Nicolas Ridley

LOSERS

I open my eyes. Spears of afternoon sunlight stream through the window. Crumpled sheets. Puckered pillows. Yes, I think. I remember where I am.

—Seven letters, says Arianna. First letter ‘c’. Third letter ‘c’. Fourth letter ‘k’.

I prop myself up on one elbow.

—‘Cock’ something, I say. ‘Cockeye’? ‘Cockpit’?

She shakes her head.

—‘Cocksure’?

—Seven letters.

—Oh, yes.

—Seventh letter ‘d’.

She’s sitting at her dressing-table, wrapped in a cream bath towel, the newspaper folded on her knee, chewing her pencil. This is Arianna. She is not a cosy lover. She has no patience with post-coital clinging.

—What’s the clue? I say.

—What?

—The clue?

—Doesn’t matter, she says.

Our arrangement might so easily have gone awry ...

♦ To read the rest of the story email nwm.ridley@gmail.com