The children were always difficult and fractious on Tuesday mornings. Perhaps, Julie wondered, it was just that Tuesday put her in a frame of mind that exacerbated their childish misdemeanours. Either way, her best friend Miranda, who picked them up every Tuesday to take them to school, along with her own three children, was due in ten minutes. The children had not finished breakfast, were arguing about clothes in their bedrooms, could not find things they needed for school and – was it worth it for this one day a week, Julie asked of herself, as she did every Tuesday?
Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. The children ran to the door, not quite dressed, pieces of toast in their hands. None of them were willing to leave the house until they had kissed their mum. One reminded her that it was Dad's birthday today and before he came home tonight they were all to lend a hand in making him a birthday cake.
The door finally closed. A short pause and Miranda's car was heard leaving. Julie sat down, closed her eyes and tried to pull herself together in preparation for Tuesday. There was time for one final cup of coffee.
As Julie's car pulled away from the drive forty minutes later, she observed, always more acutely on Tuesdays, the daily picture of the affluent, city suburb. Young mothers, having spent the morning hurrying to get husbands off to work and children to school, were now walking back home in a more leisurely fashion, with younger children not old enough to go to school and stopping off to chat to other women. Some had arrived home earlier and were already outside hosing their gardens before it became too hot. Cleaning ladies were arriving; gardeners also. Julie waved and smiled frequently in the short journey to the end of the road.
Fifteen minutes later she crossed the bridge over the river and the environment changed. Now there were endless narrow streets with small, shabby shop fronts. As her journey almost ended she came to one of those areas, common to many major cities, that were in transition from long term dereliction to modern renovation: smart, artistically thought out house fronts mingling with empty, boarded up neglect. Outside one of the former she stopped. Parking here was still a risk but there was no alternative.
She rang the doorbell and he answered very quickly. No glances were exchanged but he was expecting her. She walked inside; neither spoke. He led her into the main room and they stood facing each other and exchanged a terse, routine, "Hi."
He asked her, "OK?" Which really meant, 'Are you OK for this today?'
She nodded a couple of times before saying, "Yes, I'm OK."
He took that to mean only a qualified 'OK' but for what reason he would not know and would not ask. She went into her bag and produced an envelope, which she gave to him. Again, another terse nod from him that indicated a formal 'thank you' but no more. She turned around and left the room. He put the envelope on the windowsill and gazed rather absent-mindedly out of the window.
When the door opened another woman entered only it was the same woman who walked out a few minutes earlier. Her make up was too thick, her lips painted a garish red; she was wearing a cheap, semi-transparent blouse buttoned only at the centre of her cleavage and tied in a knot beneath her breasts; no bra. Her skirt was yellow and obscenely short. Even without sitting down her legs were exposed between the tops of her stockings and her skirt. The stockings had a hole on the thigh of her left leg and on the calf of the right. She sat down on one of the few chairs in the room and crossed her legs, her skirt riding up her legs so that it now resembled a pair of pants. She lit a cigarette, took two long drags at it and flicked the redundant ash onto the floor.
He remained at the window but now looking at her, hands in pockets, assuming an attitude of indifference.
"Well, Loverboy," she began acerbically "what you been up to since I last had the pleasure?"
"Nothing much. How about you?"
"Usual stuff, you know."
She lay back in the chair with her legs outstretched on a small table and offered an uninterrupted view of her crotch. She now adopted the tone of a taunting inquisitor.
"How about the lovely Lois then, seen anything of her?"
"Yes."
"Good," she replied, warming to her task, "and how are things going with the lovely Lois then, Loverboy?"
"Fine."
"Fine! That's good!" She removed her legs from the table and leant forward, speaking now more quietly to suggest this was a more serious question.
"So, how many times have you fucked her since last Tuesday?"
He turned away from her and walked to the other side of the room. A huge smile erupted across her face.
"Come on, Loverboy, don't be shy, you must remember."
With exaggerated mock concern she said, "Hey, don't tell me you've only fucked her once!"
He turned to look at her but did not reply. She stood up.
"Oh God, don't tell me not at all!"
They silently stared at each other until he relented.
"A few."
She smiled, knowing that she had made him uncomfortable and that was good enough. Before finally relenting she walked closer to him, as close as if she were going to kiss him and whispered, "I bet she's a truly fantastic fuck, bet she can't get enough of it. Better be careful, Loverboy, make sure she gets it good and often, otherwise she'll find someone else to open her legs for."
Again he turned away without speaking.
She smiled, satisfied - for now.
She finished her cigarette and immediately lit another. At the door he stopped and turned round, suddenly asking, "Would you like a coffee?"
She dropped her arms down by her side and gazed open mouthed at him. Incredulity blazed across her face.
"Do I what?" she shouted.
He repeated his question but this time quietly, like a chastened child. This time she shouted at him so loudly he winced.
"Don't you dare start being fucking kind to me, you wanker!"
She walked over to him and thrust her angry face into his so closely he could see the small pockmarks on her cheap make up.
Quietly but menacingly, she repeated, "Don't you dare!"
A threatening pause then she continued.
"Tell me who I am. Tell me my name. Go on, tell me."
He knew the answer but the word did not come easily.
"Slut," he replied.
"That's right. And do you know why I'm called Slut? It's because I am a Slut, aren't I?"
Chastened further, he nodded.
"And there's only one thing Sluts understand, isn't there? Only one thing they're good for and you know what is that don't you?"
He did not move.
"Well, I'll tell you because just now I thought you offered me a cup of coffee and if I'm right then I think maybe you need a small reminder about the only thing Sluts are good for, the only reason why there are Sluts in the world at all. That reason is to fuck them, not to be kind to them, not to offer them cups of coffee but to fuck them, that's all there is to it, Loverboy. And that's all I want from you. And, unless you're a little hazy about what I mean by 'fuck' it has to be hard and quick. None of that 'oh so sensitive stuff – oh darling you're so beautiful, oh darling you're so sexy' crap'. I can get that any night of the week whenever I want it. You just make sure it's real hard and real quick. You don't even have to look at me when you're doing it. Nor make polite talk afterwards."
He listened to this without responding, without expression. After she had finished she continued to stare at him, anger exuding through every pore of her face.
Then something happened; the hardness began to disappear and her rigid body posture softened. She walked, with a slightly weary, slightly resigned manner to the window sill and picked up the envelope she had given him when she first arrived and returned to stand in front of him. Her voice and whole personality was different. She held the envelope in the air with an imploring gesture that said, "what do you think this is for?"
She put her hand into the envelope and produced a thick wad of bank notes. He looked down sorrowfully at it like a child might look at an expensive ornament he had just broken.
"I'm sorry," he finally offered and moved away from her.
There was a long silence.
"It's not working, is it?" She said.
"It's my fault," he replied from the semi-darkness of the other side of the room, "I'm sorry. We can make it work. I can make it work."
"Is the money a problem? Isn't it enough?"
"Christ, yes! It's more than enough."
"Do you know how long it took me to find someone?"
"I can imagine."
Long pause.
"Can we try again?" He asked.
She waited for quite a while before answering, wondering, now, whether anything could be retrieved.
