Writing for Fun
June 2020
Just Deserts - Pete Norman
I am not gay.
I would like to establish that right now, right at the beginning, because not only would it be so easy for you to jump to the wrong conclusion but it will also help to identify the motive. In situations like this one, motivation is everything.
No, don’t get me wrong, I am not homophobic – I’ve got some good friends who are gay and I don’t care which one of the 76 genders they identify with or what they get up to, provided that it does not impinge on me.
So, shall we start at the beginning?
Harveys Machine Tools is the most prestigious engineering company in the Country, in Europe and, probably, in the world. It was a world leader even when the competition was formidable and engineers would sell their soul to the devil to secure a post there – I know I most certainly would have done.
I left university with my BSc with honours and my MA and there was only one place I was going to work: Harveys. I was totally confident, my academic career so far was exemplary and I had no reason to doubt that the position was already mine for the taking. However, when I arrived at the ante-room with the other candidates, awaiting the opportunity to prove my worth at interview, I was brought back firmly to the ground and that was excruciating. You see, all of the other candidates were wearing the right tie, had the right accent and, no doubt, came from the right ancestry.
In despair I came close to walking out. I knew that this would just be a waste of time but, seconds before I actually took the fateful steps, pure, cold logic came to my rescue. I reasoned that even if I failed, the experience of a Harveys interview would be of tremendous assistance in my future efforts and so, somewhat reluctantly, I remained in my chair.
When it was my turn to walk through the huge oak door I knew that I had no chance whatsoever and therefore I also knew that I had nothing to lose. I was so laid back I was horizontal.
The bench comprised three men, all considerably older that me, all wearing very expensive suits, each of which was accompanied by the ‘right’ tie. I smiled warmly in acknowledgement as I sat down but received very little response from two of them, who both looked as if hell would freeze over before they would ever crack a smile, however, the third, the one on the right, who identified himself as Jeremy Passmore, could smile for England if they were ever to make it an Olympic event. He simply radiated warmth and support.
The interview went surprisingly easily, I had been well tutored and they didn’t ask any seriously low ball questions that I had not prepared for and my casual disregard kept my stress levels down. I thought I had given a reasonable account of myself – for what it was worth. As I rose and thanked them for their time, Passmore treated me to another ingratiating smile and a firm, warm handshake. The other two did their duty without enthusiasm and their limp-fish handshakes left me in no doubt whatsoever about the result of my interview.
Knowing that I had failed, I spent several days trawling the Internet for other suitable positions but everything that appeared to be in any way promising fell way, way short of Harveys. However, I had very little option in the matter, the mortgage had to be paid, so I selected three hopefuls and began to prepare modified versions of my CV for each one.
The day I received the letter, therefore, I was stunned – I still cannot find the words to describe how I felt – but as I read and re-read the acceptance letter I felt as if I was on a different planet. My life was about to change dramatically.
My friends took me out to dinner to celebrate and explained to me that in the most prestigious of companies like Harveys, what you knew was usually far more important than who you are. They are indeed very good friends – and they just so happen to be gay – so that proves my point, doesn’t it. Give the cat another goldfish.
The commensurate salary was a little less than I had been hoping for but the incremental pay scales were substantial and I knew that the world of opportunity was mine for the taking.
I fitted in quite easily. I was by far the youngest person in the department – in fact Cyril was due for retirement very soon – so I tended to keep myself to myself, concentrating more on studying and developing the necessary skills.
Mr Passmore was very helpful during those first few weeks, he would spend a lot of time with me, tutoring me, familiarising me with the working practises and I suppose I owe him a lot. He was very skilled and he was an excellent engineer but he was also one of life’s odd-balls. His sense of humour was juvenile and camp and very tactile – he had no regard for personal space – and I spent most of these sessions with his hand on my arm or his knee pressed against mine as he leaned over the monitor screen. It was certainly not something I was used to and it was certainly not something I relished but everything seemed to be done with such innocence that it would have been churlish of me to raise any objections, especially at my early stage of employment.
I do not remember exactly when the penny dropped; I was so focused on the job itself most days that I took very little notice of my work mates. However, one day the penny did drop and it dropped with an earth shattering crash.
I was waiting for Passmore to come over and help me out and I idly watched as he finished advising one of my colleagues. It suddenly struck me as strange that he was keeping a respectful distance from Paul and that there was no physical contact between them of any kind – which was an almost constant occurrence whenever he was dealing with me.
Over the next few days I made a point of clinically observing his interactions with all of the others and it very quickly became apparent that I alone, out of the entire office, appeared to have been singled out for this intimate behaviour.
He was abusing me.
I was simply his toy.
This was emasculating and I felt helpless.
I didn’t know what to do. What could I do? If I said anything or did anything then I just knew that the accusation would be met by a face ‘so hurt and astonished’ and I was not too certain I could realistically counter his protestations. I realised that every single thing he did was done in such a way that, to the casual observer, it might appear to be completely innocent behaviour, especially taking into account his eccentricity. He knew damned well that I could not do anything. I knew that he and the senior management were very close and that they would rally round him against a mere upstart like me. Was I getting paranoid? I don’t think so.
Any attempt to bring the police into it would be unlikely to have any more success. This was serious and this was hopeless.
This whole thing could jeopardise my position here, it could threaten my home – the mortgage of which depended heavily upon my salary – and, maybe, if I responded with the violence that was burning up inside me, it could even threaten my liberty.
I had no option but to carry on as normal while I tried to work out a plan of action.
In the meantime old Cyril retired and a replacement was interviewed. Simon looked like a nice enough guy but he was very young, looked very naive and . . . it sounds insulting to call him a ‘pretty boy’ but shall we say that, under the circumstances, I had no doubt at all why he had been selected for the post.
It was no surprise, therefore, that immediately Simon arrived, he received Passmore’s full attention.
As I watched on helplessly I knew that Simon was extremely vulnerable, considerably more vulnerable than me. This could ruin his life, destroy him. A line had to be drawn and this was my line and I knew that I had to draw it.
The man was irrepressible. He had gone too far. He had crossed the Rubicon. He simply had to be stopped . . . but how could I stop him before he destroyed Simon’s life and every other man who followed in his footsteps?
That night I could hardly sleep, my mind was working overtime but my conscious mind could resolve nothing. However, in the morning, as I lay in a half awake state after the alarm had gone off, the answer suddenly emerged from my subconscious.
I did a lot of research and in just a couple of days I not only had the metaphorical gun but also the magic bullet.
I knew from conversation that Passmore was passionate about his food – a fact that was patently obvious merely by looking at the man – and I also knew what his favourite dishes were. It was a simple matter, therefore, to casually slip into the conversation that I had found an amazing recipe for Beef Wellington and that I was going to try it out on Saturday. He showed some interest but I needed more, so I then told him that I was following that down by an apple pie that was to die for. I knew this was his absolute favourite and it clinched the deal.
On Saturday evening he arrived ten minutes early. I had never before seen him in anything but a suit and what he had chosen to wear for dinner that night quite took me by surprise. His intention was clearly to take years off his appearance but in my eyes it failed miserably – he looked utterly ridiculous. Nevertheless I poured an aperitif and busied myself in the kitchen. The Beef Wellington – which was prepared as individual portions, Michelin style – lived up to its promise and his praise was effusive. He forced an all engulfing ‘man hug’ upon me, which made me shudder but strengthened my resolve. After I had managed to extricate myself I carried the plates out to the kitchen. Over my shoulder I told him that, ‘There’s only one thing left now . . . just desert.’
I plated up two generous portions of my extra special apple pie and sprinkled them both liberally with nutmeg. My own plate I carefully placed out of harms way on the left hand side of the tray and then I added some extra ‘condiment’ to the other.
I had it on very good recommendation that this substance was odourless, tasteless and completely undetectable . . .
Well, two out of three ain’t bad . . .
I smiled.
Anyway, I think we’ll stop there, that’s all I want to say for the moment. Where do you want me to sign, officer?