Chastity’S Choice

By Vivienne Loranger

Christmas 2000 and a screw with a stranger sees 34 years old Chastity pregnant.
The next nine months are a nightmare of choices when too many people want a piece of her life and a choice has to be made. Her dilemma is which one is the right one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503500884

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Vivienne Loranger.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2014922619

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-5035-0086-0

                Softcover        978-1-5035-0087-7

                eBook             978-1-5035-0088-4

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Rev. date: 12/20/2014

Xlibris

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Contents

Author’s Preface

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Author’s Preface

Christmas 2000 and a screw with a stranger sees 34 years old Chastity pregnant.

The next nine months are a nightmare of choices when too many people want a piece of her life and a choice has to be made. Her dilemma is which one is the right one.

Chapter One

Okay, so the babe in her belly wasn’t exactly a love child, more a bonk on the beach ‘Sorry, what did you say your name was?’ one. And she was ashamed of herself, she really was. I mean not to know the father’s name. But he had known hers, hadn’t he, which made it a bit all right, didn’t it?

Chastity, isn’t it? he asked and she’d been surprised to see a solid six-footer with dark hair and laughing eyes gazing down at her.

That’s me, she cried, desperately trying to swallow the lump of sausage she’d just shoved in her mouth. A bit of tomato sauce, having lost its grip on the greasy surface, dribbled down her chin and she’d surreptitiously snaked her tongue in hope he wouldn’t notice. If he did, he didn’t say.

Chastity sighed and studied her reflection in the bathroom mirror. It was a small room barely big enough to fit the sink, shower and loo, let alone herself. And why was it fluorescent lights made her face look yellow, it wasn’t really that colour, was it? I mean normally. She peered closer, her bosom all but squashed flat by the protruding hand basin. Tiny crow’s feet danced on the outskirts of her blue eyes and she blinked rapidly to send them packing. They didn’t budge. Was this to be her retribution for screwing a stranger? Was pregnancy not sufficient punishment without the added injustice of facial furrows? Okay, so she was barely a breath away from thirty-four, not exactly old and certainly no reason for wrinkles to claim squatter’s rights. She’d swear they had not been there before that fateful night. No wonder she was a lapsed Catholic. God didn’t deserve her patronage, did he

It had been a fabulous night though, well, when what’s his name latched onto her, that is. Up until then, downright boring in fact. The office Christmas party; yes, some fool suggested a barbeque at the beach and if you’ve never been to one don’t.

Anyway, the beach it was. Three guys from accounts lugged two bloody big portable barbeques and settled them in the sand. They promptly sank about fifteen centimetres and had to be stabilised by bits of driftwood and chunks of seaweed to prevent the sausages sliding off. Ever tried a sausage covered in sand? Yeah, you’ve guessed it. Yuk!

The usual works crowd were there. The boss, old Mr. Turnbridge, seventy-five if a day, and his wife Doreen, all blue rinsed and tight curls, wearing a caftan the size of a three man tent. Plus Mrs Archer, the office manager, desperately in need of a face-lift and wearing jeans so tight her haemorrhoids must be screaming ‘strangulation’ every time she moved, with her husband, Boris, looking positively uncomfortable, or was it embarrassed, on her behalf. Then the three office stooges, Tim, Tom and Tony with their identical birds nest beards and Afro hairstyles (relics of the seventies), no partners, naturally.

A mixed bunch of girls and guys including herself, no date, and Glenys, her best friend, with a sort of date, sort of, as in just met at the markets when she dropped a bag of apples on his foot and in a panic, in case he decided to sue, offered him a free BBQ and bonk.

It was one of those balmy summer nights, you know the sort, where the moon’s still asleep and the stars are on strike and you rely on semi-dysfunctional lamps and mossie coils in order to see what you’re scoffing. No daylight saving here, it was as dark as a dungeon by 8pm.

Miss Turner from Telecom, a friend of the Turnbridge’s and frequent guest at their annual do’s, brought a punch, a floating fruit salad in a concoction of sparkling alcohol-free grape juice and freshly squeezed oranges, complete with pith and pips!

I’ve added a touch of sherry. For you young things, she gaily cried. Just a drop mind, never do to have you booked by a booze bus, would it?

No, Miss Turner, it would not, said Rodney Halifax, as daft a delivery boy as you’d ever meet, and whose presence is only ever requested at Christmas, being the season of good will and all that. Anyway, Rod, daft or not, endeared himself to all by spiking the said salad. Good on ya, Rod, friend for life. A bottle of vodka and one of gin was surreptitiously poured into it drowning the soggy lumps of apple and squashed pineapple pieces to give a certain zing to an otherwise depressing drink. Chastity’s spirits lifted considerably after four glasses.

She hadn’t wanted to come, and why would she without Troy. He’d left her a couple of months earlier and wasn’t she still smarting from the insult. To attend a do where everyone was in party mood with attentive partners and totally full of bonhomie was not her idea of fun, especially since even Glenys had brought her market boy and although a bit on the short side, it wasn’t as bad as fronting on ones tod, was it?

She’d decided then and there to get pissed. So who cares if everyone’s having a riot? She’d drink herself stupid then disappear; at least she didn’t have far to go home. She could walk the short distance to her flat in seven minutes. She’d timed it once and that was all it took at a brisk pace. Huh, maybe it’d take ten minutes if sloshed.

She was busy eating a sausage and wishing she’d worn shorts or jeans, anything other than the red mini, which rose provocatively to display scant red knickers every time someone so much as breathed in her vicinity, when he introduced himself. She spun around to face the voice, choking on her sausage as she did so. She swayed slightly and he reached out to steady her. She was not drunk, no, just her sandals refusing to come to grips with the soft sand. True, her vision was a tad on the blurred side, but she put that down to sea spray, not booze. After all, she’d hardly started on the road to oblivion yet.

He chatted like they were old pals and later when she searched the Internet of her grey matter, she couldn’t, just couldn’t, come up with a name. Oh yes, he’d told her, but she’d been too taken with his handsome looks and cute bum encased in tight jeans for it to register. The following day, when she begged Glenys to find out who he was, her friend said she hadn’t seen him.

Hah, too involved in short-arse, no doubt, Chastity remarked spitefully, and wasn’t sorry she’d said it either. After all, this was very important and if her best friend couldn’t help, who could. Actually, if it wasn’t for the lodger now in residence in her stomach, Chastity would swear blind HE was just an illusion brought on by Miss Turner’s Hawaiian special. Funny, she could remember his looks so well, but not his name.

Back at work she’d nonchalantly asked around, you know, giving a disinterested description of him, just in case anyone knew who he was. No one did. Glenys said he was probably a gatecrasher. After all it was a public beach and plenty of passers-by no doubt helped themselves to a chop or two with no one any the wiser.

It was a mystery how he knew her name though. He’d definitely said Chastity, she remembered that much. They’d strolled down the beach like old friends, on and on until the office mob were just a blur. They ambled down to the water’s edge. There was barely a breeze to ruffle her bob, which in itself was amazing because she had fine hair, you know the sort, ‘come fly with me’ if a door so much as bangs, so unless it was all but stuck with super glue to her scalp, she looked like she was in a perpetual state of fright or flight. Anyway she remembered removing her sandals.

Oh, she giggled as cold water tickled her toes, and was amazed when Mr. Marvellous suddenly produced a bottle of champagne and two plastic cups from God knows where. She’d swear he hadn’t set off with them, no visible bulges she could recall, well not until later, that is…champagne empty, the two of them entwined and knickers around her feet…later.

He was sexy all right. Hadn’t he proved it by bonking her silly? She lost count of the times and it was only when an eager wave looking for a patch of dry sand to conquer finally put a dampener on their ardour that they reluctantly gathered their scattered clothes and headed back to the party. By this time only a few stragglers remained.

She looked for Glenys but couldn’t find her. Mr Insatiable said he’d drive her home, which was just as well since she’d never make it herself. She gave him the address of her flat in Scarborough. It wasn’t far from the beach and before she knew it they were there. She stumbled from his car and up the path to her door. She thought he was following but when she turned he was gone. Just like that, no ‘can I see you again?’ nothing. Vanished like a balloon taken by a gust of wind.

It didn’t take her long to realise she was pregnant, not just the missed period. She could write that off, as legacy of ceasing the pill, but the sore boobs and frequent trips to the loo, not to mention the morning sickness, was proof enough. Was she unlucky or what?

Now, three months later, she laid the blame on Troy. It never would have happened but for him. Well, yes it might, the bonking, that is, but she’d not be pregnant, dear me, no. She’d still be on the pill. When Troy announced calmly as anything that he was taking off to Tasmania with Tristan, yeah, Tristan. No, don’t ask. In a fit of pique she’d thrown the packet of pills in the bin. No need for them now. She was off men forever. And she was miffed, yes she was. After all, she and Troy had been an item for what, close on three years. And hadn’t they lovingly painted their little flat and shared happy evenings eating sushi and drinking white wine and had she suspected anything odd about his character? No, no she had not, well, maybe; after all he was an artist and Tristan a persistent presence in their life. But, and here’s the funny bit, they did enjoy a good bonk.

Glenys said she wasn’t surprised at all. She could never understand what Chastity saw in Troy in the first place and was more than pleased when he shot through.

He’s a bit of a wimp, Chas, Glenys told her after her first encounter with Troy. "He looks like Barbie’s mate, Ken. The two friends were sharing a plate of nachos and a carafe of wine at the Mexican Cantina across from the office. The wine was just the house stuff and not the best, but it served its purpose, which was to quell the fire from the sizzling nachos.

What do you mean, wimp? Chastity replied with an indignity she felt was justified. Just because he has a square jaw, chiselled cheek bones and a tight bum doesn’t mean he’s not manly.

Well for a start I could hardly feel his grip, and you know what that means, Glenys said, shoving a corn chip laden with melted cheese in her mouth. Ow! she yelped as the hot cheese glued itself to the roof of her mouth. Chastity was glad, it served her right; Troy was not a wimp. Glenys downed her drink in one and replenished it just as quick. She’d end up drinking the whole carafe if her damned mouth didn’t stop burning. But it did, finally.

No, I’ve no idea what it means.

Glenys looked at her slyly and smirked. Chastity wanted to hit her. Troy was, after all, the best thing to happen to her and to have her friend make fun of him. Well it just wasn’t on, was it?

It means, Glenys said, "it doesn’t take much imagination to think what else will be limp, does it?

That’s crap and you know it. Anyway, Troy’s an artist. Why would he need a strong grip? To wield a paintbrush? No, I don’t think so. It’s not like a bloody hammer, is it?

And right there and then Chastity decided Glenys was history. But of course she’d forgiven her friend when a week later she could categorically prove Glenys wrong. Limp? No way!

Troy was everything she wanted. She first met him when he came hocking paintings door to door. Later she decided it must have been fate because she’d not been about to answer the loud knocking, she was in her dressing gown, for heaven’s sake. But the instant rattling on the fly wire had her worried. What if it was old Mrs ‘what’s her name’ from next door; in trouble, ill, about to have a stroke? Well, something along those lines because her neighbour was, after all, all but sitting on the cemetery fence.

Tentatively she opened the wooden door and stared startled through the fly screen. No next-door neighbour here. Instead a pair of brilliant blue eyes looked into hers and she was gone, well and truly smitten. What he said, she had no idea, but found herself, trance-like, unlocking the fly screen and ushering him inside.

A foolish gesture one might think and, yes, it could have been, but wasn’t. Although not in the habit of entertaining men in her flat, she should be so lucky, a couple of disastrous affairs and the occasional invitation for coffee after a date, was about the sum total of men to which the flat was familiar. To fling wide the door and invite this good looking stranger into its midst was not a wise thing to do. But she was glad she did.

I’m Troy, he said offering his hand and dropping his wares on the floor as he did so.

Chastity, she returned, wishing she were dressed more appropriately but silently thanking God that at least the dressing gown was clean. No splattering of tomato sauce or coffee stains, which, had he come two days earlier, would have been very much in evidence.

Canvases carpeted the floor and Chastity peered closely at each one. She knew she’d buy one, although none took her fancy. He could have given her a plate of dog shit and she’d have purchased it.

I think this one would look lovely on that far wall, Troy said taking her hesitation as a no sale sign. Chastity looked at the one he indicated, a vase of flowers. Nice? Mmm, nooo, not really. Tall daisies with sunny smiles, medium sized tulips with drooping heads and withered wallflowers spilling onto a crude wooden stand.

Well, er, yeah…

Troy, not about to miss a sale, was quick to pounce.

You understand it’s meaning of course, don’t you?

Ah, well, I was coming to that, Chastity said, with no clue at all as to what he meant.

I knew you’d understand, Troy smiled. It’s amazing how few people do, though, he sounded sad, although his smile remained, directed at her, at the painting and inwardly as he mentally checked what the seventy dollars he hoped to achieve could buy. It’s mankind, he said.

Pardon?

The stages of life.

Yeah?

Of course you know that. I shouldn’t insult your intelligence. Feel free, Chastity thought, she’d dearly love to know what he was on about. Take the tall daisies, he said. See their jovial expressions, their exuberance of life?

Mmm.

What else but a depiction of youth.

Mmm.

Then there’s the tulips, he lovingly stroked their downcast heads. This should be good thought Chastity and couldn’t wait for his explanation. She only hoped Troy wouldn’t ask for her interpretation. He didn’t. Middle age, he stated. The female tulips are pre-menopausal, suffering the empty nest syndrome.

Yes, I thought they might, Chastity strove to keep a straight face, but what about the male ones? How the hell could anyone tell the difference? I’m at a loss for their depression.

Troy smiled benignly. It’s difficult I know, especially to an untrained eye. Redundancy, on the dole, you know the sort of thing. Of course, how could she have missed it? And the wallflowers, he said, speak for themselves.

They’re dead, Chastity said stating the obvious.

They are. Well, dying actually. Misery, old age, the end of life.

Yeah, yes, I see that, Chastity cried. Christ, she didn’t want that on her wall, but she knew she’d buy it anyway, and delegate it to the cupboard in the spare bedroom.

Seventy dollars was dutifully handed over.

Cheap at the price, Troy assured her. One day it’ll be worth a fortune.

Yes, I’m sure, but had her doubts. She offered him coffee and agreed to let him bring other masterpieces to show her at a later date.

The later date proved to be the following week. He phoned her first, thank goodness, so at least this time she could present herself in a more alluring way. Yeah, yeah, whom was she fooling? She was about as alluring as a de sexed mangy moggie. But she did try. She had her hair styled in her lunch break. It went over time and she had to run the two blocks back to work, a fact, which due to her unfit condition had her almost on a cardiac monitor.

It was worth it though. Another picture decorated her wall, the former one hastily hung when she’d heard of Troy’s imminent visit, and the presence of Troy himself.

Where do you work? Chastity innocently asked on this second night of Troy’s canvassing.

Pardon?

What do you do for a living?

I paint. His arms stretched wide in a sweeping embrace of his beloved pictures.

Yeah, yeah. What I mean is… and she’d been about to add ‘for a proper job’ but managed to rein in the words before they shot through the barrier. Instinct warned her it was not the right thing to say. I mean, she said, where is your studio? I know you must make a fantastic living selling this, er, lovely work. Her arms encompassed the array of startling canvasses.

He had the grace to look sheepish.

Actually, he said, I did have a place, with a mate. But he was evicted last week, so I’m in between places at the moment, he gave a little cough and cleared his throat. I don’t suppose you have a spare room?

Chastity was gob smacked. If someone said the world was about to end in two minutes she’d have believed it better than what she’d just heard.

Well, er…, quick, Chas, he’s gorgeous, don’t let this opportunity pass. Yes, as a matter of fact I do, she found herself stating.

Good one, he cried as he bounded across the floor, oblivious of his work spread thereon and flung his arms around the surprised girl. We’ll get along great, you and I, Chastity. I knew it the moment we met.

The very next evening Troy fronted with three cardboard boxes, an artist’s easel, a few coat hangers holding an assortment of clothing and a large saucepan. What had she done! Chastity couldn’t believe she’d been so gullible. But he was nice. She’d never had much luck with men before, a fact she blamed entirely on her mother.

What with Mum’s obsession with alcohol and unsuitable suitors and no spare time for her daughter, Chastity grew up with a resolute dislike of most men especially the ones whose grey matter consisted of an appendage between their legs and little else. Thus Chastity resolved never, no, never to be involved with anyone less than an Einstein, which was, she had to admit some years later, damn near impossible. Brainy men wanted beautiful women, something she was not. Dumb men wanted beautiful women too and were terrified of females who could string two or more words coherently together.

So, in the man stakes she was in limbo. Until Troy, that is. Now, not only was he a stunner in looks and living with her, he was also very clever. Didn’t his paintings verify that? And what’s more he didn’t give a shit about convention and was only too pleased to educate her in the finer things of life, which meant sushi instead of hamburgers and wine in preference to beer.

Troy was, after all, a presence, a demi-God whose artistic abilities transformed her, Chastity, from a frump to a fairy; no, wrong word. Fairy she was not, but now seven kilograms lighter, courtesy of lettuce leaves and bean sprouts, and mousy hair a radiant red, a frump was definitely past tense.

Colour, that’s what it’s all about, Troy exclaimed. You need vibrancy, Chastity, you need transporting from the mundane to the sublime where you can shine and dazzle and illuminate your surroundings.

Yes, Troy, she had no idea what he was on about but was happy to indulge his fantasy and, if red hair did the trick, then a red head she’d be. She loved Troy, adored him, worshipped him, although to be honest she did suspect that maybe it was because of these reasons alone that he too loved her. That and the fact she kept him.

Troy was between jobs. Real work, that is. Okay, he earned a few dollars at the local market where he painstakingly produced perfect copies from photographs of pets, children, anything anyone wanted, onto drawing paper, but his heart was not in it.

It’s not real art, Chas, he sulked. I mean how can you compare this, and he took from a manila folder a magnificent sketch of a Persian cat stretched languidly atop a chaise lounge, with those? He pointed to the wall, which by now housed more pictures than paint.

You can’t, Chastity readily agreed but not for the same reason as his. As far as she was concerned, a picture of a Persian pussy would definitely take precedence over wilting wallflowers any day.

Chastity brought in the bread and Troy ate it. He never actively looked for work but Chastity didn’t care. As long as Troy was happy then so was she and if she had to prop him up now and again then so be it. That’s what friends, no, make that lovers were for. He was good for her ego and likewise she boosted his.

Take the time his abstract was rejected by the annual art festival. He’d been convinced it’d be grabbed before the paint was even dry, but it wasn’t, nor were the other three canvases he’d offered. Naturally he was devastated and she’d been there for him. Yes, she had. She’d praised his genius and cried real tears in commiseration. She’d begged him to hang the paintings in any vacant space he could find as a reminder of his brilliance.

However, the minute Troy took off with Tristan, Chastity, quick as a flea, had the lot down and relegated to the dustbin before the door closed on their retreating figures. The paintings were crap and it was almost worth losing Troy to get shut of the bloody things. I mean how depressing is a landscape of bare trees surrounded by dead carcasses and stick thin animals. Or