The Idler

Gareth Hunt

A Short Story by Frank Skelton. Taken from Idler 12, December 1995

“I’ve got your father on line one,” said my secretary, Kirsty.

“Thank you, my love. Will you put him through?”

Kirsty had been working for me for six months. Although we occasionally enjoyed a laugh together, our relationship had never veered from the strictly professional. She was a first-rate shorthand typist and displayed a positive and cheerful attitude. That was enough for me. What’s more, I was absolutely committed to my very lovely young wife, Rebecca.

That said, it would be an utter lie if I didn’t give Kirsty a second glance when she walked in the room. If I was ten years younger… But I had no desire to get into that game. I’d seen too many marriages bite the dust after an unforgivable drunken lunge at a secretary at an office party. I wasn’t the type to play away from home. I wouldn’t be able to look Rebecca in the face knowing I’d been such a Gareth Hunt.

“Frank,” my father said. “You couldn’t look after Timmy and Sheba this weekend, could you? We’re off on one of those Daily Telegraph special offers.”

“Oh right. Where are you going to?”

“Just a couple of nights in Jersey. We would ask Sheila Steadman or Dorothy, but they’re both away.”

“No problem.”

“Many thanks. There’s a half-empty jumbo-sized can of Choosy in the fridge, and a packet of Go-Kat in the larder. Don’t give them any of those chicken livers. It’ll give them diarrhoea.”

I put the telephone down, and opened a document. I tried to read for a few minutes, but I couldn’t really concentrate, so I buzzed Kirsty.

“I’m ready for tea now, Kirsty.”

Kirsty brought it in after a few minutes. One of the interesting things about me was that I didn’t take milk in my tea. This was because I spent a year teaching English as a foreign language in Turkey, where they’re notorious for having their tea black. I suppose I went a bit native. It took ages for Kirsty to remember, but she eventually got the hang of it.

When she brought it in, I tasted it and said, “There’s no fucking sugar in this.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry… I must have forgotten. I’m so sorry, I’ll get you another.”

“I’m only joking, Kirsty. It’s just right.”

Kirsty left my office, and I returned to my document. Is sipped the tea and read a few lines. It was really very tedious and my mind began to wander again.

My Dad’s reference to the chicken livers made me chuckle. We’d been staying with my wife’s grandmother the other weekend. The old lady had given her Yorkshire Terrier some chicken livers as a special treat, and the poor thing had spent the afternoon with the most terrible diarrhoea. I shouldn’t have laughed really. It couldn’t have been much fun for the dog.

As I drank my tea, I thought about my time in Turkey. I’d had the most ferocious diarrhoea out there. Jesus, it was awful. One night, I remember having such a violent discharge from my anus that I almost fainted. And yet even now I still enjoyed the odd kebab at the conclusion of a night out. I suppose it was one of life’s huge paradoxes. We all know that a doner tastes like shite, yet there’s nothing else that really hits the spot after a few sherbets. But you wake up the following morning, and it’s as if you’ve been eating dog food.

Oh well, I thought, and looked at my watch. Five thirty. Time for a Jimmy Riddle, then home.

I walked into Kirsty’s room. “I’m off now. Up to anything tonight?”

“No, not really. The usual. A bit of telly. Ironing. I might take Maisie out for a walk.”

As I left the office, I realised that although Kirsty had been working for me for six months, I had no idea that she had a dog.

We’d all become such strangers to each other.