It wasn’t that she wanted to appear ungrateful, but no matter how much she tried, Simone could not find anything good to say about the present sat in front of her on the kitchen table. The loose wrapping paper that had concealed the gift was now draped around the base of the tin, like the bunched up skirt of an immodest Tiller girl, high kicking and gaily swirling, the illusion enhanced by tinsel and glitter. She cradled the telephone against her neck, while gently folding egg whites and sugar in a glass bowl.
“Thanks, Marce” she said, in reply to the “Happy Birthday” greeting she had just received. “Oh, I think Dave plans on taking me out later. You know, another of his best-kept secrets I happen to know about. Saw it in his diary, which he shouldn’t leave laying around if he doesn’t want me to read it. Anyway, yes, it said T x 2, 8.00PM, Walgraves. He hasn’t said anything yet – bloody typical too. Now I’ll have to get ready and act surprised and the idiot won’t even notice when I slip straight into a little black number looking bloody gorgeous – as if it happens by magic. Honestly – men!” She laughed into the mouthpiece. “Sorry, Marce! What? Oh no, I don’t think it’s too early! In fact, top idea. Hold on a moment…” Simone put the bowl and spoon down on the counter and rinsed a glass under the tap. She went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of cubes from the icemaker. She carefully cut a slice of lemon, dropped it in the glass and finished the process with a generous measure of gin and tonic.
She closed her eyes momentarily as she took the first sip. “Perfect!” she said into the ‘phone, smacking her lips. She shook the glass to make the ice cubes chink. “Can you hear that, Marce? Perfection on the rocks, even if I do say so myself. You not joining me? Oh, you are! Yes, I can hear it your end. Gin as well? Martini? Nice! So yeah – I don’t quite know what Helen was thinking, do you?” She turned the unwrapped tin on the table, scrutinising it carefully through slightly closed eyes. “Well...what can I say? It’s…well you’d never guess I don’t think in twenty years what it is. I think she’s going slightly barmy. I know she’s just buried her dad – I think it’s knocked a screw loose! So go on…have a guess. It’s crème coloured, with a red top and there’s writing on the side. You can have three guesses.” She giggled. “No – wrong, wrong and wrong again. Look, you’re never going to get it. I’ll tell you. It’s string. Helen has bought for me a…” Simone took time to deliberate over the words, “…Ball of string. In a tin.” She waited for the laughter to subside at the other end. “No, I don’t think I quite know what I’m going to do with it. I expect she thinks it’s the most useful thing a girl could ever hope for. Marce – if I ever send you a tin of string for your birthday – not only will you know where it came from, but shoot me, won’t ya?”
Simone relaxed into the bubbles, stretching her legs out as far as the bath would let her. She rested her head on the back of the bath, enjoying the sensation of the bubbles popping against her neck. She flinched as some hot water escaped from the tap, onto her left foot. “Ouch!” She waited to see if anymore would drip, and satisfied it wouldn’t she relaxed again. She idly drew the sponge across her tight belly in tiny, irregular circular motions. She took a deep breath, savouring the scent of the candles she was burning, everything heightened by the steam coming off the bath. She sat up a little and pulled her legs towards her. She brushed her hand down her shin, using the soapy water as a lubricant. She checked for hair growth, and sat back again; satisfied that she didn’t need to shave. After a couple more minutes like this she rose from the bath, stepping onto the duckboard. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked through to the bedroom. She saw that the telephone was blinking, imploring her to respond as if it was a distress beacon. She pressed the button for the answerphone; slightly surprised she hadn’t heard the telephone from the bath. The message cut in. She recognised Dave’s voice.
“Simone, Dave here. How you doing? Good. Um...yeah, sorry, everything’s going a bit ballistic here at work, we’ve got a big presentation for the launch tomorrow and the Sales Director is absolutely doing her nut that we’re all word perfect for it. We’re doing a dry run tonight. I’m not going to get over tonight, sorry. Maybe another night – as soon as this is out the way I’ll be back on track. Sorry, hope it doesn’t ruin your plans or anything” The message terminated. Simone picked up the ‘phone and was about to hit the dial back button, when she stopped herself. “The bastard’s forgotten. Bloody hell!” She threw the ‘phone onto the bed, turning in time to catch a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. “Hmmph. Bloody gorgeous”. She felt a lump rising in her throat. She stopped and swallowed hard in a bid to thwart any tears. Composed once again, she thought about the message.
“Hello, is that directory enquiries? Yes, it’s a business number, please. Walgraves, of Hallaton. Thank you, I’ll wait. Hello – yes, can you put me straight through?” She waited to be connected. She tried to push the thoughts out of her mind, but she couldn’t. There had been one too many cancelled dates. That far away look in Dave’s eyes when she was talking to him. The excuses: It’s work. Things are a bit hectic at the moment. Once we get the month end out the way…after this conference…the presentation…I need to run the figures…there’s a PowerPoint I need to prepare…a spreadsheet needs doing…excuses and more excuses. The telephone clicked; a polite voice informing her that this was “Walgraves Supper Rooms, good evening”. Simone hesitated, almost deciding not to carry on. Then, from the pit of her stomach the words tumbled out. “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wines. There seems to have been a mix up. I should have cancelled his reservation – can you confirm please?” She waited, holding her breath. She had already anticipated the response. Her reply came easily too. “I do apologise – I’m terribly sorry, Mr Wines’ diary is in disarray. It’s another evening which I have pencilled in that should be cancelled, but that seems to be in order now too. No, please do not disturb Mr. Wines. Providing he is enjoying his meal, he doesn’t need to know about this. His guest has arrived, I trust? Mrs. Wines, you say? Ah, yes, then everything is in order. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Good evening”.
Simone dragged the back of her hand across her face, pulling the tears down with it. She rubbed her eyes, her mouth closed tight to prevent the sound that was rising in her throat from betraying the last vestiges of dignity she possessed. She stood upright and shook her head slightly, shaking herself back to the moment. She walked across to the wardrobe and opened it. She removed two shirts, a Pringle sweater and one pair of Chino’s from it. Dave preferred to keep things simple, returning to his own place to grab a change of clothes or to freshen up, or catch up on his mail. It was a routine that suited them both. Simone went down to the kitchen, placing the small pile of clothes on the kitchen table. She opened the cupboard under the stairs and reached in, without turning on the light, feeling with her hand instead until it sought out the roll of brown paper. She unrolled the paper and played out a large piece onto the table. She picked up the pile of clothes and placed it squarely onto the paper. She rubbed her thumb along a shirt collar, in a briefly sentimental moment. She folded the brown paper over, and after checking it for length she cut it to size. Turning the package over, she reached to the tin still sitting on the table and pulled out a long piece of string. She carefully wrapped the string around the parcel, and with a twist she tied the ends off in a bow. She opened another drawer and found a black marker pen, and on one panel of brown paper she emblazoned the legend: DAVID WINES. NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS. She opened the front door and walked down the path to her gate, where she casually dropped the parcel onto the pavement. She turned and walked briskly back up the path.
“Thanks, Marce” she said, in reply to the “Happy Birthday” greeting she had just received. “Oh, I think Dave plans on taking me out later. You know, another of his best-kept secrets I happen to know about. Saw it in his diary, which he shouldn’t leave laying around if he doesn’t want me to read it. Anyway, yes, it said T x 2, 8.00PM, Walgraves. He hasn’t said anything yet – bloody typical too. Now I’ll have to get ready and act surprised and the idiot won’t even notice when I slip straight into a little black number looking bloody gorgeous – as if it happens by magic. Honestly – men!” She laughed into the mouthpiece. “Sorry, Marce! What? Oh no, I don’t think it’s too early! In fact, top idea. Hold on a moment…” Simone put the bowl and spoon down on the counter and rinsed a glass under the tap. She went to the fridge and grabbed a couple of cubes from the icemaker. She carefully cut a slice of lemon, dropped it in the glass and finished the process with a generous measure of gin and tonic.
She closed her eyes momentarily as she took the first sip. “Perfect!” she said into the ‘phone, smacking her lips. She shook the glass to make the ice cubes chink. “Can you hear that, Marce? Perfection on the rocks, even if I do say so myself. You not joining me? Oh, you are! Yes, I can hear it your end. Gin as well? Martini? Nice! So yeah – I don’t quite know what Helen was thinking, do you?” She turned the unwrapped tin on the table, scrutinising it carefully through slightly closed eyes. “Well...what can I say? It’s…well you’d never guess I don’t think in twenty years what it is. I think she’s going slightly barmy. I know she’s just buried her dad – I think it’s knocked a screw loose! So go on…have a guess. It’s crème coloured, with a red top and there’s writing on the side. You can have three guesses.” She giggled. “No – wrong, wrong and wrong again. Look, you’re never going to get it. I’ll tell you. It’s string. Helen has bought for me a…” Simone took time to deliberate over the words, “…Ball of string. In a tin.” She waited for the laughter to subside at the other end. “No, I don’t think I quite know what I’m going to do with it. I expect she thinks it’s the most useful thing a girl could ever hope for. Marce – if I ever send you a tin of string for your birthday – not only will you know where it came from, but shoot me, won’t ya?”
Simone relaxed into the bubbles, stretching her legs out as far as the bath would let her. She rested her head on the back of the bath, enjoying the sensation of the bubbles popping against her neck. She flinched as some hot water escaped from the tap, onto her left foot. “Ouch!” She waited to see if anymore would drip, and satisfied it wouldn’t she relaxed again. She idly drew the sponge across her tight belly in tiny, irregular circular motions. She took a deep breath, savouring the scent of the candles she was burning, everything heightened by the steam coming off the bath. She sat up a little and pulled her legs towards her. She brushed her hand down her shin, using the soapy water as a lubricant. She checked for hair growth, and sat back again; satisfied that she didn’t need to shave. After a couple more minutes like this she rose from the bath, stepping onto the duckboard. She wrapped a towel around herself and walked through to the bedroom. She saw that the telephone was blinking, imploring her to respond as if it was a distress beacon. She pressed the button for the answerphone; slightly surprised she hadn’t heard the telephone from the bath. The message cut in. She recognised Dave’s voice.
“Simone, Dave here. How you doing? Good. Um...yeah, sorry, everything’s going a bit ballistic here at work, we’ve got a big presentation for the launch tomorrow and the Sales Director is absolutely doing her nut that we’re all word perfect for it. We’re doing a dry run tonight. I’m not going to get over tonight, sorry. Maybe another night – as soon as this is out the way I’ll be back on track. Sorry, hope it doesn’t ruin your plans or anything” The message terminated. Simone picked up the ‘phone and was about to hit the dial back button, when she stopped herself. “The bastard’s forgotten. Bloody hell!” She threw the ‘phone onto the bed, turning in time to catch a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror. “Hmmph. Bloody gorgeous”. She felt a lump rising in her throat. She stopped and swallowed hard in a bid to thwart any tears. Composed once again, she thought about the message.
“Hello, is that directory enquiries? Yes, it’s a business number, please. Walgraves, of Hallaton. Thank you, I’ll wait. Hello – yes, can you put me straight through?” She waited to be connected. She tried to push the thoughts out of her mind, but she couldn’t. There had been one too many cancelled dates. That far away look in Dave’s eyes when she was talking to him. The excuses: It’s work. Things are a bit hectic at the moment. Once we get the month end out the way…after this conference…the presentation…I need to run the figures…there’s a PowerPoint I need to prepare…a spreadsheet needs doing…excuses and more excuses. The telephone clicked; a polite voice informing her that this was “Walgraves Supper Rooms, good evening”. Simone hesitated, almost deciding not to carry on. Then, from the pit of her stomach the words tumbled out. “Hello, I’m sorry to bother you. I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Wines. There seems to have been a mix up. I should have cancelled his reservation – can you confirm please?” She waited, holding her breath. She had already anticipated the response. Her reply came easily too. “I do apologise – I’m terribly sorry, Mr Wines’ diary is in disarray. It’s another evening which I have pencilled in that should be cancelled, but that seems to be in order now too. No, please do not disturb Mr. Wines. Providing he is enjoying his meal, he doesn’t need to know about this. His guest has arrived, I trust? Mrs. Wines, you say? Ah, yes, then everything is in order. I’m sorry to have bothered you. Good evening”.
Simone dragged the back of her hand across her face, pulling the tears down with it. She rubbed her eyes, her mouth closed tight to prevent the sound that was rising in her throat from betraying the last vestiges of dignity she possessed. She stood upright and shook her head slightly, shaking herself back to the moment. She walked across to the wardrobe and opened it. She removed two shirts, a Pringle sweater and one pair of Chino’s from it. Dave preferred to keep things simple, returning to his own place to grab a change of clothes or to freshen up, or catch up on his mail. It was a routine that suited them both. Simone went down to the kitchen, placing the small pile of clothes on the kitchen table. She opened the cupboard under the stairs and reached in, without turning on the light, feeling with her hand instead until it sought out the roll of brown paper. She unrolled the paper and played out a large piece onto the table. She picked up the pile of clothes and placed it squarely onto the paper. She rubbed her thumb along a shirt collar, in a briefly sentimental moment. She folded the brown paper over, and after checking it for length she cut it to size. Turning the package over, she reached to the tin still sitting on the table and pulled out a long piece of string. She carefully wrapped the string around the parcel, and with a twist she tied the ends off in a bow. She opened another drawer and found a black marker pen, and on one panel of brown paper she emblazoned the legend: DAVID WINES. NOT KNOWN AT THIS ADDRESS. She opened the front door and walked down the path to her gate, where she casually dropped the parcel onto the pavement. She turned and walked briskly back up the path.
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