Bacon, Lettuce and Tomatoes
By Janet Baldey
‘God,
if only I could get some rest.’
Bernard’s
ample bottom came into violent contact with his chair. Ignoring its protesting squeal, he sat
glowering at his computer screen; blank
- except for the cursor capering in the top left-hand corner.
‘Think,
damn you, think!’ He thumped his head,
but his mind was as empty as...as…as…the Gobi
desert. Christ! Not one idea and now he couldn’t even think of
a decent metaphor.
Yawning,
he rubbed grit deeper into his bloodshot eyes.
He’d had no sleep for nights, every time he closed his eyes the words ‘bacon,
lettuce and tomatoes’ danced in front of them.
It
was the woman’s fault. She’d sounded so
delectable over the ‘phone; as smooth as honey, her voice had flowed down the
wire and trickled into his ears. He’d
always had a soft spot for the fairer sex and he remembered imagining the face
and figure that went with that voice.
‘I
know that you must be so busy Mr Bellemaine,’ she’d purred, ‘but it would be such
an honour to have a man of your talent address our writer’s circle’.
Her
tone had mellowed into treacle.
‘Do
say you’ll come.’
‘Oh
yes.’
The
words were out before he could rein in his imagination.
What
a letdown! He’d gone expecting the
Sistine Chapel and had found an ancient ruin.
Mind you, the evening hadn’t been completely wasted. There were some very attractive women in the
audience and Bernard always enjoyed talking about himself.
But
it was afterwards that things went downhill.
After he’d finished, the Chairwoman creaked from her chair and looked
towards him.
‘There’s
just one more favour, Mr Bellemaine,’ she cooed in that treacherous voice. ‘We’d so like you to judge our writing
competition and perhaps, as a special treat, you’d enter your own
contribution. Just to show us how it’s
done.’
She’d
tilted her head to one side, like a toucan eyeing a tasty nut.
Bernard
was astounded. His mouth was already
forming the word ‘no’ when he looked down and saw a pretty girl gazing at him
with shining eyes. Again, he was lost.
After
that, the evening slid out of his control.
A tin box was thrust under his nose.
‘Could
you draw the subject for us? Every
member has chosen a theme.’
Warily,
Bernard fished for a slip of paper and glanced at it. Blinking rapidly, he took a deep breath and when
at last he found his voice, it was several octaves higher.
‘Bacon,
lettuce and tomatoes.’
He
glared around the hall; what joker had thought that one up? There was a group of men sniggering in the
back row; he bet it was one of them.
Ever
since, he’d lain awake, desperate for inspiration. Now, he was starting to panic, his mind
fluttering helplessly like a trapped bird.
‘Bacon,
lettuce and tomatoes,’ he muttered.
‘Bacon, lettuce and tomatoes.’
To
make matters worse, other entries were flooding in; some of them depressingly
good.
If
only they knew, Bernard thought morosely.
A writer’s life is not a happy one, especially if they had an editor
like his.
He
hadn’t worried when he received a summons to attend a routine editorial
conference. Old Arthur Gratton, who was
well into his dotage, would mumble and dither and Bernard would agree to a few
minor changes and that would be that.
He’d
got his first shock when he walked into the office to find, not old Arthur, but
a stranger. The usurper regarded
Bernard out of flat, black, almost lidless eyes, his face contorting into a
shark-like smile as he introduced himself.
Apparently, Arthur had been retired.
As
Bernard sat down, he looked at the desk with surprise that rapidly deepened
into misgiving. Lying by the side of his
manuscript was a book and it was one he recognised.
The
new editor’s voice rolled towards Bernard like an oil slick.
‘It’s
a pleasure to meet you, at last, Mr Bellemain.
I’ve looked at your novel with a great deal of interest. Tell me, have you ever read anything by
Nimrod Binns?
Bernard’s
Adam’s apple convulsed, apart from that not a muscle of his face moved. His head twitched.
‘No? That is surprising. Your book reminds me very much of his
work. Let me see….’
The room suddenly felt very hot and Bernard felt his forehead moisten.
The editor picked up the book, variously marked with post-it notes and started to
read passages aloud, alternating them with pieces from Bernard’s work. Bernard thought he had a particularly nasty
voice, both slimy and rough at the same time.
At last, the man looked up, his eyes glistened
and once more, Bernard was reminded of a predatory fish.
‘Tut,
tut, Mr Bellemain.’
Bernard
cringed as he remembered the rest of the meeting and the fact that, ever since there had been a steady seepage of money from his bank account to the
editors. It made him want to weep to
think that these poor fools were queuing up to put themselves in the hands of
swine like that who were all too ready to take advantage of an author’s honest
mistake.
He
closed his eyes and once more the words, bacon, lettuce and tomatoes flashed
before them.
He sighed, his throat felt like a rusty
file. Cupping his mouth with his hands
he expelled a deep breath and sniffed.
‘Yeugh.’ No wonder Gloria
wouldn’t have anything to do with him.
Not that it was anything to do with his halitosis; his wife was having
an affair. He recognised the signs, the
long hours spent in the bathroom, the stream of glossy packages from expensive
stores, the unexplained text messages.
What’s more, he knew her lover.
Carole, her best friend. They’d
always been close but never in his wildest dreams had he thought that Gloria
would be besotted by a hairy-legged dyke.
Except that she wasn’t. He
groaned, visualising Carole’s smooth, ivory thighs. He’d always fancied her himself; just
his luck that Gloria had got there first.
‘Bacon,
lettuce and tomatoes,’ he crooned. God, he needed sleep.
A
sudden squall shook the windows and a veil of rain obscured the trees. As he watched, he saw a flash of light and
froze. A shape was moving furtively
across the lawn. Damn! They were watching the house. He glanced at his ansaphone, the red light
was blinking and his hand crept towards it, then drew back. He’d no wish to hear that hoarse voice yet
again.
‘Tell
us where he is, or else.’
That particular threat had been accompanied by the stiff body of a cat stuffed into
his letterbox.
Thing
was, he didn’t know. Trust Justin, that
randy son of his to land him in the
shit. For heaven’s sake, if he had to
sow his wild oats, why had he chosen the daughter of a gang boss? Now, he’d gone to ground and Bernard didn’t
blame him. He’d do a runner himself in
the circumstances. He imagined the
wedding, the bride, a veil concealing her moustache, and his whey-faced son
both surrounded by her father and his henchmen all with suspicious bulges
spoiling the lines of their tuxedos.
Bernard
wrenched his mind away. ‘Bacon, lettuce and tomatoes,’ he intoned.
Where
had he gone wrong? There was his
daughter, little Lola, the light of his life.
Even she had grown away from him.
Okay, so she thought killing animals for food was murder. Okay, she hated McDonald’s. He didn’t care for them much either, their
burgers were revolting. Okay, she’d
tapped him for the fare to America. He knew she had principles and he admired
her for them, but did she have to try and assassinate Ronald McDonald? Now she was on the run, holed up in some shack
in the boondocks and rapidly running out of money. It was no good expecting any help from
Gloria. She and Lola hadn’t spoken
since Lola made a bonfire of her furs.
His poor little girl, what was to become of her? If he didn’t have other things on his mind,
he would cry.
‘Bacon,
lettuce and tomatoes…’
There
was a faint scratching at the door that he ignored, he had more on his mind
than bloody mice.
Suddenly,
he snapped.
‘BACON,
LETTUCE AND TOMATOES’, he roared, pounding the desk. ‘BACON, LETTUCE AND TOMATOES!’
There
was a muffled squeak and then silence.
After
his outburst, Bernard felt drained and a little light-headed. He got up and wandered around the room. Outside, the dismal day was darkening to an
even more dismal evening. He switched
on the standard lamp. A watery pool of light illuminated his bookshelves and Bernard’s eyes lit upon a dictionary. He looked up the word bacon (n) cured meat from the back or sides of a pig: lettuce (n) a plant of the daisy family: tomato (n) a glossy red, or yellow, pulpy
edible fruit. His shoulders
slumped, no help there then.
Suddenly,
the door opened and his wife burst in.
From the top of her sculptured head to the tip of her Manolo Blahnik
shoes, she was quivering with rage.
Without speaking, she thrust a plate towards him. Bernard gaped at a dispirited roll surrounded
by wilting lettuce and scraps of tomato.
Extruding from the roll was a thick, pinkish slab that vaguely resembled
the underbelly of some obscure sea creature.
‘What’s
this?’
His
wife shot him a scorching look. She was
blazing, put her in a pair of jackboots and she could have taken on the whole
of the Western Alliance.
‘It’s
what you asked for! Bacon, lettuce and
tomato.’ Then, her voice rose to the level of a geyser about to blow.
‘While
you are still here, Bernard….’
His
heart plummeted, there was menace in that voice and after all, it was her
house. He forced himself to look into the icy blue fire of her eyes. He didn’t know how it had happened but
sometimes he thought the magic had gone out of their relationship.
‘While
you are still here,’ she continued. ‘I
should be grateful if you would not shout at the servants. Daisy has just given notice and you know how
difficult it is to get staff.’
Bernard
blinked. He had quite forgotten how
beautiful she looked when she was angry.
‘What?’
Bernard
hadn’t realised he’d spoken aloud.
Gathering all his courage, he pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘I said you were beautiful.’ All at once, he felt invincible, like a
knight in shining armour – to use one of his more memorable phrases.
Gloria
stared, then her face softened and its lines melted away.
‘It’s
a long time since you called me that. I
thought you were so engrossed in your writing, you didn’t notice what I looked
like.’
‘And
I thought you were so caught up with Carole, you didn’t care what I thought.’
Gloria
took a step towards him and put a hand on his arm.
‘Bernard,
Carole is my dearest friend. I have to
help her arrange her wedding. I’m sorry
that it’s taken up so much of my time.’
‘Carole’s getting married?’
‘I
did tell you. Don’t you remember?’
He
didn’t. He supposed he’d been too busy
thinking about bacon, lettuce and tomatoes.
‘And
the new hairdo…?’
‘A
girl’s got to look her best.’
A
trace of impatience was back in her voice but Bernard ignored it. In spite of everything, he was starting to
feel ridiculously happy. After all, no
other woman could hold a candle to Gloria.
Later,
Gloria sat up and smoothed her hair.
‘Now
Bernard, I want you to set the alarm. We
have to get up early to meet Lola’s flight.’
Bernard
goggled. ‘Lola’s coming home?’
Gloria
nodded.
‘But
how….?’
‘You
talk in your sleep Bernard. I find out
lots of things that way.’ She
shrugged. ‘A few words in the ear of
the Ambassador, who happens to be a friend of Daddy’s, and it was all sorted
out. Storm in a teacup really.’
Just
then, the strident peal of the doorbell interrupted them.
Bernard
froze.
‘Aren’t
you going to answer it?’ asked Gloria.
A
hunted expression enveloped Bernard’s face.
He had a horrid feeling that those Ansaphone messages hadn’t just been
empty threats.
Guided
by the moonlight shining through the windows, he slunk down the stairs, his
shadow wavering behind him. It occurred
to him that he should arm himself but the nearest thing to a weapon he could
see was a drunken umbrella propped up in a corner.
Through
the front door’s frosted glass he could see a grotesque black shape. As he watched, the shape reared and the
doorbell shrieked again.
‘Answer
the door, Bernard!’ Gloria’s impatient voice
echoed down the stairs.
Abandoning
all hope, Bernard undid the catch.
Immediately, the door was pushed open and an arm thrust itself in and
towards the light switch.
‘What’s
up? Why no lights?’
Blinking
in the sudden glare, Bernard thought, for a man on the run, Justin looked
remarkably chipper.
‘Hi
Dad. This is Gina. We’re getting hitched in the morning.’
A small figure detached itself from Justin’s side. Gina was small, dark and pretty with only a
faint trace of the moustache that Bernard had feared.
Later,
Justin took Bernard aside.
‘You
know, Dad, once Mario had put me straight, I realised I could have a worse
father-in-law. He’s a useful chap in
many ways if you ever have a problem that needs sorting. Know what I mean?’
He
rubbed a finger along his nose and winked.
A sudden vision of a shark gutted and hung up on the quayside flashed
before Bernard’s eyes. Yes, he knew
exactly what Justin meant.
It
was while he was busy with his toothbrush that Bernard realised he hadn’t
thought of bacon, lettuce or tomatoes the whole evening. He bared his teeth at the mirror and felt a
surge of euphoria. With such a fine
family, who needed competitions?
It
was at that precise moment, he got his idea.
© By Janet Baldey
unique to herself
