Chapter Four - A Man of Singular Tastes

I stood there nervously, my ear pressed against the stock room door, listening to all manner of grunts and groans, before finally plucking up the courage to turn the handle. And what a sight met my eyes! 

An orgy of limbs writhing on the floor, so entangled it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. And on top of it all sat Betty, frantically grappling with arms and legs like a woman possessed. Suddenly, the pile shook violently, flinging her tiny frame across the room and Jean’s big head emerged, crimson and gasping for air.

”Thank goodness for that!" she exclaimed. “Betty's been sitting on my face for the best part of an hour! That’s the last time I ask her to help me tidy the prosthetics cupboard . . ."

It was Wednesday, which meant semolina and the diabetic nurse. But for me, it meant something far more significant . . .

It was no use putting it off any longer. I waited until Jean was busy with a customer and slipped into the office - I knew I'd have to be quick if I didn’t want her listening in on the shop extension. I dialled the number I'd found in Mr Grey's wallet and waited, my heart thumping so loud I felt sure the whole street could hear it.

“Hello?” came a faint voice on the other end of the line.

“Oh hello," I replied, preparing to begin the speech I'd rehearsed a dozen times. But to my surprise, the voice continued . .

“I'm sorry, I can’t take your call at the moment. Please leave a message after the beep.”

I took a deep breath. "You don’t know me,” I said in my best telephone voice, “But I know you. And I’ve got something of yours. If you want it back, be at the Copper Kettle Tea Rooms at three o’clock sharp.” I slammed the phone down and dashed back into the shop where Betty was silently toying with her garibaldis and Jean was polishing the phone receiver.

“If you’re popping out, could you pick up a couple of things for us?' she asked, with a supercilious smile. 

I arrived at the tea shop fifteen minutes late, with lipstick on my teeth and a carrier bag full of Betty's mint imperials and Jean's haemorrhoid cream. I spotted him immediately, at a table by the window . . grey hair, grey jumper, grey eyes gazing out at the grey day. I adjusted my coat collar and made my way over to where he was sitting.

"Hello . ." I began, carefully placing my bag beneath the table so he wouldn't catch sight of the contents. He looked up suddenly, wide-eyed and twitching.

"Is it Fluffy?" he blurted as I took my seat.

I frowned. Was what fluffy? He leant forward conspiratorially.

'I'll pay anything you like,' he whispered, fingering his doily. "Whatever you think it's . . worth."

I gulped. Oh dear, what had I got myself into? I bit my lip and glanced towards the door.

"Just as long as you don't hurt it, obviously."

What on earth was he talking about? Whatever it was, I knew I had to get out of there as quickly as possible. I fumbled in my pocket, thrust his wallet onto the pink tablecloth and stood up sharply.

"My wallet!" he exclaimed. "Oh, I'm so sorry. When I heard your message I thought it was some kind of ransom demand. So you haven't kidnapped my cat, then?"

"Of course not!" I said, praying I hadn't unwittingly bundled anything else into my handbag after our collision at the cinema. "At least I don't think so . . . I just picked up your wallet by mistake yesterday. Accidentally, you understand."

“Oh," he smiled. "Well, that's a relief."

"I'm sure it'll turn up," I said. "You know what cats are like."

"Yes," he said.

"Well, I'd best be off," I murmered, eager for this awkward moment to be over as soon as possible.

"Won't you stay for a bite?" he asked, pointing to a pair of scones sitting in the middle of the table next to a couple of small pots. "As a thank you for your kindness."

"Well . . . alright then," I said, quickly smearing one of the scones with jam and cream before pushing the pots across the table towards my companion. 

"Oh, just jam for me," he said, his electric grey eyes staring deeply into mine. “My tastes are very . . . singular.”

With this, he smiled and excused himself before heading to the toilet. I wafted my face with the menu as I watched him make his way to the back of the cafe. I had heart flutters, knee tremors and palpitations. Even more than normal. Seeing my chance to escape the agony, I grabbed it with both hands, along with my shopping bag, and scurried out into the street. 

I arrived back at the shop, breathless, red-faced and relieved I would never have to see Mr Grey ever again. I opened the door to find Betty lying flat on her back with Jean bending over her, holding a cup of tea to her lips. 

“Oh dear, have you had another one of your funny turns?” I asked, forgetting my own concerns for a moment.

“No, she’s handcuffed herself to the radiator,” sniffed Jean. “She’s been rummaging through that box of yours again. You wouldn’t believe the things she found!”

I stared at the array of chains, blindfolds and bizarre rubber garments all neatly arranged and priced up on the counter next to the empty cardboard box. The box that Mr Grey had brought in! It all looked oddly familiar but I just couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"Did you get our shopping?” asked Betty from the floor.

"Oh, er . . yes," I said, reaching into the carrier bag but, instead of a family size tin of mints and a tube of haemorrhoid cream, I was surprised to find a bunch of cable ties, a coil of rope and a large roll of duct tape. This wasn’t my bag! I must have picked up Mr Grey’s by mistake in my haste to leave the tea room. And as my mind darted between the strange contents of the bag, the items sitting on the counter and the extraordinary film I'd watched the day before, it reached a sudden and horrifying conclusion . . . 

Mr Grey was going to think I had haemorrhoids! 

CONTINUED ON THURSDAY 12th MARCH 

(Please note that from now on I'll be putting new chapters up on Thursdays instead of Sundays. I hope you don't mind waiting an extra few days for the next one, dearies, but this blog is playing havoc with my Bingo habit. Love Gran x)