Romance Meets Death by Ina Disguise - HTML preview

“Looks like I’m in trouble again, then.” I twisted my fingers, earthy from an earlier spontaneous gardening stint, into my fists to stop Rita, the tanned blonde identikit agency temp hirer from spotting them.

“I’ll say.  The council are talking about suing, although since you managed not to make a mess, I am not sure why.”  Rena smiled affectionately at this point, and I knew I had her by the imaginative short and curlies.  I could do anything I wanted with her now, I chortled to myself.  Actually, I mused, how irritating that Peter wasn’t interested, because he was the only person I had ever met that did it too.  He had finally slain me with an image of his goddess-like long distance girlfriend being blown up by a British landmine in Bosnia.  Knowing, as he did, that I have, publically at least, a strong affection for ‘Associated Defence Products’ on an economic basis, I had, mistakenly as it turned out, taken this as an ‘uber’ come on.

“It was a wonderful piece of film though, really wonderful – Romance, it’s intercourse with mortality.  Wonderful, I could bring you in a DVD it’s only five minutes long?”

“That won’t be necessary.”  Drat, I had pushed her too far.  She got up, thrusting a piece of paper into my hand.  “Even you cannot manage to cause any trouble here.”  She sniffed and drew herself up to her full height in full Dickensian fashion.  Didn’t really go with the accent and tan, I thought.

I looked at the scrap of paper that dictated my next assignment.  It was packing Aran Jumpers.  Eurgh, can you imagine what my manky hands were gong to do with them? Never mind what rough, oily wool was going to do to me.  “Is this my punishment?” What a useful classical education, I thought for the thousandth time.

Rena laughed heartily, with a surprisingly sardonic air.  “I shall hear from you next week.”

Meanwhile our hero Peter, he of the irresistible tummy and bat ears (sigh) had indeed had the fright of his life.  Perving at the temp staff was supposed to be acceptable and discreet.  Dreadful creature, with her single inch of fishnet stockings beneath the long skirt.  He had received quite a number of communications from her, email, letter, telephone, firecracker.  He had turned up on Monday morning to find our grubby and dishevelled heroine with a film crew outside the mortuary, capturing some 300 Chinese lanterns containing firecrackers go off in a controlled explosion all over the fascia of the building.  Now he was thinking about her.  The little minx.  “Walk like a duck!  I do not!”

His vanity dictated that she was not at all mad, on one level, he was a damned good catch.  On the other hand he was not at all interested in even slightly deranged chubby women turning up on his doorstep with slashed wrists, or whatever.  Hazards of dealing with the dead, ghouls will gather, etc.  He tried to put it out of his mind.  That last email had been particularly naughty.  A rather blunt attempt at linking individualism, ducks and her, meaning that she would be torturing him for some time to come, every time he saw a duck, or felt stifled.  Mental torture.  How interesting though, that one look had provoked such an attack.  She was obviously cross about something or other.  God only knew how such people think.

“At least this means I’m not dead, I guess.”

Thank heaven for St Marion, she of the calm exterior and passionate embrace.  The cool-headed, worthy St Marion, who would guarantee him and his children a world class reputation for pathology for generations to come.  All hail Saint Marion!  No mental complications there then. Peace at last.  If only the dreadful girl would come home and have some babies whilst they were still young enough to enjoy them.  She could always go back to work later, he mused.

Imagine if he had run off with the dreadful temp with genes like that in the bank.  How amusing!  His colleagues would have been eyeing him strangely for years.  He thought of this with great glee for a moment, before moving on to his customary state of utter boredom.

“I think I’ll go and get my ducks framed, in case I get any grief from Doctor Peterson.  I can eye it in a vaguely threatening Dilbertian way and say nothing at all.  No-one will know whether it really means anything.”  He laughed maniacally.  The 4 x 3 foot duck study had caused quite the sensation in the office, however inexpertly done.  It was a time marker, nothing more.  Just a passing gift from a stranger….weird girl.

“I’ve decided to move to the country for a few years.  I won’t be away all the time.”  I knew that mother would not like his, but continued. “I think I have gone mad.”

“What have you done this time?”  She looked nervous this time. 

“I made an inappropriately large pass at a world class pathologist on the strength of his right eye in a corridor. And then I made a film to celebrate. ”

“Was it really that good?”

“I’m afraid so, mother.”

“Well, you’ve always been a bit like that, haven’t you?  A bit desperate.  You always rush at things.”  No changes from mother then.  Feeling so much more confident.  Thanks for that.  Running like hell sounding more attractive by the minute.

“Possibly.  I like to think of it as ‘unrestricted by social convention’, myself.  I realise that my free- spiritedness is getting a little dated, but you know, if everyone was the same, life would be boring.  You always said so.”

“Yes, I’m beginning to question that statement’s validity.”  She stuck her proud central Scottish nose in the air.

She objected to my ‘dropping out’, but a few years away from Glasgow would do me no harm at all.  I could amass a carpet collection to exhibit.  I could write.  I could take dogs for lengthy walks.  I could seduce random old boys in village pubs in a carefree manner and not think about anything of consequence.  Most importantly I would be as far away as possible from the mortuary and the site of my terrible firecracker disgrace.  I had made the local papers this time.  Poor Peter.  I wondered if he would ever live it down.  In the meantime I had debts to clear, in case I ever did find a permanent focus for my sexual attention and broodiness.  No time for flings, hello/goodbye I’m late, I’m late, I’m late….

“But what a film it would make.”  Cassie, famed for her scarlet hair and irrepressible libido laughed “What a female Casanova!”

“It’s not funny, Cassie.  It’s worse than the daily blues singing to the footballer.  I am way out of control.  I shouldn’t be allowed out.  I would appear to be attempting to turn into a Meg Ryan type.  I am so ashamed.  I wanted to bite him.”

“Just think though, you could write it all up!”

“Yes, I suppose I could.  I could turn it into a nice story, couldn’t I?  I’d rather have bitten him though, just a tiny bit, for a while you know, until he said ‘Stop that, until tomorrow’” My misery was complete.  There would be no jiving with the lazy pathologist.  Boohiss.

“Yes, and sell it to Americans.  They love that sort of thing. Meg Ryan could be you!”

I laughed for several minutes at this point.  If she doubled her weight and shrank a bit.  I had a touch of the duck myself.  Messy and plump would be my first two words.  Not a close resemblance by any means.  I could see some merit in watching her set firecrackers off around the mortuary though.  It might be a good scene.  We’d need someone a bit crazy like Charlie Sheen, though, to be a fireman or something.  Not like reality at all, getting your friends up at 5am to sneak out and just do it with no official permission, far less back up.

“OK I’m going to write it.  I’ll have to send the guy a copy before I leave so that he knows I’m not going to come after him with a bread knife.  Thanks Cassie.”

“I am so jealous. I wish someone would go mad for me like that.”

“Well yes, that was kind of why I started doing it.  Someone has to, otherwise people will forget how.  This is just the worst one ever.  It ought to be a nice thing, but I’m not sure that romance isn’t really dead.  People just get alarmed.  They automatically assume that you are bonkers in a really bad Kathy Bates kind of way.” I shuddered, grimacing.

“Look, it’s an improvement on the sexual route most people use.  I wouldn’t worry about it.”  Simon was loftily guarding his territory as usual.  The less people I slept with the better, in his view.  Sooner or later I would realise his was the only cave to dwell in.

“Is it?  I don’t know, trollops have a lot more fun than I do.  They get hurt more often, I suppose.  And I do a lot of reading about sex, so I guess I probably know more than people who actually do it.”  I laughed, feeling only slightly maudlin.  Everyone who looked at me these days was attached. “I must give the appearance of someone who shags and runs, leaving no trace.  I’m not sure I like that.”  I pouted for effect.  “In fact, that’s probably why I make such huge gestures. I must be angry about something.”

Simon sighed.  At this moment, he cared about me more than anyone else.  Shame it wouldn’t last, it never did. He wouldn’t feel like that if he had me, we had established this long ago. “You’re an attractive woman, kitten.  Something about your eyes and your hair.  The other day when you were rootling around in the vegetable patch….They can’t help it.  You shouldn’t punish them for it.”

“You are very kind, but if I am giving the impression of robust and available lust, it is high time I changed my look to one of crazed vulnerability.”  Oh God, this meant losing a lot more weight and giving up the element of errant spankability.  How tiresome.  I suppose it had to come sooner or later.  I do quite like eating though, especially when frustrated, which is pretty much all the time since I took to a life of creative erotomania.

I realised that I almost incited rejection.  It had been going on for years.  Why didn’t single people look at me anymore?  One person I had ‘chased’ had actually left his girlfriend (wonders will never cease!) Rather than actually talking about it, he had made anonymous phone calls from all over the city for about three years.  In return, determined to get something out of these pointless non-encounters, I wrote to him.  Sometimes funny, sometimes boring, always affectionate.  I modified the twelve days of Christmas for him, in cigarette papers, miniatures of alcohol, and took it to him so that he could reject me, laughing on the doorstep.  I sent him exotic blue flowers.  He only once identified himself by telephone, to my mother, and demanded that I worship him. As it turned out, he had been sparing me his drug problem.  It was a beautiful, doomed non-relationship.  I gifted him a box, and made several carpets for him, to a reasonably good standard.

Then there was the saxophone player.  His carpet was of a good design.  It was just as he played, daring, imaginative but with bum notes here and there and a few timing issues. He was very beautiful, with blonde curly hair and a large top hat.  I gave him a large photograph, which cost a lot, but not as much as spending 5 weeks in a bar watching him play, fending off 21 year old after 21 year old at the tender age of 31. It really would be more convenient if my creative sexuality was more physical, for when prolonged they just come across as taking the piss.  He was actually single.  All stare and no action, that’s me.  In my memory I particularly enjoyed the superficiality of this one.  We would have looked wonderful together, and that was all there was to it.  Woodland elves with shabby glamour.  I added rosebuds to my curls.

Then there was the Professor, who was unaware that I worshipped from afar.  He was a small Jewish American, who brushed his hair like Hitler and glowered at everyone to such an extent that I surmised that he was soft as putty.  He initially thought I was stupid and hated him, but I persistently mirrored his fear, and achieved a real smile from him eventually.  The ‘bloody my nose’ school of lecturing.

The Footballer, again ridiculously young, who wanted children and had my eyes.  I liked him because he was spirited and a natural, effortless leader. I sang to him every day, which probably varied in quality, knowing me. 

I am a noisy freak of nature, a wilful egotist, and I communicate way too much and too freely.

My gift making weirdness does not stop at men.  I have made and designed many gifts also for women.  The contrast between the genders is interesting. I do not, by and large, trust women.  My family is at the root of that, but I have chosen career paths largely to avoid them and as a result have no inclination to ask anyone’s opinion about my decisions, unless they happen to affect them.

The non-relationships may not seem very sane, but I do get joy out of the roughness of the wool and hessian, and the wounds on my hands when I have been working too hard.  The self-destructive cough and crippling shuffle from sitting for too long. It is akin to the pain of loss when the occasional sexual relationships end, but far better, because you are left with your creations and your own development.

What do the encounters with me do to my muses?  I imagine it too is relegated to an amusing half remembered story eventually.  I am happy to snatch a wisp of immortality.  Life is so very bleak.  Colour is precious.  I only ever meet people through work these days, because I do not get out, so I have to grab the inspirational chances when I get them.  Maybe one day it really will be the duck of my dreams.  I suspect it of being in-built, the ending.  Romance meets death, and I give birth to another creative project that will take me out of, the scene for several years, which means I don’t get hurt, and neither does anyone else.  Maybe someday someone will call my bluff, and then I will be too busy making them happy in an extended and imaginative variety of ways.

www.inadisguise.com 2014