Short Story Sunday: Latchberry Farm

 

The breeze carried the scent of the forest into Sasha’s bedroom. The curtains billowed against the sash window, seeming to resist the fragrance of greenery after the rain. Sasha’s reverie was interrupted by the weight of Fred, the Golden Retriever, landing on her bed. 

Wednesday Write-Up: Rabbit Season

The flies would not leave Pepper’s hair alone. She, along with the other hopefuls, was perched on garden furniture under a tarpaulin that was big enough to seat five hundred. The sun was edging towards midday and they hadn’t got round to calling her number yet. She’d made the mistake of wearing stilettos (there had been no mention of walking on grass in the info pack) and was starting to itch underneath her pleather dress; she’d told her mother to dump powder down there but she hadn’t listened. The zip was threatening to weld to her spine the longer she sat. She checked her papers again: entrant A34801D, Pepper du Preez, 19, 36-28-34. She swatted at another fly and sighed. Her stomach was growling, but she couldn’t eat. There were no bathrooms nearby and she didn’t want to risk messing up her make-up.

“Pepper du Preez?”

She looked up at a woman better suited to a study in drab clothing than a gopher for the promoters. Pepper clenched her arms in front of her to make her breasts pop.

“That’s me! Over here.” An attempt at a graceful sweep of her handbag went awry when the faux Vuitton smacked April Fisher across the face and smudged her lipstick.

“Sorry, sweetie.”

April flicked a finger in her direction.

Madame Bored wore a name badge that said her name was Madge and asked how she could be of help.

“Sign here, Pepper.”

“What’s this for?”

“It’s the register.”

“Oh.” She giggled and embellished her signature with hearts on the Ps and xs along the line of the z at the end of du Preez.

“Step this way.” Madge had about as much enthusiasm as someone about to clean a public toilet.

Pepper hobbled between several black sheets until she came to another part of the tent where it was quieter. Upholstered chairs were arranged around a table and a camera tripod was pointed at the head of the table. Two men were standing to one side, muttering about light checks. She hovered and then cleared her throat.

“Uh, hello. I’m Pepper.”

A man who was all moustache and no upper lip stepped forward and dazzled her with a smile.

“Pepper. Nick Devon. Welcome. Please have a seat.” He shook her hand and then guided her to the head of the table. She plonked the faux Vuitton on the floor next to her. A glass of water materialised. She noticed her reflection in the mirror against the wall and her hands flew around her face, trying to tame the flyaways.

Nick sat facing her, just out of the line of the camera. He signalled and the cameraman started rolling.

“So, Pepper, I’m going to ask you a few questions. Try not to look at the camera – in fact, act as though the camera isn’t here – and then... Yeah. Why don’t you tell us what you think qualifies you to be the next Bunny Babe.”

Pepper bit her lip and manoeuvred her arms so that her cleavage was enhanced in the v-neck of her dress. “Well, Nick, I am the next Bunny Babe because I know how to give men what they want.”

“What might that be?”

“Their fantasies. I know that men really want a good girl to take home to their mothers and to bring them martinis and slippers at the end of the day, but they also want a bad girl who can show them a good time.”

“Really? How do you do that?”

Pepper sucked on her bottom lip and exhaled slowly. She lowered her head and then looked up through her eyelashes with a coquettish flutter of her lids. Her voice was low and breathy as she said, “Oh, Nick, I have my ways.”

Nick turned to the cameraman and said, “Cut. Pepper, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’s sitting behind the mirror. Madge will take you.”

Madge appeared at the table and waited for her to stand and fling faux Vuitton over her shoulder. April’s smudged lips bobbed as Pepper walked back through the curtains and into the waiting area, which was sweltering. They still hadn’t done anything about the grass walkways.

“I should have worn wedges.”

“Yes.” Madge seemed indifferent.

They arrived at a white door and a bodyguard in a suit opened it.

“Mr Fechter, this is Pepper.”

“Yes. I’ve been watching you.”

Pepper tried to reconcile where Fechter ended and the couch began. His arms were like dough parcels resting on cushions placed on either side of him. A satin robe parted over his knees to reveal silk boxers and the hair on his chest was strangled by the folds of flesh. He was sitting in front of a panel of glass, which she now realised was the mirror from before. Another hopeful, who she recognised as Rylann Nash, was doing her best to flirt with Nick. She looked at Fechter and realised his erection was the reason the robe had opened. She felt bile in her throat.

“Come here, Pepper.”

She remained at the door. Madge had disappeared and the bodyguard, whose suit and watch were probably worth more than what her father made in the last thirty years of working, was blocking the door.

“Don’t make me ask again.”

A nudge from behind gave her the momentum to near Fechter.

“Aren’t you a beautiful thing? Sit.”

Pepper found herself in his lap. She was itching like crazy under the pleather, and her leg kept grazing his manhood.

Fechter stroked her face. “I saw how you spoke to Nick just now. It had an... effect on me.”

Pepper laughed.

“You said you knew how to show men a good time?”

She nodded.

“Well, then I’d like you to think of this as your audition.” His breath smelt of dried meat and pickles and the perspiration on his forehead seemed to ooze from his oiled pate. He rested a hand on her thigh. “Show me, baby.” He jerked his leg and, in a single move, she slid off his lap and landed between his legs, the leaning tower of Fechter front and centre. “Show me.”

Pepper took the tissue Madge offered her.

“You missed a spot.” Madge pointed at her cheek. They were walking away from the tarpaulin and the other hopefuls towards the car park. “We’ll be in touch in the next few weeks. Thanks for your interest in Bunny Babes.” They got to the edge of the grass where the paved drive began. “This is where I leave you.”

Pepper stared at her shoes and considered how much of her make-up had run. The flies were back, haloing her hair and signposting the stinking mess she felt.

Madge put her hand on Pepper’s arm. “Look, you’re a smart kid. You’re not destined for a life of blowdries and blowjobs. Go and make something of yourself.”

“But I am Bunny material.”

“You and a hundred others who stopped by today. Have a little self-respect, love. Sucking off an old man isn’t the culmination of all your hopes and dreams.”

Pepper smoothed her dress, which stuck to her palms rather than flattening against her body, straightened up and looked Madge in the eye. “No. But it’s something.” She cracked her face into a smile and adjusted the faux Vuitton’s strap on her shoulder. “Which is more than I can say for you. I have breasts. Big, bouncy breasts. And I intend to milk these babies for everything they’ve got.”

Madge smirked. “Good luck, Pepper.”

“Good bye, Madge.”

Pepper strutted to her car, aware that she was being watched, and hoped nobody would notice how her mascara streaked down her face.

Short Story Sunday: E is for Explosive

For Ursula and her adventures with the ex-MI5 agent

The last time Harvey spoke to me, he warned me about the innocuous.

“Beware civilians, Cynthia,” he said. “It’s easy to overlook danger that’s right under your nose. Not all baddies come with Enid Blyton descriptors.”

Harvey was my mentor and superior. Everything I know about this game I learnt from watching him. Most of the time he didn’t speak to me at all, so it was a case of learning to read the signs: the tension in his breathing, the excitement in his cheek spasms, the fear in the sweat along his temple. Harvey taught me to read people, to notice them. I found reading him the most difficult because he had trained himself to render his features almost immobile. Those were the days before Botox, mind, so it took incredible control on his part to sustain that level of seeming indifference.

I spent so much time studying his face that I could see it behind my eyelids at night: his hair was wavy in the morning but straight in the evening owing to the number of times he ran his fingers through it. He told me once it had started in prep school when the school master asked him to solve a tricky bit of long division. His eyes were blue and flecked with brown near the iris. Our colleagues always teased him about his jowls, which he claimed he’d inherited from his father, together with a beak of a nose. He didn’t have lips as much as a gash for a mouth, which made him look amused rather than happy when he smiled. Harvey never went anywhere without a tweed jacket, a pocket watch and a penknife. When he was very drunk at the Christmas party of 1968, he claimed this combination had saved his bacon on many occasions. That was the same night he told me he loved me.

I never married, of course. Not in this business. It’s no good allowing sentiment to distract you from the fact that one of your slip-ups could cost lives. Harvey, on the other hand, had many affairs. He saw pleasure as a diversion and I think he rather enjoyed playing at James Bond. He thought he was discreet but after our trip to Montreal he got into the habit of sending his conquests to call on my hotel room the next day and, since I was good at getting rid of them for him, I suppose you could say we had a sort of gentleman’s agreement. I miss Harvey every day.

Back to the present: I am undercover and working on my next case.

“Where did you say you were from, dear?”

She is soaping my legs and feet. I decide to butter her up with my defenceless old lady routine. Her face is open and unlined with a high forehead and the hair tucked behind her ears is light brown.

“I’m from London at the moment.”

Somehow, I have misplaced the papers for my assignment. I have looked all over the study but they are gone. This new woman who calls herself Ursula Kuba is the target. I suspect ties with Moscow; her surname was my first clue. I cannot believe how sloppy the Reds have become. She is all over the house, with her loud voice and an accent I cannot place. She claims she is here to care for me, but I am having none of it. I wish Harvey were around. A quick phone call to him from the red box at the bottom of the road would straighten me out. Ursula is insisting I have a bath. I must play along for the sake of remembering my mission.

“And before that?”

“I have travelled all over, Cynthia. I have lived in South Africa, Australia and New Zealand and even in the United States for a while. For now I call London home.”

“What about your parents?”

“My father is German.”

I have never interrogated such a forthcoming target before. She might be lying.

“Really? Which part of Germany is he from?”

“His family is from Bavaria, I think. But now he’s moved north-east.”

“To Berlin?”

“Yes.”

“East Berlin?”

“I think so, yes. Why? Have you been there?” Her face beams innocence.

“I have, actually. Ghastly place. Full of communism and poverty.”

Ursula laughed. “I’m sure things have changed a bit since your last visit.”

“What do you mean?”

“Communism has been over for a while now, Cynthia. Ever since the Gorbachev years.”

“Gorbachev? Who is Gorbachev?” I begin to shout. “Who sent you?”

“Mikhail Gorbachev was the president of Russia during the late 1980s. And Brenda from ‘Helping Hands’ sent me.” She looks tired. I don’t believe her. She’s been wiping my left foot for an age. I decide to change tack and kick her across the face. Her eyes cloud with anger as a mark appears on her cheek.

“Cynthia, why did you do that?”

“I know who you’re working for, Miss Kuba. What did they send you to find? I won’t talk. You’ll get nothing out of me.”

She withdraws the bucket and washcloth. “I’m going to make us some tea, Cynthia. Would you like some? With a chocolate biscuit?”

The old distraction routine. “Fine. But when you get back, we’re going to have a serious talk, young lady.”

Her nod is resigned.

I think I may have bought myself at least seven minutes to look for my instruction papers. I feel down the side of armchair. The book! I had forgotten. I open it and scan my last entry. I know I would have put the coded instructions here to jog my memory. Oh no. There’s a bomb on a railway track. We don’t know which and she’s the link to the Reds. I need to call her back, but I have forgotten the target’s name.

“Young lady! Get back here!”

She is impassive and wiping her hands on a tea towel when she appears at the door.

“I’m not playing games. Where is the bomb?”

“What bomb, Cynthia? I’ve just gone to make tea.”

“The bomb you and the Reds have planted. Our intelligence tells me that it’s on a railway track and, mark my words, our intelligence is far superior to yours.”

To my horror, she starts laughing. “If that is the case, Cynthia, why don’t you know where the bomb is?”

I didn’t expect her to be this clever. “Oh, I know where it is. I just need you to confirm what I know. I’m not going to overplay my hand at this stage, young lady. Now tell me. Where is the bomb?”

A whistle from the kitchen distracts her. “I’ll be right back with the tea.”

I calculate that I have around three minutes before her return. Not much time to think of a new modus operandi. I decide to hide behind the door and grab her in a headlock. My feet slip on the floor as I try to stand. Saboteur! Suddenly she is back, carrying a tray. I’m sure the tea is poisoned; I’m not falling for that trick. I decide to stay still and wait for her to come to me. She places the tray on the table. I see she has done a good job of covering the milk with a doily and arranging the biscuits in a geometric pattern on the plate. She takes a blanket from the sofa and comes towards me.

“You must be quite chilly after your wash, Cynthia. Here, let me tuck you in.” As she leans down, I grab the scruff of her neck with one hand and clasp her jaw with the other.

“Where is the bomb, girl?”

“I don’t know what you are talking about, Cynthia.” She is trembling. I have finally got to her.

“Tell me right now where the explosives are secured or I will kick you out of my house and across the railway line.” The colour drains from her face and pools around the grip of my fingers.

“They’re on the express train. It’s due at ten.”

I release her. The confession was too easy. I am as exhausted as she.

“Can I pour your tea now, Cynthia?”

Tea seems ludicrous. I have to tell Harvey. I have to warn him about the express.

“I’ve given you two chocolate biscuits. I know it’s your favourite.”

I don’t have the energy to respond.

“I’ll just leave it here, on the side table. Ring the bell if you need me, ok?”

Must get word. Must tell Harvey. Express. At ten.

“Cynthia? Are you all right?” I hear footsteps down the hall. “A&E? Yes, I need an ambulance. The woman in my care is unconscious. Her pulse is weak. Yes. Fifty-eight Tottenham Court Road. Thank you. And hurry.”

Must tell Harvey. Harvey. Harvey.

Short Story Sunday: Faye

Faye held her clipboard to her chest and watched the revellers undulate on the dance floor. In her ear, Franco was muttering about another screw up in the kitchen. She smiled and delivered her usual advice: “Make it happen.”

Franco retorted, as always, “Faye, I cannot work like this.”

It was a routine they had rehearsed over the years. She was the calm one and Franco the diva. It was a system that worked and was what had made F&F Functions achieve success.

“Tell the chef to replace the crème fraîche with cream cheese, Frankie.”

“But that is the most cliché combination.”

“It’s canapés at a fragrance launch, darling, not the Embassy Ball. Besides, the way these dancers are going, I don’t think they’ll care what they eat as long as it tastes good.” The silence on his end confirmed her gut feeling. “You know I’m right, Frankie.”

“Yes, and for once I wish I was the one saying those words.” His microphone caught the first of his orders across the kitchen and she imagined his arms flailing.

“You look pleased with yourself.”

Faye strained her eyes at the man beside her. “Oh, god, yes, Mr Mitchell, sir.” She took a deep breath. “Are you enjoying the evening?”

“Call me Brian. These types of things are much of a muchness as far as I’m concerned.” He glanced at the Tag Heuer on his wrist. “I’d prefer to be home, with a glass of wine and a bowl of pasta.” He stared at the dance floor.

The music concealed her snort. This man had less than nine percent of fat on his body.

Faye’s earpiece crackled with Franco’s voice and she jumped.

“Cream cheese as requested. I hope you are happy.”

She gestured an apology at Brian and turned her back on him. “I am eternally grateful, Frankie. What’s the ETA on the canapés? I think we need to start counteracting the cocktails.”

“He’s there, isn’t he?”

“Frankie? Canapé ETA?”

“I know you, Faye. He’s there. And he’s hot, right?”

“Two minutes, you say? Good. Thanks, Frankie. I’m out.”

If she were alone, she knew she’d have told Franco something very different.

“Here they are.” Brian gestured at the waiters carting trays of bite-sized food around the dance floor. “Right on time.”

Faye hoped the disco lights would hide her colour.

“You look flushed.” One hand landed on her elbow and the other rested on the small of her back. “Let’s get you some fresh air. You’ve been working too hard.”

They wove between the tables that had been set for the banquet and stepped into the foyer. The absence of noise was a relief and Faye’s ears popped.

Brian summoned a waiter. “Ice water, please. And hurry.”

“Thank you, Mr Mitchell. I’m fine, I promise.”

The waiter materialised with a glass.

“Drink up, Faye.”

She knew it wasn’t a request. She felt like a five-year-old who’d scraped her knee on the playground and was now being made to drink sugar water for shock.

“Much better. You look your old self.” Her face must have given away her sentiments. “You know I don’t mean ‘old’ in that way.”

Franco’s quickstep filled the foyer. “Is everything all right, Faye, darling?”

She nodded.

“Mr Mitchell, you are needed backstage. You’re due in four minutes.”

It seemed Brian had no intention of letting her go. “Thank you, Franco. Might Miss Duncan escort me?”

“I’m afraid Faye is needed in the control room. Allow me.”

Faye cleared her throat. The icy water tickled her lungs and she feared she might cough. “Thank you again, Mr Mitchell, for rescuing me.” Her professionalism was back. “The control room, Frankie? Excuse me, please.”

The mirror in the lift confirmed what she’d feared. She was pink and her lips had swollen from the combination of the cold drink and desire. Teasing her fringe and smoothing her hair, she lamented the unflattering light and resolved to steer clear of Brian Mitchell. The lift doors opened and a waiter met her.

“Faye Duncan? Call for you.” He handed her a Smartphone.

“Hello?” She kept walking to the control room.

“It’s Brian. I wanted to thank you for your exemplary work this evening. I’m due on stage in about 45 seconds and I wanted to check whether you’d meet me for a drink at eleven. I’ll be in the foyer.”

“I don’t think so. You’re technically still my boss.” She opened the door and waved at the AV crew.

“Only until ten-thirty. After that, I used to be your boss.”

Through the control room windows, she saw the emcee invite the audience to take their seats in the arena.

“Say yes, Faye.”

The emcee cracked a joke and the audience tittered.

“One drink is all I ask.”

The AV team kerfuffled around her, trying to locate the file with the intro material about the fragrance launch.

“Make mine a gin and tonic.” She ended the call and tossed the phone onto the desk.

Brian smiled. He’d have to remember to give the emcee a bonus; he was outdoing himself with a boring launch and a tipsy audience. He glanced at the Tag Heuer again. Eleven o'clock couldn't come soon enough. He'd been dreaming of the moment when he’d finally get to sink his teeth into the tendons of Faye’s neck and taste her blood.