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Great Writing - Home > Short S. > Right here is where you start paying...part 1 (proper)
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| Right here is where you start paying...part 1 (proper) | |
| By NeilTollfree | ||||||||||
| 01 March 2007 | ||||||||||
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I popped half of this up on the site last week and people were nice about it, saying they'd like to see more (bet they're regretting saying that now). So, if we're going to do this, let's do it properly. Here's the full part one. PS. To those who have read the second half of this before, the whole bit's meant to be set in the park and you're right, it is confusing. If you like it, let me know and I'll give you the rest. ‘Papped! A glum looking Simon Peters reading the papers with girlfriend Kirsty in Hove park, East Sussex’ Sally stepped back from the monitor and turned her head to the side, her curly blonde hair fell over her arm. She sighed and chewed her lip. Sitting in the park was not interesting. She collapsed onto her desk chair and regretted it immediately; stupid thing was knackered and had a horrible lump on one side. She had a fair bit of padding around her bum on account of a life-long addiction to chocolate biscuits but the lump was still big enough to give her a painful poke. She swore. Calvin tutted. Calvin was a meek little fellow who wore massive spectacles that perched on a similarly massive nose. Actually, ‘massive’ is stretching it a bit. He had a tiny head that gave his average size nose and specs a larger than normal appearance. He was curled into the corner of the sofa on the other side of the front room. Next to him was a bookshelf that strained under the weight of Asterix and Tintin books. Ebay was a wonderful thing. “Oh calm down Cal. Half the population of the planet have got a pair. You’ve got a pair you know, Miriam told me” “Sally!” Calvin was turning that familiar shade of red he always went when Sally swore or burped or scratched or did anything else that human beings did. She farted in front of him once and the poor lad nearly exploded. Sally threw him an exasperated look. He was a sweet boy, and a considerate flatmate but, Jesus, he was wetter than floppy puddle. His girlfriend though, Miriam, was evil. Well, maybe ‘evil’ is harsh, certainly freakish though. The woman was obsessed with dog poop. She claimed that she could identify the age of any dog with a good look and (gag) smell of its poop. So this is what four years of Veterinarian College brought you. “Give over Cal, come and look at this. What do you think ?” Calvin joined Sally at her new computer. The carpet around the computer desk was a couple of shades lighter where their old chest of drawers had sat since they were students together three years ago. Their crappy old telly rested on top of the drawers in the opposite corner now. He screwed up his face as he read the lines on the screen. “I don’t know Sal…’Papped’”,. You can’t say that can you ?” “What’s wrong with it ?” “Well, you know…” Calvin looked uncomfortable. Sally looked baffled. Not an unusual state of affairs. “No, Cal, what are you on about ?” “You know, ‘paps’ ?” Calvin was not at all happy he’d got himself into this situation. He picked at the skin by his thumbnail. “What do you mean ‘Paps’ ? You’re not making sense.” Sally crossed her arms and looked up at him. “You know what paps are don’t you. ?” Ah, penny dropped. She understood what he was talking about and why he was starting to fluster. Well, if he was this much of an arse, Sally considered it her duty to make him follow this through to the end. “What exactly are paps then Cal ?” She stuck her sizable chest out at him. “Help me out Cal, because if I’ve made a feux pas then by website’s going to look like a load of old pants isn’t it. So, you’ve got to help me Cal. Tell me, exactly, what paps are” Cal went very quiet. His eyes flicked around the room to make sure no one would see or hear him. “Paps, are another word for...”. He mouthed something incomprehensible “Cal !” She stood and raised her eyebrows in a manner both threatening and expectant. “Okay Sally, Boobs. Pap is another word for a boob.” Pause. Deep breath. “Bap, Calvin Thomas, Bap is another word for boob. Knockers, breasts, boobs and baps. Baps ! Jesus, didn’t you talk to other boys at your school?” Calvin went bright red and squinted his eyes at Sally in an attempt to convey how much he really didn’t appreciate being spoken to like this and sulked back down on the sofa. He curled up with the throw over him and flicked onto a documentary on More4. Sally sighed, she didn’t mean to be so cruel to him, but sometimes he was practically begging for it. Oop, perhaps that’s how he got his kicks, being humiliated by girls. Maybe that’s why he was going out with Miriam; she was some sort of Madam Lash. She giggled. He looked at her, and she felt a little guilty. “I’m sorry Cal” Silence. “Cal, please, I need your help, really what do you think?” Calvin sighed dramatically, Jesus he was milking this. “Sally, I’m not a prude you know.” Sally stifled the hurricane of giggles in her throat and managed a penitent smile instead. “Oh Cal, I know that. Now, what do you think of this story?” He looked at her and twisted his mouth from side to side. “Well, it’s not really news is it?” “Cal, I know that, it’s not really supposed to be news, it’s a gossip web site. It’s a bit of fun, not CNN.” “And this would qualify as gossip would it?” “Calvin !” She almost shouted. “this is what I’m asking you. Is it gossip, is it something you’d talk about to your mates in the pub. “I don’t really go to the pub with mates, we have a subsidised bar at Miriam’s vivisectionist meetings at the Uni” “Anti-vivisectionist.” “Hmmm?” “You mean anti vivisectionist don’t you. Other wise that’s a very weird hobby you two have got there” “Oh hmm.” Cal didn’t seem to follow. Sally rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. She was losing him to the More4’s investigation into fake wicker on the south coast. “Okay would you and…these…people talk about this, about Simon and his girlfriend?” “Oh I see.” “Well?” “Well what?” “Would you talk about this? “I’m sorry I thought you were being rhetorical.” He flicked his eyes away from the telly. “I wouldn’t think so, maybe though. Although I tend to keep myself to myself there, Mizzy gets quite fierce sometimes.” Sally sat back down hard on the chair. “Ow, my bloody arse” “Sally !” Hove park was looking particularly green today, the morning light gave everything a pleasing sharpness that brought out the best in the outdoors. Simon Peters, however, was distracted by the little ray of gloom that sat opposite him. He was peered at Kirsty over the top of the Telegraph sports section. He hated the paper, but it was the only one in which he was guaranteed not to find any pictures of him. He was fairly sure she was dischuffed. He had noticed she was staring intently at one of the Sunday red top supplements written for ‘women’. This was not good. They’d got her again. “Hon?” tentative contact initiated. Unfortunately no response was forthcoming. He hated this, apart from anything else; she looked so bloody dour when she sulked. She looked good in the sunglasses mind, and the new bob set her off a treat when she smiled. He sensed they were quite some distance from a smile this morning though. “Kirst ? Hon? You all right?” She tossed a look at him that indicated that she was pretty far from alright, thank you very much. “Oh look Kirsty –“ “’Look Kirsty’ ? Look-bloody-Kirsty. No Simon, this is not a situation where ‘Look Kirsty’ is going to get you any bloody where.” Okay, it was clear he hadn’t realised the gravity of the situation. It was a shame, by and large he liked Kirsty. They’d kicked about together now for a couple of weeks now and he thought it was going pretty well. Clearly not. The good thing about recognition from the tabloids and glossies, he was punching well above his weight with the ladies. Take Kirsty, well above average looking, pushing a nine on the Dudley Moore scale. Three months ago, the closest he’d get to a conversation would be making nuisance phone calls. Get a couple of photos of him on about page seven with an arm drapped round the bassist of a pretty good indie band or coming out of one of the smarter designer shops in town and he was a hit. That whiff of recognition was proving quite the turn on. See, he was a pretty average looking thirty something, he kept his head shaved close to hide the bald patch, had enough cash to kit himself in pretty good clobber and at a push could generate a good moody look over the top of a cigarette. But take away the gossip columns and he’s Barry Average. Something about the fame though. He figured that women assumed he had his pick of the ladies, therefore were flattered when he spoke to them, therefore he’d end up with his pick of the ladies. Thing was, these three or four week flings were losing their lustre and he was into Kirsty. She looked damned good, and they seemed to be into the same movies and Pubs and stuff as well. If he couldn’t talk her round then he was going to personally get on a train to London and punch the editor of the Star right in the face “Kirsty, in all honesty, is it really that bad?” She tossed him a withering look that would have made a girder go floppy. “Simon. They’ve got a picture of me in my bra.” She held the picture at him while looking into the horizon. “You look good”, he said hopefully. “In my sodding bra Simon!” “They are bastards aren’t they.” But she wasn’t really listening. She said it almost as if she’d just realised it and was articulating the words as they formed in her mind “I can’t do this.” “Oh come on Kirst, I know it’s a pain, but-“ She looked at him and put her hand on his knee “No Simon, look, I’ve had a lot of fun these last few weeks But, look, I really can’t be waking up with a hangover in your tiny flat and walk down the shop to see this kind of thing. I’m sorry sweetie, I’m out.” Damn, that was cold of her. As an after thought, “Why is your flat so tiny anyway ?” she stood up, put her funky new Prada bag on her shoulder and walked off. She dropped the tabloid in the bin and as she did so, turned and gave him a smile. Simon was dumbstruck; he was looking forward to a nice day of reading papers in the park, maybe a pub lunch, and hitting the sack before Midsommer Murders. Now he was on his own with a headache and a bad paper. Bloody tabloids, they were turning into a right pain. He couldn’t scratch his bum without the three am girls popping up and taking a picture. Literally. Page nine of the Sunday Mirror two weeks ago - “‘Rash’ decision to scratch it in the street Simon.” Bastards.
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