Wednesday 15 August 2012

Celia - in 500 words

The brief was to write a short piece which included a secretive wife, a stuffy bungalow and a sports car - comments welcome!

Celia

Celia finished her cappuccino, dabbed her mouth with a serviette, and stood to leave, pausing for a moment to check that the private investigator had finished his panini. He had been trailing her around town all morning and she felt responsible for the boredom emanating from his every pore. After all, she had led him a merry little dance for three days now and hadn’t given him anything to report. The poor dear.
It took Celia back to the days when she had to drag her Simon to the shops in the hour between leaving work, picking him up from school, and Frank coming home from work. Just like then, she felt guilty for imposing her needs on someone who clearly wanted to be elsewhere, and like then she couldn’t fully concentrate on the task in hand because she felt responsible for someone else’s safety and wellbeing. Is he watching out for traffic? Is he avoiding that dog mess? Has he finished that bloody panini yet?
She sat on the bus and wondered what she was suspected of this time. Thirty years ago her first private eye arrived the week after she had drunkenly joked about fancying a younger man in the office. That one had looked like a retired policeman in his dirty mac and bow tie.
The next one appeared eighteen years ago, when she had taken advantage of local adult education facilities to learn conversational French, a surprise for Frank, who was already fluent. On that occasion she asked her professional stalker, a nice young man with tight jeans and bulging triceps, if he would like to join her in a cup of tea. When she found out how much Frank was paying to feed his self-indulgent insecurity she hit the roof, and she didn’t calm down until her second cup of tea, which was drunk an hour later, at 3 p.m., in the Premier Inn whilst the trainee detective pulled his trousers on. A whole hour! No wonder she was ready for a second cup.
Of course she felt guilty for a few days but all this was Frank’s fault. If he ever left the bungalow, or looked up from his cameras and his dark room to open the curtains and windows once in a while, he might notice she was there for him. If he had even met her halfway she would never have needed distractions, a career, or dreamed of a better life, one full of light, and air, and sunshine.
As it was, three jobs and two promotions later, she had once again started sneaking out to evening classes, this time on car maintenance, in case the second-hand sports car she had bought with her last bonus let her down on her planned escape from suburbia.
She passed the detective on her way off the bus and gave him a brief once-over. He was about forty, fit, well dressed and he had a nice smile. Maybe, she thought, maybe she could offer him a little bonus for all his trouble.