Celia
X
PS I've asked Eva to put some basics in the fridge for you.
I chuckle to myself. So it was the work of the au pair. Bless her; she really had her hands full with that family.
I look in the fridge and lo and behold, the angelic au pair had placed a gorgeous, golden-topped, homemade pie on the middle shelf. I hastily pop it into the oven, open a bottle of red and pour myself a generous sized glass.
Ollie springs nimbly onto the kitchen counter and, seeking sorely needed attention from his owner, brushes his flank along my hand. I move to softly stroke his head, and gently nuzzle his face with mine.
“It's good to be home, baby boy.” I whisper. “It's really good to be home.”
17
I clap my hands together in the freezing cold, late November air as I walk down the steps of my London home. I can't believe it's been nearly two months since I left St Ives, although in some ways that visit seemed a lifetime ago.
I'd been quietly proud of the changes I'd made since returning from the seaside. I'd begun a long overdue redecoration of the house, and had just left inside a crew of loud, but industrious builders who were now let loose in my kitchen. I'd felt like I needed to make the space mine again, once Amy had finally removed her last few items from the house. Despite the onset of the dark, cold, winter months, laying claim to my home had breathed additional new life into me and I couldn't wait to see it finished.
I had also gained a few pounds in weight, which was not really surprising given the fervour with which I'd been working through my local restaurants and delicatessens. The appetite I'd regained in St Ives had stayed with me, and it was not only food that had regained some of its taste and colour. I finally saw my life again through a much more optimistic lens, undoubtedly helped along by Faith.
Since returning from the coast, as she promised, I had received just one text from her - to tell me that she had been successful in getting her new job. I responded to wish her well; short, yet friendly, managing expectations.
Part of my subconscious, however, didn't seem to agree with my insistence on Faith being nothing but a holiday romance. My anxiety-filled dreams of Amy had been replaced with soft-focus dreams of Faith; laughing on the beach, soaping down in the shower, stealing secret kisses all over town, sensually stretched out under me in that enormous, soft bed. I'd wake up from these nightly reminiscences feeling either somewhat flustered or mildly bereft. The increasingly shrewish, internal recluse kept telling me that my feelings for Faith were nothing more than a reaction to the break-up, a rebound crush, a short obsession that would fade soon enough.
But everywhere I went, if I caught sight of a shock of golden blonde hair, or a glimpse of swaying, gently curved hips I would find myself looking for her face, and be always disappointed when her beautiful features failed to materialise.
Despite the unfriendly temperature, I decide to walk the couple of miles to the publishers offices for my scheduled meeting. Taking a deep, frozen breath, I look up at the heavy grey sky, and a single snowflake lands on my thick, grey woollen coat.
The Christmas holidays are not so very far away and my already upbeat mood is enhanced by the pretty shop displays and twinkling lights along my chosen route. I make a mental note to indulge in a large, green Christmas tree to set off my cosy, newly-decorated sitting room. Thanks to the still-falling snow, the bright, cheerful music and glittering tinsel, the holiday spirit stays with me and with an extra bounce in my step, I begin mentally compiling my Christmas shopping list.
Too soon I reach the street housing my publishers offices and am suddenly overwhelmed by the need for a very large hot chocolate. The recently woken, ravenous beast inside my stomach stirs once more, and I openly cringe as my will power once again deserts me, and I succumb to temptation.
I pop into the chain coffee shop around the corner from the office, stamp the light dusting of snow from my feet, and obediently stand in line. Feeling ashamed of my continued gluttony, I continue to delude myself with the new theory that I need something warm to thaw out my frozen, gloveless hands.
The queue moves ahead, and I give a brief start, then roll my eyes, as I once again spy short, messy blonde hair in front of me, set atop a thick black coat and colourful scarf. The shrew informs me that these unprompted teenage reactions really did need to stop; they were becoming embarrassing.
But, in spite of her best efforts, I find myself compelled to carry on staring, as the woman reaches deep into her pocket and draws out a small piece of paper. As someone enters the door behind us, the wintery wind shoots through and whips the note cleanly out of her hand.
We quickly bend together to retrieve it. I get there first.
“Here you go...” I begin, only to be dumbstruck when a pair of familiar, heart-stopping, cornflower-blue eyes meet mine. We rise slowly, both utterly gobsmacked.
“Beth!” Faith whispers. “What are you doing here?”
“A...a meeting.” I just about manage to explain, desperately trying to quell the inner carnival that had begun at the mere sight of her.
“What about you?” I ask, badly attempting nonchalance, but clearly ecstatic to once again be within touching distance of her.
“I work near here.” She confesses. “My new job is with a publisher just around the corner.”
Her news abruptly lifts my romantic haze. I narrow my eyes. With no need to ask the question, she expands. “Crombie and Crombie?”
My publisher. I feel a sudden, desperate need to sit down.
That message must have transmitted itself instantly to my face as Faith quickly leads me to a nearby armchair.
“Stay there Beth. I'll get you a drink. You're as white as a ghost.”
I don't have much time to contemplate this unexpected turn of events as she returns a short while later with a small glass of water and two frothy hot chocolates. I really start to think that Faith must be a mind reader, when I suddenly remember us both once confessing to this one particular vice in St Ives.
Clearly sensing my acute curiosity, Faith sits in the chair opposite, reaches reassuringly for my hand, and very simply tells me her story. Of how, after returning from 3 years of travelling after university, she decides on a career in publishing. How after eighteen months of trying and constant knock backs, whilst working in her stepdads pub, she finally has a stroke of luck; an off-chance introduction to one of his former classmates, who was holidaying with her husband and children in St Ives. This old classmate was, miracle of miracles, a literary agent and told Faith she'd try to pull some strings and get her an interview with a publisher; a promise she soon kept.
“A couple of weeks after that, you turn up in St Ives.” Faith smiles broadly as she speaks, and then quickly winces. “I know you'll think it's stupid, but I almost thought it was a bit of an omen.”
I look quizzically at her.
“Well, it's just that in my new job I'm going to be marketing Beth Augustine's new thriller. I just thought it was perhaps a positive sign, you turning up, being called Beth and all.”
I gulp some air into my lungs before speaking.
“And the name of this literary agent is?”
“Celia Burghley.” We both speak at once.
I knew it! Bloody meddling, infuriating, know-it-all Celia. Thinking she knew what was best for me. I wanted to kiss her!
Faith looks pole-axed. “Do you know Celia too?” She looks down and shakes her head in amazement. “Bloody hell! What a coincidence.”
Feeling my heart rate slow as the final bits of the jigsaw fall into place, I lean down and rifle quickly through my oversized leather satchel, pulling out a well-worn, dog-eared copy of my first ever book.
I quickly flash the cover at a now puzzled Faith, before flipping to the monochrome author's photograph on the inside back page.
Then, grinning broadly at Faith's now open-mouthed expression, I respond wryly.
“Faith, my darling, I don't much believe in coincidenc
e.”
18
I slowly open my eyes and squint against the strength of the bright sunlight in the familiar, ultra-stylish bedroom. Two soft, brown, puppy-dog eyes are this time looking expectantly at me from the side of the bed, and a long sweeping tail is creating a slight draft from its constant wagging.
“Good morning, Harvey-Moo. Fancy a walk on the beach, do you?” I yawn and stretch out my sleepy limbs, trying not to disturb the softly snoring black cat, curled up on the bottom of the bed.
“That would be lovely, but first you need some more rest.” A firm, female voice comes from the bedroom door. I look around and see my radiant, sunshiny, semi-naked girlfriend smiling warmly at me. I grin broadly at the strong sense of déjà-vu.
“Happy anniversary, my angel.” Faith springs onto the bed and snuggles in to warm herself, combating the cool morning air in the apartment. “What would you like to do today?”
Faith and I have returned on holiday to St Ives one year after we first met, still firmly entrenched in our honeymoon phase. She had moved in with me shortly after the builders had completed their renovations, about six months before.
I smile at the memory of a warm spring day in New York. Travelling to promote the US release of my book, Faith and I stopped off for a quiet afternoon in Washington Square Park. It was there, holding hands on a battered park bench in the spring sunshine, that I realised just how much I loved her and asked her to fully share my life.
Thankfully, having permanently silenced the wicked witch of my head, all my initial reservations about age and rebound relationships seemed now very, very far away. Our life was pretty much perfect and I was the happiest I had ever been.
Returning my mind to the present and all its sensual opportunities, I pull the warm cotton sheet over her body, and slowly graze the soft inside of her bare thigh with the tips of my fingers.
“Oh, I can think of lots I want to do today.” I murmur in response.
She playfully slaps my hand away.
“Behave yourself!” Her chime-like laughter belied her stern words. “You need to stay in bed alone, madam.” Her still-amazing blue eyes soften with concern, and she strokes my head as I move to rest against her soft, rounded chest.
“Seriously, Beth, you worked your arse off to finish that last book. You need to rest, sweetheart and get some proper sleep.”
With determination in my eyes, I swiftly roll her onto her back, pin her arms firmly against the bed and grin wickedly in response.
“Sleep, my love? Why on earth would I want to bloody sleep?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Hi, I’m Angharad, a hopeful new author of lesbian romance fiction. Following successful careers in both marketing and education, I now want to head in a slightly different direction and indulge my lifelong passion for reading and writing fiction by creating a new range of self-published novellas and short stories. My aim is to create bite-sized, accessible stories for women, filled with strength, romance and optimism.
If you liked this book, then more of my work will be available on Amazon over the coming months. If you would like to receive updates on publication dates and exclusive offers on new releases, then please email me using the address given below. Your details will not be passed to anyone else.
You can also follow me on either Twitter or Facebook.
As with all independent authors, I rely heavily on the support of my readers and welcome all of your comments and suggestions. It would be lovely if you could also let others know what you thought of the book by completing a review on Amazon. As a thank you, each reviewer will receive a copy of an exclusive short story. Simply drop me a quick email when you have completed your review and I will send you a copy of the story by reply.
Thank you for reading and for your continuing support of independent authors.
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