Red Cheeks

​

I saw another one in John Lewis. The last one before my arrest. She’d bought some perfume and then, in the flurry involved in putting her credit card away and gathering all the bags she’d already acquired, forgot to pick it up off the counter. She was a lot younger than me, slim but well formed. She wore a tight black tee shirt and jeans that flowed over her legs like paint. Neither item met in the middle. Peaking well above her waist band was her light red underwear. They were thongs, those strips of material that vaguely cover the genitalia but, more to the point, leave one puzzled as to why the wearer needs to show the world what decision she’d made that morning. Did they care, did they know even? Perhaps they wanted to show people that they possessed the age and the bodies to get away with it.

 

‘Excuse me madam,’ called the sales consultant. They’re always called consultants when they sell perfume. ‘Your purchase.’

 

She turned around but I got there before her. I picked up the neat black box and handed it to her. It was just a coincidence. I was passing, saw what had happened and got involved momentarily for no particular reason.

 

‘Now you’ve bought it you might as well enjoy wearing it,’ I said.

 

She smiled a friendly, flustered and embarrassed smile, said thank you and walked out of the store. I wanted to meet her again.

 

It felt like one of those clichéd moments when destiny touches you on the shoulder because I saw her a few minutes later in the street. One of her bag handles had broken and she’d dropped a few things on to the pavement. It wasn’t her day. This time, the stretch to retrieve her belongings left an acreage of bare back and her knickers were visible in full detail. They had a touch of class about them. No doubt somewhere in their folds and crevices was a famous name who’d had the effrontery to charge a price akin to theft. I could see a hint of a pattern along the seam and decided that she had the neatest bottom I’d seen for a long time. It was at this point I took leave of my senses. What was I thinking? I don’t know, may be nothing. Perhaps I’d assumed a level of friendship that clearly did not exist. But I did it, there’s no denying. I bent down, put out my hand and flicked her knicker elastic.

 

The magistrate was unimpressed. Words like victim, assault and assailant were thrown around the court room. My probation officer, Tom, was more pleasant. I guess that’s their job. No point getting on the wrong side of someone you’re supposed to be helping over the next twelve months. I was lucky in many ways. I could have got worse and, having left my job to do a master’s degree, there wasn’t even an employer to upset.  

 

‘I think “assault” is a bit strong,’ I said on my first visit to Tom’s office.

‘Well that’s what it is Alan.’

‘Labels. Is that all you deal with?’ I asked.

‘Do you think giving it a different label would make a difference?’

 

I didn’t answer. I was clearly not in a position to criticise the label. The content would not have changed. I was an assailant and had thus created a victim.

 

‘I’d like you to meet Miss Johnson, the woman you assaulted. You might like to apologise.’

‘Is this part of my rehabilitation?’

‘If you wish to put it that way, yes.’

‘What does she think?’

‘She’s already agreed to a meeting.’

 

Miss Johnson seemed even more attractive. She had auburn hair styled into that wild unkempt look that was the fashion at the time. Her clothes were considerably less wild, blouse neatly buttoned to the neck and firm dark skirt that succeeded in its presumed attempt to conceal all things. I recalled she said in court that she was training to be a solicitor and she looked it from head to toe. I could not have chosen a worse subject on which to lose my mind.

 

‘Before anything else,’ I said, ‘I’d like to say sorry. I had no right to do what I did.’

 

Miss Johnson stared at me but said nothing.  

 

‘I think Miss Johnson would like to hear why you did it,’ said Tom.

‘Am I in some form of therapy?’ I asked.

‘You’re on probation. That implies an assumption that you might do it again. We need to discuss the reasons for your action to avoid a repetition.’

‘Repetition? Are you crazy?’ I got out of my chair and walked to the window. ‘The way I feel at the moment I wouldn’t touch another woman with a barge pole for the rest of my life.’ Both of them stared at me. ‘Listen,’ I said, ‘I accept the punishment. I know what has to be done but that’s between you and me. I’m not about to get the rest of the world to listen in.’

‘You agreed to meet Miss Johnson,’ said Tom. ‘You must have realised there would be more to it than just saying sorry.’

‘I accept your apology,’ said Miss Johnson, ‘but I would be interested to learn how it happened.’

‘Part of your training now am I? A neat little research project that you can slip into your finals.’

‘I won’t forget what you tell me if that’s what you mean.’

 

I sat down again and thought for a few moments. I could feel the atmosphere. We sat formally round Tom’s desk, he behind it and Miss Johnson and I in front. I recalled similar times in my headmaster’s study, the air thick with thoughts, all malevolent, aggressive, unkind. There was no equality then and there was none now. Inferiority had been imposed on me. Correction: I’d imposed it on myself.

 

I looked at Miss Johnson. ‘Do you think you’re entitled to walk down the street naked?’

‘I’ve heard enough,’ she said to Tom. ‘This isn’t going to work. The man’s a pervert.’

‘No I’m not. I ask the question at it’s face value. I know it’s rhetorical because I suspect you’d get arrested for breaching the peace. Am I right?’

‘Probably.’ She stood up. ‘I think I should go. We’re obviously wasting our time.’

‘I’d like you to stay,’ I said. ‘I’m in the process of answering your question. If you’d asked me at the time it happened, I wouldn’t have had one but I’ve thought a lot about it since then.’

 

She turned to me but did not sit down.

 

‘Suppose you went out just in your underwear? What then?’

‘Alan, that’s enough,’ shouted Tom. ‘This isn’t going to help you one little bit.’

‘Alright I’ll stop asking questions. The reason she’d be arrested if she walked the streets naked is that the police couldn’t be sure of public safety and the same applies if she strides out in her bra and pants. She’s not entitled to do it even if no one is entitled to touch her if she did.’

‘What the hell has that got to do with your case,’ asked Miss Johnson. ‘I was fully dressed?’

‘I’m merely trying to find the bounds of acceptability. You can’t walk in the street in nothing but underwear but apparently you’re able to show them if you’re wearing jeans. What law dictates the area of material allowed to be visible? When you got dressed that morning you knew perfectly well your knickers were showing. Why did you do that?’

‘I’m not here to be questioned by you. I can wear what I bloody well like.’   She marched to the door. ‘I can’t believe what I’m hearing. The defence of a rapist. “I couldn’t help myself m’lud. It was all her fault for provoking me.” You’re pathetic.’ Then she opened the door marched through and slammed it behind her.

‘You’re a damn fool, Alan,’ said Tom.

‘Maybe I am,’ I said. I looked at the door. I hadn’t said half what I wanted to say and what I’d said had come out all wrong. ‘See you next week,’ I shouted and ran out into the corridor. Tom’s office was on the third floor. She would have got the lift. I ran down the stairs. As I got to the lobby I saw her walk out into the street. It was drizzling. I caught up with her after a few yards and bent my head underneath her umbrella.

‘I’m sorry,’ I shouted, ‘really sorry. I never meant to offend you.’

‘Go away or I’ll call the police.’

‘I’d like to explain. You can use me as a case study if you like. I’ll answer any question you want to ask. You know, get inside the mind of a criminal, that sort of stuff.’

She stopped. ‘Come to my office tomorrow at 9.30. Tom will you give the address. Your shirt’s getting soaked.’

‘Bugger. I’ve left my jacket behind.’

 

 

Miss Johnson did not have an office of her own. I was ushered into the conference room. The place was draped in silence. Thick leather armchairs were tucked neatly around a dark oak table that looked as monolithic as the Victorian stone building that surrounded it. She walked in a few minutes later, sat down opposite me and placed a writing pad and pen on the table.

 

‘So what excuse are you providing today?’

‘I don’t have an excuse. We’re not discussing excuses, just reasons.’

‘So what’s the reason?’

‘Can I call you Victoria? I know that’s your name. I remember from the trial.’

‘No.’

 

I sat in silence for a few moments. Then she said, ‘Nobody calls me that.’

 

I recovered my thoughts and shrugged.

 

‘Yesterday you defended yourself by saying you can wear what you bloody well like. My defence is that you can’t. And the reason you can’t is because people, mainly men, might be too attracted to you. We know they’ve got no right to touch you, we’ve already established that and those who do, including me, are fools. As you know, society has rules to minimise the risk.’

‘Are you really trying to tell me what to wear?’

‘Only that you should be aware of the dangers.’

‘Sometimes I hate men. We all have to watch our step because they can’t control themselves. Why don’t you just get back to your cave and see if you can drag a couple of women in to service you.’

‘Christ,’ I whispered. ‘You haven’t begun to think this through have you? You sit there all tight lipped and superior as though you’ve nothing whatever to do with it. Whatever happens must be someone else’s fault. Little Miss Innocent puts on some sexy knickers, makes sure they can be seen and then gets all shocked that other people take the same view. Why did you wear them? You must have some sensible drawers that would have been more comfortable for a shopping trip.’

 

Victoria Johnson sat there in silence, colour rising up from her neck and washing over her cheeks.

 

‘Yours were not the first pair of pants I’ve seen, you won’t be surprised to hear. I’m perfectly aware that women wear erotic underwear for the same reasons that men like to see it. It looks good and turns you on. You can look in dozens of high street shops and see the way it’s displayed. You’d think that almost the entire point was its sexuality.’

‘That gives you no right…’

‘I know, I know. I apologise for what I did. I can’t apologise for what I thought.’

 

We sat silently staring at each other. Her green eyes sparkled with anger and somehow added to the attraction. I felt bad about that. I’m not attracted by anger and aggression, a notion that Miss Johnson would have found laughable. I put my hand in my pocket and brought out a black box.

 

‘I bought you this,’ I said. ‘Just to say sorry.’

 

She looked down at it with wide eyes and I could see she was finding it difficult to search for words. Then she said, ‘Amazing, my favourite.’ She smiled that same smile I saw at the perfume counter.

 

‘I knew you liked it of course.’

‘Did you? How?’ She gasped. ‘You’re the man who helped me at the counter.’

‘You hadn’t realised?’

‘No. I was harassed and in a hurry. You don’t remember faces when you’re shopping do you?’

‘Maybe not. I remembered yours though.  I thought you were lovely.’

‘Why didn’t you mention it in court?’

‘Helping you retrieve your perfume was hardly much of a defence.’

 

She smiled again.

 

‘I’d better go,’ I said. ‘I’ve taken up enough of your time. Said my piece. Now I’ve got to apologise to my probation officer. He wasn’t happy yesterday.’

‘I don’t suppose he was,’ said Miss Johnson.

‘I picked up my coat and moved towards the door.

‘Alan.’

 

I turned. She was still sitting at the conference table. Her writing pad was still pristine and her pen had not moved. She was looking at me but her expression had changed.

 

‘Thanks for the perfume.’

‘That’s okay. Two boxes should last you quite a while.’ I put my coat on. ‘Good bye Miss Johnson. Sorry again.’

‘It’s Vicky,’ she said.