-- o --
This is the tender passionate tale of Miles and Barbara and of Mook and Big Thighs, told by us who made it happen.
Miles Sullivan sits in a pub and dreams of his ideal woman. Fortunately for us he is a typical male with typical desires. She is therefore tall and shapely, with an upright posture, well-developed breasts, a slender waist and wide hips. Her legs are long, her complexion flawless, lips full and red, eyes bright; and her hair, provided it be thick and shiny, what colour may please God. Personality? Kind, accommodating, caring. Intelligence? Some would be good, but not too much.
He shakes his head and smiles at his fantasy image. Not a chance, chum. Should have stuck with Emma. Or Jenny. Or Jan. Here I am, nearly thirty, sitting on my own in a boozer 'cause I can't think of anything better to do of a Friday night. Face it, you're washed up, over the hill. Might as well resign yourself to the bachelor life. Still, a Guiness is always your friend. Wish I liked the taste.
At that moment, his ideal woman walks in.
Barbara Colwell has had a bad day. She split up with her boy-friend last night after a row over a video. She was short-tempered at work and when the boss put his hand on her shoulder and made one of his oh-so-clever sexist remarks ("Aaaaah, is the little woman feeling down in the dumps again?") she told him to fuck off. He sacked her on the spot. She'd been round all the temping agencies that afternoon with no success. She just wants a campari and soda to cheer herself up and then she's going home. After five minutes pushing through the crowd at the bar she gets her drink and turns round... and finds her ideal man staring at her.
She can see quite a lot of him because he is only wearing a loin-cloth. She looks away, but not before noticing his long, well muscled legs, his strong arms, his tanned spot-free complexion, his long hair (matted but free from parasites), his clear blue eyes. Strong enuff for a mate, she thinks. Bet 'e can 'unt for two... hey, wot yer finkin gurl? After anuvver man already? Don'tcha ever learn?
She looks for somewhere to sit, but the watering hole is crowded with hyenas and the only clear place is next to him. He grins as she comes over, showing strong even teeth. She wishes that her tiger skin bikini were not quite so revealing.
"Oo er you?" he asks as she squats next to him and snuffles up water from her hands.
"Me Big Thoighs" she says.
His grin widens. "Suits yer. Me Mook." He holds out his hand, she takes it. Long, strong fingers, good for grasping branches.
They sit in companionable silence for a while, then he asks "So wot yer doin then?"
"Well, I'm a secretary, actually," says Barbara, "or rather, was."
"Oh. How come?"
Barbara explains. It's good to get it off her chest. Miles sympathises. She asks what he does; he is a researcher for an investigative radio show, a hunter of information. "How interesting!" she says, eyes wide. Miles mentions that his boss is looking for a secretary; "Brad can be a bit, you know, forward, but if you're interested..." She is. As he fetches her another drink she writes down her telephone number, looking up to admire his long stride as he walks to the bar and to smile at his ineffectual attempts to get served ("Uh, excuse me?...").
What a nice man, thinks Barbara as she walks home. So unlike Doug, almost completely the opposite in fact. Really cheered me up. When she gets home, she spends an hour sorting out Doug's things and throwing them in the bin. Then she rings Shirley and they go out and get drunk.
Corrr! thinks Mook as he lopes back to his cave, dragging his club behind him. Really fancy 'er. Hope i get ter see 'er again. Then he spends the evening watching TV.
On Monday, Miles knocks on Brad's door. Brad is typing two-fingered on the computer, the bald patch in his black curly hair the first thing Miles sees as he enters. He looks round, his chubby face gleaming, his expression petulant. His bushy eyebrows almost meet in the middle. Like a monkey, Miles thinks. Still, doesn't stop him getting the girls... jealousy stabs through him. Just because he's the dominant male.
"Is it quick?" Brad asks in a weary tone. "I've got to get this bloody letter written, and it's taking forever!"
"I think I've found you a secretary," says Miles. "You see, I was in the pub on friday, and..."
"Is she pretty?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Can she type?"
"She is a qualified secretary, Brad."
"Fine. She's hired. I want her here at nine."
"Barbara? It's Miles Sullivan. If you're still after a job, Brad says you can start tomorrow."
"Oh Miles, that's marvellous! Thank you so much." Barbara hugs the phone to her shoulder as she searches out a pad and pen. "You'd better give me the address."
The next morning, Barbara washes her hair, applies make-up and lipstick to make her face look healthier, and wears her smartest suit. Despite the rush-hour traffic she arrives five minutes early and is directed to Brad's office. As she knocks on the door there is a roar of "bloody hell!" from inside; a few seconds later the door opens to reveal Brad's sweating face.
"Barbara Colwell? Hi, I'm Brad Collins. D' you know how to work this damn word-mangler? Bloody thing's just swallowed my production notes. Hate computers." He walks back towards the desk. "I'd ask Miles, but the lazy sod's not in yet. You know Miles, don't you? Come in, come in."
Barbara thanks God for Yves St. Laurent, for Brad has failed to spot how pale she has become (that would be a sign of ill health). As she enters, she thinks he's not Doug. He may look like Doug, or rather what Doug will be like in ten years time, but his name's Collins, not Hanson, so they're not even related. She sees the word processor; it's a standard model, one she was taught to use in secretarial college. She presses a button, finds Brad chose quit rather than save and has lost what little he had typed in. Brad's face assumes the expression of a pleading child.
"Look, I've got to have those bloody notes for nine thirty. Could you do it for me? Please?"
Barbara smiles and sets to work, typing from Brad's scrawled longhand notes. As she does so, she reflects that whatever his faults, it is hard to resist him when he plays the little boy. Yes, she and him should get on okay.
"Coffee?"
"Thanks." She looks up from her typing and smiles at Miles, who has perched himself on the edge of her desk. He asks her hesitantly if she'd like a drink this evening, to celebrate her new job.
"Um, okay," she says.
"Great! Six o'clock?"
"Thanks, Miles. Cheers!"
Miles leans back in his chair, hooks an arm casually over its back to hide the strange tension in his chest. "So what do you think of Brad?"
Barbara shrugs. "He's alright. Quite sweet really, when he begs. He was almost on his knees this morning."
"Yeah, he's always like that when he wants something. He didn't - you know - try anything he shouldn't?"
"He got a bit close when he was showing me how to work the coffee-maker. Practically whispering in my ear."
"So what did you do? Tell him to stop?"
"Of course not! I trod on his foot. Accidental, like."
Miles throws back his head in laughter, then leans forward for his glass as Barbara reaches for hers. Their fingers touch. "Sorry..." they say together, and laugh nervously. But an electric thrill races through their bodies. We sigh in relief. First stage of the courtship ritual complete.
The next evening they go to see a movie, "Casablanca" at the Odeon. They discover that they both love old films (neither had known this before). As they part at the bus-stop, there is a tentative pause in their goodbyes that could have been filled by a kiss.
Next day at lunch they sit together, talking excitedly, laughing. "Have you seen...?" "Was that the one where...?". Brad watches them.
Brad is jealous. I'm the dominant ape-man round 'ere, he thinks, she should be mates wiv me! Better do sumfing 'bout it, then. On the way back to his office, he glances at Barbara's orderly desk, papers tidily stacked, pen and pencil laid neatly by the blotter, and then across the open plan divider into Miles' cubby hole, production notes in untidy piles, dirty dog-eared memos stuck to the lamp, stained coffee cups dotted about. Brad smiles, showing his teeth. I know...
"Get Miles in here, would you?"
Barbara looks up from her typing. "He's gone home, Mr. Collins."
"Already?"
"It is six o'clock, and he was in at half past eight this morning."
"But he's got to see this now, it changes the whole story! We'll have to re-script and we go out at four tomorrow!" Brad strokes his chin in thought. "You live near him, don't you?"
"Fairly near, yes."
"Could you drop it off with him? Please? Tell him to cancel whatever he's doing tonight and get the new script in for first thing tomorrow. That'll teach him to leave early the night before a show..."
Barbara smiles and takes the proffered papers. "Do I get paid overtime for this?"
"Yeah. Out of his salary." He picks up his sports holdall. "Thanks a lot. I'd deliver it myself, but it's right out of my way and I've got rugger practice. Can't be late or they'll use my head as the ball... G'night."
Brad slams the car door and chuckles evilly. Miles' desk is as nothing compared to Miles' flat. Lazy slob cleans it once in six months, if then. Let's see what Little Miss Neatness thinks about that...
As Barbara reaches out to press the doorbell, she sees that her hand is shaking. Nerves? Don't be ridiculous, she tells herself, he's just a colleague. Nothing to be afraid of. Miles opens the door. A gust of warm air wafts out, smelling of baked beans, dust and unwashed clothes.
"Barbara! What are you doing here?"
She hands him the papers. "Brad said you had to look at these right away."
"Oh, right." He wanders away from the door reading the fax. He is wearing threadbare jeans and a t-shirt that cling in well-worn folds to his lithe figure. He turns round. "Come in, if you want. "
Wha' a mess, she thinks. Ill-cured and unwashed leopard skins draped on every rock, flat surfaces covered with seeds, leaves and dried blood, chewed mammoth bones all over the floor. A length of wolf intestine, covered in green mould, is lying in a shadowy corner. Big Thighs shudders and averts her eyes.
"Sorry 'bout der mess," says Mook, sweeping some half-carved arrow heads and a dirty loin cloth off a rock so that she can sit down. "Always mean ter clean it, but some'ow i never seem ter find der time..."
"It could do with a bit of a tidy," says Barbara. She blushes and looks away. "Sorry, that was terribly rude. I don't know what came over me..."
"No, you're quite right. It's a pig-sty!" says Miles bitterly.
"I'll... I'll help you clean it, if you like," says Barbara, then bites her lower lip. What had impelled her to say that? (Us, of course.)
"That's very kind of you, but I couldn't possibly..."
"It's no trouble, I like cleaning. And it'll take half the time with two of us."
"Well, if you're sure..."
"Of course I'm sure."
"Well then... uh, Friday after work?"
"Okay."
"Great... God, this place stinks. Are you busy?"
"What about the fax?"
"Oh, that. Sorted it out with Sheila this afternoon. I told Brad, but he must have forgotten." He frowns, looking up at Barbara with blue, blue eyes. Like Mel Gibson, she thinks. "I'm surprised he sent you round rather than phoning me."
"He was in a hurry. Rugby club."
"Oh, right." Miles picks up his jacket from the settee. "Well, I'm going out to eat. Want to join me?"
The next day, as he is going down to lunch, Brad notes a remarkable change in the appearance of Miles' desk. Apprehensively he enters the dining room - and sees Miles and Barbara sitting together, talking as always! On Friday, Barbara leaves early, explaining the reason why. Brad grinds his teeth. This is going to be harder than I thought.
There is little work to do on the flat; Miles has done most of it himself before she arrives. Organising his CDs, she finds that he has similar musical tastes to hers. She borrows several (a good reason for returning). In his bedroom, she notices a pair of striped pyjamas sticking out from under the pillow. A man who still wears pyjamas! She finds the idea strangely exciting.
Miles takes her out to the cinema as a thank you present. That night, as they part, the gap in their goodbyes is nervously, hesitantly filled.
Stage two in the courtship ritual complete.
A few days later, Miles is away, hunting. Brad hopes to talk to Barbara over lunch, but she chooses to join some of the other female members of staff. Fuming, he sits at the next table. Their talk turns to men, and Miles.
"What a hunk," sighs Vera, "and so nice as well! Bet he's great in bed."
"Bit of a slob, though."
"Not any more! Have you seen his desk recently? Somebody's been having a good influence on him. I wonder who..."
All eyes turn to Barbara, who blushes. The others giggle.
"Ooh look, she's going all red..."
"Go on Barbie, tell us what he's like in the sack, you slag..."
"Vera!"
"Come on Charlie, you want to know as well."
"No, no, you've got it all wrong," says Barbara. "We're just good friends!"
"Oh, tell us another one. We know whose flat you were 'cleaning' last weekend."
"Where'd he put his duster, eh?" The women shriek.
"Well, I'm sorry to disappoint you, but nothing happened," says Barbara when the laughter subsides. "He didn't try it, and if he had I'd have screamed and got out quick."
"What, turn down a night of passion with Sex God Sullivan? What are you, frigid?"
"No... No, I think Miles is very attractive and very nice. It's just that... well, I once had a one night stand with a man I really fancied. And the next morning, I woke up and he'd gone. No thanks, no goodbyes, he just walked out of my life for ever. And I felt, well, used. An object. It hadn't even been much fun, and I was depressed about it for weeks. And I suppose, ever since then, I've wanted to be sure, really sure, that any man I go out with is really interested in me, that he's not - you know - just after me for sex."
"You're strange," says Vera.
"No, I know what you mean, Barbie..."
Brad gets up and returns to his office, grinning. He knows what to do now. He makes a phone call.
As they emerge from a production meeting, Brad says "Hey, Miles, you doing anything this evening?"
"Not particularly. Why?"
"I'm going to join Phil and Joe for a few jars. Want to come?"
"I really ought to finish tomorrow's script..."
"Aw, come on. A quick half 'll inspire you."
"Okay, I feel a bit parched. But only for half an hour."
"...Then it came to me, the perfect excuse. 'n' I says, all innocent like, 'they're not love bites, that's where Bill fucking trod on me, the bastard!'" The others laugh, Phil swigs his beer.
"She believe you?" asks Joe
"'Course."
"Stupid cow."
"Yeah." A pause. Phil drains his beer and focuses blearily on Miles.
"Hey, Milesy, when're you going to rejoin the club?"
Miles smiles ruefully and shakes his head. "I don't think I'm cut out for rugger."
"You were all right on the wing."
"Not really."
Brad glances at Miles, who is on his third pint and looking flushed. Now's the time, while he's suggestible. "Ah, well, young Miles has other things to do with his evenings now. Lucky bastard's going out with my secretary."
"Hey!" exclaims Miles, but his protests are drowned in roars of raucous laughter.
"You old snake in the grass!" says Phil in a tone of mock-wonder. "She any good?"
"We're not going out, we're just good friends."
"Yeah, yeah, heard that one before... Come on, is she a good lay?"
"Well, I... I don't know."
"You don't know? How long've you been going out with her?"
"I'm not..."
"Three weeks," says Brad.
"Three weeks and you haven't had her? You queer or something?"
"No! It's just that... well, we haven't talked about it, really..."
"Son, son," says Phil, patting Miles on the shoulder, "you don't talk, you do. Don't give me all this thirtysomething crap about talking it through, you know she's aching for it inside, so you make it happen. Wine her, dine her, get her pissed and she's all yours. She'll thank you for it afterwards. Take it from the expert!"
"And you don't get more expert than Phil!" says Joe.
"Too right. So when're you going to do it?"
"Well... I'm not sure it's right. Taking advantage of her like that."
"Of course it's right! Men fuck women. It's a law of nature!" Phil sways towards Miles. "Unless, of course, you're not a real man..."
"Could be something in that, Phil," says Joe. "Come to think of it, he's been giving you funny looks all evening." He nudges Phil in the ribs. "Could be your lucky night, boyo..."
Miles joins in the laughter, but when it dies down Brad sees that he is frowning. Miles says little, and leaves shortly after, looking thoughtful. Well done boys, thinks Brad.
Barbara is wearing a low cut scarlet dress with puffed sleeves. In the dim light her skin is a pink blur, all wrinkles and blemishes invisible, her eyes dark and shining, her lips red and gleaming with lipstick, her hair a fuzzy halo of ethereal gold. She has never looked more desirable. Like an angel, thinks Miles muzzily. God, she's beautiful.
"Uh, more wine?"
"No thanks. Honestly, that's the fourth time you've asked me! Anyone would think you were trying to get me drunk."
"No, no, it's just..." He pours himself a glass to cover his nervousness. That's my sixth, he thinks vaguely.
"Just what?"
"Just... good wine, that's all." God, what a stupid thing to say! He takes a mouthful, feels its sweetness and bitterness spread over his tongue and burn lightly down his throat.
"Yes, I noticed you've been knocking it back. What's got into you? You're not normally like this."
Miles reaches for Barbara's hand, misses, tries again, gets it this time. "Barb, there's something I - uh - I want to ask you." God, the warmth of her fingers, curled in his palm! With his other hand, he feels in his pocket for the box.
"What, now? Don't you think it should wait?" A shiver runs through her, thrilling and chilling at once. I think he's proposing! What do I say? What do I do?
"No, no..." He gazes into her face, at the bright ruby of her Maybelline-covered lips gleaming wetly in the candlelight. "Barb, we've been going out for three weeks now and... well..." He breaks eye-contact, glancing downwards, thinking what to say next. God, her breasts, her breasts! He pulls out the box.
"Yes?"
"We haven't... done it." There, I've said it! He puts the box on the table with his hand covering it.
She frowns. "Done what?"
"You know..." He removes his hand. Barbara looks down at the pack of contraceptives. Uh oh, we think. "If you want to," Miles adds hastily as she suddenly tenses. "Only if you want to..."
Barbara snatches her hand away and stands up, bursting into tears. "I thought you were different from other men!" she sobs as she huddles into her coat. "You're all the same! You only want one thing from a woman!" She runs from the restaurant clutching her handbag to her like a baby.
"Barbara!" shouts Miles, running after her. At the door he is swung round by a firm hand on his arm. "The bill, sir," hisses a waiter in his ear. He fumbles for his wallet, pulls out a credit card and tosses it on the counter, then runs into the street just in time to see Barbara climb into a taxi and drive away. He rings her every hour that night, but there is no reply. The next day, he is ill.
Brad is walking through the park at lunchtime when he sees Barbara sitting on a bench. Her face is tear-stained. He represses a grin of triumph and sits beside her with a concerned expression. Barbara turns and looks at him.
"'Allo, Monkey Face." She sighs.
"Somefing der matter?" he asks.
"Dat big gorilla-brain Mook ! He try ter mate wiv me, 'n' he don't even bring a kill! He just want ter spread his seed and leave me with der child!"
"Dat's disgustin," says Monkey Face sympathetically.
"So i leave him. Der fing... der fing is, though, i really loiked him." A tear trickles down her face.
Now's der time, he thinks. "Oh Big Fighs, don't cry! I can't bear it when yer cry!" he says.
"What's it ter you?" she asks defensively.
"Well, it's just that... I shouldn't say this, but it's just that you look rather like someone I used to love, very much. I couldn't bear it when she cried, either."
"Who?"
"Harriet. My wife."
"Your wife? I didn't know you were married."
"Six years we were together." He sighs. "Happiest of my life."
"So what happened?"
"Cave bear ate 'er. I tried ter save 'er, but i couldn't. She was so kind, so luvvin'..." His face creases and he looks down. "I luvved her, 'n' i couldn't save her!"
Big Thighs puts a comforting arm round his shoulder. "Wasn't yer fault. No-one can stop a cafe bear." She smiles. "'s funny. You're a bit like 'n old luv 'v mine."
She's falling, he thinks. "I'm so lonely, now..." he sobs. "If yer... if yer could take pity on an old ape-man... please?"
"Oh, Monkey Face!" says Big Thighs, and they embrace. Head on her shoulder, Brad grins. Heh, heh. Works every time.
So Brad and Barbara start going out. She goes to his rugby matches, meets his friends; rough and uncouth, she thinks, but at least they can hunt. At the weekend they go walking in a nearby wood. Brad carves "BC 4 BC" in a heart on a tree. "Oh, you are romantic," she says, laughing.
Miles she hardly ever sees; Brad has had him transferred to another production team. Once, going in for an unusually late lunch, she catches sight of him in the staff canteen. He looks up and sees her, stares at her with the eyes of a wounded animal. For a moment she considers going over to him; then, on second thoughts, she turns away. What he did was unforgivable, and anyway Vera is sitting next to him. And it's not as if he's apologised to me. Oh, if only he hadn't been so stupid, so hypocritical! Brad is less subtle and more sexist,she thinks, and older of course, and not as handsome as - him, but at least he doesn't pretend to be one thing and then turn out to be another!
But she still can't get Miles out of her mind. I owe him an explanation at least, she thinks. But when she tries to find him at work he is never there. It's as if he were avoiding her. One Saturday evening, while Brad is drinking with his mates after a rugby match, she telephones Miles. There is no answer. Odd, she thinks, he hardly ever went out before. Perhaps he's found someone else. For some reason the thought hurts. Another idea strikes her, sends a chill down her back. Perhaps... perhaps he's gone off somewhere, to be alone, to end it all... No! He wouldn't do something that stupid, would he? But that look he gave me! That smouldering, burning, look!
Just then, the doorbell rings. Barbara panics - perhaps it's the police, asking if she knows where Miles is? No, that was just a stupid daydream, she can't imagine why she was thinking so much about that louse anyway. Maybe that's him at the door, begging to be let in? If it is, he can stay there. "Who is it?" she asks.
"'S me, Brad."
Barbara sags in relief and unchains the door. Brad comes in, his shirt open at the neck, revealing the black hairs on his chest.
"It's a bit late, you know. Did you have a good evening?"
Brad doesn't reply. He is staring at her, breathing heavily, his face flushed. Barbara begins to be alarmed.
"Do you want coffee? I've got some Gold Blend."
"No. I wan' you. Now." His voice is slurred.
Oh shit, thinks Barbara. "Brad, you're drunk. I think you'd better..."
"Damn right I'm drunk." Brad grabs hold of her arms.
"Let go of me!" She scratches his cheek, drawing blood, tries to knee him in the groin.
"Shut up! Yer my woman 'n' I wants yer!" Brad roars, pushing her onto the settee. Holding her down with his knees, he runs a hand lasciviously up and down her thigh. "C'mon, yer know yer want to..."
Barbara screams. Brad curses and slaps her hard across the head; blood pounds in her ears and her vision goes blurry for a moment. When she comes to, her jeans are around her ankles and Brad is looming over her, yanking at his belt.
"Get away from her!" comes a voice from the other side of the room. Strong hands grab Brad and pull him away. Brad blinks dazedly at his assailant.
"Yer bastard!" says Mook and punches him on the chin. Monkey Face spins and slumps. Mook picks him up, raises him high over his head, marches to the cave mouth, and throws him through the leopard skin curtain. Brad goes thumping down the stairs. Miles closes the door and turns to Barbara, who is sitting up and pulling up her jeans. He moves towards her and then stops, uncertain.
"Are you all right?" he asks.
"I think so," says Barbara vaguely. "Thanks for... for getting rid of Brad..." She smiles weakly. "Guess I'm going to have to look for another job..."
Miles takes another step forward, stops. "Look," he says wretchedly, "I know you can't stand the sight of me, but I want to help. Is there anything I can do?"
"Yeah. Get me a drink."
"Shouldn't we phone the police, or a doctor?"
"I don't need a doctor, and the police can wait. Miles, what are you doing here?"
Miles blushes. "Well, if you must know, I was staking you out. "
"What?"
"Watching you, from a hire car. I wanted to talk to you, apologise, in public, when you weren't with Brad." He runs a hand distractedly through his hair. "You see, after we split up, I couldn't stop thinking about you. Everywhere I went, everything I did, I imagined what you'd say, what you'd do, if you were with me. I'd never felt this way about anyone before; not seeing you was torture, still is torture. And I thought, well, I may have blown my chances of a close relationship after I behaved so idiotically in that stupid restaurant, but at least if I apologised you might let me see you, once a month say, in public, for an ice cream or something, so I'd have a reason for living... But I knew I had to choose the right moment or it would all come out wrong, and now I've chosen this moment, just after you were almost raped, and it's come out all wrong, so if there's nothing else you want I'll just go away and throw myself over a cliff, or something..." He looks at her pleadingly.
And Big Thighs thinks, 'e's addicted! Ter me! He won't leave me in der lurch with der kids, 'e can't! He'll stay 'n' 'elp bring 'em up. So they'll survive. My kids 'll survive!
Perhaps he's talking mammoth balls, suggests the doubting one of us. But Big Thighs thinks, 'e can't be, 'e's proved wot 'e said by being 'ere! And the rest of us say to her, he's the one! Go for it!
Barbara smiles. "Oh Miles, you are silly. Come here," she says.
So Miles and Barbara gently embrace and kiss, and Mook bashes Big Thighs over the head with his club and drags her off by her hair into the sunset, and they all live happily ever after and have lots of children.
How do we know?
Because we are in them, lurking in their DNA, influencing their every move to ensure that we survive and spread; us, the genes for love.