Little Red

There was once a gaunt and symmetrically featured woman who had earned and squandered a fortune as a fashion clothes horse during the brief period when she was able to stand sideways without exhibiting any curves whatsoever. Because of her striking titian hair – it ran in the family – and her prima donna temper, she was simply known as Red.

When it became obvious that her young daughter had inherited her looks, Red convinced herself that the girl would succeed where she had failed, that is to say, she would damn well stay thin and make it to the very top of the modelling profession. From that day on, austere diets and stringent grooming practices dominated both their lives. And since she was always dressed in miniature versions of her mother’s outfits, the daughter became known as Little Red.

 One day the mother put down the phone, sighed, and said: ‘That was your Gran. She’s a bit down today. Not that time of the month again, I suppose. She needs some company, but I’ve got a late shift at the supermarket. Be a sweetie: hop on the bus and see if you can cheer her up.’

It was three days into the Easter holidays. Little Red was already bored enough to agree. Anything would be better than sitting at home watching the flowers grow. Not that she didn’t like her Gran. She did. It was just that she’d rather have been out with her mates. They’d all gone to Florida. Being a single parent meant that Red could only afford one foreign holiday a year.

‘Take her my new Tina Turner Love Songs album. Make sure she plays it. That’ll put paid to her fifty-is-the-end-of-the-line nonsense.’ Remembering Gran’s penchant for chocolate profiterole lunches, Red also slipped a tin of no-fat condensed soup and two apples into Little Red’s designer backpack. ‘No hitching, mind. No hanging about the bus station, either. Keep to the main road. Don’t go taking shortcuts through those back streets on your own. That place is a jungle. And don’t talk to strangers. All men –’

‘Are filthy predators,’ Little Red finished for her, stifling a yawn, ‘but rich businessmen are the most filthy predators of all.’

Living in the country made the big city both inviting and terrifying: an irresistible combination. Little Red walked slowly, staring at displays in department store windows and chewing sugar-free gum. She soon discovered that the most interesting shops lay along the side streets, with even smaller boutiques in the tiny courtyards and passageways hidden behind those. She wasn’t really breaking her promise. These were nothing like the nightmare back alleys her mother had described. Besides, she had a foolproof system: left, right and right again – hey presto, back where she started.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before her sense of direction failed her. The terrace that should have curved back towards the main thoroughfare ended in a cul-de-sac. Little Red was lost.

It was then that she realized she was being followed. A cough. A snigger. A feeble attempt at a wolf whistle. Little Red whirled round, suddenly nervous. Half a dozen youths, aflame with lust and aggravated acne, lounged across the road, blocking her escape. Twelve synchronized eyes explored her skin-tight leather jeans and her cleavage, which owed everything to Wonderbra and not a lot to puberty. A wall of scruffy jeans and beaten-up trainers closed round her. Grubby hands yanked off her backpack and riffled through the contents.

And that was when her knight in shining armour appeared – only he was wearing a grey suit and driving a Rover. The knight leapt out, leaving the engine growling softly. ‘Hello, what’s going on here?’

The boys melted into the shadows. Little Red felt like crying.

‘Thanks,’ she mumbled, picking up the CD and the soup. The apples had been kicked into the gutter and were past eating. The knight smiled.

‘You’re all shaken up, my dear. Can I offer you a lift anywhere?’

Little Red looked at him carefully. He was grey-haired and ordinary, a bit like her headmaster, but not so fat . . . and really old, nearly as old as her grandmother. He was clean, too, not at all like a filthy predator. And he had just rescued her. She nodded and gave him Gran’s address.

‘What’s your name?’ When she told him, he laughed.

‘Mine’s Tom. Tom . . . er . . . ’ His eyes scanned the nearby gardens. ‘Lupin.’

Tom held out his hand. Little Red shook it, wondering how it felt to have thick hair all over your fingers. Perhaps he was hairy all over. It was cold, but Little Red noticed that Tom was sweating a lot. And he kept running his finger round the inside of his collar, as if it was too tight.

‘Anyone going to be at home for you?’ he enquired.

‘Only my Gran.’ There was a long minute when neither of them spoke. Then Little Red added: ‘She’s not feeling very well.’

Tom’s eyes flicked sideways, then back to the road. ‘In bed, is she?’

‘I expect so.’ If she was really down, Gran slipped under the covers with a bottle of British sherry and a large box of Cadbury’s Roses to watch forty-eight hours of German erotica. Laughter was the best medicine, she said.

The traffic lights changed to red just before the turn-off to Gran’s house. Tom huffed and puffed and revved impatiently. He parked the Rover a hundred yards down the road, even though Little Red pointed out a perfectly good space right outside the gate. When they reached Gran’s porch, Little Red searched for the key hidden under the doormat. Tom begged for a glass of water, repeatedly moistening his dry lips with what seemed to Little Red an extraordinarily long tongue. Standing so close, leaning right over her, he suddenly seemed larger and greyer and hairier than anyone she’d ever met. The minute she opened the front door, he slipped inside.

‘Who’s there?’ Gran was a bit of a drama queen. Today’s voice was weak and muffled.

‘It’s only me.’

‘Little Red!’ Gran emerged from her bedroom wearing a leopard skin tracksuit, which did nothing to disguise her exceedingly ample curves. She stopped dead. Her eyes lit up. The quaver was transformed into a throaty purr. ‘And who’s this handsome creature?’

‘Tom Lupin.’ He stuck out his hand, but instead of taking it, Gran grabbed his wrist and spread out his fingers.

‘Goodness me, what big hands you’ve got!’

Tom laughed nervously. He tore his eyes off Little Red and glanced towards the door, which was still ajar. Gran nipped behind him and closed it.

‘Can I get you a drink?’ By now she had both hands clamped around his upper arm. ‘Oh, I say, Tom, what big biceps you have. All the better to –’

Raising her eyes to high heaven, Little Red squeezed past them and went into the kitchen. She mixed herself a strawberry milkshake and topped it with vanilla ice cream. After finishing off two blueberry muffins and an Apple Danish, she cut the first of several large slices of chocolate fudge cake, added clotted cream and ate until she felt her stomach would burst wide open.

In the sitting room, Gran had Tom pinned down on the sofa cushions. His squawked protests were drowned by her shrieks. ‘Gracious, Tom, what huge pecs you’ve got. You must spend all your time working out.’

Little Red ignored them. The television in here was small, but it would do for now. After flicking through the channels she settled for cartoons. Mum would go mad if she found out about the eating binge. She also wouldn’t be too keen on Gran getting her claws into yet another fellow. According to Red, the old lady was a voracious man-eater. But Mum was unlikely to find out about either. Little Red and her grandmother had long ago agreed that whatever went on in this cottage was nobody else’s business but their own.