Nomance, T Price [bookreader .TXT] 📗

Nomance

T J Price

Copyright 2011 T JPrice

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

One: Reflections in a Muddy Eye

Two: Golden Aphrodite’s Nightmare

Three: The Vultures of Romance

Four: Stepping on the Scales of a Cold Fish

Five: Complaining for Two

Six: Love’s in Superstore

Seven: Spac Attack!

Eight: Enter the Other Party

Nine: The Art of Exhibition

Ten: Taking Stock

Eleven: Credit Lunch

Twelve: Flies on Serena

Thirteen: Airgun Wedding

Fourteen: Nomance

Fifteen: Prince Alarming

Sixteen: Me Jane You Jane

One: Reflections in a Muddy Eye

Back in the earlyNoughties, Romance, the florist’s shop, was closed.

Today was Sunday, andeven in this service-hungry part of the world (in the snobhinterland of London between Chiswick and Kew) florists close onSunday.

The shop itselfoccupied the front portion of a large, redbrick Victorian house. Tothe rear, in the spacious and not-clean kitchen, Gwynne – a tall,mean, rawboned creature of nineteen – sat next to the sink and atecereal from a bowl that he held cupped in the horny palm of onehand. As he masticated, his slack jaw working in slow, circularmotion, he stared through the window at the long, dank garden. Thiswas filled by bags of fertilizer, stacked in rows and interspersedby a profusion of purple-headed thistles, nettles in full flowerand fleshy, fetid weeds that even the florist herself, Gwynne’ssister, could not name.

That very person,Carla, was sitting at the kitchen table behind him. She was in afoul mood. Her disposition was vinegary at the best of times, butjust then she was toiling over the accounts. Attempting to balancethe books of Romance always got her sourness up to fullstrength.

And because his sisterwouldn’t stop griping out loud about the shop’s stagnant turnover,the shop’s stagnant turnover was now extending its demoralisinginfluence over him too.

Why couldn’t sheunderstand that he didn’t care whether Romance went bankruptor not? All he wanted right now was for her to stop griping. Hergriping disturbed the peace, interrupted the baleful quietude ofthe morning and therefore lowered the quality of hismeditations.

Oh, if she would onlyshut the fuck up, then he could think about something good.

His restless eye fellupon a bumper roll of chicken wire, rusting nicely in the middle ofthe deteriorated garden path, and striving to ignore the mooing ofdespair and frustration behind him, he allowed his mind drift back,as so often before, to that joyous moment, four years ago in HydePark, when he had found a wallet with fifty quid inside it.

He scowled.

It seemed life had gonedownhill ever since.

Residual sensations ofresentment flickered up within him, like flames in a combustingcompost heap. He was thinking, after a fashion, about the pop grouphe had played with last year. It was a pop group that the audienceshad resolved not to like. In fact, the audiences seemed to hatethem. Considering they looked not a whit different from a thousandother rock bands, it had been difficult to pinpoint just where theywere going wrong. Unless, of course, it was the music that waswrong. In which case, as the drummer pointed out, they ought to getrid of it. The trouble was, if they did get rid of themusic, they would have to get off the stage and do something elsewith their lives.

But what’s thatgoing to be then, eh? Gwynne had wanted to know.

No one was sure. So therest of the band got together and decided to give themselves onelast shot at fame, and, instead of getting rid of the music, theygot rid of Gwynne instead. He was the obvious choice really,because they all hated him even more than the audience did.

Gwynne burned morefeverishly now as he recollected for the hundredth time how theother members of the band had told him to get lost.

Seconds later his feverabated somewhat when he reminded himself for the hundredth timethat the band’s attempt to make the audience like them still hadn’tworked and they had split up anyway.

So then, he’d had thelast laugh after all, hadn’t he? And then, too, none of them hadever found a wallet with fifty quid in it down Hyde Park, had they?Eh? Eh?

The muted pleasure hederived from this reflection was interrupted by a moan ofdespair.

Carla’s reallyconvinced she’s fucked this time, he mused languidly. But hissister’s dire financial position was so familiar to him by now itdidn’t make him smile anymore.

After flat-lining for aminute, Gwynne’s brain revived just enough to reflect upon anotherpainful aspect of the old band he used to play in – Tony thedrummer. He’d got the girlfriend he’d always wanted, hadn’t he?That is to say, the girlfriend Gwynne had always wanted.

What galled him mostabout that was how Tony hadn’t needed to put any effort intogetting Elaine. She had fallen in step with his plans straightaway, without showing any sign of having to think about it.

Well that (Elaine notshowing any sign of thinking) had stung his finer feelings at thetime, but a few months later when he heard she and Tony and split,it (Elaine not showing any sign of thinking), had encouraged himbelieve she was still the girl for him. Now he could offer her theopportunity to fall into step with his plans without havingto think about it. And so he had duly phoned her next day and askedher out.

She turned him downflat.

And she didn’t hesitatefor one second, meaning she still didn’t need to think aboutit.

But that was mad.Not thinking was supposed to be Elaine’s best assent. Notthinking was something they both shared. In that respect, they weremade for each other. And yet, he had failed where Tony hadsucceeded. Why?

Come on,why?

Well, the answer tothat question didn’t take much figuring out – fortunately.

The answer was Tony hada car and he didn’t. He was a mere pedestrian. And the thick rootsof that particular boil ran all the way back to the credit cardcompany who had given him even less time over the phone thanElaine. Though to be fair, the credit