Bron-3

Continued from Chapter 2: Bron-2 | ABCtales

Chapter 3

Linda arrived home at six at the small flat, on the corner of Great Cumberland Place and George Street. Bron, unusually, was sitting on the small tattered sofa in the small kitchen-cum-living room, bare feet drawn up beneath her and wearing grey trackie bottoms and a white T-shirt. (Usually she hid herself away in the front bedroom, only emerging to microwave a carton of Tesco curry before quickly disappearing again.)

Linda was distracted, agitated even.

She sat down at the other end of the sofa.

“Oh, hi Bron. You know, I just ran into that old Mrs Bliedorf, the one who lives above us. She said at about eleven o’clock this morning, she’d heard a massive outburst of swearing coming from our flat. Really loud. Went on for at least an hour. You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“Yeah. It was me. I was upset” Linda gave a start; Bron was nothing if not straightforward. “Probably was me, anyway. What sort of words?”

“Oh, you know: fuck, wanker, the C-word…”

“The C-word?”

“Yes, you know, er, c-u-n-t.” (Linda had taught maths in a Tottenham secondary school before taking up her job in finance and considered herself fairly broadminded, but you had to draw the line somewhere.)

“Oh … cont.”

“Oh, is that the Welsh for it?

“No, it’s the same. Must be my accent.”

(For most of her youth, Bron had been under the impression that it was a Welsh word. It was only on a school trip to Manchester and saw it spray-painted on the wall of the Arndale centre that she realised otherwise.)

“But why were you upset, Bron? Is something wrong?”

She was saved from answering by the sound of Chris’ key scraping in the lock. “Hi, honey, I’m home…Oh, hi Bron...”

“I’m just making us all a nice cup of tea,” said Linda, brandishing the huge shiny brown teapot. “No, don’t go Bron. This is your sitting room as much as ours, you know that don’t you?”

Bron stared at an ancient cigarette burn on the mottled grey carpet, fingering the end of her short, black bob, then repeatedly pressed the end of her blunt, slightly freckled nose, both gestures calculated to send men wild and which even Linda found endearing.

Chris took Linda’s place on the sofa, legs splayed and with his large feet pointing apart in their pale suede loafers. Linda sat down again and put the tea-tray on the small coffee table. 

Chris leant forward and sideways to address Bron. “Er, Bron, I’m really sorry about this morning. Really, really sorry.”

“What’s this?” demanded Linda.

“Er, we plunged Bron into a swimming pool full of ice-cold water without her expecting it.”

“You did WHAT!” shrieked Linda. “You lot are INSANE! You’re all completely out of control! What if she’d gone into cardiac arrest?” She turned to Bron: “Oh you poor thing, no wonder you were upset - I hope you didn’t get hypothermia. Shall I get you a blanket? I’ll put the fire on…”

“No really, Mrs James. “I’m fine. Now.”

Linda turned again on her husband. “Chris, this time you lot have really gone too far. What on EARTH were you thinking of?”

“It’s a really seminal part of the film, and we had to get it right. Lieutenant Hinds ditches her plane in the ocean and barely escapes with her life…Actually, it was really Geoff and Mike’s idea, I’d no idea that they’d made the water so cold.”

“Now that’s really PATHETIC!” Linda exploded. “You’re supposed to be the fucking producer. You’re the one responsible you, you absolute – CUNT!”

Bron’s small pale red-lipped mouth blossomed into a rare smile.

Chris spent the night shivering coverless on the small sofa in the sitting room. Bron, in contrast, sweated under the weight of the two duvets that Linda insisted on piling up on her.

Continued in Chapter 4: Bron-4 | ABCtales