All stories

Danny first saw the most beautiful woman in the world during breakfast at Lou’s Cafe. He looked up while forking an end of sausage into his mouth just as she did the same with a neatly folded strip of bacon. Izzy smiled politely at the staring man before shifting focus to her eggs.

The second time Danny saw the most beautiful woman in the world was two hours later at the post office. Having navigated the turns of the twin sets of retractable barriers laid out in mirror image, Izzy stepped forward to collect an oversize package wrapped in too much parcel tape just as Danny moved to place his own cumbersome item on the scales. They each registered the funny little coincidence on their faces and went back to the tasks at hand. Danny wondered if the most beautiful woman was receiving a parcel from anyone special.

It was lunchtime when Izzy called into Boots to pick up a meal deal and a four-pack of those tiny tins of Vaseline lip balm which fit in her back pocket without making it look too much like her bum had a geometric growth on it. Danny had just picked up some new toenail clippers when he turned to find himself standing directly behind her. They were beside the brightly coloured display of personal lubricants, some of which, apparently, tingle. Izzy turned around just as Danny was taking a deep breath and discovered he was so close she had to take a step back to regain her balance. Wordlessly, they passed each other and left the aisle at opposite ends. Izzy tried to brush away the notion that her hair had just been sniffed.

Danny didn’t see the most beautiful girl in the world again for the rest of the afternoon, but he did think about her. Three times was more than a coincidence, he thought. A fourth, and he should probably say something.

Being it was May, the travelling fairground had set up in the field behind the church which nobody seemed to own. Danny saw the most beautiful girl for the fourth time just as the sun sat on the horizon. She was approaching the stationary car at the bottom of the Ferris wheel. Strictly speaking, Izzy would have arrived at the car several seconds before Danny if their natural speeds had been maintained, but it only took a little extra effort for Danny to get there just ahead. After an awkward smile, Danny stepped into the empty car and, leaving the door wide open, turned to face the most beautiful woman.

‘This feels like destiny,’ he said.

Izzy did not join Danny in the car. Izzy frowned and turned to the friend who had been walking beside her. The two women folded their arms and looked to the ride attendant to indicate they would wait for the next car.

Once fully boarded, the Ferris wheel began its rotation, leaving Danny to spend precisely fourteen minutes and twenty-two seconds trying not to look at the most beautiful woman in the world from 360 different angles. Instead, he planned the most direct route from the bottom of the ride to the exit of the field.

Susie had come up with a kitsch little business idea, a boutique fairground eatery specialising in all things porcine. Think sausage and mash, or kielbasa and potatoes, or a twelve-inch Cumberland ring. The name Susie picked was The Sausage Factory, a nod to the eternal meat grinder of the modern world and a delightful wink to that soon to be day when Susie would finally be able to wear skin-tight yoga pants without raising hell.

Perhaps an eatery in a tent wasn’t quite how Susie had fondly imagined their first venture, but the rent was cheap, and the floor of rustic sawn wood planks was proving quite the canvas of inspiration to inebriated fairground visitors for whom the twelve-inch meat feast challenge (scoff the lot and you eat for free!) had proved a gulp too far.

The innuendo had been planned for, and it had formed the first three pages of the business plan for the loans guy before sanity had intervened and it had been replaced with sample menus and revenue projections. But what Susie had in mind was the gently smirking kind, the oops Matron, can’t wait to get my lips around that spicy treat, and what’s for afters? Spotted dick?

Instead, it was beery men in need of a shave, and a stick of deodorant, who regularly vouchsafed in slightly too desperate tones that the girth on this pork and sage meatfeast was nothing compared to a sausage they had access to. These men who liked nothing better than to stare all night at Susie and then follow to the beer tents after The Sausage Factory was closed. Who stared and stared, who saw a pretty girl in the dimness and decided to grace her with their with and beer breath.

What Susie wanted was some peace. To sit in that quiet corner, sip at their pint and contemplate a body physically diminished yet somehow complete. And just think, two weeks from now, sit in this very bar and sip at her own pint at last.

Peace was not to be.

This one was kind of pretty. Almost. If he stood up straight and didn’t have drool on his chin.

‘Hey you,’ he said. He winked slowly with both eyes. ‘I am your density.’

‘You’re my what?’

‘Your density. You and me, it’s meant to be. Enchantment under the sea, come with me?’

Susie grinned as finally it clicked. ‘I love that film.’

‘You got it. You’re a smart one.’

‘Thanks.’

‘When the kid goes back to the past and then has to make sure that his parents get together.’

‘Yeah, that’s it.’

‘So the line he has to say is “You’re my destiny”, but he gets nervous and says density.’

‘I get it.’

‘Course you do. Pretty girl like you. Smart and pretty.’

Susie smile at him. ‘You’re two thirds right.’ Susie slid down from the stool. So if peace was not to be, was it so bad for one last blow job in the dark and then one last glorious reveal of the inspiration behind The Sausage Factory?

‘I have a question for you,’ Susie said. ‘You’re a real film buff, am I right? So, have you seen the film The Crying Game?

He shook his head. ‘I’m not really into chick flicks.’

Susie grabbed his hand. ‘You totally are my density. I know a place, lots of straw bales. Shall we?’

Fighting down instinctive panic you carefully scan the crowds. It’s overwhelming; the people, the noise, the colours, but you have to keep cool. You have lost visuals on the subjects and it is imperative that you relocate them as quickly as possible.

You’ve been in this situation before and your reflexes begin to kick in. You try to memorise your surroundings before beginning the search. To your left is the sausage vender, the smell of fatty meat and fried onions has drawn a sizable queue of people, but the subjects are not among them.

To the right is the string of loud, brightly coloured stalls - the Haunted House, Hook-a-Duck and something with rifles and unfeasibly large stuffed crocodiles. The heavy thud-thud of ten different basslines ricochets around you, distant screams of delight and terror fill the air and flashing swirling lights trace patterns across your vision.

You must stay focused.

Think. What do you know about the subjects? Where are they likely to head? She is warm and pretty, he is thin but strong. In the short time you’ve observed them tonight you know that he enjoys the faster rides, but she prefers to browse the market stalls. You close your eyes and head in the direction of the market.

Something is wrong. You look quickly about and realise that a greasy, unshaven man is staring at you from underneath the doughnut stall canopy. His eyes follow you - he knows something is different about you. You are in danger. You must blend in, appear normal.

Looking determinedly ahead you smile, wave and run towards an imaginary someone in the distance, like they told you. To your relief the man drops his eyes and melts back into the crowd.

The incident has shaken you. You've no idea which way the market is anymore. The subjects are lost and you’re vulnerable, an easy target. You consider approaching a fairground official, providing a description of the subjects. But then you remember the greasy man. Trust no-one.

You try to pull details of the subjects to mind. The woman's soft yellow hair, the bristle of dark stubble on the man's chin. You scan the crowd again but it remains a sea of anonymous faces. Your fear wells up again in your chest.

A waft of incense cuts through the sausage grease and cigarette smoke and you find yourself beneath a hand painted sign ‘Madam Destiny’s Tent of Truth’. You pull back the curtain and peer inside. It's dark and a woman’s voice croaks, beckoning you inside. You take a sleepwalker’s step towards her...

Then suddenly a familiar voice cuts through the chaos. You find yourself lifted high, high into the air, strong hands in your armpits and delighted, relieved voices gabbling platitudes into your ear. The well worn smell of home washes over you and you are nestled comfortably on a hip. You are no longer surrounded by the knees and handbags of strangers.

“Lucy, you naughty girl, where did you get to? We’ve been so worried. Remember - if you get lost, stay where you are and we'll come find you.”

A hearty kiss planted on your forehead, a sticky bundle of pink candy floss thrust into one hand and you are carried effortlessly through the crowds. The subjects have been located.