I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

  My heart skips a beat. "No Mrs," I say. "Just Carole."

  "Eh?"

  "Her name. It isn't Mrs Carrol. It's just Carole."

  "I'm not interested in her marital status, Fletcher. She could be Mr Carrol in drag for all I care. The only thing that is of any importance is that she has a house to sell, and she seems to think that only you can sell it for her. God knows why, but let's hope she's right eh, Fletcher? Because that's the way we make our money. So if you don't sell it, we don't eat. Do you remember how the system works?"

  There is a titter from one of the other desks. It dies away as Mr Hudson glowers in the direction of the noise.

  "I'm working on it, Mr Hudson," I say.

  "Well I suggest you work on it a little harder then. She wants you round there today."

  "But why? I've done the measuring." I'm starting to feel apprehensive again.

  "Fletcher. She is the client. The clients pay our wages. If she wants you there, then that is where you go. Until the commission is in the bank, you do everything in your power to keep her sweet. If that means measuring her house twice, then that is exactly what you will do."

  "But...."

  "But me no buts, Fletcher. I've already told her you'll be there after lunch."

  When Julie brings me my coffee a few minutes later, she sits on the corner of my desk warming her hands on her own cup. "Do you feel better now Mr F?" she asks.

  "Yes thankyou, Julie. I'm fine. Thanks for the coffee."

  "That's OK Mr F. Thankyou for the flowers."

  "Call me Tom, please."

  "OK Mr F. I will."

  "I meant it, Julie. What I said earlier. I meant it."

  "You're very sweet Mr F. I'm glad you work here."

  We sit in silence while we each finish our coffees. The others pay no attention. We have ceased to be amusing. We have exhausted their short attention spans.

  I spend the rest of the morning catching up on a backlog of paper work. There are a few telephone calls and some copying to do. Nothing too taxing. I try not to think about my impending meeting with Carole.

  From time to time my mind returns to the problem of the blowpipe. I still have the dart to make and somehow I have to extract the poison from the poinsettia. I remember seeing a film once, of a man tapping a rubber tree. He cut vee shaped notches in the trunk of the tree and then hung a little collecting can on it at the base of the vee. The latex sap dripped slowly from the wound into the can.

  My poinsettia is only about ten inches high. I study the stem carefully. If I used a magnifying glass and a model maker's knife, maybe I could make tiny vee shaped cuts in the stem, but where would I find a little can small enough to hang on it?

  One time when I am studying the stem intently I see Mr Hudson watching me from across the office. "Greenfly," I say, flicking vaguely at the plant with my ruler.

  "Can't be too careful with greenfly, you know. Did you know that they have live young? About one every minute I believe. And they start breeding about five minutes after they are born. That means that one greenfly can produce about ten million others every hour."

  Mr Hudson rolls his eyes and walks back to his office.

  "If it wasn't for ladybirds we'd be knee deep in greenfly by now," I continue. "Maybe even chin deep. We'd be wading about up to our chins in greenfly. Trying not to breathe in too quickly."

  "I swallowed a greenfly once," says Julie.

  "A good job that someone does," I reply. "Otherwise we'd drown in a sea of greenfly."

  "Or ladybirds!"

  One of my colleagues from across the office is unable to restrain himself from joining in. His comment produces a snort of laughter from the other two.

  "So why aren't we drowning in ladybirds, then?" he continues.

  I confess I am unable to answer this point at the moment, and swish at an imaginary greenfly on the poinsettia with my ruler.

  My aim is not good and I manage to slice the top third of the plant off with one blow. A heap of red bracts appears on the floor three feet in front of my desk.

  There is a guffaw from opposite. My ladybird friend collapses in hysterics. He rolls around his seat with tears of laughter running down his cheeks. Only Julie looks concerned.

  "Oh, Mr F. Your lovely flower."

  I watch, entranced, as a white bead of sap oozes from the broken top of the stem. It grows into a round white pearl balanced on the green stalk. I need a little can to collect it in. A little rubber tapper's can. It would need to be about the size that a Barbie doll would use. I look over towards Julie. "Do you have a doll's house by any chance?"

  We improvise a collecting can from a milk bottle top. I twist it around my little finger to make a miniature goblet, and catch the drop of white sap just as it rolls down the stem.

  "Why did you do that, Mr F?" asks Julie, who has watched the whole intricate operation.

  "Not for a blowpipe," I say. "Whatever made you think of that?"

  "I didn't think about a blow pipe Mr F. I'm not even sure what a blow pipe is."

  "Did I say blowpipe? I must have meant hosepipe. Yes, hosepipe. Mine has got a small leak and this will be just the thing to repair it with. Natural rubber you know."

  "Oh. I thought you said blow pipe Mr F. Isn't there a ban on hosepipes?"

  "Only in public places," I add. "Like flick knives. Dangerous things hose pipes. People mistake them for snakes, you know."

  "Are you pulling my leg, Mr F? I think you might be teasing me."

  "Yes, just my joke. No one would mistake a flick knife for a snake."

  ***

  Geoffrey's appointment was for eleven. It would take about two hours, but he had decided to take the whole day off work. No sense in rushing. He was savouring the moment. Relishing the anticipation of what lay ahead. He had put on his normal work clothes and left for the office at the usual time so as not to raise any awkward questions, but once clear of the house he turned away from his usual route and headed across country instead.

  There was no hurry. The train journey would take only a little over twenty minutes and it was only a short walk at the other end. Still, he thought it was prudent to travel from a different station, and perhaps a little after the normal rush hour. Wouldn't want to bump into anyone he knew. He didn't want to get into any conversations today. No. This was his day, and he meant to enjoy every minute of it.

  ***

  I take the late lunch, delaying my appointment with Carole as long as possible.

  I don't know what she wants, but she makes me uneasy. I feel like a spider waiting to be eaten.

  Did you know that female spiders eat their mates after having sex? Well I suppose that saves them from getting lung cancer. From smoking I mean. Anyway it's difficult to imagine a spider with a cigarette. It would probably get all tangled up in it's web.

  Still it does seem a bit unfair. The female spider wafts her pheromones around and the poor male, programmed by millions of years of evolution, strolls up, whistling nonchalently, for a bit of spider slap and tickle. He's no sooner given her what she was advertising for, than she turns round and eats him.

  Do you know how to tell the sex of a spider? Well the nervous looking ones are the males!

  I learned how to tell the sex of a milk bottle once. You have to tie a wedding ring onto a length of cotton and suspend it above the bottle. After a few seconds it starts to swing. If it swings round and round, it's a female. But if it swings back and forth, it's a male.

  Or was it the other way around?

  I suppose it doesn't really matter except to another milk bottle.

  I used to have a wedding ring, but I don't wear it now. I gave it back. It seemed to have stopped working.

  I wonder if people have pheromones?

  Anyway I feel nervous now.

  Pull yourself together, man. She's just a poor lonely woman, looking for some help to sell her house. The rest is just imagination. I'd like to know what happened to Mr Carrol though.

  I dri
ve to her house and park outside the gate. I see the curtains move as I arrive. She has been looking out for me. As I get out of the car I notice the roses on the back seat. They've been there since first thing this morning. They're looking rather limp without water. Maybe they'd be better on the floor, in the shade, but I don't think they'll be up to much by tonight.

  "Oh, Tom. Flowers for me. How thoughtful."

  I'm startled by the closeness of the voice. Carole has come out of the house and right up to me without my hearing. She leans across me and reaches into the car for the flowers. They look pretty sorry. Twelve limp red roses, heads drooping in their pink patterned paper wrap.

  "Why, Tom. They're beautiful," she trills. "My favourite flowers. What a kind thought."

  She bobs towards me and tries to plant a kiss on my cheek, but I manage to move aside so that her lips miss me by the merest fraction of an inch. As she passes I smell scent in the air.

  "Pheromones!" I cry in alarm.

  "Fairy what's?" she replies.

  "Pheromones," I repeat. I back away nervously.

  "I don't know what you mean, Tom. What's the matter?"

  "You can't fool me. I know a pheromone when I smell one. I know your game. A quick bit of sex, and then it's all over for me."

  "Tom, you're making me blush. It doesn't have to be over that quickly."

  "Keep away. Let's just keep this to a business relationship. Thought you could catch me off my guard eh? But your scent gave you away."

  "My perfume, Tom? Don't you like it?"

  "Perfume? Is that what you call it. I know a pheromone when I smell one. You don't fool me."

  "Tom. It isn't what you think. It isn't Fairy Moon. I've never heard of Fairy Moon perfume. It's Anais Anais, Tom. I put it on specially for you."

  All the while we have been talking I've been backing away. She has followed my every step. I think I'm walking into a trap. Suddenly I find I can't go any farther. My heel hits the door step. I stumble backwards and fall against the door. It yields to the pressure and I find myself collapsing back onto the hall carpet.

  Carole is following me so closely that she is caught up in the general collapse and falls headlong on top of me. I am vaguely aware of the taste of roses as my head is buried in blooms and leaves and thorns, followed by the weight of her body, and a blast of perfume in my nostrils.

  Oh god. This is it. She's going to eat me, and I didn't even get the sex.

  CHAPTER 9

  When I come round, my head is surrounded by roses. A woman is performing some sort of ritual dance and flicking cold water over me. Is this it? Is this a kind of ceremonial cleansing before the meal? Am I already dead?

  "Oh, Tom. You've woken up. You frightened me, falling over like that. You must have hit your head?"

  She bends over me and reaches out with her hands.

  "Don't eat me," I whisper. "Please." My voice is almost inaudible. She ignores my croaks and pulls me up into a sitting position. I am too shocked to resist, and by degrees she gets me onto the settee in the front room.

  "Double aspect room with telephone and television point. Patio doors to the rear."

  "Shh, Tom. Relax. You'll be alright in a few moments. Just relax." She's holding my head against her chest. I think she might be trying to suffocate me.

  "Feature fireplace with coal effect gas fire. Shelves to recesses on either side of chimney."

  "Perhaps you'd like to go upstairs and lie down? I could bring you a cup of tea."

  Numbly I find myself preceding her up the stairs in a kind of hypnotic haze. Is this how pheromones work? My limbs are moving, but I have no control. We arrive in a bedroom, with a double bed. It is covered with a pink and grey duvet.

  "Master bedroom. Rear aspect, with fitted wardrobes and ensuite shower room. Telephone and TV point. Single radiator."

  I'm not sure what I've done with my sonic tape measure. Must have put it down somewhere. I'll have to come back up and measure later. Carole pushes me gently onto the bed and starts to remove my shoes. I watch her as though I am watching a film. I can see two feet. They look like my feet, but distant somehow. "Hello feet."

  "I think I should loosen your clothing," she says. "Come on, now. Don't be shy. After all we are practically lovers."

  I find myself in the bed. I can see my trousers hanging over a chair. My jacket and tie are hanging over the back of the chair too. It's warm and comfortable in the bed. I think the sheets are new. They smell fresh. Like spring flowers.

  "Blossom," I say, patting at the duvet gently with my hand.

  "Darling?" she replies.

  I have no idea who she is talking to, and look around to see if there is anyone else in the room.

  "Would you like something to drink, Tom?" she asks. "Tea, or brandy perhaps? I think I might have a little brandy myself. For medicinal purposes, of course."

  I nod vaguely, though I'm not sure whether I'm agreeing to the tea or the brandy. In any event it turns out to be immaterial.

  When she returns, she is carrying a tray with a large green bottle and two glasses. "I couldn't find brandy," she says. "All I could find was this old bottle of champagne."

  Opposite the end of the bed is a large mirror. It fills half the wall. It's like being at the cinema. There is a film already running. A middle aged, balding man is sitting up in bed. He appears to be partially dressed. I can see his trousers and jacket hanging on a chair by the bed, but he is still wearing a shirt and tie. His tie has been loosened, and the top button of his shirt is undone, but the tie is still looped around his neck. He looks somewhat vacant, as though he is watching a movie.

  A woman is sitting on the bed. She has kicked off her shoes, but she is still dressed. She is quite attractive. A little younger than the man, slim and blonde. She appears to be pouring champagne into two glasses. She looks excited.

  I think this might be a sex movie. This looks like the build up to a sex scene to me.

  The man scarcely moves. He seems preoccupied by something at the foot of the bed. He takes the proffered champagne glass without a word and swallows the contents in one gulp. I'm not impressed by his acting. He looks familiar, but I can't put a name to the face. It doesn't look very true to life to me. Just an excuse for a bit of titillation I expect. I wonder why they didn't use a younger actor?

  The blonde woman's skirt has ridden up her thighs. She has nice legs. She is sipping her wine more carefully than the man. She refills his glass, and he sips at it absentmindedly.

  There seems to be something wrong with the sound track, too. There is no music, and the actors voices seem to be coming from a long way away. I look around vaguely for the remote control.

  "Should I take your tie off, Tom? You still look a little flushed. Perhaps you should take off your shirt?"

  The actress is slowly undressing the man in the bed. He seems not to mind. In fact he seems a bit indifferent to the whole process. You would think they'd hire better actors. Can't think how he holds the job down. After all, she's quite a good looking woman, and she's acting her heart out. I wonder who she is? Not a face I recognise, but I suppose for a sex movie the face isn't important.

  "Lift your arm, Tom, so that I can get this little sleeve off. Here, put the drink down until we get the rest of these clothes off you."

  I wonder what day it is? I keep thinking it's Tuesday for some reason. I feel sure there was something I should be doing today. Something important. Still, it's not often I get time to watch a film in the afternoon, and this one's getting more interesting.

  I take another sip of my drink. The man in the bed takes a sip too. He'd better watch out. If he drinks much more he won't be able to perform at all.

  "I'm just going to powder my nose, Tom. Don't go away will you."

  The blonde has slipped off the bed and out of her skirt. She is still wearing a short slip. She disappears from the screen, undoing her blouse as she goes.

  I reach for my glass, but it seems to be empty. The film seems to
have ended. The woman has gone. The man is just sitting there in the bed, doing nothing. Perhaps it's a serial? Or maybe it isn't a sex film at all. I decide to turn it off, and climb out of bed.

  I wonder where I am?

  I look at my watch. It says three thirty. If this is Tuesday I should be at work. My clothes are on a chair by the bed. I start to put them on. I feel a little light headed. I can't see my shoes anywhere. Perhaps I left them downstairs. As I leave the bedroom, I see a small tub filled with coloured balls of cotton wool. On an impulse I put it into my pocket. I'm sure it will come in useful.

  My shoes are in the sitting room. I am just about to put them on when I hear a wail from upstairs.

  "Tom! Tom! Where are you?"

  This is a good question. Where am I? This isn't my house. Oh, God. I've come into the wrong house by mistake. Oh, God. Don't let me be caught. I've dreamed about this. Going into the wrong house. Sitting down at the wrong table. Getting into bed with the wrong wife.

  It's one of those recurring dreams, like walking down the street with no trousers. My trousers! Where are my trousers?

  Oh God. I've always woken up before. This time I don't seem to be waking up.

  I pick up the shoes, and head for the front door. There is a naked woman on the stairs.

  "Tom!" she cries. "Tom. Come back."

  "I'm sorry," I say. "It was an honest mistake. I must have opened the wrong front door by mistake."

  "Tom. I love you! Don't go." The naked woman is coming down the stairs towards me.

  There are some roses lying in a heap on the hall table. They look a little the worse for wear. I pick them up and push them towards the nude blonde bombshell that is headed my way.

  "Keep away! I know how to use these, and I'm not afraid to." The woman hesitates, deterred by the thorns no doubt.

  "Tom. Come back to bed. You’re still concussed. Come back and let Carole nurse you. I need you Tom. I need you."

  Her momentary hesitation is enough. It gives me time to dive through the front door and run. I throw the flowers on the floor as I go. Did she say Carole? That name has a familiar ring. As I run down the garden path I drop one of my shoes, but now is not the time to stop.

  My pursuer has regained her composure and is coming down the path after me. She is clutching red roses in each hand. Two wilting bunches of roses are all that stand between her and me. I decide to leave the shoe.