Page 22 of The Late Bloomer’s Playlist

Peggy Lee

FEVER

I was in the middle of deleting a message to ask Sheila for dinner, when Michel came rolling into the shop. It wasn’t his delivery day, but he was still man-handling two boxes that looked full to overflowing with stuff, and it was the perfect distraction. I locked my phone and popped it underneath the counter before going to meet him. He let me take one box – ‘Merci, Patti, you are an angel’ – and carried on his way to the counter with the other. Michel was a beautiful Frenchman who had fallen in love with Hereford twenty years ago and never left. I think he also happened to fall in love with his wife at around the same time, which may have been a contributing factor. Still, he told me time and again how much he loved the city. His enthusiasm for the place – for everything, in fact – was one of the things that had endeared me to him most, when we’d met four years ago at a flea market. I’d told Michel about the shop and he’d told me about his penchant for collecting obscurities; we’d been a match made in hoarder heaven. Since then, he’d been making two-weekly trips with arms laden full of oddities that he’d found on his travels; some of which I bought, some of which I cringed at. There was an occasional culture clash between us, but Michel generally had a sense for my taste now.

‘I have a treat for you like I’ve never had before,’ he said as he set his box down. He rifled through the contents for a moment, muttering as he went, but soon lifted his head and gestured for the half of the delivery that I was still holding. ‘This one, please.’

I laughed and handed it over. ‘What in God’s name have you found that’s so–’

‘A-ha!’ From deep in the box he pulled out a dark wooden case that was engraved with a floral design. It was beautiful, but I knew from Michel’s excitement that there was more to it. He set it down on the counter between us and gave the lid a gentle tap. ‘I don’t think the owner knew what he had but as soon as I saw it, I said to my wife, this, this is for Patti.’ He seemed to weigh the sentence up for a second. ‘I had to explain myself after that, but she came to see my meaning.’

I shook my head and pulled my eyebrows together. ‘Michel, I need more–’

‘Of course, of course.’ He threw his hands up in a flustered gesture. ‘I’m losing myself.’ He pushed the wooden box a little closer to me. ‘Open, see for yourself.’

Michel had hyped up the contents of the container so much by then, I was nervous there was going to be something dead or illegal inside when I opened it – perhaps even both. But his excitement was contagious and, of course, I reached for the lip of the box, despite any reservations. I pressed my thumb into the small catch on the front until I heard a click, and then unfolded the hinge to reveal–

‘What in God’s name…?’

–a torture device.

‘Isn’t she fantastic?’

The item was a medley of wood and metal. In many ways it looked like a rolling pin, but with a bulbous top and a handle fixed halfway along its body. The top had a small opening, clearly designed for the handful of fitments that were wedged into the box, too. I’d never seen anything like it and under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have minded admitting it. But Michel looked so overwhelmed with joy at my handling it that I almost felt pressured to feign excitement.

‘It’s…’ I started, hoping a sentence might materialise.

‘Look at you,’ he interrupted the pause. ‘You’re speechless.’

I am that, I thought and I encouraged a curt laugh. ‘Michel, I’m not altogether sure…’

‘I know, I know.’ He waved his arms again. ‘You probably can’t sell it.’

At least not until I know what it is…

‘But isn’t it a wonderful thing to have?’

‘Michel, I have to confess–’

My sentence was cut short by the chime of the bell to signal a customer – or, as I thought of them in those seconds, a lifesaver. I glanced up to greet the saviour, all the while still holding the modified rolling pin in my hand, and saw–

‘Oh.’

She was taller than I’d expected her to be. Her hair was wrapped up in a wild bun, her make-up was minimal, and her glasses were perched on the top of her hair. Sheila had a wide smile that seemed authentic, even though I guessed she felt as caught off-guard as I did. She took a step towards me and narrowed her eyes, though in a split second I realised the stare wasn’t at me exactly, but rather, at the pocket-sized battering ram I was holding.

‘Patti.’ She spoke through a smile that broke into a laugh. ‘Is that…?’ She hesitated, laughed again, started again. ‘Is that an old-fashioned lady’s companion?’

Michel gasped and brought his hands together. ‘What a perfect name for it.’

‘Michel’ – I looked down at the attachments still in the case – ‘is this a lady’s companion?’

Another small and perfect laugh erupted out of Sheila who watched this unfold. She must have also seen my horror when Michel answered with a curt, ‘Oui.’

I looked from Michel to Sheila; from Sheila to the–

Dildo.

The item landed with a heavy thud on the counter.