The Postie Who Got the Cream

I genuinely don’t know how I end up in this position. And I mean that in the most literal, spiritually humiliating sense possible. One minute I’m sorting second-class packets and wondering whether the vending-machine coffee contains any trace of actual bean. The next, I’m bent awkwardly against the toilet-roll dispenser in the staff toilets with Mally — Royal Mail folk hero, veteran of clicky knees and waterproof fleeces — having deeply inadvisable sex in a cubicle with the door hanging so wide open it may as well have a viewing gallery. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead with all the erotic ambience of an operating theatre. Somewhere outside, a parcel cage screeches across concrete like a shopping trolley being dragged through Hell. One of the toilets keeps flushing by itself intermittently, like the building itself is trying to wash the event from its eyes. And Mally — sweet, earnest, retirement-looming Mally, with his permanently wind-burnt cheeks — is making noises that sound less like passion and more like somebody trying to reverse a three-piece suite through a conservatory door. I cannot stress enough how profoundly unsexy this is. This is not a fantasy. No part of me has ever looked at Mally over the sorting frame and thought: Yes. Him. Against industrial plumbing beside a hand dryer. And yet here we are. Life comes at you fast. Apparently so does Mally. There’s a final grunt from Mally — for a brief second I’m unsure if he’s having a heart attack — then he exhales proudly and pulls his trousers up with the smug satisfaction of a man who’s finally got the cream. Steve appears beside the sinks. Just… there. Like he’s been there the entire time. Watching. Possibly judging technique. Maybe taking notes. He chews his gum thoughtfully, nods once, then gives a low whistle. “Jesus Christ,” he says. “That’s a lot of cream.” I look down. And immediately wish I hadn’t. Mally’s hands are cupped together. Overflowing. Not a normal amount either. Not even medically plausible. We’ve crossed into agricultural territory here. The sort you’d expect to see poured over strawberries at Wimbledon. It spills between his fingers onto the grimy tile floor in thick, clotted ribbons. A drop lands on the toe of my work shoe. I gag so violently my knees almost buckle. Steve squints at it with genuine concern. “Should get that checked, mate.” “Healthy diet,” Mally says proudly. At this point, my soul quietly unzips itself from my body and leaves through the extractor fan. And then the paranoia hits. Instantly. Violently. Do people know? Aside from Steve, obviously, who may as well have been sat there with popcorn and a scoring card. Did someone walk past? Did someone hear? Is this already circulating around the depot right now? Floating through the air vents like airborne contamination? I can practically hear it spreading between sorting frames already. Apparently she shagged Mally in the toilets. Door open and all. Steve says there was enough cream to fill a Sports Direct mug. I scrub my hands at the sink for so long the skin turns raw and pink. Mally smiles at me gently in the mirror. “That was nice,” he says. I stare at him. Was it? Was it nice? One of his nipples is still out. Back on the work floor, guilt starts eating through me like acid. Everything changes shape. Everything becomes obscene. I return to my frame and immediately spot a padded envelope bulging suggestively at one end. Absolutely pornographic. I look away and there’s a long cylindrical parcel strapped upright in a York like some sort of aggressively confident cardboard erection. Someone walks past cradling two melons and I nearly have to sit down. Every scanner beep suddenly sounds vaguely orgasmic. Even the phrase special delivery feels sleazy now. “Need help handling your package?” Dave asks casually beside me. I nearly launch myself into a passing york. And the worst part is my brain keeps escalating things. A banana in the canteen suddenly feels threatening. Somebody licks out a yoghurt pot and I physically recoil. At one point a woman squeezes mayonnaise onto a baguette and I physically have to leave the room. The guilt is metastasising. It’s in everything now. Cream in coffees. Cream cakes. Vanilla yoghurts. A child licking an ice cream outside the depot gates almost finishes me off. Near tracked parcels, Aileen walks past and glances at me. A tiny glance. A meaningless glance. But my stomach folds immediately in on itself. She knows. Oh Christ. She absolutely knows. There’s no evidence whatsoever that she knows, but paranoia doesn’t need evidence. It takes a paperclip and constructs a murder trial. “Alright, love?” she asks casually. “Fine.” Far too fast. Far too loud. The vocal equivalent of fleeing a crime scene. Aileen pauses mid-step. “You’re sweating through your fleece.” “Early menopause,” I blurt. “It’s six degrees.” “Aggressive menopause?” She slowly backs away. Which somehow feels even more incriminating. The guilt keeps growing all shift, swelling heavier and heavier inside me until it feels physical, like I’m carrying it in my organs. And underneath it all is Mat. My husband. My lovely, normal husband. How the hell am I supposed to look him in the eyes after this? How do you come home after cheating on your husband with a postman perilously close to retirement in a depot toilet and still ask what someone wants for tea? By the time I get home, I’m carrying so much shame I feel physically swollen with it. The house is quiet downstairs, but I hear muffled voices coming from the bedroom. Female voices. Breathy. Dramatic. “Oh God… yes…” I freeze halfway up the stairs. Another voice moans: “You’re so bad…” “Yes… right there…” What the hell? I close my eyes briefly. I cannot do this today. I push the bedroom door open and stop dead. Mat is standing stark bollock naked, save for a pair of socks, holding an old-school camcorder with the expression of profound artistic concentration. Filming two women writhing around on our bed beneath the glow of our bedside lamp like some sort of low-budget Channel 5 softcore special. One of them is unmistakably Cassie from Euphoria. The other looks exactly like the kind of woman who sells moon water online and describes herself as an “intuitive breath witch.” For a full five seconds, nobody speaks. Then Mat notices me and goes so red he looks medically inflamed. “It’s not what it looks like.” I stare at him. “You are naked with a camcorder in our bedroom.” “It helps me focus artistically.” “You’re filming softcore porn.” “It’s cinema.” Moon-water girl gives a tiny awkward wave. “Hi.” “Hi,” I reply automatically. Cassie sits upright, entirely topless and completely unfazed. “Do you want us to stop?” I genuinely don’t know anymore. Mat lowers the camcorder slightly. “I can explain.” “Please do.” He gestures vaguely towards the women. “They hired me.” “To film them?” “Yes.” “Naked?” “Well, clothes would confuse the visual language.” “The visual language.” “Yes.” “And why are you naked?” Mat looks offended by the question. “It’s called immersion.” “Immersion?” “You can’t expect me to fully understand the vulnerability of the feminine form while wearing cargo shorts, Amanda.” I blink at him slowly. “The feminine form.” “Yes.” “You look like you’ve accidentally wandered into somebody else’s fantasy.” Mat looks genuinely wounded. “You can’t direct intimacy fully clothed.” One of the girls nods solemnly from the bed. “That’s actually true.” Cassie reaches for a vape. I sit heavily on the edge of the bed, exhausted beyond comprehension. And the truly awful thing is… I can’t even properly judge him. Because less than two hours ago I had sex with a man who qualifies for discounted rail travel beside a toilet brush and a broken soap dispenser. My moral high ground hasn’t just collapsed. It’s been condemned by the council. Cassie suddenly reaches beside the bed and picks up a can of squirty cream. My entire body tenses instantly. “Oh no,” I whisper. But it’s too late. With a cheerful little giggle, she sprays a thick ribbon down her chest while Mat instinctively adjusts the camera angle with horrifying professionalism. The sound alone nearly finishes me off. That wet aerosol hiss. Cream. Again. Always bloody cream. My stomach lurches violently. The room tilts sideways. Mat lowers the camcorder immediately. “You alright?” I swallow hard. “You’re looking a little peaky.” And that’s the thing about shame. People think it arrives dramatically — loud and immediate and impossible to miss. But it mostly seeps. Quietly. Through cracks. Until it eventually stains everything. Fluorescent lighting. Bananas. Vanilla yoghurt. The innocent hiss of aerosol cream. Until suddenly the whole world starts reflecting something ugly back at you. Not because the world changed. Because you did.