Social drinker

Doris has the kind of croaky, crackly voice that makes you want to cough, to clear your own throat. She’s a 40 a day woman – whiskies, that is. And with every shot she has at least three smokes. She used to sit in the corner bar, at the same table, seven days a week, her ash blonde hair piled high on her head like perfectly woven candy floss. Not a single strand would have moved by last orders and she always managed to leave carefully but elegantly on her high heels. These days, her legs can’t carry her from the chair to the doorway every time she needs a cigarette. Now she stays at home, using her the pension her husband left her to order her bottles by phone.

The Beast

Mrs Windsor likes going to the shop in the village. It stocks the hairspray she uses: Bel Air. And it always has the right colour of tights: American Tan, 20 dernier. She shops there every Tuesday, after her regular coffee morning at the church hall, which she absolutely never misses.

The heels of her splendid Clarks shoes made a lovely clicking sound on the clean floor tiles of the shop. Simple, plain, white tiles. She made her way past the toiletries section, diverting her eyes appropriately as she passed the feminine hygiene products. They were so brazenly explicit these days. And those advertisements on the television! She blushed to even think about them. A good thing Mr Windsor wasn’t here to see such things. Honestly! Mary Whitehouse must be turning in that undoubtedly well-tended and well-attended grave of hers.

It was at that moment that she saw Mr Cummings. Fortunately, he was a few paces farther along and couldn’t have seen the flush in Mrs Windsor’s cheeks. He was selecting a packet of double edged razor blades, Wilkinson Sword. A proper blade, she thought. Not one of these fashionable, triple blade safety-razor types that fighter pilots and football players use. No, Mr Cummings was always well turned out, still wearing the black tie he has worn since his wife died six years ago last May. She knows him from church. He seems to be a good friend with Mr Teddington, pastor of their parish for the last 27 years. She always sees them talking together after Sunday service.

She rounded the next aisle to the warm drinks, teas, coffees and condiments, but Mr Cummings was nowhere to be seen. He must have skipped past this aisle directly to the next. Men always did that. But just as she reached for her Horlicks he appeared once again, seemingly from nowhere. He was straining to read the little note in his hand and completely without looking, he stretched out his arm for a jar of Horlicks too.

Well. Would you believe? His hand touched the hand of Mrs Windsor! Her naked hand too, as the weather had taken a mild turn and she had not put on her gloves that morning. He immediately realised his error and withdrew his hand. But it was too late. Mr Windsor, may God rest his soul, had been the only person to ever touch her in such a manner, and the last time that happened was Whitsun morn, 23 years ago, the result of which was their daughter, Laura.

Mr Cummings tried to offer his apologies, but the deed was done. Mrs Windsor held the unmolested hand to her mouth and called for assistance. “Help! Help!” she cried. “Arrest this man. Arrest this beast.” For that was what Mr Cummings was, he was no better than those filthy animals she’d seen on Henry Jackson’s farm. The horses. Yes, he was a filthy, disgusting, uncontrollable animal. He was a beast.

Pretty puzzler

As soon as he sees her he tells her about last night, the great laugh he had with his mates out clubbing. Cara takes a crossword book from her trendy, African style bag. The story bursts from him, how they spoke to this guy and then they spoke to that guy and then he said this and then he said that. Cara lifts her head, looks in his direction, her concentrations elsewhere. She responds to his giggling monologue with a Mona Lisa smile until inspiration hits her. She writes the answer, sits back, pleased with herself. He continues, eagerly trying to make her part of his world. She moves on to the next one across, quietly filling in the blanks on her own.

Whispering worker

It’s not that Lucy reads out loud. She reads in a loud whisper, a whistling hiss of words indistinguishable to everyone but her. Irritating to everyone but her. The vocal scratch stops only when she ticks at the keyboard or shouts out ’shit’ at her own stupidity, but blames that on the computer. When her eyes go back to the screen she restarts her verbal rustling. Her colleagues plug in their iPods, the crackle from the earphones adding to the white noise in the office. It is never really quite in here.

Relaxed man

Robert likes this shop. It has a special sitting area for the men as they wait for their women to choose and try on clothes. The broad table is, according to Robert, made from teak, although the guy opposite him last week said it was oak, maybe maple. It’s surface it scattered with the day’s newspapers and a selection of this month’s magazines – Men’s Health, GQ, Word. A stylish machine offers enough moving parts and buttons to the make the unlimited supply of coffee even more entertaining. And there’s a saucer of chocolate biscuits, kept stocked up by the youngest and prettiest sales assistant. Robert could spend hours in here, and sometimes he does. Unlike the other men, he’s not waiting on a woman to drag him to the next shop. He’s enjoying this one on his own.

Street sprinter

Gavin didn’t trip. No he didn’t. Look, he’s just walking a little faster now, his cheeks red from the extra exertion. Those sniggering schoolkids have got it wrong. He was using that broken stone in the pavement to push himself forward, like a sprinter from the starting blocks. He just wants to get where he’s going, and get away from here, as quickly as possible.

EXHIBIT A

Darling Angelina,

I saw you last night, but you didn’t see me.

You appeared so far away when we were actually so close, no more than five or six body lengths apart. And only a wooden door between us. The tiny lens distorted your proportions (you really should flip the cover of the spyhole at night) but I could see you. You were stretched out on the settee, wearing a pair of pale blue boxer shorts and a thin cotton vest, like the one you wore at the end of The Cradle of Life, when the bad guy ripped off your shirt. It gave you something of a masculine look (my father often wore a vest) but also very feminine.

Sexy.

You lay there, on those marshmallow cushions, slipping your hand under the soft material, raising it to just below those gorgeous, perfect breasts, exposing your skin.

Your skin.

The colour of desert sand at dusk.

And smooth.

You stroked and circled the bugle of your belly with your fingertips, no doubt communicating with the little being inside.

My mind shot to the scene where Ethan Hawke stuck a knife in just there. Except that time there wasn’t a real baby inside, not even Hollywood real. You’d faked it to trap him. But if someone was to stick a knife in there now that child would die and the killer would be left there, alone with you. No one else.

I’d been in your room earlier. In the bathroom. I took off my uniform, took everything off, and stood under the shower where you stood, just shortly before.

Naked.

I picked up the towel you’d used, still damp from you, and wrapped myself in it.

Funny. You’d left it on the floor, so I could leave you a new one, but you’d folded it first. I realised you must have thought of me when you did that. My skin goosepimpled and I felt so close to you. I lay on your sheets. There was still some warmth and scent of you on the pillow. I have that pillow now.

Later, I saw you in the lobby.

Do you remember?

Our eyes met.

Of course you remember, you felt it too. You felt that connection. How could you not? You were with that other woman, the one who’s always around you. Is that your publicist? Your agent? Your lover? Oh no, that’s the pretty boy, isn’t it? The skinny blonde wimp. Sometimes you can be so blind. But not at that moment, when we looked at each other – yes, it was only for a moment – but at that moment there was no one else in the world. Only you and me. And I realised why I was there. Why I had that filthy job. It finally brought me close to you. Closer to my dreams. Fantasy becoming reality. It’s what you deserve. And when we meet again we’ll share that. And more.

Until then, my darling. Until soon.

I can always be your chamber maid

Yours

Alison D,

forever

Death marcher

Jill walks like she’s just had news of a death. Her steps are so short and slow that the people behind her have to go around her. Her eyes are fixed on a spot on the far horizon, helping her to stay on her unnaturally straight course. At the corner, she continues straight on. At the junction, the green man arrives exactly on time to show her to the other side. But even he loses his patience and starts blinking before she’s halfway across. By the time her foot hits the opposite kerb, he’s gone. And off she goes, that point on the horizon just as far as it was when she set out earlier.

Fashion victim

Jared hates shopping for clothes. It’s trying on new things that annoys him most. All that dressing and undressing in a public place makes him hot and sweaty. And the curtains in the changing rooms never close properly, there’s always still some gap. But he has to suffer it. He finds a few possibilities and takes them to the changing room. He tugs the curtain closed and moves to the side where he can’t be seen. People could still look in through the slight gap and see his reflection, but if they do he will glare at them. First, he tries on the one he knows he won’t like, the one with red strips. No good. Grey stripes? Better, but he’s already sweating and getting exasperated. He tries the one with dark blue stripes. Not perfect but it’ll do. He escapes to the till, still pulling on his old jacket, the one with pale blue stripes.

Builder’s bum

Mike was one of the first in his school to let his jeans hang low, showing off his CK underpants. He took all the jokes, that it looked like he’d farted and his arse had fainted. But he didn’t care. The girls thought it was sexy, his trousers almost off already. And Mike got used to the look, found it comfortable. But the girls don’t find it sexy anymore, not even his own three girls, not with his gut now almost hanging as low as his waistband. But he doesn’t care. A lot of guys at his work have that look, his mates down at the building site.