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Dilemma

A short story by Fran Connor

I don’t know. Should I get rid of it myself, but I don’t see why? It’s his fault. Go on, go for it girl. They said he was back from his course in America. I should have contacted him while he was over there but I’m too soft. Too trusting. That’s what got me into this mess. He won’t be expecting a call from me. We agreed it was a one-night stand. How could I have been so stupid with a guy like him? Guess I’ll have to put it down to experience. Here goes!

“Hello, Robert? It’s Barbara here.”

“Who?”

Charming! “Barbara. Barbara Miller.”

“Er. . .”

“Three months ago. At Veronica’s party.”

“Veronica’s party? Oh yes, Barbara. I remember.”

Hmmm. I’d like to say ‘you damned well should’ but let’s keep it pleasant. At least as pleasant as possible.

“When did you come back from the States?”

“Why?”

“No need to be defensive.”

“Two days ago.”

“You left me with something.”

“What?” I can hear the panic in his voice. Good!

“You left me with something after we. . . you know at my place. I want to get rid of it.”

“Then do it.”

“I need your help.”

“Why?”

“Because it is your problem as much as mine, more so.”

“How do I know it’s mine?”

“It couldn’t be anyone else.”

“You a nun or something?”

“Robert, I’m trying to be as polite as possible and as the circumstances allow. I don’t think we should be talking about this on the phone. I want you to meet me.”

Silence for what seems ages.

“Did you hear me? I think we should meet.”

“And if I don’t want to?”

“The alternatives are not good for you. I may tell your employers, or I may tell your wife. You said you weren’t married. Veronica told me you were. That was a despicable lie. I wouldn’t have slept with you if I’d known you were married.”

“Blackmail!”

“Call it what you want but you’d better meet me. Outside the front of the National Gallery on the steps at four o’clock this afternoon.”

“I’m on shift.”

“No, you’re not. You’re such a liar. They said you had some days off before going back to work.”

“Who did?”

“She said her name was Mrs Jones.”

“She shouldn’t be giving out my work schedule.”

“Take that up with her then. Meet me or take the consequences.”

I cut the call. Will he come? Only one way to find out.

I open the drawer in my dressing table. Should I? No best not to.

Now, what should I wear? It’s not as if I’m going on a date and I don’t want to impress him. Boy, do I not want to impress him! Jeans, my baggy roll neck sweater to cover what is underneath and my denim jacket. That should suffice.

It’s cloudy and could start to rain. Take a brolly. I could always use it as a weapon if he is aggressive with me. I don’t think he will, but you can never tell with blokes like him. I’ll take the tube to Leicester Square and walk the rest of the way. It isn’t far.

***

Usually, I like sitting on the tube watching people. Today I feel like people are watching me. Keep it together, girl! You’ve done okay so far.

Carried out in the throng making their way into Leicester Square, I find there’s a light drizzle. Good job I brought my brolly. It’s only a quarter past three. Time for a cup of coffee. There’s no point in getting there early and standing out in the rain.

Why is it these coffee shops are all part of chains? I just want a cup of coffee not a bucket full.

“Flat white, please,” I say to the barista with a ring in her nose. I hope she doesn’t catch a bad cold.

“Small, medium or large?”

“Small, please. Could I have it a proper cup?”

“We don’t do cups.”

“Oh. One of those small things then.”

“Dark or light roast?”

“Er. . . don’t know. Just normal, please.”

“Inside or take away?”

“Inside please.”

“Five pounds.”

“Thank you, but I just want a small cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, it’s five pounds.”

I reach into my purse, rummage around and find a lonely five-pound note.

The barista hands me a metal stick with the number seven on it. I find a seat next to the window. It’s raining harder now.

“Number seven,” says a voice over a speaker.

That’s me. I hurry over to the counter and collect my gold plated, diamond encrusted non-recyclable container of coffee in exchange for the metal stick. Stop it! You didn’t have to come in here so stop being such a grump.

I count the minutes as they crawl by. It’s like being at the dentist. You know you must go through with it but there’s that urge to just get up and run away. Well, I can’t do that. I have to meet Robert and sort this out.

Eventually my watch arrives at a quarter to four. The rain has stopped. Here goes. I set off towards Trafalgar Square avoiding the puddles when I can. Fortunately, I wore the ankle boots.

I like the National Gallery. Over the years I’ve spent hours in there. Not today. I’ll meet Robert if he turns up and take him back to my place. I can’t force him, but I can threaten him.

From my vantage point on the steps outside the gallery I can see all the way down to the far side of Trafalgar Square. I should spot him coming. But will I recognise him with his clothes on? Now, stop that, Barbara. That is not funny in the circumstances. And will he recognise me? It was a one off and three months ago. I do stand out among the others here so he should recognise me.

Is that him? Could be. Looks shorter than I remember, and he didn’t have a beard. He could have grown one in America. I’ll make such a fool of myself if it isn’t him. Best wait for him to approach me. He may wait for me to make the approach.

The guy stands on the steps looking around. He glances over at me and smiles. Could be him. We’ll both stand here like lemons waiting for the other.

 A blond woman in high heels climbs the steps and throws herself into his arms before they walk off towards the entrance. That was close!

“Barbara?”

A voice behind makes me nearly jump out of my skin. I turn. Yes, it’s him. I do recognise him.

“Robert.”

“Well, I’m here. What now?”

The collywobbles take off in my tummy. “Robert, you need to come with me back to my flat. I didn’t want to meet you there first in case you turned nasty. There are CCTV cameras covering these steps.”

“That’s dramatic. Are you crazy or something?”

“No, I just don’t trust you now I’ve found out more about you.”

“Why me?”

“Because it’s yours!”

“And what are we going to do when we get to your flat?”

“You’re going to remove it!”

“What? Don’t be stupid. I can’t do that?”

“Why? It’s yours.”

“No, no, no.”

“Why not?”

“I’m a doctor for goodness’ sake. I can’t do what you want.”

“You’re a doctor. I agree you’ll be in serious trouble if anyone finds out. So, you’d better make sure nobody finds out. You know how to dispose of it safely and you’d better do it safely.”

“No way.”

“Then I shall go to your wife.”

I see that’s hit him where I intended.

“Okay, we’ll go back to your place and discuss it.”

“No discussion. Just do it.”

“Hmmm.”

***

In silence we walk to Leicester Square and take the tube. He sits on one side of the carriage and me on the other. Am I doing the right thing? Yes, of course I am.

Was this wise taking him to my flat? I hope so as I turn the key in my lock.

“Come in,” I say and direct him to my small lounge. It isn’t a bad place to live, and I go rent free which helps since my pay wouldn’t cover it.

“All right. We’re here now.”

“It’s the only thing I can think of to get me out of the trouble you dropped me in. If you don’t mind, I’ll take this sweater off. It’s too hot and it’s itching my neck. And no that is not an invitation!”

“That’s the last thing on my mind,” he says.

I pull off my sweater. That’s better in just my black shirt and dog collar. He stares at me.

“What the hell? Do you dress up as a policewoman too?”

“Don’t be insulting. You didn’t know? I’m the vicar of St Mathews. I thought Veronica would have told you.”

“I didn’t think vicars went for sex outside marriage.”

“It wouldn’t have been with you if I had more sense.”

“And you’re going to go through with this? You a vicar? Bloody hell.”

“In the bedroom now! And if you don’t do it, there will be consequences.”

“What would God say about you forcing me into doing something I don’t want to do?”

“From what I’ve heard about you, this is not the first time you’ve done it. And I don’t think you are in a position to take a moral stand. Come on.”

I step into my pink bedroom. I didn’t decorate it pink. The flat came ready furnished.

He follows. “Right. That’s it. I flatly refuse to do it. It’s wrong. I don’t care if you do tell my wife. I won’t do it!”

“Why so reluctant?” I pull open my dressing table drawer and pull out the packet of blue pills that must have fallen out of his pocket when he left three months ago.

“I wondered where they got to. I thought I must have dropped them at the party but couldn’t ask about them for obvious reasons.”

“I want you to destroy them safely. You’re a drug dealer and being a doctor you should be ashamed of yourself. I couldn’t dispose of them in case someone saw me. I couldn’t flush them down the toilet because it blocks downstairs sometimes, and a plumber may have found them and that would not look good for a vicar! And I certainly couldn’t walk around outside with them in my pocket. The police do stop and search around here and I’m black!”

“They’re just pills.”

“No, I looked them up on the internet. They’re class A drugs and you need to stop dealing and destroy these. If I hear that you are dealing, I will go to your wife. I don’t know if she knows you deal but I doubt she knows you are screwing around if you’ll pardon the expression. At least Veronica reckons she doesn’t know about your extra marital activities with other women. Apparently, I’m not the only one.

“And so you were going to blackmail me into giving you an abortion.”

“What?”

“You want me to terminate your pregnancy. Here! That’s stupid. And dangerous. Why don’t you just go to a proper clinic, and have it done legally and safely?”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

“You said I got you pregnant.”

“No, I didn’t. I said I wanted you to get rid of something you left in my flat. The drugs. Pregnant? What gave you that idea?”

He grabs the pills and marches out of the flat.

Come to think of it, I can see how he misinterpreted what I said. Be clearer in future Barbara. I sit in my chair and can’t help a chuckle.

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