fun stories for adults – Petra Kidd Writes…

Honestly, I can’t stop laughing when he tells me he wants to be a politician. Seriously?

“Honey, you need to see someone.”

He doesn’t look impressed.

“Oh, come on, a politician? They are all lying vagabonds; it’s just not you!”

He sits there, grim-faced, whisky in hand, staring at the wall. “There’s work to be done in this country; I’ve thought about it deeply and discussed it with Hannah.”

Jeez, I go cold; he is serious! He rarely mentions his wife.

Well, that has ruined what was going to be a perfect evening. The chicken biryani I’ve ordered for us both won’t taste so sweet tonight. I can’t help but breathe out the word ‘politics’ as if it is the dirtiest word I know.

“We can’t all arse about being artists, Charlie boy.” He says the word ‘artists’ as if it is the dirtiest word he knows.

He sounds so bitter. It could be that the lovely Hannah has bulldozed him into this for the whole status thing; he’s mentioned before that she has always been a social climber. When we first started seeing each other, he was full of justifications as to why he needed a lover: to release the pressures of a trapped marriage, to escape the doldrums of a tedious career, to feel like he was alive again. Cliché, cliché, cliché.

I didn’t care why he wanted me, and he never asked me if I wanted him. It just happened in a dark and dangerous pub, where I found him drowning his sorrows.

“Of course I can’t carry on seeing you; the bloodhounds will be after me in no time if I get elected.”

And there the bomb drops. Nice one. Disposed of like yesterday’s pizza box. Straight into the garbage I go. I do pick up on the ‘if.’ “If?”

“Well, of course, I can only be an MP if I get elected; we’ve already started working on the campaign. If you ever bothered to watch the news, you’d know there’s an election coming up.”

So, he has had this planned out for a while and only tells me now. I don’t need to ask what party he plans to stand for; it’s obvious.

“So, this is you, telling me it’s over?”

He rolls his eyes, then stares into his whisky. Twenty minutes ago, he was screaming my name in ecstasy, and now I am like something nasty on his shoe. Standing here in the boxer shorts he ripped off and I put on again a few minutes ago, I feel like a disposable wrapper.

“Fine, off you go.” I move forward to take the glass from his hand, and unbelievably, he seems shocked. “It’s over, so go.” I keep my voice calm and cold.

“There’s no need to be like that, Charlie.” He sounds like a weary headmaster. “You know I’m, er, fond of you.”

Oh God, it gets worse. “I don’t care how you feel. Off you go, home to wifey. Send her my regards.” I pause. “Or maybe I should do that myself.”

He glares at me. “Don’t you bloody start threatening me.” His eyes are red. He drinks too much.

Now who has the upper hand?

“You won’t be able to stay in this apartment without my generous donations.”

This amuses me; he has no idea that I have a trust fund. I certainly don’t need his cash to survive. That said, I am already summing up what the press might pay for my story, should he get elected. I pick up a joint and light up. I can see he’d love a drag, but what self-respecting wannabe MP would want to get caught smoking weed? Let alone be caught with a guy young enough to be his son when he’s supposed to be happily and respectably married. He expected me to be broken-hearted and beg him to stay. His ego is wilting at the fact that I’ve told him to go.

“I think you’ve left a shirt in the bedroom—that awful dull grey one. Pop in, pick it up, and be on your way.” I envision him on TV in the future, trying to look the epitome of respectability, and I inwardly grin. My cousin has press contacts; boy am I going to enjoy myself when, sorry, if the time comes.

He gives me a look of disdain. “You think I find this easy?”

Oh, the self-pity. I really need him to go. Giles is on his way over; he just texted that there is a new bar in town he wants to try. “Honestly, Tony, I’m not that bothered by how you feel.”

“You’re hurt, I know. Think of it as for the greater good.”

How noble! Months ago, he was charming, funny, attentive, and generous. I used to enjoy his company, but now, looking at his puffy face and nose hairs, I can’t wait to be rid of him. If only he’d get up, get his shirt, and go.

“Sure.” I glance at my phone to check the time. I head to the bedroom.

He calls out after me, “If I don’t get elected, I’ll be in touch.”

Good grief, the arrogance! I return, hand him his shirt, and smile sweetly. “Sure.”

Thankfully, that’s it, and he leaves.

I spike up my hair and pull on a new pair of jeans. I can’t wait to tell Giles what’s happened. Jilted for politics, well, we will see how that goes.

Flynn is in the lift with a parrot. Yes, a parrot! He grins and says, “This is the new star of my channel; say hello, Pedro.”

“Hello Pedro.”

Pedro turns his back. “Seems a charmer. How’s it going?” I like Flynn; he’s a shiny, dynamic kind of guy, always on the up.

“It’s hard to stop him from swearing on camera, but he’s beginning to learn.”

A wicked thought occurs to me: “Well, if you ever need a parrot sitter, count me in; I love birds.”

Flynn looks like he can’t believe his luck. “Cheers, mate, we’re off to Ibiza for a weekend soon; I’ll zip you over the dates.

More from the Apartment Block series of short stories