Inappropriate: Three Short Stories

Nice

  HER FLAME HAIR glinted in the sun. She chuckled from the back of her throat like a child. My gut knotted with each quiver. I seldom contributed to these moments. The cause of her laughter? Steve Cordell, director of Kinaesthetic Gymfit, a former applicant of mine. His sunglasses sparked as he smiled up at her. He is casual, boyish...funny.

  And happens to be her sister’s brother-in-law.

  But this is not the worst part.

  God, I wished it were.

  I shifted from the bedroom window, burned by the sight. Cordell’s persistence exceeded her other male admirers. Like always, I would pretend all is well when she returns to the house. I would swallow stinging salt and steady my voice.

  Kate and I have been together for eighteen months. With me, eighteen months seems to represent a watershed: one gets to know the other’s life-print, family, temperament, the intimate and whether the two will go together. At the age of thirty-five with four previous girlfriends of eighteen months (plus brief liaisons) I felt something amiss. Perhaps each woman slowly twigged that beneath this silent enigma, lurks a creature of habit, steady, dependable...dull. My previous girlfriend, Carla expressed these feelings via an affair with a travel salesman and now lives in London. I felt no grief for her loss, more a hurt pride. The others? Well, I guess I was the victim of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’. Mellissa, Danielle and Gaynor went off for excitement, wealth or a solid torso. I mourned their losses primly, wanting to, rather than actually doing so.

  Perhaps there was something wrong with me.

  Kate breezed in and paused as though caught off-guard. She floundered, her black eyeliner intensifying her gaze. ‘Oh, Durante I thought you’d gone off to the press conference.’

  I forced a smile. ‘I was just about to leave. Would you like me to pick anything up for you on the way home?’

  She fingered her silk neckerchief. ‘There’s no need to. I might not be back until late.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Catching up on the books.’

  I nodded, understanding. Oakham Nurseries, she informs me, is always busy in the spring. ‘Well, perhaps I will see you a little later, then.’ I palmed my keys and stepped forwards to kiss her on the cheek. She inclined her head as I did so. Lilac and musk caressed my nose. I perceived her pulse beneath the silk. I wanted to kiss her there but resisted. She seemed to be holding back of late. With a small cough, I retreated and saw her mouth twist. That image stayed with me as I stepped towards the door.

  My drive to Burrowdon Town Hall for the Bivotech Hearing left me feeling heavy – like my job description: Cost Adjustor Overseer and Manager for Grant Innovations, a post that funds business projects benefitting the local community. Kate was impressed when I passed a grant for Flints Watermill to install an industrial neutraliser against acid wastes entering Limecote Park. She was also impressed when I approved Levante Plastics to erect solar panels on their forecourt to cut particle emissions. Her reason being, that the final signatory is mine. The board’s voice means nothing without my signature.

  But all this is hardly dazzling, as I have become synonymous with the sector and its importance. Each applicant must go through rigorous screenings before the grant is approved. On the face of it, Kate and I would appear mismatched. She is six years younger than I, free spirited, unfazed by bureaucrats and chauvinists. (She hurled Cola over the proprietor of Tiffany’s after he denied a pregnant woman the use of his toilets). Fiery, yes, but vulnerable, cautious – with a deep sensitivity uniquely hers.

  I entered the hall to encounter a buzz of reporters and powersuits. My waist jacket and plaid shirt spurred someone to inform me the university is up the road. A cackle ensued but David Berchman of Bivotech Security Systems was not so jovial. I had frozen his funds in light of discrepancies in spending. His shiny round face pivoted my way as I strode to the podium.

  I felt no need to begin proceedings as Berchman looked ready to launch himself out of his seat. ‘Mr. King,’ he blurted, ‘I want you to inform everybody here why you have suspended our account!’ He then turned to answer his own question. ‘Mr. King here has decided that the depressed community of Fareham doesn’t need jobs. The kids are okay to go without new shoes or hot dinners!’

  Fareham’s unemployed incidentally had been commissioned by Bivotech Security Systems to assemble parts within a large warehouse. Good for the dole queue but even better for Mr. Berchman, who made huge profits from a covert sweatshop.

  I offered Berchman a cool smile. ‘I gather you understand the purpose of this grant?’

  A vein in his temple pulsed. ‘I know what you are trying to get at, Mr. King, and I have done nothing wrong! I have employed more people in that blasted town than what was agreed on that contract. I deserve some gratitude, not a bloody inquiry into the wages I can afford to pay!’

  The room fell silent and my eyes pinched without lowering my smile. I felt no need to add anything. A reporter’s hand came up. ‘Mr. King.’

  I dragged my eyes away to answer press questions in a timely manner. I found myself repeating the same statement in different ways. But Mr. Berchman refused to understand any of them, and made his frustration clear by a noisy exit.

  I returned late, weary and needing badly to sink my head onto Kate’s breast. Instead, I found the house empty and a cold embrace of suspicion. Her mobile phone glinted dully on the table. Kate’s endearing tendency to leave things lying about caused only my gut to clench this time. I scrolled down to find a text from Cordell: ‘Have you asked him yet? Deadline Friday.’

  My breaths trembled in my throat. I knew the meaning behind those words. Half-heard conversations could leave no doubt. Cordell was after an adjustment to his grant agreement. If I would change the date by one digit, Cordell could claim tax expenses. He knew it was unethical. But Kate might see no harm in asking a favour for her sister’s brother-in-law who also happened to fancy her.

  I lowered the phone. Should she vocalise that favour, something within me would die. I would know she saw me as Berchman did: an institution, a resource like the Town Hall. To be used.

  I retired early and gazed into the dark. The house stirred an hour later. Kate entered and undressed quietly. She need not have taken such care as I would have feigned sleep had she bounced on the mattress.

  Kate had once told me that I have a look that could liquefy Goliath. She will counter my steadfast views yet will conclude the session by sitting on my lap and stroking my hair. I will not deny her occasional partying yet she will be found home early reading a book. She loves her plants yet will trim the bonsai trees into penis shapes to see if the customers will notice. She attracts male offers yet seems to value her allure little. She is defiant yet insists upon manners, silk neckerchiefs and light perfume.

  There is something about her.

  I arose at five am to escape acid chain thoughts. She came down a little later and put the kettle on. ‘You’re up early,’ she croaked, not realising how early.

  Cordell’s text message flickered in my head. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘The press conference?’

  ‘Yes,’ I lied.

  I eyed her motions as she foraged for teabags. Eighteen months on and she is still here yet I know she is holding something back. ‘I don’t know how to make you laugh,’ I said.

  She slumped herself at the table in mid-rub of an eye. ‘Huh?’

  Perhaps the topic was too early for this owl.

  But then she said, ‘I don’t want you to make me laugh.’

  I huffed. ‘That’s good to know!’

  ‘Well it’s not you, is it? Funny, I mean.’

  ‘No. I guess not.’ I watched her slurp her tea. ‘So what is?’

  Her mug came down slowly, like her thoughts. ‘Well, you’re...y’ know.’

  I waited.

  ‘...Nice.’

  ‘Nice?’

  She blinked up at me. ‘Yes.’ And then she fondled her mug realising how that sounded.

  ‘It’s hardly the
answer I was hoping for.’

  She shrugged, cornered into arguing her point. ‘There’s nothing wrong with nice, Durante. The flashy stuff’s not what it’s cracked up to be. I’ve had my share of it.’

  ‘You mean sex appeal, affluence and wit?’

  Her smile grew skewed. ‘No. That’s not what I mean.’ But she had already said it. ‘I’m sorry, my brain’s in a right fog this morning. You know what I’m like.’

  I returned her smile, albeit cool. ‘Yes, I do.’

  And then it seemed she couldn’t finish her tea quickly enough.

  Nice, I thought. Had this been the problem with my other relationships? Had her passion for me cooled on account of nice? The idea prodded at me like a pin. Nice. Still, Berchman had succeeded in creating a different impression of me via the headline: ‘King’s Grant Reversal Causes Job Cuts in Fareham.’ Berchman can be seen standing at his factory gates amidst a clutch of disgruntled men. The following day, the paper had printed my face in half-shadow looking smug. ‘King Remains Unmoved,’ the article proclaimed.

  Nice, she’d said.

  A tabloid retort would achieve nothing, and so I let Berchman have his vent and the readers draw their own conclusions.

  Nice.

  Some might disagree.

  The news story provided a convenient barrier of conversation for Kate and I, but Friday marched forward and she still hadn’t asked that favour. I came home late to find her preparing supper in the kitchen. Her words stopped me in my tracks.

  ‘Tonight, you say?’