‘You’ll find them in the fridge over there,’ Rita had pointed. ‘I hope you enjoy them.’
He’d walked away then with Rita muttering, ‘Thank you’ and ‘Don’t mention it’. Honestly, he could have said goodbye at least. She’d forgotten about him half an hour later and never imagined that she would see him again. But irritatingly for Rita, Henry began to visit her stand three times a week. Always cautious, but quietly curious, he would try each sample, sometimes buying them to take home, other times dismissing them as dyspepsia irritants. Rita had looked up dyspepsia on Google. The next time she saw Henry she suggested some antacids that they sold at the pharmacy counter. Henry had thanked her politely and then patiently explained that his condition was too severe for a simple antacid. Rita found herself wondering how this dyspepsia manifested itself. As time went on, Rita found herself looking forward to Henry’s visits as opposed to dreading them. One Monday evening, many weeks later, Henry didn’t come to sample her wares. Rita wasn’t sure whether she was relieved or disappointed. She found herself strangely worrying about him. Had the dyspepsia taken a turn for the worse? Had he had a fatal accident? She hoped one of her sample foods hadn’t had a catastrophic effect on his sensitive stomach. Rita realised how much she had taken Henry’s visits to her stand for granted, when by Friday she had become quite anxious. A whole weekend stretched ahead of her. She began to wonder what she would do if Henry didn’t come into the store on the Monday. She would never know what had happened to him. The weekend seemed to drag by. Rita tried to hurry it along by cleaning out the small oven, but that didn’t take long, so then she gave her bedsit a good clean before sitting down with a mug of tea and a digestive biscuit. Sunday had been the worst. Even with a lie in, the day had dragged. Finally, she took half a loaf of bread, which was already turning stale, and wrapped it in some cling film. She squeezed the bread and the Mills and Boon romance she had been reading into her handbag and took herself off to the park to feed the ducks. But even that didn’t stop her thinking about Henry. It had been too hot to linger at the park for long. Summer had arrived with a vengeance and seemed in no hurry to leave. It was crowded too, with parents picnicking with their children, who squealed with excitement at the sight of the hungry ducks. Rita was so grateful when Monday came, even though she had an irritating headache from not sleeping properly. This is ridiculous, she’d told herself. You hardly know the man and besides, he’s married. Rita didn’t have much experience of men, unless you counted Billy, and even Rita wasn’t too sure how to define her relationship with her landlord, Billy Wallace. Those men she had known had turned out to be losers. Nearly all the girls at work were now in steady relationships and couldn’t understand why Rita had such difficulty finding a nice man. She couldn’t bring herself to tell them about Billy. She was ashamed. Ashamed she’d allowed it to begin and ashamed that she seemed unable to end it. She didn’t understand the relationship herself, so how could she share it with others. He’d been kind to her at the beginning. She’d been very grateful six months ago when he’d approached her about the rent and said he wouldn’t be putting it up like the other landlords. She’d studied the adverts in the newsagent’s windows, so she knew the rents were high. Some had their own bathrooms, which Rita would have died for but could never have afforded. He’d worn a nice shirt that day and gelled back his hair. Rita was surprised. She hadn’t thought Billy owned a shirt, let alone an ironed one. It was funny, but Rita thought Billy somehow looked how you’d expect a Billy to look. Strange, she thought, how some names seemed to fit people perfectly. Mostly his hair was lanky and untidy and generally, whenever she saw him, he was wearing creased tops and faded jeans. But Rita thought he had charisma. She’d watch him walk down the street with the swagger of someone who couldn’t give a damn what anyone thought.
He wasn’t raising her rent, he’d said.
‘I ought to,’ he’d smiled. ‘You know, what with the economy being what it is.’
Rita had nodded, although she didn’t know very much about the economy. She sometimes watched the news, but politics confused her. She’d been a quiet courteous tenant, he’d said, and he’d felt it was the least he could do. Rita had been very relieved, so when Billy had invited her into his living room for a celebratory drink she had gone willingly, fully expecting the other three bedsit tenants to be there as well; all of them celebrating their good fortune at having such a thoughtful landlord. After an hour, and when no one else had arrived, Rita broached the subject carefully. By now, she was slightly light-headed from the wine.
‘When are the other tenants coming?’
Billy had smiled.
‘Other tenants?’ he’d asked.
‘To celebrate with us,’ Rita had said innocently.
‘Ah,’ Billy had grinned, and Rita had thought how handsome he seemed.
‘I raised their rent,’ he’d laughed.
‘Oh,’ she’d said stupidly.
‘I can’t afford to keep everyone’s rent low,’ he’d explained.
‘No,’ she’d said, looking down at the wine glass that Billy had just refilled.
‘But you’re special,’ he’d smiled.
Rita had blushed profusely. No one had ever told her she was special. Billy was a successful man. He owned a large townhouse and was only in his early thirties. Rita was certain he probably owned other properties too, and here he was telling her she was special. So, when Billy had sat beside her on the three-seater couch and laid his hand on her knee, Rita had thought it was alright. The wine had relaxed her so that when Billy had pushed her back against the cushions she didn’t resist. His kisses had been wet, and his breath had smelt sickly sweet. Rita didn’t really mind. She’d been kissed before and it had always been wet. She’d decided that it must be her.
‘Do you like the cinema?’ she’d asked between the wetness.
‘The cinema?’ Billy had repeated huskily.
‘Yes, perhaps we could go one evening.’
Then, he would take her to the café, and everyone would know she could get a man.
‘Oh yeah, sure,’ he’d replied, pushing her skirt up.
Rita had felt the cold air on her thighs and shivered.
‘I should get going,’ she’d slurred while quite enjoying the sensation Billy’s hand sliding up her thigh was inducing.
‘Ten more minutes,’ he’d pleaded.
Billy’s hand had now reached the forbidden fruit and Rita had jerked under the shock of his touch. A delicious almost unbearable sense of pleasure had gripped her. She’d felt certain she should stop Billy but she couldn’t. Her nails had dug into his back and she’d arched her body towards him. When his hand had guided hers inside his trousers, she’d gasped.
‘Stroke it,’ he’d said huskily, and Rita had obeyed.
Her orgasm had been shattering in its intensity. She’d never known such pleasures existed. When Billy had attempted to lie on top of her she had been quite assertive in her objection.
‘No, I won’t do that,’ she’d said firmly.
Rita recalled the events of that evening and others that had followed it. She’d expected to feel guilty. But she hadn’t. In fact, she had looked forward to those intimate moments on Billy’s couch. She would never allow it on her couch, of course. That was unthinkable. If Billy did come up for a takeaway, then they would always end the evening in his dim, musty living room, with his grandmother’s inherited sideboard and white lace chair back covers, which still smelt of her sweet cloying perfume. Rita often wondered if she were watching them. They never did go to the cinema. It never bothered Rita that Billy never offered to take her out and she never questioned why he didn’t. Rita didn’t want to be seen with Billy. He was rather too loud for Rita’s liking and very showy. What’s more, everyone seemed to know Billy. Rita never understood how they knew him. Somehow, they just did. Even those who walked in dark circles knew Billy. She’d heard he’d been involved in a few illegal goings on. Rita didn’t want to dwell on what they might be. Most of all, she didn’t want her girlfriends discovering that her grubby fingernailed and lanky-haired landlord was laying his hands on her forbidden parts. Or that the angry glint in his eyes when she said no, frightened her. She was playing with fire and she was terrified of being burnt. It had all started well, but she’d known at some point Billy would expect more. Once he’d twisted her arm so badly it had been blue for several days. He hadn’t meant it, he’d said. He just hadn’t wanted her to leave. He’d drunk too much that was all it was. Then there was the slap he’d given her. That had been Rita’s fault. She shouldn’t have gone through his cupboards. But the wine had given her a stinking headache. She’d just needed some paracetamol. She’d felt sick and horrible. They’d had an Indian takeaway and she’d been certain it had been off.
‘Fancy a dance, babe?’ Billy had asked drunkenly. Rita knew she should have left earlier. The angry glint she dreaded always appeared when Billy had alcohol in his veins.
