The Lying Scotsman

By Joy Mutter

The Lying Scotsman is book 2 in The Mug Trilogy of third-person standalone memoirs. The words were triggered by Mug’s entanglement with Michael. Mug was a recently divorced woman in her late forties. Michael was a complex, enigmatic Scottish baggage handler eleven years her junior who was hiding shocking secrets from the world.

Mug began writing a painfully honest book about their unusual story, planning to give it to Michael for Christmas to show her love for him. After reading a few chapters and riddled with guilt over what he was hiding from her, he sent her a text threatening to drive off a cliff. After Mug eventually discovering the shocking truths Michael had been hiding for years, she also wanted to die. The purpose of her book then changed. It became her attempt to make sense of the bizarre events unfolding as she wrote it, and to help her and Michael to deal with the aftermath.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Joy Mutter
• Release date: Sep 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215123102

Joy Mutter

I was born in Jersey and lived there for eighteen years. I worked in Kent as a professional graphic designer for over twenty years after gaining a Graphic Design Degree at Coventry University. I moved to Oldham in 2012 and have been writing books full-time up north ever since.I’ve written, designed, and published more than twenty books since 2007. The first three, A Slice of the Seventies, The Lying Scotsman, and Straws are third-person memoirs that form The Mug Trilogy.My fourth book, Potholes and Magic Carpets is contemporary, character-led fiction. I’ve also published one illustrated nonfiction book called Living with Postcards.Random Bullets was published in 2015. It is a contemporary crime thriller with a paranormal twist.Her Demonic Angel contains fourteen of my best short stories in different genres. Between 2016 and 2017, I published The Hostile Series of four contemporary paranormal thrillers. They consist of The Hostile, Holiday for The Hostile, The Hostile Game, and Confronting The Hostile. The Hostile Series Box Set contains all four books in The Hostile series.In 2018, I published a psychological thriller called The Trouble with Liam. The Trouble with Trouble, Trouble in Cornwall, and Troubled, all explicit standalone erotic thrillers in The Trouble series, were published in 2020 and 2021.Novellas The Brothers Grimshaw and A Sunny Day in Oldham were published in 2022.Between 2021 and 2023, I published the Nuru and his Crows Series consisting of Nuru and his Crows, The Storms of Padstow, and Punishing the Innocent.Nine of my books are also available as audiobooks.

Book preview

The Lying Scotsman

Book Two of

The Mug Trilogy

Joy Mutter

The Lying Scotsman

Copyright: Joy Mutter

Published: November 2015

Publisher: Joy Mutter at Smashwords

The right of Joy Mutter to be identified as author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval systems, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without prior written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.

Contents

Contents

Chapter 1. Enter, The Enigma

Chapter 2. The Sting

Chapter 3. Love Walks Out And In And Out And In

Chapter 4. Adventures

Chapter 5. Beginnings

Chapter 6. Abrupt End To Innocence

Chapter 7. Isle Of Wight Madness

Chapter 8. Seeing The Light

Chapter 9. The Wilderness Years

Chapter 10. The Awakening

Chapter 11. Fast Forward

Chapter 12. Meltdown

Chapter 13. Smokescreen

Chapter 14. The Truth Comes Out, Or Does It?

Chapter 15. In Touch With His Feminine Side

Chapter 16. His Life

Chapter 17. Horror Of Horrors

Chapter 18. Out Of The Blue

Chapter 19. Another Rebirth

Books By Joy Mutter

About The Author

Chapter 1. Enter, The Enigma

Their first meeting came about late one night in February 2004. Eight years later, the exact date in February was to become crucial to her. They’d spent a flirtatious hour via their laptops on an internet dating site she’d been frequenting for a couple of years. In 2004, sexually charged online flirting was nothing out of the ordinary for them and many others.

Michael was first attracted to Mug’s photographs. Having read on her profile that she lived only half an hour’s drive from his lodgings, he sent her flirtatious messages asking to meet her. Lounging on her bed, she eagerly replied after reading his profile and admiring his photographs. She’d gleaned from his profile that Scottish Michael was almost thirty-nine, tall, fair-haired and undeniably handsome. He worked as a baggage handler at a local airport.

Unlike many profiles on the site, there were no naked photos on Michael’s profile page. He’d opted for the man of mystery look in his main profile picture. His dark suit contrasted with his short, peroxide-blond hair. His magnetic brown eyes, set in the pale skin of his angular, serious face, drew her towards him. He’s certainly more alluring than most of the other males advertising their wares on here, thought Mug.

In years to come, she wished she could remember the precise seductive words he’d used in those initial typed messages. How was she to know how pivotal this six-foot-two arrangement of flesh would become in her life? That first steamy, urgent phone conversation showed the extent of their mutual attraction.

His deep, guttural Glaswegian voice on the phone was rapidly melting her. ‘I rent a room in Dartford. I can be at yours in half an hour or so. Can’t wait to meet you. Text me your address. I’ll make it well worth your while.’

‘Consider it done. See you soon,’ she said, confident her voice was still turning him on. Other men had told her how seductive they found her voice. She’d been using it to great effect in her new life which was the opposite of her past selfless existence.

After texting him directions to her house, Mug hurriedly dressed in her most alluring clothes and rapidly applied makeup, preparing for what promised to be a potentially thrilling night with a sexy stranger. The past two years had made her accustomed to the routine of preparing herself for the onslaught of a stranger. The familiar buzz of excitement raced through her body, with no fear of possible danger. The prizes of sexual satisfaction and welcome contact with another human being entering her solitary life, overruled any fear of the multitude of risks involved in taking strangers into her house.

Months later, Michael told her, ‘Meeting me might have saved your life. You’d have come a cropper one day if you’d carried on meeting random strangers at your house.’ It would have sounded churlish if she’d disagreed.

As soon as Michael walked through her front door, she fell in lust with him. When he opened his lascivious, grinning mouth to greet her with, ‘Hi there, you,’ in his deep Scottish voice, she was lost.

Michael stood in her living room, six-foot-two to her five-foot-ten. His skin was pale and his build average, neither too thin nor too fat. He had thick, short, blond hair spiked with highlights, which he later jokingly likened to a carpet.

Her heart raced as he stared at her. His sly, cheeky grin revealed perfect teeth. Barely a word was spoken before she was pinned down on her burgundy leather sofa. Their eyes spoke volumes to each other. His silver crucifix swung on its chain in her face, dangling into her mouth as she gasped for breath.

All too soon, he collapsed onto her, and they lay on the sofa gasping in a sweaty heap. They were dazed at how unexpectedly wonderful the sex had been, shocked at the power of what had just happened. Michael sat naked on the rug in front of the fire as they smoked, eagerly chatting, both needing to discover more information about the person they’d just had sex with.

‘I can’t get over the fact you allowed me into your house so quickly,’ he said. ‘I could’ve been an axe murderer for all you knew. You’re way too trusting.’

‘True,’ she said. ‘But it goes two ways. You drove to the house of a stranger after a short chat. I might be an axe murderer for all you know. You approached me first. I never make the first move. Life’s short, so what’s the point of pretending to be coy? That’s no longer my style. I was sexually dormant all my life. I woke up to what I’d been missing a couple of years ago.’

They talked for hours. She probably told him too much about her recent rampant sex life after leaving her husband.

He smiled and said, ‘The number of women I’ve had sex with since my divorce now doesn’t seem so scandalous if compared with your experiences.’

She shrugged. ‘Just making up for lost time. I needed reassurance that I’m a desirable woman. You’ve certainly reassured me.’

To her surprise, Michael then gave her the instructions that he’d apparently given to every woman he’d met over recent years. ‘Never fall in love with me, babe. I’m staying single.’

‘Hey, don’t be so presumptuous! I don’t love you. I’m only interested in sex with you,’ she reassured him.

That was one of the rare lies Mug ever told Michael. Even on their first meeting, she knew she’d fallen hard for him. Over the ensuing hours, they continued to have incredible sex in many and varied ways.

After taking her from behind as they stood, he said, ‘You make me feel like a porn star. You’re amazing.’

Mug felt amazing. As he pinned her down on the sofa and ripped into her body, she cried out in the throes of ecstasy, ‘God … help me!’

He grinned mischievously. ‘Oh, He can’t help you now.’

He was right; nothing could help her from that night on, least of all herself. They slept a couple of hours in her bed before he briefly kissed her and rose to dress.

Mug said, ‘Too tired to go into work. You did such a good job on me. I don’t normally do this, but I’m going to ring my boss in a minute and pull a sickie.’ She felt guilty, as she’d always prided herself on her strong work ethic.

Michael shrugged. ‘It’s up to you, babes. Must dash or I’ll be late for work.’ He strode out of her house with no mention of ever seeing her again.

After making her excuses to her manager, Mug lay in bed and thought about what had just happened, how his warm brown eyes had spoken volumes, gazing deep inside her soul as though he was evaluating her. She wished he’d given her some assurance they’d meet again, wanting nothing more than a repeat performance. He was like a male version of herself. From that first night, she knew he was the key to her lock.

Later that day, Michael texted her. ‘Last night was way beyond anything I could ever have imagined.’ She agreed. The experience had been electric.

While speaking on the phone one night soon after their first meeting, they lapsed into phone sex. His excitement was more than he could stand. He said, ‘I know we’re supposed to be meeting on Wednesday, but I can’t wait that long. You’ve got me so worked up I can’t sleep. Driving over to yours now. Keep your front door unlocked.’

Their second meeting was as magical as the first. After several wildly intense climaxes, they each talked about their failed marriages and how they’d felt rejected by their respective partners. They shared how they’d both gained weight while married through feeling undesirable. They discussed how they’d both set out to prove their sexual worth after breaking up with their partners. Their fat had magically melted away after their marriages ended, due to their libidos running wild.

Their conversation made them realise how many similarities there were between them; how they’d both reached a similar stage in life, despite Mug being almost eleven years older than Michael. They both seemed to be rushing recklessly through a process of discovering their sexual limits.

She grabbed her mobile phone and took a few snaps of him grinning as he was leaving. She later proudly displayed the framed images in her living room. They made her feel he was with her when he was nowhere to be seen.

Weeks later, to her surprise Michael said, ‘I knew from that second meeting you’d fallen in love with me, despite swearing you wouldn’t do that.’

Mug had struggled not to love him. He’d had every woman at ‘hello,’ so there was no chance Mug would be able to resist his magnetism.

He then asked her a strange question. ‘What do you think of me?’

Thrown off-guard by the question, she said, ‘From what you’ve told me, I believe you’re an honourable man.’

The pained, strange look in his eyes was troubling. Mug thought, Michael doesn’t seem to think much of himself … but I can’t work out why.

Chapter 2. The Sting

The day after her return from a solo holiday in Tenerife, Michael phoned her mobile. Sensing a subtle change in his tone, she asked, ‘You sound worried. What’s up?’

‘I can’t sleep,’ he said.

‘Why’s that?’ she asked, concerned by his anxious manner.

He hesitantly replied, ‘Well, since you ask, I’ll tell you. My stupid nephew has run up a ten-thousand-pound gambling debt. My father, my brother Brandon, and the rest of my family are all totally broke. I’d do anything for my family, so I’ve already paid the heavies five grand of what my nephew owes and bought the remaining five thousand pounds of his debt. The heavies say they want the remaining five grand repaid to them within the next two days or I’m in big trouble.’

‘Shit! What a nightmare,’ Mug said, naturally shocked. Too spontaneously, she immediately added, ‘I can spare you the five grand to get you out of your awful jam. There’s still some money left over after buying this house after my husband and I split up two years ago. I trust you enough to know that, over time, you’ll repay me.’

Looking hesitant, he said, ‘I feel sick. I’m so shocked that a virtual stranger could be so generous.’

She said, ‘I told you the other night that I believe that you’re an honourable man. I trust you enough to know that you’ll repay me. I can’t just stand by and witness you being beaten up by those animals.’

He tried to refuse to allow her to lend it to him, but eventually she convinced him that she trusted him enough to lend him the money.

He reluctantly agreed, saying, ‘If you’re absolutely sure. I feel so bad about it all. I could repay you the five grand at, say, two hundred a month. It’ll be manageable if I work tons of overtime. I’ll shoot around to your place tomorrow before work. Tomorrow’s your day off, isn’t it?’

‘It is. Don’t fret. I trust you to repay me. I wouldn’t have offered to lend it to you if I didn’t,’ she said.

She knew it was a huge risk. Most people would believe that she was insane to offer the loan under such odd circumstances. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. She couldn’t have him being harmed on her conscious. Also, she couldn’t deny that it felt good to be Michael’s last resort in a perilous situation.

Next morning, he drove to her house. They made passionate love before driving into Tunbridge Wells and eating a pub lunch inside a converted theatre. Amidst the quirky décor, she ordered them both mixed grills. He sat opposite her, gazing searchingly into her eyes, as though trying to read her thoughts. They talked at length as they ate, then strolled across the road and into the bank. She withdrew five thousand pounds in cash. They walked to his bank a short distance away. She watched as he paid all her cash into his account. She idiotically had asked for nothing in writing. It was all done on trust, so the fool could demonstrate her faith in her lover.

Michael travelled home to Scotland for a couple of weeks, ostensibly to sort out the gambling debt. This turned out not to be the case. What she’d done was admittedly more than stupid. However, with hindsight, at that time she’d undoubtedly been in the grip of an untreated nervous breakdown. She’d been behaving irrationally, spontaneously and recklessly for a few years. Lending Michael such a large sum of money with no guarantee of him ever returning it was the act of a madwoman in love. She wanted to show the man she adored just how much she trusted him. Being disinherited by her crazy father two years previously, for reasons best known to himself, had served to unhinge her more than anyone realised.

Having heard no word from Michael while he was in Scotland, Mug anxiously started texting him, feeling suddenly concerned, panicking that she’d not heard from him. The reality of what she’d done hit home. For all she knew, he might disappear, never to be seen again.

Obviously irritated by her texts, he texted back, saying, ‘It’s only been three days since you lent me the money. You shouldn’t be on my case so soon. Chill! I’ll organise a bank loan to repay it all back to you if you’re going to give me grief.’

‘I just need reassurance you’ll repay me, as I’ve nothing in writing. Your silence for three days naturally freaked me out. Now I’ve heard from you, I’ll be fine.’

A week or two later, after much thought, she had a brainwave. She texted, ‘Hey, I’ve had a great idea. You could move into my spare room and pay me the two hundred a month as rent. It’s silly for you to waste money paying rent when I have a spare room up for grabs. What do you reckon?’

‘That’s a really kind offer, babe, but I don’t think it’d work. I’m a private person. Plus, your spare room is a wee bit on the small side. But thanks anyway,’ he texted back.

Three hours after he’d sent her that text rejecting her imaginative offer, Michael turned up on her doorstep. She’d just returned home from work.

To her enormous surprise, Michael rang her mobile, saying, ‘Put the kettle on! I’m outside your front door!’

Thinking that he was still up in Scotland, she was in a giggling flap because she’d never expected him to move in. She was as nervous as a schoolgirl in front of him, loving him the way she did.

‘I look like shit after a hard day baking pies,’ she said, ‘I’m not wearing a scrap of make-up.’

He laughed and in his deep, Scottish voice, replied, ‘You’ll have to get used to me seeing you without any makeup if I’m going to be staying here. You’ve got nothing to worry about anyway.’ He looked long and hard at her, saying softly, ‘I think this can work. You’ll be my flatmate, my landlady and my lover.’

His first action was to stick his Scottish flag on the wall of his bedroom. They both started sorting out his bags of belongings, happily discussing how they would be companions for each other, go bowling, visit the cinema or eat out together. Sadly, they only ever managed to go bowling once and never managed to go to the cinema or anywhere else much for that matter. She deeply regretted this, as she so wanted to spend more time in public with him. It happened far too rarely.

That first day, he delighted her by promising to cook his signature dish of shepherd’s pie at some point during his stay, but he never even made her a single cup of tea, let alone cook a meal.

One of his essential stipulations before agreeing to remain in her house was to have his own phone line laid on in his room. Days later, a phone line was installed in his room, without her understanding the whole reason for him needing one.

He said, ‘I have friends in America who I need to keep in touch with.’ However, she was shortly to learn the whole truth behind those words.

Michael drove them into town to get a front door key cut for him. She didn’t know where to find a key cutting shop, but as soon as they parked, she looked up and saw one directly ahead; a sign. They had a snack at the small café next to the shop as they waited for his key to be cut. He suddenly touchingly kissed her while they stood waiting in the shop. As he set off from the key cutting kiosk to travel to his job at the airport, Mug felt euphoric and so much happier than she’d felt for many years.

On his first day back from work, she made the huge mistake of trying to kiss him as he walked up the stairs to his room.

He looked angrily at her and snapped, ‘What do you think you’re doing? We’re not in a relationship.’

Mug felt like he’d slapped her face. So began her feelings of rejection. She couldn’t understand how he didn’t want sex as much as she did, but it all became clear later why he needed to distance himself from her.

It was a few days after Michael had moved in and the morning of his thirty-ninth birthday. To Mug’s surprise and delight, Michael walked purposefully into her room without knocking wearing only a grin and a small towel around his waist. He found Mug sitting naked on her bed without a scrap of makeup and dripping wet hair, having just showered. He dropped his towel and began giving her what she’d been yearning for.

Recovering from the mind-blowing, riotous sex, Mug joked, ‘It feels more like my birthday, not yours.’

Michael shot her a strange look which told her not to become accustomed to such attention. Days passed. Each evening after work, Michael scurried past her with scarcely a word to stay, eager to reach his room. Alone on her sofa in the living room, Mug tried to concentrate on television but yearned for Michael. She felt increasingly neglected.

Four days after his birthday, Mug was dressed up to the nines as she was about to go out for a meal with her best friend, Fiona, to celebrate the redhead’s birthday. When Mug descended the stairs to wait for Fiona to arrive, Michael was in the living room, not hiding away in his own room for once.

Just before Fiona drove to collect her, Michael had apparently asked Mug, ‘Do you fancy a shag?’

However, unfortunately for them both, she never heard his words. When she returned slightly inebriated from the meal, he told her what he’d said. She cursed her luck at not hearing him.

He said with a grin, ‘You should pay attention and listen harder.’

‘Well, we could always have a shag now, as you so charmingly put it,’ she said.

He annoyingly refused her sexual advances. ‘No chance. You stink of garlic from the meal.’

Mug kicked herself for stupidly eating a meal laced with garlic when Michael had eaten none. He often spoke to her in a manner many women would find disrespectful, but Mug adored him so much, she made excuses for his words and behaviour. They both enjoyed calling each other sexually derogatory names, yet always with good humour. She was happy to be called his slut, his ho, his bitch. Their riotous banter seemed to draw them closer.

Back then, Mug was unashamed of her forwardness, seeing it as a plus, not a minus. Sex was comparatively new to her, making her as eager as a child in a sweetie shop. She hadn’t become jaded from years of over-exposure to sex, having only come to better understand sex during the previous two years.

Without asking, Michael installed his PlayStation onto her television system downstairs in the living room. They spent many happy hours racing cars or rather Michael did, while she shrieked with excitement as he expertly tried to outdo the computer game. Using the camera on her phone, she took a photo of him wrapped in a towel after a shower, looking up at her over his shoulder like a naughty kid, sitting on the rug in front of the fire, trying to beat his best score. She kept it stored, like all the other photos she’d managed to take of him, or he’d given her.

He didn’t seem to like being photographed by Mug, always trying to sabotage her shot in some comical way, like turning his face away or sticking his middle finger up at her. He sometimes sent her photos of himself asleep at work, on a picket line, or drinking beer with his brother on a family holiday in Blackpool; Mug archived them all so she could own a small piece of his secretive self. She yearned to be included into his life, but he blocked each of her attempts.

She downloaded every photo of Michael from the online dating site where their worlds had first collided. Photographs he allowed her to take became her treasures. Among them were more intimate photographs of Michael, happy, naked and proud on her bed. Clothed or naked, images of Michael never failed to move her. He was beautiful in a manly way but didn’t seem to know it. He sometimes jokingly asked Mug if all she really felt for him was lust, but he knew he was rapidly becoming her world. It was more than lust.

During one of their early long conversations, they talked about past relationships.

‘What was your husband like?’

After hearing her description of Simon, Michael observed, ‘He’s the total opposite of me, then.’

‘I guess so,’ she agreed with a laugh.

He said, ‘When I lived in Scotland, my friends could always tell exactly the sort of girl I’d turn up with to the pub. I usually went for petite, pretty girls with long, blonde hair and blue eyes, although once I surprised them and brought along a brunette.’

Mug fitted into the category Michael usually preferred, apart from the petite part; her bust was ample, and she stood five-feet ten with baby-fine, chin-length, blondish hair. At least her eye and hair colour matched what he’d historically found attractive, but Mug wished she was closer to his age. He never admitted he found her age off-putting, yet she wondered if that was his reason for not committing wholeheartedly to a full relationship with her.

People talk of ‘the spark’ that exists between couples. Michael and Mug were certainly extremely sparky. They had indefinable chemistry. Month after month, their attraction endured and increased, despite the formidable barriers he’d erected to prevent deeper emotional involvement between them.

Michael once spoke about Patricia, a black girl he said he’d briefly dated. ‘Patricia once told me she’d stop fancying me if I ever became fat.’

Mug said, ‘My God, she must be shallow.’

He nodded. ‘I guess so.’

Patricia had apparently been extremely fashion-conscious; it was she who’d advised him to streak his hair with peroxide blond highlights.

‘I couldn’t care less how your hair looks,’ said Mug.

‘My parents are strict Catholics,’ said Michael. ‘Can you imagine my mother’s face if I brought a black girl home to meet her?’

They both laughed, then he said, ‘One day, I was driving like a maniac back to my bedsit as I usually do. Patricia sent me a text saying she needed to tell me something. I drove round to hers, where she told me she loved me. I never saw her and her young daughter, Lisa, ever again.’

At the time, Mug thought no more about Patricia. However, Michael’s words later returned to haunt Mug.

One terrible, gut-wrenching afternoon, Michael wandered down from his room and sat on Mug’s sofa.

‘I need to tell you something,’ he said, then proceeded to devastate Mug by telling her he was in love with Monica, a blonde American woman in her mid-forties. He then calmly and solemnly said, ‘Monica’s dying.’

Michael said, ‘I’d been talking online to Monica for several years but didn’t fall in love with her until I flew to Pennsylvania. She lives there with her son, Ryan. When we met, we realised we were soulmates. She has a nervous system disease. Some days she feels perfectly normal, other days she’s unable to get out of bed because of the pain. I stayed in America a few months longer than my visa permitted. My family love her as much as I do. They met her when she and Ryan went to stay with me for four months in Scotland, in a flat that had been my marital home before my divorce. Monica then returned to America. We planned to marry, but she eventually told me her illness is terminal.’

‘Oh my God, how terrible for you both,’ Mug said as her world crumbled around her ears.

He continued, ‘I was devastated and tried to return to America to see her, but passport control turned me back as I tried to enter America because of my visa violation. I had a severe panic attack at the airport after realising I’d never be able to see her. She was too ill to leave America to see me. There’s been two years of loving, daily phone calls, webcam chats and e-mails between us.’

Mug began to cry uncontrollably like a wounded animal, as much out of sorrow for him as sorrow for Monica’s awful plight. Michael told Mug how Ryan’s father was a waster. It prompted Mug to offer to adopt Monica’s teenage son, Ryan, with Michael once Monica had passed away. Mug couldn’t imagine the pain they were going through, desperate to be together and separated because of bureaucracy and Monica’s illness. Michael’s strength while dealing with all the terrible pain was one reason Mug’s love and admiration for him was so strong.

When Mug offered to adopt Ryan with him, Michael told her she was crazy and disappeared upstairs, leaving her in pieces in the living room. She was so deeply shocked and upset, her tears wouldn’t dry up. About an hour after he’d dropped his bombshell, Mug tentatively walked into his bedroom.

Michael was seated in front of his webcam chatting to a woman who Mug assumed must be Monica. Luckily for Michael, both women couldn’t see each other. Michael pretended to the woman that his landlady had come in to tell him off about making a noise the previous night. After wrapping up the call, he stormed into Mug’s bedroom to berate her, his face like thunder.

‘I’m bloody raging!’ he shouted. ‘How fucking dare you come into my room uninvited?’

Mug said, her face wet with tears, ‘You shouldn’t have left me alone after dropping a huge bombshell like that on me. I’m in bits.’

Seeing her pitiful distress, he eventually calmed down. He placed a hand on her shoulder as she sobbed.

‘I’m trying my best not to love you,’ she sobbed.

‘I know you are. I understand, babes,’ he said. ‘But I just don’t feel the same way about you as I do about Monica. I’m sorry. I had the same lack of feeling for another woman I knew.’

He didn’t divulge the identity of the woman. As it seemed every woman Michael met had fallen in love with him, the unknown woman could have been anyone. Mug knew her love for him was a major problem for them both. However, the sex they had was always so amazing, she felt they must battle through the problems of him being immersed in a dead-end love with poor, doomed Monica.

Life went on. Michael persisted in keeping Mug at bay, reinforcing his assertion they were not in a relationship. He dramatically vowed he would never love again. The sexual and emotional tension could be cut with a knife inside the small, terraced house. Mug’s stress levels had never been higher. Michael was visibly uneasy if he ever had to sit next to her, or if she ever made sexual or affectionate advances towards him. He insisted on making all the moves, controlling her totally. She knew it had to be that way because of his guilt at having sex with her while still loving Monica - or so Mug thought. She believed she understood why he held back, yet the rejection hurt like Hell’s flames.

The day after she’d learned about Monica, they sunbathed in Mug’s small garden. He stunned her again with another revelation. He told her about Claire, an air hostess from Guernsey who’d invited him over there to spend the weekend with her. Mug was understandably enraged and upset by his callousness.

She couldn’t endure Michael keeping her at bay, hating his insensitivity to her feelings. He made matters worse by callously informing her he might have been able to have a relationship with Claire, despite her living in Guernsey. His remark showed a complete lack of respect for Mug, rubbing her nose in his lack of compassion for her.

Mug knew Michael wanted her, but only when it suited him. Those times were not as often as she needed. A tension grew between them due to his awareness of how much Mug wanted him. Occasionally, he let her have her way; those times were, in his own words, stunning, awesome and the best sex he’d ever experienced.

Mug remembered the morning she’d heard him having a shower as she lay in her room across the narrow strip of floorboard separating their bedrooms. She’d already showered, dressed and emerged from her room just as he exited the bathroom, wrapped in his small towel. He looked so gorgeous, she cast caution to the wind. Mug walked purposefully towards him, guiding him forcefully back into his room. She sat on the bed and defiantly grabbed his manhood.

‘You have magic hands, babes. Look what you’ve done.’

Despite her broad smile, he could tell Mug meant serious business. Was she actually about to commit sacrilege and have sex with him in his room, the sacred room where he daily shared spiritual and romantic connections with Monica? Smiling, he pulled Mug to her feet, pushed her back forcefully into her room, ripped off her clothes and ravished her.

At a much later date, he smiled and said, ‘Do you remember the day you raped me?’

‘I do indeed,’ she said with a laugh. ‘I guess that’s a pretty accurate description.’

They both had a juvenile habit of sticking their middle fingers up at each other as a rude gesture. Every time she tried to take a photo of him on her phone, he’d curl up in a ball and stick his middle finger up at her as she giggled at his antics. One sunny day, she got her revenge while walking back from the hairdressers in the village. He was driving towards her, but on seeing her, he screeched to a halt to offer her a lift. Wearing a light blue, flowery summer dress, Mug stood in the sunshine on the opposite side of the road, smiled sweetly and stuck her middle finger straight up at him.

Michael looked shocked. ‘Fine! You can walk home without a lift!’

That evening, he laughed and said, ‘I must admit, you did look kind of cute.’

A compliment for once, she thought, glowing inside. Of course, he’s probably called tons of other women cute, too, damn him. For Michael to consider her cute was high praise indeed. He paid her so little attention due to his constant involvement with Monica, Mug had to latch on to even the smallest compliment or slightest affectionate gesture from him.

She had the impression Michael was hero-worshipped by his work colleagues of all ages. He commanded a certain respect, maybe born out of a touch of fear; what he might say was unpredictable. One reason Mug loved him was the excitement his unpredictability created. There was an edginess about him she’d never experienced with any man before. She was in a constant state of nervous agitation in his presence, but in a good way. Mug had never met any man as magnetic or charismatic as Michael, not even close. It saddened her that he only ever wanted her on his terms, when he wanted her.

After yet another knockback, Mug thought, I’m probably too much for him to handle, sexually. There’s too much on his mind where Monica and Ryan are concerned. The stress is bound to dull his ardour.

Michael worked horrendously long hours, whereas she only worked part-time. She had excess energy to burn up. On his return from work after allegedly working many hours of overtime, he could hardly stand upright. He pleasantly surprised her one night after working a seventeen-hour shift. He walked through the front door and immediately ravished her as she lay watching television on her sofa. It eventually became clear he’d not only been working while absent from her house, but back then, she’d trusted him.

One sunny day, he drove them both to Tunbridge Wells. While there, he had his hair cut while Mug sat watching him flirt with the pretty hairdresser. If he’s flirting with her to rile me, it’s working, thought Mug as they left the salon.

Walking side by side through the busy shopping centre, Michael stunned Mug by pulling her close and kissing her deeply. She was always so proud and overjoyed whenever they went anywhere together in pubic, but for him to kiss her in front of so many strangers had been an unexpected ecstasy.

One afternoon, she watched his long back as he walked like a wild animal in front of her along the aisles in Tesco. As they shopped for nothing in particular, she caught his eye. Time seemed to stop as they smiled broadly at each other. His look spoke volumes as electrical energy crackled between them. Even mundane shopping turned into a fun, sexually charged experience if he was with her. She revelled in his annoyingly rare kisses which happened when she least expected them. A brief kiss goodnight from him often was the only time they’d had physical contact for days; it kept her from going insane with the pain of missing him.

He’d been promising to take Mug bowling for months. One afternoon, Mug was thrilled when one Saturday he suggested driving them to the local bowling rink. During one of the matches, Mug mischievously sat on the runway, laughing as she comically spun around on her rump. When she narrowly beat him in the final match, Michael kissed her in front of the other bowlers. It felt so special.

‘You’re the first woman to beat me at bowling,’ he said.

‘I suspect you made it easy for me,’ she said, quietly smug.

A week or so later, they drove to a local gym with the intention of perhaps becoming members. While one of the gym instructors was showing them around the gym, he commented that Mug looked fit.

As they exited the gym without joining it, Michael said with pride, ‘I think that gym guy wanted a piece of you, babe.’ They both laughed.

He always seemed strangely proud if other men flirted with her. One weekend morning, while Michael was in his room as usual, he overheard two men delivering a fridge freezer to the house. They were discussing Mug in a complimentary way while returning to their van, unaware Michael could overhear their words through his open window. He took great pleasure in passing on their complimentary comments to her. He knows I need a boost to my self-confidence, she thought. Being with him made her glow with happiness which sometimes attracted other men. Mug would smile at them and move on, unfamiliar with such attention.

Despite hardly ever eating takeaways before they’d met, Mug often paid for pizza delivery because Michael loved eating them so much. Mug soon developed a taste for them, too. Anything to please him, she thought. She also took Michael out for several meals so she could be with him and to please him. When his car needed parts or because of his allegedly dire money problems, Mug stupidly let him off several rent payments. She often thought, Is Michael just using me? but she knew she could deny him nothing.

He once admitted he was using her. Mug’s expression was defiant when she retorted, ‘Go ahead! Use me!’

So great was the intensity of her love for the man, she’d lost all pride. Above all else, Mug wanted him to be happy, so he could continue making her happy. She hated him having to work so hard, which was one reason she lent him the money in the first place. She thought, I love Michael deeply, so want him to be safe, well, and nurtured. I’ll do anything in my power to make everything perfect for him, even if he won’t do the same for me.

After work one day, as Michael walked past her and up the stairs to his bedroom, he turned and informed her, ‘I nearly bought you some flowers today in Tunbridge Wells.’

She thought, Nearly? Nearly? Can’t he hear how stingy he sounds?

Mug said, ‘I’d have cried if you had done.’

He laughed and said, ‘Just as well I didn’t then.’

She tried convincing herself that his desire to buy the flowers was almost as good as receiving flowers from him. It wasn’t.

They both enjoyed watching the Grand Prix on television together. Knowing how much Mug loved F1, Michael gave her one of his old Formula 1 t-shirts. He also gave her a pair of his purple sunglasses, laughing at her when she wore them indoors to cut down the glare from her computer screen. Through his relationship with Monica, Michael had developed great affection for all things American. Mug often enjoyed watching NASCAR races, baseball and ice hockey with him.

One evening, he said, ‘If the ice hockey team I follow reaches the finals next year, I’ll let you take me to Canada to watch them.’

Mug knew she was stupid enough to have gone too, given the chance. It’ll be worth it, just to have him all to myself for once, she thought. She loved watching television and films with him, listening intently as he explained sports events like the Ryder Cup, baseball and ice hockey, all sports she knew nothing about. She loved listening to his sexy, guttural Scottish tones, whatever the excuse.

Michael would walk downstairs and change the television channel whether Mug was enjoying watching a programme or not. Although she thought it rude of him not to ask, she always enjoyed the programme they ended up watching because she was watching it with Michael. He controlled her and she was too in love to object to any rude behaviour. She questioned why she allowed him to dominate her usually strong character. Mug knew it was wrong. I have no choice if I want to keep Michael in my life, she thought, blindly subjugating herself to the power he held over her.

Despite Michael’s strenuous efforts to keep Mug at a distance, the pair seemed to be emotionally drawing closer. She knew the intensity of her emotions frightened and annoyed him. The fact she couldn’t express her love openly to him, because of Monica, increased Mug’s stress to the point she feared exploding into a million fragments.

She cooked them a roast dinner one Sunday. Sadly, Michael cut his tongue on an extra sharp potato. It wouldn’t stop bleeding, so he drove them to the hospital, despite saying he was growing weak from loss of blood. She felt guilty for causing him pain, even though it wasn’t really her fault.

When he called Monica to tell her he was choking on his blood, he told Mug she’d said, ‘You’ll never make a gay man if you gag.’ Odd thing to say, thought Mug.

They both laughed at Monica’s remark as they drove to collect a pizza on the way back from the hospital. Mug never had a bad thing to say about Monica, although she longed for Michael to say to her the wonderful words he said to Monica. It killed her to know it would probably never happen. From what he’d told her about Monica, Mug had grown to love the woman, feeling they could have been friends in other circumstances.

Over the next few months, Mug gave Michael several tiger’s eye bead bracelets. She loved tiger’s eye beads because they were the exact shade of brown of her Scottish lover’s eyes.

He said, ‘I’ll wear the bracelets so long as they’re only for strength and safety, as you’ve told me, and for no other reason.’

She guessed telling him there was no other reason was the second lie she’d told Michael. Mug wore hers as a love symbol, but she knew he was aware of the real reason.

Mug’s bracelet never left her wrist, but he lost every single one she gave him. When she quizzed him on where his bracelets were, he said, ‘I slung one bracelet into the baggage hold of a plane by mistake. I accidentally slung another one into the sea at Brighton while skimming stones across the water during that trip with my workmates. Sorry, babes.’

Naturally, Mug had been excluded from the Brighton trip. She later wondered who’d really been with him that day.

He once gave her a blue plaited leather bracelet. She tingled as he tied it onto her wrist, but he made it clear a friend at work had given it to him; he wasn’t doing it for any sentimental reasons. He always tried to make everything between them seem less meaningful, because of Monica. He had to maintain his integrity to Monica.

While shopping alone, Mug bought two small wooden hearts. She gave one to Michael and kept the other for herself. She told him, ‘If you ever want to end it with me, return your wooden heart to me and I will know we’re through.’

He never returned his wooden heart to her, and Mug still owned hers. However, he did leave his behind with her for six long, bitter months. It was later her pleasure to return the heart to him. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if he still has his wooden heart safe? she thought, years down the line.

From her bedroom, she sent a text to where he lay in his bedroom. ‘Every time you touch me, it’s like giving water to a woman lost in the desert.’

Minutes later, he texted back, ‘I want to take you out for a meal tonight, my treat.’

That’ll be a first, she thought, excited beyond belief. They went to one of the local pub eateries. During the meal, to Mug’s disgust, he said, ‘I think that waitress over there fancies me.’

As they ate their pub grub, he bragged to Mug about a trick he’d once demonstrated to his less than average-looking best friend at work, who was no good at attracting women.

Michael boasted, ‘I pointed out a sexy air hostess who was walking past where he and I were sitting during our break. I briefly smiled at her then turned away. I bet my mate she’d turn and smile back at me before reaching the stairs. He was amazed when she did, ha!’

Dickhead, thought Mug, but her love never wavered as she thought it.

Mug had eaten garlic chicken for her meal and when they later went to kiss, he said, ‘You stink of garlic!’

Due to Mug’s ill-considered meal choice, sex failed to happen yet again. She was kicking herself. Counting the days since they’d last had sex had become a hobby of hers. Out of anger and desperation, Mug would sometimes inform him how many days it had been since the last time he’d honoured her with a few orgasms.

‘Counting the days is really sad and pathetic,’ he would say with a grin.

One night, she sent him a text. ‘I’d live with you in a mud hut in Timbuktu.’ At the time, she meant every word of it. People in love can say and do the daftest, cringe-making things.

Weeks later, he told Mug he needed to travel to Canada to see Ryan, Monica’s only son. The teenager was having a hard time living with a dying mother. Mug was enough in love to stupidly offer to lend the travel money to Michael. As before, initially he declined her offer. Yet again she convinced him to accept a loan.

He said, ‘Monica is too ill to leave America with Ryan to travel to meet me in Canada. I can’t enter America, due to my visa violation, which is why the meeting is in Canada.’

Much later, he admitted to her he’d cried on the night she’d lent him the hundreds of pounds towards the holiday. The day before he flew to Canada, she ironed all his work clothes, plus the pile of clothes he was taking to Canada.

‘You’re an angel. I don’t know where I’d be without you. I haven’t felt so settled for years and it’s all down to your help,’ he said sincerely.

The night before he flew to Canada, they had incredible sex, and he even gave her oral sex for only the second time since their first meeting. She felt it was somehow symbolic.

Returning to his room, he looked back at her, saying, ‘You know I like you, don’t you, babe?’

‘Yes,’ she replied, hoping his feelings went as deep as hers, but just couldn’t be spoken.

Mug walked tentatively into his room, which she never usually did, because it was his inner sanctum. She lay on his bed and watched him as he packed. Before he left for the airport, she was shocked to see that a photo of a woman had fallen out of his travelling bag and asked him who it was.

He told her, ‘It’s a photo of a woman from my distant past, one of three women who I’ve ever loved, two of whom left me for someone else.’

She said, ‘I’d never leave you,’ but didn’t think he’d heard her words as he was busy packing.

Mug knew he’d be angry if she asked more questions but felt compelled to. He was furious with her for questioning the identity of the woman in the picture. He ripped up the photograph, threw it at her and snapped, ‘It’s not important.’

When he’d left for Canada, she pieced the photograph together. The image looking up at her was of a woman in her forties, standing in a large pinkish living room. She was wearing jeans and a roll-necked jumper … it wasn’t the same photo she’d seen fall from Michael’s travel bag. That photo had been a head and shoulders shot of a woman with darker hair. The two photos weren’t even of the same woman. Mug thought, I bet Michael randomly selected to rip up another less important photo of a woman, thereby allowing him to keep the photo which mattered the most to him.

On the day of his return from Canada, Michael looked emotional and under duress. He immediately shut himself in his room with barely a word to Mug. Deeply worried by his odd demeanour, she sat on her leather recliner and wrote an email to him on her laptop. This was in case she died, telling him how she felt about him, for Fiona to give to him on her demise, or to send to him if they split up. She didn’t show him the email, fearing his reaction.

She wrote: ‘Michael baby, if you’re reading this, then I’ve died, or we’ve had a silly row and ended what I believe is the most wonderful relationship of my life. If you’ve opened it up and you’re angry with me for writing it, then I am sorry. I never expected you to love me back, even though that always was my greatest hope in life.

‘I always believed that if you loved me in the way I loved you, the power of our love would’ve been frightening. It’s a sad fact that most folk don’t love each other with equal intensity. In my worst moments, I’ve naturally been envious of your love for Monica. I’m being honest in admitting it, even though you’ll think badly of me for saying so. I wanted you to say to me all the loving words I know you say to her, but I knew you never could. You always said I was too honest. Oddly, I never had a bad thought about Monica.

‘As I write this, I sense you in every atom of