Bellydancing and Beyond Box set

Chapter 6

Chapter Six

That night, Nefertiti never went to bed. Instead, she lay on the couch and every now and then, let out a sob so loud that Sam jumped, screeched and dug his claws into Sheryl. In the end, Sheryl couldn’t take any more and went down to console Nefertiti, or at least shut her up. Beatrice, however, had beaten her to it. With a brandy in one hand and an aspirin in the other, Beatrice was doing her best to console. She gave Nefertiti the aspirin, and then took a sip of brandy.

‘What am I gonna do?’ said Nefertiti. ‘My precious Flower of Scotland. How will I face the wrestlers?’

Beatrice looked at the crumpled heap, she had heard a lot about Nefertiti and none of it resembled what lay before her.

This was a woman who, according to those in the Stables, had rode into Lochgilphead on a red moped with a matching leather outfit, and a set of Egyptian drums suspended from each side. At half past three on a Friday afternoon, Nefertiti, ignoring the Lollipop man, had sailed down the main street, tooting her horn as she swerved to avoid those who dared to cross the road.

‘Nefertiti’s tough,’ muttered Rugby, who had watched it all through the windows of the Argyll, ‘as tough as day old pizza and that bloody cheese on top!’

Beatrice looked down on Nefertiti; she didn’t look so tough to her.

Nefertiti blew her nose, then handed Beatrice the damp tissue, ‘I‘ve made up my mind,’ she said. She looked at Sheryl. ‘You’ll have to come with me to the wrestlers, Darl. Somehow, when you are nearby, I don’t feel so bad. I look at you and think there are worse things that can happen to women.’

In the early hours of the morning, Sheryl lay in her bed and stared at her poster of Johnston, lit up by the streetlamp. She was too excited to sleep. For months, she had stewed over her hero, drooling over his dark n*****s and tight butt. For weeks, she had slept under the images that were splashed across her room. And now finally, she was going to meet him. Perhaps her luck had changed, perhaps now there could be a turning point. She put her hands behind her head and wondered what sort of women Johnston liked.

Beatrice tried to get comfortable in her bed and wriggled what she could of her back against the crinkled sheets. How Sheryl could not make a bed properly was beyond her. She flicked on the sidelight, and then pressed the up button on her bed. Shaking her flask of hot chocolate that was really lukewarm, she poured some and began to plan her trip to Oban.

Sheryl didn’t know it yet; but it was just a question of persuasion.

Beatrice pictured herself, wheeling down the aisle straight to the front row, with a view so close she would be able to see the sweat rolling down the wrestlers’ bodies.

She was going to yell her head off!

She poured some whisky into her lukewarm hot chocolate, tuned her TV to wrestling replays, turned off her light, and in the dark she imagined herself there, this time without the wheelchair.

The next morning, Steven appeared at the door with a manual under one arm, a bag of exotic groceries in the other and a bottle of Mr. Muscle swinging from his belt. Steven had come back for more. Beatrice let him in and watched him begin to make coffee, which she knew would taste as good as it smelt.

The night before, Steven had walked home nonplussed by what he had seen. His head hung low as he thought of Sheryl getting all hot and bothered over some American wrestler. How could he, a small librarian with a talent for cooking and writing unpublished novels, win the heart of Sheryl? How could he make her notice him, apart from falling off a ladder? He took a hot chocolate to bed and slept on his thoughts, and the next morning, he knew what he had to do.

‘She stayed the night,’ said Beatrice. ‘She says she’s got nowhere to go. She said she wouldn’t spend another night in that ‘bleeding’ Martin’s flat after what he and Rodger are planning to do. Just wish I knew what she was talking about.’

Sheryl’s head was under the sink; now is not the time, she thought, to explain the ‘Flower of Scotland’.

‘I brought a manual,’ said Steven. He placed it on the table.

Beatrice hovered about the kitchen. ‘Mind you, nothing about that Martin surprises me. Sheryl never was good at picking them. She was married to Alistair for ten years before she found out he was gay.’

Sheryl moved her head and banged it on the sink. She screwed harder on the joint, and wiped away the extra grease. Perhaps she should talk about Nefertiti after all; maybe it would put Beatrice off her breakfast.

Beatrice handed her a wrench. ‘Sheryl said he was a new man. New man, my arse. HE had a new man every other month.’

‘Steven doesn’t want to hear about that stuff, Mother!’

But Steven had heard it all before, about a million times as he sat in the library stamping books and filling in forms. At the mere mention of “The wedding”, Beatrice would work herself up into a rant, usually at the disadvantage of whatever book she had in her hand. Steven had lost count of the number of books he had had to discreetly mend, or else reorder.

He looked at Sheryl’s round body under the sink, working miracles with the plumbing, and he sighed.

George walked into the kitchen with a bottle of red wine and a box of fancy cakes. He nodded towards the washing machine, which was standing like some rusty has-been in the middle of the floor. ‘Playing up again?’ he said.

Sheryl tossed an old pipe across the floor.

‘Nothing Sheryl can’t fix.’ Beatrice said, ‘What do you want?’

‘Frances was telling me about your visitor.’

‘Frances and her motor mouth,’ snapped Beatrice.

Steven picked up the dead bit of pipe and put it in a bin bag. ‘I like her, she means well,’ he said.

‘Bollocks! Means well is just another word for pain in the arse.’

‘What’s she done to you?’ asked George.

‘Well, by now, half the town will know we are housing that Nefertiti for one.’

‘And what’s wrong with that?’

Sheryl tossed another pipe across the floor, this time a little closer to Beatrice.

‘And she keeps rabbiting on about some Flower of Scotland art show, which I don’t understand, ‘cept that Martin’s involved, which has to be bad news.’

‘Was there much in the washing machine?’ asked Steven to Sheryl.

‘Just Sheryl’s underwear,’ said Beatrice, with an extra loud voice, she watched Steven blush, then reversed her chair across the room, just missing George’s feet. ‘And she’s wanting Sheryl to go with her to the wrestling.’

Ah, so that’s what’s eating her, thought George, he watched Beatrice complete another lap of the kitchen. He had met many women in his time, but none as transparent as Beatrice. ‘Did she not ask you to come then?’ he said.

‘As if I would want to go with that bony woman,’ snapped Beatrice.

Sheryl eased herself up from the sink and stretched her solid back. Steven watched, mesmerized by her powerful frame. What she needs he thought, is some luxury, something to make her smile; he took out some extra dark chocolate from his grocery bag. Sheryl’s coffee is going to be the dog’s bollocks, he thought. It was going to be everything a coffee should be: rich, strong, with just a hint of something more. All he needed now was some milk, which wasn’t on the turn, feeling positive, he opened the fridge.

Nefertiti appeared from the lounge room wearing a turban, sunglasses, and an, “I am here” look. She leant against the doorframe and waited for some attention, when none came she spoke. ‘My head is thumping’ any chance of a coffee, Darl?’

George and Beatrice continued to stare at the washing machine. ‘It’s had it,’ said George. ‘It’s over ten years old, not like it owes you anything.’

Nefertiti looked at George. Amongst those in the Aces High club, he was known as the Howard Keel of Lochgilphead. George was a well-preserved man in his seventies, who, to quote Frances, “more than scrubbed up well”. Nefertiti thought he had the look of a man of comfortable means, a man who had seen a bit in his time, and yet still knew how to use a Hoover, she knew because she had seen his Merc. What a pity, she thought, that I’m not into older men.

‘Why don’t you just give it a good bash,’ snapped Beatrice. ‘That’s what I do!’ She pulled a rolling pin from the drawer and gave the side of a machine a few good clouts, and then twiddled with a knob. When nothing happened, she tutted and gave it another thump. The two men looked at her as a loud clatter came from inside the machine.

‘Coffee? I thought I smelt some,’ said Nefertiti.

‘Well if wasn’t broken before, it is now,’ said George.

Beatrice glared at him then reversed her chair, George swiftly moved his feet. Nefertiti didn’t till it was too late. She rubbed her foot and took what she thought was a safe seat.

‘You could always get a new one?’ said Steven, admiring George’s nimble foot action.

‘Beatrice splash out and buy a new one?’ George arched his eyebrows. ‘Old skinflint, with the purse full of moths?’

‘I am not a skinflint.’

‘Aye right; when was the last time you bought something new?’ said George.

‘Is there any coffee going?’ asked Nefertiti.

‘You got the lawn mower out of the skip; sorry, you forced Sheryl to climb into a skip and pull out the lawn mower, which vibrated so much, it left Sheryl with the symptoms of Parkinson for days.’

Steven looked up from the fridge. ‘Sheryl was in a skip?’ he sighed.

‘And what’s wrong with that? I’ve been known to rummage a bit in my time, scale the tip; you never know what you might find!’ said Beatrice, looking down at her twisted foot.

Steven lifted out some cream and sniffed it as a mental image of Sheryl in rubber boots scaling the heights of the tip crossed his mind. He decided to whip the cream.

‘That’s it,’ said Sheryl. ‘All done.’ She began to push the washing machine back into place, Steven jumped to help. Once in place, Sheryl lifted one of the corners up and motioned Steven to place a block of wood under it.

Nefertiti watched Sheryl, inspired.

‘Sheryl, you are a REAL Godsend. What you don’t have in looks, you surely make up for in brawn. Why, you’re almost a man, is there anything you can’t fix?’

Beatrice reversed her chair past Nefertiti’s seat, and Nefertiti winced.

Martin was tired. It had been a hard day; he walked into the bedroom, switched off the light, slid into bed and nudged Imogene.

‘She’s left him; moved in with Sheryl of all people!’

‘Who?’ sighed Imogene.

Martin switched on his bed lamp. ‘Rodger’s muse, his model, the Denture Lady.’

‘He should be so lucky.’

‘Lucky? That’s the show down the pan; Rodger’s pulling out, he says he gonna burn every damn fanny …’

‘I told you not to pay for the framing.’

‘We need a plan,’ he mumbled, his thoughts going to Sheryl. ‘She’s a good sort; maybe she could persuade the Denture Lady?’

Martin looked at Imogene; he stretched his hand across her stomach and slid down her neat bump. Imogene burped and rolled over onto her back, her face turned pale. ‘Oh God,’ she blurted, then with her hand over her mouth, she ran to the toilet.

Martin stared at the ceiling. How long did morning sickness last for?

No one noticed when he appeared on the drive, not even Sheryl, who at the time, had her head in the boot of the car, collecting tools for her next DIY job. Beatrice had grand ideas of a fire in her bedroom, and it was up to Sheryl to unblock the fireplace.

‘How are you?’ he said.

Sheryl jumped, knocked her head on the boot then spied the highly polished shoes. She guessed years of sneaking about had given him the ability to walk on gravel silently.

Steven was still in the kitchen working on a light Middle Eastern brunch for Sheryl and the others, when he looked up from his chopping board and noticed a man on the drive. ‘Is that Martin?’ he said. Beatrice, with the look of smelling something rancid, nodded.

‘A bit short, isn't he?’

‘HE maintains he is five-foot-eight,’ said Beatrice. ‘My arse, more like five-foot-five, from where Sheryl is standing, she has an excellent view of his bald patch!’

It was the first time Steven had clapped eyes on Martin ‘the gorgeous’ as Beatrice liked to put it, and wondered what all the fuss was about. He had seen better bodies in the old folk’s home where he delivered library books. Martin had the beginnings of a paunch, which no expensive outfit could hide, and he was short; what decent stud was short?

‘I wonder what he wants?’ said George.

‘Flower of Scotland,’ mumbled Steven.

‘For God’s sake, don’t mention THAT when she comes down, I don’t think I could stand another session,’ said Beatrice.

But it was too late. Nefertiti was already standing in the doorway in her familiar pose, dressed in colours even fluorescent wouldn’t describe. She drew herself up to her full height and moved to the window.

‘I see ‘im,’ she said quietly.

‘Where’s your precious BMW?’ Sheryl said, pulling out her drill box.

‘It’s parked out of sight.’

Sheryl sighed. ‘Out of sight’ was one of his favourite sayings.

‘I have to see you again, somewhere,’ he looked around, ‘private?’

Sheryl shifted uncomfortably. Maybe he missed her? She took a deep breath and looked into his grey eyes; he crinkled them into a smile. Should she care?

‘What do we need to talk about?’

‘What about some evening, we could meet?’ He stood closer.

She noticed a few beads of sweat on his forehead, and for a moment thought about brushing them away. Instead, she walked around to the side of the car and pulled out a box of nails, a packet of Polyfilla, two small planks of wood and a couple of bags of shopping.

‘He looks older than I imagined,’ said Steven.

Beatrice snorted, ‘That’s high living for you.’

‘High living and a good-looking mate half your age, that’ll kill any man; not enough stamina,’ said Nefertiti, putting an espresso to her lips.

‘That piece isn’t good-looking, she’s just blond, and skinny,’ said Beatrice. ‘My Sheryl’s worth twice of her! Nothing a little blue eye shadow and a decent bra wouldn’t fix!’

‘Hmm, she’s very robust, I’ll give you that,’ said Nefertiti.

Steven never heard. He was too busy watching Sheryl. How could this man not appreciate and cherish the finer qualities of Sheryl, how could he toss her aside then pick her up like a bored child with a pile of toys.? Steven looked at him: no wonder she found Johnston attractive.

Sheryl knew Beatrice was watching, she knew Beatrice was waiting for her to do what she always imagined herself to do; stand up to Martin.

In her dreams, she pictured herself never wanting his attention again, she pictured herself cool and collect, distant and reserved, not slightly flustered, almost flattered by his attention. She thought she had a grip on her feelings, but now faced with the man that had caused her more misery than she had known in a long time, her heart raced just a little. She was confused. It wasn’t lust she felt or love, was it emptiness, boredom? Was he the only man that would ever want to see her naked?

Steven walked out into the sun, his feet crunching on the gravel. He pictured himself as the great Porter in his novel, with a gun slung on his side, tight black jeans and a mean grimace on his face, just as Porter would wear.

‘You want a hand with anything?’ he said to Sheryl.

‘So you’re Steven then,’ Martin said. ‘Lindsey told me about you! Didn’t take long.’

‘Lindsey? When were you and Lindsey speaking?’ asked Sheryl.

‘What?’ Steven said, trying to sound gruff.

Martin smiled. ‘I heard you had an accident with a ladder.’

‘And when did you see Lindsey?’ interrupted Sheryl. ‘Come to think of it, why was she talking to you?’

‘We go to the same club!’

‘You play golf?’ said Sheryl.

‘Imogene introduced me to it, she said it would be good for my back!’

‘And what would a calligrapher know about back problems?’

‘I have a proposition for you.’

Martin and his propositions, thought Sheryl. There had been so many.

‘What does she see in him?’ said Beatrice.

George looked at the squat man; Martin did have a certain charm and he had big ideas, some of which came off.

When Martin first bought ‘Peek-a-Boo’ the underwear shop, he had little idea of what to do with it, until he saw Sheryl. He figured Sheryl’s assets were the best advert for his business, and dressed her up in the best underwear he supplied, and for a while she blossomed. Truth was, after years of living with a gay man, Martin swept Sheryl off her feet with great s*x, great laughing, great underwear and an okay job. At least she could call herself a manager.

George, a man of the world had met many ‘Martins’ in his time. He knew her happiness wouldn’t last and he also knew warning her would make little difference.

‘Problem is,’ said George, ‘a ruthless man in business makes a woman feel safe, till he turns on her.’

Beatrice said nothing; she looked out of the window at her daughter. Poor cow, she thought.

‘Steven looks cross,’ said Nefertiti.

‘I've never seen him cross before,’ said Beatrice. ‘The most I’ve seen is a red face when one of the students plays a prank with a National Geographic magazine.’

Nefertiti and George looked at Beatrice.

‘Oh you know, one of those magazines full of black breasts and p*****s wrapped in bark!’

‘Oh,’ sighed Nefertiti.

‘Oh,’ said George with a small cough; he looked out of the window. ‘Now what is he doing?’

Porter, thought Beatrice.

Martin pushed his finger into Steven’s chest, Steven pushed them away.

‘Are they having words?’ said Beatrice, ‘Over my daughter?’

George looked across at Beatrice and thought he detected a smile.

Sam, who considered the drive as part of his territory, had a high intolerance for visitors in suits (thanks to an unpleasant experience with a persistent insurance salesman), and a keen sense of Sheryl’s stress level. He strolled over to Martin and hissed a bit. As no one took any notice, he stretched his legs onto Martin’s suit and pressed his claws in.

Martin yelled at Sam, who then gave his other leg the scratchboard treatment. Steven, who by now was on good terms with Sam, picked him up just before Martin gave a kick. Sam, not too keen on being so close to a flying foot, jumped from Steven’s arms onto Martin with a hiss, then scrambled about his shoulders for a bit before making a run for it up a nearby tree.

‘I never thought much of that cat till now,’ said Beatrice.

Martin pushed Steven in the chest; Steven pushed back surprised by his force.

‘Should we go out…break it up?’ said George.

Sheryl, not quite sure what to do, stood in the middle in an attempt to placate things, but Martin pushed her aside. Steven, fed up with Martin’s cavalier approach to his muse and her cat, took a dive at Martin’s arm, but only caught his sleeve. Martin tried to pull away, instead he spun around as Steven clung on to his suit, and a ripping noise followed. His polished shoes clipped across the gravel, making an undignified sound as Steven swung him harder and then let go. Martin staggered to his feet and looked down at his sleeve.

‘That’s my best suit, you arsehole,’ he yelled. ‘What the hell are you playing at? It’s only a cat.’

‘Not much of a suit,’ Steven puffed. ‘Rips like tissue paper!’

‘I’ll send you the bill, shall I?’ snapped Martin, pulling his arm away; he looked down at the large tear with his white shirt poking though. ‘It will cost more than you could earn in a week, how much is it now for an overdue book?’

‘You ever been in a library?’

‘You ever had a real girlfriend?’

‘Shut up!’

‘Toy f*****g boy!’

Steven snapped and swung a punch at Martin. Martin jolted his head away from Steven’s fist, lost his footing and fell. Steven, assuming his arm would make contact with Martin’s face, overbalanced and landed on top of Martin.

Sheryl looked up at Nefertiti, George and Beatrice beating a trail down the path.

The two men proceeded to roll onto the bags of shopping, tomatoes rolled from underneath and squashed onto Martin’s suit, eggs cracked on to the side of Steven's face spreading yolk across his cheek. Sam, spying a bit of haddock, pounced and dragged it from the pile with his mouth.

Memories of wrestling now flashed into Steven’s mind, he saw pictures of Steel doing a headlock on Johnston, he saw Steel’s body flying through the air and landing on Johnston’s. He could hear the crowd cheer; he pulled himself away from Martin with thoughts of a really smart wrestling move, when Sam still with a bit of fish in his mouth jumped onto Martin’s face.

Martin swore and screamed.

Sam dropped the fish on Martin’s chin, hissed and wrapped himself across Martin’s head.

Beatrice looked down at the ball of fluff and made a mental note to buy salmon from the fishmonger next week.

Sheryl pulled the cat off as Martin glared from one person to the next, his red face already puffed and scratched; he spat out a few strands of haddock from his mouth and swore again.

‘So what’s all this then?’ said Beatrice.

‘He started it,’ muttered Martin, wiping his chin.

‘You started it you mean, you with your stupid suit… Sheryl is too good for you!’

Martin pushed his chest into Steven, who pushed him back with his hands. Martin stumbled a bit and then pushed Steven.

‘Wanker!’

‘Prat!’

‘Tosser…’

Martin huffed some more, looked about at the three women and then pulled a couple of bits of tomato from his sleeve, and with a dramatic gesture, slung them at Steven’s feet before marching to his ‘out of sight’ car.

Steven wiped his brow and looked at Sheryl with his chest heaving. Sheryl lent over and picked a few bits of eggshell from his cheek, while Beatrice began to rummage through the scattered shopping.

‘Can you do anything with this?’ she said, pulling out two mangled mangoes and a flattened sponge.

Nefertiti was inspired. ‘I like a man who knows how to handle ‘imself,’ she said. ‘We could use a man like you, couldn’t we, Sheryl?’

‘What?’

‘Come with me to Oban and keep that sodding Rodger and Martin off my back.’

Steven lifted the remains of tomato from his shirt and thought for a moment. ‘I don’t see why not.’

Beatrice reversed her chair past Nefertiti. This time, Nefertiti was quick on her feet.