Two Sides to Every Story

By Limey Lady

Beautiful globe-trotting Kat has a lot of previous with Davina. They have worked together and co-habited three times in-between her travels. She keeps leaving for up to a year at a time and Davina keeps taking her back. Then, during Kat’s ill-fated trip to Australia, Davina meets somebody exciting and new. Mikela is young and very foxy. Davina has had flings before but this time she says she’s in love.

Is it fourth time unlucky for Kat? Will she be reconciled with her soulmate or will Mikela prevail?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limey Lady
• Release date: Nov 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370089871

Limey Lady

Here's a confession for you: I'm not sure if "Limey Lady" is a pseudonym or my alter ego. Back in 2016, when she came into being, she was definitely a nom de plume. Now, however, I am not so sure.As background, I have always written stories but, up to 2009, writing took a backseat, way behind the demands of my family and career. Then a life-changing medical condition . . . well, it changed everything for and about me. Suddenly I had/have time to spare. Suddenly I was/am churning out tale after tale.I was born in York but brought up in West Yorkshire, in part of the Aire Valley often described as "Bronte Country". I must say, though, that although most of my stories are set locally, they have little in common with the fine works of Charlotte, Emily and Anne. So far my output can be divided into two: long stories featuring ne'er-do-wells, guns and some violence . . . and shorter stories featuring "liberated" women who rarely do what they're supposed to do.Limey Lady was created to be the author of the short stuff. But the longer novels all include feisty, uncooperative females - much like her characters - so I'm going to put her name to both as I publish on Smashwords.Watch this space . . .

Book preview

Hi, I’m Katrina. You might have heard of me before, courtesy of a storyteller who brands herself as Mikki. If you did follow her lopsided version of events, please suspend judgment and listen to what I have to say. If you didn’t follow her version . . . then halleluiah! There is a God!! Please forget I ever mentioned her ramblings and, whatever you do, don’t think you have read her tale before you start mine. Or read it at all, come to that.

Trust me; I’m going to tell you everything you need to know.

She’s a sly individual, that Mikela. She keeps swearing she’s telling the truth, warts and all. And maybe she is. Thing is, however, she only tells the bits of truth that suit her purpose. Anything at all inconvenient just gets swept under the carpet. And talking about swearing . . .

Okay, I’m not going to start by having a rant. I’m going to start as I mean to go on: calm, detailed and not ever skimping over inconvenient facts. I’m also going to use a lot of foul and unladylike language myself, and I’m not going to stop to apologize after every four-letter word. If you need an apology for that then here it is: Sorry.

Right then, let’s get on with it.

*****

I’ll kick off with a bit of background. I’m twenty-nine and like to think of myself as a woman of the world. Let's face it; I've travelled enough to call myself that. Close friends and lovers get to call me Kat. Hopefully you'll think of me as Kat too. Becoming lovers could be a bit difficult, but there’s no reason we shouldn’t be friends.

In spite of the poison Mikela may have sown in your mind.

(You’ll notice that I don’t call my hated rival that sickly, sugary Mikki. She, in retaliation, doesn’t call me Kat. Refusing to be friendly is a tacit arrangement that works well for both of us. Heaven forbid we should ever become matey!)

Let’s move on with the background. Although I’m a proud Yorkshire lady I was born in Lancashire. That was not deliberate; it was a result of my mother’s pig-headedness. At eight months pregnant she badgered Dad into taking her to Frontierland in Morecambe. And, ignoring several warnings, she insisted on riding the Cyclone. Cue an emergency stop at Royal Lancaster Infirmary on the way home.

Cue me.

Apparently I was a big baby. At four weeks premature, I weighed over nine pounds. Mother never has forgiven me for that. I spent a whole chunk of my childhood with her chuntering on about how enormous I would have got if I‘d gone full term. That was nothing compared to the grief I got later, though, when I came out.

Even now I shudder to think about it.

Physically, the fully grown me is five foot nine with a mane of black hair. Darling Mikela described my looks as being similar to Kim Kardashian’s. Obviously, I'm not going to argue with that, even if I am half a foot taller and several years younger. Looks aside, I know I’m incredibly lucky with my figure and I work hard to keep the body beautiful. When I’m home and earning a living, I spend an hour in the gym, every day. When I’m off travelling I’m forever on the move, walking a lot of the time, covering incredible distances, always carrying heavy loads.

I like the way I am and the impressions I make. I've had admirers of both sexes since I was about ten . . . and lovers of both sexes ever since I lost my virginity at eighteen.

University flew by for me. I was doing IT (naturally!) and soon got the reputation of being a bit of a whizz-kid. I won’t say I was regularly teaching my tutors but, by my final year, I was involved in all sorts of extra-curricular things: holding bespoke workshops for freshers, giving demos to students of just about every age and level of competency . . .

All too soon it was over. I graduated and got buried under mounds of congratulation messages. I even got one from my mother (it was begrudging, but her first communication in over three years that didn’t use the words lesbian and slut).

Dad was much more effusive in his praise. Unprompted, he stumped up twenty grand (yes, that’s what I said: twenty thousand quid) and suggested I paid off some debts and went travelling.

Thank God I took him up on it!

Travelling means everything to me. Being a good little twenty-one-year-old (and not yet having been bitten by the bug) I squared off everything I owed and hit the roads . . . and the ferries . . . and the railway lines. And it’s a good job I did it in that order. If I’d travelled first those debts would still be outstanding even now.

That first time I was away for four months, mostly in Europe. I think I got the bug on day two. Or was it day three? Whenever it was, I came home with one objective: To earn enough to get back out there as soon as possible. Backed as I was with my top-notch degree and testimonies from uni, that was easily achieved. Fighting off offers of permanent employment, I walked into a short-term contract overnight. And I’ve been doing the same ever since . . . earning then travelling, earning then travelling . . . although not quite in the mercenary manner described elsewhere.

Cards on the table: I absolutely despise Darling Mikela. As well as defaming me at every single opportunity, she has stolen the only woman I have ever loved. Okay, Mikela's good-looking and I'd like to fuck her, but she's the mercenary bitch, not me.

Let’s get back to the story. My first paid position was in the IT department of a local building society. They needed programmers for a special project and didn’t mind hiring on a short-term basis. You could say we were a perfect fit. They wanted twelve months of my skills and I wanted a wedge of cash. If only everything in life was so simple and straightforward!

I met Dave at work, after I’d been there about ten months. It was her first day and she was being shown round by HR, nodding, smiling and trying to memorize name after name. I could tell at a glance what she was but, mistakenly, thought she was too young for me. I didn't do teenagers back then (or now, come to that) and anyway, my contract was about to end. I had travel preps to make and no time to chase after skirt.

Not that I ignored Davina altogether. She has been compared to Velma out of Scooby-Doo and, in her sexily-framed glasses, that's not so far off the mark. But take off her glasses and she looks completely different. Without her glasses she looks like a boyish lesbian porn star. You know who I mean; that babe who likes strap-ons as a giver but not a taker.

What’s that? You’re not with me? Get on the Net before you miss out. Search for gold star and be on the lookout for a redhead. That’s what Dave’s like without her specs. The only difference is that the actress has a nice pair of tits and my ex-lover does not.

And how exciting is that! To have no tits at all!! I must have masturbated fantasising about the sweet, innocent new starter on fifty separate occasions before I headed off for the airport.

Yes folks, if Darling Mikela can tell the truth, then so can I. And with me, what you see is what you get. As I promised earlier, I won't try to get away with my version of reality; I'm going to tell it as it is.

Here’s your first dose of truth-telling, Kat-style. I have been portrayed as a goddess who can have any partner I like. That sometimes seems to be the case, I must admit, but I can't always be arsed to chase or be chased. So, like just about every other adult on the planet, I regularly bring myself off. No, make that very, very regularly. And I always, without fail, fantasise while I'm at it. Usually I focus on someone I haven't yet had, but often it’s someone who is for some reason unobtainable.

And, most erotic of all, I occasionally think about someone I've no intention of ever fucking.

Anyway, that’s as far as it went to begin with. Fifty or more lengthy fantasies about a girl I didn’t really know at all. Naughty of me, I know.

Naughty but nice.

CHAPTER TWO

The best part of a year went by and I was back in Blighty . . . back at the building society. Believe it or not, they were embarking on a special project and needed programmers. We were a perfect fit all over again.

My first day was a Monday. Because I already knew the place inside out I was spared the grand tour and shown straight to my desk. My line manager told me there was a New Project Meeting at nine and recommended I made myself at home in the meantime.

‘The hard work starts after the meeting,’ he said, grinning at me. ‘Make hay while you can.’

After a cursory inspection of my work station I decided a caffeine hit was in order. The machine was still in the same place and the coffee was as good as ever. I drank one cup straightaway, chatting to one of the programmers who remembered me of old. Then, armed with a second cup, I headed back to base. And frowned at what I saw.

At that particular building society the IT team was split into three smaller sections: Programmers, Operators and Technicians. I couldn’t help noticing that all of the techies were gathered around one of their colleagues, seriously embarrassing her. The blushing victim was Dave and the occasion was her twentieth birthday (I knew that because someone had made her wear a badge with big numbers on it, announcing her age to the world).

Resisting the temptation to join in, I went back to my station. And my mind was whirring. Dave was older than she looked. She was still young, obviously, but a teenager no longer.

Hmmm, I thought, nothing ventured . . .

I prepared an email and waited until the gathering had dispersed before clicking on Send.

Hello Davina. I’m only back today and didn’t know, so sorry, I’ve no card to give you. Can I buy you a drink after work to make up?

That was a little forward of me, I know. I couldn’t have exchanged more than a dozen words with her during our first stint as workmates. But we were females in a man-dominated department. If I was wrong about her sexuality (unlikely, but it had happened before), she’d think I was offering no more than friendship.

Two minutes later her reply bounced back.

Yes you can, but only if you promise to call me Dave.

*****

Calling her Dave at every opportunity, I escorted the birthday girl to The Woolly Sheep, getting us there for five thirty precisely.

‘Do you fancy beer or wine?’ I wondered. ‘Or are you ready for something to eat?’

‘I’ve promised myself a Shama curry for supper,’ she said. ‘A pint of Landlord will do for now.’

The pub was busy-ish already, but mostly with diners in the main restaurant area. I bought two pints and, as it was a nice evening, we went and sat out in the beer garden.

‘So,’ I began, ‘why aren’t you at university?’

‘I’m still living at home,’ she replied, ‘and I want my own place sooner rather than later.’

‘That’s exactly why I went to uni,’ said I, ‘to get away from my mother’s disapproval.’

‘My mum’s not too bad. She doesn’t like some of my friends but she never says anything out of order. And she’s a great advocate of night school. She thinks I’m following in her footsteps.’

‘Are you?’

‘Not really. She did English Literature.’

I laughed and asked what A-level results she’d got. She told me and I whistled softly. The girl was smart; she’d done even better than swotty old me. And, if she was to be believed, her progress at night school was impressive indeed.

‘Are you going to be a programmer?' I asked.

‘I'm not sure,' said she. 'I'm a people person. I could do with the mega-bucks you guys get, but I like being a techie. It gets me out and about, meeting folk.'

Well, I’m nothing if not