Wicked

Axel Fenn had positioned his bony posterior on the last stool in the corner of The Queen’s Ear over three hours earlier and only now heard Perfidia emanating from the jukebox. It must be someone’s favorite song, he thought, as he realized it must have played at least six times. The repetitious melody had been the backdrop to Jacqueline’s accusation which looped itself over and over like lyrics to the tune in his mind.

“You wicked toe rag,” she had taunted. “If not for me, you would still be in your shell—living in that dingy little flat. How could you have done this to me?”

She had a right to ask the question. He would still have to see Felicity every day at the office, but he felt neither wicked, nor lately shy, and had forgotten how unforthcoming he used to be. Was it only eighteen months since he and Jackie had met at the Bromptons and shared a taxi, originally headed toward two destinations, but ineluctably winding up at her place? Throughout the ride he had stared at her slender fingers. The one bugaboo he had developed during those months was the proximity of her toothbrush and the occasional sight of a reddened tampon in the waste bin of her loo. He’d never been a swinger. He usually arrived home early though they rarely did anything more than watch the telly in the evenings. Over time she had put on a little weight and he had lost a stone. And though certain situations might have left him mortified in another life, he could now suffer a canard with the best of them. Perhaps it was true that Jacqueline had prompted his flowering. In that way, she was partly responsible for his susceptibility to Felicity’s charm.

He thought he had been discreet, but it was a bitter pill to discover his transparency.

When her nagging started to wear away the veneer of his docility, he prepared to leave. Really he just wanted to get some air, to think things over, accept his guilt, prepare a proper apology, et cetera, et cetera. As he stood looking sheepish at the door, she said, “Your fly is open.”

He wouldn’t deign to look until he was out in the hall. She had been right.

He walked aimlessly for half an hour. Then, feeling dry, he stopped into The Queen’s Ear. Ale after ale convinced him he could not go back to her place. She would never accept whatever apology he could come up with. His seventh would be the last. He would go back to his own flat for the weekend.

Helen Forrest sang once again, “Your eyes are echoing Perfidia. Forgetful of our promise of love…”

Axel, tipsy, quaffed the last ale and left the pub. He was thinking of possible reasons for Felicity’s dismissal as he walked toward Victoria Station. But she was an excellent accountant and more than likely old Brompton wouldn’t hear of it.

He was on Jacqueline’s street before he realized he had headed away from the direction of his flat. He felt so tired now. He recalled the tomblike shelter of it, but it was so far away.

As he lifted the brass knocker, he wondered if she’d still be awake.