Taylor Made

By David Hutchings

Meet Taylor Made, who has heard all the jokes - good, bad and awful. In her typical week, Taylor has to deal with grouchy bears, a best mate who was born ninety years too late and keeps winning the name game, and constant daydreams where cats are taking over the world and only Hyper Hamster can save the day.

However, this is not a typical week. So when its a case of wrong jacket, right guy, will Taylor realise that sometimes you find love where you least expect it?

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Apr 17, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481786263

David Hutchings

David Hutchings is a Physics teacher at Pocklington School near York, England. A Fellow of the Institute of Physics, he has written several books about the relationship between science and religion and speaks regularly on the topic around the country at conferences, schools, universities, and churches. David has also run multiple training events for science teachers, specializing in dealing with common misconceptions in the discipline. He lives in York with his wife and two young daughters. David Wilkinson is Principal of St John’s College and Professor in the Department of Theology and Religion at Durham University. He lives in Newcastle with his wife Alison and has two grown up children. He is a writer and speaker on Christianity and Science not just in the UK but around the world. He has doctorates in astrophysics and theology and is a Fellow of the Royal Astronomical Society. He is a Methodist minister, and author of many books.

Book preview

Chapter 1

The silence had been well and truly shattered. Where once had stood a door was now a wreck of twisted metal and broken wood. The swirling dust fluttered down like a grey snowstorm, unaware of the violence of its origins.

Hyper Hamster, the avenging rodent of injustice, surveyed the interior, his green and white cape billowing in the gentle breeze.

Ignoring the massed minions who had now recovered from the initial blast, his steely gaze sought out his quarry. The crowd of faceless minions came charging forwards, but with a mere flick of his wrist, they fell before him. This would end tonight.

A determined smile crossed his face as he spied his target. Without any concerns for his safety, he launched into the air. Bullets flew to his left and to his right; with the grace of a ballet dancer, he left them standing in mid-air.

In front of the avenging rodent was a chair facing away from him, its occupant seemingly uninterested in the chaos that surrounded them. All Hyper Hamster could see was a solitary paw gently caressing a red button.

With a speed equal to that of the advancing hero, the chair swung around to reveal the Sinister Siamese Sultan of crime… Doctor Kitty.

With one swift movement, the fearsome feline stood up and smoothed down his surgeon’s smock. Then he spoke in a strong French accent:

"Mon ami, all you had to do was to politely knock. He spread his paws out to indicate his now-ruined headquarters. Really, what will I say to the insurance company? After all, I do not believe that I am covered for the actions of overzealous hyper heroes. But forgive me—where are my manners? Would you like anything?"

Hyper Hamster gently landed before his foe. Behind him, one of the evil doctor’s minions leapt forward to strike him from behind, but with a quick flick of his wrist, he sent the hapless henchman flying over his shoulder to land somewhere in the distance.

All I want is for you to stand trial for your crimes.

Doctor Kitty looked upset. I was thinking more of a drink, but non—you are, as they say, on duty. But I must confess that I am pleased to see you. You look surprised; do not worry, it will all become clear very soon.

Hyper Hamster sensed that something was wrong, but he was too late. A whirling spiral of light trapped him; no matter how high he flew, the spiral matched his speed. He punched the light, only to have the force reflected back to him.

Enjoying his moment of triumph, Doctor Kitty moved on to section 5 of The Evil Villain Handbook: Gloating to Captive Heroes.

"You see, this has all been planned. I planted the clues that led you here to this, my Subterranean Super Villain Sanctuary. With the merest push of a button, you will be flung into the lava that powers this base. Oh, well—que sera, sera.

Have you any last words or pleas to share? Please do not be shy; it will make an enjoyable video on EvilTube.

Hyper Hamster remained silent, his mind scanning the environment, probing for a weakness. Suddenly he realised the answer, only for Doctor Kitty to ruin his concentration.

Pity—still, you should be flattered; this entire trap was tailor-made for you. Au revoir, Hyper Hamster.

He pressed the big, red button, and a trapdoor opened beneath the heroic rodent like a Venus Flytrap. Somersaulting over and over into the abyss, all he could hear was the taunting echo, tailor made.

Taylor? Taylor Made? Do you have any ideas about that?

Huh? Doctor Kitty! I responded in a voice that would make a zombie seem articulate in comparison.

I also answer to Mike, a man’s voice replied in a faux light-hearted manner.

Peering out of half-closed eyes, I realised I was at the work equivalent of double maths at school: the weekly staff meeting.

No, I had not been asleep, nor had I been resting my eyes, and I was sticking to that story. Although perhaps being asleep would have made more sense of my day, which was not going according to plan. Now, for everybody else, my unexpected slip-up was just what they needed to banish those Monday-morning blues.

Looking around the table, I saw that my bemused colleagues had gone into a synchronised tea—and coffee-sipping routine. Some of them peered at the ceiling, others at the clock as they all tried to avoid making eye contact with yours truly. All in all, this was not the best start of the working week for me.

There was no point in continuing the meeting after that. The rest went off rushing to their cubicles; I had no doubt that once they had arrived safely at their desks, a collective laugh would escape. This would not be a good time to ask for the afternoon off.

However, sitting next to me with a hand on my shoulder was my good friend Steph.

Nice going, Taylor love—you have managed to reduce our new, straight-out-of-school office manager to a wreck in…—she made a display of looking at her watch—twenty seconds. Wow, a new record.

I could only groan. Steph clearly loved this, as with a playful tone she carried on.

So, feeling a bit delicate today?

That had to be the understatement of the decade, but in defence, I was not hung-over, just mind-numbingly tired.

Kind of. How do I look?

Well, it may not start a trend. On the plus side, your hair and eyes are now the same shade of red.

Oh, this was marvellous; I was a human-strawberry hybrid.

Some friend you are. I feel like the twin of the Bride of Frankenstein, only she is the good-looking one.

Never mind that, love—time for work. Steph now turned to me and without even batting an eyelash continued, Then you can tell me what he was like.

Hold on for just a second here! What makes her think there was a guy involved?

Before I could even mutter a suitable rebuttal (perhaps on the lines of What? or even Huh?), she continued.

So there was a guy involved. Might explain why you are so tired.

I decided not to answer that for a couple of reasons:

1. I was standing there, mouth open, looking for all the world like one of those troll dolls you see in tacky shops.

2. Before I even stood a chance of making a coherent response, I needed caffeine—lots of caffeine.

Somehow I managed to find my desk; it did not help matters that I shared my cubicle with Steph. Turning on the computer screen, I saw something that finally brought a smile to my face.

The company wouldn’t allow posters or photos to be put on the walls, but we could have personalised screen savers as long as they were tasteful. Mine showed a tatty teddy bear wearing the remains of a police uniform. This was Constable the Bear. He had been with me for… let’s see, I was twenty-seven, so about twenty-three years. Constable had shared every drama in my life, and since I had broken up with my ex two and a bit years earlier, he had been my constant companion.

I could hear Steph talking on the phone; clearly she was having a better day than I was.

"Seriously, Taylor called the new manager ‘Doctor Kitty’ . . . now, would I lie to you… oh yeah, she’s still here. Mind you, I have seen her look better… no, sweetheart, she hasn’t told me yet… must go, love you… yes, I will tell her. Bye."

Steph swung around in her chair.

Jessie says hello, she said with a smirk.

Jessie was short for Jessica. She was Steph’s partner, and she was really lovely. In personality, she was the polar opposite to Steph: all calm, and just the person you needed when there was a problem. I reckoned that this was from her job working as a contact for the emergency services.

Hang on, I thought Jessie was in bed, I replied. Last time we spoke, she told me she was off to work the night shift.

"She is—and, I might add, bed is where you should be too. So you haven’t told me yet what he was like. I know what you’re thinking, Taylor: how does she know? Simple: last night you told me you were going out on your mate Justine’s hen night, and this morning there is a very suspicious mark on your neck."

On instinct, I reached for this so-called mark. Of course, nothing was there.

Steph clapped her hands in triumph.

So I’ll grab a couple of cups of coffee, and then I want you to tell me… everything.

The last part sounded as if it were spoken by a terrible movie villain.

At last I had a few moments peace and quiet, and I looked back at the computer. In the top corner of my e-mail inbox was a notification that a message waited to be read. No doubt it was only the minutes from the last meeting, or some other interdepartmental junk.

Unfortunately this was not the case. When I saw it was a video from my friend Cassie, I could only hope that Steph would take a long time getting the coffees.

Opening the e-mail, I instantly shrank a bit—which, at my size, I could not really afford to do. What I saw was a rather loud and rowdy group of girls decked out in those cheap sashes that you swear you will never wear, but you end up wearing—you know, the ones saying Bridesmaid in tow, and so on.

So, which one is you? Steph whispered in my ear.

Covering my eyes, I pointed to a blurry figure standing right behind the bride-to-be. I may have mentioned that I am somewhat on the short side, and all Steph could see was this insane redhead jumping up and down, singing Put a ring on it.

I tried to hide my head in my arms as Steph watched the video. Alas, there would be no escape. You see, Steph was asking all those unanswerable questions you usually get from very young children.

Um, Taylor, what were you doing?

I think it was dancing… or jumping up and down. I was sober. I answered. Please believe me, my tone pleaded.

Looks like it.

Before I had the chance to stop her, Steph grabbed the mouse and played the video over again.

What on earth were you singing? If singing is the right word. Even with the screaming—which was in tune, by the way—I cannot quite place it.

Steph was born too late—in her case, around ninety years too late. Steph loved the 1920s, including the films, the music, and the fashion—especially the fashion. Her hair was immaculately shaped into a blonde bob, whereas mine was a shoulder-length cascading tangle of red hair.

At last the video ended. In front of me was a godsend: a steaming cup of coffee. As soon as that first taste of caffeine touched the back of my throat, I felt more alive; I was now only in a semi-zombie state. Now it was time for the inquisition.

Come on, love, tell all. Believe me, you are not leaving until you confess.

Look, Steph, there’s nothing to say. Yes, there was this guy… but before you say anything, nothing happened, OK? We talked—or rather, he talked and, according to Grace, I sat there blowing bubbles into my drink. But the funny thing is that I recognise him from here.

What? He works here?

A look of concentration crossed her face as she made a mental list of all the males who worked for the company.

Surely not that guy from accounts, she said. You know, Liam.

Steph did a rather accurate impression of the weedy guy from the accounts department who always tried to chat up the girls in the office. She even managed to get his slimy, quiet voice spot on. She sounded like Hannibal Lecter from The Silence of the Lambs—but then again, so did Liam.

Yeah, me and Liam. Wow, how did you guess? Seriously, I don’t think he works here, but somehow I know him from here. I have no idea why, but his face is familiar. As for the name… the thing is, the club was really noisy, so I didn’t catch his name but—and please do not laugh—it sounded like Herman.

Before we even had a chance to continue, we heard an ear-splitting scream.

Chapter 2

There it went again, that same shrieking sound—only this time there seemed to be a chorus. Steph looked over the cubicle wall; I, on the other hand, had to kneel on my chair and peer over. This was beyond surreal, even for a Monday morning. All we saw were a mass of heads all asking that same question: You any idea?

After a few seconds, we all noticed a slow procession leading to Melissa’s cubicle.

Come along, Taylor—this should be interesting. And leave the coffee. I have a feeling that this will wake you up a bit quicker.

Leaving our cubicle, we saw all the girls and even Doctor—I mean, Mike—all trying to cram into this small office space.

Steph clicked her fingers and, with a mischievous grin on her face, gently asked, So, Taylor Made. Fancy the usual wager?

Not today.

Go on. I mean, you have given them the ammunition, and let’s face it, you may be lucky today.

If I say yes, will you keep quiet?

Steph nods.

If I say no, then you will sulk for the rest of the day?

She smiles. That is the general idea.

All right. I must be insane.

Now, the thing is this: being called Taylor Made somehow turns otherwise sane human beings into wannabe comedians. For as long as I have known, I have heard all the jokes, good and bad—mainly bad, some awful, but on the whole bad. So Steph came up with this game in which we had to guess the oh-so-clever puns they would use during the day. The loser, which was invariably me, had to buy the lunchtime coffee and muffins.

After thinking for a few seconds, we narrowed it down to these two:

1. Taylor [pause, always use a pause] Made my day—this was mine.

2. Taylor, guess you [now the pause—sometime we should mark them on the length of this pause] Made an impression—this was Steph’s.

As we headed towards Melissa’s cubicle, we saw the others coming the other way, all muttering about how wonderful it was and How romantic. And then they saw us.

Here it comes! Steph exclaimed. I fancy a mocha for lunch.

The girls stopped in their tracks, and I could see that look in their eyes—that look that only happens when they believe they have thought of an amazing pun.

I started a mental countdown, and to their credit, I had reached four when out it came.

Hi, Taylor. Wow, you—accompanied by stereo sniggering—Made an impact at the meeting, and…

I was thinking to myself, Please don’t say anything about Doctor Kitty.

. . . where can you get a Doctor Kitty toy?

I was not too sure what was worse:

1. My ever-growing embarrassment.

2. Steph’s victory dance.

I was leaning towards the second, on the grounds that it lasted until we reached Melissa’s cubicle. Now, once we got there, and Steph had run out of dance steps, I was half expecting with all that commotion a stream of photographers snapping our every move and an East End−type bouncer guarding the cubicle entrance and saying gruffly, If your name ain’t down, you ain’t coming in, you muppet.

What confronted the pair of us was Melissa thrusting out her left hand and smiling all the time. It was as if we had been summoned to see either the queen or the local Mafia don. What was our next move?

Taylor, Steph, look—I got engaged last night.

What could I have said in this situation?

1. Wow, congratulations! Who is the lucky guy?

2. Fantastic. Now flash the bling.

3. So how many times is that now?

Naturally, going for the third option usually brought about a sob story about how the others were a mistake, and how this time was for real. To be fair, Melissa had been out with her fiancé now for a couple of years.

So we both went with, or rather I went with, saying Congratulations and spending those all-important seconds looking at the ring. Steph went with Congratulations, and when will the party be?

I wondered if the blokes had this same ritual. Or was it more like, a quick handshake followed by gutted before the boys all spent the next couple of hours drinking everything they could whilst mourning the loss of the lad’s night out?

Well, funny you should mention that, Steph, but I have a few ideas…

Upon hearing the word ideas, Steph and I looked at each other and mouthed, Run!

Melissa was a nice girl—very bubbly and upbeat. But she has one annoying quirk: she tends to go overboard. Case in point was last year’s Christmas party, which was supposed to be a meal out and a few drinks—so far, so good—but once Melissa took over, the waiters were to be dressed as elves, and the secret Santa went from a fiver to a shopping list from Tiffany’s.

It will have to be a Saturday, Melissa mused. Oh, come on, it will be a laugh. So, Taylor, you up for it? I know Steph likes a laugh…

That was true. Now I was praying it would be this Saturday, as I had a get-out clause—mainly, a fitting for a bridesmaid dress and then a barbecue at my parent’s house to start the celebrations for their thirty-fifth anniversary.

But not this Saturday, Melissa added, as Ryan and I have to see his parents. But how about the following week? So that is a week from Saturday, a girly night out.

I must have let out an audible groan, because Steph put her arm around me and said, Twice in one year, Taylor love; you are turning into the party animal.

As I sat back down at my desk, a rather strange notion entered my mind and would not leave.

Steph, can I ask you something?

If you want to, Taylor love. Steph sounded a wee bit confused.

Now, the best way to describe what happened next is this. My brain and my mouth bypassed each other. My brain was now hiding in shame, saying over and over again, Sorry, I tried to stop her while my mouth came out with this classic:

You know Jessie, right?

Yes, intimately.

By all accounts, I was making a right arse of myself, stuttering and falling over words. My thoughts made perfect sense, but as I said, my brain and mouth were not talking to each other, and it showed.

Will you and Jessie get married… or what is the equivalent? Come on, you know what I am talking about.

Steph stood silent for a moment; I knew she was concocting an answer worthy of her talents. Best to stand back and let that force of nature carry on.

Actually we have talked about a civil partnership. Naturally, Taylor love, you will be our bridesmaid. We have already chosen your dress. Please do not thank us—it is our pleasure.

Of course, none of this was true.

Oh, yes, we saw it and immediately thought of you, she continued. Also it is from a high-class designer store.

Primark? I ventured.

Steph appeared to look offended. Oh, please. More upmarket than that.

This was highlighted by Steph kissing the tips of her fingers like a French chef.

OK, Steph, I am intrigued. Where were you suggesting?

Where else but the Disney store in town? You have the choice of either Snow White or Cinderella.

You would have thought that by now I would be used to these cracks about my height (or lack thereof), so I returned what I considered to be quite a good comeback.

One day I will grow a couple of inches, and then—

Steph answered with a speed that would have made Einstein’s brain explode as he attempted to calculate how fast it was.

You will be very popular with the boys.

I was speechless. I sat there, mouth open, struggling to muster a remark about how rude she was. Of course, saying that would encourage Steph to turn everything into a Carry On Office script.

Steph continued with her plans.

So, where were we? That’s it—I remember. I will be standing before the celebrant, waiting for Jessie to arrive, and then I will hear the sound of the music we have chosen to signify our love.

Steph wrapped her head in a scarf, as if it were a veil. Believe me, this image was more disturbing than romantic.

Let me guess, Steph: Wagner’s ‘Wedding March.’

With a shake of her head, Steph tells me to try again.

Not that one? What about ‘Swan Lake’—no, somehow, I cannot see it. Yes, it has to be ‘The Most Beautiful Girl’?’

Tempting, Taylor love, but the song we have chosen will bring a tear to your eye.

Steph was now swaying to and fro, holding a cushion from her chair. I think it is time for the nurse to arrive with her special sweets.

Taylor, it just has to be Iron Maiden’s classic romantic ballad ‘Bring Your Daughter… To The Slaughter.’

I was a complete quivering mess, and my sides were hurting, but the best was yet to come.

"We will be standing there in front of friends and family, staring lovingly into each other’s eyes, when the celebrant will ask…

"‘Do you take this woman?’

And I will say…

I know what is coming. Please, let me be wrong, just once.

Yes, I do—frequently.

Tears were running down my face. Steph put down the cushion and grabbed our coffee cups. Then, without even a pause, she spun around and added, I have pictures.

That was it; her exit was hastened by me throwing my jacket in her direction.

Sanity was swiftly restored when my desk phone rang.

Good morning, Bolland and Gibson, Taylor speaking. May I help you?

Hope so, Taylor love. Forgot to ask: you do take sugar in your coffee?

Chapter 3

I was officially in hell. My descent had started when Justine phoned me that morning to remind me of my dress fitting and ask nonchalantly if I liked pink. That should have triggered the alarm bells.

So I was standing there in a bridal hire shop, wearing (in the loosest possible term) a dress, which was a cross between Little Bo Peep’s signature attire and one of those toilet-roll covers that my Gran had. This thing was so ridiculously wide that I would have got stuck between the pews trying to waddle down the aisle in it.

Enjoying my discomfort was a number of people, the first being the sales assistant waiting for me to emerge from the changing room. All I heard over my internal ranting was a camp voice saying, I am positive madam looks gorgeous.

Well, pal, madam did not look gorgeous. In order to calm down, I got this rather weird idea into my head that the sales assistant was not at all camp, but only pretending because it was in his job description. Once his shift finishes, I thought, he will sprint to the staff changing room.

First, from his arms a number of tattoos will appear, and then second, his voice will change, and he will only say football, birds and lager.

But somehow peering through these curtains that particular version of ‘The Incredible Hulk’ would never happen.

Waiting for me in the shop were Justine; her mum, Barbara; and my mum. It did not help matters that Barbara and my mum were the closest of friends; my humiliation was in effect doubled.

From the shop floor, I heard Mum prompting me.

Come on, Taylor. Let’s have a look.

I waited for a few minutes, trying to compose myself.

Taylor, you cannot stay there all day.

Wanna bet, Mum? I have my mobile phone and my purse, so yes, I can stay here all day, and order takeaway pizzas or Chinese to my heart’s content—or at least until after the wedding.

OK, Taylor. Stomach in, chest out. Time to face the music—which, in the mood I was in, would be a funeral dirge.

So, hitching up the voluminous folds of material, I wobbled out. Yes, I suppose I am putting this on a bit, but believe me, this dress was hideous.

The sales assistant—whose name, according to his badge, is Pierre—opens up the curtains in what is an overly dramatic effort. To give him credit, he is making all the right noises, and there is not a hint of a smile or suppressed laughter in his expression. This guy is a professional.

What can I say? Pierre asked. You will be the belle of the ball; all the others will be green with envy. Every eye will be on you.

At this point, I switched off. Pierre, seriously, I understand that your job is to flatter the suckers—I mean clients—but listen to yourself. What I needed was the shepherd’s crook and a few lost sheep… hey, presto, Little Bo Peep!

After thinking