Free Songs From Spider Street by Mark Howard Jones Page B

she’d told him at the end of
the night and, for a short while, he was prepared to believe it; because she’d
said it.
    All his
friends thought of them as an odd couple, he knew, but he just felt lucky to
have found someone like Jen; so cool, sophisticated and sexy. Someone who was
interested in him.
    Of course
there was a downside. There always was. He didn’t like the flat that much but
he wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth, was he?
    Worst of all
for him was the fact that it didn’t have any outside windows, except for one
small one in the kitchen, the light coming from huge skylights instead. But the
converted warehouse was spacious, at least, with enough room for both Jen’s art
school ideas and his own clutter.
     
    On Saturdays, Mike was expected to accompany Jen on her ‘expeditions’ to
town to seek out the latest chic accessory or ornament from exclusive little
shops and tucked-away art galleries.
    This was
obviously the way she was used to living her life. But she confessed she’d
never had the chance to ‘spread her wings at home’. Well, thought Mike, you
certainly seem to be flapping your feathers about now .
    One
particularly chilly day in February they found themselves outside a former
butcher’s shop that was now an expensive furniture shop. There was some sort of
poetic irony in that, he thought.
    They had been
standing there for a few minutes before Jen spoke. “What do you think?” she
asked, extending an elegantly-gloved finger towards the display window.
    He stared
through the glass at the object Jen was indicating. It was a collection of odd
angles and colours that seemed to float in space, not meeting or connecting in
any significant way. Yet she’d referred to it earlier as a chair. Mike felt his
back aching in sympathy with any poor sod who would be expected to sit in it.
    Then it
dawned on him. He’d been brought along on this expedition to approve of it, to
admire Jen’s excellent taste and to compliment her on her knowledge of modern
design. And he’d be the poor sod who had to sit in that ‘chair’.
    “It looks uncomfortable,”
was all he could think of to say in protest.
    Jen scowled,
her composure dented for once. “I think you’ll find it wonderfully comfortable,
actually. It’s a Mika Pentinnen chair – he’s one of the best young
designers in Europe.”
    “Good for him.”
    Jen snorted
softly and headed for the entrance, credit card appearing magically in her hand
as she did so. “You’ve just got no idea, have you?”
    Mike felt
defeated.
     
    Slowly their spacious living room began to fill with what Mike regarded
as clutter. Expensive, up-to-the-minute must-have clutter. But still clutter.
    He often
found himself carefully negotiating small table-top sculptures or oddly-poised
angular lamps to make his way to the firm leather armchair that sat in the
middle of the room. Jen smiled patronisingly at him when he flopped down into
it after a hard day’s hack work; she obviously thought of it as his chair.
Maybe that’s why it had been placed facing the large screen TV, the floor space
around it left uncluttered.
    One evening
she slid into his lap, pressed her breasts against him and kissed him on the
mouth. “You do like what I’m doing to the place don’t you, angel?” she purred.
Mike tried his best to maintain a passive expression and made a non-committal
noise that could have been interpreted as ‘yes’ if the wind was in the right
direction.
    “Good. You do
look so at home here, “ she breathed in his ear.
    He knew she
had good taste and connections in the art world, mainly through her brother,
and he did like some of the things she chose, but he just didn’t want to live
with them. He wanted a home, not a gallery. But how could he let her know that?
     
    One day he arrived home to find a large part of one corner taken up with
a huge grey stone object. It was a featureless rectangle, smooth and
uninteresting.
    He dropped
his coat on a