THE UNDERPANTS

Pure fiction again, about a fictitious VIP.

His suit, though expensive, was shabby, his eyes less keen and inciteful than they may once have been and his general demeanour probably best described as sleazy. At least that’s what Melissa thought when she looked at him lounging on her sofa whilst she sat bolt upright on a chair designed more for elegance than comfort. He would, she thought, have to go soon. There are too many fish in the sea for her to be stuck with this one.

“I don’t understand, darling,” she murmured, “what do you mean about poor old Palfrey?”

“I mean he’s a dog and at his age he smells a bit too rancid...” he mumbled. He was good at mumbling. People thought him to be a bumbling buffoon, and he played up to it by mumbling whenever he could.”

“You don’t like dogs, do you, darling?” she asked, bristling slightly and wanting half of her sofa for herself. Her back was aching and she was tired: tired of this man and weary of his tendency to recreate the real world until it was something utterly fabricated. Palfrey hadn’t done anything wrong, though he might have bitten the chump on his arse, but hadn’t. Maybe he should have. Melissa shuddered. Maybe it would have been a silly mistake and Palfrey had more sense than to make it. Maybe he knew about the Monday pants!

“I love them, as you well know,” he replied, inserting a stab of enthusiasm into every other syllable. “It’s just that, you know, your dog isn’t exactly a puppy, and it’s puppies that get a man’s tail wagging, ha, ha, ha.”

“He’s four and he’s beautiful, aren’t you, Palfrey darling,” she murmured, tickling her Jack Russell under his chin so that he looked up at her adoringly.

“A palfrey’s a horse,” he told her, “a fine stallion of a horse with fierce eyes and a foul temper,” he added, hoping he was right.

“You don’t know much about animals, do you?” she asked, inserting just enough vitriol into her voice in order to warn him she might be considerably more knowledgable than he. Not that he’d understand that. His ego was considerable.

“I love all animals,” he told her, though inside he knew that he didn’t and hoped he’d kept that much about his likes and dislikes away from her. But if you say something, he told himself, it automatically becomes true. That’s how he worked.

“You surprise me,” she said, a tad sharply, “didn’t I see you kicking that black cat the other day? You know, the one found dead when Cynthia called her in for her meal soon after?”

“Who’s Cynthia?” He put an edge into the question, meaning he didn’t want to spend too long talking about Melissa’s neighbours and their menagerie.

“You know, Dodo’s wife, the man you called a prat last Christmas and almost caused a fight.”

“He misheard me. I called him a frat, meaning a brother. You know, like in fraternal.”

“Well, he got close to punching you.”

“I wish he had! I did a bit of boxing way back and I could have floored him easily.”

“When, darling?”

“When what?”

“When did you do your bit of boxing, as you put it?”

“Way back. Yes, that’s it, way back.”

“At nursery?” Melissa was starting to enjoy herself. Forced to sit in that particular chair, and she only was because he’d said it was genuine Georgian, probably eighteenth century, and bought it for her out of love, he’d said, for a small fortune, though she hadn’t told him about the made in China sticker she’d found on the underside of its seat.

“Don’t be daft! Toddlers don’t learn how to box! Back then it was wrestling and I was jolly good at it.”

“Anyway, I was standing next to you and you definitely called him a prat.”

“I’m not going to argue about it. I know what I said.”

“You say all sorts of things, darling. Sometimes I don't think you know what you’re saying.”

“Now hang on! I’ve got full control of my sensibilities! And back at Oxford they said I had a keen mind!”

“They did?”

“They jolly well did!”

“Who? The dons who suggested you might have a better chance at a career if you read a less academic subject?”

He frowned and sat up, releasing half of the sofa. She saw it and moved her bottom like lightning until she was sitting next to him. Not too close, though. He was annoying her, and she didn;t want to give him any ideas.

“You’re not being so pleasant to me, Melissa, and I’ve had a hard day,” he growled.

“You have? That’s not what your secretary, what’s her name, said.”

“Moonie. What did she say, then? And when did she say it?”

“She rang me. She does, you know.”

“What? She does what?”

“Ring me. We’re friends, you know, Moonie and me, though she prefers to be called Maureen.”

“And what did she say?”

“Oh just something light-hearted, like why don’t you change your underpants more often? Apparently, and she must know this even though I’ve got no idea, you’ve worn the same pair three days running!”

“That’s a lie!”

“You’re very good at spotting lies when other people tell them, darling. Might that suggest something about you?”

“What are you implying?”

“It’s something that Maureen said. I really will have to look at your underpants! It’s, let me see, a week or more since I was privileged to see them. You know, when I did the wash. And how, I wonder, does Maureen know anything about them? She said they say Monday on them, just like they did yesterday and the day before. They said Thursday on them the day before that, apparently, though I wouldn’t know.”

“But … but … but...”

“You’ve got the one daily set haven’t you, darling? The ones I bought so that you’d know to change them every day?”

“I … I … I….”

“And Maureen saw them. I wonder at the scenario in which that happened? Did you take them off and show her? Or did you slide your trousers down so that she could take a peek at Prime Ministerial cotton and his other bits and pieces?”

“I … I … I….”

“Or was she right when she mentioned the anteroom off your office, the one where nobody goes except you. Where you keep your private knick-knacks. You know, your sweeties for when you feel you need sweetening up after a cruel day. They are sweeties, double wrapped, aren’t they? Maureen said you have them in several flavours. And why do some sweeties have to be ribbed? It doesn’t make much sense to me, though Maureen says you’ve got a dish of them on your private desk...”

“Refreshers. They’re refreshers… You know, the sweets I loved as a child.”

“Oh, Prime Minister… how could you be so … imaginative. Maureen says she rather enjoyed the ribbed ones. She said they give her a special … I don’t know, how did she put it, sense that something was happening, a frisson of delight?”

“She what?”

“I’m teasing, darling. She said not with three day old underpants. What sort of woman would you think she was? Which gives me an idea, darling. You might have barged into Downing Street, but who do I think you are? I mean, three days!”

© Peter Rogerson 04.10.19