Harriot Kent’s life had been one of turmoil, she would have you believe, particularly in the love department. Although she had kept hold of the same fellow for a good decade, his good looks (some said he had a touch of the Richard Burton about him) and easy charm (some claimed he had a touch of Tom Hanks about him) found him embroiled in all kinds of illicit affairs. In truth these women had been escorts who would travel with him on business meetings, toSunderland (an intellectual wasteland he would report), in his capacity as an accountant for a bus company. Such excessive fun had led to near bankruptcy and, as a result, Harriot’s love life had taken on a feeling of bankruptcy too. Pretty soon the truth was out, the boyfriend dumped, and Harriot, who liked nothing better than to relax with something between her legs, had found herself frequenting certain toy websites. That is till her mother had visited and Toto, in a moment of pure indiscretion, had wandered into the dining room, during an overcooked roast beef dinner, with a different kind of bonedangling from his mouth. Harriot’s mother had yelped and proclaimed she expected that sort of behaviour from her pub customers, she being the landlady of The Pig and Whistle in Kent, but she didn’t expect her pretty daughter to have to resort to lubricated plastic when she could quite easily get the real thing with a hitched up skirt and some ruby lipstick.
“In short,” her mother had proclaimed, “you still have it.”
Harriot couldn’t remember a more embarrassing moment but had taken her mother’s advice and had taken to frequenting the local bars rather than the World Wide Web. Soon she’d had experience of several men; although she quickly came to realise she preferred the lubricated plastic.
Harriot’s greatest misery, though, came from the fact that she had never attended a meeting of The Magic Circle. She had never been invited,and enquiring as to why, had been called too much of a philanderer, “literally mixing with all kinds of hopeless messed up good for nothings including the Chinese,” Betty Jones had said.
But how did they know? How did they know about her fling with Harry Kim (“Not of Star Trek,” he liked to say; except he had said it when he had cum and that was a most peculiar thing to hear when somebody was busily enjoying the highest point of ecstasy) and her greatest triumph, at least before the sex, her one night stand with Jason Yellow, the most mocked member, in light of his drabness, of 1990s pop quintet, Have That.
How did they know?
Harriot leaves her house, in Hale, a countrified, as she would describe it, two up, two down Victorian terrace, with small, neatly trimmed, negligibly flowered front garden, driveway (big enough for a BMW, two door saloon), and dry-stone wall, which she’d had installed herself one Saturday afternoon, about a fortnight after the whim that had led to the decision to install a dry-stone wall. Indeed, it was the dry-stone wall that had led Harriot to describe the house as countrified. That and the hanging baskets which had been designed by Julian Fallows (a name surely made up by the great man himself) whose name Harriot bandied about like so much social currency. Of course, Harriot had offered him something more than money to design and install the hanging baskets, but he had declined, it is presumed, due to his homosexuality. After all, who would turn down Harriot?
She walks down her street, full of other, less countrified, two up, two down terraces, imperceptibly shaking her head at the shabbiness of her neighbour’s houses. An unpruned tree here (obstructing the pavement), a wall with a brick missing there (surely they can find a brick and some cement and someone who will install it for a price), a window covered with aluminium foil (a matter for the police?), a garden without grass but entirely paved (philistines), pebble dashed walls (don’t get me started on pebble dash).
But it is a wonder Harriot moved to Hale at all, for pebble dash is its main feature. Pebble dashed grocers, pebble dashed barbers, pebble dashed butchers; pebble dashed, shut down video store, pebble dashed pet shop, double pebble dashed Conservative Club, everything pebble dashed. And all covered in moss. Oh great scientists of the world, if ever you desire to study the fascinating world of moss, it would do you well to pay a lengthy visit to the village of Hale, for it grows everywhere;on pebble dash, its most trusted friend.
Harriot, however, has none of these concerns on her mind, for tonight she is meeting Imran Khan (presumably not the cricketer; although if he mentions that during ejaculation…), a rather handsome, tall, strong jawed, lean, young (most importantly young), brusque man from the other side of town; some indistinct, in Harriot’s mind at least, town, north of the city centre; a place in which she would never set foot (too dirty!).
Clearly, then, he has travelled south, and in some style, for he awaits her in his Bentley Flying Spur, silvered, leather seated, air conditioned (although what car doesn’t have that nowadays? Why had he mentioned the air conditioning?) and a large backseat with tinted windows.
She climbs into the passenger seat, out of the beginnings of a rainstorm (one can almost detect the pleasurable cries of the moss as it begins to lap up the fresh moisture) and looks at the focus of her assignation.
But, as she turns her eyes on young Imran, a curious occurrence, only briefly, a quick, blue flash on his chin. Did it really happen? Surely not.
**********
From: Betty Jones (formally Jownes)
To: Harriot Kent
CC:
Subject: Admission to the Magic Circle
Dearest Harriot,
Last night, you’ll be pleased to know, we discussed your admission into our little circle.
Unfortunately, as you have not taken our advice; in other words, as you have been philandering once again (and this time with someone of sub-continental ilk, a most disgraceful choice for your pleasure) we cannot possibly allow you to join.
Please note, Harriot, that all chances you had of joining us are now gone. Even if, should some miracle occur, you get over your clearly runaway sex drive, I’m afraid your reputation is already tarnished.
Your friend,
Betty Jones (formally Jownes)
PS should this email ever come to light in a public manner, it will be necessary to instigate “a series of measures.”
“So, they’re having me followed,” thinks Harriot, “they’re spying on me.”
The magnitude of this revelation fails to sink in, “and not even a reduction of my sex drive can help me,” She says out loud as Dick Springer knocks on her office door smiling through the glass and waving like an absolute dick head.
“There’s someone who could reduce my sex drive in an instant,” she thinks, and waves him away and then in and then away. His smile disappears but he walks off in a cheery manner, legs bouncing jauntily as if he’s been programmed by a clown.
“What a dick head.” She says out loud, “probably a robot.”
She picks up her phone, which, annoyingly, will not sit parallel to the sides of the desk due to its wires which pull it out of place as if some evil, little Dick Springer sits beneath the desk, tugging and cackling at his sad little joke, and dials the number for Betty Jones, 4763.
As the phone rings out, not with a normal trill but with an incessant high pitched beep, the revelation that The Circle follows her dawns on Harriot; her hands shake, her heart thumps on the walls of her pericardium, her throat tightens; sweat breaks out on her forehead; hyperventilation kicks in; her hands become weak; and as Betty Jones answers, “4763, Betty Jones formally Jownes,” in an heretofore unnoticed shrill and nasal voice, Harriot drops the phone, unable to contain herself any longer. She breaks down in tears and thinks, “why did I have to fuck Khan.”
“Hello,” nasal.
“Hello,” shrill.
“Hello,” both nasal and shrill, “Harriot, I can hear you whimpering. I know it’s you Harriot. Did you not get my email? Yes, you got my email; that’s why you ring. Well Harriot…”
And as Betty Jones continues to repeat what she said in the email, Harriot calmly picks up the receiver, calmly lifts it above her head, and forcefully slams it down, hanging up on Betty Jones, formally Jownes, hopefully giving her overweight ears a painful kick.
Betsy Ribbons knocks on the door. Betsy, with her beautiful face, so full of homely cheer and always smiling; and those huge eyes that reflect sunlight into miniature rainbows. And a bum to die for; so pert and full and, oh, when she crouches down it makes the most delicious shape; like a peach; if only she could have a bum like that she’d send the men wild. Her breasts were a little lacking, though, so that was something to be thankful for; yet she managed to make what little she had look astounding and ripe, as Gideon described a good breast (My god, had she really shagged somebody called Gideon), with tight, low cut tops and presumably expensive, push up bras. Harriot had tried a similar tactic but she had nothing in the chest department but nipples. She liked to admit to herself, standing naked in front of the mirror, often after midnight,with Toto nipping at her heels, thatthey were good nipples, perfectly symmetrical and permanently erect; and a man (who was it? John? Jim? Maybe even Matt?) had told her, on many occasions whilst watching Baywatch (in that case it probably was Matt) that you could show a man huge breasts but if he couldn’t see the nipples, well, they were worth nothing. Utter nonsense but, still, consoling.
“But Betsy, with all these attributes, and you’re humping Gregg?” thinks Harriot. Fat, slobbery Gregg, with his loud Brian Blessed voice; and his beer stench; gone off beer; and urine, strongly of urine; and his dirty, dirty clothes that hang around him like a tent, all creased at odd angles like they’ve been ironed by an inmate of a lunatic asylum; how can she cope with a smell like that when she rides him?
Harriot waves Betsy in whilst wiping her eyes dry. She can still feel her body trembling with sorrow and anger and frustration but she feels as though she can conceal it; if only she can keep a grip on the table for support. The eyes, however, her red eyes surrounded by mussed up make-up, she cannot conceal these and Betsy jumps on them as soon as she walks in.
“Your eyes Harriot!” she says in a most common, North Manchester,accent, which does not suit her appearance one bit, “what in the name of the almighty, whomsoever it was that made us, has happened?”
And this peculiar way of speaking? Always Betsy had the need to say far more words than were necessary; never a concern for efficiency in her language.
“Nothing, nothing Betsy,” says Harriot, “I just found out that Toto refused his food this morning,” oh god, what a terrible excuse, “maybe he’s coming down with something,” she continues, trying to rescue the situation, “I can’t bear it when he’s ill, he’s so demanding.”
“Oh Harriot,” says Betsy, “I know you love your dog dearly but he’s not a man. And you’d only look after them if they were giving you something and they’re not very good at giving anything, only accusations without foundation.”
Harriot, unable to decipher anything Betsy has said, quickly moves on, “Anyway Betsy,” she says, “what can I do you for?”
“Dick Springer.”
