Heather Falls in Love Part Three

By Limey Lady

Heather’s return to Albany gives her chance to keep on “catching up with missed opportunities”. It seems as if every beautiful girl in the city wants to date her, especially the ones she’s slept with before. And better still, as “father of the bride” she gets to go on the buck’s night as well as Ingrid’s hen night . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Limey Lady
• Release date: Dec 11, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370511570

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

Heather Falls in Love

Part Three - Ingrid’s wedding

By LimeyLady

Copyright Mark C Woolridge (writing as LimeyLady), 2016

Distributed by Smashwords

All characters and events in this publication,

other than those clearly in the public domain,

are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Chapter Twenty-Nine - Heather’s Hangover

Chapter Thirty - Breakfast with Greg

Chapter Thirty-One - Rowena

Chapter Thirty-Two - Farewell to Cairns

Chapter Thirty-Three - Lauren

Chapter Thirty-Four - Claire and Ingrid

Chapter Thirty-Five - Leigh

Chapter Thirty-Six - The Buck’s Night

Chapter Thirty-Seven - Rachael

Chapter Thirty-Eight - The Hen’s Night

Chapter Thirty-Nine - The Day After

Chapter Forty - The Morning of the Wedding

Chapter Forty-One - Megan

Chapter Forty-Two - The Aftermath

Author’s Note

Other books by LimeyLady

Chapter Twenty-Nine

(June 2004)

Heather was awake but afraid to open her eyes. For a long, long time she lay still, pondering over three of life’s great mysteries.

What happened?

Where am I?

Why haven’t I got a hangover?

The answer to the third question was easy. That lucky metabolism of hers rarely did hangovers. She wasn’t totally immune, but she certainly woke hangover-free more often than she deserved.

What happened? was, of course, obvious, if only answerable in part. She’d got drunk, as simple as that. She’d started early, anxious about seeing Ingrid again, then . . .

Well, she’d been given a letter but no blonde-haired girlfriend to go with it. Ingrid wasn’t going to show; she was marrying her tamed Viking instead. There wouldn’t be a big reunion. There wouldn’t be a partner on the long road to Darwin . . .

The news hadn’t been all bad, though. Ingrid wanted her there in Albany to witness the match. No, she wanted her there to play father of the bride. And Claire and the twins wanted her there too; they wanted her there strongly enough to pay her airfare.

All well and good then; her friends still loved her and wanted her to go back. Making the decision to go had taken no time because there had been no decision to be made. She suddenly wanted to see them again so badly it hurt. And so what if Ingrid was getting married? How could a true friend be sad to know she was going to do something that made her happy?

Putting misty memories in order, Heather recalled sitting at the bar; ordering beer after beer . . .

Talking in depth with the two resident barmen . . .

Then it all got hazy and blurred, never mind misty. With the benefit of a boozer’s hindsight, she should have called it a day after she’d seen the photo of Claire and the twins. Quite predictably, she had not. Bugger being sensible, she’d stayed on her barstool and poured her heart out to a couple of complete strangers. And hairy, Aussie male strangers at that!

And then . . .

Well, then it wasn’t misty or even murky. She had a great big black blank. Memories didn’t come into the equation seeing as she hadn’t got any. Presumably someone had picked her up and brought her here.

Wherever here was".

She honestly couldn’t remember leaving the bar. Sad as she was to admit it, she could have left with absolutely anybody of any sex or persuasion. And, as a corollary, she could now be absolutely anywhere.

No wonder she’d daren’t open her peepers!

She was on her back, hands resting on bare thighs, in a bed. Not in the tent or on the campervan’s very thin, very recognizable mattress. Straining her ears, she couldn’t detect evidence of company. And her other senses agreed. There were no touching limbs, no smell of a sweaty lover.

Not trusting her intuition, she slid her left hand off her leg, onto the bottom sheet. Moving at snail’s pace, she found the edge of the bed. What, as much as nine inches away?

Who cared? She hadn’t encountered a bedmate. Not that she would have on her favoured left-hand side. If there was a bedmate to be encountered . . .

Steeling herself, she slid her right hand onto the self-same sheet. And, again moving at a snail’s pace, inched right and found the other edge of the bed. It was farther away, maybe a foot, but no bedmate in the way.

The rush of relief surprised her. Having been shagged by a person or persons unknown wouldn’t have been entirely unknown . . .

But thank god it’s not a guy!

The thought startled her, even though it was from the heart.

Then she wondered if she was being complacent. How did she know she hadn’t had company during the night? Fending off anxiety, she put her hands back on her bare thighs and inched them upwards.

Yippee, her shorts were still on. And double yippee, they were still fully fastened. A further inspection confirmed her string-like top was still in place.

Good grief, she thought suddenly, my wallet!

But it was there in her pocket, exactly where it ought to be.

‘Okay,’ she said out loud, at last opening her eyes, ‘let’s get this show on the road.’

The room would have been in total darkness if a blackout blind had been properly closed. As it was, shut but a little askew, bright sunshine burnt a white line across an otherwise indistinguishable carpet.

‘Turned out nice again,’ she said automatically, using her everyday greeting to Ingrid.

Being slow about it, not wanting to trigger one of those rare hangovers, she eased herself upright so she was sitting with her feet on the floor.

All went well; and it was best to be careful. Recollections of her previous excesses were remote but by no means forgotten. One sudden movement could set the contents of her head swilling about, dying brain cells sloshing remorselessly against unforgiving skull walls.

But, thankfully . . . so very thankfully . . . not today.

No, no slosh at all.

She cautiously began to get to her feet and something light but hard rapped against her nose. It was a pull switch and she grabbed it eagerly.

Illuminated, the room was tidy but plain and functional. That carpet was a brown that didn’t quite go with the light blue walls. She had it tagged as a guy’s room even before she noticed the absence of mirrors, dressing tables and other feminine necessities.