Flash fiction - The Crossword

Morning. Another long break I know, but this morning all my work is done and I have a break at home alone to get a story out. So I've linked up with the lovely folks at Studio 30+ again. I used the prompt humiliating. 

The Crossword

It was still humiliating, Derrick thought, as he stepped out of the tabac. For over thirty-five years he had made this town his home. The butcher, the grocer, the laundry lady, even the mayor accepted his well learnt and practised French with graciousness and without sarcasm. And yet every morning, in the simplest of exchanges over a packet of cigarettes and a newspaper, the man in the tabac replied in English, as crisp and smooth as a tennis lawn.

                Derrick walked across the square to his favourite café. Inside the smell of freshly ground coffee and the remnants of last night’s menu greeted him. He took a seat by the window. Jean Pierre waved at him from behind the bar. Breakfast would be on its way shortly.

                He opened the paper. Train strikes planned over the long weekend. Cars stolen by pretend hitchhikers in the south. A new production of Hamlet touring. Laws to be changed regarding dog ownership. He turned to the crossword and got to work.

                His pencil was nibbled, was tapped. He scribbled. It was a short, stubby, well-worn and well-travelled pencil. This was its 1000 crossword. He should savour it. Derrick leaned back, stretched out his legs, sipping his coffee and pondering number 19 down.

                Out in the square delivery vans beeped to the shop owners and tardy teenagers flopped past wanting any distraction to stop them from going to school. Derrick remembered what it was like and smiled. He licked croissant crumbs from his mouth and signalled for another.

                The door opened as Derrick was filling in 19 down. He listened to the exchange at the bar and the voice made him look over. It was the man from the tabac. He had never seen him in here. He put down his pencil and listened. His pencil rolled off the paper and onto the floor.

                The tabac owner’s daughter was seeing the café owner’s son and he wasn’t happy about how late they were staying out. They needed to agree for them to both be home by 11 each night. Jean Pierre shrugged, but agreed. The tabac owner pressed him, wanting him to agree again. Jean Pierre did so. The tabac owner sighed, thanked him and turned to leave. He noticed Derrick.

                “Hello,” he said briskly as if he was going to pass, but he stopped at Derrick’s table and looked down at it. “Oh. You do the crossword I see?” He stared at the paper, scrutinising Derrick’s answers.

                Derrick said nothing and watched him.

                The man from the tabac stepped back and looked at him. “I see you speak French then. How very bizarre I never knew!” His tight face slipped open for a second with a smile. “Au revoir Monsieur.” He turned and left the café.

                Derrick sat, stunned. He let the feeling wash over him and he soaked up his little win. The man from the tabac finally understood. Tomorrow morning would be different. This deserved a little celebration. He ordered a cognac with another coffee.

                Back to the crossword.

                He searched and searched, but he never found his pencil. 

Flash fiction - The Anniversary Cake

I have no idea what I've been doing these past couple of weeks which has meant I haven't been able to write, but well, this maternity leave must have left me busy! Anyway, here I am again joining up with the cool peeps over at Studio 30+ and their writing prompt of the week. My offering is called The Anniversary Cake and uses one of their prompts, iron. Thanks for reading and let me know what you think! 

The Anniversary Cake

The cake didn’t look like it had all the other times she had made it. The lemon glaze was less shiny, was her piping unsteady, unsymmetrical? Martha laid her hands either side of it and stared down. It smelt as it always had with the hint of ginger poking through her trio of citrus flavours. Thirty-eight years ago, David’s mother’s face had cracked a smile, gliding her fork through Martha’s cake. Crumbs had fallen into her lap, and she had left them there, devouring her plate, eyes skyward. Martha had beamed at the sight.

               But looking at it now, it didn’t hold the same attraction and Martha felt a tear spring up and roll down her cheek. It wasn’t good enough. She glanced at the clock. She didn’t have time to make another one. It would have to do. David was so busy, maybe he wouldn’t notice the shaky piping or the lack of lustre on her fruit topping. She left the cake to cool and hoped on her way upstairs it would at least taste the same.

               The iron was now hot enough and she laid out her dress, the pale blue linen one she saved for special occasions. Friends remarked how wonderful it was she could still fit into her clothes from times past. It wasn’t something Martha thought about much. She had always been slender and enjoyed her daily walks on the grounds with the dogs, weekly swims and Pilates classes. Her friends said she was dedicated, and they lacked the commitment to exercise. Martha didn’t remind them that they had children and busy lives, while she had little to do. She enjoyed the compliment too much to open the discussion and her life to more scrutiny.

               She took the dress through to the bedroom and hung it on the wardrobe door while she undressed, sprayed a rose scent over her body and ran almond cream over her arms and legs. She paused, looking at the mirror. Why not? She thought. She dipped her hand in the cream and rubbed it into her breasts and belly. Maybe, just maybe, David would want to make love tonight.

               It hadn’t gone well. Five phone calls interrupted dinner. He didn’t even notice the present beside his plate until she pointed it out. He hadn’t got her even a card. Then, once the cake was on the table, he started on the fact she always made that “bloody cake” and didn’t he give her “enough money to buy new clothes? Why was she wearing that old thing?” Martha tried to take him back to a place on the seaside and a cosy little Italian where she had worn that dress; to a mid-afternoon picnic when she had surprised him at the office many years ago with prawn sandwiches and her cake. He wasn’t interested. He took his brandy to the study, leaving the door slightly ajar, like a dare.

               She didn’t take him up on it. She quietly took her coat and slipped out of the front door, crossing the curved driveway armed with huge lavender pots and onto the lawn. Clouds crumbled the moon’s light. She heard an owl in the distance and wondered how long it would take to reach that owl, and fly into the night with it. Somewhere, anywhere.

               Martha headed towards the thicket at the bottom of the lawn and crossed the style. The wooden beams were slick with moss and dew. She made no sounds on the wet leaves as she took the path which eventually opened up at their little lake.

               Martha looked at the water and thought of the vows they had made on the pontoon opposite thirty-six years ago. She thought of David’s disbelieving mother who would give up the rights to the house; of his father, distracted by the illegitimate child the cook was carrying; of her parents’ puzzled faces at the beauty that some people lived in; of David’s seriousness and her own, complete joy.

               Now she understood her parents’ confusion about how the poor girl from the village would make it work with the rich, handsome gent from the house on the hill. She understood why they had cast her adrift, quietly and unceremoniously, setting her off on this path they couldn’t follow. But it had only led her here.
               She stepped towards the water’s edge. 

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Flash fiction - Moving Day

Finally, a day with some time to write. It's been too long, as always. Here's a short story prompted by our writer friends over at Studio 30+. The words we had to use are in bold. Check out others by clicking the icon below. Thoughts and comments always welcome. I'm now off to enjoy the sunny river...

Moving Day

She would like to go backwards because it all began to fall apart just when it had become perfect. Or something close to perfect in her fourteen-year-old mind.

Laying at the edge of the cornfields, bottles of lemonade at their side, satchels flung and just the sounds of crickets, or bees, or some insect she promised to look up later; and them, touching, side by side, breathing the same air and wondering if this was what love could be.

His sweet lips and the stories that sprung from them, even before she tasted them for real and dissolved into him, letting him cover her with newness and give birth to an ache in her whole being she had not been prepared for.

The note in her locker: Meet me after math next to the gym. The goose bumps of expectation, nerves and the warm sensation sliding all over her body at the thought of just seeing him alone.

Taking her hand under the lunch table and squeezing it, albeit briefly, before stroking her fingers one by one. Her eyes down, trying not to cry at the hurtful things which had been said before; her heart grateful for the kindness shown in secret. Don’t listen to them. You’re nothing like your mother. I am here, friend.

The science experiment the day her best friend was at a music exam and the teacher forced her to move to his bench, where his long fingers cradled the test-tubes and his eyes laughed at her behind the goggles. She hated science. He loved it. She would love it.

His first day at school and the red jacket everyone laughed at, except her because it meant no matter where he was she could find him. Across the grass, his blond hair twinkling in the September sunshine, his hands not knowing what to do as he looked beyond the other boys for something more interesting than football stats. He found her, though she pretended he hadn’t. Then.

Now. The moving trucks looming outside, casting a shadow over the house and her whole life. Her mum gone, her dad with a face as sad as the end always is. Her brothers crying, wailing, as their lives are ripped from the roots of the tree swing, the porch, the sandpit, Harvey’s kennel. Her screaming at the injustice of it all, the pain of separation, her future blinded by him not being there.

Flash fiction - Two's Company

Another writing treat of a day and another cool prompt over at Studio 30 Plus. This week it is precarious perch. It's funny how some words just have such a strong pull in a certain direction. Read below and then check out the other entries and you'll see what I mean. There's good company over at Studio 30 Plus, so click on the icon at the bottom to read more. Thanks for stopping by.

Two’s Company

While I sit here on my little wooden perch, strung between the bars at either end of my world, I watch her and wonder if it is not she who dangles, who forever tries to stay steady on her own precarious perch in her world which, if we’re honest, is hardly greater than mine.

The curtains, drawn, shading the glare of the afternoon and dousing us both in pale yellow light, reveal nothing beyond these faded flowered walls, sideboards full of fine china, soft upright chairs which never get creased. 

I try to listen beyond this silence to sounds that come from other birds in the green and open place I glimpsed a long time ago; or maybe I have only dreamt it. Now, I cannot remember. 

Holding the furniture with all her might, holding onto anything for dear life, she shuffles to the window, maybe hoping today will be the day she looks out. But no, her chair welcomes her back just seconds later and the moment has passed. Her hands are back in her lap, rolling over each other’s emptiness and the pain of having no other hand to hold. 

It is then I wish I was more than feathers and could offer a hand through the bars. 

Flash fiction - Bank Holiday

The prompt over at Studio 30+ this week is, let's say, to the point! Back from two long weekends travelling and having visitors I now have a long weekend of my own at home to write, read, walk and potter. Nothing like a good potter. Anyway, without further ado, the prompt is quick and lethal and here is my offering. Thanks for reading!

Bank Holiday

The thought kept running through his mind. Like an unceasing throb, a dripping tap, a finger pressed lightly around the trigger; each minute pushing him towards a decision already decided in his core. 
   Subdued today in a purple shadow, the office murmured its silent approval. He grabbed the bottle at his side and let the bitter, golden liquid push his leftover fears away. Fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling. His heart started a march of its own, lifting him, telling him it was the only way, the only way out. 
   Before another itch of doubt surfaced, he drained the bottle and starting typing, his hands moving expertly around the keyboard, his eyes focused on the numbers on the screen. A few zeroes here, a shift of a decimal there. Covering his tracks gave him bravado; hiding behind falsity gave him courage. He sat taller, breathed deeper, as he finished with a tap and click. 
   The answer was quick; the result was lethal. It was a long weekend and no one noticed until first light Tuesday, when his feet were already being warmed by the sea of a distant shore. 

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Flash fiction - Life's Crescendo

Writing prompts take you in all manner of directions. What appears to be a happy prompt by the prompter can be cut into sad little pieces. Or a mysterious line for some turns into a romantic comedy for others. This week over at Julia's Place, I went in the opposite direction to what prompted the prompt by Julia. Here's my offering including the words, whenever I hear it I think of you. 

Life’s Crescendo

Those last days, you clawed onto life. Rasping through an unimaginable pain, your skin translucent I didn’t know where the sheets ended and you began. You, shrunken to something else. Gone. Broken-hearted, that was all I could see afterwards. I stood on our cliff, looked out into nothingness. Inched forward. 
     But the bandstand threw me a life-line. Those notes, the interruption of the trumpets like a shock to the heart. The crescendos made me look up, into the blue, the light. I stepped back, let the wind and your music carry me back to life. Now, whenever I hear it I think of you and I see sunshine. 

100 words + prompt

Click on the 100WCGU icon to read more entries and enter.

Flash fiction - Children's Ward

Julia, over at Julia's Place, is feeling a bit melancholy this week. I don't think my 100WCGU story is going to cheer her up. Our prompt is ...but there was still enough light... Let me know what you think and go and read other entries here.

Children’s Ward

Do you remember how the nurses left us in darkness, but there was still enough light to play cards? The stars twinkled through the blinds that summer, adding to the flashes on the monitors. It was enough. Do you remember the bottles of ketchup hidden under the bed? Your face was pure joy as you ate up those banned chemicals on that organic stuff Mum brought in. Do you remember the last thing you said

to me? Do you? It was, “Open the window”. Not long after that you flew out, leaving cards and ketchup and me an only child. 

100 words

Flash fiction - The Break Up

Over at Studio30Plus there's a new prompt. Actually, that's a lie. There's two. You can choose one. Or both. They are HURT and BUTTER. Here's my effort:

The Break Up

On the other side of the door, she sat. I assumed she was sitting because that's what I had always done. I would wipe myself down the back of the bathroom door and stay with my face buried in the half-wet towels. What would a few more tears matter? They were always dry by morning.

Different house, different times, Diane. Focus. "Darling? You OK?" I kept my voice light, though I thought afterwards it made me sound as if I didn't know that, quite obviously, she wasn't all right.

"Go away." The two words a mother ignores again and again. I will never go away, my child. Please don't ever think that I will. I won't. One day, you will go away: but I will never leave you.

"Darling, open the door. Talk to me."

My daughter played the same game I had with my mother until she died. I had always wanted to tell her everything, be her best friend; but I tried to keep things back, have those teenage secrets. In the end, she always knew and I always told. But for a while I would pretend my life was all mine and only mine. Shannon was better at it than I was. She held everything so quiet and close to her, I would only find out days, even weeks later. And she'd then treat it as if it was ancient history and I was a pain for trawling backwards. I wanted one moment in the now. 

"Come on, Darling. You can't stay in there all night. You don't have to come downstairs, let's just go to your room. You don't have to tell me. Just come out."

I heard my daughter thinking about it as the muffled sobs fought their way back inside. There was a beautiful silence before the taps ran and, then, slowly, she opened the door.

That angel's face, blotched with the hurt of a young love that in such a short time will mean very little. I stepped forwards and wrapped her hunched and unhappy shoulders into my own being, wanting to push my heart into her chest and take out her shaken one. 

I didn't expect it, but she collapsed right there and then on the landing. She shuddered heaves of tears onto my cardigan and pressed her elbows into my hips. It felt wonderful. Not since her excitement of her cross country win in middle school had her touch been so meaningful.

Later, in bed, my husband said, "She'll have to have breakfast. She can't not eat and turn into the Turners' girl."

I looked at him and smiled. "I know. She will. It will pass."

"Your first broken heart isn't nothing, Di. But it's good she talked to you."

My face must have misted up for he put his book down, turned to me and said, "I think you quite enjoyed it really."

I did. Oh, I did. 

Working Late

I've gone for a little poem this week, on the prompt from Julia's Place and the 100-word Challenge for Grown-Ups. Click on the image below for more information and to read others' take on the prompt. This week we had to include ...parting is such sweet sorrow...

Working Late

Lights dimmed, hoovers on

It’s now time to go,

But he’s still here and boss has gone

So it’s not for work I know.

I move things around my desk,

The cleaner watches me.

He hears me tidying my mess,

Tries to pack up slowly.

He’s timed it wrong so stays

By the lift tying his shoe.

I grab my bag, sway his way

Finally: it’s us two.

“Out tonight?” he dares.

I smile, shake my head.

“Are you going anywhere?”

“Nah, home and early bed.”

Lift opens, it’s over;

The game waits until tomorrow.

He goes – my not-yet lover;

Parting is such sweet sorrow. 

100 words + prompt

100WCGU - Bummed

This flash fiction was brought to you by this picture prompt. Click on the photo to go and read more stories at Julia's Place. Comments welcome below!

“We admire your enthusiasm, David.”

“Thanks. I love this place. Grandpa was curator before the war, and Mum worked in fundraising before she had me. I’ve been waiting for this opportunity.”

“Ah, how long for?”

“Ages. But I been taking courses.”

“And visiting us of course.”

“Yes. Practising my photos and drawings. I got a photo on your website.”

“Indeed. Well, decision time. I’m sorry, but I think it’s a no.”

“Oh. Why?”

“Perhaps when a ticket selling job comes up you could apply, but after last month’s little mishap, I don’t think museum cleaner is for you.”

99 words, including title

Visa Line

Visa Line

Behind the men behind desks fans whirred.

Akoko sat still, hands clasped to appear calm. Impossible, with war raging in the streets; her war at home with the man who said he loved her, but raped her.

“Akoko Magero. Desk four.”

Nineteen hours waiting. Legs numb. Heart pumping.

The man didn’t look up. He read her form with the face of someone who cared for nobody. He lifted his pen.

“Sir, please,” she whispered.

The pen made one line. She peered at the box. Could be a tick!

As the line was crossed and stamped red she fell away: from the chair, from hope.

This story was brought to you by the prompt at Julia's Place. We had to include 'as the line was crossed'. 

104 words. Click on the picture to read more entries and check out the 100 Word Challenge for Grown Ups.

Poverty

The prompt for this flash fiction was 'Looking at all that chocolate...'

Poverty

Steamy windows; noses pressed firm. Watching the bucket swivel and swing along the wire and… wait… The chickens sing, beaks yellow against the painted blue sky. “Happy Easter!” they coo. Their heads bob up and down as the bucket swings past. Plop, plop, plop!

Then suddenly it stops and turns upside down. Coloured eggs roll along slides in front of the window. Shiny foil full of promise. They keep coming! Expectant eyes cling to sweet hope.

Looking at all that chocolate, Mary wondered if Nathan believed it came from chickens. He’d learn. There ain’t no golden egg to help them this month.

“Sorry, Nathan. Come on.” 

100 words + prompt.

See Julia's Place blog for more prompts and other 100-word stories.

The Bandage, part two

This is the second half of the short story I posted on Friday, The Bandage.

The Bandage, continued.

*

“Michael, stop fidgeting. You’ll make it worse.” Abigail put a calming arm on his plaster cast. At least it used to be calming.

“It itches. How much longer does it have to be on for?”

“Two more weeks. Then you’ll be as good as new. Christina, sit back down please. We haven’t finished.”

“That will be the end of the season! I was going to get player of the season for sure. This is shit.”

Christina looked at her father and Freddie looked up from his plate. Abigail closed her eyes a second too long.

“Michael, language.” Her husband’s voice surprised her, although it was too soft for her liking. She added, “It’s making you better, Michael. It’s not just for show. Christina, please.”

Christina slumped back into her chair. “You shouldn’t have been such an idiot then.”

“Whatever.” Michael shovelled more food into his mouth with his good arm. Peace again.

“Dad,” Christina said, “can I go to Russ’s band’s thing this weekend?”

“Where and what time is it?” Freddie pushed his plate away and sat back. His hands went behind his head.

“Why should she get to go out, she never finishes her dinner, never tidies her room.” Michael had suddenly finished as well and threw his fork down. It missed the plate and crashed into his glass.

Freddie turned to his daughter, incredibly thin and incredibly beautiful. She reminded him of an energy he had lived by a long time ago. “It’s a good question, Teenabopper. Why aren’t you eating?”

“Not hungry.” Arms folded like swords across her chest.

Abigail hunted her daughter’s face. Seeds of shame had been sown somewhere. She couldn’t think why. “Darling, you need to eat.” She said it as gently as she could.

Christina got up and glared at her. “What? So I end up like you?”

The kitchen door slammed. Freddie stood up.

“Please don’t go after her; that was rude.”

“I’m not. I’m going to the gym and then I’ve got a call with Japan. Back soon.”

Michael felt sorry for his mum. He wished he could take away the sadness in her face. She looked defeated. “Shall we have some ice cream, Mum?”

*

“Doctor, I love my wife. Or I used to. No, of course I still do. But she used to be so different. I couldn’t get enough of her. What do you mean in what way? In every way. I’m a man. I have needs and she filled each one of them. Oh, she was so beautiful. And she taught me things. We used to play this word game after sex. I don’t know why we stopped. Yes, the kids came along. She was always seeing to them. She was perfect and then I just didn’t notice her. The affairs? Not really affairs. They weren’t anything. I suppose so, they were fun and exciting. No, it didn’t mean anything. The weight? Not really. It just crept on. It did annoy me, but I had to keep the money coming in. Sex? Not much. Maybe she was getting it elsewhere.”

“No, Sarah, I never even looked at another man. I always loved Freddie. He remained so beautiful, so handsome. That’s why I felt so ugly and betrayed. He didn’t have to tell me he was disgusted with me, I could see it in his face. The diets helped, he started to notice me again and that felt good. But it was like so much time had gone by. He wanted me back to my university days. That was impossible, we were different people. The kids had finally gone and it was just us again. That was better for him, he got all the attention. What do I want? I just want him to love me for me. I’m fifty-six years old. I’m not nineteen. Yes, we’ve been having sex again. Better for me than him. I do feel guilty about that.”

“Of course I feel guilty, Doctor, but we’re past that now. And I think it’s great she’s back to normal. I mean, I didn’t leave her because she got fat. I’m still here, aren’t I? No, I’m doing this because she wants me to. OK, I can make this easy for you. Perfection. That’s what I want. I love her. So much. Yes, I’m sure about that.”

“I just want to be me, to be happy. He will still say some things. But I think he loves me, maybe too much. Sarah, there’s just a physicality with Freddie. It’s always been there. Oh, I relished in it when I was younger. But now. It’s just good to have my husband back. I know he won’t cheat anymore; we’ve reached a good understanding. It took a while to patch things up, but this has helped. We’ve healed and mended bridges, I think. But you know, Sarah, the plaster can always come off, you know?”

*

Freddie sat in the car outside the hospital. His thumb hovered over his mobile phone. He couldn’t do it. They could all wait. He threw the phone into the passenger seat.

“SHIT!” He banged his fists on the steering wheel, yelling at it, pounding it, crying to it. He rested his forehead and let the tears flow. He had never been afraid to cry. Tears dropped onto his trousers. He felt cold.

In one decisive moment, Freddie got out of the car. He ran over to the hospital. The woman on the front desk knew him and didn’t stop him as he tore past her, red face and clenched fists. He took a sharp left, running faster, crashing through doors, and bounded two at a time up the stairs to the second floor.

He collapsed at the nurses’ desk. “I need to see her. Please let me back in.”

“You can see her, Mr Balding. But you’ll have to wait. Give me five minutes and I’ll take you to her. All right? Take a seat just there and wait for me.”

Freddie sat and stared at his wedding ring. He hadn’t noticed it in so long. But it had always been there. It felt tight. He tried loosening it, turning it round in his fingers. He remembered first putting it on. It hadn’t been the done thing in those days, but he’d wanted to. Abigail had been right. She had been right about so many things.

“Mr Balding.” The voice was at the end of a long tunnel. He allowed his arm to be taken to a place, sterile, cold and shiny. He followed his arm. There was Abigail.

“I’ll leave you alone.” Someone closed the tunnel and there was silence.

Freddie stepped towards his wife. “Darling.” The vowels echoed off the walls. “Abigail.”

He reached out and touched her hand. There was no need to squeeze it, let her know he was there. He stroked it with his fingertips as he looked towards her face.

The bandage was still partly there. Her eyes and nose were both free, but her cheeks, chin and forehead were still hidden from him.

“I wanted it, didn’t I? Can I see you now? Can I know?” He brought his hands to her face and gently stroked her closed eyes. He felt his wife was there, all there behind those eyelids. That’s what he had first seen, that is where he had fallen all those years ago. He leaned down and kissed them, his own tears on Abigail’s closed eyes.

“You’ll get bored of me. You’ll find someone else.” Had she said those words, laying in his bed, half naked, totally beautiful? “No I won’t. You’re perfect, bloody perfect.”

Freddie rested his hands on her bandaged cheeks and kissed her mouth through it. Abigail would have to stay as she was; perfect inside and him blind to it as he always had been. He walked out of the room to go and call his children. No more cover-ups.

The Bandage, a short story

In The Bandage, I am interested in the notion of physical beauty and what it represents to different people; how it comes to define them in their and others' eyes. I wrote this short story a couple of weeks ago while working in the bookshop where there is peace and inspiration aplenty. I am going to post it in two parts. Let me know what you think.

The Bandage

“I can’t wait to see you.”

“I’m just here, Freddie. I’m right here. You can see me right now.”

“I know that, Darling. Don’t be silly, you know what I mean. The package. Everything all new again. It’s going to be amazing when the bandage comes off.”

“Right.”

Abigail sank back into her pillows and closed her eyes. Pain tingled around her face. Her heart felt like it wanted to escape her chest. She was hot, inside; not sweaty. She tried to think how she had gotten here.

“I brought you myself. Is something wrong?” Freddie went closer to the bed and leaned towards his wife, not quite reaching touching distance.

“I… sorry, did I say that out loud?”

“Get some rest, Darling. You’ll need it for the party on Saturday. I’ll be back in a bit.”

She didn’t open her eyes as she heard his soft leather shoes tap out of the room. It was just her, her pain and her unknown face.

*

“Abi, he’s a wretch! Freddie Balding? You serious?”

Abigail curled her fingers round the wine glass stem. Just hearing his name sent fire through her body. She sat more upright and looked at her friend, who was covered in frowns.

“He’s not.” Her voice was soft. “He’s the sweetest person you’ll ever meet. I know he’s got this reputation, but… oh, you don’t even want to see the poetry he’s written me. He’s passionate. He’s brilliant. When I’m with him-”

Lucy held her hand up and smiled. “OK, I don’t need to hear any more of that. If you’re sure. I just assumed what everyone else does about him. I mean, he’s been linked with some pretty famous faces around town.”

Abigail sipped the last of her wine. Lucy’s face was now full of smirks and questions. She would have to explain. Somehow she would have to tell her friend that Freddie Balding had fallen madly and passionately in love with her and that what had started out as a flirtatious adventure had soon blossomed into something real, something more than sex and pet names. There were now plans to live together after graduating, plans for them to get married on his parent’s ranch in South Africa, plans to have children and a long, wonderful life together.

Later that evening as she biked home Lucy thought about her best friend’s news. She choked on the thought and laughed out loud, full of wine and gossip. Her best friend was going to marry Freddie Balding! The bike hit a cobble and swerved. Lucy went flying into a lamp post. At the wedding that summer people were told Lucy was lucky to be alive, let alone wearing only an ugly bandage around her head.

*

He woke to the smell of sex and soap. The shutters were down, but the slits of light bursting in orange on the floor said it was another beautiful day.

Freddie rolled onto his side and ran his fingers through his hair before playing with Abigail’s nipple. She had been awake for over an hour, debating whether to leave him while he slept and enjoy the peace of their private beach, invigorate herself in the sea.

“Morning Sexy.” Freddie nuzzled into her side and came around to lie on top of her, his tongue stroking her collarbone and neck.

She shifted under him, he suddenly felt heavy.

“What?” He rolled off and she got out of bed.

“Let’s go outside,” she said, putting on a sarong and opening the blinds. The sun poured in with the sounds of morning birds and waves lapping.

“I’d rather stay here with you. Your drive me wild.” He softened his face. Blond curls fell over his forehead. His bottom lip, plump and pink, stuck out. His green eyes swirled, smooth like homemade ice cream.

Her heart lurched. She smiled at him and pushed it back down. There was no getting over his beauty, his love for her.

“Come on Abs, don’t leave me here all alone. I’d die. My heart would break. I’d bleed to death without you. You would come back and there would just be a pile of blood.” He laid back, hands resting behind his head. She watched his stomach muscles clench and ease and his shoulders relax into the pillows, his tanned skin like toffee over their snow.

Abigail took a step towards him. The sun was warm on her bare feet. It looked so beautiful out there, a whole paradise just for them. She slid onto the bed. He slipped his hands under her sarong.

“You can’t have a pile of blood. It would be a puddle.”

“Well, you saved me, Abs,” he murmured into her hair as she leaned in closer. “You bloody well save me.”

She kissed him on the lips and covered him with her body.

*

“I’m sorry, Mrs Balding, I can’t tell you where he is. I simply don’t know. The diary says Fletcher meeting, which is a new development south of town. He’s probably running late from that.”

Abigail wondered if secretaries all went to a special school to learn how to speak with the same clipped and feminine tone. And to lie for their bosses.

She put the phone down as Michael walked in the door. “Mummy, Christina’s spilled her milk.” He stood in the middle of the kitchen, a spitting image of his father except in Thomas the Tank Engine clothes. Abigail gathered her son up and took him through to the living room, where his sister was making hand prints from the milk which hadn’t soaked into the carpet.

“Puddles!” she cried when she saw her mother.

Abigail laughed. “Come on you two, come over here. Thomas the Tank Engine will be on in a minute. Wait there. I’ll clean this up. No more hand prints, OK Christina?”

Thumbs went in mouths and silence prevailed for some seconds until the theme tune started. Her children sat happy in their world and Abigail cleaned up the milk listening to the Fat Controller tell off a train.

“Mummy, is the Fat Controller your brother?” Michael looked over at her from the couch.

“No Darling, why do you say that?”

“You have the same faces, Mummy, don’t you?”

Christina shouted, “Mummy Fat Controller!”

Abigail looked at her children. “I’ll bring you some more milk,” she said.

*

The second part will be posted over the weekend.