the UK, get to sixty and retire. Move to Ibiza with no hobbies, no friends and having drunk little all their life, spend their waking hours catching up. Livers give out in three to four years.’

    I shook my head and emptied my glass.

    ‘Another?’

    ‘No thanks, not after what you’ve just said. I’ll perhaps see you tomorrow.’

    As the door closed behind me, I heard the volume of the music increase.

About the author

Roger is a regular contributor to  CaféLit and The Best of volumes.

In the Blood

by Roger Noons

tomato juice with Worcester sauce

Emma’s a phlebotomist. I visit her at the hospital every six months; hand her my form, bare my arm, tighten my fist, clench my teeth and close my eyes. Occasionally, I see her in between times, at her studio. She has a ring through her septum and a tiny jewel either side of her upper lip. Her captivating canines mesmerise me. When she nuzzles my neck, her breath calms me and I dream of a girl with skin art, a soft voice, dark eyes and black spiky hair. A girl who transports me to and from heaven.

Anna

by Roger Noons

a glass of Pastis.

The woman who answers the door is fat, untidy with a pouchy, sagging jowl, like a toad; a chest on which she can rest her forearms.

    ‘Anna invited me. ’ I smile.

    Obviously not a lady to rush, she studies me, thinks about it, then stands aside. As I pass her aura of garlic and sweat, she mumbles, ‘Up the stairs, second door on the left.’

    I tap on the designated door three times before it is opened sufficiently for me to identify a single eye. ‘Anna invited me, I—’

    ‘Wait next door.’

    I step into a large room, obviously for ablutions. A bell-shaped boiler in copper and brass throbs on it’s plinth. A free-standing, cast iron bath sits atop a platform so high there are three steps to provide access. The other half of the floor supports a high level cisterned lavatory and a wash basin. Above me suspended from the ceiling, an airer displays a range of women’s lingerie and hose. Sitting on the toilet seat cover I find the pull on the chain is a ten-inch high, ceramic Napoleon.

    Hearing a door open and voices, I stand up, but am surprised when a door in the wall between lavatory and basin opens and Anna enters. Her perfume engulfs me as she approaches, wearing a mini, silk robe displaying tigers.

    ‘Cherie, you should have made an appointment. I have lots of clients, you mustn’t walk in from the street.’

    ‘You said to come and see you, you didn’t tell me … you gave me no telephone number.’

    Frowning, she studies me. ‘Where did I see you?’

    ‘In the book shop, last week. Thursday, I think it was.’

    She shakes her head. ‘I don’t go in book shops, is not necessary.’

    ‘But it was you,’ I pleaded. ‘You told me your address.’ 

    Still shaking her head she says, ‘You must go now, I have a gentleman due.’

I become more annoyed as I walk back down the hill. At the bus stop a woman is attempting to control a toddler. Instead of sympathising with a smile, I turn my back and sulk. I try to analyse what upsets me most, being put in the wrong, or suggesting that I would need to seek the services of a prostitute. When the bus arrives, I am still undecided.

    At the supermarket opposite my apartment I stock up for three or four days. I will assuage my mood by writing. I begin a story with :

The woman who answers the door is fat, untidy with a pouchy, sagging jowl, like a toad; a chest on which she can rest her forearms.

It is Friday and I have completed the story, sent it off to a magazine. Needing to escape, I walk into the centre of town, sit at a café, order coffee with croissants. I am just paying the waiter when Anna walks past. If she recognises me she offers no indication. I follow and watch as she enters the book shop. Taking care, using a newspaper to shield much of my face, I go in; find her standing in a corner studying a child’s picture book.

    Her words come back to me. ‘You are a writer? How wonderful. If I give you my address will you come and read one of your stories?’ 

 

About the author 

 Roger is a regular contributor to Café Lit.