The Boy With the Cut Off Shorts

The Boy With the Cut-Off Shorts

Chrissie chucked the battered edition of Jekyll and Hyde on the bed then reached long slender fingers underneath the material covering bare and freshly showered shoulders and adjusted the bra strap underneath the thin polo neck T Shirt. It had been biting tightly into freckled flesh but a careful movement in a minor key with rouged long fingernails sorted the problem.

Strawberry blonde.

Not ginger, by no means ginger. Ginger was strictly for the biscuits.

Chrissie was pleased with the reflection in the mirror. Not bad for a forty year old. The thin, opaque material wrapped snugly round pretty decent boobs, presenting and pushing up and forwards. Heads would turn at the strutting confident heels on chipped crazy paving of the hot desert streets.

Unless a stone got in there. One of those gravel chippings.

Not that it was a conscious thing or sought after. Rightly modest was Chrissie, but rightly pert also. And sexy sweater fabric cling-filming all over was like preserving freshly squeezed peaches. Juicy.

Cheryl avoided meeting Chrissie now, hateful bitch. In fact, brunches were disastrous if the two of them met – quite the most terrible occasions. Well, now, it was okay to begin with, but once the second gin had taken hold of her, Cheryl would, obviously and maliciously, place her Michael Kors clutch on the table. Erecting a psychological and literal barrier between them.

It had been a joke, in some tacky bar one night, six months ago. Chrissie had smirked, looked at Cheryl and said. “Well, he’s out of your league.”

“What?”

“Julius. He’s too young for you.”

“How dare you?”

“Just joking. Go get him, gal.” They’d barely talked since.

But there was something about the man in the cut off shorts. Julius. Down in the schoolyard, me and him. Or something along those lines. Well, if Cheryl didn’t want him now…Chrissie applied a bit more lippy, swung the bag over the shoulder and walked outside where the Uber was waiting.

Well there had been a bit of texting since that time. Or Whatsapping. Or Whatsevering. Not sexting, though. What was sexting anyway? Sending a picture of your cleavage? Well there were plenty of those on Facebook to be looked at. Not that they were meant, in all innocence, they just looked good. Someone else happy-chat-snapped those anyway; the gorgeous female body beautiful. Where was the harm?

And if anyone dared to troll, well Chrissie was quite a ruthless blocker; blocking with the best of them.

Yes, even now, the Uber driver was glancing in the rear-view mirror as the Nissan Sunny swept down the six lane Al Waab Road. Jerking and juddering at every red light. Jiggling in time, Chrissie sat in the back, only glancing up from the iPhone when thrown forward from the back against the front seat. As you do.

Now, once they’d got to Holiday Inn on the old airport road, the driver had jumped out and opened the door. Chrissie had snagged bag in heels syndrome, pitched forward and the boobs had somehow brushed against him. Was he smirking? Well he wasn’t shy in cupping a handful, that was certain.

Chrissie glared, did a quick brush down and looked towards reception. And there he was.

Julius was a damned stupid name and he cursed his parents. Why not Julian? Perfectly good; there had been a Julian in Famous Five, hadn’t there? Fond of Dick.  

But no, no - Julius.

Julius, no.

Come to think of it, Fleming had coined that one, too. Julius No. It made him sound like a cheapskate Doctor Who villain. And he never, ever ordered caesar salad. Well, he did, but hated the bits of crouton that defiled the teeth. Spitting bits out for hours afterwards.

I saw, I came, I spat.

Whatevers. Julius witnessed the tumbling show at the Uber then was pleased to see Chrissie walking towards him, unsteadily, on stacked heels. His heart warmed as he took in the tangled ginger hair, not so much cascading as getting swept o’er the weir like a tossed, abandoned cat.

“Hello you.” he grinned, steadying her as she reached him, “how’s tricks?”

“That Uber driver, honestly.”

“Good to see you babes. Really. Really good to see you.”

“Don’t call me babes.”

“Sorry. Did Wolves lose again?”

“What do you mean?”

Julius did his best to look nonchalant, but his heart was racing. Abu Dhabi F1 circuit racing. It had been, Oh God, it had been: since the first time they’d ever met. It was one of those. You know? It’s hard to put into words what happens when your eyes meet and you just know. And horribly, you not only see it, you can flash forward to the heartbreak before even it has ever begun. If Julius made a compilation mix-tape for her, he knew he would have to conclude Side 2 with the songs that he’d listen to as he recovered from the inevitable heartbreak.

Any wise men will tell you the same. But all wise men are fools.

Julius was brought back by her accusing tone, stinging his ear like an unloved wasp. With tinnitus. “You’re wearing shorts.”

“I know, you said you liked them.”

“Well, not here, you fool. We’ll not get in.”

“What? Really?”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s the fucking Holiday Inn” Chrissie looked for help.

Other diners were filing straight into the hotel, oblivious, passing bags through the security sonar, or whatever the hell it was, and Julius just couldn’t let her down. So he went to the door of the hotel. “Lunch? We’ve booked a table.”

“Of course, sir.” The doorman, Filipino probably, made a pretense and returned almost too quickly. “Sorry, sir. You must wear trousers.”

“Oh, come on. The flyer said ‘casual.’”

“Yes, sir.”

“So?”

“Too casual, sir.”

Julius scowled. Chrissie was taking no prisoners, anyhow. She looked at the diminutive doorman who was never nothing if not polite. “Can we borrow some trousers?”

“You want my trousers?”

Chrissie rolled her eyes. “Well, of course not. How is my Julius (be still that beating heart) supposed to get into yours? You are far too short. He’d split them, wouldn’t he? And then, when he returned them to you, you’d be sent home. In disgrace. To get more trousers. Is that what you want? Where would it end? Just go and find some trousers of a roughly equivalent size to the legs of Julius that you see before you and be sharp about it. khalas, khalas.” As he scurried off, she added, “fool.”

“Yes.”

“Not him, you.”

Chastened, Julius waited, fingering his wallet, heart pounding. Chrissie didn’t even look at him; the contempt was palpable, how like his mother, always disappointed; cherished silence, buttocks tingling, waiting for the swipe of the spoon, the feigned cry of pain, the alarm.

In any case, the only thing that happened was the doorman, who returned with no trousers, but two rolls of bandages, the kind used to make a sling. He proffered them apologetically and with a half shrug. It was clear that Julius was supposed to wrap his legs in them. “I’ll look like a bloody mummy.”

Chrissie scowled at him and began wrapping his legs with the help of the doorman. It didn’t quite work due to the bandages being white and the cut offs being black.

“I feel like the invisible man.”

“I wish you were the invisible man.”

“Charming.”

“Shut up, or I’ll wrap your bloody head.”

“I get blackening boot polish, sir?” The doorman indicated the contrast between the thick linen wrappings and the frayed shorts.

“Don’t push it.”

“Push? Wheelchair, sir?”

Chrissie stabbed a final safety pin in to secure the wrapping and pushed Julius through the security scanner. “Get a move on. I’m hungry.”

It was quite difficult negotiating the dining tables wrapped in bandages and Julius was drawing some odd looks with his stiff zombie movements, but he made it. He plonked himself in the offered seat and was glad to get them out of eyeshot under the table. As she sat down, he made a mental note not to drink too much beer – avoiding trips to the toilets would be advisable. He smiled. “You look great.”

“Thank you.” Her voice was cold, though. She ordered drinks – sparkling wine and a bottle of beer.

They glanced through the set menu which bragged, in a swirly font that resembled the one used by British Rail canteens that they were about to ‘Experience Exciting English Cuisine’. It was pretty standard for a weekend lunch. 100 Riyals got you three courses and a doggy bag to take home – alcoholic drinks were extra and expensive. But the choice seemed decent enough, promising artichokes, asparagus and crispy duck. Not convincingly English, but Julius thought he’d let it pass without comment.

The drinks arrived via a becloaked waiter, wearing a headscarf, darting and hovering like some oversized, black coated hummingbird who hadn’t sipped pollen in weeks, placing the bottle of beer in front of Chrissie. “Curry powder, sir?” he asked, in a shrill voice.

“What?” Julius blinked, looking at his glass.

“In wine, sir. Curry powder.”

“Er…no thank you.”

“Sure, sir? Is tasty.”

“It is?”

“Yes, sir. Hot Bengali spices, sir. English, sir.”

Chrissie slammed the table and glared at the waiter. “Is anybody else having curry powder in their Prosecco?”

“Yes, yes. Same, same.”

“No, he does not want curry powder in his wine. How stupid would that be? I’ve never heard anything so pathetic.”

“Sorry. You order now?”

“He’ll have the asparagus, followed by the salmon en croute. I’ll have the same.”

“Sure, sure. I get.”

“Does that come with curry powder?” But the waiter had hovered off to another party.

Julius and Chrissie looked at each other across the round table, resting elbows on the sheer white tablecloth. One of those awkward silences followed that most couples nowadays, nationality regardless, cover by staring at mobile phones while swiping them, tapping them then grunting with false amusement or surprise as though they were in much better virtual company than real. Chrissie sipped from her bottle head bowed and thus engaged; Julius just stared at Chrissie. The silence made him aware that his bandaged limbs were throbbing, due to the tight tourniquet around his legs. He could feel pins and needles in the soles of his feet.

He coughed. “Who are you talking to?”

“I’m not. I had a message from Derek. It was odd. Something about Cheryl.”

“Ah, Derek. Strange, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“When you go on a date and your date is messaging another man.”

“What makes you think this is a date?”

“It isn’t?”

“I didn’t say that.” Chrissie scowled. Julius supposed she was still being difficult about the shorts. He had wanted to please her but recognised his mistake. Many years ago, Julius had once dated a stunning Indian woman where the reverse had happened – he’d wanted to show her off to his friends and told her to glam up on a river trip around Plymouth Sound whilst they’d all got pissed. She’d sat miserably in the cold for two hours, looking out of place dressed in a sari. They’d never seen each other again.

“I’m sorry about the shorts. Look, after this, we’ll go back to mine and I’ll shower and get changed. Then we could go into town for a drink?”

“Go back to yours for a shower? Anything could happen.”

“Could it?”

With a delightful, delicate fragrance, the asparagus arrived and was imperceptibly slid onto the table by the hummingbird waiter. He paused as the couple took cutlery, cut in side on and raised a balanced forkful to lips. “Is good?”

Julius looked at Chrissie and hissed as he  munched, “Does yours taste like curry?”

“A bit like curry, yes.”

“Very good, thank you.” Julius wanted to spit it back onto the plate but was too polite. He continued to munch slowly, watching for movement.

The waiter seemed in no hurry to leave, though, nodding and smiling appreciatively in time to their chewing like a bespectacled metronome. “Good, yes?”

“Very good. Very good indeed.”

Still he hovered, as the third portion was jointly consumed. “Still good?”

“Yes.”

“Not cold?”

“No. Good, but not cold.”

The waiter nodded, smiling in understanding. “Gets cold now?”

“No.”

“Yes. Very cold now.” The waiter leant over, blew on Julius’ plate, dipped his finger in and sucked it thoughtfully. “You want curry powder? Make hot?”

“What are you doing? Why did you do that to my asparagus?”

“Yes sir, I did it sir. Chef ask me you like lime pickles?”

“These lime pickles. Are they also hot? A bit like curry?”

“Yes sir, tasty, make hood hot. From Mumbai. With spicy mango chutney and poppadum. English like.”

Chrissie dropped her fork onto the china plate with a clash. “Excuse me, what’s your name?”

“Alfonso, miss.”

“Alfonso? Fuck off. Julius? We’re leaving.”

“Are we?”

“Yes we are, this place is a joke. Why did we come here anyway?”

Julius looked shiftily at the other diners. If they were having curry powder tipped onto food or into their beverages, and there was no absolute evidence of this, they didn’t seem to be creating any fuss, that was certain. He cleared his throat. “Ah…well, ah…it is quite near to my flat and I had hoped, not to put too fine a point on it, I had hoped that…ah…well it’s been five years, you see? Five years is a long time to go without, you know…”

“What? Curry powder?”

“No, no, I was thinking, well if this had gone well, between you and me, well, you have needs and I have needs, so…”

“Needs? Sexual needs, you mean? What kind of a girl do you think I am?”

“A fake one.” The voice was shrill, angry and deep in contempt – not an easy combination, but its owner managed it anyway. Alfonso, having left as ordered was suddenly and terribly back. With one dreadful moment, he whipped off the cloak and headscarf to stand revealed. “Tell me to fuck off would you, darling?”

“Cheryl?”

“Yes. It was me all along.” Opposite Chrissie, Cheryl viciously pulled the white tablecloth towards her. The glass, plates and cutlery somersaulted into Chrissie’s body – a trifle of beer, wine, gravy and asparagus cascaded against her frock like the multi-coloured puddles often found beside Dudley gas works after a hefty storm. She screamed, threw herself backwards and tumbled over the top of the chair, legs splayed and winded.

“You were in disguise.” gasped Julius, hazily remembering the menacing figure as some woman from a night out where he’d drunk too much.

“Of course I was in disguise, lacing your food with curry powder and not just any curry powder, either.” Cheryl took the tablecloth and scrubbed her face; some diminutive Svengali who held all the cards; about to pull the rabbit from the hat.

“My God! You’ve poisoned us, you venomous sea serpent…but why, why? I’m too young to die…” Julius wanted to move as Cheryl advanced, but the bandages had by now cut off all feeling. He was pinned to his chair like some victim in a horror movie, waiting for the final slashing cut of the knife. Julius looked for help from the other staff, but they seemed oblivious.

“Of course I haven’t poisoned you, idiot. But later, when you try to get romantic  tonight…the results will be explosive. Hah!” And with that, she tossed the cloth aside.

“You evil bitch.”

“Yes. Too bloody young for me? How dare she. And what do you make of this sad, old trollop?” she continued, indicating the floor where Chrissie was now pushing herself off the ground, dripping in food. “Here, let me help you.” Cheryl moved forward and callously seized Chrissie by the chest and hair, pulling her roughly to her feet. With a quite ghastly ripping sound, the whole ensemble came away and she held her trophies aloft in triumph, grinning at Julius. “Poor deluded fool!” she sneered holding a bouffant, strawberry wig in one hand and the thin sweater in the other.

Chrissie, also standing, covered her chest. She was sobbing, either in anger or misery.

Now there was pandemonium in the restaurant. A partially naked woman? In The Holiday Inn? The waiters, once so tardy, so unmindful, rushed over. “Please to cover up miss…er…mister?”

Chrissie’s bra had been wrenched so forcefully, it hung from the shoulders in two pieces and padding material was tumbling pitifully onto the floor like the first flakes of snow on a winter’s day.

As Cheryl was bundled towards the exit, still creaming in triumph, Chrissie snarled and made as if to follow, but one of the staff retrieved the tablecloth that had previously been cast aside and covered the shoulders; gently pushing him onto the chair. “You stay here. You get calm. I call manager.” And he waved concerned diners back to tables. “Please to continue to eat.”

“Yes. Nothing to see here.” added Julius, still unable to move very much. With a grimace, he began to unwrap his legs until he had two bundles and a couple of safety pins. “Here,” he said fondly, and used the pins to fix the two pieces of bra together, stuffing the crumpled bandages into the cups tenderly. “There you go.” He took Chrissie’s hands. “I knew, you know.”

“You did?”

“Sure. See that Cheryl? Not my type.”

“I am a woman. Inside.”

“You are a woman inside and outside.”

Chrissie smiled and placed two hands around his. “I was scared. Scared that if we went back…to your apartment….”

“I’ll get the bill.”

“We’re paying? For this?”

“Of course we are. It’s not The Holiday Inn’s fault that Cheryl happened, is it?”

“That bitch.”

“Don’t worry, she did us a favour.” Julius grinned and waved, indicating, with his hand that ubiquitous ‘pen writing cheque’ thing we all do, until the waiter noticed, and, relieved, was soon by their side.

“You pay now?”

As Julius fished around in his pockets for his wallet, Chrissie began gathering stuff up and made sure the cloth was about the shoulders. Finally, Julius pulled it out and plopped it in front of him on the table. “How much?”

“Two hundred riyals, sir, with two drinks…three hundred.”

Julius pulled some notes and a coupon out with a satisfied flourish, presenting them with pride. “Look, here, Chrissie. I have this buy one get one free voucher. I snipped it out of the Gulf Times. Heh, heh, heh. Good eh?” But, to his astonishment, she didn’t look pleased. “Good, eh?” he repeated, his smile beginning to fade. “What’s wrong, dear?”

“Wrong? Is that the sort of girl you think I am? Buy one get one free? No wonder you wear fucking cut off shorts.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t. You cheapskate.” Walking to the adjacent table, Chrissie snatched a jug of water and pitched it at him. It caught him full face on. As the jug was thumped back down on the table, Chrissie turned abruptly and left.

“Where are you going?”

“Fuck off.”

Julius watched her leave and sighed.

The waiter also appeared to understand. “Another drink, sir?”

“No, no, I’ve got things to do. I’m just off to make a mix-tape.”