by Judy Jarvie
“It’s football classes, Annie, not speed dating with balls and a TV crew.”
“But if he asks us out for drinks after play, I want you to do the decent thing and decline. I’m moving in on him, stealthily, and I always get what I’m after.”
“Annie Gets Her Man. Should be a musical. With a big ratty cougar in it.”
She fake smiles. “He’ll obviously fancy me. But if he shows any interest—bear in mind I saw him first and I’m staking a claim. Do we have an understanding?”
I want to do cock eyes and blow her a raspberry, but more than that, I want to be Sarah Jessica Parker and pin her hand to my desk with a stiletto heel. Then hear her squeal like a pig. Sadly I’m wearing low wedges.
“Want me to save time and put in a word with Will?” I ask her.
She grins as she sashays over to my door and wraps herself around it like Madonna on a tour dancer. “D’you think you have anything that Will would take any notice of?”
It’s at times like these you wish you’d filmed your recent sexual encounters for the purpose of action replay to piss her off.
“I’m barely on his radar as a woman. But I think he might play for the other team anyway.”
Her face pales. “No way. Will’s not gay.”
I open my desk drawer, take out the extra print with the handbag and the tuxedo, and I hold it up for her to view. Sometimes the coolest lines are the silent ones where you only raise eyebrows. Well, that’s how it makes me feel anyway—especially when I see her eyes widen and her jaw clench.
“Fuck, that’s unexpected,” she answers. “But I’m still game to give it a try in case he swings in both directions. At least he has good taste in bags.”
* * * *
At the end of that day, I’m in for a shocking surprise when I go down to Fiona’s science lab in search of working magic markers, only to find her room empty. I decide to take the marker hunt into my own hands—Fiona won’t mind as we regularly pillage each other’s supplies.
I’m rummaging in the pot on her desk when I hear noises. Noises that make me stop and freeze. Noises that make my neck hairs prickle, then the pens fall from my fingers as I take a swallow. I’m scared to hear more in case the noises turn out to be what I think they could be.
Shit-o-la! I fear it may be noises of passion.
It starts subtly. A light, woman’s murmur. Then a bump, was that a chair moving across the floor tiles? Then a moan. A grunt. A deep moan of exclamation is the climax. I wish I could beam up and Star Trek outta there.
I hear Fiona’s soft, soothing words through the wall from the science cupboard where the action is taking place. “Poor boy. Let me make it better, my tiger lover! My squash lob macho man.” Her voice is a sultry purr.
I feel ready to lose my lunch. Especially when I consider how many tanks of stinky mealworms are in there with them while they do the deed.
“Aaaaagh!” comes a male moan that’s so loud it makes me jump. Holy fuck—it’s like waking up in an acid bath and I feel the searing, jolting need to evacuate and shed my skin. And clean out my ears with a carbolic soap and bleach mix.
But I cannot, as it’s still going on. There’s another breathy, deep moan and I know, right away, I’ve walked into voyeuristic hell. I love my friend dearly, but witnessing her sex fest isn’t part of the BFF code.
There’s a man’s low voice that’s making the kind of noise only some strange wild man from the deepest depths of the Amazonian wilderness could make—or is it Chewbacca’s primal mating calls?
It’s deep, guttural. And it goes on for about five seconds. Half howl, half anguished ecstasy. This isn’t any kind of sex noise I’ve ever known. I wonder if I should call in the Bigfoot team or medical help?
Shit. I walk away from the desk. Forgetting the marker hunt and vowing forever after never to use a marker again, I carefully tiptoe past the desk and toward the door. Which would’ve been fine. Nobody need have known a thing. Except my phone trills into life loudly—with ZZ Top playing Sharp Dressed Man, the song heralds my identity completely like a marching band coming to commemorate the event.
Double shit. I try to walk past the science cupboard door on fast speed and purposefully avoid the oblong of window pane, lest my eyes see a glimpse of Alan and Fi in the act of the ‘at its’. I’m mortified to hear the door open right beside me as the outer doorknob is tantalizingly in my grasp.
“Iz! It is you!”
Oh heck. I keep my head down and my fingers are turning the doorknob anyway, such is my longing for escape.
“Izzy, don’t go!” Fiona’s right behind me and, while my body wants to keep going and pretend I don’t know, I realize I can’t. The cover’s blown and eye contact, however awkward, will now have to be made. “Izzy. Just the woman. Can you come in and see this?” Fiona says beside me.
“Um.”
“Come and see Alan. It’s rather important that you do. We need a second opinion.”
Hell, I didn’t see those words coming! I look up tentatively. She’s wearing her clothes. Her hair’s in perfect place—not in mid-intercourse disarray. And she’s also wearing her eye protectors and her lab coat. She even has on protective latex gloves.
What the bloody hell were they doing in there, and how big is Alan in the trousers department that she needs to make sure he won’t take an eye out?
“Come and see Alan. Do you think he should have it seen to by a chiropractor? Frankly I’ve never encountered anything like it. It’s a golf ball lump and the poor baby can’t take the pain. He says something like this happened before after he lost control of his toboggan. This time, it was playing squash.”
I walk into the room as my thoughts are still jiving, unable to formulate reality.
Alan Collier is lying flat out on Fiona’s science bench. His bare back is dusted with a fair smattering of dark Bigfoot-esque hair and his trousers are turned back at the waistband. Fortunately I cannot identify his butt crack or that would have had me run, arms flailing, from the room.
“He twisted something. Now there’s a definite lump and he’s struggling to walk. He can drive but he’s walking like he’s wearing a wet nappy. It’s agony. I’ve been trying to work it out but I think it’s best with a professional. Do you have any experience of backs?”
I shake my head, hugely relieved that they weren’t in the throes. My God—my heart is beating and I can feel sweat run down my back and it’s the perspiration of mortification. I wonder it’s not given me a few gray hairs.
“I can give you a good number,” I tell her, then I fire up my identity-betraying mobile phone. “My neighbor’s son runs a place. Say you know me and he’ll fit you in. Alternatively we could call them right now…”
Alan tries to turn and look at me then starts ‘ouching’ and moaning again, which attests to the acute level of his pain. I take this as an urge to make the appointment soonest.
“You’re a doll, Izzy. You might be useless at squash but I’m seeing you have hidden depths.” Alan’s still face down. The man looks like he’s having a nightmare.
“Al, you’re boyfriend to one of my best friends now. You get the VIP treatment. But if you’re mean to her, I’ll do your kneecaps with your squash racquet. Comprende?”
“Roger that.”
I call the chiropractor and, when I get through, I secure an urgent appointment.
“Thanks, Iz. This is a bitch of a thing,” Alan says weakly.
“Alan. Language,” says Fiona. She’s stroking his back.
We help him up and he assures us he’ll be okay to drive. I stay while Fiona finishes and prepares to leave, debating if I should confess my imagined incident or not.
“You like each other, don’t you?” I eventually opt for.
“Definitely.” She gives me a sly, pleased-with-herself grin as she plops test tubes in their holders and fiddles with the mealwormery beside her.
“That wasn’t a squash injury, was it?” I say biting my lip.
Fi’s chee
ks turn bright red in an instant but, fair play to her, she stands her ground and meets my eye. “Sex on the kitchen table. It was rather athletic, perhaps a bit over-enthusiastic. But let’s say it was worth it—it had been a long time waiting for that one and it proved a sensation.” She stares at me. “I know what you’re thinking… He may look like a stuffed-shirt prig and at times he has the most God-awful laugh but I’m training him to be better. He’s got a great body underneath the bad clothes. Plus he’s got a kind heart, Iz. And he worships me. I don’t think he’s ever had sex as good, either—to him I’m the full package. And I’m touching forty, Iz. I need a man and this one’s interested. He even has a holiday cottage in the Cotswolds with a garden that’s to die for and, once you get over his tendency to always win at squash, he’s not all bad! He’s hung like a donkey and pretty agile in the bedroom department! The hairy back thing aside.”
TMI. But if he’s treating my friend well, I figure I may have been wrong to judge so swiftly. He’s keen and so is she. Good luck to them.
“I’m glad to see you’ve got your sparkle back. I don’t care who’s giving you it!” I tell her.
But thank God I haven’t heard them shagging.
“I’m glad you’re happy, Fi. Just maybe encourage him to consider a back wax?”
“Back, sac and crack booked for next Wednesday.” She winks at me. “I’m not totally stupid, you know. He has buns of steel. I intend to groom him up nicely!”
I’m grinning so hard at Fiona it’s positively a whole face hug. “Poor guy won’t know what’s hit him.” We lock up her classroom door. “And if he’s that noisy having his bumps rubbed, I dread to think what happens when you touch his boy part.”
“It’s something to behold, Iz. Something to behold!”
* * * *
Two days later I’m feeling somewhat frazzled with my schedule as a career teacher, a football fan, book club organizer, erotic author and a vamp. But I’m still hanging in there and tonight’s my tryst with Will.
“I’m still coming but I might be late,” I tell him, softly and swiftly, at the end of lunch break by popping by his office. I have to do this with more discretion than a secrecy convention that’s gone underground and changed its name.
When I arrive at the PE department, I check first that nobody’s within earshot. If anybody asks, I’m discussing my mentoring schedule. Having a cover helps with subterfuge. How clandestine has my life become in only a few days? Darby has become my guilty secret. And my guilty pleasure.
The last few nights have been spent writing about our exploits again so I’ve more chapters to pass on to the book club on Friday. I know I’ve given my book oomph—it gets me hot and bothered skim reading.
“Mr. Darby, I’ve come to ask you about my timetable for filming,” I say in a loud voice, with a wink.
“Good idea, Miss Tennant.”
I close the door and we’re in each other’s arms in an instant. I’m kissing him as if he’s a petrol canister and I’m a spitting barbecue. We cling breathlessly in the aftermath of our vigorous snog onslaught.
Next, he grabs my hand and hauls me like a crazy wild bear on a lust bender. Two tugs and I’m through the cupboard door, off his office. I’m thoroughly kissed again and I’ve no time to take in how truly vile it smells in here. Blame whiffy basketballs and too many sweaty youths.
“What are you doing? Don’t!” My protests are futile. The rubber smell hits me like a Mutiny Bay wave. “Wow. What a stink!”
“Personally I find it earthy. A musky turn-on!” He tugs me close for proof.
Oh my word. For a guy with sporadic erectile issues, you’d never know by what he’s showing me in terms of regard right now.
“In school too!” I admonish. “Sackable offense, or is that a ruler in your pocket, Sir!”
“I’d rule your world if you let me.”
“I worry about you, Darby.” He’s kissing my neck. It’s more than a little fantastic. His lips have talents only genies could have taught via a mystical workshop. “Uh. Don’t. How can I possibly go back and teach grammar after this?”
“I love it when you talk English lesson shop,” he says in that voice that sends my womb to lust mush.
“I came to tell you I may be late tonight. I need to go shopping for something to wear to the party.”
“Come the way I want you—in your birthday suit.” Seconds later, he’s pulled up my work skirt. Today, there’s a thong present and, unfortunately, he finds this helpful because he slaps my arse with a strong hand. I yelp, but remember to keep it sotto voce.
“Fuck, Will. What was that for?”
“You’ve been keeping secrets.”
Shit. Does he know about the chapters I’ve written? Did he leave a spy cam in my room?”
“You took another man to football. You didn’t clear dates with other men.” He’s glaring but I can tell it’s a joke.
“Jack? Jack and me have been going to watch Arsenal for almost a decade. He buys the coffee and I bring two pasties. Get real.”
Another arse slap makes me turn and hide my backside from him. “I mean it. Stop that!”
“And I hear you’re having private assignations with Rogerson. What are you trying to do to me, woman?”
“We’re ruddy candle-making. I wanted to get him onside. If you want, you can come along too. Bring your own wick and wax and I’m sure we’ll all have a ball together.”
He pulls me close and he kisses me again. I prod Will in the ribs. A waft of his cologne makes me want him badly. He’s surprisingly hard in his abs and I long to let my hand explore again, but now’s not the time. Years of gym work have given him a body that gladiators would do the cha-cha-cha in a morph suit for. He’s holding me, wearing a smirk that would put Wile E. Coyote back to drama school.
“I want to leave my imprint. It’s a taster for tonight,” he says, and pulls me closer still. “Countin’ down the minutes, babe.”
I pull away and straighten my clothes. And I sound like Yoda to my own ears when I answer. “A patient boy my Sir must be. A very patient boy!”
* * * *
By the time Friday comes I’m cream-crackered and ready to drop.
Last night I stayed over at Will’s and there was rather a lot more adventure going on than sleep—mostly in the games room at Hangley Grange. Orgasm central, in fact, and I was playing the starring role. He’s still not comfortable about penetration—but I live in hope. Given that I had to trawl Brent Cross’s delights for a party outfit prior to getting there, it’s been full-on, like a social life Zumba-thon without breathing breaks.
But now that Friday’s finally here and we’re at Dibian’s with a drink in our hands, the good news is my friends are completely hooked on my book. They’re raving about it and they’re completely in love with Sir Pablo P, my hero.
I’m somewhat staggered but I’m also very grateful and humbled by the impact my writing’s had. Also my book is finally finished. I’ve written all the wild sex scenes I needed—so, minus a last extensive polish, I am now the proud writer of Secrets with Sir P. I hand out CDs of the full book in draft to all of my friends.
“Your input will help me get it right,” I tell them. “Criticisms and pointers welcome.”
“It’s simple, this has to be published. You could try and get an agent, or send it to some publishers yourself? But basically I think you should do it now,” Fiona tells me.
Mo adds, “Iz. It’s totally hot. We want things to move fast on this! You deserve success.”
“I love your hints about his tortured past. I sense that he has problems in the trouser department, am I right? The man is so hot and that killer, deep secret wound breaks my heart,” Janey tells me.
“You’ll have to read on and find out.”
They all cheer and congratulate me, and we clink glasses in a toast to the book’s success.
“Why not self-publish?” Janey asks. “I’ve a friend who did that and made lots of money.”
; “I’m not sure.” I’ve been so focused on the writing that I haven’t considered what next. I’ve barely had time to kick back, and in fact it’s hindered my sleep as I’ve been getting up in the middle of the night to write more.
Fiona, however, has done a lot more thinking about all of this than me. “Are you going to use a pseudonym? You need to think up a name then get a website. Presence on social media too.”
Dibian is flicking through my chapters printout. “Izzy, you’ve surprised me, but I must say I’m very impressed by the passionate hero and the intensity of this story. I have an idea. Can I take this with me? I have a friend who may be able to help you.”
A tiny trickle of wariness skitters down my spine. Maybe I should be a bit more prudent here—but then I remind myself, it’s Dibian. She’s my trusted boss and friend. Surely she understands to keep things under wraps.
“Top secret at this stage, though, Dibs,” I tell her.
“It’s a friend. A publishing friend.”
“And I don’t write because I want fuss or fame or anything like that—I love to write. I just want to create the kind of characters I feel deeply about.”
“Well said,” says Dibian. “This book could be big, Izzy. There’s something about the hero… But you need to work out exactly how you want this managed. And one more thing… I’m dying to know the inspiration?” There’s a wicked gleam in Dibian’s eye. I gulp and avert my gaze when I see it. Then, when I look back, she winks at me so swiftly the others miss it.
“Nobody in particular. Just my fantasy guy. He’s not real.”
“I’d dearly love to meet such a man.”
“A man like Pablo Pascal could never exist. Sir P’s nothing but a fantasy, I’m afraid.”
Dibian purrs, “Well, whoever he is, he’s a man a lot of women will want to read about in future.”
Shit. Maybe this wasn’t such a good plan… I didn’t bank on Dibian being pushy or joining up dots. Shit. And maybe the hero’s Achilles heel being an erection issue wasn’t a good move either.
