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Authors: Wendy Perriam
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into fact. So be it. He’d left Milky Bar far, far behind and was now a connoisseur of extra-dark, exotic chocolate, grown from exclusive Criollo beans in—
All at once, he gave a monster sneeze, followed by another and another. Oh my God, he thought, some allergen must have set him off: a woman’s scent, a cleaning product, dust-mites in the air. It happened very rarely, but, once he was in the throes of an attack, the sneezing rollicked on inexorably, as he knew from bitter experience.
‘Are you OK?’ Penelope whispered, although her expression suggested more alarm than sympathy – doubtless due to the fact he was clenching his teeth and screwing up his face in a supreme effort to control himself. And the woman on his other side – an older one he’d barely noticed up till now – was actually recoiling.
‘People with bad colds,’ she hissed, ‘should stay indoors and keep their germs to themselves.’
‘It’s not a—’ he tried to say; the words drowned by an explosive sneeze, which developed into a whole deafening series.
Yvette paused in mid-sentence – indeed, the whole shocked room seemed to be drawing in its breath as his sneezes hit the ceiling. Blundering to his feet, he grabbed his coat and bag, and had to suffer the humiliation of walking the length of the room – ten miles, or so it felt. He was desperate to apologize, but the sneezing made it impossible to say a word. At last, he reached the door and, closing it behind him, he scorched along the corridor, past banqueting suites and displays of exotic plants, towards the hotel entrance.
Only out in the cold December air did the sneezing finally shudder to a stop. He stood stock-still a moment, experiencing a wave of mingled relief and regret. No way could he go back. People would only stare; maybe mock him openly. Shaken, he put on his coat, glancing up at the imposing façade, with its colonnades and sculpted frieze; the pampered window-boxes full of hothouse flowers. He had been deluding himself all evening; building castles in the air – as usual. Penelope belonged in this swanky world; he ostensibly didn’t. She might be an orange-blossom parfait or amaretto croquant – hand-made, gift-wrapped, exquisitely adorned – but he was just plain Eric and couldn’t afford to date that sort of woman. His fuel and phone bills had increased substantially of late, and fifteen per cent of his income went on child support each week. Besides, the sooner he accepted that it was totally unreasonable to expect to find a mate by Christmas – let alone one so voguish and urbane – the better for his sanity.
Indeed, why accept the Christmas hype at all? It wasn’t the most important date in the calendar, but just a day like any other. And, if he stopped dwelling on himself and spared a thought instead for those who’d spend the day in cancer wards or war-zones, in debt, despair or gaol – he might realize his own good fortune. Anyway, there were always little comforts to assuage his petty pains. In fact, the newsagent, still open, on the corner could provide the very thing he craved.
Having walked into the shop, he slapped 50p on the counter and picked out a Milky Bar: superior by far to any jasmine-scented, Cointreau-soaked, excessively dark – and frankly bitter – chocolate.
chapter six
Eric woke with a start. The phone was shrilling only inches from his ear. Testily, he reached to pick it up. Roseanne, again, no doubt. The wretched woman apparently existed without sleep, having rung him in the early hours on seven separate occasions. Each time, he’d been abrasive, yet here she was, still in hot pursuit. Just his luck to find an avid female, at last, but one who happened to be barking mad.
‘Hello,’ he growled. He had planned a lie-in this morning, to make the most of the peace, since both his sets of noisy neighbours were away for a merciful week. Some lie-in! It was still pitch-dark outside.
‘Dad, it’s me!’
‘Erica!’
All at once, he gave a monster sneeze, followed by another and another. Oh my God, he thought, some allergen must have set him off: a woman’s scent, a cleaning product, dust-mites in the air. It happened very rarely, but, once he was in the throes of an attack, the sneezing rollicked on inexorably, as he knew from bitter experience.
‘Are you OK?’ Penelope whispered, although her expression suggested more alarm than sympathy – doubtless due to the fact he was clenching his teeth and screwing up his face in a supreme effort to control himself. And the woman on his other side – an older one he’d barely noticed up till now – was actually recoiling.
‘People with bad colds,’ she hissed, ‘should stay indoors and keep their germs to themselves.’
‘It’s not a—’ he tried to say; the words drowned by an explosive sneeze, which developed into a whole deafening series.
Yvette paused in mid-sentence – indeed, the whole shocked room seemed to be drawing in its breath as his sneezes hit the ceiling. Blundering to his feet, he grabbed his coat and bag, and had to suffer the humiliation of walking the length of the room – ten miles, or so it felt. He was desperate to apologize, but the sneezing made it impossible to say a word. At last, he reached the door and, closing it behind him, he scorched along the corridor, past banqueting suites and displays of exotic plants, towards the hotel entrance.
Only out in the cold December air did the sneezing finally shudder to a stop. He stood stock-still a moment, experiencing a wave of mingled relief and regret. No way could he go back. People would only stare; maybe mock him openly. Shaken, he put on his coat, glancing up at the imposing façade, with its colonnades and sculpted frieze; the pampered window-boxes full of hothouse flowers. He had been deluding himself all evening; building castles in the air – as usual. Penelope belonged in this swanky world; he ostensibly didn’t. She might be an orange-blossom parfait or amaretto croquant – hand-made, gift-wrapped, exquisitely adorned – but he was just plain Eric and couldn’t afford to date that sort of woman. His fuel and phone bills had increased substantially of late, and fifteen per cent of his income went on child support each week. Besides, the sooner he accepted that it was totally unreasonable to expect to find a mate by Christmas – let alone one so voguish and urbane – the better for his sanity.
Indeed, why accept the Christmas hype at all? It wasn’t the most important date in the calendar, but just a day like any other. And, if he stopped dwelling on himself and spared a thought instead for those who’d spend the day in cancer wards or war-zones, in debt, despair or gaol – he might realize his own good fortune. Anyway, there were always little comforts to assuage his petty pains. In fact, the newsagent, still open, on the corner could provide the very thing he craved.
Having walked into the shop, he slapped 50p on the counter and picked out a Milky Bar: superior by far to any jasmine-scented, Cointreau-soaked, excessively dark – and frankly bitter – chocolate.
chapter six
Eric woke with a start. The phone was shrilling only inches from his ear. Testily, he reached to pick it up. Roseanne, again, no doubt. The wretched woman apparently existed without sleep, having rung him in the early hours on seven separate occasions. Each time, he’d been abrasive, yet here she was, still in hot pursuit. Just his luck to find an avid female, at last, but one who happened to be barking mad.
‘Hello,’ he growled. He had planned a lie-in this morning, to make the most of the peace, since both his sets of noisy neighbours were away for a merciful week. Some lie-in! It was still pitch-dark outside.
‘Dad, it’s me!’
‘Erica!’
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