The Banana Skin Tango

A funny and sensitive tale of marital infidelity.

 

The Banana Skin Tango

 

 

 

The back cover blurb . . .

Melvin is a stressed out executive with a broken marriage, a fading career and a nicely developing drink habit. When he beds the local bar maid, he ignores the fact that her boyfriend is a psychotic bi-sexual gangster with half London's bent coppers in his pocket. When finally ensnared, both sexually and criminally, he is at last forced to confront his own dubious morality. Redemption occurs when he realises that if you want to stay alive, you must treat women with respect.

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and it begins like this . . .

"You're staring at me again," said Samantha, her eyes widening in resentment. Melvin ignored her and continued shredding his beer mat.  Eventually she came over.

   "Okay, is it the usual or are you driving ?"

   "I'm always driving, so it's the usual, as usual."

She poured him a double vodka on the rocks with a separate glass of water on the side.  It was possible to be that specific in the Buster Keaton club.  He pushed a fiver across.  She managed a half smile.  There was a temporary truce. After the kind of week he'd just had, he was grateful for any manner of break.  He settled himself on a bar stool and eyed her sideways across the top of his glass. It was Friday night and she was wearing a gossamer thin blouse that had as much practicality as a spider's web on a tennis court.  His defences were low and as far as he was concerned she looked like a knickerbocker glory on heat and the fine line between sexual harassment and socially acceptable cordiality lay somewhere between enlightened breeding and utter filth.  And that was that.

   He took a slug on his drink and relished the moment when the fire hit his stomach.  A sup of water afterwards reminded him that contrast was one of the simpler pleasures in life.  Unlike sex.  In a way it was difficult to comprehend, but the fact was, ever since Outi, his brooding Finnish wife had booked herself into an alcoholic's recovery clinic, he had been shagging Samantha practically every night for the last week or so.  And her boyfriend Russell didn't seem inclined to do anything about it, even though it must have been patently obvious what was going on.  That was the trouble with bisexual blokes.  You never knew which way they were going to swing next.  And Russell was notorious for swinging with a particularly lethal pair of diamond studded knuckle dusters.

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