The Set-Up

(contains sexual references and mild swearing)

I have to word it carefully. Too little detail – no one will take any notice; too much detail, or too extreme – everyone will be incensed, disgusted, turned off.

A major consideration will be medium, of course. I could send it out as an anonymous e-mail, but there’d be a chance of tracing it back to me if things got out of hand. Notes under doors? Better – it has the whiff of a mystery hand at work, although people may simply throw it in the rubbish, thinking it’s a publicity flier. Or I might get caught doing it – that would be tricky to explain away. Similarly, sticking notices up on trees or lamp-posts, which would have the added disadvantage of being completely unfocussed; I wouldn’t want Joe Public to read it, necessarily.

Or I could start it off verbally, dropping it into conversation at a party maybe, or in the canteen, letting word-of-mouth do the rest. People would realise where the rumour originated, of course. And if it was just one person who received the info (I’m thinking Teri Bloomfield, who has the biggest mouth on campus), and it spread like wildfire – a sure thing with Teri – then a second rumour might be generated: who started it? That finger would point to me, defeating the whole purpose.

On the other hand, if I could get someone I know to do the whispering – who Teri doesn’t know knows me, at least not initially – then that might work. That could be the safest source, definitely the most authentic-sounding.

I’d have to coach this person to say exactly the right thing, in the right way. Once again, too bland and it wouldn’t get past the first line of Teri’s synapses; too raunchy and she might be loath to pass it on. That wouldn’t do.

Who to rope in for that task? I don’t know. Lily Langdon? Yeah, she might be up for it, plus she owes me one. She’s studying acting so she does have the skills; I saw her in a play last year – she was very good. Yeah, I think Lily would do nicely.

Now, where to have it happen? At a party, there might well be mutual acquaintances around, ditto the canteen. This thing has to be handled like it’s sitting inside a blackbird’s egg; the slightest false step, it’ll be crushed before it hatches properly.

Hmmm … let me think.

Bingo!

That extra-curricular class I saw Teri going into last week: crochet! I scoffed at the time; neither I, nor any of my friends, nor people who know me, would be seen dead there. Lily would have to pretend to be interested in it for at least one or two evenings. That’d be a scene I’d like to see: a woman in leathers, with tats on just about every square inch of her skin, fumbling with crochet hooks … man!

So that’s settled, Lily’s agreement permitting. Now to the message. I know what the general idea is. The wording, though – and Lily’s ability to put it across convincingly – will be vital.

I’ve got to think of something that’s ambiguous, that can generate different responses – all of them valid. But it’s only a certain response that will be any good to me.

The question is, I suppose: What do I want? That’s easy. I want to win over the competition in the matter of lurv. I’m fed up playing second fiddle (or third, fourth, fifth) to the University’s elite where women are concerned. There’s one especially – the captain of the football team – who pisses me right off, who seems to be able do no wrong with the gals. Lily tells me it’s because of a certain feature of his, which she once admitted to me she’d had the opportunity to enjoy.

Well, there’s nothing I can do about that, short of having an operation – I’ve seen them advertised on the Internet. But one, I wouldn’t trust any surgery advertised on the bloody Internet. And two, even if I did trust it, I don’t have the thousands of quid required.

So, Plan B: address the question of reputation. In a closed community like a university, which is essentially a big village, where everyone knows someone who knows someone, a rumour can make or break a person.

Nothing too negative. Nothing impossible. Nothing that can be immediately disproven (the features of the feature, for example). Something sexual, though, yeah, because that’s what we’re talking about after all.

Hmmm … sex … sex … sex … aha! … got it!

Okay, this is how it’s going to play out. Lily joins the crochet class, befriends Teri, maybe buys her lunch or drinks to soften her up – she’ll need some cash for that – brings the conversation round to boys, then … maybe I’ll write it down, in a form Lily will understand; she’s used to memorising lines and making them sound like the real thing. Where’s that pen?

‘THE SET-UP’

FADE-IN

INT. CROCHET CLUB – DAY.

Lily enters.

Lily: “Hi, Teri. How’s it goin’?”

Teri: (I can’t be sure what she’ll say, obviously. You, Lily, will have to ad lib if the response is off the wall. You’re trained for that. Anyway, Teri will probably say something like this: “Not bad. How are you?”)

Lily: “Bit upset, to tell you the truth.”

Teri: (“Why’s that?”)

Lily: “My boyfriend.”

Teri: (“Go on.”)

Lily: “We’ve split up.”

Teri: (“You poor thing! What happened?”)

Lily: “It was the sex.”

Teri: (“The se…?!”)

Lily: “There was too much. He wanted it three or four times a night!”

Teri: (“Three. Or Four. Times?!”)

Lily: “Yeah! I know, right?! Now, I like sex as much as the next woman, but I just couldn’t keep up!”

Teri: (“Er … who was your boyfriend, if you don’t mind me asking?”)

Lily: “Don Taylor. Do you know him?”

Teri: (“Yeah, yeah I do.”)

And thus will the fuse be lit. Teri will muck up that evening’s crochet project through her haste to finish it and get on the phone to her mates. Lily will withdraw, never to be seen at the crochet class ever again.

If I know Teri and her friends, they’ll be disgusted at the mention of this man’s perverted sexual proclivities. Their repulsion will fan the flames of the rumour. It’ll sweep through the campus. General distaste will be like napalm for this bloke’s social reputation among many women. Not all, though.

The rumour will also land on welcoming, fertile soil here and there, which is what I’ll be banking on. There’ll be women who rather like the idea of a man who can manage it (at least!) three times a night.

And it’s those women who’ll come flocking to ol’ Donny’s door, sooner or later.

But preferably sooner, of course.