Chapter 8
Simone returned to her desk to find Oliver leching over Nora, their office assistant. Nora was a terrible office assistant, but one with creamy legs up to her armpits, blonde hair down to her bottom, and a pout like a bouncy castle. He stopped chatting when she approached and made his excuses. He was still pretending to be uncomfortable around her, which suited her down to the ground. She was feeling quite chipper. Another tough week at work finished, and a night out to look forward to.
‘What are you wearing?’ Nora asked.
She was heading to Secret Cinema, a slightly wanky affair in which you got to watch a classic film you’d probably already seen, only in a secret location, in fancy dress, with purpose-built sets and interactive performances justifying the exorbitant ticket price. The girls had organised it for her birthday.
‘It’s a hazmat suit.’
The movie was Hot Fuzz, and with a dearth of sexy females to emulate, she’d opted for the next best alternative: wacky. She was dressed as Janine, a blink-and-you-miss it cameo by Cate Blanchett, unrecognisable as a forensic scientist at a crime scene.
‘Oh.’ Nora’s mouth took on the form of a rubber ring. ‘But you’re quite attractive for a thirty-four-year-old.’
Thirty-five now.
‘Thanks Nora. I’ll see you on Monday.’
* * *
Ninety minutes later, she was in a posh disabled Portaloo watching Ziggy and Nancy hoover up coke from a compact mirror balanced on the top of the cistern.
‘Sure you don’t want some?’ said Ziggy.
‘It is your birthday,’ said Nancy.
Simone didn’t do coke. She’d tried it, but it wasn’t for her. For a start, it was too expensive. For another, people talked enough shit without spending top whack in order to augment that bad character trait. She had to hand it to Ziggy, though, watching her bend over. She’d wondered how she’d find a relevant fancy-dress option that allowed her to get her arse out, but here she was in the tiniest bodysuit and painted top to toe in gold paint, in homage to the ‘living statue’ street artist that briefly featured in the movie. Nancy was Eve Draper, the terrible am-dram actress who met a grisly end for her annoying laugh. Simone had nailed it with her own outfit; it had already drawn lots of admiring comments from purist fans, and the post she’d put up earlier had racked up a lot of likes.
‘I really loved what you did with that bircher last week, Nance.’ Ziggy rubbed her gums.
‘I know, right?’
Nancy licked the twenty-pound note she’d had jammed up her nose moments earlier. Some committed vegetarian she was – didn’t she know they contained animal fat?
‘People said it couldn’t be done,’ she continued, ‘but as I say, nothing is impossible. The word itself says “I’m possible”, doesn’t it?’
They were already as high as vacuous kites.
‘Did I tell you I heard back from the detox retreat in Sedona?’ she went on. ‘Three days in return for three posts. It looks amazing. They tap into your emotions to release past trauma stored in the body and clear the mind of any old beliefs that might be blocking breakthroughs in your life. We’re talking total holistic cellular renewal.’
‘How do they do that?’ asked Ziggy.
‘Juices, mainly.’
Simone told them she was going to get a large drink.
* * *
The bar was noisy and rammed, but she weaved her way to the front and ordered a glass of red wine. She was stood next to some tall guy who’d come as the Lurch character. Like her, he’d opted for amusing rather than attractive, with his bloody blue plaster-dotted face, and fake goofy teeth. He won, though, because despite having dark skin, he was wearing a bald cap made for a white guy. She couldn’t help but laugh.
‘Nice cossie,’ she said.
The guy turned to her. ‘Thanks,’ he managed in spite of the teeth. ‘You too.’
She was still wearing the full regalia of hazmat suit, face mask and protective eyewear.
But now she came to regard him properly, he was attractive. There was also something familiar about him. ‘Don’t I know you?’ she asked.
‘I don’t know. Do you?’ His voice was baritone deep, the kind that reverbs in your chest.
‘Maybe. Did you go to Lea Manor school?’
‘No.’
‘Do you live in Brixton?’
‘I wish,’ he said.
‘Hmm. Must be mistaken.’
But she was seldom mistaken. She had a very good memory for faces, and her brain was busy racking itself to try and place this one in the correct context. The man took a sip of the very frothy beer he’d been served, giving himself a foam moustache. He licked his full lips, smearing some beyond their boundary. The teeth weren’t helping.
‘Er, you still have a little something on your lip.’ She was acting a lot like she was coming on to him, but if she kept him talking, she might put her memory out of its misery.
‘Who’s to say I’m not saving it for later?’ His eyes were smiling.
‘Fine. Leave it. You can spend the rest of the evening looking like a negative of Rhett Butler.’ She’d also seen Gone with the Wind at Secret Cinema once.
‘There are worse people to look like,’ he said.
‘And it’ll start to itch.’
‘Then I’ll scratch it.’
‘And it might attract wasps.’
‘Fine,’ he said, ‘you win.’
But rather than wiping it with the back of his hand, he removed the teeth, reached inside his Somerfield overall pocket, and pulled out a handkerchief. She’d only ever seen one person below the age of seventy-five carry a handkerchief before.
‘Holy shit! You’re the dude with the homeless guy!’
‘Eh?’
‘The one near the coffee shop.’
‘That’s not narrowing it down.’
How many homeless people did he know?
‘He was giving me grief about social media. Come on, don’t act like you don’t remember.’
‘I’m really sorry.’ He grimaced. ‘Any other clues?’
What was the handle of the guy again? The one he’d tried to foist on her.
‘Street Pete! That was it.’
‘I know Pete. But I’m not sure…’
She removed her hood, mask and glasses, and flicked her hair out of the suit’s collar. In her head it was like a movie scene, in which the leading man suddenly realises the weird-looking chrysalis with whom he’s been fraternising is, in fact, a really fit butterfly. His face made all the right moves: initial surprise, a flicker of recognition, building into fully formed delight that this was the creature in front of whom he now found himself.
‘You’re the woman who got shat on!’
Great. That was how she’d been lodged in his neural pathways.
The barman put a wine down in front of her. She took a large swig.
‘I remember now,’ he said. ‘You thought I wanted your number!’
Another thing she’d tried very hard to put into the recycling bin of her mind.
He chuckled.
‘I should have left you to the wasps,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry!’ He tried to arrange his face into something more sorry seeming.
‘It’s Jasper, isn’t it?’ she said.
‘Yeah. You?’
‘Simone.’
She expected him to put out a hand to shake hers, but he took another sip on his pint. The natural order of things was officially broken.
‘What’s your story anyway?’ she asked. ‘Are you some kind of Good Samaritan God-botherer?’
It would explain his apparent lack of interest in her more visual virtues.
‘How inclusive and sensitive of you to ask in such an accepting and tolerant way.’
‘It’d just be a waste, that’s all.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of’—she held her palm out and gestured to him—‘this.’
She immediately wished she hadn’t. She didn’t want him thinking she was into … she gestured to him again … that.
His mouth curved regardless of what she didn’t want him thinking.
‘I’m just saying it’d be like opening a Tiffany box and finding an Argos charm bracelet inside.’
‘I’m not sure I follow the analogy,’ he said, ‘but luckily for you, I’m not religious.’
‘It’s not luckily for me. I’m not into…’ She did the bloody gesture again. What was it about this guy?
‘And you already have a boyfriend,’ he said.
For a guy who didn’t remember her face, he’d recalled what she’d said well enough.
‘I merely meant you hadn’t offended me with your clear disdain for religion,’ he clarified. ‘I’m sure Jesus was a lovely guy, but not for me.’
‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I’ve often thought the second coming wouldn’t work in the modern age. No one could tolerate that level of self-confidence. You think you’re the son of God, do you? Think you’re a bit special. We need to take you down a peg or two, mate. He’d be trolled to shit. Blessed are the women, he’d tweet. But what about the transgender people? Are you saying they’re not blessed? I’d give him about six days before he was cancelled.’
Jasper was regarding her in a peculiar way. Like he was both amused and perplexed. She was used to being looked at, but there was something in the way he was peering at her that was different. More like a scientist examining a lab rat that was behaving unusually.
‘Anyway, this was horrible,’ she said. ‘I’d better get back to my pals.’ She didn’t need to embarrass herself in front of him any more than she had.
By the time she got to the bar’s exit, however, Jasper was alongside her once more. Twenty years of conditioning made her wonder if perhaps…
‘No, I am not following you,’ he said.
A mind reader too. How transparent was she?
‘Technically you are following me,’ she said.
‘We were both walking in the same direction.’
She waited by the door, for some stupid reason expecting him to open it for her. He was very deliberately waiting for her to do the same.
‘Wow,’ she said. ‘Who said chivalry was dead?’
‘Is this a quiz? Was it Ralph Waldo Emerson?’
She smiled sarcastically.
‘Is there something that prevents you from getting the door?’ he asked. ‘You seem like the type who can handle a door handle.’
‘Oh, I can handle a door handle.’ Ugh. She sounded like an idiot, even to her own ears.
‘So why would I disempower you from opening a door?’
‘It’s called gallantry.’
‘It’s called benevolent sexism.’
‘What?!’
‘It is! I read an article about it.’ Earnestness only magnified his handsomeness.
‘But what if I like doors being opened for me? Am I in breach of some feminist manifesto?’
‘Sexism isn’t just catcalling and crap wages. And I happen to believe that opening doors, like lots of other things in life, should be consensual.’
No one really considered things in this way, did they?
‘Does this help you get laid more?’ she asked. ‘Playing the sensitive nice guy routine?’
‘No!’ He seemed genuinely appalled at the notion. ‘Let’s just say I know a thing or two about unconscious bias.’ He pointed two fingers towards himself.
His freckles popped like confetti on his skin. She wondered if the dapples covered the entire taut body hiding under that Somerfield overall. Not that she was interested in finding out. And she probably shouldn’t be having lewd thoughts whilst talking about sexual equality. But her libido had never been liberal. It was Neanderthal.
‘Fair enough.’ She made a grand gesture of opening the door for him and ushering him through.
‘How did that feel?’ he asked.
‘Really empowering,’ she deadpanned.
‘I’m glad to have been of service. Enjoy your evening, Simone.’
‘You too, Jasper.’
For the next two hours, unable to fully concentrate on the film, she scanned the huge screening hall for him. No sign. At one point, she surreptitiously pulled out the phone she should have surrendered at the start of the event and looked him up on Instagram. His account was set to private, just as it had been when she’d searched his handle after their last encounter, and his bio was giving nothing away. Still, what did it matter? She didn’t like nice guys, even vaguely intriguing ones like Jasper. What she liked was Marcus, who, as she now saw, had very thoughtfully sent her a dick pic, along with the message, Here’s your birthday present. You can blow it and make a wish when I see you next.
It was on the dance floor, once her and the girls had taken their fill of the shooting range and village fete stalls, that she saw him again. Adam Ant’s Goody Two Shoes was playing. How apposite. From what was visible through the swamp of bodies that separated them, he was doing a good job of dancing to it. And then she saw the girl he was dancing with. Fair hair. Petite. Pretty. But in a not-trying-too-hard way. That figured. Hmm … she was vaguely disappointed. Perhaps it was because she was a sore loser, although she wasn’t certain what she was losing. Perhaps it was the four large glasses of red wine, which had notched her beyond tipsy and into vaguely melancholy. Perhaps it was because it was her birthday and she could feel life getting ever shorter. Whatever it was, it meant that when she became aware of the blonde guy watching her, she was ready to engage. Not pull, but what harm was a bit of flirtation? And if Jasper happened to glance across and see, well … so be it.
Blondie had really gone to town with his get-up. Not some cheap and nasty nylon simulacrum of a police uniform for him, this one was accurate right down to the accessory belt. His short shirt sleeves were tight against well-defined biceps. He wasn’t her type, but he was definitely an archetype that lots of girls would be into: the boy you’d have circled in a yearbook as most likely to be a personal trainer. He was staring straight at her. He grabbed his toy walkie talkie and spoke into it, raised an eyebrow, and started walking directly towards her. She smiled. Role play, huh? She continued dancing until he was in front of her. Ziggy and Nancy spotted him and grinned. She winked at them as she leaned forward and purred in the guy’s ear, making herself heard above the music.
‘Is there a problem, officer?’
‘There might be,’ he said. ‘We have reports of drug use in the area.’
The lights were playing across his face. He was somewhat more attractive up close, the eyes a little more interesting.
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘I wouldn’t know anything about that.’
He didn’t smile. ‘Are you sure?’
Perhaps he didn’t like drugs. Although steroids were clearly on the acceptable list.
She squeezed his tanned bicep. ‘Are you sure you’re not hiding anything illegal in there? They seem unnaturally large.’
Another man joined them, dark-haired and stocky, dressed in the same way.
‘I’ll have to ask you to get your hands off him, miss.’
‘Oh look, there’s two of them. So cute. Just like Simon Pegg and Nick Frost. Should I call you Sergeant Angel and PC Butterman?’
‘We’re both PCs,’ the newcomer said.
‘Yep, I got that from the uniforms.’ She wondered if Jasper had clocked any of this. ‘You haven’t got another friend, have you? Only there are three of us.’ She motioned to Nancy and Ziggy.
‘I’m going to have to search your bag,’ the goodish-looking one said.
Odd. Surely this was the bit where he asked to frisk her, or something equally cheesy. ‘And if I refuse to let you?’
‘Then you’ll be obstructing an officer in the execution of his duty.’
He was really getting into this. Maybe it was another interactive element.
‘Would I now?’ she said.
‘I’ll ask you again. May I search your bag?’
‘It’s okay. You can drop the routine now. Let your hair down a bit.’
‘It’s not a routine,’ said the dark-haired one. He was almost certainly into cosplay.
‘Your bag,’ said the blonde one.
Perhaps she was in trouble for still having her phone on her. But they could chill out; she hadn’t taken any pictures to spoil their secret. Still, she didn’t want to be kicked out before the end, so best to play dumb.
‘I think you’re doing a great job,’ she said. ‘You sound just like real officers.’
‘That’s because we are real officers,’ said the blonde.
‘Aren’t there rules against impersonating a police officer?’
‘Not if you’re a police officer,’ he said.
Okay, this was getting boring, and Jasper wasn’t even on the dance floor anymore.
‘Well, this has been great, but if you’ll excuse me, I need the toilet.’
She turned to the girls to let them know, but the brown-haired guy grabbed her by the arm and pivoted her back around. She pulled her arm free.
‘Seriously, guys. You need to give it a rest.’
This time the brown-haired one grabbed her more roughly. She wasn’t in the mood to be manhandled, and whether they were actors, oversensitive security guards, or horny dickheads, this was overkill.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ She pulled her arm free again.
‘Ma’am,’ said the blonde. ‘You’re leaving me no option here.’
Somehow Ziggy hadn’t noticed the souring of relations and she sashayed into the mix. ‘Are you trying to arrest her, officer? She’s been a very naughty girl, haven’t you, Sim?’ She winked. ‘She’s always leading us astray.’
Blondie shoved Ziggy back in a way that clearly demonstrated these pair weren’t a couple of second-rate actors getting all Stanislavski on her ass. A million thoughts scrambled for purchase on the slippery surface of her consciousness. Not quick enough, though, because when the brown-haired guy grabbed her again, this time pulling both arms behind her back, two years of self-defence training kicked in, and she instinctively booted her leg back, straight into his bollocks. She swallowed hard, her reward circuits and dopamine structures suddenly channelling energy the way of rational cognition. Everything came into stark focus – the illusion of what she’d been seeing from one perspective, now seen from a truer angle. They were actual on-duty police officers. But why the fuck were they singling her out? And for drugs? She was probably one of the few people in here who wasn’t taking them! Her hands were yanked behind her back again and a hundred eyes fell on her.
‘I don’t have any drugs.’ Something tightened around her wrists.
‘That doesn’t matter anymore.’ Blondie motioned to the stocky one, who was now doubled over and clutching his crotch as if it was a beloved turtle she’d just crushed to death.
‘I am arresting you for assaulting an officer in the course of his duty.’
Nancy and Ziggy looked on helplessly, finally waking up to how close they’d been to getting busted.
‘You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court.’
‘Happy fucking birthday to me,’ she said.
‘It’s your birthday?’
‘Yeah. Maybe you could put the siren on for me. Make it a real treat.’
As she was led through the crowd, at least she could content herself that Jasper and his girlfriend hadn’t seen how things had ended. This was far, far worse than pigeon crap.