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Issue 10 - September 2008 - Prose
Trilby by Mark Reep
“It’s Trilby,” she says, “like the hat,” smiling a little, showing you a brief upward glance, a quizzical eyebrow lifted toward the rim of the white straw she’s wearing, as though she’s just noticed it, wondering how that got there. It’s funny, light, well-delivered, and you find yourself imagining other variations, other ways she may introduce herself, gestures she’s surely practiced, small hat-tips, brim-taps with a forefinger, a repertoire to draw on as needed. And then a flood of film noir images, this girl in a black felt instead, long black overcoat belted tightly at the waist, standing in a doorway, watching the rain…
“Oh yeah,” you hear yourself saying, “that works,” and she gives you a look, uncertain maybe if you’re making fun of her, or whatever. “No, seriously,” you say, “I’m thinking over by that window first, while we’ve got the light...” She seems to decide yeah, okay, but… “Umm, when we talked, I told you it’s fifty an hour, right?” “Crap,” you say, embarrassed, “I’m sorry,” grabbing for your wallet, the crisp new hundred you’ve set aside so you won’t have to hunt for it. She accepts it without comment, crosses to the window, holds the bill up to the light. Nods slightly, okay then– “No, wait, that’s hot, don’t move,” you say, hurrying to your tripod, bending to the viewfinder, let’s see.
NB: The next story is absolutely brilliant, but it does include some adult content. OK?
Chapter One: Death Minus Eight Days by Pete Harrodine, an extract from the novel Kissing Trisha Six Times.
[Friday 18th June, 1993. Death Clock Countdown: 8 Days; 3 Hours; 2 Minutes.]
“You should have heard Melanie Plumber just then, while we were setting up the chairs, going on about her Glen. Apparently she’s had her clitoris pierced – it’s to make it easier for him to find.”
“Good luck to her - she can hope. With my Ian, I’d need a glow-in-the-dark one that plays a tune when you touch it.”
Russell blushed, uncomfortable to find himself an eavesdropper. He recognized the speakers: young Colleen, the new junior from Personnel, and husky-voiced Yvonne from Customer Support. Their high-heels tapped across the tiled floor to the hand-basins and mirrors. Russell was hiding away in the middle cubicle of the Ladies loos.
“She reckons Glen calls her clit her pearl,” reported Colleen.
Yvonne scoffed. “Glen? No way. Like her fanny’s an oyster? She’s made that up herself. It’s putting me off the buffet.””
Russell heard the miscellaneous sounds of handbags set down, opened up and delved into. He was sitting naked on the toilet seat, his tie draped limply around his head: a failed attempt at a bandanna held up only by his ears. The rest of his clothes – his suit, shirt and what he’d had on for underwear - were hanging from a hook on the cubicle door.
“I was reading about Melanie’s personality type,” continued Yvonne, “and don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging her, but she needs therapy.”
“God, in so many ways!” laughed Colleen. “She’s obsessed with people’s weight, have you noticed? It’s all she ever talks about. And she’s so messed up about who’s fat and who’s not.”
“If she doesn’t like someone, they are. It’s because subconsciously she feels overweight herself. Which she is.” Yvonne’s words were distorted by lipstick application. “Borrow your blusher, Coll?”
Russell recalled how Yvonne had the skin tone of a dedicated smoker. Colleen was still all rosy-cheeked: a trainee fresh from college. Although they worked in different departments, Yvonne had taken Colleen under her wing as she did with all of the new starters.
“I don’t think she’s got a subconscious,” said Colleen. “Whatever’s in her head just pours out of her mouth. Hey, I hope she’s not in here spying on us.”
The pressure of a palm on Russell’s door briefly rattled the flimsy lock. Russell felt faintly alarmed. A self-adhesive sign reading OUT OF ORDER was affixed to the outside of his stall. He’d assumed it would guarantee him privacy. He’d swiped it earlier from an unmanned janitor’s trolley. He’d come across it as he’d roamed the corridors of the conference centre in search of solitude: some place where he could soothe his frazzled nerves.
“Pre-boredom piddle?” suggested Yvonne.
“And the last chance for a fag?”
“You’re learning.”
Russell sighed inwardly as the cubicle doors on either side of him closed. So much for peace and quiet, he thought. It was like having rowdy neighbours move in. He wished he had ear-lids he could close at will and block out all extraneous din.
He concentrated on making his breathing as shallow and unobtrusive as possible.
It occurred to him that he was in a slightly tricky situation. He supposed, despite his desire for isolation, he should have made his presence known as soon as the girls had entered. Now, if he made a noise and they became aware of someone lurking in their toilets, they might get the wrong impression: they’d think that he was some old pervert, when it was just him, Russ, from Technical Services; and he was only thirty-three.
He listened to the unmistakable rustle of skirts hoisted up, and pants pulled down, and then the creak of plastic toilet seats. Hearing without seeing painted its own pictures.
He carefully laid down his pen on the A4 pad he had on his lap. Prior to the girls’ intrusionhe’d been focused intently on his writing, hunched over the pad, scribbling furiously; crossing out, pondering, tapping his biro on his teeth, and then scribbling some more.
“I’ll tell you who will need therapy,” said Colleen, to his right. “My mum and dad. I’m eight days late.”
Russell could tell her sudden, earnest candour was only because she was hidden from sight. He felt sorry for her. He waited expectantly for Yvonne to adopt the role of comforter, but she made no immediate comment.
He heard them both open packs of cigarettes. From Yvonne’s side he recognized the scratch of a lighter failing to spark. It caught at the umpteenth attempt.
“We’re not supposed to smoke in here,” Yvonne said finally. “Flick your ash into the bowl, Coll. Mind not to singe your ginger.”
“Bush fire,” Colleen joked. “I’m never late though. Eight days, Von!” She lit her cigarette with a match and exhaled. “I’m kicking myself. I should never have done it. It’s my Nugs. He keeps wanting me to suck him off but the taste makes me gag.”
“Urgh. Nil By Mouth, as far as I’m concerned,” Yvonne stated grimly. “They piss out of that thing.”
Russell frowned. He’d never thought of it like that.
“It was a couple of weeks ago now,” disclosed Colleen. “Nugs pulled out in time, but then he spunked over my… you know - I never know what to call it - my pubic mound.”
“Your pubic mound!” Yvonne mocked her. “You make it sound like a picnic area. Anyone for egg and cress?”
Russell thought she was being tactless. He’d become grudgingly engrossed in their conversation. He was switching his gaze between partition walls like a blind man following a tennis match.
“I think some might have dribbled down,” revealed Colleen forlornly.
She shuffled her feet. The edge of one of her shoes came into viewbelow the raised side panel. Russell could just see a varnished little toe. He studied it. She’d trimmed her toenail too low and to compensate had painted over the skin where the nail should have been. He hypothesized upon how far he might have to lean forward in order to catch a glimpse of her knickers. They could only be a tantalizing fraction out of sight.
“I just hope it’s like they say,” Colleen went on. “Most girls miscarry the first time, don’t they? Fingers crossed.”
A moment’s pregnant silence followed.
Russell eased very gently forward on his seat.
Then Yvonne farted - a strained peep!
“Oops! Manners!” she instantly reprimanded herself.
Russell smelled something fishy.
“Von, not again, you dirty mare!” protested Colleen. “Every time I pour my heart out, you break wind.”
Russell sat back. Yvonne was laughing throatily, a mutated cough that sounded inherited from someone twice her age.
“It cracks you up though, Coll,” she rasped. “Go on, admit it.”
“Oh, I’m peeing myself,” answered Colleen.
She sounded disappointed, as though she’d hoped for more. Russell couldn’t blame her. Yvonne hadn’t exactly proved herself a sage. Though to be fair to both sides, Colleen appeared to have lost all sense of perspective. For a start, thought Russell, if his major concern was whether or not he was a few days late for a period, he'd be a happy man. It wasn’t pregnancy Colleen had to fear, it was what happened at the end of it. He wondered if pointing out how much worse things could get might make her feel better. He seriously considered speaking out right then and there, but decided against it. Everyone had their own ideas of boundariesand Colleen struck him as the shy, reserved type. A disembodied male voice weighing in with an opinion on the regularity of her menstrual cycle might be construed as stepping over a line.
Besides which, he had his writing to complete. There were still words out of place, and they all needed to be fixed in the next few minutes. Time was running out.
He picked up his pen and jotted Colleen’s name at the top of his page. He’d speak to her later, in confidence - somewhere without Yvonne there - once the company’s Annual General Meeting was over. Yvonne had begun listing methods of birth control. He heard her spin her toilet roll and tear off a clutch of sheets; he craved a wider span between his thumb and middle finger so he could plug up both his ears with the same hand. He forced his mind back onto his composition.
On Colleen’s side a sprinkle of ash floated down onto the floor.