My Book

by Alam, Donna

  The thought goes unfinished as his hand brushes the side of my ribs, crossing my waistband. I inhale a sharp breath, rolling my lips inwards to contain the consequent sighing exhale. Don’t judge, I can’t help I’m tactile and a little touch starved.

  ‘Hm. I see what the issue is,’ his deep voice rumbles from above. ‘The zipper of your skirt seems to be caught on the hinge.’

  ‘Can you pull it out?’

  ‘That’s not the first time I’ve been asked that.’ His tone is so low and rumbly, I’m not sure this was meant for my ears. I find myself answering anyway.

  ‘I’m not going to ask why.’

  ‘Sensible girl.’

  I’m not going to ask because I can guess as I recall the cock can in his shorts. Coke can, I mean Coke can!

  ‘I’m afraid it’s rather stuck. If I pull, I’ll have to pull hard.’

  ‘Go hard or go home, I always say.’

  If I no longer feel tipsy, then why do I keep saying stupid things?

  ‘That answers a lot of questions.’

  ‘Such as?’ My reply is little more than a squeak as he swaps one foot for his knee, effectively thrusting his can of cock into my face.

  ‘Almost . . . there. Got it! Ah.’ The latter accompanies the sound of tearing fabric and the sensation of cool air on skin not often exposed. ‘How fond are you of this skirt?’ he asks carefully.

  ‘It’s Michael Kors. And it’s only the second time I’ve worn it.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ Funny how he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

  ‘But I suppose it’s not like I can stay here forever.’

  ‘No. I imagine you’d have a boyfriend somewhere who’d eventually wonder what happened to you.’

  ‘Exactly.’ A lie by insinuation. Should I ask myself why? ‘He might even come looking for me.’ More lies. The only person who’d miss me for at least a week would be Heather, who’ll probably laugh herself to death when I tell her about this.

  ‘And what a position he’d find you in.’ Also, why do I feel disappointed that he doesn’t seem at all upset at the prospects of me having a boyfriend? ‘Actually, that might be an idea.’

  ‘What?’ I splutter as he straightens. I’m suddenly extremely aware of the cool evening breeze and my preference for cartoon undies. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I’ll be back in a tick.’

  ‘Don’t you go out there!’ I almost shriek as he makes his way across the kitchen to the glass doors on the other side of the room.

  ‘I don’t think I need to point out that you’re in no position to stop me.’ As the lock clicks open, David Meowie’s paws hit the tiled floor. ‘That is, unless you’re planning on living out the rest of your days on all fours.’

  There’s so much suggestion in that statement, but I’m not biting.

  ‘Just . . . don’t let the cat out.’ But he’s right. I can’t stay here, even if that does mean he’s about to get a flash of Garfield, the Care Bears, Betty Boop, or whatever other cartoon is decorating my knickers today. But it’s not like I haven’t been embarrassed to within an inch of my life already.

  ‘The cat?’

  ‘He’s what got me into this mess in the first place.’

  He pauses with his hand on the handle. ‘I don’t doubt it.’ His smile is a wicked gleam of teeth from across the room. ‘Pussy definitely has a way of making you do things you wouldn’t do ordinarily.’

  Erm . . . What?

  The soles of his shoes sound against the paving, shuffling a little as they come to a stop. Did he just chuckle?

  I try to drop my waist, hoping my weight will pull the zipper from the hinge again. No luck. ‘If I’m flashing my knickers at you, I should at least know your name.’

  ‘James. I’m very pleased to meet the bottom of . . . ?’

  ‘Miranda, and you can stop laughing now. This isn’t very funny.’

  ‘I think that depends on the perspective you’re viewing from.’

  ‘What?’ I ask, turning my head over my shoulder as though I could see through the hardwood door. ‘You’re saying I have a funny bottom?’ Has that word ever sounded so prim before? If it has, it wasn’t falling from my lips. But my tone isn’t in response to any kind of vulnerability I feel but rather from a sense of mortification. What kind of idiot goes chasing a cat into a stranger’s house?

  ‘On the contrary. You have a delightful—’ I don’t hear the rest of his compliment as I groan loudly, my humiliation complete. ‘And such charming underwear, too.’

  But that I heard, along with his deep chuckle.

  ‘They’re not charming. They’re boy shorts, which yes, sort of do look like granny undies. But they’re fun. And I needed cheering up, so I bought a dozen pairs of novelty knickers, all right?’

  ‘Perfectly. I’m usually inclined to prefer briefs that are a little more, how can I put this? Brief. But your choice is perfectly . . . charming.’

  ‘You’re enjoying this way too much.’

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I said if you could just help me with this stupid zipper, I would be most grateful.’

  ‘I think I can manage that. If you’ll allow me to . . . there.’

  The zipper is dislodged, and with the sudden forward momentum, the only thing preventing me from shooting through the square hole is my hips.

  ‘Ooff!’

  Of course, my mortification isn’t complete because now I’ve got to wriggle out. I choose to do so by crawling backwards a little before rolling onto my side. Then I wriggle into the kitchen because the prospect of him watching my wriggle out like a worm is slightly more embarrassing. Only, as I stand, I realise I’ve left a couple of important articles of clothing on the outside. My shoes and, more importantly, my skirt. But there isn’t anything else for me to do but grab the cat, open the back door, and run away as fast as my bare feet will carry me.

  ‘Sorry for the whole, erm . . .’ I wave my hand in the direction of the dog door. ‘And thanks for your help again.’ Niceties dealt, I pull the door wide and turn sideways a little to angle my way past him. I’d absolutely underestimated how tall he is, but I suppose it’s hard to tell when your face is pressed up against a bedroom window, or you’re on your knees looking up at him. ‘I’m sorry for, well, everything. And thank you.’ I go to reach for the remains of my skirt from his hand when he pulls it away.

  ‘Not so fast. We haven’t established what you were doing there in the first place.’

  ‘Yes, we have. I was chasing this!’ Less than pleased to be used as a prop, David Meowie begins his bid for escape, digging his claws into my forearm.

  ‘Ouch! You little—’

  ‘Allow me.’ He takes the bag of skin and claws from my outstretched arms as I attempt to stop further injury and tucks him firmly against his chest.

  ‘You were saying?’

  ‘I don’t believe I was saying anything. I believe I’d said all that was to be said.’ I also don’t believe I’m having this conversation standing in the moonlight in nothing more than a pair of lurid green and black Batman knickers and my shirt.

  But it might’ve been worse. Yesterday, I wore Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle ones, I think.

  ‘You were about to tell me why you aren’t a cat burglar, and why you seem to think my neighbour’s much-loved cat belongs to you.’

  ‘You got me. I was stealing him—stealing him in order for an underground cat fighting ring.’ I bend forward and sweep up my shoes. ‘I’m the cat-sitter, for goodness’ sakes. I was on my phone, the cat escaped, and I chased him into your kitchen, mostly, and got stuck. You arrived and saved the day. Huzzah!’ I wave my shoes in the air as though they’re pompoms. ‘So are you going to give me the cat back or what?’

  ‘I think . . . or what.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Forgive my caution, but I’d like to be sure you are who you say you are. Also, I think it might be prudent to escort you back, given your current state of dress.’ My gaze follows his down my bar
e legs. ‘You’ve grazed your knees.’

  ‘No. Well yes, but earlier. I fell over a plant pot.’

  ‘You’ve had quite the evening,’ he answers, amused. ‘Shall we?’ He moves sideways, allowing me to pass.

  Oh well, I guess I’m getting an escort. Or a carer. It’s hard to tell.

  We don’t speak as I open his garden gate, cross the cobblestoned lane, then repeat the open the gate to the place I’m calling home this week. At the back door, I press on the handle but don’t open it.

  ‘This is me going inside now, through the back door. Almost like I live here, right?’

  His hand covers mine, the resultant sensation of his skin against mine sweeping across my skin like wildfire. ‘Come on,’ he says, pushing the door wide. He reaches for the light switch, confident of its positioning. ‘I’ll show you where the first-aid kit is.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You say that an awful lot.’ His words float behind him as he walks confidently into the kitchen, placing Davie Meowie on a kitchen chair before exiting the other side of the room. ‘Close the door, would you? You don’t want to have to chase him down again.’

  ‘Hey!’ Belatedly, I begin to follow him, my movements not quite as fluid as the cuts on my knees begin to stiffen. ‘Come back here—you can’t just wander through a stranger’s—Oh. I didn’t know there was another room there.’ Through a slender panelled door, I spot him in a brightly lit room of small proportions. Cabinets to match those in the kitchen line one wall, a deep sink under the window, the adjacent wall filled from the floor to ceiling with shelves.

  ‘It’s a butler’s pantry. A throwback to the days when one had to remove the family silver from the temptation of the help.’ Before I can answer that little insult, he carries on. ‘Marjorie always kept the first-aid kit on one of the shelves. Ah, here it is.’

  ‘You know this house? And the owners?’

  ‘Considering I spent as much time in it growing up as I did next door, yes. Come on. Let’s get those knees seen to.’

  ‘Honestly, they’re fine,’ I protest as he passes me, making his way back into the kitchen again. And honestly, I don’t much care to wander around in my knickers in front of him. Yet I find myself following. What else am I supposed to do?

  In the kitchen, his back to me, he unpacks the contents of a large first-aid kit onto the kitchen table as I stand on the other side of the kitchen, my bare legs now shielded by the cupboards.

  ‘It looks like she’s had some of this since Eamon and I were haring about on skateboards,’ he says, holding up a familiar brown bottle as though examining it for an expiration date. ‘I’m sure this stuff doesn’t expire.’

  ‘I’m sure it doesn’t matter because you’re not using that on me.’ I point at the bottle of antiseptic liquid my granny used to use on cuts and scrapes. ‘TCP stinks. And stings like buggery.’

  He barks out a laugh as I consider going back to the butler’s pantry to give myself a time out. ‘I’d suggest you haven’t been doing it right.’

  ‘Not actually buggery,’ I counter carefully, rounding the counter to take the offending bottle out of his hand. ‘And stop laughing. It’s just a phrase.’

  ‘A woman who’d risk being charged with breaking and entering wouldn’t be afraid of a little sting.’

  ‘Shows what you know.’

  He doesn’t answer but pulls out a kitchen chair with a flourish, indicating I should take a seat.

  ‘Did you go to the same school of bullying as my grandmother?’ I fold my arms and stay where I am. ‘It never worked for her, either.’ Actually, I used to cry quite a bit as a child. Especially when I was visiting that vicious old bat.

  The child should never need the lavatory, she’d complain volubly, because she’s always crying.

  It took me years to work out what she meant. It’s not like I could help having a very fine emotional trigger. It took me years to learn not to cry at the smallest thing. And you know what makes a child cry harder? Being made to feel like an idiot for crying.

  ‘I suppose you could just wait for the scratch to get infected, your knee to become inflamed, your body to be overcome by a fever, and for your leg to eventually fall off. That’s one way to treat it, I suppose.’

  ‘Sounds good to me.’

  ‘Whisky?’

  ‘I’m not sure that kind of alcohol is supposed to be applied topically.’

  ‘I meant to drink. You said you needed cheering up.’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ I retort, my brows pulling in.

  ‘Maybe I should try novelty underwear.’ He suddenly drops quite heavily to the chair he’d pulled out for me. ‘Do they usually do the trick?’

  ‘God.’ I cover my face with my hands. ‘Can we stop talking about my choice of underwear? They’re not called unmentionables for nothing, you know.’

  ‘That was a serious question, actually. If they cheer you up, I might give them a shot.’ He stretches out his long legs, crossing them at the ankles, then folds his hands behind his head like the picture of masculine ease and confidence. Somehow, I can’t see him in Care Bear undies. ‘And whether you’re happy or not, I could do with a drink after the evening I’ve had.’

  ‘Look, I said I was sorry. It’s not like I planned to get stuck there.’

  ‘Your appearance was an improvement on the evening. It’s not every day I come home to find a beautiful girl trapped in my kitchen.’ He sits forward quite suddenly and rubs a hand down his face as though to stifle a sigh. ‘I could do with a drink and some company. Your earlier predicament is the only reason I haven’t already hit the bottle.’

  ‘I can’t offer you a drink.’ I shrug lightly. ‘This isn’t my house.’

  ‘The truth always comes out,’ he answers quite slyly. ‘Just as I thought.’

  ‘What? That I’m squatting? Just because it’s not my house doesn’t mean I don’t live here. I told you, I’m the cat-sitter,’ I add with a shrug. A shrug to cover my discomfort in front of this incredibly sexy man. ‘So I can’t offer you a drink. Sorry.’

  ‘Got it.’ He rubs his hands down his thighs and back again, the movement almost hypnotic. ‘I see what you mean.’ He jumps to his feet, and I’m immediately, and maybe inexplicably, a little frantic. This is it—he’s going to leave, and we’ll never meet again. Is this a chance I should be taking? The perfect rebound? In a heartbeat, he’s at the back door. ‘I’ll go home and grab a bottle,’ he says as he turns back, his gaze falling over me in an appraisal that’s anything but cool. ‘I’d suggest it might give you a few moments to slip into something a little more comfortable, but . . .’

  My gaze flicks down my bare legs.

  Ah, hell.

  4

  Miranda

  I can’t believe I’m currently rummaging through my suitcase, looking for something suitable to wear for a drink with a stranger. A stranger in a stranger’s house, no less.

  Actually, that’s not right. I can’t believe I’ve just been talking to a stranger while wearing little more than my underwear.

  ‘I must be losing my marbles,’ I mumble, gingerly pushing my legs into a pair of yoga pants that have been discarded on an armchair next to the very Victorian looking fireplace. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging in the middle of the wardrobe, this room having last been decorated sometime back in the ’70s, by the looks of things. ‘I can’t wear a work shirt and yoga pants.’ Separate, each item is perfectly functional. Together, they make me look like I have issues dressing. But why I care is a subject I don’t care to address. Because, yes, I can admit that the man is total rebound material, but if I examine beyond this, I might pee myself.

  Whether from excitement or fright is anyone’s guess.

  Go on, do it, whispers the devilish little Miranda sitting on my shoulder. Though she looks like me, this little devil sounds suspiciously like Heather. Meanwhile, little angel Miranda is deluding herself. A drink is the least you can do when the man rescued you from baring your bu
m to the urban wilderness.

  A drink as thanks.

  Yes, let’s go with that.

  Let’s ignore the fact that it’s gone ten on a Tuesday night and I’m about to entertain a gentleman caller in a house that doesn’t belong to me—a fact that will no doubt get me fired if it comes to light. As my granny would’ve probably said; you may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. Heather has already slept over, so what’s one more sleepover, should it come to that?

  I’m still contemplating that when his deep voice calls up the stairs.

  ‘You didn’t lock me out, then.’

  I can’t imagine he gets locked out of many places unless by chastity belts fitted at the insistence of anxious fathers. Not that my father takes that level of interest, thank God. Actually, since last year, he doesn’t take much of an interest in my life at all. But that’s a story for contemplation sometime never.

  ‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ I yell back, grabbing a T-shirt from the top of the pile. Pulling the shirt up over my head, I swap it for the T-shirt, then pull my hair back up into an artfully messy bun rather than my current scary bench-dwelling homeless lady one. I swipe my fingers under my eyes, straightening out the current slutty panda effect before I notice a hole in the knee of the pants.

  ‘F—fiddlesticks!’ I almost fall whipping them off again, then grab the first semi-sensible thing that comes to hand; a floral cotton skirt I’d picked up at a stall at Camden Market a few weeks ago. It has pockets! Then I begin to make my way gingerly down the stairs, sort of alternatively stepping and hopping, depending on which knee I’m bending.

  As I enter the kitchen, he turns with a bottle of whisky in his hand, the label declaring the brand Macallan. ‘Water or ice?’

  ‘Ice, please, I guess. I’m no connoisseur, but as I can’t imagine watering down vodka or tequila, let’s go with ice. Although there was that one time when I was fifteen, and I had a few friends over when my parents were away from home once.. I had to add water to their vodka and cold tea to the brandy bottle after my so-called friends left.’