Red Brown Red – A Love Story With Heat

By Jayne Hodgson

When Anne meets someone, could anyone or anything be more important than another glass of red wine, a large bar of dark chocolate and the cat?

 

She's in her late thirties, rather plain, and is too self-effacing to fuss about her appearance a great deal.

Anne is intelligent, observant and creative in her own little world, but she's not the sort of person who gets noticed much.

Her friends are limited to a couple of the women at work, a few at the local textile class and the neighbours on one side.

 

So when she meets someone, will she embrace the changes or will she follow the old maxim: "If a woman has a good cat, she doesn't need a man"?

Could she even pass the five crucial tests laid down to be a good and perfect woman?

 

"Red Brown Red" is full of friendship and humour, with oodles of passion, wondrous words of wisdom and bundles of love.

122,000 words

• Language: English
• Publisher: Watchya Publishing
• Release date: Oct 16, 2021
• ISBN: 9780995779204

Book preview

Red Brown Red

Chapter 1

––––––––

It’s mid-June and the local textile and embroidery class is holding its end-of-year show in the library.

What could be a more gripping start than that?  Never mind the opening lines Twas a dark and stormy night and The vampire bites her neck, Anne’s story starts with a piece of cloth pinned to a board – Jayne

Malcolm walks into the library, looks around and wanders over to the exhibition area in the corner.  It’s a Saturday, the last afternoon of the show and people will be packing up soon.  He’s there to take photographs of a friend’s display and sees Julie talking with her husband. 

‘Hello dears.  This is looking smart and colourful.’

‘Hi, Malcolm.  Thanks for coming.’

‘This is yours then?  Gosh there’s a lot of work been put into this.’

‘Is there enough light for the photographs here,’ Julie asks.

‘Yes, it’ll be fine; I’ve got a tripod.  I’ll just have a quick walk around first before I do the snaps.’

Malcolm’s a professional photographer so although not an ideal set-up, he can easily turn out a good result.  When he returns to Julie and Ian, Julie quietly asks, ‘As you’re here, could you do me another little favour, if I promise you an extra helping of sticky toffee pudding?’

‘Sure.’

‘Could you take a few pictures of Anne’s display?  Her work’s beautiful.  She’s very nice but has got a bad stammer and doesn’t talk much.  She’s along the side here.’

They walk round to one of the other panels.  He’d seen her work as he wandered around, especially a striking quilt, made of many panels.  Each section features the abstract shape of a bird on its own scene of land, cloud and water, built up with cloth and elaborate stitching.  The colours blend from red on one side of the quilt to green, then blue on the other side.  Although there are twenty panels, they are constructed and coloured so that they all merge in as a complete picture.  Anne had been sitting nearby on her own.  He noticed she looked rather pale with an almost dreary face, or perhaps just sad.  She had short brown hair, utility glasses and looked about 40 or late thirties.  After spending some time admiring the quilt, he looked at her and smiled.  ‘I love your quilt – it’s beautiful’.  Her sad face broke into a surprisingly bright smile.

‘This is Anne’, said Julie, ‘and this is my friend Malcolm who’s taking the pictures for us.  Anne answers with a soft ‘Thank you’ and a blush and a smile.

‘Are these cushions yours as well?’

‘Yes’

‘Fine.  I’ll just photograph Julie’s display first then come back.  See you soon.’

Julie’s fabrics are wall hangings made from hessian, raw wool and colourful knitting wool. After taking the pictures and chatting, Malcolm returns to Anne.

‘Here we are.’  The quilt is hanging on a frame.  He sets up the tripod and lines up the first picture.  Taking a small folder from his bag, he opens out a piece of folded card.  One side is covered with coloured squares, the other is covered with grey squares of different tones.

‘Could you hold this for me please Anne?  It’ll only be your hand in the picture.’  He holds the card in front of the quilt to show her where he wants to see it.  ‘Thanks.’  After taking the first picture, he takes the card from Anne and packs it away.

‘What’s nn.that for?’ she asks.

‘Light varies; different light contains different colours, which affects the colour of the materials.  The grey squares are perfectly neutral so I’ll make them neutral in the photograph.  That way all the other colours should look more or less correct.  Like when you’re buying material in a shop, you might take it to the window away from the artificial light to judge its colour better.’  This she understands and nods.

After that, he takes several pictures of the quilt.  He moves the tripod around and closer to take photographs of various parts of the quilt.  The cushions have a different design.  They are large and round in a light blue material and are covered with coloured pieces of material shaped like balloons of different sizes, each with a string hanging down.  The colour of the balloons is not flat but has highlights and shading like on a real balloon. 

‘Did you hand dye the material for the balloons to get that shading?’ he asks. 

‘Yes’, replies Anne.  The cushions are propped up on a small table and it’s a simple matter to photograph them.  As Malcolm is packing up the camera and tripod, he asks, ‘How are you getting everything home – do you have a car?’

‘n.nn.No, I’ll get a mm.taxi.’

‘Oh, I’ll give you a lift.  You live locally don’t you?’

‘Yes, it’s nn.n.not far.  Are you sure?’

‘Yes yes, it’s fine.’

Anne’s dressed in dark blue trousers and a bagging woolly jumper in a dull beige.  She’s pigeon toed, round shouldered with a bit of a hunch stance and walk, and looks rather frumpish.  Perhaps she’s about 5’5" tall.  A difficult childhood there then and little self-esteem, thinks Malcolm.  He can notice such things because he used to be similar.  In his case the tense stomach and forward leaning walk were fixed by a course of solid massage by a Rolfing expert.  After that came extreme emotional release which in turn was purged with several years’ psychotherapy.  Anne looks a little on the plump side as far as can be seen in that baggy jumper but she can break out into a friendly smile bigger than expected.

All the people in the class are women.  Husbands and boyfriends have started to arrive, enlisted as pack-horses for the task of removal.  People are beginning to break down their exhibits as Malcolm goes back to Julie and Ian.

‘I’m going to help Anne with her things and give her a lift home.’

‘Oh good.  I’ll give you a call next week about lunch.’

‘Thanks.  I’ll send the pictures over early next week.  Bye.’

After he turns away, Julie gives a wink and smile to Ian.

With everything loaded up, Malcolm and Anne are on their way.  Anne directs Malcolm with the minimum of words, until they arrive at her front door.  The house is a two-up-two-down Victorian terrace, similar to houses in towns and cities all over Britain.

The large duvet is spread over the back of the sofa to avoid loading it with creases and the cushions are piled on a chair.  Malcolm looks around the room which is comfortable and modest.  Anne hesitates and timidly asks ‘Would you like some nn.tea?’

‘Shall we go out to tea,’ asks Malcolm. ‘There are a couple of good tearooms in Oxton.  I’ll treat you.  Come on.’  He smiles at her and the decision seems to have been made.

The tearoom is busy but a couple is just vacating a table for two so they sit straight down.  Anne has her back to the wall looking out into the room and Malcolm sits at right-angles to her.  Anne looks around with interest.  The room is full of groups and families chatting and eating.  ‘Have you been here before?’ Malcolm asks.  Anne shakes her head.  That seems odd as it’s only a good walking distance from her house.  The waitress comes and clears up the dirty plates and says she’ll be right back.

‘Do you eat cake? he continues.

‘Ooo yes.’

‘They’ll have different types of cake and scones.  What’s sort of tea would you like, any preference, or would you prefer coffee?’

‘Regular . . tea, mm.m.please.’

The waitress returns.  ‘We’ve got carrot cake, chocolate cake with walnuts, lemon drizzle, our own unique fruit cake and scones.’

He turns to Anne and says, ‘I bet you are a chocolate cake person aren’t you?’

Anne gives a happy nod.

‘Okay, we’d like one chocolate cake and a scone, cream and jam . . and butter.  One regular tea and one Darjeeling, please.’

Turning back to Anne, he continues, ‘I was impressed with that exhibition.  There was some skilful work there and attractive designs.  How long did that quilt take you?’

‘I .. started it  .. fours years ago  . mm.but only  .  worked on it . . very occasionally.  I started . nn.n going to the . . classes . m.mm.because I  . thought it .  . would encourage . me to do something every m.week.  And I .  . .  didn’t nn.nn.know how to . . . mm.do some of it without a n.nn.teacher.’

Anne talks very slowly and carefully.  Malcolm thinks, poor thing – she desperately wants to talk but finds it difficult and is nervous of looking stupid.  As she struggles over the word teacher, he puts his hand on her forearm. ‘It’s all right – take your time’.  She gasps very softly; not use to being touched perhaps.

The tea and cakes arrive and Malcolm does the business with the milk.  With them tucking into the chocolate cake and scone, Malcolm says, ‘This scone’s nice and fresh.  How’s the cake?’

‘Suitable addictive,’ as Anne licks some chocolate from her lips.

‘Do you know, some places give you a fresh scone, which they should of course, then give you frozen butter.  You can’t put frozen butter on a fresh scone without the whole thing falling apart.’ 

‘So if a nn.tearoom gives you frozen m.butter, nn.do you have n.tantrum?’

‘Do I ever.  I can be very embarrassing to be with you know.’

Anne smiles and they eat a few mouthfuls quietly.

‘You know those balloons on your cushions?  Was it easy to add the coloured dye so that it faded from colour to nothing?’

‘Not really.  I had to use a cloth m.pad and weak dye, then build it up n.gradually.  It kept coming out m.patchy in places so there were lots of failures at first.’

‘It worked in the end, though; they look really good.’

Anne glows inside rather, not being used to compliments on the things she does.

Tea gets drunk; cups get refilled.

‘Do you live on your own?’

‘I live with Ozzee’.

‘That’ll be either a cat or a goldfish; I’ll guess a cat.’

She nods with a smile.

‘I bet he sleeps on your bed doesn’t he?’

Another nod and smile.

‘You’re a big softie then, eh?’

‘He’s very . nn..good . n.company.’

‘Where do you work, Anne?  Do you have a job?’

‘Yes, I work at Hartington m.Press.  We make a free local m.paper and publish books on local history.  They’re also m.printers for anyone else of leaflets, mm.brochures, that sort of thing.  I’m a copy checker and m.proof reader.’

‘Do you have to check the copy of professional writers like journalists?’

‘Yes.’

‘That must be risky at times.  Some pros must get very precious about their pieces and object to any changes.’

‘Yes, it can happen. A couple of them m.make a lot a simple grammar m.mistakes so I have to change them. I change as little as m.possible, just to make it flow better.  Lots of m.members of the public send in items, some are n.good, most aren’t.  They never m.mind corrections; they’re just so m.pleased to have something in print with their name on it.’

Malcolm notices how she seems to be talking more easily now.

‘I suppose you’re more of a written word person than spoken word?’

‘Certainly.’ 

‘Do you write yourself then?’

‘Yes, I write some things.’

‘Let me guess; poetry and short stories.’

‘That’s right,’ as she giggles lightly.  How does he manage to guess so many things about me?

‘Have you ever had things published?’

‘I’ve n.never tried, they’re only for m.myself really.  What about you?  What sort of photography do you do?  Do you do weddings?’

‘No, not weddings.  I’m far too unsociable to be any good at that type of photography.  I mainly do products, still life and quite a lot of arty stuff for myself.  I’ll tell you about my sort of

photography some other time, perhaps,’ as he picks up the final piece of scone.

Anne likes the sound of that and smiles quietly to herself, squashing the remaining crumbs of cake on to her fork.

‘Are you a keen browser of bookshops?’ Malcolm asks.

‘Mmm, I have to be n.careful or I can n.get carried away.’

‘At the risk of corrupting you further, you know there’s a decent second-hand bookshop a few doors away?’

‘Yes I’ve been there a few times and it’s a risky m.place for me to go.’

‘You end up buying too much stuff do you?’

‘I might be looking for a m.book on a m.particular subject and m.come out with three others.’

‘I’ll steer you clear of such temptation today then.’

Leaving the tearoom, for the third time Malcolm opens the car door for her, which Anne doesn’t fail to notice.  It’s something she’s hardly seen except in old movies.

Driving back, he asks:  ‘Will I see you again? Would you like to have lunch next weekend?’

The question’s hardly finished before she says ‘Yes’.

‘All right, how about Saturday?  If I come round about twelve?’

‘Yes that’s mm.fine, thank you.’

‘We could drive out into the country a bit and find a decent pub.  Have you got a computer at home?’

‘Yes, a laptop.’

‘I should have the photos processed by then, so I’ll bring them along.’

Outside her house, he writes down her address.

‘Oh you’re left-handed.  Some am I,’ Anne comments.

‘That’s because all the best people are left-handed.  There are smiles and goodbyes as she gets out of the car and Malcolm drives off.

✭

There are several comforts in Anne’s life: her writing, history, textiles, Ozzee, the wine glass and the dildo she bought off the net; and chocolate cream eclairs washed down with another glass of wine.  There are no friends outside of acquaintances at work, a few in the textile class and the neighbours on one side.

When she gets back into the house after the Saturday tea, she immediately sits on the sofa, looks down and has a cry.  She’s so excited that a glass of wine is essential along with some lap time for Ozzee.  In spite of this, she can’t relax, but goes upstairs, strips naked, gets into bed and has a good go with the dildo on full power.  At least it takes out some of the tension.  While lying there, Ozzee comes to join her and crawls into the bed.  Ozzee is all black with large yellow eyes, wears a bright red collar and never scratches or bites.  Although Anne wouldn’t admit it, he’s her best friend.

During Sunday and every evening for the rest of the week, her main distractions are lots of television, Ozzee and a bit too much wine.  The week passes slowly and no matter how she tries to distract herself she can’t help thinking about Malcolm and how much she likes him.

The excitement of next Saturday is mingled with the fear that he might not turn up.  He must like me as a person.  I’m not glamorous or pretty; don’t have a bubbly, fun, chatty manner, not like Lorraine.  I know I’m a bit overweight, but the stammer didn’t seem to put him off.

Particularly on Friday night at bedtime she can’t relax at all.  Her romantic fantasies are running wild and only that dildo can calm her down enough to sleep. 

In her more reflective moments, she can see that she’s fallen into a basic sexist role with all its dependency.  She also knows this situation is completely new to her; she’s never had such experiences so  feels justified.  Lying in bed she thinks:

"Is it thy will, thy image should keep open

My heavy eyelids to the weary night?

Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,

While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?"

✭ ✭ ✭

Chapter 2

On Saturday morning Anne has to go out, both to do basic shopping and to fill up an anxious couple of hours.  Come eleven o’clock, she thinks about getting ready.  She’s half convinced herself that he won’t turn up but gets ready anyway.  What to wear?  Just simple casual I suppose; this cream skirt, white blouse, brown jacket and brown shoes.

She sits on a chair near the window at ten to twelve and wants Ozzee on her lap for comfort but she’s so tense and anxious that he jumps off almost at once.  She sits looking into the street through the net curtain.  Two minutes to twelve.  Her breathing is faster and she knows her heart is thumping.  One minute to twelve and seeing Malcolm approaching the gate she gasps with relief.  Malcolm hates being late and rings her doorbell on perfect time.  Anne jumps up and runs to the door.  Letting him in, he says, ‘Hello, how are you?’  Anne knows she won’t be able to say a single word without stammering right now so just nods with a big smile.

‘We’ll go straight off shall we?’

Anne picks up a bag from the hall table and they head for the car.  As they drive off, Malcolm says, ‘I thought we’d go to a place in Thingwall; do you know it?’

‘I’ve m.been through the village on a bus.’

‘Good.  It’s about five miles away and it’s a bit more rural there.’

Malcolm thinks she looks tidy but rather dowdy, skirt a bit too long and those shoes are far too sensible.  Too much brown and it’s not her colour anyway, although as yet he’s not sure which colour is.  It’s odd really, considering her textiles are bright, colourful and optimistic.

In the pub, they find a good table by a window.  Malcolm fetches menus, a large glass of house red for Anne and a fizzy apple something for himself.

‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

Anne half empties her wine glass with a couple of quick gulps and Malcolm pretends not to notice.  She’s nervous and needs it to help her relax, but looking at the glass realises she might have made a tactical error.  Gently, she puts the glass on the table, careful not to catch Malcolm’s eye.

Looking at the menu, he says ‘Do you eat meat?’

‘Not m.much.  Fish and sometimes chicken.  Fish is easier to say than mm.meat.’  She gives a little laugh.

‘Very practical.  There are a couple of good vegetarian dishes and bream and home cured salmon.  Or there’s chicken and woodland mushroom pie.’

Glancing down the menu, Anne says, ‘I think I’d like Lancashire . . cheese nn.n..flan . . . please’

‘And various veg or salad?

‘Veg and sauté m.potatoes.’

‘Good.  I think I’ll go for the bream.  I’ll order that then.’

Anne sneaks another sip of wine while he’s away at the bar.  On returning, Malcolm says, ‘My middle name is Shaun.  Would you find that easier to say than Malcolm?’

‘Yes, soft letters are easier to say n.than hard letters.  Shaun is easier, thank you.  Does anyone else call you Shaun?’

‘Only the Queen.’  He laughs.

Anne smiles and says, ‘And Anne is my m.middle name – it’s easier to say than m.Mary.’

‘Do you like your job?’ he asks her.

‘Yes and the women in the office are n.nice.  I shouldn’t say nice should I?  It’s not a real word.’

‘Who else is in your office then?’

‘In m.my little area there’s Sheila.  She’s in her m.mid-forties, married with twin boys.  They are 18 I think, and there’s Lorraine.  She’s about 25 and very lively.  She m.does all the layouts and design.  She and her husband m.go to clubs and m.parties every weekend – she loves dancing and cocktails – and fashion – and m.men – and n.gossip.’

As she’s talking, Shaun notices she has quite a lot of dark under her eyes – not sleeping too well perhaps.  The food arrives and they make a start.

‘A really stupid question to ask an author is What’s your book about?, but I’ll ask it anyway.  Do your stories have a connecting theme or are they separate incidents as they occur to you?’

‘Yes’, replies Anne, with a smile.

‘Good answer.  Now you may expand on that.’

‘mm.Many of them have a historical story line.  I love history and I might come across an interesting event and that starts m.me off with a story.  Some are n.connected in that they have similar characters although in a completely different time.’

‘Have you been writing for a long time then?’ Shaun asks.

‘Since I was very little.  I still have the early stories, all m.badly written.  Then I got a cheap typewriter from a n.junk shop, then a laptop.  English and history have always m.been my favourite subjects and they’re the only ‘A’ levels I got.’

‘Publishers tend not to go for short stories, saying there’s no demand for them, but surveys show that people do like short stories and there’s not enough choice, so maybe there’s a gap in the market for the right stuff.’

‘Perhaps m.publishers get inundated with low quality written by m.middle-aged women with cats?’ she giggles.

Good sense of humour she’s got but a little self-deprecating, thinks Shaun.

‘I’d like to read some of your stories – may I?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘And some of your poetry, although I have to admit I’m not much of a poetry person.  I usually find it hard to visualise for some reason.  Do you write all the time or does it come in sudden creative bursts.’

‘In m.bursts really but I usually have several rough story lines written in a n.notebook for when I can get round to them,’ says Anne.

‘Are you a good writer,’ he asks, but Anne shrugs her shoulders without looking at him and simply says ‘m.m.Don’t know’.

‘That answer isn’t good enough, Anne.’  He puts his hand on her wrist again, this time touching her hand a little as well.  ‘I want a definite answer.  Let’s try again.  Look at me please.  Are you a good writer – Yes or No?’ he asks.

She feels he’s got such a kind smile and holding his gaze she replies ‘Yes’.

‘There, that’s much better.’

As he let’s go of her wrist Anne bubbles inside like in a romantic novel.

‘I dare say some of your stories are more precious to you than others.’

‘Recently I looked at a few of m.my older stories, done when I was at school and m.most of them are embarrassing.’

‘They might be better than you think; you’re just too use to them.’

‘Sometimes m.maybe but certainly not always,’ she responds with a smile.

‘Your glass is empty.  Would you like another wine?’  Anne nods without looking at him, ‘Thank you’.

He brings the pudding menu with the drinks.

‘As far as I am concerned, anyone who doesn’t dive into a truly wicked pudding is only half a person, so you’ve been warned.’

Anne certainly loves the sound of this and smiles broadly as Shaun reads out the choice.

‘There’s Jamaican ginger cheesecake with toffee sauce and double cream.  Chocolate Heaven.  Oven-baked Crumble of the Day with custard, double cream or clotted cream.  Eton Mess Fruit Compote with cream and broken meringue, whatever ‘compote’ is, if that’s how you pronounce it.’

‘It’s fruit cooked in syrup,’ advises Anne.

‘Oh right.  And Sorbet.  You are not allowed that – it’s too boring.  So there’s Ginger Cheesecake, Chocolate Heaven, Fruit Crumble or Eton Mess.  What do you fancy?’

‘Oh, um, um, I think the Eton m.Mess, please’

‘OK, I’ll try the Ginger Cheesecake, which sounds like a heart attack special.’

Shaun goes to order the pudding while Anne visits the Ladies. When she returns and slides into her seat, she twists her body, stretches and tightens her blouse – not the sort of thing Shaun’s going to miss.  She’s got good boobs, really full and round, certainly two BSH at least.  I hadn’t noticed before, what with the way she stoops with those round shoulders making her look concaved at the front.

The puddings arrive and are so tasty the first few mouthfuls are taken in silence.

‘Does yours make you feel wonderful wicked?’ Shaun asks.

‘Yes I’m wallowing in wantonness here,’ answers Anne, with a boldness which makes Shaun smile and he notices how she keeps her eyes firmly down towards her plate and she’s blushing slightly.

‘Do you live in Wirral?’ asks Anne.

‘No, I live near St. Helens.  You were asking what sort of photography I do.  Well . . . it’s mainly been products and things rather than people, although people are sometimes in the pictures.  I work through a studio in Manchester – some of their clients and some of my own.  I also sell photographs through a couple of picture libraries.  They sell the use of pictures for magazines, books, adverts and so on and I get part of the fee.  That’s a very brief outline for now.  Do you fancy coffee?’

‘Mmmm, yes please.’  Anne’s happy to sit here as long as possible.

‘They’ve got the usual or you could have coffee with whisky and cream?’

‘That sounds good, thank you.’

When all’s finished, Shaun asks, ‘Do you have to get back yet?  We could take a bit of a drive around the Wirral coast.’

Returning to the car, Anne starts to do up her seat belt but Shaun picks up her hand and examines it.  He turns it over to look at the palm and back of her hand several times.  He examines her nails and gently plucks at her smooth skin.  Then he puts her hand down on her lap and pats it a couple of times.  It’s merely a sneaky way of holding her hand.  Anne is curious but silent and just smiles being pleased with the touching. 

They drive around the Wirral coastal road and approaching Anne’s street, Shaun says ‘I’ve got the photo-graphs with me so we can put them on your computer.  And I’ve two things to ask of you; firstly, you introduce me to Ozzee and secondly, you lend me some of your stories and poems to read.’

Once indoors, Anne picks up Ozzee and Shaun lets him sniff his fingers.  That seems to pass the test and when Shaun scratches his ear, Ozzee rolls his head and closes his eyes with pleasure.  Shaun knows that a way to a woman’s heart is to be nice to her cat.

‘He’s very pretty or should I say handsome, being a boy.’

‘Hear that Ozzee – pretty and handsome.  Don’t be fooled by his innocent face; when he attacks a sheet of n.tissue n.paper, he’s lethal.’

‘So he’s the Black Beast of Birkenhead.’

‘Yes, although that’s too hard for m.me to say.  He might prefer to be the mm.Black m.Beauty of Birkenhead’

‘Why is he called Ozzee?’

‘I made it up.  I wanted a name which was short and easy for m.me to say.’

After a minute Ozzee is put back on to his favourite chair while Anne goes to the bookshelf.  It’s a free-standing affair in an alcove, mainly full of history books and historical novels.  Half a shelf is taken up with folders containing Anne’s writings.

‘All this lot?’ observed Shaun.  ‘How many stories have you got?’

‘I don’t know.  I’ve n.never n.counted them.’

She takes three folders down and hands two to Shaun.

‘There are poems in here and these are stories.  There’re about 20 in all.’

‘Good, thanks.  Now as you are showing me yours, I’ll show you mine.  Next time I see you, I’ll bring some photographs along.  More arty stuff rather than pure commercial bits.’

‘Oh yes, I love looking a m.pictures.’

‘If you could switch the computer on, I’ll transfer the snaps for you.’

Anne’s very pleased and impressed with the images, and asks, ‘Do I owe you anything for m.doing all that photography?’

‘Yes, you can agree to have supper next week.’

‘Oh. . . Yes . . . Fine.’

‘How about Wednesday – we could drive into Liverpool.’

Suddenly Shaun puts his hand over his mouth and says, ‘I don’t think you even know my name yet, apart from Shaun.’

‘And m.m.Malcolm,’ corrects Anne.

‘I’ve known your full name since the exhibition.  Have you got a piece of paper?’

With paper and pencil, he says ‘This is me, Malcolm Shaun Waterleigh and this is my phone number and e-mail.  Write down your number and e-mail will you please.’

On his way out in the hall, Shaun puts the folders on the small table, turns to Anne saying ‘I’ll give you a goodbye hug, come here then,’ and without waiting for a response he puts his arms around her.  One arm goes around her waist, the other over her shoulder and he pulls her close.  She responds quickly by putting her arms around him.  Anne goes soft with pleasure and doesn’t want to let go.

Yep I was right about those boobs – very comforting. 

Anne loves the pressure of his arms around her back and holds him firmly.  As they untangle, Shaun gives her a quick peck on the cheek and says ‘I’ll see you Wednesday then.  Do you normally have supper early or late?’ 

‘Quite early, about half six to seven.  I n.don’t have a large lunch.’

‘I’ll come round soon after 6 then and we’ll go straight off.’  He picks up the folders and opens the door.  At the gate he turns and with Anne still at the front door, they both give little waves.

Anne goes to the living room window and after watching Shaun get in the car and drive away, she sits on the sofa.  She’s excited, happy, light headed and wet between her legs.  She knows she’s got no choice but to get back into bed and give herself some entertainment.  It’s the best she’s had for a long time and afterwards just lies there in a dreamy state.  Ozzee jumps up and snuggles under the bedclothes next to her.  In time, Ozzee gives a little meow which says It’s past my teatime, servant and looking at the clock, she’s surprised to learn she’s been there nearly two hours.  Getting up she just slips on a jumper and skirt, not being in the mood for wearing underwear.

✭ ✭ ✭

Chapter 3

The next few days go slowly for Anne. The previous Saturday, her new friend and the thought of Wednesday evening are hardly out of her mind, but she doesn’t want her behaviour to change so that it gets noticed at work.

At Anne’s office, Monday morning moves along, although she’s more distracted than usual.  At one point she’s sitting at her desk, halfway through a letter, gazing absentmindedly at an empty place on the carpet, with a slight smile on her face.

Lorraine pauses from her task and notices Anne’s expression.  After some moments, Lorraine looks over to Sheila and catches her eye.  She nods towards Anne.  They both look at her, then back to each other, then back to Anne, who hasn’t moved.

Lorraine calls her, ‘Anne’.  No response.  Louder, ‘Anne!’

Anne jumps and looks at her with a big smile.

‘Have you got a boyfriend?’

Anne flinches, goes bright red and looks down.

Lorraine bounces up and down on her chair excitedly and claps.  ‘Ooooo bull’s-eye!’  She rushes over to Anne, leans down and puts an arm round her shoulder.  ‘Have you met someone then?’

Anne nods with her smiles.  Lorraine pulls up a chair next to Anne and wraps her hands round Anne’s arm.  Lorraine is a great toucher of people.  ‘Come on now, let’s hear it.  Have you been out with him?’

‘Yes, on Saturday.’

‘Saturday?  You didn’t tell us this was going on.  This is hot news.  We expect to be kept informed, don’t we Sheila?’

‘Yes, it’s your social duty,’ responds Sheila.

‘Well, he m.might not have n.turned up or it m.might have been a m.disaster, so I m.didn’t want to say anything too soon.’

‘Right – let’s get down to details,’ continues Lorraine.  ‘What’s his name?’

‘Shaun.’

‘What’s he do?’

‘He’s a photographer.’

‘Oooo, sounds grand.’

‘How old is he?

‘I don’t know.  He’s older than m.me.’  Anne has some idea how old he is but doesn’t like to say.

‘Where did you meet him?’

‘At the embroidery show in the library last weekend.  He was there photographing someone’s m.display and he did m.mine as well.  He helped me home with m.my textiles.  We went out to n.tea and I saw him again on Saturday.’

‘So this has been building up for a week and we’ve been in the dark?’

Anne looks sheepish.

‘Right, carry on.  What did you do?’

‘We had lunch in a pub in Thingwall then drove around the coast.’

‘He’s nice then is he?’

‘Yes.  He seems very n.kind and he’s very m.patient with my stammer.’

‘Is he married?  Has he got any kids?’

The smile disappears from Anne’s face.  ‘I don’t know.  He didn’t say so.’

‘Maybe not then, but check eh?  When are you seeing him again?

‘Wednesday.  We’re m.going into Liverpool for supper.’

‘Oh, great.  Now on Thursday morning you will be interrogated, OK, and we expect all the details and I mean all.  Understand?’

Anne smiles again and Lorraine gives her a final squeeze.

✭

On the Wednesday when Anne is due to see Shaun, she gets home at the usual time, both excited and frightened.  The idea that he might be married with a secret family somewhere after all scares her.  Children don’t matter too much but another woman hovering around would.  She’s also still nervous in case he doesn’t turn up.  In a bit of a panic, she checks her e-mail to see if there’s something from Shaun.  There’s a big sigh of relief to find only a reminder about the water bill. 

Firstly she feeds Ozzee, then almost automatically pours out a glass of wine and sits down waiting for Ozzee to join her.  I hope he hugs me again.  Please please hug me again.  Gosh, I’m feeling like a woman from the 1940s B movie.  Well I’ve never been through all this before so maybe it’s allowed.  She lets time pass but it’s slow.

Upstairs she changes into a smarter dress of brown and mauve, does a bit of make-up and hopes she looks all right.  Not being big on mirrors she doesn’t do too much checking.

It’s approaching 6 o’clock and purely as a distraction she turns on the television and without taking much notice of what’s on, she waits as patiently as possible.  It’s not long before the bell rings – one short, one long.  Good time-keeping again – impressive.  She opens the door and Shaun walks in.

‘Hello dear.’ Shaun puts a hand on her shoulder and gives her a friendly peck on the cheek.  ‘I’ve brought you some flowers,’ as he passes over a large bunch of white and pink lilies.

Anne stares with wide eyes at the flowers.  Nobody has ever bought her flowers before and she feels in a mild sense of shock.  After waiting some ten seconds, Shaun says, ‘Shall we just put them in a bowl for now and you can arrange them properly later when we get back’.  Anne nods, takes the flowers and goes into the kitchen.  Shaun leaves a package on the hall table and follows her.  Filling the sink she puts the stalks in the water then picks up a pair of scissors from the drawer, cuts the string around them and cuts an inch from each stem, letting the off-cuts fall into the water.  She can’t take her eyes off the flowers, most of them still closed but a few starting to open. 

‘You know flowers come at a price.  They have to be paid for with a hug or they can vanish.’

Anne turns quickly and puts her arms around him and just manages not to burst into tears.  He wraps his arms around her and squeezes hard.  ‘Oh this is nice’, as he holds her tightly with one hand and rubs her back with the other.  Anne gives a light groan.

‘Shall