Flesh and Wood - a new novel by Roger Frederick

four

Later that afternoon, Jemma’s mum and Peter picked her up in the Rover and drove her back to their place to look at the bookings on the computer. Jemma could still only type slowly with her left hand and one finger on her right hand. So, it would have been easier for her mum to check any last minute messages from customers. But it was a routine they had got into each Friday; a way of giving Jemma something to do.

To save on travelling, Jemma could have had internet access put into the chalet and connected up the laptop there. But she didn’t want a computer around all the time. It would be like a concert pianist with broken fingers keeping a Steinway in her house. Besides, it was good to have an excuse to get out of the chalet.

Jemma settled herself at the laptop in the cluttered study with its well-thumbed guides to Cymllynion, trays of duplicate booking forms, and piles of brochures for tourist attractions - the wool centre, Glanffwrd adventure farm, the climbing centre, Cymllynion castle, the pottery and the chocolate museum,

“Any luck solving the mystery of the hand?” asked Peter as he brought in her customary cup of tea and a slice of home-made carrot cake.

“I was just going to have a quick look on Google,” she said.

“Well don’t be too long,” he said. He still hadn’t grasped the fact that broadband was permanently on and he wouldn’t be charged extra if she stayed online a few more minutes.

“OK,” nodded Jemma, not having the energy to explain it all to him again. “I’ll be as quick as I can.”

Jemma started with a picture search for ‘wooden hand’ and was greeted by a screen full of them. She felt like Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion, that creepy black and white sixties film where the heroine descends into madness and hands come out of the wall to grab her. She’d come across the film while researching hallucinations a few months earlier. And as she gazed at that horde of eerie fingers she identified with the heroine more than ever.

Confident that the mystery was about to be solved, Jemma eagerly flicked through the images, but it turned out none of the hands were quite right.

There were wooden hands that jewellers used to display rings and bangles, and fair trade wooden hands from Africa. Some were merely ornamental. Some were cupped together to form bowls of a sort and letter racks. There were even hands to hold mobile phones (a bit late for that now, Jemma thought to herself with grim humour).

She clicked through more pages and found images of jointed mannequin hands that artists could position to practice drawing, and antique orthopedic hands issued to men mutilated while working on the Great Western Railway. However, none of them were anywhere near as lifelike as the hand she had found on the beach.

Jemma sighed and Googled images of Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion. She couldn’t find the still of the scene with the hands in the walls, just a lot of sixties film posters and a psychedelic magazine cover in which the actress’s head had been replaced by a tangled ball of multicoloured snakes.

“I know how you feel,” sighed Jemma. She shut down Windows and left the laptop with the lid half-closed to keep dust off the screen.

Saturday morning. A brighter day. The freshly glued hand lay on the sideboard in the lounge. The sideboard was solid oak, worth a bit probably. But, like everything else in the chalet, it was built to the taste of someone twenty years Jemma’s senior. Some days, it felt like she was living in a museum. Yes, It was a home (and she was grateful for that) but it was decidedly not her home.

Jemma set her mug down on the large lace cloth her mum insisted on draping over the top of the sideboard. The cloth was patterned with overlapping brown stains like the logo for some tea drinkers olympics. She would have to wash it soon, or cover the stains with Heat magazine next time her mum called round.

She picked up the wooden hand, and cautiously tested the strength of the glued finger. It seemed OK. She took another sip of tea and picked at a snotty lump of dried glue around the join.

“There,” said Jemma. “Good as new,” and set the hand down gently on its side. She’d decided not to place it in the window after all. But couldn’t think of a better place. It would get wet in the bathroom, sticky in the kitchen and would seem a little freaky in the bedroom, like some archaic love aid from a Victorian asylum.

These days without the routine of nine to five work, and with her afternoon naps, Jemma often woke in the night. Unable to make her leg comfortable and return to sleep, she would prop herself up on the pillows and surf through late night TV. One night, she’d happened upon a pseudo documentary about the history of vibrators. It was one of those tacky shows she knew she shouldn’t watch for more than a few seconds, but found herself viewing to the end.

Apparently, in the 19th Century wooden dildos were prescribed by doctors to female psychiatric patients as a cure for nervous disorders. Initially, the doctors would apply the massage manually. But presumably suffering from the Victorian equivalent of repetitive strain injury, some whizz had invented an automated version. The ‘patented orgasm machine’ (as the presenter termed it) consisted of a large wheel with a cranking handle, a chair with no seat and a wooden probe, which was a cross between a broom handle and a darning mushroom.

The machine was housed in a Dutch sex museum (where else), and the uniformed attendant solemnly turned the crank, causing the wooden dildo to move violently back and forth.

“Of coursh zee doctor would shtart quite shlowly and then, as zee pashent becomes more lubricated and approaches her climax, he can increash zee shpeed like zish.”

The presenter collapsed in mirth, slapping his hands on his thighs, as the ‘broom handle’ became a thrusting blur. He grimaced to camera, as if in intense pain. “Thank God for Duracell double As, hey ladies?”

Jemma had blushed slightly at that. She’d never admit it to anyone, but as a teenager she had experimented with the handle of her hairbrush (in both holes). She’d even once tried a courgette for size.

It was a sticky July afternoon. Her mum and her sister were out. And Jemma was bored. Most of her class mates claimed to have already had full sex. And she wondered what it would feel like to be penetrated by something that size. She took a courgette from the fridge, then went upstairs to her room, slipped off her knickers and lay down on the bed.

The courgette was much thicker than her hair brush and she had to hold herself apart to manoeuvre it into the right position. She pushed it tentatively against her opening, but it didn’t seem to be going anywhere. She was about to abandon the experiment when she spied a bottle of baby oil on the bedside cabinet. She’d used most of it for shaving her legs with one of her dad’s old razors, discarded in the bathroom cabinet when he’d left. She drizzled the remains of oil along the length of the courgette and re-inserted it. She tried a couple of tentative thrusts, not expecting anything to happen, and without warning it slipped deep inside her.

The green shaft felt cold and alien and Jemma was filled with shame that she had just surrendered her virginity to a root vegetable. But, out of curiosity (and with nothing to lose) Jemma had continued to slide it back and forth. As she became damper and the courgette started to warm up, she felt a tingling in her entrance. Her lips swelled, and as she wetted her fingers and started to rub herself, that sensitive part of her felt fuller and more receptive than ever before. She moved her fingers quicker. And, all at once, she felt like she’d been punched in the belly.

For a moment she thought she’d burst her bladder and peed herself, as the juices flooded out of her with wave after wave of uncontrollable spams. Her inner walls tightened so hard against the courgette she panicked that it would be stuck up there forever. But as her sudden orgasm subsided, the turgid stem simply slipped out with a rasping fart.

She washed her hands, straightened her duvet and slipped her knickers back on. Then, racked with guilt, she hurried downstairs to chuck the courgette away.

Just as Jemma was about to open the low cupboard that housed the pedal bin, her mum and sister clattered through the kitchen door. All Jemma could think of was to rinse the courgette under the sink, turning away from her mum and her sister so that wouldn’t see her flushed face.

Jemma hoped they would go through to the hallway, but her mum remained in the kitchen and started to rummage in the fridge. Jemma quickly re-opened the bin cupboard. But before she could dispose of the offending vegetable, her mum turned around.

“What are you doing with that?” she asked.

“It looked rotten,” said Jemma.

Her mum took the courgette from her and inspected it. “Why’s it all wet?”

“I was washing the mud off it,” she blushed, imagining her mum must know exactly what she’d been up to.

Her mum laid the courgette on the draining board. “It’s fine,” she said. “We can’t afford to throw perfectly good food away, just because it’s got a couple of dents in it.”

“No, mum - sorry.” Face blazing, Jemma peered down at the lino.

“Are you OK?” her mum asked. “You don’t look too well.”

“I’m feeling a bit sick,” said Jemma.

She went back up to her room.

Jemma was glad to have a ready excuse not to eat the home-made ratatouille that her mum prepared for their supper that night.

“You should try this,” said her sister. “It’s really nice.”

Jemma couldn’t stop staring at her sister’s fork as it went from plate to mouth.

“I’ll save you some for later,” said her mum. “You’ve got to keep your strength up.”

Despite Jemma’s protestations, her mum insisted in leaving a portion of the mixed vegetables in a bowl in the fridge for her. At around nine, she brought it up to the bedroom on a tray with a cup of tea.

“You must freshen up in the morning,” her mum said. “It smells like a fishmongers in here.”

Luckily, before Jemma was forced to try so much as a mouthful of the meal, the phone rang. Her mum left the room and Jemma was finally able to creep downstairs and scrape the ratatouilled remains of her guilt into the bin. After that she relied on her fingers and boys for further experimentation.

Years later, between men friends, Jemma did actually purchase a vibrator she’d seen advertised at the back of one of the Sunday paper lifestyle magazines (it was a respectable broadsheet, which somehow made the purchase seem less sordid).

The vibrator (a best seller) was bright red with a rotating prong for clitoral stimulation. As she’d unwrapped the packaging, she’d felt flurries of butterflies from her tummy to her womb. But when she’d actually held the nine inches of rubber and plastic in her hand it left her cold. She had tentatively tried the vibrator, just the once (OK, twice). But whatever she was missing (a sweaty male body pressing against her breasts, that engorged spear of flesh expertly spreading her open) the three-speed appendage was no replacement for it.

She’d finished herself off by hand, then buried the vile thing in her knicker drawer (before putting it out with the rubbish - sellotaped into a Weetabix box inside two knotted Waitrose carriers).

The wooden hand, however, had definitely not been designed for any sexual purpose. The fingers were in the wrong position. And why would anyone go into so much detail for a little titillation? Not even an obsessive Victorian physician with time to burn and a penchant for perversion would bother to create such a lifelike replica.

She picked the hand up again. Each crease and flap of skin had been studiously recreated. The palm was crisscrossed with lines and the finger tips were patterned with intricate wooden whorls? What would happen if the hand were fingerprinted and the results fed into some National Crime Squad super computer? Would the pattern match that of a missing girl, a decades old murder victim? Had it been carved with the murder weapon, the blood-stained chisel that had routed the poor girl’s heart?

Jemma shuddered, and put the hand down.

After breakfast, Jemma headed for the harbour. The high cloud promised a pleasant day, and the village had sprung briefly back to life. A few elderly day visitors were already strolling along the Parade. And the harbour car park, which had been all but deserted during the week, was beginning to slowly fill with sensible estates and caravanettes.

She could see Bob the harbour master. He was helping the driver of an X-Trail back a rib on a trailer down the slipway. The tide was on its way out and Bob was stood in green waders by the sluice gate wall. Almost up to his knees in oily mud, he was screaming at the driver who, in his haste, kept on steering his twin Yamaha outboards towards the hull of an expensive looking yacht. It would not be a good moment to ask Bob about the hand, she reflected. Besides she hadn’t even brought it with her.

In fact, Jemma had decided she’d had quite enough of the stupid thing. She was starting to become obsessed with it - as if by constantly handling the hand she was somehow absorbing the madness of the crazed carver who (for reasons unknown) had created it. The hand was now shut away with the puzzles and table mats at the back of the sideboard cupboard. And she was off to enjoy some fresh air and forget all about it (or so she thought).

Jemma treated herself to a Twix ice cream bar from the nameless newsagents, and paused to eat it by the Dolphin’s beer garden - a collection of benches and tables on a stretch of decking like a mini pier.

As Jemma perched on a weathered groyne, she watched people walk and dogs run across the damp sand. A boy hammered a ball against the harbour wall, scattering gulls as he chased it back and forth. His dad stood in a chalked goal feigning interest as he browsed a red-top soccer supplement.

In the distance, a runner appeared - a guy of around 40 who often passed her on the beach on a Saturday lunchtime. She recognised him by his bright red shorts and his mop of bleached hair. He still had a deep tan and looked younger from a distance (quite dishy in a dishevelled kind of way). But as he grew closer she could see wrinkles in his neck and flecks of grey in his hair where it was cropped short around the ears. His legs, though pleasantly powerful, were heading the way of Peter’s. She had time to notice these things now.

As always, the runner smiled and nodded and lifted his hand in a small self-conscious wave without quite making eye contact. Jemma guessed that he didn’t want to ignore her, but didn’t want to seem patronising (having regularly seen her struggling across the sand with her stick). He looked like the kind of guy who worried too much about everything.

Jemma liked to imagine the lives of people she saw on the beach. She’d take a couple of mental snapshots and from them build their lives in her mind, like some fanciful archaeologist recreating a complete Roman mosaic from a handful of scattered fragments. She imagined the grey-blonde runner drove an old BMW diesel, wore hand knitted jumpers and installed wood fired boilers, like the one in her mum and Peter’s double cottage. He probably had a lurcher called Frank (rescued from a caravan) that he’d take for walks on the cliffs. He was married with a son, an only child who was good at drawing, and though not disliked, didn’t always get invited to his classmates’ parties.

There was something both purposeful and lonely about his running. Jemma guessed the man and his wife made love no more than twice a month. She finished her Twix ice cream and walked towards the quiet end of the beach, known locally as the glade, where the woods ran wild and all but touched the sand.

She descended a natural stairway of roots and earth, and sat on rocks beneath the witches Elm, whose knotty face you could supposedly make out midway up the gnarled trunk. Jemma couldn’t see anything resembling a face, but she had to concede the trees were quite spooky - their twisted, black branches clawing at the sky like they had crept there from the dark side of an enchanted wood.

She watched the waves and the shadows of the trees on the rocks. The wind scattered yellow leaves across the sand and into rock pools. Out to sea, a canoeist paddled serenely across the bay, pausing occasionally to bob across a particularly choppy wave. In the distance a dog barked. Leaves rustled.

The sun emerged between the clouds, and Jemma shut her eyes and let the warmth bathe her face. She licked a fragment of Twix from behind a chipped premolar and swilled the taste of chocolate and caramel around her mouth before swallowing. She imagined she was in a seventies Bounty Hunters advert, sat beneath coconut palms on a Caribbean beach.

A dull thump and the sound of startled gulls jolted Jemma from her daydream. She opened her eyes and noticed something on the sand no more than ten yards in front of her. At first she thought it was a large brown leaf curled over on itself, but it seemed more solid than that. She presumed it must be the remains of a spider crab the squabbling gulls had dropped. She got to her feet, and poked at the object with her stick.

Her head began to spin and her heart pumped wildly. For a moment she thought she was going to pass out on the sand. She breathed in deeply a dozen times before shakily bending down to examine more closely the object by her feet. It was a wooden heart.

The sudden appearance of a standard wooden heart of the Valentine / I Love NY variety would have been spooky enough, but this heart, like the hand she’d found the previous day, was anatomically precise. It was carved in mid-beat, its polished surface curved like a flexed bicep - every chamber, vein and artery painstakingly captured in the minutest detail.

Momentarily, Jemma thought about trying her mental journey technique to test if she were hallucinating. But decided not to bother. This time she knew straight away that the heart was as real as the sand on which it lay.

She knelt down to pick it up from the sand, first prodding it cautiously as if it were a live crab or an unexploded grenade. A wave of nausea swept through her guts as she scooped up the heart. It felt warm - not an animal warmth, more like a park bench in the sun. She scraped off the sand. The dark wood was quite dry and she was adamant it hadn’t been lying on the beach before she’d closed her eyes.

She looked around half-expecting to see some wild-haired madman looming over her with a chisel, but the glade was deserted. As she surveyed the trees, pythons melted out of the branches then set to solid wood again. For a moment, she thought she saw a glimpse of blue anorak moving between the trunks. But she was probably just imaging it (or else it was some blameless hiker walking the coast path).

She took a deep breath and returned her attention to the heart. Every vein, every artery seemed to pulse with life, as if ripped from someone in suspended animation, some poor princess turned to wood by the wicked witch who lived in the elm.

Like her mother, Jemma was a pragmatist and a sceptic (about the only two traits - aside from a large chest - that they had in common). She’d never believed in all that ‘made-up fairy guff’ (her mother’s stock term for everything from homeopathy to reincarnation). But Jemma was beginning to think the myth of the witch in the elm who turned naughty children to wood might be true.

Maybe all those fairy tales were actually historical accounts of a magical ancestry concreted over by factories and roads, and buried beneath the earth by ploughs and tractors. Maybe the magic had disappeared like wild flowers and their mutually dependent pollinators - driven to extinction by modernity. Maybe the seeds of old magic lay dormant in the wood, buried in the mossy crevices of its thousand-year-old trees - the oaks, the limes, the witch’s elm.

There had to be a logical explanation for the heart and the hand. They were obviously scuplted by the same woodworker-cum-fanatical-anatomist. They shared the same detailed finesse, both technical and senusal, graceful and gross. If she’d found them both together at the same time, it would have been relatively easy to conjure up some rational explanation for how they’d got to be there (Peter would, anyway). But the Glade was half-a-mile away from where she’d found the hand on the beach over a day earlier. The tide had been in and out at least twice since then. Both objects had seemingly appeared out of nowhere on the damp sand, yet both were bone dry when she’d picked them up.

It seemed silly, but Jemma felt as if the wooden body parts had been placed there specifically for her.

Over the years, Jemma had read books and attended seminars on the psychology of selling. Most of it was common sense dressed up in bloated marketing jargon presented by pompous ex-sales directors with orange tans and red braces. However, she’d actually found some aspects of behavioural psychology fascinating (particularly the way supposed free will was so much weaker than instinctive responses and social conditioning).

She’d tried a few mind games on customers and they invariably worked. In the right circumstances, the customers couldn’t help but buy. But then few people could (unless they recognised and could deliberately bypass those knee-jerk social reflexes).

Jemma had even gone to Westing Central Library one lunchtime and taken out a couple of text books on human behaviour. So she was aware that when a bizarre or unexpected coincidence occurred (due to a chance overlapping of disconnected events) people would invariably concoct some paranormal explanation.

Having suffered a severe head trauma, Jemma knew that she was more likely than most to mis-interpret such coincidences. But allowing for all that, what were the chances of one person finding two anatomically correct wooden carvings at different times and places within a day of each other? It seemed beyond the bounds of pure chance.

When Jemma was younger, before her dad had left, the family had a cat called Super Furry 2. He was a fluffy tabby who’d replaced Super Furry, who’d been flattened by a car pulling out suddenly from behind a bus. Super Furry was a replacement for an even earlier moggy, Furry-fluff, who’d died age 11 from some feline cancer. Furry-fluff was the half-sister of Smoothie, a very cool black cat who’d been acquired on Jemma’s six birthday from the Westing Cat Rescue, and simply sauntered off one Tuesday afternoon never to be seen again.

Super Furry 2 - the last of the dynasty - was always her favourite. He used to sleep on Jemma’s bed every night, and wake her by purring and dribbling on her face and suckling on her ears. Even when fully grown he was like a kitten - climbing the curtains and hunting lost clothes pegs beneath the sofa. Paw-by-paw he’d propel himself on his back across the maple effect laminate - like some furry mechanic beneath a padded van - and emerge peg in mouth, growling, his back all dusty with fluff.

Before his own untimely demise, Super Furry 2 had been a prolific dawn hunter. Each day, having disembowelled a vole or rat, he would insist on leaving a ‘gift’ outside Jemma’s bedroom door. Most mornings, Jemma remembered to pause before stepping outside her bedroom. But, occasionally, during her reckless late teens, she’d wake late with a hangover and, with her head on spin cycle, would squish a rat’s liver between her toes (making her even less inclined to indulge in a Full English).

Those teenage years - an uncomfortable blur of pets, boys, exams and alcopops - seemed a lifetime away now. But the wooden hand and the heart she’d found on the beach reminded her uncannily of her cat’s visceral gifts. She felt the same sickly dizziness she had when treading on rat innards, and the blood drained from her face as it had on those listless, headachy post-party mornings.

Jemma wasn’t brain injured enough to believe her dead cat might be sending her wooden replicas from beyond the grave (for one thing, how would it hold a chisel in its paws?). But Jemma was now more determined than ever to solve the riddle.

She looked around to check again that no wooden imp, witch or sinister walker were about to creep up on her, then put the wooden heart in the pocket of her gilet (the same one the hand had occupied the previous day) and headed over towards the harbour. This meant she would have to brave a flight of concrete steps with a broken hand rail, but she would be safely on open sand until she reached the jetty wall and would then be surrounded by day trippers and anglers.

Head still spinning from her rapid walk from the Glade, Jemma made her way to the Parade where she saw Peter’s Rover 75 parked behind a Peugeot Sports Coupe on the pavement by Lavender Spray. The door of the holiday cottage was ajar, and she rested against the gate to gather her breath. Her cream top was soaked with sweat beneath the gilet, and in the shade and the breeze the damp cotton clung clammy and cold against her heaving ribs.

There was a sound of chatting from inside the cottage. Two men emerged at the front door. Both were quite thin and clean shaven. One of the men - the bulkier of the two - looked to be in his mid forties but wore a tight fitting pale blue T-shirt. The other man looked a few years younger and wore a cashmere Pringle jumper over a preppy shirt.

Jemma guessed they were the ‘newlyweds’. They looked slightly startled to see her leaning on the gate. She imagined she must look a fright - all flushed and windswept. She was about to introduce herself when Peter appeared.

“My God, are you all right?” he asked. “You look as white as a sheet.”

“I’m fine,” said Jemma, but felt herself swaying backwards slightly. Suddenly she was looking up at clouds, leaves and windows. As her thoughts fragmented, she felt an arm grab each side of her. Her head like a balloon on a string, she was helped into the hallway and then on into the coolness of the lounge where the men settled her on the sofa.

“Should I fetch a glass of water?” asked the boyish one in the Pringle.

“Don’t dither about,” snapped his friend, a slight paunch straining against his skinny fit T-shirt. He waved a hairy tanned hand with a flamboyant shooing motion. “Just hurry and get one.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Jemma. “I just suddenly came over all dizzy.”

“Don’t worry dear,” said the man in the T-shirt. “You’re not the only dizzy head round here.” He nodded towards his friend who rushed back into the room with a rapid camp walk, like a penguin with an upset tummy. “Come on Martin. Just hand the poor girl the glass.”

“Sorry Steve,” said the younger man as he passed the drink to Jemma.

“I do apologise,” said Peter gruffly. “This is my stepdaughter. She had a bad road accident. She gets these dizzy spells.”

The flurry of information caused the two men to pull a quick succession of faces showing shock, pity and fascination, while Jemma sipped at the glass.

“Oh no need to apologise,” said Steve. “Poor love.” He looked at her with ever greater pity. “Ahhh.”

Jemma felt as if she were back in the rehab ward - various relatives perched on her bed, backs turned discussing her as if she were still in a coma. But she didn’t have the energy to make any sarcy comment (Hellooo! I’m over here!). She was just grateful to feel the dizziness ease as she gulped the cool water.

By way of a visual explanation for her near-faint, Jemma fumbled to retrieve the wooden heart from her pocket. She dropped it on the carpet, where it rolled towards Steve, who practically jumped out of his skinny-fit T-shirt, and emitted a sharp gasp of breath (like a toy with a broken squeaker). “Oh good heavens. Whatever is that?”

His partner in the Pringle leaned down to prod the heart like an inquisitive schoolboy.

“Don’t touch it Martin!” snapped Steve.

“It’s OK,” gargled Jemma, struggling to speak. “It’s only made of wood.” Still half-recoiling, Steve swivelled his head to take a closer look. “Good grief,” he said. “It did give me a shock.”

He grabbed Jemma’s glass from her hand and gulped down the remains of the water.

Peter shook his head despairingly. “I can only apologise,” he said (as if referring to some badly trained golden retriever). “She keeps finding these things and bringing them back.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Steve, as if a macabre pantomime of wooden organs and collapsing cripples were a regular part of his afternoon routine. “We don’t mind at all do we Martin?”

His partner in the cashmere smiled politely, but looked slightly bemused.

“I’m sure it’s not how you planned to spend your afternoon,” said Peter.

“No not exactly,” giggled Steve with a wink to Martin.

Peter looked a little squeamish, but forced a polite smile and bent down to pick up the heart from the carpet.

“Quite why she keeps finding these things I don’t know,” he said, as if Jemma were doing it just to spite him.

The couple gathered with Peter to take a closer look at the wooden carving.

“It’s like something from an anatomy class,” murmured Martin.

“Aha!” exclaimed Peter - relieved that someone had at last suggested a semi-rational explanation for the heart and the hand that had preceded it. “That’s it. It’s for teaching medical students.” He turned the heart in his rough fingers.

“Could be Victorian,” said Steve. “Or Edwardian. They were rather obsessed with bodies weren’t they.” He raised his eyebrows at his younger partner, who blushed slightly as if it were perhaps a reference to some rather risque 19th Century lithograph they displayed in their en suite at home.

Jemma sat up on the sofa and brushed her fringe over her face, before attracting the men’s attention with a small gurgling cough.

“I’m sorry for disturbing your stay like this. It’s been a very strange couple of days.”

Steve squeezed on the sofa beside Jemma and reached over to pat her knee. “Now, don’t you worry yourself love. Why don’t we all have some tea and see if we can’t get to the bottom of this?”

“We shouldn’t intrude,” said Peter.

“Well, what else would we be doing?” said Steve.

Peter pulled a face. “Always plenty to do,” he mumbled.

“Nonsense,” said Steve. “Martin be a love and do the honours.”

His partner gambolled towards the kitchen like an eager puppy. As cupboards banged, Steve handed the heart back to Jemma.

“Who’d have though it?” he said. “A heart on the beach - it sounds like a Mills and Boon, don’t it? Though, to be honest, it’s more like Hammer Horror.” He tapped Jemma’s arm. “Hey, what’ll you find next? Pine kidneys or a mahogany spleen?” he giggled.

“Don’t even joke about it,” she said, semi-seriously. But she felt much better as Martin minced in with a fresh pot of Twinings and slices of ginger cake.

Feeling refreshed after her tea and sit down at Lavender Spray, Jemma returned to her chalet. She took the wooden hand from the sideboard and wrapped it with the heart in a checked tea cloth and shoved it under the sink like a cannibal’s picnic.

It had been good to talk to Martin and Steve (albeit with Peter alternately tapping his watch and grimacing at her through a mouthful of ginger sponge). However her stomach still felt like the harbour at high tide - waves lurching sickly against the walls.

She decided to contact Jan, who had always served as a remarkable oasis of calm at WIS, absorbing the various rows and recriminations that ripped through the flimsy sales room partitions without ever batting one of her heavily mascaraed eyelids.

Jan always acted younger than her years and was as animated at office dos as she was passive behind the oak veneer of reception. But, aside from her crazy seventies disco dancing, Jan seemed totally unflappable. She had been a soothing listener on several occasions since the accident (and was about the only person from Jemma’s former life whom Jemma was still in touch with).

When Jemma was at WIS, she preferred to text or e-mail her friends. Young Jamie used to do an impression of her hunched over the keyboard at lunch, randomly tapping the keys as fast as he could, pausing only to sip imaginary coffee and flick an imaginary fringe from his eyes before more frantic faux typing. It was one of the sales team’s kinder piss takes (even a compliment of sorts).

Now she could only type slowly with one hand. But it gave her time to gather her thoughts - her brain and her hand still in synchrony in a world that seemed to spin a fraction of its previous speed. However, she would have to go over to her mum’s cottage to use the computer, and could not imagine how to explain the wooden hand and heart in an e-mail to Jan. So she decided to call her on the cordless.

“Hi. Thank you for calling Janice and Ian. We are not here right now, but please do leave your message after the tone...”

Jemma immediately pressed redial (partly because Jan sometimes left the answer machine on by mistake and answered second time around, and partly because she wanted to hear her calming tones once more - even if she wasn’t there in person). No one picked up.

Jemma clicked off the handset and left it on the padded arm of the chair, before sinking back with a sigh. The softness of the chair (which had once been her father’s favourite) only served to emphasise the stress in her shoulders. She flicked on the TV, but all she could find was golf, football results, kid’s movies and an omnibus repeat of a soap opera she’d already seen (and hadn’t much cared for the first time!).

She went into the kitchen to prepare an early tea, but there was nothing left in the fridge that she fancied. Her mum had postponed their Tesco trip earlier in the week. Teresa the mobile hairdresser had to change her mum’s appointment time and her mum was desperate to get her roots seen to as she was going out to dinner with the Harley-Reeses that evening. So Jemma decided to pop to the Londis to buy a ready meal.

With the autumn sun already dipping behind the three storey blocks of holiday flats, the Parade was chilly and quiet. Having hurried shivering past Lavender Spray, Jemma saw young Cindy closing up the clothes shop.

“OK?” said Jemma smiling as she stopped alongside her.

“All right I suppose,” scowled Cindy with a shrug, all but ignoring her. She rattled the key in the door and even gave it a small kick before turning abruptly away.

Thinking she must have inadvertently done something to upset the girl, Jemma paused then continued awkwardly towards the Londis to buy her Spinach and Ricotta Cannelloni for one. Depression swept over Jemma as if she’d been hit by an Atlantic wave - the type fresh off the ocean that can instantly chill a rock pool by a dozen degrees. She felt like a battered shrimp scuttling through a blizzard of sand.

After a few steps, she felt Cindy’s hand on her arm. “Sorry - I’m just in a grump today.”

“That’s OK,” said Jemma, immediately feeling a million times better.

By chance they were right opposite the Dolphin Café.

“Do you fancy that cup of tea,” asked Jemma gesturing across the street.

Cindy pulled a face. “I ain’t going in there while she’s in there!”

Jemma looked confused.

“That fucking cow Charlie,” said Cindy. “Anyhow, I need something stronger. They’ve only got that shit foreign beer. Let’s go to the Castle.”

“OK,” said Jemma. She hardly ever drunk any more - half a glass of weak rosé with lunch at her mum’s place, that was all. And the Castle was no more her domain that the Dolphin, but she needed the company and there was something about Cindy’s wide eyed frankness that appealed to her.

They mounted the steps to the Castle - Cindy all defiant swagger and Jemma hobbling after. The air was filled with the queasy stench of beer and microwaved cook-chill lasagne. Inside a group of two-dozen men (with beer guts of varying sizes) were glued to a football match on a giant plasma screen. Crowd noise and commentary blared out from giant speakers. A couple of the men gave Cindy the once over as they gulped at their lager. They ignored Jemma.

Hand over mouth to stop herself retching, Jemma followed Cindy into an inner lounge. The smell of pub food still lingered, but it was quieter that side of the bar. Jemma relaxed slightly as they headed for a couple of frayed but comfortable armchairs by a fireplace. A basket of logs sat on the herringbone hearth. The fire didn’t look as if it would be lit for another couple of weeks. But the chilly brickwork, empty grate and dull light suited both their moods.

Cindy insisted on buying the drinks and returned after a couple of minutes with a pint of cider and a glass of dry white wine. It looked like a rather large glass (Jemma had made a point of asking for a small one), but she thanked Cindy politely and sipped it slowly.

“So you’ve fallen out with Charlie then?” asked Jemma.

“It’s Mark,” hissed Cindy.

She looked suddenly crestfallen - his name emitted like a poison dart, lancing her puffed-up belligerence.

“Mark? The one from the café?”

“My supposed boyfriend - the two-timing shithead!”

“Oh you don’t mean Mark and..?”

“Yes, Charlie, the bitch!”

“I thought she was your best mate?”

“I thought so too.” Cindy’s brow furrowed bitterly as she supped her cider. “Bitch!”

“What happened?”

“Stephanie saw them last night by the old veranda where they chuck the empty crates. She thought they were just talking at first. But then they started kissing - and he was touching her.” She spluttered slightly on her cider as if stifling a snarl or a sob.

“Oh,” said Jemma. “Gosh.”

Cindy threw up her hands in disgust. “I didn’t even want to talk about it. They can both fuck off to hell as far as I care.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Jemma.

“Why?” asked Cindy. “It ain’t your fucking fault.”

She gulped more cider and glared at the fireplace for a few seconds. Jemma felt herself tense again and began to think that going for a drink had, after all, not been such a good idea.

Cindy put her glass down and said more softly. “Look don’t mind me. I’m just fed with up everyone today.”

“It’s OK,” said Jemma. “I know what it’s like. I went out with a Mark once. That ended in disaster too.”

“What - when you was younger?”

“Only a couple of years ago,” said Jemma quietly. It seemed like two centuries.

“So what did he do then? Run off with your best mate ‘an all?”

“No, not quite.”

“What was it then?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it.” Cindy swigged her Cider.

“No, that’s OK,” said Jemma.

She told Cindy about Aidan first - the bronzed sales director from Takashi Office Equipment with the pink pin stripe shirt, gypsy eyes and gift of the gab. Aidan embodied a loveless physicality against which other more meaningful relationships might usefully be measured. Having verbally sparred for a few weeks, they found themselves one evening staying on the same floor at the Winterbourne Hotel and Conference Centre for the WestCom event.

After drinking until two in the morning with the usual suspects from the new technology centre on the former Westing Air Base, they’d shared the lift to the fourth floor and Aidan had followed her into her room. And, without a word, he folded his arms around her like some crab about to rape a diminutive mate in a dirty rock pool.

Anyone else she would have pushed off, kicked or even screamed at. But somehow she found herself swooning in the treacly confidence that oozed out of Aidan. She’d enjoyed kissing him. And, feeling that warm rush of passion between her legs, had willingly allowed herself to be bent over the bed.

Having clumsily groped her breasts and pulled her knickers down, he’d tried to push his cock up her back passage. She thought it was his finger at first, it was so short and slender. She didn’t know if he was drunkenly ‘driving in the wrong lane’ or whether he had meant to sodomise her (as some male-fantasy-cum-business-status ego trip). But he didn’t grumble when she guided him to the right opening. Luckily she hadn’t had a sexual partner for several months, and her tightness compensated for his disappointing lack of girth - and she managed to come quite quickly, pressing her mound against the crisp white sheets (with a little help from her own hand).

They’d woken hung-over in the same bed and Aidan had the grace to sit at breakfast with her - tucking a napkin in his collar to keep the buttery crumbs of croissant from soiling his packet-fresh shirt. But after the morning introduction from the Chairman of the Westingshire Chamber of Commerce, they’d attended separate seminars and she hardly saw him for the rest of the conference.

Having achieved his goal (well, almost) Aidan predictably showed little interest in Jemma after that (although he did wink at her occasionally in a vaguely lewd way). She missed the verbal sparring - which was replaced by a rather demure and bland politeness. Behind his back, she took to calling him ‘Wee Willie Winkie’, but it didn’t stop the other girls from thinking he was gorgeous. And she was sure he’d probably buggered one or two of them over the bonnet of his previously owned Porsche or up against a tree in the littered shrubbery of some lay-by.

“Shoes and cars,” Jemma confessed to Cindy. “That’s what I went for. I don’t know why.” Jemma peered into her wine glass as if the answer might be swimming in the grapey yellow liquid. “I guess I must seem very shallow to you.”

“Naaa we all do it. I went out with a boy once - Lance Hughes - just ‘cause he had a car. And it was a pile of shit - an old XR2. It was a crappy white one with those bobbly bits of rust all over it. All we ever did was drive up the car park to meet his mates.” Cindy shuddered. “He had horrible greasy hair and rotten teeth. His breath stank. I only went out with him to get out of the house. But I never let him go all the way. So, what kind of cars did your boyfriend have?”

“Oh, the usual. Porsches, 5-series, SLKs.”

“Wow - is that one of them sporty Mercs?”

Jemma nodded.

“You should have stuck with him,” said Cindy

“He was old.” They were all old.

“Well, at least he had a bit of dosh, I guess?”

Jemma nodded again. “And nice shoes.” She smirked self-consciously.

“So you prefer older men?” asked Cindy.

“I guess I did for a while - the usual reasons. My parents split up when I was 14. Until then I thought my life was dull - guides on Wednesday night, Barbie’s horsebox for my birthday, Sainsburys on Saturday morning and Salcombe every summer. Then everything collapsed like a house of cards. It was bad after my dad left, but at least it was quiet. When they were shouting at each other all night, I hardly slept. I lost a ton of weight and I went into my shell, like a little hermit crab that nobody noticed or cared about. Do you know what my saviour was - and this is going to sound ridiculous...”

Cindy shrugged. “I don’t know. Your teacher?”

Jemma smirked “Janine magazine. I’m not sure if they still publish it. I shouldn’t think so. But back then everyone read it.”

“Yes, my sister used to get that,” said Cindy. “I wasn’t supposed to read it, but I’d sneak into her room for a look. I probably didn’t understand most if it. I was only about seven or something. I liked looking at the photo stories.”

“I always went straight to the advice pages - French kissing and periods. It was the same week after week. But one issue they ran a special on teenage depression.”

“Tell me about it,” said Cindy morosely.

Jemma took a swig of wine. “It was based around the story of this girl called Annabel.”

“Annabel?” snorted Cindy. “That’s enough to make you suicidal to start with!”

“I know. She was supposed to be perfect - popular with her school friends and with a pony and everything. The whole story was obviously made up by some bored journalist. But it described how her world suddenly fell apart one day. Her parents divorced. Her boyfriend dumped her - sorry. Her hormones kicked in and she suddenly found herself lying on her bed - fat, spotty, getting bullied, the usual sob story. It just felt as if they were describing me - I almost had to look round to check there weren’t hidden cameras in my room recording some reality show. I guess the story mirrored the feelings of most 14 years old girls at the time - all those mood swings. But it felt so personal, as if a message had been placed there by some guardian angel or something!”

“Wow!” said Cindy. “Gold star to that journo!”

“Really, it was powerful stuff. They followed it with a really stupid list of top ten tips for ‘topping depression’. I remember that phrase quite clearly - topping depression!”

“A bit sick,” agreed Cindy. “But quite funny.”

“Their advice was to spend your way out of depression. New jeans equals new friends! Put the paracetamol back in the bottle and put on some glittery eye shadow. Everything will be just fine! I even remember the illustration. There was a photo of a sad face stuck on a podgy cartoon caterpillar on one side of the page and a much prettier, happier face with butterfly wings on the other. The whole spread was sponsored by Lil-lets!”

“A menstrual metamorphosis,” giggled Cindy.

“Exactly! Strange the things that stay with you. It seems quite ludicrous now. But, at the time I took it as gospel!”

“So did you take their advice and do an Annabel?” asked Cindy.

“I asked my mum for some new school clothes. She totally flipped. To be fair, it wasn’t the best of moments to ask, what with them trying to sell the house and my dad moving 100 miles away. But she had a right go at me. All you think about is yourself! We’re not made of money! You treat this place like a hotel!”

“Yea,” nodded Cindy, sympathetically. “I get that one.”

“Anyway,” said Jemma. “I deliberately tipped Tipp-Ex on my skirt. I ripped buttons off my blazer and lost a shoe in the changing rooms. So they had to buy me some new gear. My parents had a huge row about it. In the end, my dad just wrote out a cheque and gave it directly to me. He told me to buy whatever I pissing liked. But I didn’t care. I just cashed it and went on a spending spree.”

“Wow! I wish my dad’d do that. I don’t even get money off in the shop. I just get given the crap old stock know one else wants to buy - then I end up having to take it down the tip.”

“Yes, I guess in that respect I was rather fortunate. There was a dress code at school and I brought everything that was on the ‘not allowed’ list!”

“You rebel!” said Cindy, and rolled her eyes as she swigged her cider.

“I was. We had this Deputy Head called Mrs Grayson and she was a real dragon. She actually used to carry the rule book around with her. No make-up. No earrings. Pleated skirt from Bakers and Macey, worn just below the knee. Blouses to be buttoned up correctly at all times.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Yea, she was like some throw back from the 19th Century. I brought myself a really tight black skirt, which I wore so short it was like a micro mini. My blouse was short sleeved and a size too small. And I wore three inch heels and a load of make-up. One girl in my humanities class, Julia Jury, thought I was new. And, in a way, I was a new girl. Anyhow, Mrs Grayson caught up with me in the corridor one day. I gave her some back chat and she went bright pink and frog-marched me to her office. Then she started writing a letter home for my mum, and said something like ‘we don’t have sluts in this school’.”

“She said that to you?”

“Absolutely. She thought she could get away with it, see. But I knew something about her.”

“What?”

“Well, my mum used to work with her sister. I’d heard my mum and dad talking, about how Mrs Grayson had once lost it and slapped a girl. The school covered it up. But it was her weakness, you see - that allegation hanging over her. So, when she called me a slut, I just rolled up the sleeve of my school cardigan and started to give myself a Chinese burn. ‘What on earth are you doing?’ she said. I began to shout. ‘No. Miss, please. Get off!’ She looked really shocked. She was hissing at me, ‘Be quite this instance! Have you taken leave of your senses?’ Then she made a grab for me. I dodged round the other side of the desk, and started screaming louder, ‘Please miss, let me go.’

“Wow did she get hold of you?”

“No I just slapped my own face.”

“Wow, that was really sneaky.”

“It was. I’m not proud of it. But it worked. Mr Thomas, the music teacher, had his office opposite and he suddenly came storming in. We both stopped in out tracks. He saw the hand mark on my face and he gave Miss Grayson this look and said, ‘What the hell is going on in here?’ His voice was like Windsor Davies off It Ain’t Half Hot Mum.”

Cindy looked blank.

“It was an old TV show. He was like a fierce Welsh Sergeant Major - always shouting”

“I bet that Mrs Grayson was shitting herself,” said Cindy.

“Yes, I think she was probably was. Me and Mr Thomas both stared at her. And I could tell she was dying to explain what had really happened. She had the tip of the tongue between her teeth and you could almost hear her mind clacking away like an old computer. What could she do? I was a good girl with not so much as a detention against my name. She had this black shadow hanging over. Why would they believe her and not me? You could see the egg-timers slowly spin in her eyes. She knew she couldn’t take any risks. And I knew I had her. I casually rolled my sleeve down and said in my normal voice, ‘Just leave me alone all right?’ Then I skulked off, and there was nothing she could do about it.”

Jemma finished her wine. “At the school there was a language block, part of the old girl’s grammar school. The roof had been leaking for about twenty years. Every class had buckets in the corner. When it rained you used to have to move desks. We even had to start using pencils to write with as the ink used to run off the page and smear into black butterflies when we shut our books.”

“Like those tests for making out if you’re mental or not,” said Cindy.

“Exactly,” said Jemma. “It was ridiculous. The head of the language department resigned. The boys were balancing buckets of water above the door for the student supply teachers. It was total anarchy. In the end all the floors and ceilings were totally rotten, and they had to stop having lessons there, in case someone went through. That’s what the whole school must have felt like for Mrs Grayson.”

Cindy nodded. “Put a foot wrong and she’d go through the floor!”

“Exactly. I know it was unfair to emotionally blackmail her. But it worked in my favour. She clamped down harder on the other girls. And that made me stand out even more.” Jemma half-frowned, half-smiled. “That’s all I learned in the last two years of school - how to act, to play games and get what you want. Every term my skirts got a little shorter and tighter, my neckline plunged lower, and my make-up got thicker. In my final school photo I look like Elizabeth Taylor!”

“I bet all the boys were after you?” said Cindy.

“Actually, it was more the teachers. They became very attentive. The lads had digital watches and they used to time how long the pervy teachers would spend talking to me. The record was 38 minutes and 23 seconds - the lesson only lasted 40 minutes! That was the Physics teacher. I can’t even remember his name. But he was a sad old git. I didn’t listen to a word he said. I was just doing my nails and leaning foward to flash my tits. By the time the bell went, his face was like a sweated aubergine.”

“How creepy.”

“Yes, very. But I craved attention. I even went out with one of the Maths teachers, Mr Palmer. He reminded me a bit of Tom Selleck who used to be in that TV show Magnum. He took me for a drink a couple of times. He kissed me once, but his moustache was all horrible and scratchy.”

“Urrghhh,” said Cindy. “Not one of those fat caterpillar ones?”

“More like a shoe brush,” said Jemma. “One of the boys reckoned they’d been waiting in the Maths department and had a look in the drawer of his desk - probably to see if there was anything worth stealing.” She looked around as if Mr Palmer might be propping up the bar leering at her, then lowered her voice. “He had a stack of magazines about bondage and even some actual polaroids of girls tied up with red marks on their bottoms where they’d been whipped.”

“Shit!” said Cindy. She shuddered. “That’s revolting! Did you report him?”

“Well, I didn’t want to get myself into trouble. Plus the boys could have been making it up I suppose. But I gave him the cold shoulder after that. He turned his attentions to some other lucky girl.”

“A lucky escape!”

“Yes, but it taught me how to handle men - older men, anyway. They’d pick me up in a nice car, take me out to dinner. They were more relaxed. They had money, good jobs (and families most of them, I guess). I didn’t feel bad if they paid the bills. Mostly it was enough for them just to spend time with a younger women. They just needed to satisfy their egos rather than anything else.”

“So you never...”

“Sometimes,” Jemma blushed. “But it wasn’t the same. Younger guys buy you a drink and dance with you a little and basically they think they’ve got a green light to sleep with you. The older guys are more patient. More subtle.” She sipped her wine. “I sometimes ended up in hotel rooms. I didn’t mind. Somehow they felt safe - like I was just acting in a one of those romantic comedies they put on on Sunday afternoons on BBC1.”

“So did you have many men friends, you know, before...?” Cindy raised a finger to her forehead indicating Jemma’s scarring.

Jemma smoothed her fringe.

“A few. I don’t want you thinking I’m a complete slut. As I say, mostly it went as far as dinner and a polite peck on the cheek. I dated a couple of men for a few weeks. But it never lasted.”

“Six episodes,” said Cindy.

Jemma looked puzzled.

“You know,” said Cindy, “like one of those TV rom coms. After a while the jokes are all the same. The characters get a bit boring. You start wanting to flick channels.”

“I’d never though of it like that. But, actually, you’re quite right.” Jemma looked into Cindy’s eyes, which bubbled like a freshwater spring. “You’re very perceptive. I bet you did well at school. But I’m guessing you’ve no plans for University?”

“Naahh. I’m fed up with learning. I’m happy working in mum and dad’s shop. Honestly, it’s cool. I went and did a couple of courses at Penlyn College. But I was bored shitless. Plus you learn more doing a job.”

“The shop always seems quite busy.”

“Yea, it does all right,” said Cindy. She drained the last of her cider, and deflected the conversation back to Jemma. “So you ever been out with anyone much younger than you?”

“What? A toy boy?” asked Jemma, laughing. “Not really. Actually, I sort of did once.”

“How do you mean sort of?” Cindy raised her eyebrows.

“It was platonic - he was just a friend.”

“Go on. What was he like?”

Jemma shrugged and pointed at Cindy’s empty glass. “Would you like another?”

“OK,” said Cindy. “So long as you tell me all about your toy boy!”

For once forgetting to hide her scars beneath her fringe, Jemma limped up to the bar and brought herself a coke and another cider for Cindy. Then she returned to the armchairs by the fireplace and told Cindy about Gavin.

It was an early June afternoon. The sales guys were squabbling like a troop of baboons, and Jemma needed to escape the office. It was too hot to drive into town and she was sure there were dark sweat marks forming in the armpits of her vintage crimplene blouse.

She’d discovered the blouse one Saturday in ‘Sunflower’ - a salon in Westing Covered Market that specialised in sixties and seventies clothing. It wasn’t the type of thing she’d normally wear - slightly faded and covered in small blue flowers. But, when she saw it hanging on a polished wooden mannequin, the pattern and the texture took her fancy and she though it might do for a party or a night out.

That June morning the sky was so blue and summery the blouse had seemed perfect. And risking the sarcasm of the sales boys, she’d worn it to work.

Even with the top two buttons undone and a string of wooden beads drawing attention to her deep cleavage, none of the guys had deemed to comment. Not even Jan in reception remarked on the blouse (and she’d routinely tell everyone they looked nice - even if they wore a sack).

As lunchtime loomed and the temperature in the office rose ever higher, Jemma felt more and more sweat soak into the crumpled fabric. She decided to take a cooling walk in the shade of the cycle way - a former light railway that ran past the new industrial estate, which was still being extended phase-by-phase on the ruins of a vast textile factory. Jemma was just passing a derelict Victorian shunting shed when she saw Gavin walking towards her.

18 or 19, Gavin had joined Westing Information Systems straight from Westingshire College. He’d started as a junior software tester, but it turned out he was some kind of internet whizz, and he ended up redeveloping the company website. He was very shy and generally avoided eye contact with anyone in the sales team. In fact, in all the months that Gavin had been at the company, Jemma couldn’t recall having ever said a single word to him.

Normally he would have hurried past head down. However, vigorous growth in the bordering bushes and brambles had reduced the cycle way to single file, and they were forced to pause as their paths met - thick brambles clawing at their bare arms like the tentacles of some giant barbed anemone.

Gavin flattened his back against the brambles and lifted a hawthorn branch to let Jemma duck under. She paused for a moment, and smiled to acknowledge his chivalry. And he suddenly blurted out, “I like your blouse.”

Jemma was startled. Gavin had never spoken to her before. But she’d been waiting to hear those words all morning, and couldn’t help but smile - an unguarded burst of emotion (not her normal controlled sales grin). She felt a sudden panic. Maybe her inadvertent smile had been too encouraging. ‘Oh Christ,’ she thought, ‘Now this weirdo’s going to jump me, drag me into a thicket and I’ll never be heard of again.’

Gavin could tell what Jemma was thinking and blushed. “Oh no,” he babbled, “I didn’t mean it in that way. I just like all that late sixties stuff - the fashion, the music, the films. I wanted to use the fonts on the WIS website but they thought it was too psychedelic. Sorry you probably wouldn’t be interested in all that stuff.”

“Why not?” asked Jemma.

“Well, don’t get me wrong. I know you’re not like Andy and Jez. But, sales people aren’t really bothered in the creative side of things - only if their photo and their CV makes them look better then they really are!” His voiced fizzed with anger as he spat out the words. He looked slightly embarrassed “Sorry,” he said. “Your photo would be fine. Well, more than fine. Well....”

Jemma actually enjoyed his little outburst. It was quite sweet in a way. But she said nothing and remained stoney faced, as they walked back towards the WIS building.

After a minute, Gavin said, “Look. I honestly didn’t mean to offend you.You won’t say anything to anyone?”

He looked really worried, as if he might be dismissed on the spot for sexual harassment.

Jemma was tempted to keep him hanging for a while - pretending to be ticked off (but it would be like teasing a nervous puppy). It was just too easy. “It’s OK,” she said. “So how is the website going?”

“OK,” he shrugged. He seemed slightly sad, embarrassed. She tried a different tack.

“So sixties films. What kind of stuff?”

“You know, all the usual; Easy Rider, Zabriskie Point, Head - that’s the Monkees movie. It’s not a brilliant film, but it’s totally psychedelic.”

“I don’t know the film,” confessed Jemma. “But I used to like the TV show. I used to watch it in the holidays. I remember one episode where they were all dressed up as cowboys on a ranch.”

Gavin perked up. “Have you ever seen the film Midnight Cowboy?”

“You know I think I have,” she said. “Is that the one with the guy from Rainman?”

“Dustin Hoffman,” confirmed Gavin.

“That’s right,” said Jemma. “There’s a scene where the other guy, the good looking one, is walking through New York with his Cowboy Hat on and there’s that song playing.”

“Everybody’s talking at me.” Gavin sang the opening line. His voice was startlingly strong and melodic, as if he were possessed momentarily by the spirit of Frank Sinatra.

Gavin misinterpreted Jemma’s frown. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to start singing. It drives the programmers nuts.”

“No. You’ve got a nice voice.”

He blushed again. “Thanks.”

“I love that song,” she said. “But the film was bit creepy. I think I may have turned it off before the end.”

“There’re on a bus at the end. Joe Buck finally makes some money from one of the society girls he meets at the party and they’re dressed in surfer shirts heading for the coast. You kind of know Rizzo isn’t going to make it, but it still makes me cry every time.”

Jemma had never known a young guy talk so openly about his emotions. Suddenly it all feel into place. His interest in the blouse. His bitchiness. The burst of song. His self-deprecation. Of course, he was gay.

She put a hand on his arm. “It’s OK she said. Everyone likes a good weepie.”

They would often walk after that. Normally it was once a week. Sometimes it was two days in a row - Gavin suddenly appearing ‘by coincidence’ as Jemma came out of the office, to finish off the previous day’s conversation. He would always be slightly self conscious around the sales guys (for obvious reasons). But the further Gavin got away from the office the more relaxed he became. He confessed that his dream was to be an actor and that he had a portfolio with a photo that he sent off to casting agencies.

Jez and Andy and the others didn’t get it at all. Jemma couldn’t be bothered to deny their insinuations, and she didn’t want to let on that Gavin ‘batted for the other side’, so she just told them that he was the son of a family friend and she’d promised to look out for him.

Jemma never guessed for one moment that Gavin had a crush on her.

“But you said he was gay?” said Cindy.

“So I thought,” said Jemma. “It turns out he was just very senstive, and gentle and in touch with his feminine side.”

“He sounds nice,” said Cindy.

“Yes, I suppose he was,” said Jemma wistfully. “But...”

“He was a bit of minger, right?”

“No he was a lovely looking lad. Nice eyes.”

“He was too young for you?”

“Partly that. But there was simply no spark...” she sighed. “Poor Gavin. He finally built the courage to ask me out one evening. A local cinema was screening one of the arty films he’d told me about. I can’t even remember what is was called now - a film with subtitles about an Italian Cinema. There was this bit at the end of the film where they showed all the kisses that had been cut from all these old movies by the censors. He suddenly grabbed my hand. He had tears in his eyes, and I thought, ‘you soppy old queen’. We had a lovely meal, and he walked me back to my flat with his arm round me. It was quite cold and I snuggled up to him. I didn’t realise. For me it was like having a cuddly gay brother. But as we stood on the steps and said goodnight, he tried to kiss me.

I pulled away. It was terrible. He looked really hurt and confused - like some puppy kicked for no reason. He reached out for me, and started to say something. But I still didn’t twig.”

Jemma paused, squirming in her seat, as she recalled that final awful encounter.

“Look, it’s OK. You don’t have to pretend. I know.”

“Know what?” he said.

“That you’re gay!” said Jemma.

Gavin looked stunned. “I’m not,” he said.

“Look we’re friends. I’m not going to tell anyone. It doesn’t bother me.”

“I am not f-ing gay,” he shouted.

He turned away disconsolate, eyes flickering between that kicked dog despair and snarling, defensive ferocity.

He skulked away kicking out at walls. He savagely booted over an overflowing litter bin, forcing it from its already split housing. It clattered echoing though the dark - a broken heart in an empty theatre, another failed audition. Rubbish spilled across the pavement a messy manifestation of smashed pride and shredded love.

Jemma felt she should go over and kneel among the scattered cans and rotting sandwiches, scoop them remorsefully back into the bin. But it wasn’t her responsibility. She couldn’t change the way she felt. So she just tearfully let herself into the cold sanctuary of her flat.

Jemma looked up at Cindy.

“It was just dreadful. I realized he was completely besotted with me, and he realized I wasn’t. I tried to apologise, but he was in a total rage. He called me a whole load of names, kicking cars and screaming. It was frightening. He was totally devastated - suicidal almost. Normally I’d have men eating out of my hand, but I’d never faced that kind of raw emotion before. I didn’t have a clue what to do. I dreaded going back into work. Gavin wouldn’t talk to me or even look at me. I tried to speak to him and he just cut me dead. He left within two days. He just couldn’t bear to be near me. He sent me this long letter accusing me of betraying him and breaking his heart. A few days later I came home and found a card shoved under the door - apologising, and asking if we could meet up some time to talk.”

“And did you?” asked Cindy?

“No,” murmured Jemma. “I tore it up and binned it. I never saw him again.”

“Probably for the best,” said Cindy.

Jemma nodded.

“I couldn’t sleep for weeks after. I really thought he was going to break in and strangle me or something.”

“Wow! Scary stuff,” said Cindy.

“Yes, at the time it was. He needed a nurse not a girlfriend. I hope he found one. I’m sure he’s made some girl very happy. He deserved to be happy. He just wasn’t...”

“He just wasn’t your type,” suggested Cindy.

“I guess I divide men into two camps. Nice ones you can talk to. And old bastards who somehow get you into bed, just because they’ve got an expensive car and nice shoes.”

“So which camp did Mark fall into?” asked Cindy.

“Mark?”

“You mentioned him earlier.”

Jemma stared for a moment into the empty fireplace and sighed.

“Mark was a bit of both. I’d never met anyone like that before. We got together at my friend’s engagement party. I mean, who has engagement parties these days? That’s something that teenagers did in 1982. You don’t expect it for 21st Century twenty-somethings. Anyway, I was dragged along to this party thing - it was a sit down meal in a restaurant with a bit of dancing afterwards. And I ended up being on the singles table with all the other misfits. I don’t know if it was a set-up, but Mark was next to me and he was actually very, very nice. I thought he was bit like Gavin, at first. Quiet and polite - very pleasant to talk to. But we had a few drinks and he started to come out of himself a bit. To be honest he got a bit more obnoxious.”

“I’m like that,” said Cindy proudly. “I’ve even got the T-shirt - Instant arsehole - just add alcohol!”.

“We’d had some drinks and he literally dragged me onto the dance floor. I was really annoyed at first, but in the end I really enjoyed myself. We got a taxi back to my place. And he said, ‘Aren’t you going to invite me up for coffee?’ It was very lame. But it was such a confident way he said it. I thought, OK then.” She stared into her coke, as if his image might suddenly loom in the dark and bubbling surface, like the face of a prince conjured up in a witches cauldron. “We were together for two years. He was quite unique I’ll give him that. He wasn’t as easy to speak to as Gavin and he wasn’t as smooth as Aidan. His car wasn’t great and he wore naff trainers. But he had this smile. He made me laugh. And he was very fit - played a lot of football. He’d always go for a beer with his mates afterwards, but he was just as happy going to the cinema with me. He was kind of the best of both worlds, I suppose.”

“A two for one offer,” suggested Cindy. She smirked. “The kind you can’t resist.”

Jemma smiled. “He made me feel safe. I’d come home from the job. And it was just so nice that he was there. It didn’t matter what kind of day I’d had. As soon as I got home, everything felt OK. It was like living in a cocoon. We’d have dinner together and talk (not like I talked with Gavin - Mark wasn’t that cultural) just ‘how’s your day been?’

Sometimes he used to get passionate about things he believed in. I quite liked that. But then he started to have these violent mood swings for no real reason. And we’d argue and sometimes he’d get really angry, even in front of other people.”

“What? If you spoke to other men or something?”

“Sometime, I suppose. But, really, he was just angry about everything - stupid little things like losing his phone. He’d fly into a rage. And things on the news. He’d get upset about them and if I didn’t agree with his point of view he’d go totally potty. He’d always been a bit of a loose cannon, but he would just explode for no reason. He always said he was sorry. But it affected things you know. I didn’t like him to touch me. And he just got angrier and angrier until I just didn’t want him near me any more. I don’t mind if a bloke’s a total bastard. But I can’t stand anger and violence.”

“Did he knock you about?”

Jemma paused. “No, not really. It was mainly verbal. But he could turn so nasty - ranting on and on. I would rather he’d just hit me and be done with it. In the end we were sleeping on separate sides of the bed. Eventually he was downstairs on the sofa and turning up late from work.”

“Oh...” said Cindy.

“Yep. A big oh! Her name was Lucy - an interior decorator. She’d been to some girls college in Oxfordshire.”

“She sounds a right Annabel!”

“Oh yes, she had the horses and everything - just the type of person he’d always hated. I thought you’re welcome to him love. Just wait until he turns on you.”

“And did he? Turn on her?”

“They got married about three months later. Probably divorced by now. After that, I’d had enough of men. And then the months seemed to turn into years. I just got on with the job. And then there was the accident. And that’s it I suppose.”

“Don’t you miss the physical side of things?”

Jemma looked embarrassed.

“Sorry,” said Cindy. “That was a bit personal.”

“It’s OK,” said Jemma. “I’ve never been too comfortable with that side of things. Anyway, after a while you get used to your routine...” Her voice trailed away, and she glanced down absent mindedly at her watch. It was ten to nine. “Oh my gosh. Look at the time.”

The bar was filling up slowly. If Jemma had walked into a room so crowded with people, she would have had to suggest going somewhere quieter. But somehow, because the crowd had gathered bit by bit around her, it didn’t panic her too badly. And she wouldn’t have minded staying a little longer, had she not felt so totally famished.

“Aren’t you hungry?” she asked.

“I’ll get some noodles from the Chinky on the way home,” said Cindy.

“I’ve got a ready meal. A bit sad, I know...” Jemma suddenly realised she had forgotten to stop at the Londis for her cannelloni. Her stomach rumbled. The Londis shut at nine. “Actually, maybe I should be getting home. I’m tired. I haven’t talked so much in years. I’m sorry I haven’t even asked how you’re feeling - after what you told me about your Mark.”

“Oh I wouldn’t waste my breath on him,” she said. “Anyhow, it’s been interesting listening to your thoughts. You understand things. You’re very wise.”

“Old age,” laughed Jemma, “and the bang on the head. It’s knocked a bit of sense into me.”

“Don’t be daft. It was nice talking to you. My friends are really nice (except for that bitch Charlie) but I can’t talk to them like that. People probably see you walking along with your stick and they probably think there’s something up with you. But you know so much.”

Jemma looked at her watch again. The effects of wine, caffeine and sugar were starting to wear off - and just seeing the time made her feel exhausted.

“I’d better get home,” she said. She used the back of the chair to lever herself to her feet.

Cindy accompanied her to the door of the Castle, protectively shepherding drinkers out of the way as if help some doddery old actress to negotiate a press pack. They stood in the cold and the dark for a moment.

Jemma glanced over at the dull light of the Londis, hoping the door hadn’t been locked yet.

“Oh well, I’d better just nip to the shop.”

Cindy reached out her hand, and offered her a roll up.

“Oh I don’t smoke,” said Jemma. “Not any more.”

“Have it later,” winked Cindy. “Help you relax.”

“Oh, you mean it’s Cannabis?”

An older couple - grockles probably, heading for an evening stroll around the harbour - gave her a disapproving look. Cindy giggled. Jemma tried to hand back the spliff.

“You keep it,” insisted Cindy, pulling her hand away. “You need it.”

“I can’t” said Jemma.

“See ya later,” smirked Cindy and disappeared into the darkness.