by Kris Pearson
“I must apologize to my valued customer,” he said. “We are having extra lighting installed in the fitting rooms. Would you please change in our very nice new staffroom and then come out to admire yourself in my splendid wall of mirrors?”
The staffroom was large and private, and the dresses were only a game after all. “No problem,” Liz agreed.
She stripped off her black jacket and skirt, removed her conservative blouse, and stepped into the lacy white full-skirted dress. The strapless bodice cradled her curves. Her bra straps looked ridiculous. She took the bra off, hoped she looked respectable, and went out to the mirror wall to admire herself properly.
A low whistle of approval floated across from somewhere near ceiling level. Liz swung around, and the long graceful skirt swirled about her legs.
A pair of wicked brown eyes inspected her from beneath a tousled fringe of streaky blond hair. What on earth was Rod Stewart doing up a ladder in a city store?
Already feeling most unlike herself, she managed another twirl and a lifted eyebrow.
“You’ll bowl him over,” the Rod Stewart look-alike said. Liz estimated the cheeky electrician was a good twenty years younger than Rocking Rod.
“Will I indeed?”
“You’ve bowled me over.”
“Knocked you off your ladder, have I? I didn’t hear the crash.”
In reply, he rattled a pair of pliers against the top step and said, “There’s your crash.”
Liz couldn’t stifle her grin. In fact she found her smile growing ever wider as she checked out her reflection. The dress was far too low cut—no wonder he’d whistled! She swayed from side to side, admiring her nipped-in waist, her seldom shown cleavage, and smooth shoulders. It wasn’t her in the mirror. It was a fantasy woman—a fairy princess or a beauty pageant contestant.
“You’ll need the full effect of the groom beside you,” the electrician said, appearing in the mirror with surprising speed.
She watched as he checked her out. Those dark brown eyes certainly weren’t shy about where they wandered—and everywhere they travelled she felt a delicious trail of feathery warmth. Because it wasn’t her real self in the reflection, she managed somehow to survive his very close scrutiny.
“Seen enough?” she enquired.
“Not nearly. He’s a lucky man.”
“Yes... well,” she flannelled, not wanting to admit to her wedding-fantasy deception. “He won’t be wearing red overalls,” she added.
“Dave,” the electrician said, reaching out to shake her hand. She found it impossible to ignore his cheerful good humour. Her fingers tingled in his strong clasp.
“Elizabeth,” she said. “Liz really.”
“Pleased to meet you, Liz Really.”
“Liz Martin,” she corrected, fighting to suppress a giggle. How long since she’d giggled? Had she ever?
“Dave Hadfield,” he replied, producing a Hadfield Electrical leaflet from the pocket of the overalls.
Liz knew she must be blushing by now. She was just not good at flirting. She dropped her gaze to the leaflet, grateful to be able to look away from his dancing dark eyes.
“I’ll keep this in case I need any work done.”
“The boyfriend’s not handy?”
“Er—no. Not very,” she said, caught unawares.
“My old Mum says a girl should always choose a man who’s good with his hands.”
Liz could easily imagine how good he’d be with his—her fingers still remembered his warm handshake.
“There’s another dress I want to try, too,” she murmured, overcome by the thought of his good hands—or more likely his bad hands. His lively eyes and confident manner indicated he’d be far from shy if given the chance.
“Okay—so this one’s the Ice Queen outfit. What are we seeing next?”
“The 1920’s movie star?” she hazarded. She had no idea how to describe the other dress, but she needed to get away from him before he had an even more alarming effect on her.
She was trembling, for heaven’s sake. Liz Martin, senior currency strategist for a major bank, advising clients on millions of dollars every day, was shaking and blushing because a hunky electrician had eaten her up with his eyes and made her feel delicious.
She closed the staffroom door and took her time—replacing the Ice Queen dress on its hanger with great care before she slid into the 1920’s movie star number.
*
“Holy Moly! That’s the one.”
Did Dave’s voice sound a little huskier than before? He shot down the ladder in a flash to get a closer look.
Although the second dress covered a great deal more of Liz’s body, she felt she might as well be wearing a layer of gleaming ivory paint.
“Total knockout,” he said, prowling around her and making no secret of his admiration. He reached up and released her hair from the big spring-clip she always confined it with. “Hair up for the Ice Queen, hair down for the movie star,” he said. “The movie star wins by a mile.”
Liz felt too stunned to object. The woman in the mirror had sultry parted lips, sleepy eyes, and a tumble of russet waves cascading down over one shoulder.
“When’s your hen party?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No hen party.” And, realizing she’d slipped out of character, added, “Not my style.”
He coiled a strand of her hair around his finger, and tugged it gently. “You’ve got to have one final fling before your wedding. How about coffee with a stranger? I’m well ready for a break.”
Oh, he was tempting. And what would it matter? Liz turned and checked out the back of the dress, nodding dreamily. This woman would think nothing of accepting such invitations...
*
As they sat chatting over their second latte, he asked, “Why are all the gorgeous women spoken for?”
“Why are all the married men cheating?” she countered, reaching over and tapping his wedding ring with her teaspoon.
He flinched. “Widowed last Christmas.”
“Ah.” There were no suitable words to fill the horrible embarrassing gap.
So she swallowed and took a chance. “I’m a fake, Dave. Not spoken for at all. Just trying on special dresses for a birthday treat. How sad is that?”
She held her breath.
He reached across and covered her hand with his.
“You’re looking at the man who can chat up anyone he thinks is safely out of bounds. I do it every day—to wives, and nannies and secretaries. But asking a lovely woman out after seventeen years of happy marriage is... scary.”
“You invited me for coffee easily enough,” she teased.
“But you were wearing a wedding dress—I didn’t expect you were available.”
She closed her eyes for a second or two, gathering her courage. “I might be available for a birthday dinner.”
“Tonight?”
“If you like?”
“Oh I’d definitely like,” he growled. “Will you wear your lovely silky hair down for me?”
***
DOWN THE AISLE
“A good way to meet men indeed,” muttered Jan as she noticed the only presentable looking one in the supermarket warily eyeing the contents of her trolley and moving away to the next check-out queue.
Okay, maybe her groceries did look a bit eccentric. Twenty-five small fruit drinks. A packet of drinking straws. Twenty-five very nice, evenly sized bananas (because Jan knew there’d be ructions otherwise.) Four packets of chocolate biscuits. And a container of baby wipes.
Well, he was a fool to move away. She’d be through the check-out in no time with this small load. He was now lined up behind a woman with an absolutely huge trolley full.
So what did he have? She peered sideways, unwilling to be caught looking. He had nice hands, anyway. Brown, lean, not too hairy. A gold watch but no wedding ring—not that that was any guarantee, of course. His grey sweatshirt sleeves were pushed back towards his elbows. Tanned arms, narrow hips, long legs in soft old jean
s. He was dressed casually, but not roughly, she decided.
And his groceries looked promising, too. A bottle of wine, pate and cheese, a long French loaf, bananas and apples, free range eggs, some slices of bacon from the deli... A romantic supper for two and a hearty morning-after brunch, Jan speculated. Bastard!
Well, she wouldn’t be joining him for either.
She stacked her odd little selection on the check-out counter and glanced across at his face. He was flicking through one of the fitness magazines while he waited behind Mrs Big-load. He’d attracted Jan right away—his sort always did. Dark shiny hair, unfairly long eyelashes now that his alert brown eyes were down on one of the pages, five o’clock shadow (or nearly nine o’clock shadow by now) and very good teeth.
Jan paid, picked up her three rustling bags, and took them out to her car. She tied the handles of each together as she set them carefully behind the seats. They could stay right there until tomorrow, she thought, yawning, desperate for her bed and a book.
*
The little twenty-five-seater coach had been confirmed for two o’clock. Jan felt that allowed plenty of time for the passengers to enjoy their lunch, change into their best cardigans and jackets, and be at the front door without a scramble.
The Spring Flower Show was always a favourite outing for the residents of Oakvale House.
Those who no longer had gardens to tend enjoyed the memories it brought back, happily swapping stories of the flowers and vegetables they used to grow, and the best sorts of manure to produce really long runner beans or gigantic pansies.
Jan ticked everyone off her list and checked the supermarket bags were okay inside her sports bag. A sudden surge towards the double doors indicated the coach had arrived.
“Jan—can I see you for just for a moment?”
Matron waved a bundle of papers and looked agitated. But the problem only took a minute or two. The last few of Jan’s charges were still tackling the coach steps—aided by a smartly uniformed man who looked more like an airline pilot than a bus driver. She watched through the glass doors—his back was toward her as he gripped Gladys Hannaway’s elbow and helped her up. He seemed to have everyone under control.
Jan hefted the sports bag and walked out. The driver half turned to grasp her elbow and did a double take, realizing she was fifty years younger than everyone else.
“Ooops,” he said, cheerfully.
Jan froze. It was last night’s supper-and-brunch man—looking even yummier in his uniform than he had in the jeans and sweatshirt. She thrust the sports bag towards him to cover her surprise and confusion.
“Can you stow that for me please?”
“Not a problem.” He looked at her intently—Jan felt he’d probably recognized her.
Damn but he’s gorgeous, she thought.
He flicked her half a smile and stood back so she could climb aboard; she imagined his eyes checking out her legs. He swung himself up into the coach far too close behind her, and they had to do an awkward little dance to avoid each other.
The remaining empty seat was the single, adjacent to his. Once she’d sat, he settled the sports bag into the area between them, then reached for the microphone and faced the back of the coach, lounging back against his seat.
“Welcome aboard, ladies and gentlemen...not too many gentlemen I see...we’re well out-numbered by all these lovely ladies.” The passengers tittered cheerfully.
“I’m Greg, and if there’s anything you want to know, feel free to ask.” He turned towards Jan, raised one eyebrow, and offered her the microphone. She took it—leaning toward him because the cable was rather short. He smelled faintly of earthy cologne.
“Thank you for being on time, everyone,” she said. “We’ll have about an hour to view the Spring Flower Show, so I’d like you all back in the coach by three-thirty. Then we’re driving up Hamlin’s Hill for the view and some afternoon refreshments.” Murmurs of approval greeted the arrangements. “Is that okay with you?” she asked the driver.
“Hunky dory. You‘re the boss.” He replaced the microphone and eased his long body into the driver’s seat. Jan tried to look as though she wasn’t checking out his muscular thighs or anything else in that region. Greg...Gregory she supposed... nice name.
*
Greg glanced sideways at her as he guided the coach slowly out from the sheltering portico. He was certain it had been her in the supermarket last night. He’d liked her long red-gold hair and the perky thrust of her breasts through the slightly-too-tight green T-shirt. He’d followed her past all the breakfast cereals and biscuits, enjoying her legs and her trim curvy bottom. When she’d stopped to buy bananas he’d thought “Yes!” And then it had all gone crazy—because she’d bought so many. Was she desperate, or what?
He reached for the microphone again.
“Short detour here, ladies and gentlemen. They’re demolishing the old brewery, and I thought you might enjoy seeing what’s going on.” He pulled the coach over and parked for a couple of minutes while everyone peered out the windows and exclaimed as the wrecking ball swung savagely into the old brickwork.
*
Jan grinned to herself. The oldies always liked to know what was happening. What was the bet Greg had a nosey granny or grand-dad who enjoyed things like this?
“You’ve got the measure of them,” she murmured. “What other treats do you have lined up?”
His slow-burning smile warmed her right down to her toes.
“Broughton Avenue for the flowering cherry trees. The new bridge over the river—they opened the first lane yesterday. And maybe a look at a field of miniature horses on the way to Hamlin’s Hill? It’s not far off the main road.”
“You know your way around.”
“I like the local jobs—I’m away from home too much.”
Which is no doubt why you have to placate your lady-friend with sexy little suppers, Jan thought.
“Sounds fine,” she said. “They’ll enjoy it.”
*
The coach rumbled up to the afternoon tea location. Everyone alighted and leaned on the railings to enjoy the view and the sun.
Jan heaved at the sports bag once her charges were out of the way. Greg reached up and lifted it for her, then swung it onto a nearby picnic table. She unzipped it and began rustling around inside.
“Open those, can you please?” she asked, handing the packets of chocolate biscuits across to him. She set the baby-wipes pack beside the biscuits. “You won’t want chocolate on your coach seats,” she added.
Greg nodded and gave her an inappropriately wide and delighted smile.
She started to arrange the fruit drinks in neat lines, and pulled the packet of drinking straws open. He was still grinning like a maniac. Puzzled, she reached into the final supermarket bag and began piling up the bananas. He suddenly bent double and great gleeful whoops of laughter shook him.
“I don’t know what you’re finding so funny,” she said tartly. “You can have a biscuit, but I didn’t buy any spare bananas.”
“I bought my own last night,” he chuckled. “At the supermarket. As you well know.”
Jan felt herself starting to blush. So he’d noticed her, had he? She’d certainly noticed him.
“I hope you enjoyed your classy little supper and the morning-after breakfast,” she said.
“My what?”
“I decided that was what your groceries were for.”
He shot her a wry grin. “In my dreams.”
“But why on earth did you go and stand in the other queue?” she couldn’t help asking. “You must have been waiting ages behind her. My queue would have been quicker.”
“All your bananas threw me,” he replied. He was still smiling broadly, eyes dancing.
“There were only twenty-five,” she retorted.
“Hell of a lot for Singles Tuesday.”
“What?”
“Singles Tuesday. Do you really not know about it? It’s when those on the prowl for partners s
end their little signals.”
He reached out for one of the bunches of bananas and cradled it in his hand, tipping their ends skyward.
“I’m looking for love,” he murmured, waggling them suggestively. He flipped them over so they hung drooping.
“I’m not interested, thanks.” He held her eyes with his.
“What!!??” she snapped, furiously embarrassed.
“It’s one way of meeting people. Not ideal, maybe, but it’s not easy finding the right person, is it? You’d caught my eye, I must admit... and when I saw you buying bananas, I thought ‘great—she’s looking for someone too’.”
Jan suddenly snorted with laughter. “But you thought twenty-five bananas looked a bit desperate?”
“Over-keen, possibly...?”
“And I suppose they were all pointing upward, were they? That’s the natural way bananas sit, you know! I didn’t arrange them like that.”
The passengers came drifting over to the table to claim their fruit drinks and chocolate biscuits. Greg started to pull the bananas apart, snapping the stem of each to make them easier for elderly hands to unpeel.
Eventually there was one banana left. He presented it to Jan like a ceremonial gift. The long golden fruit lay flat across his cupped palms. He ducked his head in a small nod and waited for her to take it.
She angled it so it stood proudly pointing upwards.
He leaned closer so his lips almost touched her ear. “Fancy a classy little supper?”
Jan smiled. “That would be lovely, thank-you Greg.” She dropped her voice to a husky murmur and looked up into his twinkling eyes. “But it might be a bit soon for the morning-after breakfast.”
“I can wait,” he said.
***
CLICKING
“Those hateful slags!” Izzy exclaimed, knowing her mother couldn’t hear her.
She screwed up her face at the Derek Royd Photography envelope. It was addressed to Ms Isabella Braithwaite, and could only mean one thing.
At fourteen, she received precious little snail-mail, and never any this scary. She drifted back up the path, picking at the flap with bitten fingernails, then retreated to her bedroom to find her seldom used nail scissors.