‘Are you all right, darling?’
‘You're not real.’ I said it more to convince myself.
‘Rachel, what are you talking about?’ He smiled - an amused smile. ‘Of course I'm real - look at me.’
He stood with his arms out wide. He was handsome and slim with a full head of black hair swept across his forehead and a toned body beneath his clothes. He was tall enough to be manly - almost six foot - but not too tall as to dominate me. He was the type of man my fantasy Darren might be - if he were real.
‘How did you get in here?’
‘I live here,’ he said.
‘No. This is my house. I paid for it. My name's on the deeds.’
‘Rachel darling, it's our house. We bought it, remember? Are you feeling all right?’
He moved as if to get closer, but I lifted the lamp higher, ready to take a swing at him. It tugged at the flex again.
‘Rachel--’
‘Stay there.’
Stuck between the need to protect myself and my instinct to run, I tried to think. He'd got into my house somehow, he knew my name and knew about Darren somehow. No ordinary burglar could do that - surely? A conman could go through my rubbish and find out stuff about me, but only a few people knew about Darren.
It was a wind up. It had to be a wind up. God, let him be a wind up, and not some mad psycho rapist.
‘Did someone put you up to this?’ I said.
‘Rachel, what are you talking about?’
He wasn't going to admit to it. Fine. But this prank had gone beyond the point where it was funny; not that it had been funny in the first place.
‘Don't move.’ I threatened him with the tiffany lamp again.
He obeyed.
Keeping the lamp in one hand, I used the other to delve into my handbag. I rifled past hairbrush, purse, petrol receipts, half-used tissues, until I found my phone. With hands shaking and heart pumping - not taking my eye off the stranger for a moment - I called Sheila.
It rang. Good, her mobile was still on. It kept ringing. I willed her to pick it up.
At last she answered. ‘Yeah?’ A sleepy voice down the phone line.
‘Sheila? It's Rachel.’ My voice trembling. ‘I don't know how you did it - ha ha, very funny - but you can tell him to leave now.’
‘Wwwhat?’ she slurred. ‘Rachel? What're you talking about?’
‘The man you snuck in pretending to be Darren.’
‘What? Rach, Darren's not real.’ A heavy sigh. ‘I'm tired, hon. We'll talk about it tomorrow.’
‘Sheila, don't--’ I shouted.
--hang up.
The line went dead. I hit re-dial. It went straight to voicemail.
Bugger.
The Darren-man was still looking at me. Like a dog looks at his master when it can't understand why the human is behaving strangely. ‘Why don't you come and sit on the sofa,’ he said in a soothing voice. ‘I can pour you a glass of wine and then we can make love.’
‘No!’ I screamed, loud enough to wake the neighbours.
He was larger than me, stronger than me. If he attacked me, I could fight back, but he would win. I started to wheeze. I put my hand out to the doorframe, leaned against it, trying to slow my breath. It brought back playground memories of childhood asthma. I hadn't had an episode for years and I wasn't going to be flawed by it as an adult. I willed my breathing to slow.
I told myself he wasn't going to attack me because it was just a joke. Some male escort Sheila had booked while we were at the pub and given my spare key to during one of her many supposed trips to the toilet.
‘Look,’ I said, gathering myself together. ‘I know you've gone to a lot of trouble, and you're really impressive, but I haven't got time for this now. You can tell Sheila you got me and we can have a laugh about it down the pub another time. But right now, I'm tired and I need some sleep because I'm starting a new job tomorrow. So, if you don't mind, I'm going to go to bed now and you're going to leave.’
I left the sanctity of the doorframe and placed the lamp back on the phone table, keeping my eye on him all the time. Without my weapon, I was even more vulnerable, but he didn't make a move. If he'd been a burglar or a rapist, he would have taken his opportunity there and then. With relief, I knew at that moment, he was part of a practical joke. The man - whoever he really was - was a damn good actor, and that's all.
With added confidence, I walked right by him like I owned the place.
Damn it - I did own the place. Minus a £100,000 debt to the bank.
I caught a whiff of his cologne as I went past, mixed with his manly scent.
Tasty.
If I hadn't needed a decent night's sleep, I might've taken advantage of the practical joker to see how far he was prepared to take his little act. I kept on walking, through to the kitchen, where I ran myself a cool refreshing glass of water. When I returned moments later, I found him gone. Thank goodness. Boy was I going to have words with Sheila when I next saw her.
In some ways, though, it was too bad. It was about time I gave my libido a workout. But - hey! - easy come, easy go.
I went upstairs to bed.
TWO
Of all the things in the world that should never have been invented, alarm clocks top the list.
With the exception, possibly, of nuclear weapons.
And terrorism.
And antibiotic-resistant bacteria.
Okay, so not top. But if there were a list of all the bad things in the world, then alarm clocks would definitely be on it.
My alarm clock bleeped at me with an incessant electronic trill. It woke me up - which was what I wanted - but it didn't do it very nicely.
I whacked the snooze button. My sleepy hand knocked the thing onto the floor, the battery sprung out of the back compartment and the digital display winked out of existence.
Arse.
It had to be 7am. That's the time I set it for. I sat up and felt that groggy feeling which meant going out on Sunday night had been a bad idea.
Beside me, I heard a low gravelly moan.
I swivelled. In the bed next to me was a naked man.
I yelped and scrambled out of bed.
Two blue eyes peeked out from under a matt of black hair. ‘Would you like me to make you breakfast before work?’
It was the Darren-man!
I stood. I stared. Transfixed. Confused.
Until I realised I was naked too. My hands flew to my breasts.
Leaving me exposed down below. I clasped one arm over both nipples and put the other hand over my bush.
‘Rachel, what's up?’ said the man.
‘You... you...’ I stuttered. ‘You left!’
His forehead wrinkled in a confused expression. ‘You said you were going to bed, so I came up first and brushed my teeth. You were sound asleep by the time I got in.’
‘What?!’ I grabbed a pillow to cover my modesty. Mind whirling. Half wondering if I was dreaming, half remembering what had happened the night before; half thinking someone had spiked my drink.
‘I tell you what,’ he said. ‘I'll go squeeze you some fresh orange juice. You'll feel better after that.’ He threw the duvet off himself and got out of bed with his man bits dangling between his toned thighs.
I cowered by the bedside table, clutching the pillow to my nakedness and watched his pert bottom saunter out of the bedroom.
Fuck.
(to be continued…)
*
To find out what happens next, seek out If Wishes Were Husbands by Elizabeth Kyne
at your favourite online store as an ebook (ISBN: 978-1-908340-02-3)
or paperback (ISBN: 978-1-908340-01-6)
www.elizabethkyne.co.uk
www.ellybooks.co.uk
Matchmaker Cat (A Romantic Comedy Short Story) Page 4