For(4)Women

By David Stevens

This story centres around the lives of four, 'twenty something' women, sharing a house owned by one of them. The story is told from the viewpoint of Clare, who in despair with her failing love life, decides to salve her concerns and entertain herself by writing a book, unbeknown to her companions. It details their lives, loves, views feelings and some hilarious confusing adventures as she the author views them, or as they tell her.
The story follows the development of various romances and as with all the best stories it has a happy, but for some characters, a very surprising end! following the lives of the women and their empowering into relationships both successful and not . a true romance with elements of the chick lit style and based on true stories regaled to the author directly over a number of years, by real women who have lived the experiences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Stevens
• Release date: Sep 17, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311592972

David Stevens

Dr David Stevens is generally regarded as one of the world's leading project strategists, particularly in value management, value engineering, risk management, partnering, project alliancing and strategic planning.His academic qualifications include three Masters degrees MEng (Hons); MSc (Environmental Psychology); MA (Literature); and a PhD, (Psychology). The framework and theoretical basis for his facilitation techniques are derived from his specialisation as an organisational psychologist. He is a member of the Australian Psychological Society. Dr Stevens was an Adjunct Professor at the School of Engineering and Industrial Design at the University of Western Sydney for ten years (1999 – 2009). He has acted as an external examiner of doctoral level theses. He has authored 7 books, one of which is a major international text published by McGraw Hill. He has held several board positions and has been Chairman of an Australian Standards Committee.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

It had all been going so well, Mike and I had met at a bar, it was some friend of a friends 'do' and I had been dragged along as the accompaniment, because I presume, I was free that night; come to think of it, up until I met Mike, most of my nights were free!

Anyway there I was playing wallflower, when up walks this gorgeous man, and I do mean gorgeous; straight away I noted that he was taller than me, which is always a good start in a man and especially if he is still taller even when I have high heels on. His smile filled out and lit up his face. It had just the right amount of rugged handsomeness and he was wearing expensive smelling aftershave lotion.

Mum always told me that clothes make the man; I think that she was nearly right, shoes make the man, and his were perfect, clean and polished to a mirrors surface. I smiled sort of coyly and waited to see what he might do next. What he did was exactly what I wanted; he offered me a drink and then casually led me away from the wall to sit with him, next too, not opposite too, a good start. Well that was the beginning of the relationship and for the first time in ages, I had a male friend and a rather dashing one at that!

It had been going great for nearly three whole months, when out of the blue he rang me, strange as it was not one of our days to meet up, we arranged to meet for dinner. I was working late, so if I were to get home, change, and look drop dead gorgeous for him it would have to be a late meal. Anyway I came home and picked out the jade dress, the one I always wear if I want to look especially appealing, and that was where the trouble started!

My shoes were missing; or rather I forgot where I had left them, then I remembered that they were in my case which was still in Bristol. I had left it behind the last time I went home to my step-parents, and inside of that case were my prized 'Jimmies'. Faced with the severity of the problem, only one possible answer sprang to mind. Lou had a pair of a similar colour, though not quite as nice as my Jimmies of course, but they would have to do.

The only problem is that Lou takes a size 5 and I take a 6, but needs must. After all I was only going from the house by taxi to the restaurant, and then after a pleasant evening with Mike, home to either his place or mine, tonight might be the night. I had almost decided that we had put off the inevitable awkward first coupling for long enough; mostly because, for some reason he had never really tried to bed me. It had been a frustrating three months for me, but tonight it would all work out and sex would be back on the menu, thank God.

Some hope, the fates and their bloody warped sense of humour were about to do the only screwing around that night! We met as arranged; he looked perfect, neat, presentable and ready, sexy enough to eat! If he could have read my mind I am sure that he would have blushed, or at least as I entered the restaurant that was what I truly believed. The maitre d' led me over to his table, he having arrived first, and I sat down just looking at him, although wondering about the third place setting, presuming that a mistake had been made.

Lou's shoes were by now killing me; being a size smaller than in an ideal world I take, they had been hard enough at first to squeeze into, and now they were pinching my toes together and at the same time scraping my heels. I would have mountainous blisters by tomorrow but it would be worth all the pain, if, as I hoped, my desires came to fruition. The meal went smoothly; we talked inanely about work, his mostly, our day and about nothing really. Clearly he had something on his mind and I just hoped that he would get it out into the open soon. As for the pain in my feet I had a solution, I eased first one, then the other of the shoes off under the table. The relief was immediate, a quick wiggle of my toes and already my feet were beginning to feel more normal; Note to self: get mum to post my Jimmies to me.

Having eaten my main course I was just considering a dessert, when a man approached the table. Mike waved him away and he veered off, taking a seat at the bar across from us. With my curiosity tweaked, I surreptitiously looked over the menu to get a better look at him. He was older than either Mike or I, possibly fifty to our late twenties. He kept himself rather well for a man of his age, and if I had been single, perhaps I might have been interested! I turned my attention back to Mike and before I could say anything he spoke. Finally, I remember thinking, he was getting to the point of this meal, once that was over perhaps we could get on with dealing with other more pressing points, mine I hope.

Umm, I had never known him stuck for words.

Umm, he repeated, before delivering the classic line.

Its not you, its me

Oh no, I know what's coming, I have been told this one before; it can't be happening, not from him, not now! He mumbled on for a second or two before pulling himself together and blurting out his reasons for seeing me, for this date and for the third chair.

I'm gay! I now know that I'm gay, and...

You tell me this now; you couldn't tell me, say three months ago! No wonder you never tried to lay me, you bastard, you... you... I ran out of words. He now knew that he was gay! What had he thought before he met me? He has to date me first and then he knows! The full horror of what he has said kicks me in the groin; extending, the pain swiftly rises up to my stomach and makes me feel as sick as a dog.

I was going to have sex with you tonight, not just sex, I was going to make love to you, and now you tell me that you like men, not me!

What could I do? Mr Fifty was now standing up and as I had a glass of white wine in my hand I threw it, straight into Mike's face. With a passing shot of I hope you're happy! to the fast approaching Mr Fifty.

I stormed past and out of the restaurant slamming the door behind me. Tonight I would not be going Dutch, he could pay the bloody bill himself, damn him!

I turned right and ran, not at that point noticing either of the two critical things that would cap my disastrous night. One, it was raining, and I mean chucking it down. Two, I had no shoes on; they were resting under the table where I had placed them, when I had taken them off.

Already the rain water was making my feet feel cold through my stockings. The rain quickly soaked through the material of my favourite dress adding to my misery. It was the rain that made me take shelter in a shop doorway, not the possibility of him following me out of the restaurant. There was no way that I was going back in there, I had already created quite a ripple of gossip amongst the other patrons by my hasty departure, to return would be just too humiliating. The shoes, damn it, the shoes! 'No way,' I told myself, I would have to buy Lou a new pair, because there was no way that I was going back to get them!

Mike exited the restaurant and stood in the middle of the road, looking first one way then another, obviously looking for me; he isn't going to find me, of that I am certain. I ducked back into the shadows of the doorway, but not before I saw Mr Fifty step towards Mike and put his hand on his shoulder. I couldn't hear what he said, but the effect was that both he and Mike turned back towards the restaurant, vanishing from my sight.

The rain gave not the slightest hint of stopping, which meant that I either remained in this rather dirty doorway (was that vomit in the corner?) all night, or I got thoroughly soaked walking, with luck I might be able to find a telephone box and call for a taxi. The most annoying thing is that I had quite recently spent nearly two hundred pounds on a state of the art, and rather nicely decorated, mobile phone with its own leather carry case, but that was sitting on my bedside table, and why? Because the only handbag that matched my rather sexy outfit was just too small to get everything in, and I like a fool had decided that my make-up, a toothbrush and a spare pair of undies was more important on this date, than a telephone! A lesson to be learnt in that decision I am sure...

The light scarf that I had wrapped around my shoulders, just to compliment the dress, failed miserably to deflect the rain, as I slowly headed towards the town centre, and the only Taxi Rank that I knew of in the area, or a telephone box if I reached one earlier. People became more obvious, but at least the rain masked my tears as I walked past them.

Young lovers hand in hand walking towards the Discos', the odd group of lecherous males gathered together; all were a blur to me that night. As I walked on getting wetter, I supposed that I had reached the point when I am so cloaked in water that I can get no wetter. My neat hair had given up the ghost and I could feel my waterproof mascara beginning to follow my hair. What must I look like to these strangers?

'Taxi Rank' at last! I could read the sign but there were no cars waiting, mixed groups of people milled around the area, but they didn't seem interested in leaving town just yet, so at least there would not be a queue. At last my hero arrived, pulling up in a sweeping puddle-dispersing arc, to park in the bay provided, I quickly reached the rear door and opened it getting in, much I think to his disgust or was it just concern for his leather seats?

Where to luv?

I looked at him and mumbled my address between shivers; the cold was really beginning to bite by the time I finally got home from that night...

CHAPTER 2

Saturday morning and my world still felt as bleak as it had been two long days ago. I was curled up in a snug warm bed, beneath a thick inviting duvet, mentally bemoaning my life, love and bloody everything. I needed to get up if only to go to the loo, but I just couldn't drag myself from my warm womb like hidey-hole. If I went out of my room I was likely to meet one of them, not that I disliked any of them, of course I didn't, they are my friends, my housemates, my link to sanity, but just now I couldn't face the questions.

Are you feeling better? Is there anything I can do? Etc. Etc., Instead I decided to lie here and moulder beneath the covers, ignoring my bladder. Saturdays are wonderful, after all I decided its just men that are rotten, and especially men called Mike...

This is not on, now I am damn certain that I am not going to a lie here thinking about men, it isn't right. I have just been dumped and that's a fact, but I have a right not to think about men if I don't want to, a God given, and only to females and of course gay men, right to be miserable if I choose, without having thoughts of men creeping in. Thinking about men only brings up the subject of sex and as I haven't even made the acquaintance with my vibrator since commencing to go out with Mike, let alone, had real sex, then thinking about men is definitely bang out of order.

My bladder has decided to really stress its presence, making itself known, besides, the need for a coffee hit is also rearing in my thoughts. If I am quiet, I could possibly get both to the loo and make the coffee, and maybe even escape detection back to my room. An hour of sitting up in bed not thinking about men, or about being dumped or about... Damn it there I go again! I get out of bed, put on my thick terrytowel gown, and sneaked out of my room then along the landing to the bathroom, so far so good! Sometime later, I returned undetected coffee in hand to my bed, to mope, and of course, to not think about men and 'Mike the bastard' in particular.

Not easy really when all you feel like doing is moping and bemoaning your life, what is needed I decided is a distraction! Something to focus my thoughts away from him! Something interesting or at least something with some potential to be interesting! A book perhaps, but I had already read everything I had on my shelves. It was at that moment that a stroke of pure genius illuminated my dull sex-less life, and it wasn't about a man, or even men, let alone him 'The Bastard Mike,' as I was beginning to think of him.

Escape into the innocence of the distant past can be quite cathartic and that was the idea, a trip down memory lane, a look at the young girl I used to be, a revisiting of the thoughts and ideas of my past, about my future! Like most young girls I had once begun a diary, I remember writing in it eagerly for perhaps two years, it was a five year diary I remember, before more interesting things took up my time, like boys for instance. I know that I have the diary somewhere; it is probably I reasoned, still packed in the last remaining cardboard box at the bottom of my wardrobe.

I was right; five minutes of pulling things out and dumping them on the floor and the box was revealed. Inside waited the book and my old tin of memories. I opened the tin first, and found a ribbon with number one written on it, in white, I had won that ribbon in my very first gymkhana and I was so proud of it. I remember wearing it for a day or two until I realised that it was 'a bit silly really,' then I had put it away in my tin. The things you do when you are ten years old! But the things you do when you are twenty-eight are in their own way just as embarrassing, if a bit more adult generally!

I picked the book up ignoring the rest of the tin's contents; I slipped further under the duvet and propping the book up on my raised knees, opened it. The writing was a scrawl, sloping and missing the lines in places, but still legible, just! I read about Tony my first ever boyfriend when I was eleven; that had lasted according to the diary for a whole week, I remember it as lasting much longer! There was lots of flowery gossip, none of it of any great note to me now, but I read on.

Thirty pages later I had come to the end of the diary at the age of thirteen or so, and in a strange way I felt slightly better, perhaps there is something to keeping a diary, even if it is only to look back on when you feel miserable. Perhaps I should begin one again? Though firstly appealing in some ways, the reality of writing down all my thoughts on a daily basis did not really appeal on second thoughts. It would make me look so dull and perhaps even desperate at times. On the other hand I had always enjoyed writing at school, I had even sent away some of my short stories and even had one published! I only remembered that fact when I read about it in my defunct diary, so they do have a use.

If a diarist I am not to be, then what about an Authoress?

I could write a book and tell my life story, what there is of it. Boring, boring, boring, I told myself. I could tell another persons life story, equally boring, and besides doing so would only depress me, especially if they had more to tell of interest than I had myself. That left me with fiction, making it up, creating characters, telling fables, not something that really appealed; I prefer the truth any day, so what then I demanded of myself?

The answer was simple; it flicked into my mind, all neatly laid out with the speed of a light bulb illuminating a room. I could tell my own and other peoples stories! I have lots of source material i.e. my self, Lou, Izzy and Lizzy and the boring factor can be removed by switching between characters, thus keeping the story moving. I could write about all our dating disasters, relationship roller coasters and even funny little anecdotes that I could make to fit. After all I had three other people living in my house, all of them at one time or another had, and frequently spoke openly about their problems, some of them I remember have been hilarious! As I suppose, my disastrous date with Mike and his Mr Fifty was really if I was truthful about that night, and at least something positive would come out of my gloom and it might be quite fun to look back on in a few years, say when I am old and grey.

Decision taken, I was going to become an 'Authoress', I didn't even consider though the possibility that my book might get read by other people! Nor did I consider the potential for trouble and pain that it could create. I just wanted to entertain myself. I had all the tools I needed, I had a good laptop computer with a decent word processor already loaded into it, and I had an idea of sorts. I would write my book, I wouldn't tell anybody what I was doing, they might not like having their stories detailed for posterity, or my entertainment.

Now all that I required was a title and a starting place, the title seemed obvious as did the starting place, my title will be...

GET ON YOUR HORSE AND RIDE GIRL.

I got out of bed, connected and switched on my laptop and typed my title in as a heading, and then began to write about my last date with Mike, when I read it back to myself an hour later; I was quite surprised to see that it felt quite funny, in a warped kind of way. I was doing it! I had the first story written and lots of others sprang to mind. Who needed men? I had a book, but a book that indirectly relied on men, so I guess I still need them if only to make the stories worth telling.

CHAPTER 3

I have already explained where my book title came from and a bit about me, so perhaps I had better introduce the other characters in this tale of woe. Let me see, on the other hand I should really I suppose start with more of myself, as I am the major participant in the opening story.

My name is Clare and I am the Authoress, I am twenty-eight years old and have led a rather up and down life. My real parents died in a car crash when I was four years old, so I do not have much of a memory of them to look back on. Sad really, but the people that adopted me and later over time and with a lot of hard work, became my new mum and dad were really rather nice.

Dad is slightly austere, a little stern and intimidating you might say but lovable and kind beneath the gruff exterior. Mum on the other hand is a real sweetie, she laughs easily and cares deeply, I have known her, much to dad's despair I might add, to rescue a stray bird, keeping it warm in the oven of all places and generally nurse it back to health, much like she did for me.

What do I look like I ask myself? Resisting the urge to describe myself as a glamorous sex bomb, a real diva, all the things in truth that I am not. No, I am five-feet nine tall with mid brown hair; as a panacea to myself I occasionally have streaks added to make my hair less boring, sometimes I spend time that always starts out as an intention to curl my hair, but always for some unknowable reason ends up as a wave, which is all right but nothing really striking. Because my hair which should be my crowning glory is really just, well......... I try brightening it up, and I suppose to hide its plainness from view, I use a variety of accessories or hats. In the hat department I am lucky according to my friends, as any hat looks great on me, which is nice I suppose.

I own the house that we; that is me and three friends live in. I own it because I am well off, or so they tell me, it's not true really. I own the house because it was left to me by my real parents, during my childhood the estate was rather astutely managed on my behalf. The house was rented out, the income generated being added to the invested remains of my parent's inheritance for me at eighteen hence I own the house. I do get a monthly allowance from the investments, and coupled with the rent my three friends pay, I don't really need to work, but on its own it is not enough to live and enjoy shopping on! I work as a florist to make up the shortfall, not as they would say because I like flowers, I do, but not that much! So I am not really well off, just comfortable.

I, like the rest of them went to University and got a degree, not perhaps the best of degrees, but it suited me at the time and it got me the job I now have. I am a qualified designer, but now I use my skills and years of learning to prepare, on a part-time basis mostly, flower displays. I am a florist, quite a good one I like to think. I seem to have a natural flair for picking just the right combination of stems to meet whatever the occasion they are required for. Three days a week I make up bouquets, and the rest of the time is my own. I think that writing this book is going to use up quite a large portion of my current shopping time though!

Elizabeth, mostly we call her Lizzy; she like all of us is twenty-eight and has been to University. She is one of a pair, commonly called twins, the other being Isobel who insists that she is the older sister. Lizzy argues that being five minutes older has no bearing, but Izzy disagrees. They are not quite identical twins, though very similar, or rather they would be similar even nearly identical if it wasn't for the minor differences they work constantly to create and maintain. For instance Lizzy has her hair cut in a tight bob and coloured bleach bottle blond, whilst Izzy is also blond but cut differently and a slightly different shade, also dyed, obviously! Lizzy is blue eyed and annoyingly slim, being a size ten and a half. She insists the extra half, which she cannot seem to lose, no matter which diet she tries, makes clothes shopping awkward at best.

Where as Isobel (or Izzy as we call her mostly) is exactly a size ten, which makes clothes easy for her to buy. They are always moaning about one item or another, which one or other of them bought. You know the sort of thing, 'Its mine.' 'No its not, I bought it!' 'Well it looks better on me.' 'No it doesn't.' Etc. etc, typical sisters really, though both would deny it. They should try being a size twelve with a shoe size of six, it can be a bugger to get nice things, as every manufacturer seems to cater primarily for size ten and lower. Lower, I ask you, the national average is a fourteen but do the manufacturers care, not a jot they don't. Anyway I digress. The twins share the large or 'master' bedroom and mostly get on all right, I say mostly because it certainly is not always, when they do fall out there is real trouble in paradise and it's loud!

Then last but not least is Louisa, or Lou; she's five seven with dark brown hair, which unfortunately always seems to look greasy, its not, it just looks that way! She has the biggest headache of us all when buying clothes because she is not one size, but two. Her top is size sixteen, because of her well-developed 'assets,' as she describes them, but her bottom half is a fourteen, which would be okay if her thighs weren't quite so large. She tells everyone that will listen that she has a hard firm butt and will often slap it to prove her point. I am not quite sure that I agree with her self-assessment, but I am not cruel enough to say so, big softie me.

Anyway these are the foursome who live in my house, and share most of our lives together. Which brings me to the next and obvious question, which of the, Oh 'so many, funny anecdotes do I write next?

CHAPTER 4

A few months ago it had been in winter, and as I am sure you know everything falls of the trees in winter, and so I can reliably inform you from experience no less, does the dating scene! All four of us were in, which is normally a rare occurrence so a 'girls night in party' is called for and I as normal provide a couple of bottles of wine, I am the rich one don't forget, whilst Lou mixed up her world renown vodka martinis with floating limes, mixed with ice and dumped out in a huge glass bowl for us to dip with a glass as needed, which Izzy was hunting out. That left Lizzy who was broke but had a real flair in the kitchen to create great food from nothing, learnt I am sure as a student living on a grant.

Let Lizzy near a fridge and a few cupboards and some ingredients, throw in an oven and stay out of her way, unless you want beating to death with a whisk! That night she entered joining our now seated trio bearing a large wooden board heavily ladened with homemade thin crust pizzas. She had raided all of the cupboards and with her treasured finds and a lot of catering ingenuity, she had created a feast; from what I would have considered to be virtually nothing!

Wine began to flow, we saved the martinis for later, much later, the pizzas vanished in big handfuls, eagerly devoured by one and all, then with a few glasses inside of us the conversation, as it is prone to do, turned to the subject of past sexual experiences.

Lizzy fired the first shot by bursting out laughing at some memory, it didn't take much to get her to tell the story and so the night began. Lizzy looked at her sister and smiled, these two had some kind of link and sometimes they seemed so alike that you felt that they were communicating