Sometimes you travel
Sometimes you arrive
without knowing exactly where you are.

I try not to blink as the camera flashes in front of me but the incandescence sears my brain and behind involuntarily closed eyelids, a series of images appear.
In the first image, I am standing in front of my dressing room mirror; my hands smooth the taut skin of my naked body, rising over hips, unblemished by stretch marks, and upwards to my breasts, still firm and cherry-pink-tipped. At thirty-seven, I’m proud of my body and quietly smug about the comparison with my contemporary friends, most of whom are married with children, a combination which seems destined to ruin one’s face and figure in equal measure. I let my finger-tips wander over my nipples, occasionally tweaking the buds that I like so much.
I remember being thirteen with a chest like my grand-mother’s washboard, all skin and ribs. I remember being fourteen and buying my first bra although I barely had anything to put in it. I remember being fifteen and the string of boys who would give whatever I asked to see what lay inside those straining satin cups.
Summer sunlight streams through my bedroom window reflecting off the various ‘highly recommended’ preparations on my dressing table. A zephyr breeze from the open window moves the net curtain and sends cool fingers around my body. It’s Saturday morning, maybe ten or eleven o’clock, I don’t know or care, Saturday is my down day, I please myself on Saturdays. My mind wanders.
As you might imagine, at my age, I’ve enjoyed a succession of Mr. Rights.

§§§§§

Mr. Edwin Jones taught science in the fifth form. He always seemed so sophisticated, so worldly wise. He used to correct my homework by changing the marks at the end of the page in accordance with the amount of cleavage I allowed him to gaze into when we handed our books in. A single extra open button was worth a B and two buttons were usually a B+. I once asked him what I should do to get an A. He smiled at me and whispered, “Perhaps you might loose the bra.”
Mr. Jones was the most unlikely science teacher. He was tall, broad shouldered and athletic. He was always tanned, summer and winter. He wore his sideburns long and his blonde hair curled at the nape of his neck. I remember running my fingers through those curls on the single occasion I scored an A+ for my description of a sub-atomic particle. I should point out that did not happen in the classroom although it might well have done because every one of the girls in my form knew about the likes and dislikes of Mr. Jones. But, I was the only one who really loved him, in the way that teenage girls do. It all started as a tease, a dare among the girls. I deliberately waited to open my school bag until I was close enough for him to see a scrunched up bra stuffed between some books, while I passed him my homework folder. It was a spare bra but I wanted him to think . . . well, the obvious I suppose.
It worked. His voice still echoes in my head, “Come to the Staff Common Room at the end of the afternoon.”
No please or thank you, just do it. My knees trembled. I knew at once that I’d overdone it. On the other hand, what could happen in the Staff Common Room during school time?
At four o’clock I stood outside the door waiting for someone to pass the word that I was there. I often wondered why we couldn’t just knock on the door or even just go in and find whoever we wanted, but that’s how things were done at St. Martins, stand and wait, just stand and wait.
At five past four, he came out and smiled down at me from his six foot high vantage point.
“I’m glad you’re here. You know that straight A’s require special coaching, don’t you?”
I nodded, not really quite sure where this was going.
“We could go back to the class room now or you could meet me at my flat tomorrow after school, or we can forget all about it. Up to you?”
I can still hear my voice asking, “Where do you live?”
Heston Avenue was a tree lined road of old Victorian houses, most of which had seen better days and now were divided up into bed-sits. Paint peeled from rotting sash windows and previously smartly tiled doorways, now awash with abandoned litter, sported an array of doorbells with faded names beside them. I pressed the one marked Jones, and the electronic door lock clicked open.
The hallway was tidier but anonymous, a common area that no one owned. A familiar voice called out from above. “Come on Up.”
On the second floor landing there were three doors, one lay open.
The flat was actually one big room with a desk that filled the bay window. Two armchairs, sat either side of a miniature fireplace and an unmade bed all but filled the remaining space. Books and magazines were everywhere except for a wardrobe which hung open and bulged with sports gear, tennis rackets, skis, trainers and tracksuits, all of which gave the place a heavy sweaty odour reminiscent of the school gym.
Mr. Jones sat in a swivel chair at the desk and he swung it round towards me as I came through the door. He was wearing shorts and a tight T-shirt that displayed his muscular body, exactly as I had imagined it to be. My knees were trembling again.
“Straight A’s are hard to defend when it comes to assessing your course work. Tell me why I should put myself on the line for you.”
I don’t know what I had expected but I know that I had hardly slept during the previous night wondering. My imagination had ranged from one exotic seduction to the next without limits, but this scene was nowhere on my list of possibles. My arms hung loosely at my sides and my head dipped as I tried to form an answer. My school bag fell to the floor with a thud.
“I hoped you’d tell me.” I tried to buy time, suddenly feeling well out of my depth.
“What do you think you have to offer?”
Silence again - courage draining away faster than water from a leaky barrel.
My eye line lifted, but only as far as the bulge in his shorts. I knew what was causing the bulge but I had never seen it, in the flesh.
My mind urged me onwards. I loved Mr. Jones so much; he could do what ever he wanted with me. I was his to use. I adored him.
“You could get straight A’s without my help if you forgot all of this stuff and concentrated on the syllabus. Swot up on Boyle’s Law before the end of term and you will be home free. Trust me, I’m your teacher.”
This was not what I expected. This was not what I wanted. I had come here prepared to lose my virginity and I was going to go home with Boyle’s Law.
Mr. Jones had not moved from his chair. There was at least two clear yards space between us and I sort of knew it was entirely up to me to do something or nothing about it. For the first time since I had entered the room, I looked him straight in the eyes and unbuttoned my white school shirt. I closed the gap between us and slid onto his lap allowing my shirt to fall open. My right arm slid round his neck and my fingers twisted into those soft blonde curls. I lowered my head with mouth slightly open, lips moist and waiting for the first kiss.
That’s about when the odour of gymnasium overcame my desire. My chin grazed his unshaven stubble and it hurt. Our eyes met. My God, he was so much older than me, ten years at least. What on earth was I doing?
In seconds I found myself in the street clutching my school bag and trying to remember who the hell Boyle was.

§§§§§

Mist comes and goes in my mind and when it clears I’m standing in line at the university cafeteria. I’m wearing jeans and the worst ever cardigan, one that I‘ve found in a charity shop. It’s lime green with elaborate gold buttons. It’s two sizes to large and there’s a thread of wool unravelling at the cuff. I hate it. But as the mist continues to clear, I remember why I’m wearing it.
In front of me is Jerry Everett. Yes, the Jerry Everett, who everyone knows now as the host of countless TV Quiz shows, but in those days he was just another undergrad in my year. Well actually not just another one, more like my pick of the bunch. He was a serious student who spent most of his spare time in the library but I really liked him. He could have had me any time, I was always there if he wanted me, it’s just that he never did. The cardigan was my latest ploy to appear to be the sort of girl that he might invite to join him at his library table.
We filled our trays without him noticing me and I was forced to reach in front of him when we got to the bread rolls to get him to look round.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I thought . . . .”
He smiled and I knew this was going to be true love. He had perfect pale blue eyes with turned up corners and the merest crinkle on the side of his perfect aquiline nose. A veritable Greek statue, he would be an Adonis in the bedroom, or anywhere really.
“It’s OK. No harm done.” His smile lit the room.
We paid at adjacent tills and I followed him into the crowded seating area. There were no free tables but, as we headed into the space, two girls left from a high shelf on the side of the room.
“Standing room only.” I quipped as we both hit the same spot side by side.
“Be my guest.” He replied.
“Oh yes please”, I did not say out loud.
“Where on earth did you find that cardigan?” his eyes twinkled, letting me know that he was joking.
“It’s my sister’s, I packed it by mistake.” I lied and I could see that he knew I had.
“Oh.” he chewed on his sandwich.
We chewed in silence – together while I searched for something witty to say.
“Actually, I quite like green.” His voice soft and deep confirmed my undying love for him. I also recognised the simplicity of his comment as his way of finding something nice to say and I loved him even more for saying it.
“I think I’ll change the buttons.” I replied.
“No don’t change a thing, it’s perfect.”
“Do you think so?” I tweaked the collar and pushed up the sleeves in a sudden vain attempt to hide the unravelling strand of wool.
“The best Grunge I’ve seen this week.”
Oh my God, he thinks I’m into grunge and I hate it.
“Sorry, but I think it’s past its best. I’m going to send it back to my sister, although I doubt she’s missed it.”
Jerry wiped a crumb from his chin with a paper napkin and scrunched it up on his plate. “Must be off. See you around maybe.” And then he was gone.
I waited a few minutes. I did not want to seem to be chasing after him. My guess was that he was heading for the library. I’d take my time and stroll in there as if I had nothing better to do. Great plan.
The library was across the quad and up one flight of stairs. I waited and then walked around the gravel path as if I was deep in thought, but actually rehearsing what I would say when we met. I pushed open the heavy oak door and crossed the space to the foot of the stairs. My soft soled shoes made no sound on the worn stone treads and so it was no surprise when I picked up the sounds of voices from the landing above.
“Yes she’s got a great body but have you seen that green cardigan? Who would want to be seen with someone in that old thing?
Male voices erupt into laughter and my blood runs cold. They’re talking about me. Tears fill my eyes and I run every step back to my room sobbing.
A vision of the cardigan in my waste bin, one errant cuff with a lose strand of wool draped over the rim fills my head and the mist returns.

§§§§

When the mist clears I’m sitting at a desk in an open plan office. The desk calendar tells me its mid-July and I’m flicking through the pages of a holiday brochure.
Sally’s voice comes to me from the adjacent desk. “What about that thing on page 21?”
I turn to page 21 and the advert is dominated by a hunk in trunks, emerging from the surf in some unpronounceable place in Croatia. The text says nothing that isn’t echoed on every other page but the hunk looks good to me and two weeks including half-board and airport transfers, is almost affordable.
“Could be a winner.” I respond, trying not to sound too enthusiastic. Two weeks in Croatia has to be better than analysing statistics in London. I hate my job but it pays well. The company does contract statistical analysis projects for all sorts of clients, mostly government departments. The work is really boring and most of the people who work here are equally boring. Boring, boring , boring, except for Sally.
Sally joined the firm about a week after me, so we were novices together. We nearly managed a holiday together last year but something went wrong at the last minute and we both went home to mum instead. We live on opposite sides of town so we don’t see much of each other socially apart from the occasional drink after work. The idea of a holiday together comes and goes on the breeze but this time it looks as though it could be on.
A day later and we’re booked and paid for. Two weeks later and we’re at Gatwick airport giggling like school girls as we wait in the departures lounge.
The hotel is even better than the pictures in the brochure. We are sharing a room, but so what? Neither of us is expecting to do anything truly wild, and if anything does happen, well definitely no statistics to be kept.
The temperature is at least ten degrees up on London and our lily-white bodies are soaking up the sunshine except for where our miniscule bikinis are preserving our modesty. And therein lays the problem. We have been here for four days and no one has even offered to buy us a drink and explore our white bits. The hunk in the trunks appears to have set his sights on another similarly shaped hunk and that doesn’t leave a lot of talent around the pool. Sally and I venture into town for a night out.
The mistiness in my mind seems to be obscuring the details or perhaps they were never there because the next image is of me in bed with a raging headache and a heavy weight resting on my head. The arm is Sally’s and she is snoring in my ear. My left arm is numb and I can’t move it. Our legs are twisted together, and we’re naked.
I try to recall what happened but only shadows come. There was a bar and then disco. Two guys bought us loads of drinks and came on to us, but we escaped through a side door and went on to somewhere else that was full of girls. It was dark in the club and we had several more vodka-splits before it dawned on us that we were in an all-girl club.
Sally’s hand slides down onto my breast and she gives me a friendly squeeze. I freeze, not ready to believe what’s happening. The snoring stops and Sally stirs, her eyes still closed, she whispers hoarsely, “Now that was a good night out.”
I realise that my numb left arm is under Sally’s body and I try to move it but she wriggles up closer so that there is nowhere to pull away. Her body is so soft and yielding, so much more comfortable than any of the men that I have shared my bed with. It’s a new feeling and I think I like it.
There’s a miniature balcony to our room and we have left the window wide open so that now sunlight streams in and lights the fair curls that are tumbling onto my shoulder. I reach out to brush these curls away and find myself pulling her head closer, our lips meet and, out of nowhere, we are kissing. Sally’s hand slides around my back and down to my cheeks. Again, that over friendly, meaningful squeeze.
I summon up the energy and pull myself out of the clinch and out of bed. In seconds I’m in the shower, wondering how and why and when.
The glass panels of the shower steam up as I let the hot water wash away the stickiness of the night. I turn off the water and as I push open the glass door a hand appears with my towel.
“There’s nothing to run away from. We had a good night out – and in. I don’t want to marry you or take you away from all this, etc. etc. I won’t make you pregnant. We’re here for a bit of fun. What does it matter, one way or another?”
I take the towel and wrap it around my dripping body while Sally takes my place in the shower.
She’s right of course. There’s nothing damaged except my pride. I’m an adult, as she is, I can always say no, providing I’m still sober enough to remember when to. Strangely enough I am drawn to the idea of finding out exactly what I missed. As Sally says, what harm can it do?
I remember that we spent most of the next three days naked, either in our room or on our miniscule balcony desperately trying to get our white bits tanned. We talked endlessly about our lives and loves and our experiences crossed over in so many places, we could have been twins. We spent our last few days sightseeing, holding hands as we took buses from place to place and living on snacks as we eked out the last of our holiday money.
Two days after we got back to London, Sally was sent to Newcastle on a project and I’ve never seen her since.

§§§§§

I try to bring back the details of her face, what colour were her eyes? I’ve no idea. I look towards her desk but the office has changed. I’m in a closed room, I recognise it now, it’s my own office, the phone is ringing and I desperately want it to be my new boss Alec. Alec arrived a month ago, from New Zealand. He’s fun and clever, full of good ideas that seem likely to break the mould around here. I can’t wait for him to bang a few heads together.
He has been house-hunting and I have been roped in, willingly of course, to show him around the area. We went to see a couple of real duds last evening and ended up in a country pup, for beer, sausage and mash, which he paid for. He was so sweet and I was so tempted to invite him back to my place for coffee end whatever took our fancy. It was just a bit tricky because we were in my car, so either we go to his place and I drive home later or stay the night, or he stays the night and I drive him home in the morning. Agh! All too difficult.
The phone is still ringing and I pick it up. “Good morning Alec, what can I do for you today?”
“The sales meeting this afternoon has been cancelled, could you run me out to Wendover to see a house that has just come on the market? We can discuss the sales figures on the way and call it work time.”
“If that’s what you want, Boss. Let me know what time you want to leave.”
I snuggle into my swivel chair, little shivers of anticipation coursing through my body. The idea of an afternoon out of the office on the Boss’s orders sounds like fun. The idea of an afternoon alone with Alec sounds like even more fun. I start to work on my strategy for the evening, his place or mine? Did I tidy up this morning before I left? Have I still got knickers drying on the heated towel-rail in the bathroom? Have I got any decent wine in the kitchen? Do I have time to go home at lunch time? If we end up at his place, what time do I need to leave in the morning so I can get changed and in to work without rousing too many comments from my team? Have I got my pills in my handbag?
My secretary dumps the post in my in-tray and I bury my head in the morning’s paperwork.
Alec rings at ten to three. I’ve been ready since two but who’s counting. I check my hair and lippy in my compact mirror and leave closing the office door behind me. My secretary looks up and I tell her not to expect me back today.
Alec is waiting in reception and we walk to my car together, close together.
I have rehearsed the sales figures in case he really does want to talk about them. All the questions and all the answers are on the tip of my tongue. Tongues, interesting thought, let’s wait and see.
Alec asks me about Wendover. I tell him what I know, which isn’t much. I ask him why the meeting was cancelled. He says it was because he wanted to see this house.
We call at the Estate Agents but there is no one free to show us round so they give us the keys, the place is empty, the owner has gone abroad, Zambia they think.
37 Larch Avenue is a large detached house with a long drive leading up to a broad parking space and garage. I like it straight away. I guess it’s a typical 1930’s house with a mixture of red brick and white rendering and an arched porch over the front door. I could live here.
Alec selects a key from the bunch that the agent has given him, opens the door and picks up the pile of junk mail on the doormat. The owner has left the house furnished and, for an instant, I see Alec and me coming into our own place.
“Let’s start at the top.” Alec bounds up the stairs like a New Zealand lamb.
Four bedrooms, master including en-suite shower etc., walk-in wardrobe and family bathroom with good size airing cupboard.
Downstairs, lounge, dining room, kitchen, recently refitted, large conservatory overlooking long, well-tended garden.
I sink into one of the low rattan conservatory chairs, making sure that my skirt rides high on my thigh.
“I could relax with a cool glass of wine in a place like this any night of the week.”
Alec smiled down at me, “I was thinking the same thing.” He sank into the chair opposite mine.
“Good size rooms.” He said.
“Good size rooms.” I echoed.
“Four double bedrooms.”
“Four double bedrooms.” I inched my skirt a shade higher.
“Nice garden.”
“Nice garden.”
“I think the kids will love the garden.”
“Kids?” I ask, “What kids?”
“Ah! I forgot to tell you Alisha and the boys arrive at Heathrow on Saturday. Do you think you could run me down there to pick them up?”

§§§§§

Red mist clears into a crowded room with pairs of bodies hunched over small tables. A bell rings and the men all get up and move to another table.
“Hello, I’m George, I’m 32 and I’m a deputy manager at Wolf’s Engineering Plant.”
“Liar.”
“ I’m a body double for Madonna.”
“Liar.”
The trouble with speed dating is that no one ever tells the truth. Why would you?
George is forty if he’s a day and there’s some sort of preparation on his scalp covering the bits where the hair used to be. I give him a visual once over and I swear he is wearing a corset.

§§§§§

I’m in a boat, a sailing boat and I’m getting wet from the spray. There’s salt on my lips and I’m laughing. There’s someone leaning on the tiller but I can’t see his face. He’s wearing swimming shorts and I’m wearing a bikini. We’re lean and tanned and on holiday somewhere warm. We’re part of a flotilla, a fleet of sailing boats following each other around a group of Greek Islands. I take hold of a rope and I sense that I’ve done this before. The rope slides easily through my hands and the boom swings round over our heads as we tack after the boat ahead of us.
Garry and I have been on flotilla holidays twice before. We have been an item for four years. We met when we both answered an ad for a group of novice sailors to go on a ‘learn-to-sail’ cruise in the Med. We paired up on training day and have been a pair ever since. It was the perfect start, neither of us had a clue how to sail so neither had the upper hand. Everyone likes Garry, he’s so soft natured; in four years I’ve never heard him say a bad word about anyone. He makes love so gently that I melt under him. I sometimes wish he would be a touch more macho, maybe treat me like a slave girl, order me to pleasure him. But then that would not be Garry, and on the whole I prefer him to be the man he is.
There are ten boats in our flotilla this year, mostly pairs and two boats with four on board. We are mooring tonight off a tiny and totally uninhabited island so we have to cook and do everything for ourselves. We will sleep on board but the evening promises to be a big old beach barbeque with everyone pitching in. Our flotilla leader has his guitar with him, so I guess we will end up with a campfire sing song.
It’s dark and the circle of faces around the fire display a mixture of laughing and singing, mouths open and eyes smiling. It’s late but we are all still in our swimming costumes, there’s no need to change here, we are the only ones on the island.
The song comes to an end and Costas; no one knows his real name, plays a lazy harmony on his guitar. The fire is burning down but no one is rushing to find more driftwood. The sky is gin clear and a myriad of crystal pointed stars frame a moon the size of Texas. It’s almost time to swim back to our respective boats, moored in a line across the tiny natural harbour.
The couple beside us are the first to leave. They wander hand-in-hand down the beach to the water’s edge and then stop, strip off their costumes and dive naked into the shallow water. Their white bottoms seem to glow in the moonlight as they break the silver sheen of the surface. We all watch as they swim side-by-side with over-arm strokes perfectly synchronised. It takes but a few minutes for them to reach their boat and we all watch the two silhouettes climb the chrome ladder on the stern board and disappear into the cabin. We all know, or imagine what will happen next.
Across the dying fire a couple are kissing, some more than that, but ignoring the rest of us as we try to ignore them. I nudge Garry, its time we left but he doesn’t respond. Another couple have slid down onto the sand and her top has disappeared. Her hand is inside his trunks and they have disappeared into their own private world.
I lean towards Garry, my head on his shoulder as his arm slides round my back. I feel him unhook my top and my throat tightens. I have always wanted him to be a bit more aggressive in the bedroom but not necessarily on the beach, in public. I make my decision, I breathe in deeply, knowing that the action will cause my top to drop into my lap. I look up into Garry’s face and smile the smile that he knows means it’s OK with me.
His arm slides around my back and I feel his fingertips lifting my breast. I lift my arm as if to caress his face but really to allow him to reach me. I roll onto my back with my head resting in his lap and Garry bends forward to take my nipple into his mouth. As we move together, my head falls back and my eyes lock with the couple beside us. They are watching us with eyes wide open and blank staring faces. I panic. This is not my thing and suddenly I’m suffused with shame. I can’t help it; I push Garry away and run down the beach, my arms crossed across my naked breasts, intent on hiding in our cabin as soon as I can.
In the morning, I wake alone. I think I must have cried myself to sleep, mostly because I’ve been such a softy and I hate myself for letting Garry down. I don’t know if Garry has got up early or even if he has come back at all. I pull a T-shirt over the bikini bottom that I’m still wearing and climb up on deck. There are three figures sitting on the aft rail of the boat next to me. They are all naked, and the one in the middle is Garry.

§§§§§

Now I’m driving on a motorway, it could be the M1; it could be any of a dozen such roads, they all look the same. My company car is purring like I imagine its Jaguar namesake might. I reach out to touch the polished wood trim. Girls are not supposed to like cars but this one is different. This one is my executive perk, and I like being an executive.
I like being the MD of the company even if it is a subsidiary of a much larger group. When Jock offered me the job he made it pretty clear that my name was on the door and the end of year report. “The two things stand or fall together.” his broad Scots accent ringing in my ears.
I have never regretted taking the chance, and I like to think that Jock McClellan, our group Chairman has never regretted making the offer.
I’m heading north to a meeting with my marketing director. I appointed him all of nine months ago and he has proved a good investment. Jock likes him too, he told me so just last week.
Graeme Sylvester is three years younger than me, but so what? Tonight I’m due to take him out to dinner to celebrate meeting our half-year targets. I hope he knows his way round Leeds because I certainly don’t. I know that he has worked in Leeds before; in fact I know a lot about him because I have his CV. I know what school he went to and what University. I know that he rowed on the Thames and his daddy bought him his first car. I know that he shaves regularly and he wears neat suits and silk ties. I know that his name came to me through three separate agencies, which is not supposed to happen, but I took it to be a demonstration of his ability to market himself. Above all, I know he’s single.
Tom-Tom sat nav is telling me to take the next exit and prepare to take the second exit from the roundabout. Who am I to argue?
Tom-Tom leads me to a country house hotel in the middle of nowhere. Smoothly manicured lawns either side of the drive tell me that this is the sort of place where the ladies are presented with menus without prices. Don’t worry Graeme - I’ll sign off your expenses.
The motor has barely stopped before a liveried footman is opening my door and asking me if I’m staying overnight and should he carry my bags.
I’m grateful for the air-conditioning in the car, it’s been a long drive and I’d hate to be met by a footman before I’ve had a proper chance to smooth out the wrinkles in my skirt.
I follow the footman up stone steps to the open door where Graeme is waiting to greet me. He reaches out to shake my hand and waves his left arm in an expansive gesture, “I hope this is to your taste.”
I take his hand and nod. “Looks good so far, how did you find it at short notice?”
“I’d love to say I stay here all the time, but the truth is that I waited behind the bar here while I was at Uni. I still know some of the staff.”
We both laugh together at his honesty.
Graeme suggests drinks on the terrace. I order champagne and Graeme has a spritzer which arrives with pretty little smoked salmon sandwiches, with the crusts cut off. We talk about marketing G’s & O’s. I hate goals and objectives but Jock likes them. There’s not much to talk about because everything is on track. We are ahead on three main goals and we agree to keep our powder dry in case the third quarter slips a bit. Graeme has prepared a power-point for me and we run through the slides on his laptop. It all takes less than an hour.
The sun is dipping in the west and we agree to meet at six thirty in the bar before dinner. As we part on the terrace Graeme slips an envelope into my hand, “It’s a little thank you for my appointment.”
I wait until I’m in the lift before opening the envelope. Inside is a card with my name on. Day membership of the Hotel Spa Club all treatments paid for providing they are booked and taken before six-thirty. And it’s only four o’clock.
Also in the envelope is a menu of spa services on offer and guess what, there are no prices.
In an instant, the image is of me on a massage table, doing that thing with the hot stones on my back. I had always wondered what all the fuss was about. Now I know. I’m naked save for a towel around my hair and a strip of linen cloth across my bum. A girl with firm hands has explained the idea and left me to perspire gently under the hot stones. I would never have believed it could be so relaxing. Every few minutes she comes back and wipes my back, from shoulders to ankles, with the rough linen cloth, it feels so good and I tell her so. She says “Thank you.” and goes away again.
My head is resting on the massage table, my eyes closed and my mind in neutral.
I hear a swish of the door opening and a hint of footsteps behind me before the linen cloth is lifted from my bum and falls on my shoulders again. I open one eye and see a blank white wall with low cupboards, doubtless stuffed with exotic massage potions. On the top of the cupboard is a chrome steriliser machine and reflected in the polished metal is Graeme, leaning against the door post and gazing at my body.
After dinner I invite him to my room for a nightcap. I don’t think he expects it but he does not refuse. I invite him to raid the minibar, which he does, choosing scotch for himself and brandy for me. There’s something inherently naughty about drinking straight spirits out of tooth glasses.
“Was it worth it?” I ask.
Graeme’s brow crinkles, “Was what, worth what?”
“The Spa Pass.” I elaborate.
“You tell me.”
“How much did you pay to see me in the nude? And, was it worth it?”
Graeme smiles, “I wondered if you knew. And, what am I doing here?”
“Not half enough.”

§§§§§

I’ve still got the Jag but a different, bigger desk. Jock still likes Graeme but he likes me more and I can’t be with both at the same time. Jock is nearly sixty but he is as fit as a fiddle. He plays a lot of golf and is often away from home at weekends. So am I.
I’m sure half the Board knows about us, but they don’t seem to care. My well educated guess is that I’m not the first, nor will I be the last. I have no illusions about Jock leaving home for me or anyone else, come to that. In fact, I seem to be past my sell by date. All my contemporaries are married with children and I’m only ever asked to baby-sit or play godmother at the next Christening. I do my job for the company and I’m well rewarded for it. I’m just glad that I got the job before I got Jock; it helps me sleep at night to know I did it on merit.
There is a glimmer of light on the horizon. When Jock moved me onto the Group Head Quarters Staff he put me on the fifth floor two offices along from the Company Secretary who just happens to be divorced with no kids and no other baggage in tow. Arthur Ellis is mid-forties and quiet but not half as serious or boring as his job suggests. We have enjoyed several sundowners together at the local pub but nothing much more. He knows about me and Jock.
These images are brief and meaningless. We are at a concert, saying nothing, listening to the music. We are in an art gallery, saying nothing, looking at pictures. We are on a river boat, in France during the Paris sales conference, saying nothing, looking at a million light bulbs on the Eiffel Tower.
Jock knows about Arthur and Arthur knows about Jock. Neither mentions the other in my company.
Neither of us is in a hurry to commit to anything and neither of us is going anywhere else.
I think my time with Jock is coming to an end; he hardly talks to me any more.

§§§§§

I’ve been head-hunted. Actually, I think Jock may have put in a good word for me. A new position, a big Mercedes and a whole box of company toys to play with in the West Country.
I had no idea that Falmouth was so beautiful. Our offices are in a converted warehouse on the harbour and I could spend all day watching the variety of sailing boats coming and going, if there wasn’t work to be done.
I realise the favour that Jock has done for me and I’m determined to prove that I really can manage the company as well as be his ‘bit-on-the-side’. Better make that a retired position.
My PA brings the newspapers into my office each morning with post-it notes marking things that she thinks I should know about. Occasionally the local paper has something about us and today is one of those days. My PA tells me that the Mayor wants to see me personally about our planning application for a new warehouse with river access. I agree. “Let me know when.”
The town hall is a dreary place with utility fittings everywhere. I’m clutching a folder of plans and my Site Manager is by my side with another box of detailed drawings.
We are ushered into the Mayor’s office which is enormous, with equally enormous windows overlooking the harbour and views up and down the river. A nautical telescope sits on a tripod beside his window and I realise that he can see into my off ice. How nice? The Mayor stands beside me and we exchange pleasantries.
After all the fuss with the planning department, he tells me that he will personally approve our plans and that Jock sends his best regards. I begin to see the light, its time to pack our drawings and send our underlings home for the day. I wonder if I will have to sing for my supper and for how long?
The Mayor explains how his civic duties require him to spend time out and about and how he is accustomed to taking local chiefs of industry with him from time to time. How would I feel about a weekend away in two weeks time? I realise, Jock didn’t just bid me farewell, he has passed me on.
What can I say; it appears the die is already cast. “Let my PA know the details.”
I remember sitting in my office for two weeks wondering what else I would have to do for a Mercedes and a big office, apart from actually run the company.
I’m wandering along the quay, looking at boats and remembering happy days among the Greek islands. My life since then has made a nonsense of my silly modesty on a dark and distant shore.
On impulse I flip open my mobile and tell my PA to cancel the arrangements for the weekend. The hell with the Mayor and his personal planning permission, he needs my permission for what he has in mind, and I’m not sure that I‘m in the mood.
I walk past a news-stand and the evening paper has a headline announcing the story about our new warehouse plans. There’s an artists impression of the finished building with stock pictures of me and the Mayor inset, and a blurb about the long-term benefits to the town. I head back to the office, my mind in confusion now about my side of the bargain, if that’s what it was.
My PA is running round in circles. There is a queue of people wanting to interview me. Am I available for a slot on Going West, the local TV programme? There are fifty emails waiting and several personal ones among them. What should she do?
Make tea and draw breath, seems the safest answer.
I agree to all the interviews and leave her to schedule the diary. I need to get across town by six o’clock for the TV slot, plenty of time to check some emails.
The issue of waterfront access seems to have stirred up a hornet’s nest and several emails are from corporate boat builders who are keen to know what sort of vessels we will be using on the river. One name catches my eye. Custom yachts built to order – Dot – Com. Proprietor - G. Stean. The name sounds very familiar.

§§§§§

The incandescent flashes are happening again and again. They hurt my eyes and I want to protect them with my hand but I’m holding something, or something is holding me. My arms won’t move.
The images are there again. I’m naked in front of my bedroom mirror. I’m dressing, pulling on stockings with fancy lace elasticated tops. I don’t remember buying these. There’s a matching bra and pants on the chair beside me. Suddenly the reflection in the mirror is wearing the underwear and behind me, on a hanger, is a white dress, satin with miniature white roses in a spray across the shoulder. Is it mine?
I look back to the mirror and I’m wearing the dress. My hair is brushed and clipped up with a spray of miniature white roses. I look like as though I’m going to a wedding.
Bells are ringing in my ears and the flashes won’t stop. There are voices all round, people laughing, calling my name. I open my eyes and I’m standing at the top of some church steps, holding a bouquet of white roses. I’m the bride, but who is the groom?
I’m looking downwards at the roses and I see feet beside mine. I know the shoes, functional black polished shoes, plain fronts and no toe-caps.
There are voices calling, “Kiss the Bride.” I raise my face to join the kiss and at last I know, I’m about to kiss my darling, sailor husband, Garry.
I can’t wait to get back to our Greek island-hopping flotilla, but this time on our honeymoon booked in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Garry Stean.

Impressum

Tag der Veröffentlichung: 26.06.2010

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