Free Spin Cycle by Sue Margolis Page A

down in front of him, “to do the
Sun
crossword.”
    “Tel, mock not. You know how dyslexic I am.”
    He uttered the word
dyslexic
with two hard, back-of-the-throat, phlegm-clearing sounds common to consumptive tramps and heavily accented Liverpudlians. “I mean you know as well as I do, I can’t count m’ balls and get the same answer twice. Right, I’m off to the can. Put the beer on me tab.” He stabbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
    It was only when he stood up that Rachel noticed he was tiny—no more than five five—and that along with the velvet jacket he was wearing skin-tight black leather trousers and platforms. What a poseur, she thought. But he was good-looking, she supposed, in a disheveled, Byronesque sort of way—albeit a half-pint version. He wasn’t her type, though. She’d never found men with pale skin particularly attractive. Unlike Shelley, for whom the warmed-up corpse look was a definite turn-on.
    “Terry,” Rachel said, suppressing a giggle, “who on earth is that?”
    “ ‘Im?” Terry said, grinning. “That’s Tractor.”
    “Come again?”
    “Tractor. Apparently his real name’s David Brown. And David Brown happens to be the biggest-selling make of tractor in Cornwall. So everybody calls him Tractor.”
    “But he sounds like he comes from Liverpool,” Rachel said.
    “Yeah, I thought that was a bit strange—still . . .”
    “And does he always dress like that?”
    “Always. He reckons the seventies was the most stylish decade of the twentieth century. To be honest, I can’t see it myself—all those perms and droopy moustaches. And that was just the women.” Terry burst out laughing.
    Just then Rachel noticed a copy of
The Clitorati
lying on the bar. Blimey, she thought. What was it about this book that attracted such knobheads?
    “Somehow I don’t see him as the kind of bloke who’d be into heavy feminist literature,” she said, turning the book over and glancing for a few moments at the blurb on the back cover.
    “Oh, no, he’s not reading it,” Terry said. He leaned forward and looked quickly to the left and right and said, “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but he uses it to pick up women.”
    “To pick up women? You’re joking.”
    “No, straight up. He calls it ‘is ‘ticket to Tottieville.’ Says it makes him look intelligent and sort of new mannish. Doesn’t seem to be having much luck, though.”
    “Really,” Rachel said sarcastically. “You do surprise me.”
    Terry chortled. “So, Rachel. What can I get you?”
    She explained about having run out of orange juice and asked if he could possibly spare a carton.
    “No problem.” He walked the couple of paces to the fridge. She started to tap her hand on the bar in time to the music. Somebody had just put ABBA’s “Dancing Queen” on the jukebox.
    “There you are,” he said, putting the carton on the bar.
    “Thanks,” she said, handing him a fiver.
    He turned toward the till.
    At that moment, Tractor returned and sat back down on the bar stool next to Rachel. She continued to face the row of bottles behind the bar, but out of the corner of her eye she could see him looking at her.
    “Great book,” he said, picking up
The Clitorati
.
    “So I’ve heard,” Rachel said, turning to give him a half-smile.
    “In my opinion,” he said, lighting up, “it’s a profound and thoughtprovoking historical analysis of gender conflict.”
    He drew hard on the cigarette.
    “Funny,” Rachel said, ostentatiously fanning away the smoke, “those words are identical to the quote on the back cover.”
    “I don’t believe it. You have to be kidding,” he said.
    “See for yourself.” She reached across and turned the book onto its back and tapped the cover.
    “I am gobsmacked. Totally gobsmacked,” he said. “Who’d have thought it? Well, you know. Great minds and all that.”
    “You reckon?” she said, smiling. He was a total twonk, but part of her couldn’t help finding him