Whenever he was asked to tell the story of how he met Cara, Flick could almost feel the wind in his hair and the judder of the handlebars. As a boy, he loved coasting downhill to the town square, where his presence scattered the nuns and mums like chickens. More than once he had laughed at the fists and shouts thrown in his wake.
The Taxidermist had a secret. When he toiled for hours on his
project of the cat kingdom, the secret surfaced in the small lines
between his eyebrows. All of his competitors believed the secret had
something to do with his work. Tell us, they would cry, what is it that
makes the coats so shiny and the teeth so white? As he always did, the
Taxidermist would look at them, smiling his wry smile, and say: it's the formaldehyde.
As the sand trickled between her fingers and skimmed the polished mahogany of her father's coffin, the first thought that came to Edna was that it was soft and granular, which was unexpected; the second went along the lines of oh-crap-that's-my-father-in-there-and-he's-going-underground-soon. It occurred to her that she must have missed the eulogies and the vicar's rambling attempt at canonising a man who was widely accepted to be a jerk. Stuart had clamped her arm in his clammy hand. He seemed more distraught than she was. As she stepped forward, past the grave and into the shade of the trees, she tried to wriggle out of Stuart's embrace. Whenever he held her bicep, it felt as though he was measuring her and making mental notes about how she could get the best out of her next gym session. It was an occupational hazard for a personal trainer, this much she knew, but it made her feel inadequate. Her sister Genevieve blew her nose into her husband's hanky and the collective winced at the sound. Edna tried to hide her giggles. She hoped it would look like a body-wracking sob. The snorts didn't help. Stuart leant closer.
There's no way to avoid it, Jocelyn thought, as she stumbled through the crowd. All around her were people with lifeless eyes in pursuit of something. Was it happiness? A way out? She couldn't tell. But she knew that if she was to survive the ordeal, she'd have to leave soon. Except there was one more thing on her list that she needed: a gift for Mr D. She closed her eyes and steeled herself as her body and bag was jostled by passers-by, seemingly on similar, perhaps more important, missions.
Laura stepped aboard the Boeing and the blast of the airconditioning ruffled her hair. The man ahead of her coughed and shuddered the scent of cigarettes in her direction. She prayed he would not be sitting next to her. The welcoming committee asked for her ticket. Navigating the way to her seat was not beyond Laura, but she humoured them with a smile.
To read part one, click here: A Suitable Man [Part One]
Part Two continues below...
The generator probably would have started sooner if Barbara had not insisted on supervising him. She failed to point out the handy step-by-step instructions that were on the wall and opted to fuss and point and shriek instead. It didn't go unnoticed that she made an effort to stroke his arm for no apparent reason. By the time Christopher was back in bed, nearly an hour had passed. When his head hit the pillow, as tired as he was, he could only think about Julia.
