The Price of Love by Sharon Boothroyd, a good hot cup of tea

'A cuppa these days seems to cost a small fortune!' My friend Rachel opened her purse and rooted through the coins.

'Don't worry. I'll get it,' I said.

A look of relief crossed her face. 'Thanks, Clare.'

We met at the park cafe every fortnight on a Saturday. But recently, things had changed...

Three months ago, Rachel had introduced us to her new partner, Luke. My hubby Kit and I had genuinely warmed to him.

The couple had met via app dating.

Both are in their forties and childless (like us). Luke's a car mechanic and Rachel's in IT. Kit and I are teachers.  

It was a heady, whirlwind romance, when Rachel gave up her warm, cosy rented flat and moved into Luke's place, I had reservations.

I'd thought it was way too soon, but blissfully in love, Rachel had waved away my concerns.

'Luke says it's silly for us to fork out for two lots of rent,' she'd reasoned.

It was a fair point, but... I'd actually thought she'd hesitate, as she lived in a nice area, overlooking the park. 

When I visited her new home (Luke's place) I was taken aback.

Luke had a small, damp, grubby terrace, off a main road, that was stuffed full of takeaways and a discounted supermarket.

I didn't mean to sound snobby, but it was quite depressing.

The tatty curtains and carpet, freezing cold bathroom, sparse junk city furniture and scuffed paintwork was a world away from the soft carpets, tasteful décor and the pleasant view that she was used to. Her lovely furniture looked out of place here.

I just couldn't see her settling here. Her gorgeous furniture looked out of sorts, all crammed in.

'I've put my bits and bobs into storage,' she announced. Luckily, Luke was out.

'Good. I'm glad about that,' I said.

'I know it's a bit grotty at the moment, but I'm going to transform this place into a little love nest,' she declared.

Good luck with that, I thought.                                                                              

'I'd have thought Luke would want to move into her apartment,' I'd said to Kit later that day, when I arrived home.

'It's a far higher standard. It'd be a big improvement for him.'

He'd shrugged. 'Well, maybe it's about cutting costs as a couple. Rachel lived in a decent district. Her local deli and bistro are lovely, but they're pretty expensive. I mean, even the park cafe is classy.'

I nodded - it was.

'I expect her rent's higher, too,' he added.

'She could afford it. She earns a higher salary than him,' I concluded.

'Hmm.' Yet Kit didn't expand any further.

 

                                                                          ***

 

I was given updates from Rachel when we met in the cafe.

'Luke's so organised with our fiances. He's set up a spreadsheet of our monthly income and outgoings,' she'd said.

I'd smiled. 'It's good that he wants to be efficient.'

'Well, I was absolutely hopeless with money wasn't I, Clare?' she'd giggled.

I'd frowned. I hadn't seen any evidence to support that. 

In fact, Rachel had been a stickler for paying her bills and rent on time. She'd never been in debt and had kept a close eye on her banking.

I was about to gently challenge that, when a customer entered the cafe with a cute dog and Rachel became distracted.

I couldn't prove it, yet I suspected the 'hopeless with money' remark was down to Luke.

Then I noticed that Rachel only had a five pound note in her purse.

 

                                                                         ***

'She probably hadn't had time to visit the cash machine,' Kit said later, when I explained about the single five pounds in Rachel's purse.

'Then there's his spreadsheet...'

'We have a spreadsheet for our finances,' he pointed out.

'True. But you don't tell your friends that I'm useless with money when I'm not. Why is he feeding her lies and why is she accepting what he's saying?'

We hadn't socialised with Rachel and Luke, either.

We'd invited them round for weekend lunches, but Clare had trotted out excuses about why they couldn't come.

He sighed. 'I don't know, but I wouldn't become involved in this, Clare. If you argue with her, no doubt she'll defend him, and it could all backfire.'

'I can sense that something's not right. I won't interfere - but I can listen.'

He nodded. 'Well, it's takeaway tonight. Who's paying?'

I grinned. 'We both are.'

The online payment was taken out of our joint account.

 

                                                                 ***

Next time at the cafe, Rachel looked longingly at the sandwiches.

'Why not stay for lunch? My treat,' I added hastily.

'Okay. If I pay for anything, I have to keep the receipt. Luke likes to see receipts.' She didn't seem in the least bit bothered about this.

We found a quiet table and got settled.

'Luke's really good. He allows me to have my favourite biscuits on the online supermarket shop', Rachel whispered, as we tucked in.

I was puzzled.

Why was Luke a good person by 'allowing' her a packet of biscuits? It was a rather bizarre attitude. What was the reason behind it?

I shifted in my seat, yet I adopted a joky tone. 'It sounds like he keeps a tight rein on the grocery expenses!'

'Well, everything is more expensive now, Clare. The cost of living is going up all the time.'

I couldn't argue with that, yet I wondered if she was parroting one of Luke's phrases.

'Kit and I do the online weekly shop together. Do you and Luke do the same?'

She shook her head. 'He does it all.'

I had to speak out. 'Look Rachel, don't take this the wrong way but I really hope you haven't given him access to your PIN and bank account.'

'Of course I haven't. I contribute to the bills by giving him cash. He puts it in his account later.'

'Right.' Yet I still felt uneasy.

 

                                                                         ***

Then, a few weeks later, a problem between the couple reached crisis point, and they had a bad quarrel.

It was coming up to Rachel's Mum's birthday. She wanted to book a weekend at a luxury spa hotel as a gift for her.

Of course, Luke had hit the roof and refused point blank.

Rachel demanded to know why she couldn't treat her mum.

He'd trotted out the 'we need to keep to our budget' line but this time, Rachel wasn't buying it.

The rose tinted spectacles suddenly fell from her eyes and the reality made her see that Luke was a financial coercive controller.

'I packed my bags and went to Mum's,' she tearfully told me over the phone. 'I wish I hadn't been so eager to give notice on my flat. Oh, I was so silly!'

'Don't be hard on yourself. You sensibly placed your furniture and things into storage and you've now regained full ownership of your own financial choices. You don't have to keep receipts or answer to him any more.'

'No.' We were both mulling things over. The situation could have been much worse if she'd  awarded Luke access to her bank account and PIN.

'I'm going to book that hotel for my mum's birthday,' she said.

'Good. I'll see you on Saturday as usual.'

'See you. Oh and I'm paying for the coffee - and lunch.'

I updated Kit.

'The split doesn't surprise me. Luke didn't strike me as a guy who'd feel comfortable about his partner earning more than him- hence asking her to move into his place.'

I nodded. 'I'm just so relieved that she's seen finally seen the light!'

About the author  

Sharon is fifty- something, happily married and lives in a small town in West Yorkshire. As she  suffers from anxiety, writing short stories helps her to focus on something creative. It's like occupational therapy. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Satuday Sample: Spectrum by Christopher Bowles, cold tea

INTRODUCTION: 

My father passed away just over a day before his seventieth birthday. As children, my brother and I used to refer to him as a ‘Jesus Baby’, because he happened to be born on Christmas Day; and although it didn’t come as any great shock, his death was understandably still a blow. Mostly because I felt like I had never had the opportunity to show him who I really was, and what I was really made of. We weren’t estranged, but we weren’t as close as I would have liked; and as a result, I kept various details of my personal life secret from him, so as not to rock the boat. Although my mother and brother would argue to the contrary, I never really felt that he knew me all that well. 

When I collected his possessions from the hospital, amongst them were copies of the two anthologies I had previously been published in. I know he had read the first, (‘Siren’ from Snowflakes) and had discussed with me afterwards how surprised he was that I was able to inhabit a voice so different from my own. Had he not seen my name attached to the story of a middle-aged housewife he would never have guessed. I never found out whether he read the second – a perhaps ill timed story about the angel of death reaping souls (‘The Sabbath’ from Baubles) printed only a month before he died. 

But when I spoke to his friends who had seen him on his sickbed, they all said how proud he was that I had something in print. That I had followed my childhood dreams of becoming a writer. That I had a theatre company and was flourishing as a playwright. The fact this collection will be published after his death only makes me feel resentment for not trying harder, sooner. My big break comes six months too late, and he will never really know what I was capable of. 

But this isn’t a sob story. This is a way of telling you, the reader who has been thoughtful and curious enough to pick up this book, what this work means to me. When asked by my friends and new acquaintances, ‘what is it about?’ I often referred to SPECTRUM as ‘an odyssey dealing with grief and sodomy.’ Because simply put, that’s exactly what it is. It’s a collection of stories that represent my life as a queer man; as ‘the other.’ An unflinching look at subjects that I, as part of the LGBT community, see every day. It’s the act of two men holding hands. It’s having anal sex in toilet cubicles; or the
moment you might realise your true gender is not the one you were assigned at birth. It’s a magnifying glass over the continually casual misogyny women experience on a daily basis. 

And yet it’s also something I wrote in the gradual prelude to my father’s death, and over the course of his funereal arrangements, and in the immediate grieving aftermath. This book represents my personal journey at the worst time of my life. This book is my biggest achievement superimposed over my biggest failure. 

This isn’t just a book. This isn’t just the musings of a thirty-something-year-old gay man and his rampant imagination. 

This is proof. A legacy. 

It’s a confirmation that if I try and put my mind to it, I most certainly have the talent and drive to achieve something. I can create something of worth, I have something to be proud of. Something my father could get behind, even if he didn’t understand my lifestyle. 

So thank you, dear reader. You’re about to embark upon a collection of one hundred 9 and ten pieces of flash-fiction and poetry. You probably won’t like all of them, and some of them might even disgust you, or make you uncomfortable. But I urge you to stick with it. I urge you to look at overarching themes within each coloured block. Find the puns in certain titles. Research the colours that you’ve never heard of. Try and work out which stories are complete fabrications, which ones contain nuggets of truth, and which ones are my versions of real life events. 

But most of all, I urge you to share my journey. It’s been difficult, and testing and raw; and if I’m perfectly honest, it isn’t over. I’m still grieving, still in the midst of experiencing a whole year of ‘firsts’ without Dad. But writing about it helps. And if you should find solace in one or two of these stories; if you can pull guiding lights from these shadows, then I can rest easy knowing that I have done my job well. 

This is SPECTRUM. This is the beginning, the end, and every shade in between. This is a tribute for Roy Christopher Bowles; a wonderful father, a great teacher, and a pillar of support. I couldn’t have asked for a better role model. 

Thank you for everything. 

X 

10 00. BLACK: 

Strapped down firmly in my chair, I feel like a prisoner. Layers upon layers of hi-tech fabric simply felt like a fancy straight-jacket. I couldn’t even look out of the window; and this tiny detail had completely shattered my fragile nerves. I tried counting back from a hundred whilst the checks were being carried out. It didn’t work. 

I remembered all the times I ever kissed a boy. I remembered all the times I’d ever stayed up watching movies with my mum. I remembered the faces of all the people I ever passed in the street. My neighbour who somehow ended up with all my post. My gynaecologist with the hard face. 

The fuselage began to shake. When this baby hits eighty-eight miles per hour, you’re gonna see some serious— 

Shit. 

The tremors became more violent. A countdown started. And I imagined all the boys I never had the chance to kiss. The men I never quite had the nerve to talk to. The ones who got away. The husband I never married in the dress I never wore. 

The movies I’d never managed to see with Mum. The classics. 

The faces of the people I never got to meet. 

Launch. 

imagined all the tiny humans I was leaving behind. And all the stories they had. 

I imagined all the lives on the planet below.

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