10 comments/ 21230 views/ 2 favorites Friday Night Alchemy By: adam applebiter (Author's note - This is a 90% non-erotic story. The only erotic scene has been submitted separately as the short story "alone at last".) It was April. It was raining. It was hardly a surprise. The weekend had started well: boy had met girl and the Friday night alchemy that turns alcohol into meaningless sex had just begun when the spell, or rather a Budweiser bottle, was broken by a not-quite-ex-boyfriend who mistook me for the villain in the tragedy that passed for his love life. I was in no fit state to explain that I only had a walk on part in the last act so resorted to a more direct, if somewhat clichéd, response. In short, I head-butted him. Friday night went down hill rapidly from there. I won the fight with the ex but lost the subsequent melee with the bouncers, then spent four uncomfortable hours sobering up in the clinically unsympathetic atmosphere of the casualty unit in Endell Street, waiting for someone to stitch up my eyebrow. It was little wonder it was raining. Any half-decent scriptwriter would have included that detail in such a scene. It was another cliché. I had been beaten up, dumped, ignored for half the night by the cast of Casualty & generally abused by the whole fucking planet, so why shouldn't the weather stick the metaphorical boot in too? I walked the five miles home. Two reasons: I had no chance of getting a taxi to pick me up in the mess I was in, but also, I had a perverse desire to prolong my self-pity. So I walked home &, about 4 a.m., crashed out, intent on sleeping through the rest of the weekend. That way it couldn't get any worse, right? Wrong. It can always get worse. I was rudely awakened early on Saturday when Steve came round to use my washing machine. He has my spare keys so he let himself in, but if you knew Steve you'd know that if you want to sleep while he's in the building, you've got no hope unless he's comatose first. "Morning Mate! Coffee?" he shouted as he walked past the bedroom door, casually slapping it first, to be assured of my full attention. Any response I might ordinarily have made would have been truncated to one syllable as Steve found the power button on the hi-fi. No one should have to listen to U2 first thing in the morning. It says so in the Geneva Convention - doesn't it? Well, if it doesn't, I can make a bloody good case for getting it added. Not that it'd make a blind bit of difference - Steve hasn't heard of the Geneva Convention, let alone read it. I was lying on my bed of pain, mentally calling down maledictions upon him, his parents & his parents' parents when Ste walked into the bedroom with a mug of coffee. "Where's this bird then? ...Fuckin' hell! Is there still an eyeball in that socket?" "You should have seen the other guy." "I did. He didn't do that to you did he? I'm impressed." "Thanks! And no, he didn't do this. I was worked over by a couple of steroid abusing penguins... And what d'you mean you've seen him? You were working last night." "Yeah, well the kid you laid out is Charlie's brother." "Charlie as in Charlie's Cars? Your boss?" This was not good. "Nope. Charlie who's just done three for glassing a bloke who seven balled him at pool. Charlie who came down the dispatch office at two in the morning with what was left of his kid brother. That Charlie." "Shit! Tell me you're winding me up, please." This was worse. "Relax. He's on parole. He's not goin' to want to go back in for doing you over. Besides, he figures Martin - that's his kid brother's name by the way, in case you're interested - he figures Martin's big enough to fight his own battles and that this is strictly between you two." "Great! So all I've got to worry about now is Psycho junior coming after me with a grudge & a role model that glasses people who beat him at pool. It's obviously escaped your notice but he caught me playing tongue hockey with his girlfriend. That's a little more serious than a game of pool, don't you think?" "Hey! Don't kill the messenger! I'm just telling you what Charlie said." "You're right. I'm sorry." "No problem. Coffee's cold though. Hand it here and I'll zap it. I could do with a top-up myself." "'s alright, but turn that bloody music off on your way past." "Suit yourself. Tell you what, get dressed while I have another coffee, then we'll have breakfast at Sal's café. My treat." "Sold." I really wasn't feeling up to it, but Steve was offering to pay, an event as unlikely as a confirmed Elvis sighting. Steve's wallet saw daylight less often than Count Dracula. I would have crawled from my death-bed to take up an offer like that, so I got up, painfully. In the Lounge, the answerphone was blinking. I hit the playback button. ".....Hi... It's Shana....from the bar last night?.....I was just calling to make sure you were OK.....We, well we kind of got separated and ..... anyway.....call me, OK? My number's 245 5188.....got to go now....Bye." "Oh yeah! I forgot to tell you. That girl you were fighting over..." "I wasn't fighting over her! I was just defending myself." "Whatever. She came looking for you, so I gave her your number." "You did what?" "Now don't go off the deep end again. She was really upset, mainly because she didn't know what had happened to you. Anyway, she's cute, and how many girls have shown that much interest in you recently? The sympathy factor should be good for a shag at least." "Don't you think the fact that Charlie's brother thinks he has a claim on her might put the dampers on things just a little bit?" "Not really. He's only home for Easter. Next week he's back at college in York. She dumped him before Xmas but it hasn't sunk in yet. Trust me, he'll be laid up for most of the week, you saw to that, then he'll be gone. Forget about it." "How come you know so much about all this? Who died and left you a crystal ball? And how come she knew to ask you about me?" I was very confused. "Gianni was working the bar last night. Yes? She noticed you seemed to know each other so she asked him where you'd have gone – Ah, light dawns! Gianni didn't know the bouncers had hospitalised you so he told her what he did know. Namely that your best friend, Steve – that's me – works for Charlie's Cars. With me so far? Good, now pay attention, this is the complicated bit. When she came to the dispatch office looking for someone called Steve, I was there! She told me the whole story. So you see Grasshopper, its not what the Sage knows but who knows that he knows that counts." "Steve, you're priceless. I had been contemplating killing you, but for that, I'll let you live a while longer." "Gee, thanks! Can we get breakfast now? I'm starving." A couple of thousand calories of bacon, eggs and assorted fried things made the world seem a fit place to live in again. Steve helped too. It's hard to stay down around someone as exuberantly cheerful as him. I tried to stay miserable but, by the time I got down to chasing the last two baked beans around my plate, Steve's non-stop banter had worn down my defences and, painful though it was, I smirked at his latest tasteless joke. "That's more like it. Boy! You're a tough audience this morning." "Yeah, well I've got a fair bit on my mind." "When you goin' to call her then?" Steve threw a hand grenade into the conversation. "What? Oh, you mean Shana. I'm not. I've had enough grief over her already." "Don't be daft. You've got to call her, if only to tell her you're OK. She really was worried about you. For fuck's sake! She was nearly in tears when she came down the cab office." "You call her then." "No way!" "Why not? You got me into this by giving her my number, so you can sort it out." "Look, if Martin hadn't interrupted the two of you, this girl Shana would have been back at your place, keeping your dick warm for you, before midnight, right? So when was the last time you got laid? Rosy? That ended over a year ago." "There was Hage, last summer." "That Danish bit? Doesn't count. All you got from her was a quick blow job in Richmond Park. No, its well over a year. Now this girl comes along who's obviously gagging for it & you're not interested? Call her. 'Cos if you don't I will & I'll send her round to your place to find you." "Bastard." "Yeah. So?" "OK, I'll call her. Satisfied?" "Depends. Has she got a sister?" "Fuck off!", "I only asked." "Well don't. Trish would cut off your balls just for thinking about it. Go and pay Sal. Oh and Steve? Break it to him gently. Sal's getting on a bit, the sight of your wallet after all these years may just be too much for him." "Feeling better are we? Sarky bugger." Steve's a diamond. Rough around the edges maybe, but a diamond all the same. He's fun when drunk, useful when sober and good company all the time. What more could you ask of a mate? Oh, and my mother thinks he's disgusting so he must be a good bloke. We walked back to the flat together, stopping briefly at the bookie's because a regular fare had given one of the drivers a tip on a horse at Epsom and Steve reckoned it was worth a tenner each way. When we got back, Steve's washing was still rinsing and there was another message on the answerphone. "Put the kettle on, Steve." "Spoilsport." But he went into the kitchen all the same. I pressed playback. ".....Hi! Its Shana again.....Just checking to see if you got my message......I'd better give you my number again. Its 245 5188.....or, if I'm not in, I'll be in O'Neills tonight. ....about 9ish...See you later...." "You gonna call her then?" There's no privacy around Steve. "Later." "Why not now? 'Carpe Dame' and all that." "Its 'Carpe Diem'. It means 'Seize the day'. And like I said, later, when you're not around to earwig." "I don't earwig. I just listen a lot. And its 'Carpe Dame' - 'Grab the girl'." Just occasionally Steve's humour surprises me. "Is that kettle boiled, or were you too busy ‘listening a lot'?" "You're out of milk." "I don't take milk. There's some UHT cream in the cupboard above the sink. Top shelf. In the white plastic basket." I was talking to an empty doorway but I could hear Steve rummaging through the cupboard. "Found it. Thanks." Steve brought through the coffees and flopped down on the settee. He looked tired. Of course, he'd been working all night and babysitting me all morning. It was only caffeine that was keeping him awake. Like I said, he's a diamond. "You're out of Nescafe too. This was the last of it." "I'll get some later. I need a few things from Tesco's anyway." "Later. As in after you've talked to Shana, right?" "Later. As in after I've talked to Shana, yes. You know Steve, if you nagged any more, you'd have to start wearing a dress." "Only in the privacy of my own home, Mate. It gets Trisha hot." "Actually, that's rather more information than I needed just now, but thank you for sharing. Freak." He was joking, of course. At least, I hoped he was joking. Steve could be pretty weird at times. He finished his coffee and went to check on his laundry. The washing machine had gone silent a few minutes back so it had either finished its cycle or, the more likely scenario, had flooded the kitchen again. "Got a mop?", a disembodied voice called from the kitchen. "In the cupboard by the front door. Hang on a sec and I'll fetch it." When I got to the kitchen, Steve was standing there with his basket of washing, grinning. "Just kidding! Got you out of that armchair though." "Bastard!" "While you're on your feet, you might as well make that call. I'll see you later." He headed for the door. "Oh, and there's a post-it on the fridge about the coffee. In case you forget. See ya!" and he was gone. "Bye then.", I said to the closed door and put the mop away. It was obvious Steve had decided I should see Shana again. If I bottled out, I'd never hear the last of it so I found a pen and something to write on then replayed Shana's message and noted down her phone number. Well, no time like the present. I rang her. "Hi! You've reached the home of Jodie and Shana. We're both out at the moment but leave a message and we'll call you back as soon as poss. Ciao!......Beep" An answerphone. That came as something of a relief. "Hi Shana, its Alun. Listen, thanks for calling...." "Hiya! Sorry about the answerphone. Martin's been ringing here all morning and Jodie - she's my flatmate - Jodie's been vetting my calls but she's gone out shopping so I turned on the machine. Anyway, you don't want to hear about all that. How are you? I was worried when you just disappeared like that. I hope you don't mind: I got your phone number off your friend, Steve. You know? From the taxi place? He's very nice, isn't he? Anyway, I heard you were hurt and, well, how are you?" She paused for breath. I took the opportunity to get a word in edgewise. "I'm OK. I'm going to have a lovely scar where my right eyebrow used to be but apart from that, its just bruises. They X-rayed my ribs but nothing's broken." "X-rayed? You went to the hospital then?" "Had to. A bouncer unzipped my eyebrow with a sovereign ring so I had to go and get stitched up." "Oh! I'm so sorry. How many stitches?" "Three. And don't apologise. You weren't the one who hit me." "But I should have warned you about my ex. I feel guilty now. Does it hurt a lot?" "I could handle – I did handle your ex. It's the bouncers who autographed my ribs with their knuckles. I'll live though. A couple of nights in and I'll be as good as new, the darned eyebrow not withstanding." "Oh? So you're not going out tonight?" She was fishing, wasn't she? "No, I'm afraid not. I'd only spend the whole night retelling this story to all and sundry, and besides, I'm feeling rather tender today. I'm going to stay in tonight, cook myself some macaroni cheese and relax." "I've got a better idea. I'll come over and cook you dinner if you like? To make up for last night. How does Tagliatelli Quattro Formaggi sound? It's a family speciality." "Make it penne and you're on. Tagliatelli always ends up all over my shirt." "Penne then. What time?" "Seven o'clock? Its Flat 3a, Gainsborough Court, Rotherhithe New Road." "Hang on. I'll get a pen......OK...Flat 3a?" "Gainsborough Court" "Right" "Rotherhithe New Road" "Got it. Well, I'll see you at seven then. Bye bye." "Bye Shana. And thanks." There was a click as she hung up then the phone line purred in my ear. If I were a cat I'd be purring too. Steve was right about one thing, Shana was definitely interested. I'd better go shopping. If she was coming round to cook dinner, the least I could do is get us something to drink, and coffee. I wandered into the kitchen to see what else needed re-stocking. Steve's post-it was still on the fridge door: "Out of coffee Out of milk Almost out of Persil" I'm not sexist. I agree with gender equality, have a lot of female colleagues and get on well with all of them. Unlike the Steves of this world, I don't even mind having a female boss. That said, I do believe there are some fundamental differences in the way our brains work which mean the two genders will never really understand each other. For example, women like to shop. Men like acquiring new things and we will throw ourselves wholeheartedly into the acquisition of cars, hi-fi systems or any other big-boy's toys, but shopping per se does not excite us. We will shop for day-to-day necessities, but we generally won't enjoy it. Women, on the other hand seem to enjoy the experience of shopping as much as, if not more than, actually acquiring new possessions. Perhaps its some sort of genetic predisposition towards mundane tasks because Nature was equipping them for the several millennia of indentured servitude that has been the history of womankind until recently, and its just going to take a few generations for their brains to adapt. Or maybe its cultural indoctrination during the formative years: The inevitable impact of an older generation's influence over the younger generation, flying in the face of the new role women have in our society. Whatever. I know this – I hate shopping and I'll never ever, not in a hundred years, understand how anyone can possibly enjoy time spent in Tesco's. So what am I doing with a Tesco's bag in one hand and a Thresher's bag in the other? Well you already know about the caffeine shortage. Steve loses all his superpowers without at least one cup of double strength Nescafe an hour. Then there's the washing powder. When a pretty girl commandeers your kitchen to cook you dinner, you put clean sheets on the bed, just in case. Such is the optimistic nature of Homo Erectus (Homo Sapiens males under the influence of libido, beer or both). And the telltale clinking? Well you can't have Italian food without vino, can you? Oh! I got some scented candles too, and Haagen Dazs for desert. There are few things in this world as romantic as sharing a tub of Haagen Dazs. It hurt to move, so instead of doing the sensible thing involving a long hot bath and stretching out on the settee, I spent a very painful afternoon getting the flat spick and span. Go figure. Its all part of the ritual. Women know that men left to there own devices have, at best, a minimalist approach to housework. They also know that the merest hint of a shag will cause a frenzy of dusting, polishing and hoovering. Trish, Steve's girlfriend, once confided to me that the cleanness of the flat the first time you see it is directly proportional to a bloke's level of desperation. With this in mind, my flat ended up not quite clean enough to manufacture silicon chips in, and just untidy enough to look lived in. I wasn't desperate, but Steve's comments this morning had got me thinking. It had been a long time. After I'd sorted the flat out, I figured I had an hour spare. I spent it all soaking in a hot bath. Radox never felt so good. Five minutes to towel off, thirty seconds to throw on a tee-shirt and a clean pair of jeans, and I was ready. Ordinarily I would make more of an effort, but I was never going to look smart with all those bruises and a three inch square surgical dressing plastered over one eye. In a week or so, when the stitches were out and I could get away with an eye patch, maybe. But not tonight. Between you and I, gentle reader, I was secretly looking forward to wearing an eye patch. I've always thought they were rather dashing in much the same way as duelling scars. My reverie was interrupted by the door bell and the butterflies in my stomach took flight like a tree full of starlings after a gunshot. Hey! Why was I nervous? What was the worst case scenario? We didn't get along and didn't see each other again. A few hours earlier, I was planning on that. I relaxed and went to answer the door. I took a quick peek through the peep hole. Wow! Shana had definitely made more of an effort than I had. I opened the door. "Hiya! Oh my god, your poor eye! Is it very sore?" "Hello. No, it looks worse than it is. Here, let me give you a hand with that." She was holding a very full carrier bag. I reached for it, momentarily forgetting the bruises on my ribs. They forcefully reminded me of their presence, making me wince. She noticed. "Its all right, its not heavy. Just lead the way to the kitchen." I stepped back, holding the door open. "First on your left. You can't miss it." I followed her as far as the kitchen door and we chatted while she unpacked her groceries. "So what have you been up to today? Relaxing, I hope." "Not really. I had breakfast with Steve. He told me you went to the cab office looking for me." "Steve's a sweetie." "Isn't he? Incidentally I was touched that you were so concerned about me. Thank you." Friday Night Alchemy "You're welcome." "Anyway, after breakfast I rang you but you know about that. Then I went shopping, bought some wine – its in the fridge – " On cue, she opened the fridge and found the wine. "Corkscrew?" "Second drawer down. Glasses in the cupboard above." "Go on. You went shopping and –" "Came back here and cleaned up a bit then spent an hour in a hot bath which pretty much covers my day up until ten minutes ago." "Well you're very naughty for not taking it easy. Wine." She handed me a glass, picked up her own and touched it to mine . "Cheers." Shana sipped the wine. "Hmm, good choice. Now, how about a guided tour?" "OK. This is the kitchen, dating from the early Hygena period, the ceramic tiles were added later, replacing the original magnolia emulsion after the great chip pan disaster of '95. If you would just like to follow me, through to the bathroom, the Grecian décor was added later but the white wear is all authentic 1980's Twyford. And moving on, here we have the master bedroom. The mirrored wardrobes date right back to the time the house was built and are among the finest examples you'll find anywhere. The guest room is just across the corridor but has no features of special interest." Shana opened, and peeped through, the door of the spare room, closing it again quickly. "I see what you mean." Well where do you think all the junk goes when blokes clean up their hovels? "And finally we come to the dining room, ball room, library and reception room or, as we like to call it, the lounge. The lounge has a neo-Scandinavian theme circa 1996. In other words, it was furnished by Ikea. This room also plays host to the current owner's collection of family portraits in the rogues' gallery. Working our way along them, first a pastel sketch simply titled Mother, notice that the subject is portrayed in her graduation robes. This portrait was done when the artist was still at school, commemorating his Mum's first degree. You'll notice she was a mature student. She was a mature mother too – forty three when I was born, just short of sixty at the time of the portrait. Next, a self portrait by the artist, executed in charcoal. Title ‘portrait of the artist with a young dog'. The puppy in the foreground is Steve's Staffordshire, Bruno, then only six months old. Next, a study of my father and paternal grandfather fishing. My father is the nearer of the two, with a handkerchief over his face, taking a nap. Finally, we come to the recent acquisitions. Three nudes, collectively entitled Community college oil painting course, class of '97. In closing let me thank you for visiting flat 3a. We hope you have enjoyed your tour. Our facilities are all at your disposal and if we can do anything to make your visit more enjoyable, please do not hesitate to mention it to your tour guide." Shana was smiling broadly, trying not to laugh. "I didn't know you were an artist." "I'm not. I just dabble. Anyway how would it have sounded? We've just met and two drinks into the evening I casually mention my hobby is painting young ladies with no clothes on? No. That's right up there with, ‘Would you like to come up and see my etchings?'." "I see your point. It would have come across as a bit corny. Still, having seen them, I think you're very talented. Now though, you'll have to show me where you keep your pots and pans. I've got cooking to do." We went back to the kitchen and I showed Shana where to find everything. She refilled our wine glasses, handed me mine and sent me packing. "Now go and sit down. I don't like people watching me when I'm cooking. You could put a record on though, I like music while I work. Go on! Out!" I went. The choice of background music is a highly skilled job. People in Hollywood get paid stupidly large sums to choose the background music for each scene in films. Take ‘Apocalypse Now' as a case in point. The soundtrack ranges from The Doors to Wagner and works brilliantly in every case. Would the helicopter assault scene have been anywhere near as good without Ride of the Valkyrie? No. It would have been just another gratuitously violent clip from a war film. So you see, choosing music is not something to be undertaken lightly, which was why I was agonising over my record collection. Nothing too upbeat or poppy. Upbeat music needs to be played loud and that would eliminate any opportunity to continue the conversation. Nothing too romantic. I was saving that for later, maybe. I settled on the Three Tenors. Shana was cooking Italian food, she was half Italian herself, so it seemed appropriate. "Three Tenors OK?", I called to the kitchen. "Great! Not too loud though. Keep it quiet enough that we can still talk." She was obviously on the same wavelength as me. I hit play. The intro boomed out at Steve's bleeding eardrum level for about 2 seconds, until I got to the volume control. "Loud enough?" "Fine.", said Shana coming through to the lounge carrying plates and cutlery to lay the table. "Its a good job I brought another bottle of wine with me. We've just about seen off the first one." She put the things down and started to lay the table. "Here, let me do that. You've got cooking to do and I'm famished." "OK. Dinner will be about twenty minutes. I'm just waiting for the oven to warm up for the garlic bread." She returned to the kitchen leaving me to lay the table. I'd planned for this. I got the Irish linen out of the sideboard, and the decent crockery. A couple of years ago I treated myself to two place settings worth of really nice Wedgwood china just for this sort of occasion. I've got matching silver cutlery too. When I'd finished, the table was fit for royalty. Irish linen, silver napkin rings, candle holders, and cutlery, Wedgwood plates and a Swarovski crystal bud vase with a single white rose in it. I told you I'd planned for this. I took a large plate and a serving dish through to the kitchen for Shana. She was grating parmesan. "Ah, I was just looking for a large plate. Thanks. Be a dear and take these through to the table please." I made a hasty withdrawal with a ramekin dish full of parmesan and the second bottle of wine. Memo to self. I must get some Waterford crystal wine glasses. Glassware misappropriated from various pubs looked out of place amid the finery of the dining table. The parmesan was transferred into some more Wedgwood and I was ready. No I wasn't! I needed something to light the candles. A frantic search of the sideboard drawers turned up half a book of matches from some bar I could never remember being in. Panic over. The toilet flushed. Shana called through a five minute warning. I lit the candles and toned down the main lights to a suitable ambient level. It was now just shy of 8 o'clock and there was still a touch of daylight left so I drew the curtains to shut out the greying evening. Nothing at all to do with making the atmosphere more cosy or intimate, honest. I could just imagine Steve's response to that – probably limited to a single word. Shana brought through the garlic bread and stopped dead in her tracks, appraising the scene and giving me a look that said she knew what I was up to. For a moment I thought maybe I'd overdone it, then she let me off the hook. "The candles smell nice. Shall we eat?" I took the garlic bread off her and she nipped back to the kitchen for the pasta. I held her chair, sat down opposite and poured us each another glass of wine while Shana was 'being Mother'. She handed me a plateful of pasta in exchange for the empty plate in front of me then provided herself with a rather smaller portion. "Help yourself to parmesan." Shana suggested as I tore a chunk off the end of the garlic ciabatta. I took her advice. I would have done so anyway; I love fresh parmesan. I lifted the first forkful to my mouth while Shana waited for me to hand down judgement on her culinary expertise. A convulsion: I reached for my napkin and my wine simultaneously, fanning my mouth the way I used to when playing cowboys and Indians as a kid. You know what I mean? That whooping noise we used to use as an Indian war cry? "Its Hot!" I exclaimed, rather louder than I'd wanted to. Shana looked concerned. "Good though." I took a second mouthful, blowing on it first this time. "No, not good, excellent. It certainly beats my macaroni cheese into a cocked hat. My compliments to the chef – and my thanks to her Gran for the recipe." I was impressed. Shana was smug. "You like it then?" Like actors, cooks like good reviews. "I love it Does your Gran want a toyboy by any chance?" Shana laughed. "No! But she'll be very flattered by your offer when I tell her. But why d'you want to be her toyboy? I'm the one who cooked it for you." "I can't be your toyboy. Firstly, I'm older than you are, secondly, an elderly lady wouldn't be as demanding as a sweet young thing. I couldn't cope with demanding in my frail condition. Thirdly – I can't think of a thirdly, but I'm digging myself into a deeper and deeper hole here aren't I?" She was trying to look cross while, at the same time trying not to laugh. "Yes. I'm twenty two years old, you are how old?" "Twenty three." "you're only a year older than me. And I'm not demanding – as long as I get my own way all the time." "Pax!" I called a truce. "Lets eat, before it gets cold." The serious business of eating was only occasionally interrupted as I thought of new compliments or superlatives to describe the ambrosia that had been prepared for me. Like I said, cooks like good reviews. By the time I'd finished eating, she was positively glowing with all the praise and adulation I had heaped upon her. "Well that was delicious. Thanks, but I couldn't eat another mouthful." Shana was trying to give me the rest of the pasta from the serving bowl. "I am replete, sated. There's Haagen Dazs in the freezer for desert, but I think that'll have to wait an hour or two. I will have more wine though, If there's any left." "Only the bottle I found in the fridge, and I used about a quarter of that in the sauce." Shana started to look apologetic again. Why do people do that? Apologise for things when they've done nothing wrong? "No problem. I'll rub the lamp." "You'll what?" Gods, but she looked cute when she was puzzled. "Watch and learn." I reached for the phone and pressed [Recall][2], then returned it to the cradle so I could use it hands free. It rang "Charlie's Cars." "Hi Steve." "Hello Mate! What's occurring? You still in one piece, more or less?" "More or less. Listen, I need a favour. You got any cars coming up this way in the next half hour?" "One in about ten minutes. Booking for nine o'clock. Nothing else available. Why? Where did you want to go?" "No where. Can you get the driver to roll by Thresher's and pick up a couple of bottles of white wine, then drop them in on his way past?" "You havin' a party? Why wasn't I invited?" "No. No party. Shana just came over to cook me dinner and we've run out of vino." "Shana's there now?" "Hi Steve!" She giggled. She wasn't really the giggly type but I think she was imagining the damage I was doing to her good name in this town. "Hello again Shana. Is Alun trying to get you drunk or something?" "I think so. Are you going to contribute to my ruin?" "Too bloody right I am! Two bottles of white wine was it mate? That all? Sweet or dry?" "Dry. And thanks Steve." "No worries mate. Ten minutes. Have fun." "Bye Steve!" "Bye Shana." The phone was purring again. I reached over and hung up. "See, Shana, I rub the lamp and the genie of the cab office grants my every wish." "I don't think it'll take two more bottles to get me drunk. I'm pretty tipsy already." "They're to get me drunk. You've got the dishes to do." She giggled again. The wine was definitely working. "Can't the genie do the dishes too?" "Steve? Do dishes? Not in this life. Tell you what. Ring him and suggest it. I know what he'll say." "What?" "That's women's work. Steve's got strong feelings about things like that. Even Trish, that's Steve's girlfriend, can't get him to do the dishes and she sleeps with him. You and I would have no chance." "I'd better get on with them then." She started clearing the table. I let her get as far as piling them in the sink to soak then placed a moratorium on domesticity. "Leave them Shana. I'll do them in the morning. Lets just relax and digest that marvellous meal." Back in the lounge, she wandered over to peruse my video collection. "You've got a lot of tapes. Any particular order?" "Top shelf is sci-fi. Second shelf is comedies. Third shelf is horror and gratuitous violence. Bottom shelf is classics and musicals." "You like Humphrey Bogart films don't you? The Maltese Falcon...Africa Queen...Casablanca. Casablanca! You know, I've never seen that. Everyone says its brilliant but I've never got round to watching it." "You've never seen Casablanca? The most romantic film ever? The cinematic equivalent of Romeo and Juliet? Girl, you haven't lived!" "We could watch it now. If you don't mind seeing it again?" "Sold." "You put the tape in then. I need the loo." She handed me the cassette as she passed, heading for the bathroom. Incapacitated though I was, I could not help but view Shana's suggestion with that optimism which is the natural state of the rutting male. The date movie is often a crucial factor in the success or otherwise of the mating ritual. It is important to strike the correct balance of emotional content. A date movie may have scary or startling moments although these work to best effect in the first half of the film where they make the perfect ice-breakers, giving the male the opportunity to assert dominance by holding the female's hand to reassure her or, in extreme cases, provide an arm to cling to. Secondly, the perfect date movie should offer a steady accumulation of sexual tension between the characters. This will stimulate the appropriate neuro-receptors to make the female more sexually receptive (it is unnecessary to stimulate the male in this fashion. He is always receptive to sexual signals). Paradoxically, gratuitous nudity does not stimulate receptivity as effectively as one might think. Males respond strongly to nude images but females are most likely to experience a negative response. By comparison, unresolved sexual tension on screen produces a more balanced response with both the male and the female empathising with their corresponding role models. Finally, the date movie should alternate tragedy and humour. This has a see-saw effect on the couple's emotional equilibrium, acting as a catalyst upon their desires while simultaneously suppressing cerebral thoughts. Casablanca achieves an almost perfect balance of these factors. Opening with moody tension against a backdrop of world conflict, sparking into momentary flurries of violence before the plot is clarified as the main characters struggle to suppress their feelings for one another, culminating in a tragi-comic final scene. In short, it's quite possibly the best date movie in the world, ever, and Shana had picked it out to watch. Hence, I was optimistic about my chances. "Earth to Alun!" My reverie was interrupted by Shana's return. "What? Sorry, I was miles away." "Interesting choice of reading material you've got in the bathroom." That put me off balance. What had I left lying around? "If you mean dirty books, they're Steve's. He stays in the spare room sometimes when he and Trish have been squabbling." "I meant this." She held up a slim hard-back. "Sonnets from the Portuguese? Not what I would have expected to find in a bachelor's bathroom." "No? Well I generally don't advertise my choice of books. doesn't go with the macho image. People get the wrong idea. That belongs in the spare room." I took the book off her and went to return it to its shelf. Shana followed me, her curiosity piqued. "Have you read all these?" Shana was referring to my first edition collection. A few dozen volumes of poetry and classic novels and rather more by contemporary authors, mainly signed copies. "Pretty much. They're bugger all use as ornaments so what else would I do with them?" "The only poems I've ever read were the ones I had to do for my GCSE in English. I've never really got into it; all thee this and thou that." "Its not all like that. The more contemporary stuff is much more accessible." "What's you favourite poem then?" "I could shortlist a hundred or so but don't expect me to narrow it down further than that. It all depends on what mood I'm in. I'll give you an example; something topical." I rummaged on the shelves until I put my hand on the book I was looking for. "This is a contemporary one, meaning the author's still alive." I cleared my throat and recited, I bowed my head and pressed My lips against her breast, Then, cupping one within each palm, I traced the lace of her bra with my thumb, Reading her emotions in Braille Through the thin fabric veil As her nipples, hardening with passion, Blushed to be touched in such a fashion. "That's topical is it?" There was mischief in her voice. "I had hoped it would be, in the not too distant future." I confessed and threw myself on the mercy of the court. It paid off. "Well we'll have to wait and see, won't we?" There was a wicked glint in her eye. She moved closer, raised her arms to my neck and kissed me. We'd been here before, twenty four hours earlier, but we'd been interrupted by her ex. This time, that wasn't going to happen, so I relaxed and let her drive. She broke for air, moving back a little and smiling. "What about this film then?" So that's how she wanted to play. Tease. "D'you want a refill first? Damn! No, we're out of wine, aren't we?" The last was a rhetorical question but the doorbell answered it all the same. "Not any more. I'll get it." Shana was quite into this fetching and carrying role, so who was I to argue? I contented myself with heading back to the lounge and eavesdropping from a distance on the conversation at the front door. "Evening Miss. Two bottles of wine. Compliments of Steve. He says to tell Alun to get well soon, there's a darts match on Thursday against the Rat and Parrot and he's a man short." "Thanks. Give Steve this for me." "'Night Miss." "Goodnight." I heard the door close and Shana pottering about in the kitchen. She came through to the lounge with an open wine bottle. "Already cold. Isn't Steve thoughtful? Oh, and he sent a message." "I heard. Darts on Thursday. What did you give the driver?" "Just a kiss to pass on to Steve for being a sweetie. Do you think he will? Pass it on, I mean?" "Not if he values his teeth, Steve's more cave man than new man. Come and sit down. You've done enough running around for one evening. Besides, the film's about to start." "It's a tape." "But I've got the remote, and I say it's about to start." "Bossy boots." Defiant though she sounded, she came over and sat down next to me, slipping off her shoes and swinging her feet up onto the settee. "Are you sitting comfortably? Then I'll begin." While the opening credits were rolling, I went for the classic 'arm along the back of the settee' gambit. It paid off. Shana took the hint & snuggled up close in response to my hand resting on her shoulder. We'd both forgotten about my bruised ribs right up to the point her elbow dug into them. I manfully resisted the urge to scream, flinch or do anything else to spoil the mood of the moment. She still noticed. "Sorry. I forgot." She started to straighten up. I kept my hand on her shoulder to discourage this. "'S ok. Just as long as you don't wriggle." I lied. There are times when discomfort just doesn't matter. This was one of them. Friday Night Alchemy We watched the tape, we worked our way through our fourth bottle of wine, my hand slipped down a bit and took a few liberties and, just as Ingrid Bergman was offering to stay with Humphrey Bogart if he'd give Paul Henreid the letters of transit so he could escape from Conrad Veidt, Shana fell asleep. I watched the rest of the film alone, Shana warm but basically lifeless against my shoulder. When the tape finished I had to disentangle myself from her before the TV started screaming at us. I was careful and she didn't wake, ending up lying almost foetal on the settee with her head pillowed on the arm rest. After turning everything off and battening down the hatches for the night I dug out a spare duvet and covered my sleeping house guest. "Goodnight sweet princess, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest." Ok, so I misquoted. Give a guy a break. As she didn't stir when I kissed her, I guess I'm not Prince Charming. I went to bed. What a long, strange day it had been. SUNDAY 07:00 HOURS Woken at this ungodly hour by my sadistically persistent body clock, I added a heart attack to my catalogue of ailments. The reason? Shana was cuddled up beside me. I'd left her on the settee, hadn't I? Yes. I definitely remembered that much. Don't panic, prioritise. Alka Seltzer first, answers second. I got up doubly carefully (I was sore. She was asleep.) and stumbled as far as the bathroom cupboard. Plink, plink, fizz, swallow and try to keep it down. The morning after ritual was duly completed. Now then, coffee and cogitation. Over a cup of strong, black coffee I thought things through. I didn't carry her into my bedroom and I'm bloody positive I didn't undress her. The thought had crossed my mind briefly, very briefly, but I hadn't acted upon it. Yet the fact remained, Shana was in my bed wearing my tee-shirt. It was possible she'd got up in the night to answer the call and just gone into my room by mistake on her way back from the bathroom, but what about the tee-shirt? Nobody accidentally gets out of a dress, a bra and a pair of tights. Ergo, she got herself there deliberately. So was it just that the settee was uncomfortable or was it unfinished business? The latter, I hoped. There's that masculine optimism again. I'd finished my coffee while working all this out and it wasn't that warm in the kitchen in just a pair of boxers so I went into the bedroom to get some clothes. While I was rummaging for a matching pair in my sock drawer, Shana woke. ."Morning. What time is it?" "Half seven. Sleep well?" "Mmm, 's too early. Come back to bed." I lay down next to her, on top of the duvet, figuring discretion to be the better part of valour. "No. In the bed. I want a cuddle." So much for discretion. I got into bed and did my best to keep my mind on cold showers as Shana flowed up against me like a cat. Virtual cold showers were no defence against real skin so I tried changing the subject. "Don't take this the wrong way Shana, but what are you doing here?" "I came over to cook you dinner. Remember? Oh you mean what am I doing here? Aren't I welcome? Shall I go back to the sofa?" "You can stay a little longer, since you're such a good cook." That was a mistake: she elbowed my ribs. "Bloody cheek!" I didn't answer. I was too busy doubled up in pain. "Oh God! I'm sorry. I forgot you were hurt. Sorry!" Turning over so she was facing me, she pulled the duvet back enough to be able to see my hand clutching the middle of about a square foot of bruises. She looked so concerned I thought she was going to cry but the flashing lights behind my eyes had faded and I could breathe again so I let her know I was ok. "At least now you're facing the right way to kiss me." Not exactly subtle but it did the trick. Shana gingerly leaned closer and kissed me. I took control, this time it was my turn to drive. The kiss became significantly less gentle and a whole lot more interesting. More twinges as we separated confirmed that while the spirit was willing, the body was weak. I was most definitely hors d'combat and, sacrilege though it is to utter such things, I really didn't want to take this further. Steve would probably disown me if, or rather when he found out I'd passed up the opportunity for a shag (if you'll forgive the vernacular) but I'm sure Shana wasn't feeling a hundred percent either. She looked very tired still, and more than a little hung over. No, I was resolved. As and when Shana and I did get around to sex, I wanted the occasion to be remembered for my performance rather than lack of it: I wanted the recollection of it to be raising blushes and blood pressure for decades to come. One injured participant and one hung-over had no chance of making that sort of impression, let alone making the earth move, the angels weep and the stars tremble in their courses. Shana seemed to have a similar grasp of the situation. At least, she lay her head on my shoulder, closed her eyes and mumbled something about wanting to go back to sleep. A wish apparently granted before she'd finished the sentence. It seemed like a good idea, so I closed my eyes too and shortly joined her in the Land of Nod. I woke again at half past nine. Shana was still there: I hadn't been dreaming. I could feel her breath on my shoulder and, as my eyes adjusted to the light level in the room, I watched the rhythmic rise and fall of the duvet and the faint throbbing of a pulse on her neck. Watching her like that, I was struck by just how attractive she was. I know men tend to exaggerate the aesthetic appeal of their conquests but Shana wasn't a conquest yet. She was never likely to make the cover of Cosmo, but I'd like to bet she'd turn heads in any of my favourite haunts. I was happily contemplating my good fortune when she woke up. "Is it time to get up yet?" She didn't sound too enthusiastic about the idea. "Only if you've got somewhere you've got to be. Its nearly ten." "Its too late to go to Mass then. I'll have to go this evening instead." "Mass?" It hadn't occurred to me that she was religious. "Yes. I go every week, St. Mary Magdalene's in New Cross. So?" She seemed a little defensive. Time to tread softly. "Nothing. It just took me by surprise that you're Catholic. You never mentioned it." I wasn't placating enough. "Just like you never mentioned your books." "Touché!" "People hear a girl's Catholic and they think of convent educated, shy girls with spectacles. I didn't go to a convent, I'm not shy and I don't wear glasses. If you really want to know, my brother's the parish priest. My whole family goes to Mass. Aunts, Uncles, everyone. Afterwards Mum, or one of my aunts, cooks dinner for us all. It's kind of a family tradition. The church is a social club as much as anything else." "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry. People in glass houses and all that. Pax?" "Only if we can kiss and make up." She pouted slightly. We only got about halfway through what had promised to be a magnificent thirty second snog when I burst out laughing, I just couldn't help it. "What?" Shana's expression was one of bemused puzzlement. As an expression, it was very becoming. Cute. "It just dawned on me. You go to confession, yes?" "Yes" Shana was still puzzled. I elaborated. "I've just never been part of somebody's confession before. I'll have to see if I can't lead you astray some more, so you'll have something really sleazy to confess." "Is that what you were doing when I woke up? Planning my ruin?" She was taunting me. "Not your ruin, just your conquest. You know, typical male fantasies: flaunting you in front of my friends to make them jealous, tearing your little black lace panties off with my teeth. Nothing very ruinous." "And how did you know I was wearing black knickers? Have you been peeking while I was asleep?" I knew she wasn't cross but her tone of voice was such, if she'd been standing up, she'd have had her fists on her hips. "No, I haven't been peeking." Did I sound too defensive? "I picked your clothes up off the floor earlier. Nobody wears a black lace bra like that without matching panties. Elementary, as Holmes would say to Watson." "I see. Are you sure you didn't peek? Just to check your deductions, Sherlock?" She was persistent. "I'm sure. I didn't peek. I promise." "I did. When I got into bed." She looked triumphant. "I'm shocked. I feel violated now." I tried to look offended. It didn't work. "A girl likes to know what she's letting herself in for." That was it, I couldn't keep a straight face any longer. Laughing hurt and I ended up gasping for breath. "So? Did I measure up to your expectations?" She didn't answer; she just kissed me again. This time I didn't laugh. "I'll take that as a yes, shall I?" I was smug. "Yes. Yes, my vain man, you measure up. OK?" "Good. I'd hate to disappoint you before I've had my wicked way with you. Breakfast?" "What's on the menu?" "Croissants, coffee, orange juice, or we can go down to Sal's café for bacon and eggs." "Croissants sound good. Got any marmalade?" "I think so. Croissants'll be about twenty minutes. There's plenty of hot water if you want a shower while they're cooking." As I got out of bed I couldn't help but notice that the tee-shirt she was wearing had ridden up a bit. I had been right: black lace. From the kitchen, I could hear Shana moving around until the white noise of the shower drowned out other background sounds. While she was in there, I found a blue silk kimono I'd bought for Rosy, my ex, and that she'd left behind when we split up. I left it out for Shana, noting in passing that she'd made the bed. Very domesticated. Back in the kitchen I got on with making coffee, real coffee this time, not instant battery acid. The shower went silent, "Allen?" Her voice was muffled somewhat by the intervening door. "Yeah?" "Have you got a big towel anywhere?" "Just a second. They're in the linen cupboard." I fetched two towels, an enormous bath towel you could wrap a sumo wrestler in and a small hand towel. The bathroom door opened a few inches in response to my knock and a wet arm reached out, groping for the proffered towel. I handed her the smaller of the two. "Very funny. This isn't even big enough to dry my hair with." She reached out again. This time her hand found the proper towel. "That's more like it. Thanks." The door closed again. "No problem. Breakfast in five." "Ok" Her voice was even more muffled. I surmised she was drying her hair. A blur of white and pink passed the kitchen door as Shana disappeared into the bedroom. As I took the croissants out of the oven, she appeared in the kitchen doorway in the kimono. I paused to admire the vision in blue before me. She struck a classic pose, one arm stretched languidly up the door frame, weight on one leg, the other leg angled slightly. I just stared in silence. "Well? I'm waiting for a compliment." "It suits you. Orange juice?" Never flatter a woman whose fishing for compliments. "You silver tongued devil. Yes please. Just half a glass." I half filled the second glass and gave her a quick tour of the worktop. "Croissants - careful, they're hot - coffee, UHT cream, skimmed milk in the fridge, butter, marmalade, half a jar of Nutella, Dutch toast, sorry I've got no cereals. Help yourself." Perched on barstools, at the stretch of worktop that passed for my breakfast bar, we munched our way through half a dozen croissants, spreading crumbs liberally everywhere and gossiping between mouthfuls. It was the first real conversation we'd had sober. "Whose kimono is this anyway?" her tone was casual but any fool would recognise it was a loaded question. She waited for the answer. I opted for plan B: Tell the truth. "I bought it for Rosy, for her birthday. She deliberately left it behind when she moved out. It covered rather more of her though, she was about six inches shorter than you" I was referring to the amount of leg Shana was not hiding, and not just to change the subject: Shana had lovely legs and I suspected she was vain about them. I was right. "It is a bit short isn't it? Its very lovely though. You have good taste." "I know. Why d'you think I chatted you up?" Too clichéd? "Why, thank you kindly, Sir. Such flattery could fair turn a simple country girl's head." "Shana, can I ask you a question?" "Shoot." "I know you probably told me this on Friday, but I can't remember the answer. What do you do for a living?" "I work at La Perla in Bond Street." "La Perla?" I drew a blank on that one. "Its an lingerie shop. Pretty exclusive stuff." "In Bond Street, I wouldn't have expected Ann Summers. So are you one of those girls they get to model g-strings so rich executives can see what they'll look like on there wives and mistresses?" Please God, let her be a model. "No way! Actually, I'm an assistant manager, nothing glamorous. You've got a one track mind this morning. I think you must be feeling better." She was right, I was. "What about you? What do you do? I did ask on Friday but I just got some bull shit about you being the managing director of a consultancy firm. What do you really do?" "It wasn't bull shit. I really am the M.D. I also own the company. OK The truth. I'm a freelance computer consultant. I own a limited company that I'm the only employee of. I'm the managing director because I'm the only director and the only share holder. Steve's my company secretary which means he gets paid about £50 a year for a couple of signatures, and attending board meetings at the Apples and Pears. Simple really." "So what do people consult you about?" "Well if a company needs a few extra people for a short term project, they hire people like me to make up the numbers. Its sort of like getting a temp in when a secretary's on holiday, ‘cept I usually get offered work three to six months at a time." "So you don't have a full time job then?" "In the last three years I've had four different contracts, two of six months and two of twelve months. I take about two weeks a year off as holiday. I'd say it's a full time job." I was more abrupt with her than I'd intended. I regretted it immediately. "Hey, calm down. I only asked a question. I wasn't putting you down or anything." She sounded quite hurt. Damage control was called for. "I'm sorry, I'm not normally so sensitive about it but I've had so much stick off my mother about not having any job security, nor promotion prospects. Well, I guess you just pushed the wrong buttons. Forgive me?" "Silly boy! Of course I'll forgive you. But have we just had our first row?" "Not really a row, just me being touchy." "Lets see. We've met, I've cooked you dinner, you've got me drunk, we've slept together and now we've had our first row, well sort of. Isn't this the point where we're supposed to kiss and make up again?" "So if we just had a row, I get kissed, but if it was just me being touchy, I don't? In that case it was definitely a row. Now come here." I've had quite a few different tasting kisses over the years but this was a first. Marmalade and Nutella flavoured. If the opportunity presents itself, I can recommend it. Delicious. "I really should be going, Allen. My family will be expecting me for lunch." "Alun." "Pardon?" "Its Alun, not Allen. Its spelt A L U N but the U's pronounced as an ‘I'. Its Welsh." "Alun?" She tried it out. "Spot on. Now what were you saying about going?" "I've got to. I'll be expected. I've just got time to do the dishes then go home and change." "Don't bother with the dishes, I'll do them. You go and get dressed and I'll call you a cab." I reluctantly let go of her. "I don't need a taxi. I've got a travel card. The fifty three bus will take me all the way home. But thanks for the offer." She gave me a quick peck and went to get her clothes on. I busied myself with the washing up. I'd finished washing up and was just starting in on the drying when she came back into the kitchen, dressed and ready to go. An idea struck me. "Ready then? Give me one minute to throw some clothes on and I'll walk you to the bus stop." I figured if I couldn't call her a cab, it was the least I could do. "Ok then, but you really don't have to. I know the way and you still need to rest and let those bruises heal." "But I'd like to. The fresh air will do me good and I can pop over to Steve's after I've seen you off. He'll be wondering how I'm doing." "Wondering how you're doing, or wondering how you did last night? Oh all right then, come on. You can walk me to my bus then go and tell your friend all about last night." "What makes you think I'd be that indiscreet?" I tried to look innocent and wounded but Shana had seen enough of the world to know what blokes are like. "Of course you'll tell him, he's your best friend. Its OK. I don't mind. He'll probably assume I stayed the night anyway." "he won't assume it, he'll know it. After delivering the wine he'll know you weren't driving so if you'd left last night, I'd have called him for a car for you. He didn't get a call so you must have stayed over." "So my reputation's already ruined? C'est la vie." I threw on my jeans, my trainers, the tee-shirt Shana had recently vacated and my duvet jacket and we were set to go. On the way to the bus stop, Shana reached for my hand, holding it gently as we strolled along the Old Kent Road. We had to wait a few minutes for her bus but there was no one else at the stop so we occupied ourselves by cuddling on those bloody stupid flip up benches that pass for seats, no mean feat. "Can we have dinner together one night this week? My treat." I was wondering when (not whether) I'd see her again. "I can't. Its going to be a very hectic week and I've got a couple of evening functions to attend for work." "Oh." I must have looked as crest-fallen as I felt. "Alun, its not a brush off, I really am going to be hugely busy. I'll see you next week-end though. Friday night. We'll have dinner, a few drinks, go dancing. Who knows you may even get lucky, if you're a very good boy." Just then her bus arrived. We had one final kiss and she got on the bus. "I'll ring you this evening. To make sure you're all right. Give my love to Steve." And she was gone. When the diesel fumes had cleared, I could still smell her fragrance. It was the tee-shirt Well there are worse things to smell on the streets of South East London. I walked to Steve's via McDonalds for another cup of coffee. I needed the caffeine. As I walked, I thought over recent events, especially those involving Shana. She had presence, even when she wasn't around. Thoughts of her expanded to fill any idle moments when I wasn't concentrating on something specific. From experience I knew this daydreaming would wear off in due course. Still, for now I fully intended to revel in it. There was no doubt we were compatible. The amount of time we'd spent manufacturing opportunities to kiss and cuddle, or just to be close enough to touch each other, proved that and although we hadn't slept together in the biblical sense, it seemed likely we would just as soon as I was fit enough. She was a tease, certainly, but she had a way about her that said she kept her promises. Well that was something to look forward to at least. Shana's job did present a bit of a problem. Lingerie was a traditional gift between lovers, generally on occasions when we want to give something that'll last. Lingerie neatly fills the gap between flowers and jewellery. Cuddly toys are sometimes appropriate as a substitute but Shana didn't strike me as a cuddly toy sort of girl. So what was my problem with buying her lingerie? Coals to Newcastle. It would be like sending flowers to a florist. No, I had to come up with something original.