by Kris Pearson
So she burbled off in the Toyota and returned with ridiculous amounts of food, all of which disappeared with incredible speed down the throats of two gangly teenagers and one athletic father. And still they’d seemed hungry—hence the impromptu dessert delight of canned peaches and hot runny custard.
She sipped her coffee in the mid-morning sunshine. She had the strong and worrying feeling that while the boys had returned to Ben’s bedroom to surf the net, she and Al had danced to one of her father’s old albums by Herb Alpert and his Tijuana Brass. God, surely not. How drunk did you have to be to dance with a man in bike pants?
She definitely recalled teasing him about his shaved legs—and being told that racing cyclists all did that because they got grazed in accidents if they slid along the road surface. The scabs got full of hair (or the hair got full of scabs) and that was a Bad Thing.
He’d shown her several very fetching scars on assorted parts of his impressive body. She’d reciprocated by hitching up her skirt and displaying the line from the operation on her knee tendon. It was all she had, really. Well—there was the appendicitis scar, but she was reasonably certain she’d not been foolish enough to exhibit that...
And she suspected she’d shared a few woozy kisses with him on the big old cream sofa. But nothing more, for sure. Not with the boys in the next room.
She finished the coffee. The pills had not kicked in with any enthusiasm.
Ohhhhhh God. She’d need a smaller headache than this to drag the noisy, super-sucking, extra powerful cleaner around the floors. Dusting was quiet. She’d do that first.
“Morning, Mom.”
Ben ambled, blinking, out into the light of day. Tall and clumsy, and almost a man. He shuffled the newspaper together and Meg flinched at the vicious rustling. At least things looked more respectable now. They ate breakfast in companionable silence until—
“Hey, Mom, you know that old tea trolley in the garage?”
“Mmmmm?”
“Can I have it in my room?”
“Mmmmm.”
“Cool.”
What on earth is he up to now?
She tidied away the breakfast things, arranged plenty of mugs on the kitchen counter with the sugar basin, the jar of instant coffee, the tea caddy, a milk jug and some empty plates...spared the fluffy floor a guilty glance, and hurried upstairs to shower and dress with all possible speed.
She froze at her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Al’s mouth had undeniably acquainted itself with the slope of her left breast. She peered down at the all too obvious mark. Would the low V-neck of the new taupe jersey hide it?
Not really. She dabbed a bit of foundation on it, thought that made it look more obvious, washed it off again, and decided if anyone mentioned it she’d look mysterious. Old Vi would miss the point, and maybe her cred would go up a bit with naughty Liz, and thrice-published Romy, and Bobbie who wrote erotica. Meg wasn’t quite certain what erotica was. Somewhere midway between romance and pornography, she suspected.
Eloise wouldn’t be shocked by the evidence of Al’s advances. She was an actress—nothing shocked her, ever. And Nurse Mandy had seen it all before. Ian would have to take it or leave it.
But how had Al managed to burrow that far under her blouse? It was her first love-bite in years, and she’d missed the experience.
Oh Chardonnay! Oh Drambuie! Oh damn...
CHAPTER 2 – TIGGER TAPS HER TOY
Tigger trotted back to her old childhood bedroom with yet another mug of coffee, pulled her long legs in under the duvet, and settled back into her pile of pillows. A small smile tweaked at the corners of her pretty mouth. This holiday back home had been a great idea. Not only summer weather but lots more time to write.
After several sips, she set the mug down on her bedside table and opened her gleaming silver Mac. She was so into this story! She’d decided to call it ‘Exploring Ryan’ because that’s exactly what would happen. Lots of exploring by a girl who wanted to know more so she could self-publish her slightly dodgy stories on Amazon.
Not unlike Tigger herself was doing.
Advertising in the local paper had seemed a good place for her heroine to start. Tigger knew if she had the girl advertising online, she might be contacted by men from the other side of the world. And she needed them living locally for the story to work.
She tucked her tongue into the corner of her mouth, and her fingers raced over the keys.
Having placed the ad in the wanted column, Sophie waited for the phone to ring. Naturally she’d only put her cell-phone number—she didn’t want any of the men to track her down at the apartment.
In truth she was a little dismayed at how the ad looked.
Author seeks o-minded sexually exp. man for erotic chat. No phys. contact req.
Surprising the difference the abbreviations made to her careful wording. Might prospective callers read it as ‘sexually explicit’ instead of ‘sexually experienced’? God, she hoped not.
The first call came just as she arrived home. He sounded Scottish, and was certainly drunk.
“Aye lassie, you need a sexy man for dirrrty talk?” he slurred. “I’ll talk dirrrty. I’ll talk the lacy wee panties right off your bonny backside. I’ll—”
Sophie pressed the cancel key.
The phone beeped again just seconds later.
“Cut off in ma prime, girlie. And you should see the size of me. He’s a beauty tonight. So thick that—”
OMG—she hadn’t expected anything like this!
“Excuse me sir,” she snapped. “Someone has printed my cell-phone number by mistake. If you ring again I’ll call the Police.” She jabbed at the cancel key, praying she’d heard the last of him.
Her knees had turned to jelly. Maybe this was a really stupid idea? She clutched her arms around herself and rocked to and fro for a few moments before walking across to the refrigerator. The tall green bottle of Sauvignon Blanc waited patiently. Sophie opened it and poured a glassful for courage.
“Are you still in bed, Tigs?” her mother asked, pushing the bedroom door open without knocking. “Are you ever getting up? You can’t be that jet lagged, surely?”
Tigger angled the screen away from Eloise’s sharp eyes.
“Just emailing London, Mom. The band’ll be out working by now, so I can’t Skype him.” She sent Eloise what she hoped was a love-struck look.
“Hmmm,” was all she got in return.
“Only a few more minutes,” she begged.
“It’s nearly lunchtime. Have you had any breakfast?”
“I made toast.”
“Well don’t be much longer. It’s a lovely day out there.”
Tigger waited until Eloise swept dramatically out again before re-reading what was on the screen.
…a glassful for courage…a glassful for courage… She took a deep breath and started tapping away again.
It was more than half an hour before the next call, and by then Sophie had sipped her whole glassful of Sauvignon, very slowly, while she sat on the patio in the early evening sun.
“Sweetie!” an enthusiastic and sibilant voice exclaimed in her ear. “You’re a woman! Damn! I was hoping for a man when your ad just said ‘author’.”
“Sorry,” Sophie muttered, picturing a flamboyantly dressed theatrical type.
“Oh well, no probs. I’m Gordon, by the way.”
“Hi Gordon, I’m Amy,” Sophie lied. “Thanks for ringing anyway.”
“Satisfy my curiosity at least, darling—why are you advertising for a man when you could phone one of the sexy chat lines and get all the grubby talk you want?”
“Because I don’t want grubby talk...exactly,” she said, warming to the unknown nosey extrovert. “I enjoy writing, and there’s a huge market for erotica these days. It’s all some of the publishers are asking for.”
“You want a man for erotic chats to get you in the mood? Oh you are a naughty girl.”
“Absolutely not. I can get myself in a sexy mood ve
ry nicely, thank you. I just need a bit more...information.” Heat spread up her neck and invaded her face. Damn her easy blushes. Would she ever grow out of them?
“You’re not a little virgin are you?” gay Gordon teased.
“No way,” Sophie snapped. At five foot nine, and almost too busty for her C-cups, she’d not considered herself ‘little’ for years. The virgin bit was none of his business. “But I’m writing male/female stories so you’re really not who I need, are you?” she added. “Thanks anyway.”
“I can give you lots of info about good lubricant,” Gordon continued, taking no notice of her polite dismissal. “Butter is useless. I know Marlon Brando was into butter in ‘Last Tango’, but it’s not the answer, sweetie. Lubricating jelly’s a bit too clinical for me—and if you’d ever had your prostate probed you’d know all about that.”
Sophie snorted at that unlikely eventuality.
“There’s baby oil of course, but the best I ever had was some stuff extracted from green kiwi-fruit. Lovely and slippery.”
“Thank-you,” she said. “Bye. Thanks so much.” She cut him off before he could go into further detail.
Once more Eloise flung the door open. “Tigger! Lunch is on the table.”
Tigger sighed. “Getting up right now, Mom.”
CHAPTER 3 – VI CONSIDERS AROUSALS
“Muffins or pikelets, Arnold?”
The old cat stared up, unblinking. The fridge had been opened. Another meal might be possible.
Vi knew the younger people rarely contributed proper food toward the writers’ afternoon tea. There would be chocolate biscuits. Packets of fudge or caramels. There’d once been a bowl of Easter eggs. And sometimes that expensive mild Brie cheese she’d never quite seen the point of, and gritty corn-chips.
Meg bought things from the local bakery and cut them up. Ginger slice or anemic sponge roll. So Vi always baked a proper batch of something, to keep the Standard from Slipping. She was very keen on Standards not setting off down Slippery Slopes.
Really—some of the stories the younger people wrote… They might be entertaining, but they were hardly proper. Swear-words (quite bad ones sometimes), and such a lot of sex. Eloise hadn’t turned a hair at naming the stable lad’s private parts at the last meeting. His penis. His pulsing purple penis. Vi had never been quite certain what color her late husband’s was. He’d been decent enough to keep it hidden and only produced it in the dark. Even when they were first married. Because he knew Vi had Standards.
Purple?! That had come as quite a shock.
Why couldn’t Eloise just have said ‘his private parts’ or ‘his masculinity’ or even ‘his arousal’ if she’d wanted to be a bit spicy? An arousal sounded quite nice. Soft and cuddly like a toy or a small animal. ‘His arousal peeked endearingly at her from around the tree trunk.’ The long, hard, up-thrusting, smooth, warm...tree trunk.
She huffed and shook her head. She’d never admit it to them of course, but perhaps it might be fun to try a little of ‘that sort of thing.’ She’d do it under an assumed name, naturally. Certainly not Violet Maybury. May Berryman perhaps? Lettie Berryman? May Hartly? Tartly? Choosing the name could be as much fun as writing the story. She mused on as she lined up the canister of self-rising flour, the milk, the eggs, and the caster sugar on her pale gray Formica counter top.
She decided on pikelets for their afternoon tea treat. Warm, floppy, steaming pikelets. A bit like the gentlemen who populated her safe stories for the genteel ladies’ magazines. Warm hands, floppy hair, steaming looks held in check by impeccable manners. Vi was quite good at setting up little scenarios that let her readers know what was likely to happen without anything really happening at all.
She peered out the window as she started to beat the mixture. The wind buffeted her trees, making them dip and sway and creak. They should have been trimmed back several years ago, but with Brian gone, these tasks did seem to slide. Now she’d have to find a proper arborist, who would no doubt cost an arm and a leg. She imagined a suitably strong young man as she splashed a few drops of water onto the hot fry-pan to test the heat. Arnold scuttled away as it sizzled and steamed. She wiped the buttery paper over the surface and started the first three pikelets, letting the pale mixture run down off the spoon into sticky little puddles.
Slowly they puffed up…growing…expanding. She waited for the bubbles, then flipped them over. The soft golden undersides were as smooth and hot as a man’s skin. She stroked one with her forefinger. Lovely to touch.
Just like that poor young stable boy’s back. The long golden back that had been rippling with lean muscles once the Duchess had tugged the ivory shirt off it. How could you take a horsewhip to something so beautiful? Time slid by as she daydreamed.
She sniffed. Burnt! And tossed her first effort into the garbage pail with an oath she’d learned from Liz McKenzie.
Now there was a hussy, if ever there was one. Liz was tall and slender. Always wore jeans that sat low on her slinky hips. Vi had never seen her in a top that fitted properly. There was a permanent band of bare skin on display, and often a belly-button, too. And a glittery stud thing sitting just above it. How could men be expected to keep their hands off her?
Vi always noticed the dark tattoo in the hollow of Liz’s back. What was the point of that? Liz certainly couldn’t see it. Vi kept her eyes open for it every time Liz bent or swayed and displayed a bit more skin. It looked like Batman, of all things. Why would you want Batman on your back?
She could understand the anchor on her late husband’s arm. A souvenir from the Korean War. Three young men all a little tipsy together and egging each other on; it was only to be expected.
She’d always presumed the anchor was a bit of an oopsie, really—Brian had been in aircraft maintenance.
She shook her head again as she slid the spatula under the final three pikelets and flipped them over. Maybe she could give her imaginary arborist a tattoo somewhere? And invent a pretty young landscaper to admire it? She could call it ‘Branching Out’.
Leah Walls halted abruptly in front of the mountain of fresh foliage. A huge piece of Magnolia Campbellii had broken off in the gale, entirely blocking the stone steps to number thirty-four.
She peered upward. A pale gash showed where the tree had split. A patch of dark rot explained why it had plummeted down.
How could she get past? And how would Mrs. Banks get home after visiting her elderly sister?
Leah needed some final measurements for a previously discussed landscaping project—a courtyard at the rear of the old house. She’d been assured Mr. Banks was home to answer any questions, so that meant he was trapped behind the tangle, poor old boy. She pulled out her phone to let him know. It rang for ages before he answered it, and the line crackled.
“Mr. Banks? It’s Leah Walls, the landscaper.”
“Who? Another landscaper?”
Damn—he sounded as though he wasn’t expecting her.
“I’ve just arrived,” she continued firmly, “and there’s a big piece of tree blocking your steps. I can’t get in, and that means you can’t get out.”
“I’ll be right down.”
She consulted her notes while she cooled her heels. Mrs. Banks had requested an enlarged lily pond, a more attractive fountain, a long colorful easy-care border, and some raised herb beds surrounded by recycled bricks. Leah had some extra ideas she was keen to incorporate. Wind protection for starters—a slatted timber screen would make it a much more inviting place to sit and relax.
She soon heard descending feet and a couple of surprised curses. The greenery shook.
“You’ll never move it,” she called upward.
“Watch me. Stand clear down there.”
She bristled, sure she could handle the job better than a grouchy geriatric.
The sound of sawing followed, and a grunt. A branch whistled over. She ducked. More sawing. Another branch. She was ready for this one and kept well back. Through a thinner patch of leaves she now
glimpsed a red-handled pruning saw the same as hers. Wielded by a long tanned muscular arm nothing remotely like hers. Did Mrs. Banks have a toy-boy?
“Horrible wind today,” she tried. “Shame about the tree.”
“Stupid place to plant it.”
Well, wasn’t he in a good mood!
Another piece hurtled down. A very good leg appeared and braced itself on a large branch. A leg with a muddy brown boot, a hairy gray sock neatly cuffed above it, and a less hairy but quite spectacular calf and thigh above that. A Celtic tattoo curled up the side of the calf. Leah’s eyes widened as the sawing resumed. Mr. Banks had to be at least seventy. That leg was much younger.
She took a thoughtful step backward. And just as well, because the remaining piece of tree suddenly un-snagged itself and toppled down the steps toward her, whacking the side of her van.
“Hey!” she objected, glaring up. The wrecker stood there, one hand on his hip, the pruning saw hanging loosely from his other. A tall hard-bodied man of maybe thirty—wearing only a pair of low slung khaki shorts apart from his boots and muscles. And the odd gleam of sweat. And a frown.
Leah huffed out an annoyed breath and turned to inspect the paintwork. “Look what you’ve done.”
“How bad is it?”
She started to tug at the rogue foliage and he jogged down the steps to help. Fortunately the leafy end and not the jagged timber stub had hit the van.
“Walls’ Garden Design?” he queried, heaving the big piece of tree aside with impressive ease. “What are you here for?”
“I’m re-working the courtyard,” she said, wondering how she could get a better look at him without staring.
“Can’t be. That’s what I’m doing.”