Petition to save Gaby’s deli

Dear friends,

The next instalment of Poisoned Pens is on its way, but while you’re waiting, please sign the petition below to save my favourite London deli:

 

http://www.gopetition.com/petitions/save-gaby-s-deli-charing-cross-road-london.html

 

 

Poisoned Pens 3

A prize for anyone who recognises Beryl’s extract….

Chapter 3

The obligatory orientation meeting saw everyone gathered in the large lounge, the students sitting expectantly with all eyes turned on Tessa and Max.  The two tutors sat uneasily next to each other in ornate hardwood chairs that only added to their discomfort.  Once each person had said which writer they admired most (“Well, you, Max, of course,” Pamela had said, while Leila looked pensive when it came to her turn, before deciding upon Angela Carter.   Predictable, thought Tessa. Boring.)  The buck-toothed girl sat curled in an armchair in a shadowy corner, typing into her laptop.  She’d said that her favourite author was Stephen King but had uttered nothing further.  The atmosphere in the room crackled with hot tension, and everyone seemed relieved to get the meeting over with.

“Would you mind having a read of this?” Beryl asked Tessa as they headed for the door.  “It’s an excerpt from my novel, set in India.  I’d appreciate your views.”

“Of course,” said Tessa, suppressing a sigh.  It was sure to be some kind of romantic drivel or at best a village idyll.  The worst part of these programmes was having to read the students’ work, most of which, in Tessa’s opinion, was dreary and banal.

After the group had dispersed, Max made his way to the reception desk.  Megan wasn’t there, and Max shuffled through the papers she’d left in a neat pile until he found what he was looking for.  The neatly typed sheet listed participants and their room numbers.  Perfect, thought Max.

Tessa kicked off her shoes and stretched out on her bed.  She flicked open the manuscript that Beryl had handed her.

Meanwhile Lata, who was in the thickest part of the party, felt as if she was swimming in a sea of language.  She was quite amazed by the glitter and glory of it all.  Sometimes a half comprehensible English wave would rise, sometimes an incomprehensible Bengali one.  Like magpies cackling over baubles – or discovering occasional gems and imagining them to be baubles – the excited guests chattered on.

God!  How tedious, thought Tessa, relieved that Beryl hadn’t given her the whole thing to read from the beginning.  She wondered where she should start in giving Beryl the constructive criticism that was required on these programmes.  What I ought to do, thought Tessa, is to tell her to give up hope of writing work that stands any chance of being published and take up knitting instead.  But I suppose I’ll just have to suggest that her work is somewhat over-written and her use of simile rather clunky.  And what on earth am I to do with Max?

Max looked at his reflection in the bathroom mirror.  Not bad, he thought, pulling the comb through his hair and arranging it so as to cover the thinning patch at the crown.  He swallowed the little blue pill, gargled with minty mouthwash and then, leaving his shoes by the door, stepped into the dark hall, closing his door quietly behind him.  Padding silently down the chilly corridor, he held his lighter up so as to see the numbers on the bedroom doors.  Down a half flight of stairs, across a landing, up three steps, and there it was: room eleven.  He could hear his heart beating in his ears and he was breathing fast.  His prize was so near, and wouldn’t she be pleased to see him?    He pushed down on the door handle and the door gave way into the dark room.  A sickly floral smell greeted him and the sound of soft snoring.  He tried not to cough as he approached the bed.  She was buried deep in the covers.  He took off his shirt and trousers.  He kicked off his boxer shorts and bent to remove his socks.  Then he lifted the covers and slipped himself into the bed.  The body heaved itself around and Max found himself pinioned by fleshy arms.  The cloying smell made him want to gag.  Surely she hadn’t been wearing perfume?  And surely her body was much lighter than this?  Suddenly the body sat up and flicked on a bedside light.

“Max!” cried a wild-haired Pamela.  “I was hoping you’d come, you naughty boy.  Now just you settle down and let Pamela look after you….”

“You!” spluttered Max.  “But….but…there must be a mistake…This is Leila’s room.”

“We swapped,” said Pamela, “so that she could have the room with the shower.  I prefer a bath, so it worked out perfectly.  And you don’t want a skinny thing like Leila, you want a real woman, Maxi.  You want a woman who knows what you like…”

As she pressed her ample body to his, the perfume she’d dabbed between her breasts exploded in Max’s nose and he broke into a fit of coughing.

“I can’t…” he choked.

“You can!” cried Pamela

And he found, to his alarm, that the little blue pill was overriding his panic and that Pamela was right.

Pamela climaxed with a yell of triumph.  Max hoped that the noise wouldn’t wake everyone.  He particularly hoped it wouldn’t wake Tessa.  He tried to get it all over and done with speedily – something that had never been a problem when he was younger, but seemed impossible now.  Finally, spurred on by imagined visions of Leila’s cleavage and with some adept help from Pamela, he too achieved orgasm.  It was joyless and Max felt in urgent need of a shower to wash away the evidence of his humiliation and the cloying stink of Pamela’s perfume.

“I have to go,” he said to her.  But she didn’t reply.  She’d curled back into sleep, a contented smile softening her face.

As he was struggling into his jeans, the door opened.  The quiet girl with the protruding teeth stood there, staring at Max.  He suddenly remembered where he’d met her before.

“How could you?” she whispered, and he could see that she was crying.  “How could you, after what happened at Vibrant Waters?”

“Ah, yes,” said Max, “I knew we’d met before.  Milly, isn’t it?  How are you?”

But the girl, whose name was Anna, gave him one, last doleful look, uttered something aching and inarticulate and then turned and vanished into the dark corridor like some kind of sprite.  Max could hear Pamela’s contented snores begin to get louder, the interval between them growing longer as she slipped deeper and deeper into sleep.  He had to get back to his room and shower off the horrible perfume residue.  He hoped his chances with Leila weren’t now well and truly scuppered, but he feared that they might be.  He padded as quietly as he could along the corridor and slipped back into his room.  Things really weren’t turning out as he’d intended.  First there was the unpleasantness of finding out that he was teaching with Tessa.  Then there was the matter of the accommodation.  And now this cock-up with the dreadful Pamela.  Three things.  Could this be the end of it?  Would things start to look up now?  Max was essentially an optimist.  It’ll all start to get better tomorrow, he thought, as he scrubbed himself under the shower.  Look on the bright side, he said to himself: it’s not going to get worse.

Branching out…

This is a new blog.  I’ve set it up specifically to publish my creative writing as opposed to thoughts and ideas related to coaching and my work in the third sector.  Watch this space!

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