The July afternoon had decided to turn nasty after all. The wind
cruelly ripped off some of the sweetest blooms in
the front garden of Hilda’s cottage. As Zara
and Alan unleashed the iron gate, a decapitated
yellow rose threw itself at their feet. Zara cradled
it in her open palms: the petals cascaded like lemon
butterflies on to the patchy lawn; the stem was
too short to be placed in a bud vase. She discarded
it amongst the other broken flowers. “It’s
been a funny old year for flowers,” she uttered,
almost as an afterthought.
“Yeah,” Alan muttered, ensuring the
gate was firmly fastened. “Look at poor old
Hilda’s geraniums! She’s always had
a wonderful show. They won’t even bloom this
year. It’s too cold and too wet.” He
followed Zara down the rose petal–confettied
path, digging deep into his denims for the front-door
key. “Damn!” he spat.
“Oh, you haven’t gone and lost the front-door
key?”
“Nope. Here it is.” He unlocked the
door. “I’ve just remembered I was going
to get another lock for that French window. All
that excitement at the local constabulary blew it
clean out of my mind.”
“How are you fixed tomorrow?” She avoided
his gaze.
“Work. I’ll be out the door by six-thirty.
Sorry. You won’t have the pleasure of my company.
I should be home just after six, though. You’ve
got the whole day to get into mischief.”
“I could get a lock for the door. I’m
not up to much on DIY, but we could have a go at
it when you got home.”
A few good shakes and prods were all that was needed
to force an exit via the French windows. Zara breathed
in the night-scented stock and lavender aroma. There
must have been a time once when she dreamed of a
cottage garden just like this one.
She knew her role in life was to bake tansy cookies
and toss marigold salads until a man sucked her
identity into his own flatulent one. And in all
those fairy tales, the handsome prince was a pretty
decent sort of bugger. He had to be, of course,
as it was written in his contract that he and the
princess were to live happily ever after. Zara recalled
reading somewhere that the official interpretation
of “happily ever after” was “plenty
of orgasms, thank you very much.”
“Need this, Zara?” Alan was holding
out the grey plastic wash basket. He’d opened
the kitchen window, and she could hear the comforting
throb of the kettle boiling. She took the basket
and began unpegging the washing, dropping it carefully
in. She’d forgotten how much she’d hung
out. Perhaps Alan was as good at ironing as he was
at persuading her to stay.
“There should be a packet of biscuits in this
cupboard down here,” he said, just as she
heaved the wash basket on top of the washing machine.
He pulled out a red tin, eased off the top, and
growled, “Damn! The little buggers.”
He dropped the tin in disgust. About a thousand
little black ants tumbled and fell out onto the
flagged floor.
“How the hell did they get into that tin?”
“How the hell do they ever get anywhere?”
he yelled, stamping on them like a maniac. “One
side of the tin doesn’t sit properly. They
obviously sent their scout. He got a foot in the
door and fetched the whole city. I think Hilda’s
got some Kybosh somewhere. Take the tea into the
lounge and I’ll spray the hell out of them.
How dare they rob me of my chocolate digestives!
Take that!” He stamped away. “And that!”
He stamped again wildly.
At least he’s got his sneakers on, thought
Zara as she found a tray to transport the cups into
the lounge.
As she sat beside the glass coffee table, sipping,
she heard long hisses of spray coming from the kitchen.
Seconds later, Alan threw himself out the door,
holding his nose. A waft of Kybosh swept menacingly
towards Zara’s feet.
“I shouldn’t go in there for about half
an hour. It’s a battlefield out there.”
He was still gripping the Kybosh. “We ought
to get some more of this stuff. Do you know this
is the second can Hilda’s had to buy this
month? Last year we just had a few little menacers
indoors in May, then the big swarm in July, when
all the wingers strut their stuff. But this year
they’ve been a nightmare. We had such a bad
infestation in June, I actually rang Rentokil for
their advice. The three of us spent all one evening
trying to rid the house of them. The next morning
they were back worse than ever. There was a thick
band of them heading back and forth from the rubbish
bin.”
“Yeah. My landlady had the same. They all
got into her conservatory. They seemed to get turned
on by the rain.”
“I’ll just get rid of this empty can
and go and wash my hands. Sorry about the biscuits,
by the way. Hope you’re making a shopping
list. This is the time when I miss Hilda not being
around. She always manages to overlap everything.
I just wait until it runs out and then wonder what
the hell I’ve done with it.”
“Typical man. Hurry up or your tea will get
cold.”
Zara listened to him trundling upstairs, then she
heard the tap in the bathroom running and reminded
herself not to use the hand towel. There were plenty
of clean ones in the airing cupboard, thanks to
Hilda’s good old-fashioned housekeeping. The
one Alan was using now would probably need a run
through the boil-wash programme on the washing machine.
“Is it cold?” she asked Alan, who was
at last gulping down that cup of tea.
“Nah. This is fine.”
She gathered up the cups and was just about to go
into the kitchen, when he reminded her of the Kybosh.
So she killed time with the News of the World.
Alan could see she was bored. “Songs of
Praise is on if you want to watch it.”
“I’m not that desperate. But you can
have it on if you want. I don’t mind.”
“Okay. I quite like some of those tunes. And
sometimes they have some rather interesting people.”
Zara looked at him in astonishment. “Er, Alan?”
He was already sinking into a chintz armchair, preparing
to enjoy the programme. “Yeah?”
“You’re not a Jehovah’s Witness,
are you?”
Alan flicked off Sally Magnusson and turned on Zara.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Jesus.
I show you a cathedral and reveal that I enjoy a
few hymn tunes, and you have me campaigning against
blood transfusions. What is it with you atheists?
I’m not some religious freak, you know. I
don’t go knocking on people’s doors,
leaving them with a quote from the Bible to mull
over while they’re having their tea. Now if
you don’t mind . . .” He flicked the
programme back on and joined in loudly with “Tell
Me the Old, Old Story.”
“I’m not an atheist.” Zara gathered
up the cups and decided to brave the Kybosh.
Alan broke off and said, “What was that?”
“I said I’m not an atheist!” she
screamed at him.
“Good. I’m jolly relieved to hear that,
Zara. Now I know that you and I can both share in
the Kingdom of God when the time comes. Alleluia!”
He then joined in with “Onward Christian Soldiers.”
“Smug bastard,” she muttered under her
breath. It was people like him that put people like
her off going to church.
She opened the kitchen door with her elbow. Placing
the empty cups on the table, she then checked out
the damage. Most of the ants were dead. It was amazing
how death had so quickly shrunk them. Two or three
old die-hards were hobbling around on the flags.
She put them out of their misery with two or three
stamps of her shoes. The floor would need a good
vacuuming and scrub with disinfectant before she’d
fancy walking around in her bare feet again.
There was still a strong whiff of Kybosh, which
was hardly surprising, as Alan must have used half
a can on them.
“What the hell are you doing now?”
Zara kicked off the switch of the vacuum. “What
the hell does it look like? Sorry. Did you want
to keep the bodies for scientific research?”
Alan’s face darkened like midsummer sky on
the threshold of a tropical storm. “If you
weren’t a woman, I’d knock you down
for that remark. I’m sick to death of people
taking the piss out of me for being a scientist!”
Unperturbed, especially as she was the one armed
with the vacuum cleaner, Zara responded with a “You
should try being an estate agent, or, better still,
a banker. Now everybody hates bankers. Even bankers
hate other bankers.”
“How do you know?” Alan’s sudden
curiosity in bankers fragmented his anger.
“I’ve temped in all the main banks.
What a load of sad bastards they really are. At
least in research you’re trying to do something
for humanity, not dismantle its integrity.”
Alan blinked at her. Had he underestimated her intelligence?
“Oh, God, Zara. Here I go again. Sorry, sorry,
sorry. I’m a clumsy sod, aren’t I?”
He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat
on it. Leaning back in it, he closed his eyes and
sighed, “I just don’t know how to handle
a woman. Of course I’m lucky not to be a bloody
banker. There’s just so much I can’t
tell you, that’s all.”
Zara dropped the nozzle of the vacuum cleaner, and
it clanked deafeningly to the floor. Ignoring Alan’s
wince, she leaned towards him and put her arms around
him. “I think we both need a bit of practice
in dealing with the opposite sex. What’s wrong
with me vacuuming them up, anyway?”
“I was just going to suggest that we sweep
them up with a dustpan and brush and then burn them.
There’s a possibility they might come alive
again in the dust bag.”
“I think most of them are very, very dead,”
she assured him kindly. “If not, they’ll
choke on the dust. Please don’t be cross with
me. I feel awkward enough as it is staying in a
stranger’s house, opening and closing a stranger’s
cupboards. I’m doing my best, you know.”
“I know, I know. Zara?” He looked her
right in the eye.
“Yeah?” She tried to sound casual, but
guessed by the way he said her name that he was
about to ask her something she wasn’t going
to like very much.
“Were you trying to get me arrested earlier?”
“What a strange question. Of course I wasn’t.
You haven’t done anything, have you?”
He pulled away from her. “You were planning
on giving me the slip, weren’t you? I can’t
say I blame you. You don’t know who I really
am. You’re busy battling away trying to find
the real you. Tell me something, Zara!”
“What?” Her eyes were filling up again.
“Why did you come here? Why did you come to
Lichfield? Why did you come to this part of Lichfield?
Why did you gate-crash my party?”
Zara held his sweet, pale, narrow face in her hands
and said in her saddest, most serious voice, “I
had no choice. Three hours earlier I had been abducted
by aliens. When I finally persuaded them to let
me go, they dropped me off at the nearest spot.
That just happened to be your dear old Rose Cottage,
just north of Lichfield. Sorry I couldn’t
manage a more original answer.” She kissed
him on the forehead.
“Were you really abducted by aliens? God,
Zara. Why the hell didn’t you tell me earlier?
Some magazines will pay two hundred and fifty quid
for a story like that. Will you show me the spot
where you landed? I’ve got some equipment
in the attic. You realise you may have been contaminated
by radiation? You really should have told me before.”
“So you believe my story?”
“Of course I do. That would explain the French
windows crashing in. That would be the pulling power
of the spaceship as it entered the stratosphere.
And those clothes that went missing. It all fits
now. Thank God I know the truth. Tonight I’ll
sleep like a log.”
“Captain’s log?”
They both thought that was very funny.
“Shall we do some ironing now? I expect you’ll
need to get your work things ready for tomorrow.”
“Um, Hilda usually does all my ironing.”
Alan wasn’t laughing anymore.
“I see.” Neither was Zara. Emancipation
obviously hasn’t hit this spot in Lichfield,
even if alien life-forms have. Who would have thought
that aliens would arrive here before the Women’s
Movement?
His eyes glazed with disappointment. “Look,
I’m letting you stay here rent-free. Is it
too much to expect you to iron a couple of my shirts?
Anyway, you don’t have to do it now. You can
do it tomorrow when I’m out working.”
“That’s it. I’m out of here.”
She kicked aside the vacuum cleaner, tripped over
the biscuit tin lying there like a mini-sarcophagus,
and charged up the stairs to find her holdall.
“Come back, you stupid bitch! Where will you
go, anyway? Gary and Julia won’t want you.
Carl’s probably shagging Gary’s wife.
Your landlady’s probably interviewing other
potential lodgers. She’s bound to have given
up on you after seeing you whisked off by aliens.
Face it, Zara. You need me. We were meant for each
other.”
Zara dragged her holdall down the stairs. She then
rummaged through the clean laundry, pulling out
her share of the fresh but creased clothing. She
fished in her purse, snatched out a fiver, and threw
it at him. “I’d have made it a tenner,
but I’m short of cash, and anyway I didn’t
go much on the hospitality.” Before she slammed
her way out of the front door, she finally remarked,
“Oh, and anybody who thinks that visiting
a cathedral and watching Songs of Praise
are indications of being a good Christian ought
to be thrown to the lions. Good-bye and thanks for
a memorable experience.”
If Alan had just let her go, the story would have
ended there. Zara would have dragged her holdall
to the nearest bus stop, waited perhaps for half
an hour, and then realised that it was Sunday and
there were no buses running that evening. She would
have then dragged her holdall all the way to the
station. By now she would be crying tears of frustration,
but the rain would act as good camouflage. Having
reached the station, she would be handed that elusive
gift of choice again. She could choose to join Gary
and Julia. She could choose to travel down to Andover
and leap into bed with Carl before Linda got there.
Finally, she could choose to return to Reading.
Of course none of these choices amounted to much.
Perhaps she really would have been better off abducted
by aliens. It was happening to everybody these days.
“Zara!”
She would return to Reading.
“Zara!”
She would ring Julia.
“Zara!”
Carl needed her.
“Zara! I love you!”
Oh shit.
She would persuade him to wash more thoroughly.
She would swap that hand towel for a clean one.
She would scrub that floor. She would start on that
ironing. She would ask him to please not buy the
News of the World anymore, she was a Mail
on Sunday girl. And finally, when all was damn
well said and done, she would get to the bottom
of that thing, whatever it was, that was troubling
him. Why? Because she didn’t have anywhere
better to go. Why? Because he was standing in the
rain in the middle of the road crying her name like
a sick old tomcat. Why? Because she loved the bugger.
God knew how. Also, she had to find some way of
breaking the terrible news to him. She was absolutely
certain she had pegged out two white T-shirts that
morning. When she had fetched them in that evening—and
she was sure it had nothing to do with being abducted
by aliens—there were, without doubt, three
white T-shirts.
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