Culpability and White Lies at Tesco

A few days ago, I read with interest the breaking news in the UK that the FTSE 100 UK-based firm, Tesco, is under investigation for financial malpractice. Like many others, including shareholders whose investments have plummeted, I will be interested to discover the possible extent of the wrongdoings and the degree of culpability amongst the top executives.

Since the global recession and the collapse of some banks, we are all more acutely aware of the malpractices and corruption that can occur within big companies that are driven to produce ever-increasing profits. I wrote about big business, corruption and culpability in White Lies, one of my stories in my collection, A Modern Life. The main protagonist, William Baxter, is a tyrannical profiteer who relishes his ruthless reputation until, one day, he meets a blind woman who unwittingly changes his perspective on life. The twist in the tale though is, by the end of the story, where Baxter is redeemed from his abhorrent ways, the blind woman has been corrupted by her new found material wealth.

Not all decisions are easy.

It is sometimes too easy to criticise and mock people in big business and politics. Of course I do it here on my blog in a jovial way and, at a deeper level, discussion, scepticism and criticism are part of the democratic processes that helps to keep businesses and governments in check. However, we should remember that not all companies or executives are corrupt and without banks and businesses we would have nowhere near the scale of wealth and prosperity that we do in the Western world. Banks and businesses supply the investment that provide jobs and mortgages that ultimately have taken us from the poverty-ridden subsistence level existence of the pre-industrial era into a world where the quality food, warmth and housing that were once the prerequisite of the elite are now commonplace. We should also remember that corruption is not limited to the rich or powerful. Stealing the office paper, using the office franking machine to send Christmas cards (I've seen it happen), hiding aspects of your income, exaggerating expense claims - are all examples of degrees of corruption.

I'm aware that there is a huge difference between the culpability of people who are trying to exist at the most basic human level to those at the highest level. But the point of my story White Lies is that we are all capable of corruption and we all just as capable of redemption - should we so wish. Sometimes things happen in our lives that makes us change the way we think and act, for better or for worse, so perhaps nothing, except death, can be predetermined. What is important, I believe, is that people who have the power to influence and change lives have a strong ethical code. In my opinion, Western society is pursuing a relentless quest for increasing profit and obscene indulgence which will result in an unequal distribution of wealth so great it will beyond any justification. Maybe we have already reached that point. It concerns me that some people have more money than they could ever need and yet, even in Western world, there are those still living on the breadline. If we extend those comparisons to the Third World, where societies still suffer extremes of poverty and disease, then the comparisons are far greater. These inequalities are not just sad. They're tragic. It's impossible to pretend that such deprivation does not exist; the faces of dying children are no longer pages in a book or a remote column in a newspaper but faces on our TV screens, tablets and mobile phones. They cannot, or should not, be ignored.

I do believe that individuals and companies should be amply rewarded for their efforts. It is pure idealism to believe society will ever be truly equal in all respects. However, that doesn't mean we can't strive for an equality in basic human comforts and health care or ensure companies conduct their business in an ethical fashion. So many companies relentlessly pursue increasingly profits for their major shareholders on a yearly basis and many top executives have massive bonuses based on those profits. The temptation to resort to unethical behaviour, for some, must be strong. And I don't just mean unethical behaviour that is strictly illegal but behaviour that involves unfavourable treatment of suppliers or subtly misleading promises to consumers.

There is only so much money one needs to live, even gloriously. Wouldn't it be nice if we shared it around more?


White Lies and twelve other tales of contemporary life can be found in my story collection, A Modern Life

Paperback Cover to The Changing Room

The final cover for the paperback version of The Changing Room has arrived. You can see pre-barcoded version below. I think it's fantastic and on a par, if not better, than many of the traditionally published women's novels. It just what I wanted - something unique and with an almost seaside-postcard feel that will hopefully create interest from both men and women.

I've added a little clothes tag-style ticket to the upper left-hand corner of the rear cover which reads " A book club novel." This is because I believe The Changing Room is an ideal novel for book clubs as it incorporates many themes for discussion. (Although probably not in my book club where we prefer to discuss the choice of wine and latest village scandals.) So I've also included a book club section at the rear which includes bullet points for discussion and a Q & A section with me where I waffle on in my usual dubious manner.

The principle theme of my novel is "change" as suggested by the title. This is "change" as an individual that stems from the choices we make in our lives when faced with big decisions. In the case of my heroine, Sandy, these are crucial decisions such as whether or not to place her mother in a care home and how she will deal with the failing family business. But there are also deeper strands to the novel which I hope will open up discussion about how we deal with problems such as age and senility, not just on an individual basis, but also in the wider context of government and politics. The antagonist in my book, the unscrupulous local politician Trewin Thackeray, is another talking point whose dastardly behaviour I hope will generate conversation amongst readers about whether or not there should be "change" in the way MPs are recruited and how governments conduct their business.

I suppose, ultimately, I've written a book I wanted to read and, interpreting my friends' favourite book club choices,  what they might want to read too - a book which is light and fun but underneath addresses some serious issues. I've felt that this is an element missing from the women's market with publishers rarely taking a chance on "fun" fiction except when it's romance-oriented and, more often than not, in the chick-lit style. Jo Jo Moyes Me Before You is a rare exception to this but even that was a set within the boundaries of an almost-conventional romance. As for the comedic elements of my novel -  from a personal perspective I feel I'm probably pushing the comedic boundaries much further than current mainstream novels. But that is the freedom that self-publishing has given me - to take a chance on what I believe women may enjoy reading and not feel constrained by agents' and publishers' preferences.

Okay that's it for today. I only have to wait for approval and for the proof copies. Once I've approved them I can hit the publish button and a few days later the paperback will be available to order. In the meantime, if there's any of you out there who are book reviewers, librarians, are part of a book group or have a blog and would like to receive a free ebook, gifted via Amazon, of The Changing Room or A Modern Life in exchange for honest, impartial reviews on Amazon and/or Goodreads or on your blog please do get in touch via my contact page.

I'm nearly there now. Phew.

And just to keep you updated my next blog will be on a topic which is not close to my heart but definitely close to my sense of humour. It will be called French Trains and German Engineering. I haven't written it yet - but I have a feeling it might be a little politically incorrect.

Pork Chops and Promiscuity: A Tale of Lesbian Lust

Judith was a lesbian. Only she didn't have short hair and she didn't wear wooden beads. Neither did she have a girlfriend with a moustache and legs like a Russian shot-putter. In fact, Judith didn't have a girlfriend at all; she preferred the anonymity of one-night stands with girls picked up in gay bars and communal changing rooms. Judith particularly liked the changing rooms at the exclusive gym she attended where all the tanned PR girls hung-out, stripped to the waist, chatting nonsensically about their executive boyfriends and the latest skincare products. Whilst the nubile objects of Judith’s affection compared the benefits of the latest three-for-the-price-of-two offers in Boots with make-up bags gifted with a purchase of two face creams in Debenhams, Judith would happily eye-up their scantily covered buttocks.

        Judith’s own choice of underwear was hipsters, as they flattered her slender hips but, as a voyeur, she preferred thongs. Often she would imagine ripping them off with her teeth and, after rampant sex, flossing with them in the same way she might do after enjoying a particularly good pork chop. Not that Judith should eat pork because it was against her religion. Well, her father’s religion. Anyway, it didn't really matter about Judith’s fondness for pork chops anymore as her father had disowned her when she’d told him that she was “coming out” and that she’d rather die than spend another evening, at his behest, with his best friend’s son who had a PhD in engineering. That last dismal night with Englebert had resulted in a massive showdown - the culmination of years of Judith’s self-hate for being her father’s lackey. The acne-covered Englebert would have tested even the most stalwart socialite but, since Judith found nothing remotely interesting about the internal workings of office photocopiers, and had no knowledge of the functionalities of dynamic equilibrium, the evening had held even less interest than her great aunt’s funeral. And Aunt Florrie had been a hundred and six when she died and only two people under the age of ninety, excluding Judith and her parents, had turned up. So it had been exceptionally dull. 

        Of course, there were good things and bad things about not having your father’s love. Or his money. In fact, Judith’s life had been somewhat difficult for six months when, without the comfort of her father’s allowance, Judith had been forced to wait tables, in addition to her office job, to pay her bills. Although Judith enjoyed prying on her customers’ conversations and flirting with city workers in order to elicit a big tip, it had been an enormous relief when her father was run over by the no 33 bus. In his statement, the driver had declared he hadn't seen Mr Freud crossing the road; a fact which Judith thought highly unlikely as her father weighed twenty stone and had been walking his Great Dane, Hildegard. However, it also seemed unlikely that the bus driver was an assassin and Judith wasn't one to complain about minor details. So, even though poor Hildegard had also perished, Judith was finally relinquished from her father’s influence and took comfort in the knowledge that Hildegard’s retinas were used to restore the sight of a Chihuahua from Golders Green.

        Unlike Judith, her mother had been distraught at the news of the tragic accident. Indeed she’d been distraught until the day Solomon’s will revealed that there was more than enough money for mother and daughter to live in luxury for the rest of their lives. Judith and her mother celebrated with champagne and pork medallions on a bed of exotic rice.  Nevertheless, Judith’s mother was a good woman and kept her joy well hidden, wearing black for six whole weeks and impressing all the neighbours with her solemnity. Until she met the new head butcher at Waitrose and was spotted barbecuing spare ribs and drinking sherry on the Sabbath.

        So, it was shortly after her father’s death, and her mother’s exodus to Spain on a prolonged tour of the vineyards, that Judith found herself at a crossroads in life. Having temporarily handed over the management of her father’s pawnbroking business to Jerri Scholar, her father’s deputy, Judith continued with her office job whilst pondering her single status and the future of Solomon’s Gold Mines. Judith didn’t trust Jerri Scholar because his name was, in fact, Gerry Schulberg and Judith had a deep-seated mistrust of people who changed their names for fashionable reasons. After all, this was the twenty-first century and none but the most bigoted was the least concerned by the fact that she was an (ex) Jewess with a penchant for young girls and pork chops. Not that Judith broadcasted her sexuality but, when she’d had fleeting affairs with younger women dissatisfied with their boyfriends, none of them seemed that bothered by either her sexuality or their own changing sexual preferences. Modern life was one big new adventure which, at times, young adults and teenagers seemed to consume faster than wholly appropriate - even to Judith, who was still only thirty-one.

        However, Judith was not about to knock the society which, more or less, had accepted her ways. Particularly as she had recently discovered that, if she chose carefully, she could also solicit the attentions of older married women wishing to spice up their flagging sex lives and whose husbands thought female one-on-one titillating rather than grounds for divorce. As it turned out, Judith liked mature women as much as she liked younger women. Although younger women had the benefit of the freshness and enthusiasm of youth, the experience and determination of older women to obtain at least one more orgasm before they died impressed Judith, and more than made up for any sagging buttocks. Judith’s only exception to this mantra was women who had sagging buttocks, breasts which touched their knees, and who also participated in aqua-aerobics. Having witnessed the carcass of an elderly aqua-aerobics swimmer hauled inelegantly from the pool one day, Judith had decided aqua-aerobics was a precursor to sudden death. The image of the bulging body, complete with yellow rubber cap and frilled costume, would remain imprinted on her memory forever.

        So it was one day at work, whilst Judith was contemplating her future and refilling the photocopier (about which she now had more knowledge of its internal workings than what she felt wholly comfortable with) that the unexpected and yet, perhaps also the inevitable, happened. Out of her employer’s office came a vision of loveliness so great that Judith’s heart fluttered with the stirrings of lust and, very possibly, love. Judith had been beginning to wonder if love and marriage was something that happened only to heterosexuals. She had almost entirely resigned herself to a life of physically satisfying but emotionally barren intercourse when Shelley, eighteen-and-a-half with big brown eyes and hair from a L’Oreal advert, tripped gaily into the open-plan office with the aptly named Mr Hands following close behind, his palms hovering over her curvaceous derrière.

        So the delightful Shelley joined the team at Handy Hands’ Stationery Suppliers and became the object of both Judith and Mr Hands’ desire. Unlike the salacious Mr Hands who could barely stop himself salivating over Shelley, Judith found herself adopting traits that she had previously thought more particular to love-struck heteros: gazing into space, doodling hearts on her notebooks and maintaining a safe distance from her love interest in case of embarrassing rejection. As the weeks went by, Judith found it increasingly awkward when Shelley would pull up a chair, her soft breasts pouring over the top of her cheap low-cut tops, and ask Judith to demonstrate the finer details of Excel spreadsheets. Unfortunately, Judith would often imagine herself sucking Shelley’s sweet pink nipples and was unable to concentrate on the job in hand which, for the purposes of demonstrating Excel, was rather a hindrance.

        So with love in her heart and confusion in her logic, Judith stayed on at Handy Hand’s Stationery Suppliers despite the fact that she was sure Jerri/Gerry was on the fiddle. Profits at Solomon’s Gold Mines were down and Jerri’s excuses about the gold price crashing, whilst seemingly plausible, didn't tally with her examination of the spreadsheets. She supposed that Jerri thought that because she’d only worked in a small office and had never been ruthlessly ambitious he didn't think her capable of spotting any irregularities. However, the fact was that Judith had inherited more of her father’s aptitude for numbers than her mother’s aptitude for the consumption of Spanish Cava.

        The unhealthy situation came to a head one day when Judith, stomach aching and with a splitting headache caused by her unrequited love, was not at her best. Feeling particularly irritated that she’d run out of staples just as she was about to affix her final spreadsheet of the day, she dutifully headed down to the stationery cupboard, deluxe stapler in hand, to replenish her supplies before packing up and returning to her flat to spend the evening leaving woeful messages on Facebook. Judith was in two minds about Facebook as occasionally her exes would leave encouraging comments about her now undesired single status but, for the most part, Judith was besieged with a stream of photographs of lattes or cream cakes. These visual feasts only served to make her more depressed as, although Judith didn't have a weight problem, she didn't need to be reminded that some women could eat anything they wanted and still not have to work-out. So, feeling somewhat peeved about her situation in life, Judith refilled her stapler and pocketed the remainder of the packet. She was returning down the corridor, wondering if the news about her stapler being refilled would be sufficiently interesting to post on Facebook, when a loud squeal reverberated from the broom cupboard. Judith realised the squeal was that of a woman in distress and, more importantly, a woman whose high-pitched girly squeal was instantly recognisable as that of her beloved Shelley.

        With her adrenaline running high, Judith threw open the door to the broom cupboard aghast at the thought of Shelley clinging to a top shelf, the portable steps having fallen away. But what Judith found was not Shelley holding on for dear life and about to fall into her arms but the poor girl wedged up against a stack of disinfectant, cleaning cloth in hand, wearing an expression of sheer terror. In front of the terrified Shelley, with his head buried in her breasts and a hand up her skirt, was Mr Hands grunting and moaning like a sow in labour.

        As Judith absorbed the ghastly scene, her gaze locked with Shelley’s pleading eyes.  “Help me,” mouthed Shelley as Mr Hands’ fingers encroached inside her knickers. Shelley’s pitiful appeal pierced Judith’s heart and reservations, and with explosive fury Judith marched into the broom cupboard, grabbed Mr Hands’ testicles as if she was going to bite into a massive pork chop and stapled them with all her might. Mr Hands screamed. And screamed. And with a final scream of ear-piercing stupendousness, Mr Hands collapsed to the floor writhing in agony, tears flooding down his beetroot face.

        “You bastard,” said Judith and, as she was never one to do anything by halves, bent down and stapled his testicles, not once, but twice more to be absolutely certain Mr Hands would never, ever, touch her dear Shelley again.

        On completing her rescue mission, Judith held out her hand to the trembling Shelley and the two of them retreated to the office, cleared their desks, deleted all the electronic spreadsheets, shredded the paper ones, and sojourned to the Chinese restaurant for a dinner of sweet and sour pork balls accompanied by Spanish Cava. It was over a second helping of the pork balls that Judith, her emotions still running high and slightly intoxicated by the wine, declared her undying love to Shelley.

        Not knowing what to expect, Judith held her breath at the possibility that pork balls might be thrown in her face. So it was a huge relief and surprise for Judith, even bigger than when her father had been mowed down by the no 33, when the almost inconceivable happened: Shelley declared her undying love in return. It transpired that Shelley had loved Judith since the day she’d joined Handy Hands' Stationery Suppliers and the only reason why Shelley hadn't declared her love was that she had no idea that Judith was also a lesbian. In her innocence, Shelley had been led to believe that most lesbians had moustaches and legs like a Russian shot-putter and that Judith, who had neither a moustache nor unwholesome legs, could therefore not be a lesbian. As for herself, Shelley believed she was a misfortunate rare exception to the lesbian rule and, lacking interest in hairy ladies with muscular thighs, she would be doomed to a life without love.

        So perhaps it goes without saying that Judith and Shelley got married and lived happily ever after. But in this case, not before Judith had first fired Jerri/Gerry for embezzlement and discovered her father’s payments for a lease to a flat registered to a woman who, coincidentally, shared the same surname as the bus driver who had run over her father and poor Hildegard. On balance, Judith decided her mother didn't need to know this information as it was pointless spoiling her new-found happiness. As Judith deleted the evidence she surmised that, even though she was still in the learning phase of life, she’d already discovered that all over the world people were screwing each other and it didn't really matter what race, religion or sexuality you were. Neither did it matter whether you were fat or thin or beautiful or ugly. Or even if you did aqua-aerobics. All that mattered was that you got to share a little love. 

Never underestimate a woman. Or the power of her stapler.

Pork Chops and Promiscuity is taken from my short story collection A Modern Life now available on Amazon.

Coming Up Next: Pork Chops and Promiscuity : A Tale of Lesbian Lust

Tomorrow, I'm posting the opening story from my short story collection A Modern Life. This is for you readers who haven't yet gone over to check out my masterpiece of English literature on Amazon. (Ho hum) At the moment, I have three-five star and one-three star review. And none of them are written by relatives! In fact I don't think any of my relatives have even bought it. I'm not sure what that means - maybe they think they are in it? Mr T is paranoid that he is  - to which I have to keep telling him:

"It's a work of fiction. F. I. C. T. I. O.N. You are not in it."

To be honest, I think the first story called Pork Chops and Promiscuity about a Jewish lesbian with a fetish for pork chops and young women (or indeed any woman) is a fairly good give-away to Mr T that he is not starring in it.

Not unless there's something about him that I don't know. Hmm...that's a worrying thought.

Bizarrely, I got nearly 1300 hits from Israel on my blog last week. I'm not sure what that means. However, I think in the interests of personal safety I am going to reiterate the following statement:

"It's a work of fiction. F. I. C. T. I. O. N."

In the meantime, I have boarded up the windows and booby-trapped the trash can.

Now seriously, folks. Mrs T may be politically incorrect at times and fairly blunt about saying what she feels (especially about writers) but it is all in the name of fun. I'm a warm, loving person and I would never say anything mean about anyone. All the stuff I've ever written about depressed writers, French cooking and German fashion is all said in the spirit of goodwill and international "fun" relations. I don't mean a word of it!

Now in addition to the little treat tomorrow, in a few days, I shall be revealing the front cover to The Changing Room which, even if say so myself, is an absolute corker. In the meantime, anyone who buys A Modern Life and takes a few mins to review it with some appreciative non-impartial words (You don't have to go overboard on the praise just something simple like "This is a work of genius. It should win the ManBooker" will do) will go into a draw for a free signed paperback and an e-book of The Changing Room which in about twenty years will either be worth an absolute fortune or you'll be able to light your fire with it. So what have you got  to lose? And by the way those of you who already have bought and reviewed (and I know there's a couple of you) are automatically included in this draw. Oh - I might also include some fab gifts with the paperback and ebook - or whatever they have on offer at the 99p shop.

Right, that's enough of this marketing drivel for today. Several of my friends keep telling me to do more about it. You know: network more, tweet more, blog more, grab grannies in the street and solicit reviews with promises of free jars of pickled beetroot, flash my knickers at passing builders. All that "sell, sell, sell" kind of stuff. I'm working up to it. Slowly. Very slowly. However, rest assured, dear readers, you can be safe in the knowledge I will not be writing a self-help guide for writers. I might write a self-help advice guide for housewives though. I shall call it the The Very Best of The Witty Ways of a Wayward Wife. Okay, so I'd better start looking through my seven years of posts for some advice...

Okay, done that. I think I'll scrub that idea and write a self-help guide for politicians.

Oh yeah. I like that idea. A lot.

Free jars of pickled beetroot for all purchasers of A Modern Life*

*Disclaimer - Mrs Jane Turley, Housewife Extraordinare, has been known to lie.

Countdown to Publication

So recently, my ISBN (international standard book numbers) finally arrived. These are the numerical codes that identify individual books and generate the barcode that you see on the back of books. By assigning ISBN numbers to my books, it means they will appear in industry catalogues and be available for retailers to purchase. It's taken much longer to get this point than I imagined. However, it does mean that the publication of A Modern Life on Kindle is days rather than weeks away. It will follow shortly after on other e-readers and then in paperback in early April.

In between all the preparations (which being a bit brainless I had not thought through - like tax requirements, setting up a business, blah, blah, blah) I have written a new story which I am going to include as a last minute addition to my short story collection. It's called Pork Chops and Promiscuity and is about a lesbian called Judith who has a fondness for pork. Sounds daft, I know. And that's because it is daft. Still, if there's one thing I can say about my story collection - there's a lot of variety in it.  I'm hoping that amongst the thirteen stories and the opening chapter to The Changing Room there will be at least one that will appeal to individuals and which will save me from a rush of one stars on Amazon.

 I thought this was a collection of literary stories but the first story is about a lesbian with a penchant for pork chops. Are you sure it's not an article for The Daily Mail?

Unfortunately, I am starting to have nightmares about the potential reaction to my short stories. Yikes. If things get worse, I may have to see a counsellor - although I am slightly unnerved by the fact that the other night I dreamt I went to a counsellor and when he put down the copy of A Modern Life covering his face I saw he was Stephen King. It was a pretty bad nightmare - especially when I was forced to admit I'd only skimmed-read his writing guide On Writing. Luckily, I woke up just as he was about to stab me with his fountain pen.

I tried to read this book, I really, really did.  But when I got to the story about the floater in the toilet I couldn't take anymore.

This book is really disturbing. I give it one star.

This book is really, really disturbing - and there's a typo.

Look, I don't care what people's reactions are. So long as there is a reaction. As a humorist and a reviewer I am already prepared for mixed reviews.The worst thing that could possibly happen is this:

An extract from White Lies, from my forthcoming short story collection.

William Baxter crosses the floor, his sharp steps echoing in the marble foyer. The security guard looks up and touches his cap and Baxter gives him a cursory nod of recognition. Baxter always acknowledges security even though most of them indulge the rumour that he murdered his mother. Baxter knows that when you have a reputation as a man who pulls off impossible deals and bankrupts other business malicious gossip is always rife. He’s learnt to live with rumours, sometimes they even make him laugh, but most of the time Baxter just shrugs them off as inconsequential gossip. As for the rumour he murdered his mother – it’s one he quite enjoys.

            Baxter ignores the fanciful stares of two secretaries returning from lunch and hurries towards the exit, securing the buttons on his cashmere coat with one hand and stealing a glimpse at his Rolex on the other. Time is of the essence. He pushes the revolving doors with an impatient thrust, exposing his crisp white shirt cuffs and gold cufflinks. A limousine pulls up outside, light ricocheting off its polished silver fender. Baxter has fifteen minutes to travel the four blocks to Saviour Investments. He’s decided to make them an offer they can’t refuse. It’s a more generous proposition than he’d normally make but, since he made a killing on the stock exchange this morning, he’s feeling almost philanthropic. The driver opens the car door and Baxter quickens his pace once more when a sudden impact throws him off-balance and sends him staggering backwards.

            “For fuck’s sake!” curses Baxter, straightening up and preparing to give his assailant a lashing of abuse. But there’s no suited employee to take the brunt of his anger, only a dishevelled young woman lying on the sidewalk.

            “Mr Baxter,” says his driver. “Let me deal with it…”

            “No, no. It’s fine. I’ll see to it,” says Baxter, waving his driver away.

Baxter inspects the woman, making a quick appraisal of her worn heels, tired skirt and saggy jumper. He’s distracted from the spilled contents of her handbag by her skirt which has ridden up exposing the smooth creamy flesh of her legs splayed wide on the dirty concrete. The desire for academic victory over Saviour seems less urgent as Baxter feels the stirrings of unexpected lust.

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” says the woman. 

Tearing his eyes away from the naked skin and hints of flimsy underwear, Baxter notices the dark glasses askew on a youthful face with a surge of disappointment. He distrusts people, particularly women, who wear sunglasses especially when it’s dull and overcast. He wonders what the woman may be hiding: puffy eyes from a sleepless night, a bout of tears or something else? He remembers his mother’s cutting asides dispensed from behind her designer glasses, a cigarette poised at her lips. Defence or attack? He’s never quite sure.

            As Baxter surveys the scene, he spots an unmistakable object on the sidewalk and admonishes himself for not being more observant. His fastidious nature means he normally notices even the smallest details including the unintentional vocal nuances and facial grimaces which, in the boardroom, have put him one step ahead of the pack. But today he has been too preoccupied with thoughts of subjugation as, not only did he not see the woman, but he did not see her white cane.

            “Hello…hello?” says the woman, her voice wavering.

Words stick in Baxter’s throat for a moment as the woman briefly tilts her head to one side before turning to scrabble around for the missing cane and the scattered contents of her bag.

            “I was in a hurry and didn’t see you either,” says Baxter, kneeling on the floor. At the same time as Baxter regrets the dirt on his pants, he’s aware of an emotion he has not felt for a long time. So long, he is not even sure it still existed.   

            “I thought you’d left,” says the woman, turning back towards him.

            “No…I was winded,” replies Baxter. He picks up her bag, reaches for her hand and guides it so she can drop her collection of possessions back inside the bag.  “I’m fine now. Are you?”

            “Yes. I was just disorientated for a moment,” says the woman.

Baxter likes the fact she hasn’t demonized him or referenced her blindness. He picks up the remaining articles and deposits them alongside the others, a fleeting glimmer of curiosity passing over his face as he absorbs the information they reveal:

            Mary Anne Whitmore.

            Baxter picks up the cane, places it in Mary Anne’s hand and holds her by the other.

            “Let me help you up. Ready now? One, two, three!”

Baxter pulls Mary Anne to her feet.  He doesn’t release her hand but studies her as she steadies herself; she’s taller than he expected and with decent heels she’d meet his gaze at eye level. Her hair is thick and long but in need of a stylist and, whilst she’s not obviously beautiful, she has features that accentuated by the right makeup would make other women jealous and other men licentious.

            “Thank you,” says Mary Anne, pulling her hand out of his grasp.

            “I should make up for my clumsiness,” says Baxter with deliberation. “Do you like Italian?”

 “No need,” replies Mary Anne. “It was an accident.”

            “I won’t take no for an answer,” says Baxter. “Please accept my offer by way of an apology. If you prefer, we could make it French or Thai.”

            “I have an appointment.”

            “Whatever it is, I’m sure it can wait,” says Baxter.

            “No…it can’t,” says Mary Anne and turns away, her cane leading the way.

            Baxter watches Mary Anne feel her way down the sidewalk. He’s intrigued by her stubbornness and her blindness but his fleeting compassion dissolves as she merges with the crowd. As she disappears completely, he wipes the dust from his clothes and realizes he’s aroused by idea that she can’t see him for who he really is.

                                                                           *****

Comments welcome. Good, bad, indifferent I want to know, so I get this story bang on!