My dad likes Les, they’re two of a kind. Never happier than when they’re up a ladder knocking something down, putting something up, or painting it. According to dad, Les can pull out a fireplace and brick up the hole as though it never existed, hang wallpaper so you never see the join, and paint a ceiling without getting a single spot of paint on the floor or the walls.
My boyfriend Dave couldn’t do any of those things. His hands seemed to develop five thumbs every time he picked up a hammer or a screwdriver. Anyway, he would say as he took me in his arms and kissed me, after a hard day at his office desk he’d much rather snuggle up on the settee with me. Which suited me too because whatever his faults as a handyman, Dave was in love with me, Marcie Roberts, not my fireplace, my windows, or the brickwork round the front door. And when we were snuggling, his fingers stopped being clumsy and started making beautiful music as they ran up and down my spine. Dave was tall and very handsome. I loved him and I didn’t think he was lazy, even if my father did call him a slob.
What made things awkward was dad passing on Les’s advice on how to make my garden flat look bigger, become draught-proof, or any other bright idea he had for turning two rooms, share of kitchen and bath, into the ideal home. Awkward because while I liked Les’s ideas, I tried to get Dave in dad’s good books by letting him do the work. It wasn’t that he didn’t try. It was just that any bedside cabinet or bookcase he began to assemble always leaned to one side and unassembled itself overnight, while the brackets he screwed into the walls were never strong enough to hold anything. Leaving my potted plants and the shelves meant to carry them on the floor. Instead of looking beautiful, my flat was beginning to look like a do it yourselfer’s disaster area. Dad stopped by for a cup of tea, looked at Dave’s efforts, and sneered.
‘He hasn’t quite finished getting it all together yet,’ I said defensively.
‘It looks to me like he never will,’ said dad. ‘You’d better let Les come over and put things right for you.’
‘No thank you,’ I said coolly, ‘Dave can manage very well. You’re always trying to push Les on to me.’
‘You’d be a darn sight better off if you did have a boy friend like Les, my girl. At least he wouldn’t wreck your home for you.’
‘Stop calling me your girl!’ I shouted. ‘I’ve got a name, you know.’
‘I know you’ve got a name, Marcie. Your mum and I gave it to you. It was the wrong one. We should have called you Obstinate. Anyway, I didn’t come here to have a row, I came to tell you Les has an idea for making your ceilings look higher.’
It was a pretty good idea too. That evening I tried it out on Dave. ‘Let’s forget about the bookcase and the silly cabinet for a while,’ I whispered, winding my arms round his neck. ‘Life isn’t only about somewhere to put your cups and saucers, is it.’
‘Isn’t it?’ he whispered back, putting his arms round my waist and holding me close. ‘Why don’t you tell me what else life is about?’
‘Well,’ I said, ‘Les says I don’t really need the picture rails.’
‘What did you say?’ asked Dave, holding me away and staring at me.
Not seeing the danger signal, I went on, ‘Les says picture rails gather a lot of dust. Taking them down and re-papering all the way up to the ceiling will make the walls seem higher and you don’t really need picture rails to hang pictures or a mirror…’ My voice trailed off when I saw how Dave was looking at me.
‘Les says,’ my boy friend said bitterly, ‘is tattooed across my heart. ‘Les says is all I ever hear from you.’
‘You don’t have to lose your temper every time I mention his name,’ I said as reasonably as I knew how. ‘Les is only trying to help us make the place look nice.’
‘I’m sick to death of Les,’ Dave said angrily. ‘I never want to hear you say Les again! Why don’t you let him pull down your picture rails and put up your bookcases if they’re that important to you? If you want to see me again, you know where to find me!’ He slammed the door so hard on the way out, two of his brackets fell out of the wall.
Les called in the following evening with his toolbox, said ‘Hi Marcie’ without looking at me and began tapping the walls with his knuckles, rocking Dave’s attempt at cabinet making with a forefinger, and casting covetous eyes at my fireplace.
Still trying to get over the shock of losing Dave, I said as brightly as I could, ‘Hi Les, shall we have a cup of coffee before we start?’
He nodded and we were sitting side by side with our cups in our hands when the idea struck me. I am my father’s daughter after all and in the absence of a son to hand him his tools and bang in the occasional nail whenever he felt like improving the home, little Marcie got the job and the pat of approval on the head. Suppose, instead of letting Les do it all, I got him to teach me how to be a do-it-yourselfer and I could teach Dave?
Before I could suggest it, Les cleared his throat and said, ‘Your dad told me the brackets for your kitchen shelves aren’t very safe, Marcie. I’d be pleased to fix them for you.’
‘Les,’ I replied, thinking of the picture rails, the wall papering, and the fireplace dad said he was itching to get his hands on, ‘I know exactly want you want to do. How would like us to do it together?’
He put his cup on Dave’s leaning bookcase, turned to me, and looked deep into my eyes. I had time to notice that his were a lovely smoky grey as he leaned towards me and our lips met.
‘I-I meant the picture rails,’ I whispered and was sorry when he let me go and said reluctantly, ‘Oh yes, the picture rails.’
His cup was sliding to the edge of the sloping bookcase and as I leaned closer to him to rescue it, something in his voice made me ask, ‘Why Les, did you have something else in mind?’
The garden door was open and the flat looked beautiful on the evening I answered the doorbell and found Dave standing there, as tall and as arrogantly handsome as ever.
‘Hello, Marcie,’ he said, ‘I ran into your dad the other day. He told me the work on your flat is finished so I thought I’d come over and see you.’
‘Did you, Dave?’ I asked. ‘I thought you’d forgotten all about me. It’s been some time now.’
‘Only three or four months,’ he said, walking in. Hardly glancing at the bright wallpaper and the rock solid cabinets and bookcase I helped to assemble, he took me in his arms and said he knew I’d been missing him.
‘Have I, Dave?’ I asked, abruptly pushing him away.
‘Well of course you have,’ he said confidently, ‘and now your flat is the way you want it, we can go back to where we were before all this nonsense started. That is, unless you want to tell me something else that Les says?’
‘Not this time, Dave,’ I replied, leading the way through to the garden shed where Les was working on a partly made cot. ‘This time it’s more what Les did…’
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