Mother Knows Best
Suzanne McLeod
Six weeks of unrelenting lust had left me a quivering mass of nerves and hormones. And there were still six weeks to go. How in Hecate’s name was I supposed to keep it real?
My temporary lodger was the cause. No, that wasn’t true. My witch of a mother was the cause. And that ridiculous spell she’d sent me.
She’d phoned, blithely informing me that she’d offered my home as a base to her oldest school friend’s son; he was taking a course at the university and needed somewhere to stay.
‘Of course, I knew you wouldn’t mind,’ my meddling mother had said. ‘After all, you know Robert, or Rob, as he likes to be called, from Margaret’s wedding.’
Margaret was Robert’s (or Rob as he liked to be called) sister. The wedding had been ten years ago. I’d been twenty, Rob had been sixteen. My memory was of a tall skinny teenager, blonde spiked hair and angular features, dressed in the ubiquitous wedding suit complete with gold embroidered waistcoat. It was the only time I’d met him.
‘Mother—’
‘You need to stop rattling around that big house all on your own, April. It’s not good for you to stay holed up there like Miss Havisham.’
‘I’m nothing like Miss Havisham! For one, you’re still alive; two, I wasn’t jilted at the altar; and three, I’m certainly not longing for a lost love.’
‘I’m thrilled to hear it! Eight years was far too many to waste on Baldy Barry as it is. I told you that relationship was never going to work, not when you had to hide who you really were, but you insisted on marrying an outsider—’
‘Barry’s in the past now, Mother,’ I interrupted sharply, before she could launch into her ‘Mother knows best’ lecture, or worse, take it into her head to do him more lasting magical damage. Turning him into Baldy Barry had been satisfying, but I was too worried about the karmic payback scales tipping the wrong way to let her do anything more.
‘Yes, he’s finally gone,’ she agreed with a good dollop of smugness. ‘So now’s the perfect time to do all those things you keep saying you’re going to, like get a job – your Granny’s cauldron money won’t last forever – and make new friends. You can start with Rob. He’ll be there on Saturday the third, at ten,’ she informed me, ignoring my protests. ‘You’ll see, he’s going to make a big difference in your life. The tea leaves have decreed it!’ And with that dire pronouncement she’d hung up and refused to answer my calls, or even my emails. Having a prescient witch for a mother sucks.
Especially as I hadn’t inherited her ‘gift’. If I had, I’d never have opened the letter when it arrived.
I say letter, but all the envelope contained was a photo. One I’d never seen before, but evidently taken at the wedding judging by the sickly pink bridesmaid dress I was stuffed into like a lumpy sausage. The image was of me and Rob.
He’d asked me to dance when the slow music started. Four years is a lifetime at twenty, so I’d only said yes out of a mix of boredom and politeness. That lifetime narrowed in shock when he kissed me. A kiss that had me aching with sudden desire. Horrified, I’d ended the dance and shoved the memory into a dark corner of my mind. Where it had languished, forgotten until now. My knees buckled as a sudden visceral replay of the kiss hit me like a lightning bolt. A suspiciously magical lightning bolt.
I flipped the photo over. The spell was written in deep, rich purple.
The perfect companion
What girl doesn’t dream about that?
As I finished reading, the picture plucked itself from my hold and slyly vanished through a crack in the floorboards, leaving my fingers stained with purple ink. The die, or rather the spell, was cast. I couldn’t stop thinking about that kiss, about what Rob would be like now, how it would be to share the house with him, and exactly how he was going to make a big difference in my life.
Nothing could halt my imagination, not washing my hands in salt water, not a search-and-destroy mission beneath the floorboards (a total failure as the photo was nowhere to be seen), not even deciding to ditch my ‘Miss Havisham’ act and, as my meddlesome mother had long been ‘suggesting’, get out and get a proper job. (Barry had been the man-of-the-house type, with me cast as his little housewife/personal secretary, and I’d been young enough and stupid enough to think the old-fashioned roles a perfect idea.)
But even getting a proper job didn’t banish the spell.
Nor did opening my front door and finding a vision of man candy, with a body usually only seen in diet Coke ads or on the cover of a romance novel. When I realised this was the skinny teenager of my memory, I’d been speechless, and had to remember to close my mouth.
Six weeks of sharing my house with this gorgeous hunk. Sharing meals, sharing the sofa, sharing laughs and conversation. And all the time the knee-weakening memory of that long-ago kiss kept lust spiralling inside me, my whole body going liquid at a touch. Rob liked to touch, a quick hug here, the brush of a hand there. He meant nothing by it, but my body – suffering from a year of divorce-trauma abstinence – didn’t understand, and my hyped-up hormones headed into overdrive.
At thirty, four years was no longer the lifetime it had been at twenty. But never mind what ideas my mother had, or whatever spell she’d sicced on me, the cougar life wasn’t for me; I needed to talk some sense into myself. Morning found me standing naked before the full length mirror in my bedroom, giving myself a reality check.
‘You’re old enough to know better, and he’s young enough to want better,’ I told myself. ‘I mean, look at you, you can’t compete with those skinny twenty year olds at the Uni. All strappy T-shirts and low-slung jeans, showing off their perky breasts, concave stomachs, and non-existent hips.’
Barry had left me for one of those skinny twenty year olds.
I sucked my own stomach in, trying for flatness if nothing else... Unless I was prepared to expire from lack of oxygen, it wasn’t going to happen. Even with the exercise and diet regime I’d started post-Baldy Barry, I was still Ms Ample and Curvy.
In a vain effort to cheer myself up I snagged two eyeliner pencils and did the pencil-under-the-breast test; the one that tells you that perky boobs have been achieved— if the pencils don’t stay where you put them.
They stayed. I let out a disappointed sigh.
A thump on the door made me start and the pencils dropped to the floor.
‘April, you up?’ Another thump. ‘Breakfast’s ready. You’re gonna be late. Want me to bring you some coffee?’
I threw myself against the door. ‘Be down in a min.’ My voice rose in panic.
‘Sure thing.’
I listened as Rob’s footsteps thudded down the stairs, willing my heart to stop pounding, then yanked on my clothes. No strappy tops and midriff framing jeans for me, but a buttoned-up blue blouse and knee-length navy skirt. As an admin manager, a job for which I was eminently suited after my un-life with Barry, I needed to look smart and sensible.
Of course, however sensible I looked on the outside, thanks to that ridiculous spell, underneath I wore newly-purchased black lace and my libido was running riot.
The object of my lustful fantasy was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and finishing up a full English. Did I mention that he cooked and cleaned? He said it was the least he could do to repay his board and lodging. I appreciated it, I really did, but my magically hyped-up hormones kept suggesting more exciting methods of payment.
I sat, clutching my coffee mug like a lifeline.
‘How about I get us Chinese tonight, or a curry,’ Rob said, clearing away the table. ‘Seeing as it’s Friday; the end of the working week an’ all that.’
‘You should have a hot date, not staying in with me and a takeaway. There’re loads of nice girls at the Uni.’ Barry had found at least three there. Not that I wanted Rob to follow Barry’s lead. Oh no, I wanted to keep him all to myself, but my recent reality check meant that just wasn’t an option. One thing to fantasise he was my perfect companion
, but no way was I likely to be his.
‘Plenty of nice girls, yes,’ he said with a stomach-flipping grin. ‘But I want to keep my landlady happy. So what’s it to be? Chinese or Indian?’
I liked the idea of him wanting to keep me happy, but not the landlady bit. It made me sound like I should be sticking my hair in a bun and wearing my stockings round my ankles à la Nora Batty. Definitely not perfect girlfriend material. And then there was my other problem with having a takeaway. But before I could bring it up, he added, ‘and don’t start on about The Diet! You don’t eat enough for a bird as it is. Why not enjoy a treat for once?’
I opened my mouth to say no but what came out was, ‘Okay, if you insist. Chinese. Seafood, you know, the fish kind, not the anything kind.’
‘Sure,’ he said, his hand skimming along my shoulders as he passed. ‘See you tonight.’
Work passed in a blur and I arrived home to the enticing smell of a dozen seafood dishes. We indulged in a veritable feast then sat companionably on the sofa, chatting about everything and nothing as I tried to keep my thoughts from wandering and wondering. Wondering about the tantalising vee of tanned skin showing at the open collar of Rob’s shirt. Wondering if he was tanned all over. If he had a six-pack. How his skin would feel under my hands... what he would smell like... how he would taste...
‘You’re not listening to me, are you?’ His soft words drew my attention up to his sensuous lips.
‘What?’ I blinked and looked into his eyes, which seemed darker and closer. Had he moved nearer or was it just my wishful thinking?
He trailed a finger along my jaw. ‘You know, it might be ten years ago, but I’ve never forgotten that kiss.’
‘You haven’t?’ I said, mortified when my voice came out a squeak.
‘No.’ He leaned towards me and placed his mouth on mine. I sat absolutely still, wondering if this was real, or just my fantasy magically brought to life. And if it was, did it matter...
His tongue traced the seam of my lips, drawing a small moan from my throat, and I opened to him. His fingers slid into my hair, cradling my head as he deepened the kiss. He explored my mouth, tasting, seeking, filling, and sparking heat and need through my blood.
He moved back from me. My whole body wanted to follow him as his eyes asked the same question his mouth did. ‘Do you want this, April?’
‘Yes.’
No hesitation, no worrying about spell casting mothers, no reality check. My mind and body agreed. He’d asked and they’d both said yes.
I took his hand and led him up to my bedroom. I drew the curtains, plunging the room into a comfortable blackness. Feeling and touching were fine, but not looking and seeing.
He switched on the bedside light.
I moved to switch it off.
He caught my hand. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’d prefer the light out,’ I said in a low voice, fixing my gaze on his chest. His shirt had come off on the way. His chest was perfect, his skin smooth, his tan going all the way down and disappearing beneath the open snap on his jeans. He even had the required six-pack, but my embarrassment was chasing away my earlier desires.
‘You said you wanted this, April. It’s okay if you’ve changed your mind.’
‘I did, I mean I do.’ I really did.
He tipped my chin up. I met his eyes. ‘Is it me you don’t want to see? Don’t you want to know who’s making love with you? Don’t you want to know if this is real?’
If he only knew. Six weeks of magically induced lust and fantasies, and all about him. ‘I’m sorry, it’s just...’ My voice came out in a whisper. ‘It’s been a while. I’m not... I mean—’ I squeezed my eyes shut. ‘I don’t want you to see me.’ My face heated up like a furnace. Why is it embarrassment always triples when you have to admit to it? I wanted to disappear beneath the floor like that damned spelled photo my witchy mother had sent. The one that started all this—
He dropped a kiss on my forehead. On the tip of my nose. A more lingering one on my lips. ‘I want to see you, April. I want to see all of you. If you’ll let me?’
I hesitated... then nodded, my throat too achy and tight to speak, and kept my eyes closed as he undid my blouse, my skirt, and I felt them pool about my feet. I waited for him to remove the wisps of lace and when he didn’t, I squinted through my lashes to find him smiling at me.
‘You’re beautiful, April.’
I opened my mouth to deny it and he stopped me with another kiss. ‘You are. Let me show you.’ Warm hands clasped my shoulders and turned me to face myself in the full-length mirror, as I had that morning. He stood behind me, taller by almost a foot. I looked smaller there in front of him, in nothing but black lace and bare feet.
‘So beautiful,’ he murmured. ‘Perfect.’
I wasn’t perfect.
I’d tried to be. For Barry. Denied my witchyness to be the perfect wife. And look where it had got me - divorced with no job, no friends, no coven, no cauldron, not even a familiar. I didn’t want to be perfect. And I didn’t want a perfect companion. No spell-induced fantasy, sicced on me by my interfering mother, was ever going to make me feel otherwise.
‘Reality check,’ I muttered. ‘For real this time,’ I added and, sending a prayer to Hecate for clarity, forced myself to see past the illusion to the truth in the mirror.
I was alone.
My fantasy lover was just that, a magically-induced daydream.
I grabbed my phone and called Mother.
‘Enough!’ I shouted at her voicemail. ‘I don’t want a perfect companion, and even if I did, I’d want it to be real and true and not down to a magical compulsion. So trash the spell and forget this whole lodger thing. Now.’
She didn’t answer but the photo slid up from the crack in the floorboards and, like Fantasy Rob, it promptly vanished.
‘And no more interfering, Mother!’ I slammed the phone down and feeling satisfied in one way, if not another, went to bed.
I woke next morning to the ominous sound of the doorbell. A frantic glance at the clock as I scrambled for my robe told me I’d overslept.
The bell rang again.
I rushed downstairs and opened my front door.
He was standing there. He wasn’t alone.
‘Hi April, I’m Robert— Rob,’ he said. ‘Remember me? We met at my sister’s wedding? Ten years is a long time.’ He grinned. ‘Although sometimes it feels like yesterday.’ He turned to the smiling woman at his side. ‘This is Liz, my wife.’
When I didn’t answer, he frowned. ‘We’ve got the right day, haven’t we? Saturday the third, ten o’clock?’
I crossed my arms. ‘Umm, didn’t you get the message? About you staying? I don’t think this is the best time for me to be having... lodgers. I’m sorry.’
‘Yep, the Mothership passed the message on,’ Rob agreed to my surprise. ‘And it’s not a problem; the university can put us up. But we hoped you’d still take Star.’ He stepped aside to reveal a black cat with a white star-shaped patch on its chest sitting on the garden path, its ears pricked in a questioning way. ‘She’s a stray we found and she’s really no trouble at all. In fact she’s the perfect companion.’
My phone buzzed with a text: ‘Remember, Mother knows best.’
Fragile Creations
Adrian Tchaikovsky
Like most of the young nobility, when the turn of the year had begun to bleach the colour from his family’s estate, Firenz retired to Leintz to amuse himself over the winter, before spring brought back weather suitable for the hunt or the hawk. It was the fashionable thing to do, although had Firenz – son of the Count of Morelle – decided otherwise, then perhaps the fashion might have changed.
He was the pride of his father and the envy of his peers, was young Firenz. He had not only the breadth of his inheritance to recommend him, but he was a nobleman’s nobleman all through. He sat a horse as though he had a centaur in his ancestry, and when he flew a bird it never failed to return successful to his g
love. He was a noted duellist, properly contemptuous of the inferior skills of those less blessed by nature, in that nature had afforded him the most expensive instructors. He was courageous, too: whilst other nobles’ sons relied on guards and servants to stamp their mark on the world, Firenz had never shied from taking the whip to an incautiously robust peasant himself, or throwing down his own gauntlet before a cowering clerk or artisan. In this way did he protect the oft-threatened rights of the nobility, and was justly fêted for it.
This, then, was Firenz, a study in entitlement. Just as he knew he was entitled to the obeisance of his social inferiors, and to the respect owed to him by the happy chance of his birth, so he knew that when he called upon the city of Leintz to entertain him over the dragging months of winter, he was entitled to a prompt response.
Much of his time was spent calling on his peers – those other young men of privilege and elegance, albeit neither in quite so much measure as he possessed. One lazy afternoon found him in the drawing room of Pauli, the second son of the Elector of Rosaire, a fellow barely fit to share a building with Firenz, save that his family had so many covert trade interests that their numerous brood always seemed to have full purses to buy their way into the higher echelons. Besides, word had it that Pauli had a new toy that was worth the onerous burden of his company.
After sufficient pleasantries had been exchanged, and Pauli had stretched the tolerance of his guests to the limit, the diversion was brought out. The servants rolled a rug back to expose a scuffed space of floor, and Pauli himself produced a model house the size of two unfolded hands. In shape it was a little peasant’s cottage, though in construction the thatch was of gold, the white walls all of a single piece of ivory and each small detail formed in perfect, minute detail from other precious things.
With great ceremony Pauli selected the most appealing daughter of the Baron Vessinger and pressed into her hands a trove of tiny pearls that he bid her scatter across the floor. Laughing, she did so, and Pauli stooped to the little house and made some adjustment, whereupon the residents trooped out. They were a peasant family in miniature, a full dozen from the stooped grandmother down to little children, all ingeniously fashioned from wood, and they scurried industriously about the floor, bumping into the rug’s edge or the furniture and then turning inwards, and when they found one of the miniscule pearls they exalted, lifting it to the heavens in artificial joy before running back to the house with it. In a short time, every little treasure was found and recovered, and the hard-working automata trooped back into their home to general applause.
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