I looked for pots and pans and found passion.
[Bedtime Stories Number 4]
I got more than I bargained for at my local car boot sale. As I wandered the aisles of unwanted household items, looking at kitchen utensils for my two student flats, a young woman put a set of almost new saucepans on a tarpaulin in front of her car. She knelt to organise her display more attractively and did so in a way she was not intending. Her black shoulder length hair hung forward, obscuring her face as she rearranged her items. Not hidden was her cleavage in her sleeveless white tank top. Her slender arms were a delicious caramel colour, as were her breasts that giggled when she moved things around. She looked up and caught me red-handed.
"They're not for sale," she said.
"What aren't, the pots?"
"No, the other things you were admiring. I'm afraid they're spoken for." I reddened as she laughed. My interest hadn't offended her. Now I could see her face, I put her at about thirty-five. Her brown eyes and healthy complexion betrayed a Mediterranean heritage. She was lovely, but I sensed sadness about her.
"How much are they, the pots I mean?"
"They are nearly new, so I'm asking eight quid."
I pulled out a tenner. She apologised; she had no change until her husband returned. "Keep the change. The attractive display was worth a premium," I said.
Now she blushed. "Your shadow gave you away."
I thanked her for the tip and noticed other bits on her stall that could replace my breakages. I said her things were too good for my student flats.
"We're moving house, it's all got to go." Her smile wavered, and I sensed the move was not by choice. She had a photo of a fridge freezer stuck on her car window. I squinted at it.
"You should put your glasses on," she chided and took the photo off and handed it to me. Her hand was soft and warm. "I'm an optician," she added.
"And I'm forgetful. They are reading glasses. I can see everything else just fine."
"So I've noticed," she said.
Our playful flirtation ended when her husband appeared, bearing two polystyrene cups.
"Seventy-five quid mate, no offers." He was about the same age as her. English bloke, blond-highlights, not bad looking, but a cockiness about him that would soon wear on you. Her body language changed.
"Okay, son. It's a fair price. When can I see it?" In deference to my age, I must have had fifteen years on him, and because I was a potential customer, he softened up and she relaxed too. I wrote their number on a scrap of paper and promised I'd call to confirm an appointment tomorrow. My attention shifted to the stall next door, then I remembered. I turned back to ask where they lived.
"Not far away," said the husband unhelpfully. The woman sighed and gave me their address. As I walked off, I heard him berate her for telling me. "You're too trusting, Lou. If he's interested, I'll tell him when he phones." I looked back and caught the woman's expression. A look of apology had replaced her carefree smile from our conversation. I made a sympathetic face and moved on. Once again, it surprised me what some woman put up with. I had him pegged as one of those controlling blokes who liked the sound of his own voice.
I didn't phone the next day; instead, I turned up on spec because I'd lost the piece of paper. She answered the door puzzled and then smiled as she recognised me. "That's a welcoming smile," I said.
"I said you'd turn up. Simon said you were a time waster. He hates it when he's wrong." She seemed pleased. "He's gone out, I'm afraid."
"Sorry, I mislaid the piece of paper with your number on it. It must be with my reading glasses. Do you think we can manage without Simon's help?" My expression betrayed my opinion of him. She didn't take offense. She showed me into the kitchen and we did the deal for her fridge. I went back to my van for my trolley. A cup of tea was waiting on my return. I handed over the money and she shook my hand.
"I'm sorry, I don't even know your name. I'm Noo," she said.
"I'm Tom Hollis. Is Noo short for something?"
"It's short for Anoushka. Blame my hippy parents. Anoushka Williams, soon to be Anoushka Da Costa again. We're getting divorced, that's why we're selling all this stuff."
"I'm sorry to hear that. If it's any consolation, Anoushka is too exotic to link with Williams. Anoushka Da Costa is the name of an actress, or a writer, or a painter, or even a clairvoyant. Anoushka Da Costa is a name with infinite possibilities."
She smiled and laughed, cheered by the prospect. "Well, it is the way you say it. Anoooushka. Much nicer than Noosh when I was at school."
"Perhaps it's time for a fresh start with a new name." We sipped our tea. She knew I was trying to cheer her up. It was a bit obvious, but welcomed all the same.
"We're selling some other bits if you're interested?"
Upstairs we stood in the hallway between two bedrooms. Both beds were doubles but with a single pillow on each. "Every picture tells a story, doesn't it?" I just smiled sympathetically. "It'll be a sad story you can tell you wife when you get home Tom."
"I'm afraid not. Sally's gone. Hit and run. Drunk driver. Five years ago." It hurt me less saying it that way, but I did not expect it to affect her.
"Oh, my god, Tom. That's awful. I'm all woe is me, and you're..." Anoushka started crying and without thinking I drew her towards me to comfort her. Her head was on my chest. She felt warm and smelled nice. We stood like that for a moment until we became self-conscious. She pulled away. "I'm sorry, Tom. I shouldn't be like this. I'm embarrassed. I hardly know you."
"That's okay, Anoushka. You're grieving like I did. Grieving the end of your marriage." Then she was off again, and this time she came to me. I put my arms around her and just let her sob quietly.
"You must think I'm pathetic and needy?"
