Horizontal Twist

      start of  ***HORIZONTAL  TWIST***

🍜The last thing he needed to come home to was disarray. His mind was already cluttered by the goings-on of an awkward client backing out of a deal that he knew could make a reasonable profit. The loss, of course, not paramount to the company, but he hated being messed with. Even after a fine dining  meal (often used in the business as a softening tool), he waited until during dessert to politely tell Neil to stick it. Neil told him back that he hoped he choked on the fucker as he angrily left the table; the bastard client had no intention of signing  a deal half an hour into discussions.

Saskia had let herself in at half past one - two hours earlier than she said she'd planned - with a whole new deal-for-the-day that smelled of PJ's, (her mini heart-stamped ones) snacks, and whatever else alcohol brought about. No longer did she desire to go see that boring new film with him (she let him have his way sometimes!) and instead put another slant on its cancellation by staying home. She got a sudden shock when she heard his key in the door.

   'No, no, no!' she squawked at him. 'What are you doing home now?'

   He rooted himself as he noticed her there in the kitchen-space, a metal tray on the worktop with marshmallows capped in brown aboard, with a trail of melted chocolate travelling back and forth from a bowl; over the hob, the counter, and her mouth. He was - gradually - getting used to the general clutter that came with her - something rectified fairly easily - but burnt in stains and opened drawers, jars and packets, and the shamble just tipped him over the pissed-about weariness edge. 

   'What's all this?'

   'Chocolate mallows... ' she said, slowly raising the spoon and licking off a big drip that was forming. For the first time she could almost physically feel how irked he'd become. 'You're always telling me I should learn to cook.'
   Disparagingly he shook a slow, unhappy head.  'I'm going for a shower, please sort out this mess by the time I'm out.' 

   Saskia fought the urge to tell him to piss off, it was no big deal; a rub with a Brillo pad and ta-da...  there you go!'

   Hoping that the foamy promises of his stress-relief shower gel lived up to its claim, she waited until she heard the water turn off, then the zip of the shower curtain being pulled back, before her head appeared round the bathroom door (as if it were on a stick), startling him a little. Seeking a truce, she laid his folded shorts and tee-shirt nightwear on top of the towel rack.

   'Just thought you might need these,' she said in a small voice, and left him be - thinking it wise to perhaps make an attempt at tidying, at least, the kitchen.

   Appearing from the bathroom doing that wet hair and towel thing, she hoped any irascibleness wasn't still lurking under that wet mop. He looked disgruntled yet, but was wearing his PJ's nonetheless, and came to join her in the kitchen.

   'Put that scrubber, down,' he told her, taking it from her and throwing it into the sink. 'Sorry for the grumpiness, I've had a shit day.'

   'S'alright,' she sighed, drying her hands. 'It would have been all cleaned away had you come home when you were supposed to and you'd have been none the wiser... want one?' She turned and held out a sticky glob of pink and brown with her fingers and he accepted it. 'Good?'

    'Ah... eaten worse,' he opined as he chewed away. Saskia  punched him playfully in the stomach, and it felt good to see his smile slotting back into place. 'Not had any lunch yet, suppose I could teach you to cook food properly - or in your case, cook proper food!' 

    'Could do,' she agreed, holding out a bottle of beer to him. 'What were you thinking?'

    'That I'm in for a hard time.'

    And he more or less was. Despite working in the food industry, the furthest the little tea shop that she worked in went to, by way of hot food, was toasties and soup of the day; provided by outside caterers or from her mum's friend's kitchen. Saskia mostly served or thrown-together sandwiches, if need be. And she'd mentioned that it was her grampa and mother who cooked at home. If left to her, she'd happily survive on cereal and sandwiches, so trying to get her into some easy recipe that included one uncomplicated wok was proving to be challenging; even the preparation.

   'Bloody Nora!' she exclaimed (a saying of her Grampa's that still carried with her), as she struggled to get a lid off a jar of paste. 

   'Can't you manage?'   

   'No. You'd need a ruddy degree from Oxford to learn how to open that!' 

  'Give it here..' Neil twisted it open first time.  Heedless of instructions, it wasn't too long before she was sucking on a burnt fingertip and he decided to take the wok from her but encouraged her to observe.  However, any tutoring was being rudely snubbed as she hummed and assented behind him, trying to fool him into thinking she was paying attention, when in reality she was swiping away on her phone. On discovering this, he nabbed it from her and tossed it quite a fair distance onto the settee, under a huge gasp from her. 

    'What are you doing!' she protested.

    'Jesus Christ, lady, you're supposed to be learning something here.'  As endearing as taking an interest in one of his passions would have pleased him, deep down he knew the quest to ever see her beside some simmering pot was overestimating her desire to ever want to. Chocolate mallow-making was perhaps the extent her abilities wanted to go. No one can truly shake off childhood, he concluded. Gourmet was a thing strictly for adulthood. 'Look, this is almost ready. Get out two bowls and two wine glasses, we can eat at the bar... I'll not book you in for any more classes.'

   'Got out of that one, Scotsman free,' she cheekily quipped, crackling with energy like the wok she'd managed to sunder from.

   'And don't think for one second of picking that bloody phone back up,' he ordered as he faced the hob again, 'we're about to eat.'

   'I won't... I love it when you're all daddy-like with me... '

   He turned and gave her a look.

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Needless to say - or for him to inquire - that their cinema outing was now was a no-goer, instead she'd planned an in-bed movie at some point. If they'd be focused enough to enjoy it was a different matter.

    Bowls pushed aside, playing cards taking up the space, she shuffled the pack and dealt while giving instructions for booze-based Pontoon.    

    'So, it's the loser that necks the shot, then?' Neil queried. 'Seems a bit au contraire.'

    'Speak English, Dad.'

    'Different, off beat. Usually winners get rewarded.'

    She sighed. 'Are you sticking or twisting?'  

    Three times in a row Saskia lost before his own first defeat, and near gagged the second he'd downed his shot. 'Ugh! The chuffing stuff tastes like bloody Benylin!' he said, slamming the mini-glass down with a clunk.

    'Like what?' she frowned.

    'Oh, just this chesty cough syrup my mother used to pour down my throat every winter as a boy.' 

    Saskia gave a tender smile at hearing this as his mother didn't feature in his narrative too often. As for the Jagerbombs  - which she'd pre-bought - he wished her the win with every hand, but refused to cheat and kept swigging the chuffing stuff nonetheless. An hour and a half later he called it a day as her losing streak tripped into alcohol-induced profanities; thank God she was never this lavatorial elsewhere. So far.

         

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Despite the buzz in his ears, Neil reckoned he was sober enough for some laptop work. With this taken care of, he might even take tomorrow morning off. The bored and petulant child in Saskia, however, had other ideas. Not satisfied with eyes glued to her phone for a miraculous change, and rain keeping her from the balcony, her impatience grew to attention-intervention; starting with aimlessly bouncing up and down on the balls of her feet, humming random tunes while hitting him constantly with are-you-finished-yets. Pillows and cushions went everywhere, hairbands pinged at him, and so far he seemed to be impressively unbothered by her antics. But she was, by temperament, designed for fun and upped her game to bouncing right next to him; knees bent and arse stuck out, as he tried to type. That did the trick. 

   Snapping his laptop shut and pushing it to the middle of the table, he made a grab for her which she dodged by flying off the settee with him in chase. Despite his insatiable love for her, she'd still ruined his castle and Neil Balfour didn't like it one bit. He nabbed her flat on the bed, holding her by the wrists above her head and looked down at her with disdain, feeling more than hacked off.

    Raising her hips, she brushed her genitals across his, unchaste by his impulsive response.  This wasn't her usual signal when she required him, not the gentle lead up to it he'd come to recognise. Held in such dominant form turned Saskia on, so she thought she'd try to make him play harder, struggle free, but his full weight dropped on her, keeping her there. She responded eagerly. 

'You do my head in, girl, d'you know that?' he said in between breaths, after the whole five-minute event was over.

    'Try my best,' she smirked, slipping the bottom half of her nightclothes back on.

    He gave her a wry smile and shook his head lightly, not sure if those kind of five minutes would ever happen again. Sometimes all it took was a slight stroke of his thigh for slow tension to build, not even making it to bed. Sometimes one would fall asleep before the other on the sofa, then feel the warmth of a body snuggling in at some point through the night. So he'd surprised himself to find a rampant side still left in him, although it was pretty much out of his comfort zone these days. Now he struggled with the fact that his bed felt empty on the nights she wasn't there, and the luxury of all that space he once enjoyed felt oppressive. 

   With sudden hoo-hah, Saskia leapt from the bed, and boosted back with the bottle of champagne she sneakily had hidden in the back of the fridge, two flutes and unnecessary snacks. 

   'Okay... what film should we watch?' she asked him, lolling across his bare chest, stretching fully for the controls in his bedside cabinet as he was trying his best to pour the drink into the glasses.

   'Have I got a say in it, then?' he said derisively as she pressed the button to raise the flat screen that built into the framework at the foot of the bed - something he rarely used but she was taken with. 

    'Sure!' she said with soundness that only lasted a few seconds. 'Actually, I fancy a horror film.'

    'Och!' Neil cast his eyes to the ceiling. 'Go on, then, just make sure it's more spooky than gory.'

After 15 minutes they agreed upon - with as much false enthusiasm as he could muster - some shit or other; she was so indecisive.  Curtains drawn (by button command) their faces patterned with the flickering actions of the TV screen. Necking sparkling after sparkling glass to help him watch along, he took delight in waiting for a tense bit before before grasping her thigh and shrieking. On reflex response, she slapped his shoulder and called him a bastard; giving him the glory of goading her for the name she'd just called him. 

   Unable to connect with this banal shit-flick, Neil started to throw peanuts towards an empty beer bottle (champagne now arsed) left on a nearby cabinet, and within a couple of minutes the film was forgotten; taking just over ten minutes for him to pop a nut down that glass neck, they both gave a huge drunken cheer at his success. Nut's everywhere, his place really was in an unrecognisable, shambolic state - about as bad as a party of people would leave. But for the moment the drunken old bum cared not a jot. Rather incredulous from this non-shifting, house-proud turgid.  

   Saskia didn't bother to reconnect with the film, instead her amorous side was starting to creep back. But Neil managed to put her advances on hold; intemperance having a meantime say in the matter. It was bliss just shutting out the world - no exits or entries other than them - and holding her as a welcomed sleep washed over them. But that bliss was about to be burst-in on by a forgotten regular.

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Valerie gave Martin at the concierge-desk the usual hello, as she made her way in. In the lift up to the top floor, she wondered what delights would be in Saskia's bedroom this time. Initially, she had questioned the age of her by the debris from her first ever visit there. No doubt there would be washing and ironing awaiting - often having her cause to sniff the garment to discern which was which.  It wasn't the sight of Saskia's bedroom that would cause the most alarm tonight though.

   After letting herself in with her set of keys, the portly charwoman gave an, 'Oi, Oi, Oi,' as her eyes scanned the flat. At first she didn't notice them as she pottered about sorting the mess, but further along the apartment, her eyes locked on a sight that totally threw her.  Father and grown daughter asleep together in the same bed was shocking enough, but the lack of clothes and position they'd glued themselves together in in their drunken slumber, had hands and heads resting in unseemly places. 

    In a panic, she retreated outside still not believing what she'd just witnessed. As much as she tried to convince herself this might be something she'd just mistakenly deduced, the amount of bare skin exposed suggested otherwise. More than simply watching a film had gone on there. Besides - why watch a smaller screen when there was a huge TV in a more than comfortable area for such? No, no. This was far too luculent for her to be wrong.

    Stuck in such a quandary was awful. Instinct wanted her to flee, pretend it never happened, but blind duty kept her there. She needed the wages, and hovering about outside the lift was getting her nowhere. She could knock loudly, or phone in the hope of waking them and pretend she'd simply forgotten her key; let them take it from there. Or she could leave it half an hour and try again in the hope that they'd both be awake by then. Either way, she wasn't sure she could even look them in the eye. Foda. She needed to leave the building. Concierge could notice her hanging about in the hallway at any second and intervene if they felt there may be a problem.

   Valerie marched straight past young Martin on the way out; he simply assumed that her service wasn't needed after all and she was miffed at it. Still not knowing what to do for the best, she knew she had to think fast and by the time she'd walked the length of her cigarette, she decided to leave a text message:

 

Good evening, Mr. Balfour.  I am sorry but I'm not going to manage my shift tonight as one of the grand-kids has taken ill and needs me.  I can manage the same time tomorrow night instead if that's okay with you? 

That would at least give her 24 hours before having to face anyone. She just thanked God that tonight she didn't bring company along; sometimes she had no choice but to bring a very well-behaved grandchild with her. Imaging having to explain that one.

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A few short hours later they rose from bed, Saskia felt, by contrast, hungover the night before the morning after. Downing tons of water, she was trying to quell this sick feeling by making herself some dry toast. Asking if he needed the same, she looked up when he didn't answer.

    'Dad? Toast?' she asked again and watch him throw down his phone on the couch next to him.

    'Thank fuck!' he said.

    'What's up?' she queried, though not really caring as her head felt it was being knocked at by a bunch of hammers.

    'Just got a text from Valerie. Forgot she was supposed to be cleaning the flat tonight while we were at the cinema, didn't we?'

    She ceased the crunching on her butterless toast and felt her heart speed up a little. 'What's it say?'

    'She's just apologising for not being able to make it tonight, sick grandkid or something.'

    Both of them stared at the other, stunned into silence for the moment.  They thanked fate for now, but needed to return to bed. The full impact of this careless slip would most likely hit home harder come the clearer-headed morning.

    As they curled back together under the duvet, Neil hated the feeling of having been that lax, considering this a close one. He'd need to shave a little more thoroughly in future, though. Any closer and tonight's razor could have left one hell of a nasty nick.

     end of  ***HORIZONTAL  TWIST***

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