The Unread Book

The Unread Book

Agonising boredom savaged her whole being like a pit bull.

Geraldine looked at her client across the desk, banging on about “that bastard Gordon”, and his

deficiencies as a husband. Leaving his clothes on the floor like roadkill was hardly ‘unreasonable

behaviour’. Get a grip woman, at least you have a husband. She tried to picture Gordon, but those

thoughts were displaced by the announcement that ‘he farts in the car’. Geraldine fought to suppress

a smirk, as this glimmer of mirth bounced across the desk into her vacant brain.

The time limped on till 5 pm. Gordon’s wife - but for how much longer?- had long since gone , the

interim being filled with soul crushing tedium .

She took off her glasses, and her shoes which pinched. So did her bra,(a confection of mauve lace

and scaffolding bought for a weekend away, which he cancelled) but she could hardly take that off .

She leant back in her chair and ruminated, fixing her eyes on the watercolour of Downing College

and her Practicing Certificate, neither of which inspired her any longer. I am in a rut, and the rut is a

chasm. Perhaps I should do probate. The dead can’t be as dull. Rather like an anaesthetist and

patient . Somewhat limited interaction! Is that what I want ? Should I jump ship and prosecute

criminals? “Take him down, Officer”. Bloody marvellous . Result ! More drama, more pay, better

pension.

“Night Geraldine”, shouted a colleague through the closed door, ending Geraldine’s meanderings.

“Ffs”, I don’t need a new job , I need a life”.

Geraldine contemplated another sterile evening in front of the screen .BBC was rubbish , too woke ,

and the commercial channels, too many woke adverts .She had googled the UK demographic, and

felt vindicated. Was she turning into her mother and her mother’s friends? Pig headed and bigoted.

An armada of cardigans tut- tutting against change. Well, she had no one to discuss her views with

even if she dared. And no one to set her straight.

Life, yes , but life for one ? The Church, crosswords, hamsters? The pinnacle of no hope. Cooking

(pointless ) , keep fit ( embarrassing) , reading ……

Geraldine was not much of a reader, at least not for pleasure. In fact, when she finished her law

exams and picked up a trashy novel, she scribbled notes in the margins and felt tipped the important

bits. But now in Sainsbury’s on the way home, with a free range chicken and a bottle of Pinot in her

basket, she found herself in the paperback aisle. Picking up a random book, she turned it over and

read the back cover and the critiques. Doubtless the book was written by some pretentious bored

housewife from Coventry who struck it lucky with a publisher and for whom three syllable words

were an anathema. But £4.50 was only the same price as the chicken , so justifiable , if she ever read

it. Women’s Wonder couldn’t put it down. Who the hell reads Women’s Wonder ?

The genre was lost love, obviously. But this one was set in 19th century cotton mills in Burnley. Bet

there is no historical research, thought Geraldine, smugly, as she had written a dissertation at Uni .

on life expectancy in the Industrial Revolution. Twenty one for cotton workers who suffocated on

cotton fluff. And over 50% of children died before their fifth birthday, so a happy ending was

negligible. But worth a read just to see how dreadful it is !

Her thoughts were interrupted by a large woman with three children, all with runny noses

demanding comics . The woman wore despair like an art form and seemed resigned to it . Overcome

by negative thoughts , Geraldine replaced the book and fled as if depression was

contagious. She was momentarily enlivened by her own lot, in comparison.

She walked home . Home furnished by her mother’s downsizing cast offs. Comfortable but as stylish

as a cheap holiday caravan . The IKEA light was its only redeeming feature, bought by a boyfriend

long since atrophied in a cloud of apologies, who needed space and better sex. Thoughts of him

made Geraldine feel even lower and think again about Tinder. But did she want to sit in a restaurant,

paying for herself, with a total stranger, who ‘liked’ her profile. What she wrote was so euphemistic

she didn’t recognise herself. Lies about progressive theatre and mah-jong .But then dull and

desperate didn’t cut it .He would either fall into the ‘short, gloriously unattractive and interested in

Star Wars’ , or ‘gagging for sex’ category .The final straw was Brendan , a keen Morris dancer who

grew tomatoes and was a librarian between jobs . Long term, thought Geraldine as Brendan proudly

professed to have the IT skills of a slug and was fiercely loyal to the superiority of the micro fiche

system.

Her mind galloped between inconsequential fences, but took her nowhere, The chicken glared at her

reproachfully from the worktop. She looked back at the chicken venomously, walked over to the

worktop, ripped off its plastic wrapper, with the finesse of a psychopath, and propped her glasses on

its free range puny chest. It instantly morphed into a faceless politician, pontificating about the need

for caution and a consultation period, and other platitudes which explained the government’s

parlous state of perpetual limbo.

Returning to the hideous chintz chair, she started on the Pinot. After two glasses she felt better and

less enfeebled. Hungry, but with the chicken relegated to the culinary back benches, she munched

through a packet of crisps, which tasted as if their relationship with a potato was at best fleeting. The

tv was a cacophony of nothingness and the evening stretched ahead, lonely and empty.

Her mind wandered back to Sainsbury’s, and Woman’s Wonder critique of …what was it called?

Geraldine couldn’t remember but the front cover had an amazingly clean but tattered girl, with

perfect teeth, holding a baby. No doubt the baby had piddled down her and she smelt of urine , but

the illustration didn’t show the stain .

“ Shall I , shan’t I ?” Should I rush back to get the book. It was clearly utter tripe , but reading it

wouldn’t be a waste of time , as she had time to waste , at least till bedtime, probably for life.

“Shall I , sharn’t I”,was delayed by two more glasses of Pinot. She could hear rain at the window, but

if she ran she could be there and back in 5 minutes, read the nameless book and fill her lonely

vacuous evening. Finally spurred on by some unknown factor, and a sense of urgency, she grabbed

her raincoat and keys. Would it still be there? Could the careworn mother have bought it to escape

her children’s runny noses and the dreariness of their existence. Luck was on Geraldine’s side, and

there it was hidden behind some autobiography on the trickeries of the legal profession. Should I buy

that instead?

No, sod it, I will buy the trash. She picked it up, suddenly feeling proprietorial and disproportionately

relieved. It was called “ Cotton Baby”. Trash indeed ! She paid with her card, rushed out, exhilarated

by her decision to buy, and thrust the book deep in her raincoat pocket. The rain sheeted down , she

ran , head down, hood up , her mind preoccupied with the possible plot , the name of the urine free

heroine , and completely failed to see the articulated lorry.