Change of Life

By Ethan Somerville

Sharon Barnes, a gawky young clerical assistant, has always believed that she is too tall and skinny to be attractive. She is quiet and introverted, hiding behind long hair and baggy clothing. Then, one night when a pipe bursts in her flat, flooding her bedroom, she runs for help. She meets a tall, gorgeous blonde man named Philip Carrington, who immediately recognises the a wonderful, intelligent woman beneath her unassuming appearance, and helps her to emerge from her shell.

Sharon falls madly in love with Phil and arranges a wonderful dinner for them to reveal her feelings. But although Phil really likes Sharon, he confesses that they can't be more than friends. He tells her that he has always been gay and introduces her to his boyfriend Tommy.

Despairing of ever finding happiness, Sharon falls back into her old bad habits until one night, when she wins first prize in a massive lottery. An instant multi-millionaire, how can she use this money to realise her dream?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Storm Publishing
• Release date: Sep 2, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370418046

Ethan Somerville

Ethan Somerville is a prolific Australian author with over 20 books published, and many more to come. These novels cover many different genres, including romance, historical, children's and young adult fiction. However Ethan's favourite genres have always been science fiction and fantasy. Ethan has also collaborated with other Australian authors and artists, including Max Kenny, Emma Daniels, Anthony Newton, Colin Forest, Tanya Nicholls and Carter Rydyr.

Book preview

The Change of Life

By

Ethan Somerville

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Storm Publishing on Smashwords

Change of Life

Copyright © 2012/2017 by Ethan Somerville

www.stormpublishing.net

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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Chapter 1

Pocketing her keys, Sharon Marie Barnes shoved at the front door of her old Harris Park flat, and it swung inwards with a mournful creak. Stomping into the dim, musty interior, she snapped on an overhead hall light. Something like a furry snake dissolved from the shadows and began to weave energetically through her legs.

Oh Tish - I don’t know what I’d do without you! Sharon sighed as she bent to scratch the slinky cat between its ears. Morticia purred like a lawn-mower, then marched off towards the kitchen with her tail held high like a hairy exclamation point. She loved showing off her sex, teasing all the neighbourhood toms with her lithe beauty. Even though she’d been neutered a year earlier, she still went out at night - although probably only as a consultant.

Suppose you want something to eat, eh? Sharon asked, following the cat down the hall. Although possessing a similar lankiness, the young woman’s movements weren’t nearly as graceful. She lumbered self-consciously, as though she wanted to shrink into herself and become small and dainty - something she definitely was not. At one hundred and eighty one centimetres, Sharon Barnes towered above most women and a significant number of men. Painful schoolyard taunts like beanpole, ironing-board and stick-insect still burned in her mind. Boys had loved making her run so they could watch and laugh at the giraffe-like way she galloped across the playground. She bore their teasing stoically until they started getting personal, pulling her poker-straight mouse-brown hair and groping her arse. She had picked up the main antagonist in her large, strong hands and casually hurled him into a wall.

They left her alone after that.

But Sharon’s hatred of her height never faded, and now, six years after finishing school, she still walked with her head down, lank bangs obscuring her long, thin face. Sometimes she felt like an alien creature from a lighter gravity planet, which had evolved taller and thinner than humankind. She looked down on short, squat humans and in turn they stared up at her, pointing, laughing. Some women could get away with being almost six feet tall, but not Sharon. She felt disproportionate; flat-chested, with enormous hands and feet, and protruding joints like an anorexic.

But when one actually took the time to look beneath the frumpy clothes thrown on for comfort rather than style, one discovered a set of startlingly attractive features. She had a strong chin, a straight, sure nose and doe-brown eyes protected by long, curling lashes. Every morning Sharon saw this face in the mirror and grimaced, never once seeing its beauty. She powdered her cheeks to keep them from shining, and put on a smear of lipstick to appease the bosses.

If I was pretty, men would notice me, she kept telling herself.

In the kitchen Morticia had sat down by her bowl, tail curled neatly around her tiny paws. Sharon had always marvelled at how precisely cats sat. They were so clean and fastidious - the epitome of self-absorption. Sort of like me, she thought. She mightn’t have paid much attention to her physical appearance, but she spent many long, pleasant hours inside her head, roaming through hundreds of mental soap-operas. They were far more interesting and exciting than the real world.

Morticia meowed, dragging Sharon back to the present.

Okay, okay. Don’t get your whiskers in a twist. Sharon yanked open her battered old fridge, revealing a health-inspector’s nightmare. Plastic-wrapped bowls fought for space with half-empty cream-containers, bottles containing an inch of mysterious sediment at the bottom, and softening vegies in wet plastic bags. A powerful composite stench billowed forth as she rummaged for Morticia’s half-full can.

Here you go, Miss Impatient! Sharon spooned the fish into the black cat’s bowl.

Morticia sniffed at it, then looked disdainfully up as though to say is that all?

Don’t give me that, you fusspot! You ate it with relish yesterday! She tossed the empty can at the bin, but hit the flap but bounced off. Damn thing was wedged full with rubbish again! Why did she never get around to emptying it?

Realising that she wasn’t going to get anything else, Tish started half-heartedly picking at her food. Her black tentacle of a tail swished softly, revealing her disapproval. Sharon planted her hands on her bony hips.

Would madam like to see the wine-list?

Tish continued to flick her tail in disdain. Sharon returned to the chaotic fridge to hunt down her own dinner. Left-over beef strog ... No, growing fuzz! Better toss that out! Last Saturday’s KFC - ugh! Not unless you want to be fluffing all night! That coleslaw looks a bit dodgy... Sharon almost dislocated an arm yanking a Tupperware dish out from some primeval mush up the back. Ah! The Chinese from Sunday! Still smells alright, too! Kicking the fridge closed behind her, she pushed the sweet and sour pork into the microwave.

She loved to cook almost as much as she loved to daydream. Although she tended to use every dish she owned in the process, her sprawling, culinary delights sent their delicious aromas wafting through the entire apartment block. No wonder an aristocratic cat like Morticia deigned to hang around with a loser like her.

But tonight her size ten feet ached from traversing the office and standing in front of the photocopier. Four years with McNaughton and Associates in the city, and they still treated her like a junior. Sighing wearily, she carried the Chinese into the lounge room to eat it.

This room reflected perfectly the state of Sharon’s mind; a chaotic sprawl looking out at the blank grey walls of the apartment-block next door. Chairs, tables and shelves bowed under the weight of well-thumbed books, old magazines with articles and pictures removed, tatty notebooks and reams of paper covered in Sharon’s illegible scrawls. Dust-balls that had long since grown from kittens into fat, predatory cats lurked in forgotten corners. Ancient knick-knacks were squashed in beside an increasing tide of new novels, yet to be read. They all bore lurid covers of hunky men clutching women in the throes of sexual ecstasy and had tasteful titles like Clara’s Dark Fantasy, and In the Arms of Passion.

Somewhere under the mess on the coffee-table lay a remote control, but Sharon couldn’t be bothered searching for it. She flopped into a worn old armchair, becoming a part of its comfort, and ate in blissful silence. Morticia sprang onto her upraised legs and settled between her feet.

Sharon liked her mess, thought it made the place exclusively hers. Sterile houses reeking of Spray and Wipe weren’t homes but museums, where visiting aliens could see how humans lived.

Closing her eyes, she drifted into her favourite fantasy.

He strode into her mind and stopped behind her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his powerful, muscular form. She was small and petite, clad in a flowing white gown that accentuated her soft curves. Her wavy hair tumbled to her buttocks in a golden waterfall that never needed combing or concreting down with hair-spray.

Phil lifted a tender hand and began finger-combing her tresses. Releasing a feline purr of pleasure, she pressed herself against his warm, powerful chest, feeling the pronounced contours of his muscles through her gossamer gown. Her nipples peaked - in both fantasy and reality.

"You are so very beautiful, my Lady Sharona," he whispered into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. A tremble of desire pulsed through her, and she arched her back against him.

"Oh my dear Philimon - I love you and want to be with you forever and ever!" she breathed.

His hands travelled down through her hair, brushing against her back. Then they crawled forward around her waist to link in front of her belly. They were so strong and warm - she shivered again as her pulse began to throb all over her body, especially in the warm cleft between her thighs.

"We must exercise caution, my lady - you know how many enemies would love to see us here together." He pulled her tight against him, so his long, firm member pressed into her lower back, pulsing with his hunger for her.

"Yes, caution..." She twisted in his embrace, flinging her arms around his broad shoulders and pressing her lips against his. A husky groan clambered up his throat as he responded, capturing her tongue in his own and drawing it in...

Sharon’s doorbell chime tore through her wonderful imaginings like a chainsaw. ‘Damn!" she swore as cold, loveless reality returned. Although she ached deep in her sex for love, no male organ had ever ventured into that virgin realm. The only pleasure she knew came from self-gratification.

Tish stood at attention at the front door, her tail a trembling black staff. She knew who stood outside, and even better - he was carrying fresh fish for her!

Sharon opened the door to her dream-man. Her pulse raced some more, but she didn’t need to worry - her cheeks were already beet-red. H-hi Phil! she gasped, come in, come in!

Phillip Carrington stepped into Sharon’s dark flat. It smelled strongly of Chinese food and old paper - like an Asian takeaway that used to be a second-hand bookstore. He smiled at the tall, gangly woman, but her bright-eyed joy evoked the opposite emotion inside him. Fortunately he knew how to help her, and this knowledge soothed him. Hello Sharon - how are you?

She looked away, brushing a long hand through her hair. Okay I guess.

Tish wound around his legs. Phil sometimes wondered if the cat had a backbone. She was more dexterous than a well-oiled slinky. Ah - you smell tuna, don’t you Miss Bottomless Pit? Come on. He strode into the kitchen. Both Sharon and the half-Burmese followed, the former eyeing Phil’s nicely-rounded backside and the way it strained the tight fabric of his faded blue jeans.

Another bad day at work? Phil knelt and took the bundle out from under one arm. As he scooped the tuna into Tish’s bowl, she received half on the back of her head. I swear this cat eats more than her body-weight every day, he thought.

Sharon sighed, lounging against the doorframe. At least I can still look, she thought as Phil straightened. His long blonde hair shone like spun copper. How she ached to stroke those shimmering strands! Her fingertips tingled like an electric current was running through them. "Do I ever have anything but a bad day? she asked. It’s a no good dead end street. I lurk in a dim, dark corner of the office, and occasionally some menial task is pitch-forked in my direction. I hate it!"

Phil turned, smiling at her description. Sharon loved the way one side of his mouth quirked higher than the other. You tell me that every time I see you, Sharon! If your job pisses you off that much, then leave!

She sagged against the doorframe. You know I can’t. I’ve been in it so long I don’t know what else to do! I don’t have any other experience, and what confidence I might have had has been ripped out, torn up and scattered to the four winds! These days people in my kind of job need to be able to juggle five things at once, know how to use sixty four different computer packages, speak like an upper-class toff, and look like a bloody Barbie doll! About the only thing more humiliating than my job is standing in a dole-queue!

Phil sighed. He had heard this tirade many times before. Anyone with less patience and understanding would have told her to stop whining months earlier. Instead all he said was simply; You really should take course in building up your self-esteem. Come on - let’s sit down.

Sure, Sharon answered mechanically. Mixing with strangers in a course was the absolutely last thing she wanted to do. There had to be another way. Would you like a drink?

Just a small one. I can’t stay too long tonight.

Disappointment filled Sharon, but she fought against its jealous savagery. Fair enough. She opened her liquor cabinet, as scrambled as the rest of the place. She selected a half-full bottle of Jack Daniels and prepared two Scotch and Cokes. She made hers a double.

Phil shifted a couple of Women’s Day magazines out of the way and settled down. He noticed with no real surprise that the top one was open the romantic fiction page. An impossibly attractive woman was melting against the mountainous facade of an enormous Adonis with long blonde hair. I’m really sorry - but I’ve already told you how much Tommy frets if I’m not home when he gets in.

Sharon resisted an urge to grimace as she handed him his drink. You don’t need to justify yourself to me, Phil - I understand. She settled opposite and took a refreshing draught. The alcohol warmed her belly and chased some of the day’s demons away. But it would never ease the heavy sadness weighing down her heart, and the dark secrets she had never revealed to another living soul.

But I really shouldn’t be running after him, Phil continued. He’s more than old enough to look after himself.

Sharon didn’t answer. Slowly a gentle quiet descended, bringing with it the usual background noises; televisions, children playing, throbbing dance-music, Mrs Alyaas shouting in Arabic at one of her misbehaving kids. Sharon wished this moment would last forever.

Sharon?

Mm? She turned towards him, allowing herself the dangerous luxury of imagining that he was her husband.

What are you doing on Saturday the eighteenth of March?

Come on Phil - that’s over a month away! I won’t know what I’ll be doing on the eighteenth of March until the eighteenth of March!

Phil grinned. I take it you don’t know.

I have the social life of a nun, Phil. The only thing I’d probably be doing on a Saturday night is visiting my parents for one of their God-awful roasts, and another of our usual slap-down drag-out arguments.

I don’t know why you bother. They always pick on you.

They’re my parents, which means I’m obligated to keep in touch no matter how nasty they are. Gloomily, she drained the rest of her glass.

No you’re not! If my folks give me the shits, I don’t talk to them for a month! They’re the ones who miss out, not me. Sometimes I couldn’t give a fat flying fuck about them and that stupid bloody ‘phase’ they think I’m going through!

Sharon stared down at her glass, wondering if she ought to refill it. She could handle slipping into quiet, alcoholic oblivion right now. Maybe you’re right - maybe I ought to ignore my folks for a while - let them stew until they realise how rotten they’ve been to me, and finally apologise for twenty four years of it. Now, what were you saying about March the eighteenth?

It’s a surprise. Phil quirked a light brown eyebrow.

Sharon balled her hands into fists. Oh that’s not fair, building me up like that!

He drained his glass and stood up. I’ll see you later, okay?

Don’t be a stranger.

Just strange. He giggled.

Sharon saw him to the door, and watched his tall, handsome form disappear down the stairs outside. Sadly, she began locking up. Oh God - why? she demanded of the heavens. Frustrated, she stomped back to her chair and flopped down She tried to retreat back into her daydream, but although the images of Sharona and Philimon returned, their lovemaking remained two dimensional, and evoked nothing within her. And to make matters worse, Sharona had changed form like she always did, into the other shape that Sharon often fantasised about – a shape even more impossible for her to attain.

Her doorbell rang again, and this time she was glad for its distraction. As she rose to answer it, she dared to hope that Phil had returned, wanting to spend some more time with her.

But a shorter, scruffier man stood outside. He wore a tie-dyed T-shirt that hung off one shoulder and a pair of jeans full of authentic wear-holes. Dreadlocks framed a lean grace not unlike Sharon’s, and a small goatee clung to the tip of his chin like a tenacious caterpillar. He reeked of pot smoke. Gudday Shazza! Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed past her, breezing into her flat. Morticia darted for cover under Sharon’s easy chair. Got any beer?

Uh ... hi Andy! Sharon answered weakly as she pushed her front door closed. What brings you here? She followed him into the kitchen, where he had already pulled open her fridge and was examining its contents.

Me favourite sister, of course! He started rummaging through the mess.

"Your only sister, Sharon growled. And no, I don’t have any beer. You finished it all when you were here last week."

Bugger. He straightened, turning to face her. How about some scotch?

Sharon folded her