The second time they met was at a bowling alley, each with their separate group of friends, who all seemed to know each other. He was bowling horribly until she came over to borrow a pencil; he bowled a strike then and every time after the whole night.
The third time they met, she introduced herself and gave him her mobile number. After he got home, he misdialed and accidentally phoned the local radio station, who informed him he was their tenth caller and had won 500 quid.
The fourth time they met was at the corner pub, just the two of them. The bartender confused him for an old friend and gave them free drinks all night. When they said goodnight, they kissed outside her place for a solid twenty minutes before her flatmate stumbled across them, crying over another lost love. And when they parted, his brother called and apologized for everything that had happened over the last 4 years.
So he called her Cricket, because she brought him luck. And she called him Alistair, because that was his name.
Cricket was tall and beautiful in the most ancient sense of the word. Her skin was pale and smooth, her hair long and chestnut brown. She had no marks or scars except a tiny freckle on her upper right arm, which she referred to as “The Freckle.” Her eyes were big and blue and framed by long, black eyelashes that brushed her sunglasses in the summer. She had a pretty, heart-shape face, and her small nose had just the slightest upward tilt, giving her an air of sophistication. Her lips were naturally pink, and her cheeks had just enough red in them that she never wore rouge, except for costume parties. She had the envious quality of being both thin and curvy at the same time, with a glorious hourglass figure that made Marilyn Monroe look rugged and angular, and she was stunning in her usual attire of dark-washed skinny jeans, long jumper, and ballet flats. She spoke as one who had grown up in central London—which she had—but tried to sound like she had gone to Oxbridge—which she had, Oxford actually—so that she ended up with a brilliant accent that an American impersonator would have completely ruined.
Alistair reminded Cricket of a statue from her Greek mythology picture book. He was taller than her, about 6 feet, and muscular, though not so much as to have his muscles show through his clothes. He was slightly tan all year long, with hair the color of dark chocolate, and his face was round except for his jaw, which protruded ever so slightly in a very handsome manner. His eyes were brown, but with golden glints, so that his mother would get lost in them when he was a baby. He always had a 5 o’clock shadow, even after shaving, but his facial hair was fine enough that it never scratched. He often dressed in old jeans and hand-me-down shirts from local thrift shops, giving him the appearance of one who really didn’t care about his appearance; and in actuality, Alistair would always rather sleep the extra ten minutes than put any effort into his clothing. He spoke as though he had grown up in the North—which he had, Newcastle-upon-Tyne—but had spent some time in America—which he hadn’t, this being a testament to the quantity of Hollywood films he had watched growing up.
They fell in love one night while sitting on his sofa and watching the news on BBC. By now, he had everyone calling her Cricket, even her mother, and she had upgraded from jumpers to long-sleeved shirts. As the newscaster informed them of the latest tragedy in Iraq, she curled into his chest, wrapped in blankets, and breathed his scent: soap and, somehow, a hint of cinnamon. His lips got lost in her hair until they found her scalp, which they brushed gently. An advertisement flashed for Crème Eggs, which were finally in season, and she sat up enough to kiss him. Their eyes closed, their lips meeting as two strangers moving apprehensively to a favorite song, the fires danced deep in their hearts, warming them to the tips of their fingers and the ends of their toes. Parting for breath, they opened their eyes, and the gold in his eyes was lost in her ocean blue.
The feeling was mutual and spoken without words. He merely sighed and cupped her cheek in his hand, and she blinked slowly in affirmation. They could have screamed it out the window or composed a symphony about it, but the quiet understanding between the two of them was that their love was like that of lovers of old, and he would gladly launch a thousand ships for her and she would gladly succumb to the snake’s deadly bite for him. When they finally spoke, it was regarding the next night’s activities.
“Are you going to Tom’s tomorrow?” he asked, brushing her hair from her face.
“I am. Are you going?” she asked.
“Yes. Phil’s given me the night off, I had to promise I’d take Saturday night for him.”
“Saturday? But I thought you were going to go to Bristol with me to visit my sister.”
“I was,” he said, “but this was the only way I could get Phil to work for me. I’m sorry, love, but I couldn’t blow off Tom’s engagement party, and I’ve already met your sister. Plus, I’ll make loads working the bar on Saturday, and I’ll take you somewhere nice if you like.”
She understood, and she wasn’t upset, but she pretended she was, knowing that he would try to cheer her up by tickling her. He always knew when she was fooling him, but he loved the game and went along. Soon enough, the two were laughing and breathless and lying on the floor in a stupor.
At Tom’s the next night, they met with their friends after she left the law firm. Jack was there, and so was Marianne, and Peter and Aggie and Susie A, but Susie K was at home with the flu. Mitchell was there—it was at his party that Cricket and Alistair first met—but he was desperately in love with Susie K, so he left as soon as he heard she was sick. Betty drank too much and started flirting with Alistair, and Cricket bumped into an old boyfriend, but Tom was so happy they came, and his fiancée Julie was lovely. Julie was fluent in French, and so was Cricket, so the two got along well enough to reminisce about their university days for half an hour. Tom took the opportunity to speak with Alistair, with whom he had worked for several years before joining the police.
“Alistair, Alistair, Alistair,” Tom said. He was a middle-aged Scot who was more beer than blood. His face was pink from drinking, but experience allowed him to held his ale well. “I’m so glad ya came! I was worried, cuz Cricket thought cha might hafta work, but ya came!”
Alistair smiled at his friend. “Of course I came! Phil nearly choked when I asked, you remember how awful he was. One night I asked for, and I thought he would give me the boot. And I’ve worked there 5 years! But I held my stand, and eventually he gave in.”
“’ow could I ’ave doubted ya for a secon! Ol’Alistair!” He put his arm around his friend and smiled. “’ower things goin with the beautiful Cricket, eh? Bet she’s a bit a ’eaven.”
“Things are great, Tom, really. I’m happy, you know?”
“Aye, I know! Julie, mate, I jus don’t get ’ow she ended up with me!” As if to prove his point, Tom let out a brilliant belch that had Alistair grabbing his side in laughter. “But you’re wit
Cricket, so stranga stuff ’appens!”
“What do you mean?” asked Alistair.
“Cricket! Oxford University, gonna be a barrister, dad’s a doctor, mum’s practically royalty. For Chrisake, Ali, she’s speakin to me girl in French, and you can’t even say ‘Bonjour.’”
Alistair sighed. “Tom, don’t you think I know that? Jesus, I feel like an idiot around her sometimes. At the end of the day, she’s been off trying to save the world, and I’ll have served a group of American tourists their first pint of ale, only to watch them make faces and spit it out. Honestly, my biggest accomplishment of the day is getting one of the new boys to clean the toilet for me.”
Tom chuckled. “Aye, Ali, I’m only jokin. The girl’s obviously nuts for ya, no idea why though. Jus ya ’old ona ’er, promise? Cuz I’m spectin ya to make me Uncle Tom someday, eh!”
Alistair shook his head, but continued to smile at his old friend. Tom talked about the local football team for a few minutes, but Alistair only half-listened, watching Cricket out of the corner of his eye, listening to her perfect French accent as she talked about God-knows-what. When Tom finally left him to go to his Julie, Alistair went to Cricket, grabbed her around the waist, and kissed her hard, because he knew he didn’t deserve her, and she kissed him back, simply because she wanted to.
The first five paragraphs are snappy, funny, and direct. It's a perfect tone for beginning a story and already gives a fun sense of who Alistair is.
ReplyDeleteThe descriptions are a little bulky. 'The Freckle' is good, because it gives us a little about Cricket's perspective, as well as her appearance. I like the eyelashes brushing the glasses, the rouge at costume parties, and the accent. Noting the clothes she generally wears also makes sense, especially if you are trying to create a sense of her social status/sphere.
Descriptions of her as 'beautiful' and 'stunning', as well as having 'an air of sophistication', don't help create an idea of who she actually is because the narrator's perspective is not clear for this section. 'Beautiful' and 'stunning' don't carry much weight unless they are used within the context of a character's perspective.
Perspective is what makes the first sentence of your Alistair description work. It tells something that Cricket thinks about him. This does a little more to ground the entire passage in her perspective of him, but that is a little too distant by the time we come to 'very handsome', which again seems to float a little. The last sentence is great, though the parenthetical dashes need a little clarifying.
A very easy transition into the next scene. Good flow, good detail. The alternating descriptions of the pair and the television is good stuff. Everything works until 'the gold in his eyes...' through the end of that sentence. It's a little too moony, and breaks with the drier voice of the passage leading up to that point. It may still be worth giving an image for their eyes.
Allusion are great. Transition from high flown love in the classical mood to talking about the schedule is perfect. Really good touch. It would pop even more if there wasn't something that gave it away. Cut 'it was regarding the next night's activities' and the jump is even more pronounced.
From there on out it works pretty well. The back and forth of the dialogue carries the weight of forward progress without stumbling at all. It's good stuff. The tension introduced for Alistair in the his conversation with Tom is particularly good. This is where you are setting the stage for further things to come. I like it.
The final sentence is a perfect return to the tone of the beginning.
There are a few more cuts or clarifications of grammar that would tighten things up.
The first comes with the list at the outset. 'The first time they met was at a party' doesn't work because 'at a party' is a situation, not a time. This is also true of the second and fourth meeting, though with the third there is not problem because you describe what happened during the time. Changing the first sentence to 'they met for the first time at a party' works, but you would need to rewrite the whole list to fit that wording, so maybe another change would work better.
In the description of Cricket's accent, noting that 'spoke as one who had grown up in London' is clunky in its formalism. 'She spoke as though' would work better.
For Tom - 'hold' rather than 'held' his ale.
In describing his discussion with the manager, Alistair claims to have 'held' his 'stand'. I've never heard this phrase, so it sounds really clunky. I know both 'hold my ground' and 'stand my ground'. Maybe using one of those would be better?
In any case, this is good fun, and you're perfectly set up for pt. 2. Coming anytime soon?