by Fox Brison
“So how are you getting on with the electric car? Missing your muscle one yet?” she asked.
“Well I have two sporty numbers already. I thought if I hired a third people would sart to think I was compensating for something.” I smiled.
“Two?” Joanne arched her eyebrows in surprise.
“Uh huh. One’s a wrecked MGB that Donna found in a scrapyard. It needs an inordinate amount of work, but I like nothing more than taking something past it’s sell by date and seen as worthless, and returning it to it’s former glory.” I explained, quite happily as it so happens.
In a parallel universe I was here connecting with Joanne because we’d met online, or old school and in a bar. We were talking to get to know one another because we shared a genuine like for each other, not because she was beholden to me. Normally I’d scarper a mile from emotional entanglement, but something drew me towards Joanne Cassidy.
“I saw your sketches in the lobby of your office building,” Joanne said in a non sequitur I didn’t understand. “Sorry, I tend to go off in tangents… it’s just I get you like building beautiful things,” she explained.
“Ah I see. Most of them were ideas that went unrealised, others, not so much visions as make dos for the client. Architecture can be inhibiting as well as uplifting... It’s quite the dichotomy. And of course then there are the times when a client really doesn’t understand what you’re trying to sell them and that can be unbelievably frustrating.”
“Dreams. You’re creating dreams,” she mused wistfully.
“I… I guess.” Joanne’s perception surprised me. “But my interpretation of someone’s dream may be a complete contrast to what they had in mind.” We sat in silence and finished our soup, the hidden message in the conversation, for me anyway, dominated.
“Would you… you know what, forget it.” I gave up the idea as stupid before I even bothered suggesting it.
“Would I what?” she asked, intrigued.
“I was wandering about the MGB. Would you like to come over and see the before?”
“I’d love to.” Her smile was genuine and made me warm all over again. Or it could have been the soup. It would certainly have been less perturbing if it was the soup.
“Great. How about tomorrow… no wait,” damn I had art therapy… “This Friday? I’ll cook.”
“Really?” she drawled the word dubiously.
“What? Just because I’m a high flying woman who leans towards butch, you assume I have the culinary ability of Neolithic man?” I chided and this time her eyebrows shot through her hairline. “Okay, you got me. I have a couple of basic dishes I can whip up in an emergency with the help of a packet mix or jar of sauce, but rarely have the inclination. However, I am a mistress of ordering take out.” I was laughing but there was an undercurrent of nervousness. Instead of snorkelling along the surface, this woman had me deep sea diving in the abyss. “Do you like Chinese?”
“I like anything if I don’t have to cook it myself,” Joanne smiled.
Her smile entranced me. It lit up her whole face and I couldn’t help but return the gesture. I’d smiled more since meeting Joanne than I had in the previous ten years. It felt good.
Chapter 25
Joanne
Through the fog of sleep I heard a ringing. It stopped then started again a few minutes later. I was in that zone between wakefulness and dreaming, and as I became more lucid, I identified the sound as my mobile phone. I groaned and peered at the clock. Three a.m.? Rubbing my eyes I picked it up; three missed calls and five texts. Checking the call log, it displayed unknown number.
Christ, I hope it’s not mam. When it rang again I answered, breathlessly. “Hello?”
“Whore.” Echoed down the line and through every nerve in my body.
***
“Did I see a car outside your house late last night?” Ashleigh’s bottom had barely made contact with the seat of the bus when she asked the question.
“You did.” I hadn’t slept well. For the first time since I was small, I kept the lights burning all night. Correction, for the first time since I knew my mother wouldn’t kill herself falling down the stairs when she was paralytic, I slept with the lights on.
Especially after my three o’clock alarm call.
“More discussion about the opera? I dinnae understand that stuff when it’s in English never mind sang in Italian,” she mocked.
“Hmm?”
“You’re not with it this morning, are ye hen? That reekbeek didn’t do anything to upset you, did she?” Ashleigh was preparing to rare up.
“Nah, quite the opposite. She turned up to give me a lift home from college.” I pinked at the admission, knowing Ashleigh would read more into it than there actually was.
“Had yer weesht!”
I was spot on. Her incredulity meter had been reading in the red zone from the first day Adele crashed into my life. I couldn’t blame her, mine wasn’t registering far below disbelief most days. I gazed longingly out of the window at the streets slowly growing congested with the usual flotsam and jetsom of daily life. Some days, such as this one, I felt like absconding, to be somewhere else, to be someone else. It was like dreaming of a lottery win; I could imagine my life if only I’d recognised the warning signs a few years earlier and travelled a different road.
“I’m serious and I’m right glad she did,” I finally said.
“How?”
“Geoff followed me out.” No other explanation was necessary because Geoff Standing had been the subject of many a discussion between Ashleigh and I.
“Him again!” she scowled.
“Aye he wanted to go for a bevvy to discuss scholarships.” I swallowed. “I kept saying no, but he was incredibly persistent until Adele showed up. Then he got the message. Maybe now he knows I have a partner he’ll leave me alone.” Although the evidence suggested he wouldn’t be as easily waylaid.
Ashleigh twisted in her seat. There was concern in her eyes, a concern I knew was an echo of my own. I tried to hide it, to bluff my way through the worry as I had with Adele, but I couldn’t, not with her.
“He makes my flesh crawl, Ash,” I muttered and added a shiver for effect. Actually it wasn’t for effect, he really did make me feel that way.
“You cannae leave college alone from now on.”
“I won’t. On the nights you’re not there, Adele has said she’ll gie me a lift.”
“I’m impressed.” Ashleigh’s eyes widened. As I said, incredulity meter set to blow.
“She’s protecting her investment,” I whispered, embarrassed by the notion I was some kind of chattel.
“She said that?”
“Aye.”
“Gobshite. Just when I was warming to her.” She scowled angrily.
I burst out laughing at her blunt condemnation. If Ashleigh ever met Adele again, I’d better have the hose ready because I reckon there’d be fireworks. “It’s funny. Sometimes I get the impression her big bad wolf persona is an act to stop people getting too close. Other times I think I’m being waaay too generous.” I smiled softly when I thought about Adele.
“Do you like her, Jo?” If there was one thing Ashleigh McLaughlin was good at, it was cutting through the bullshit.
“No.” I turned my head away, afraid my eyes would betray something I wasn’t ready to acknowledge. The bus drew to a stop outside the factory. “Not like that anyway.” I shuddered to a screeching halt when the warmth at merely the thought of her chased the blues away. So that’s new. Up until now whenever she invaded my mind like a demented parasite, I either wore an irritable scowl or perplexed frown.
Although when we’re together… when we were together I tended to forget everything apart from her.
“Uh huh.” Ashleigh replied like ‘I believe you, thousands wouldn’t but I do.’
The problem was, in this case I think the majority definitely ruled!
Chapter 26
Joanne
After a day working in the factory, su
rrounded by noise and people, I could appreciate Adele’s preference for solitude. I was glad to get home and tonight I relished the silence. Kind of.
I smoothed over the piece of paper I’d found on my doormat when I picked up the post. A love poem. Admittedly, not a very original one; it was of the roses are red variety, you know the type you got when you were a ten year old, but it was sweet.
Kind of.
There was that phrase again. I wondered which Adele would show up this particular Friday evening; the teddy bear sending sweet poem writing Adele, or the ruthless schemer. Throwing random clothes on my bed, I eventually decided on jeans and a black t-shirt – I didn’t want it to appear as if I was trying too hard. I was incredibly nervous waiting for her to pick me up; my skin was pallid from the tension stealthily squirming through my body, and a clammy sheen draped my forehead. After peering through the curtains for the tenth time in ten minutes, I triple checked my bag to make sure I had everything.
Yep keys, phone and purse all still there, the handbag thief hasn’t stolen anything in the three minutes since you last checked. I wished she’d get here already. There was good anticipation and bad anticipation right now I was experiencing a heady combination of the two.
I dried my sweaty palms on the front of my jeans. There really was no need for this level of anxiety because everything was going swimmingly, but maybe that was the problem. We’d gotten to know each other better than I’d known any of my real girlfriends, and I was actually liking what I found the deeper I dived into Adele’s personality. Kind of.
That damn phrase again. And the reason for its constant use was Adele Jackson. She was an enigma that the girls from Bletchley Park would struggle to decipher.
Even with a thousand machines.
For some unknown reason (and yes I knew perfectly well but I was dissembling to make myself feel better) Adele and I were spending more time together than the average couple. And if I’m honest, I was happier fake loving Adele than I had ever been real loving anyone else.
The age difference was inconsequential as far as I was concerned. I caught her looking at me once or twice with something other than amity. Not lust, no. Admiration. Respect. Maybe attraction. However, despite my indubitable interest (believe me I’d tried to deny it) Adele would remain nothing more than a friend for several reasons. The list was actually endless, but I began with the top four… successful, intelligent, beautiful.
And moving to America the first chance she got.
I heard the thrumming roar before I saw it and it instantly matched the thrumming of blood roaring through my body; I opened the front door just as Adele pulled onto the small drive. Tight jeans clung to her shapely thighs and disappeared into black biker boots. She paired it with a white shirt and leather jacket. Lean, mean and brooding. Let’s hear it for the girl.
“Aren’t you hot?” I asked, eyeing her up. Any excuse to allow my eyes to linger a while longer. She lifted the seat of the bike and pulled out a beautiful posy of daisies and baby pink roses.
“For you.”
I took them from her outstretched hand and sniffed them. Simple yet elegant. “They’re beautiful. Come on in, while I pop them into a vase of water.”
She followed me through to the kitchen and although not a large room, today it felt smaller than Harry’s cupboard under the stairs. Adele’s presence dominated whatever space she was in. Heck, she engulfed the space she was in. “What have I done to deserve this? First the teddy then the note, and now these.” I placed them lovingly in a plain glass vase.
“Teddy? Note?” she laughed. “I most certainly did not send you those. I’m not twelve. In fact, even when I was twelve I don’t think I ever sent a teddy bear or a note to someone I liked,” she added.
Someone she liked? Was that a Freudian slip? Did that mean she liked me liked me… I bit my bottom lip. Get a grip, Jo. Now you’re acting like a twelve year old! “I guess they must have come to the wrong address.”
Adele cocked her head quizzically. “If you’re trying to make me fake jealous, you’re succeeding!” she joked, but reached for her neck, something I noticed she did when she was tense. Today she was wearing a cravat style scarf which finished her outfit off perfectly. Her blonde hair was swept back from her face and an image from the past swamped me; the fifties and rebels without a pause, motorcycle anti-heroes that shook the world. I quickly turned on the tap and was almost a contestant in a wet t-shirt competition when it spurted out of the top of the vase like a geyser.
And for the record that wouldn’t have been the only part of my body that was wet.
“Ready?” she asked.
I wanted to yell, ‘yes, and raring for you to take me on the kitchen table,’ but resisted. My kitchen table wasn’t very sturdy, besides I didn’t want to miss the chance of an entirely different kind of ride. Christ, it’s been too long, I moaned to myself. So far this evening I was the proverbial horse, except instead of being led to water, I was being led towards sexual frustration.
We hurried outside, well I hurried and she sauntered magnificently. Placing my bag under the seat, her icy grey eyes held a remarkable childlike quality, a mix of excitement and expectation.
“Here let me.” She tenderly placed the helmet on my head and tucked a few stray strands of hair behind my ears before fastening the strap underneath my chin. “Gosh,” she said.
“What? Is something wrong? Is my head too big?”
“Nonsense, your head is the perfect size. It suits you, is all.” Turning, she lifted her left leg and swung it over the bike. I did the same.
“Adele, can we take the long way round?” I asked giddily.
She laughed. “Hold tight.” I put my goggles on and placed my arms around her waist, rocking to get comfortable. At this rate I was going to have to change my underwear.
Revving the engine, Adele kicked the stand up and we were off. Instinctively I squeezed tighter. For the first few minutes I kept my eyes tightly shut. Riding pillion involves a hell of a lot of faith in the rider in front of you. I barely knew Adele, yet inherently trusted her with my life. She took it easy through the streets of Dalkeith, allowing me time to get used to the tiger between my legs. Gingerly, I opened my eyes. The experience wasn’t what I was expecting, it was eerie. The roar of the engine and the wind whistling past, my rapidly beating heart…
I felt forlorn.
She opened the bike up when we hit the dual carriageway, and I buried my head into her body, luxuriating in the warmth of human contact. Every turn, every acceleration or deceleration, was accompanied by a tightening in her muscles beneath my hands.
It was one of the most erotic experiences of my life.
***
Forty five exhilarating minutes later we pulled into the driveway of a two storey Victorian house. We were only five miles from my estate as the crow flies, but it may as well have been five thousand. The streets around us were clean and quiet; the wide tree lined avenues offered dappled shade and only the occasional dog walker littered the empty paths. The mature gardens bordering the road hid large homes. I glimpsed flashes of dark grey stone and sash windows through the vibrant greenery, and bursts of colour - pink, red, yellow, purple - exploded like flower fireworks, breaking up the verdant foliage. Like at home, a variety of cars were parked on the road. However, the Range Rovers and Audis arrogantly watching the world go by in this neighbourhood cost more than most people in my street earned in a couple of years.
The disparity was stark, despite the beauty of the surroundings.
The engine had been silent for a few seconds and Adele climbed off. I waited until my legs stopped vibrating; it was no hardship, I was enjoying the view.
Of the house, not Adele in her leathers.
If I appreciated that view any longer or any deeper, I was going to be a wet puddle of goo on the pebbled drive. “Is this…” I stood, stunned, my mouth doing a good impression of a Venus fly trap. “You live here?”
“I do.” Adele smiled bashful
ly.
“How many rooms are there?” It was a double fronted creamy sandstone home, with bay windows and three steps leading to an enormous green front door, so I estimated lots.
“Four bedrooms, three en suite.”
We climbed the four stone steps and Adele opened the door, giving me my first glimpse of the interior. Traditional, sprang to mind, with parquet flooring and picture rails, yet with a modern twist in its clean lines and simplistic décor. I stood in the doorway and admired, well, everything, because quite frankly, there was a lot to take in. “It’s stunning.”
“You should have seen it when I bought it,” Adele said whilst turning off the alarm. “The previous owner was a ninety six year old woman who’d lived here from childhood and hardly touched the place in all that time. It was damp, the windows and floors were full of woodworm, the mortar was crumbling. It took a fair amount of blood, sweat and tears to get it to this stage. And don’t even get me started on the garden; the grass was six foot high with weeds that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the Amazon. Thankfully, no one had the imagination to look past the obvious imperfections and I got it for a song.”
“I love your knocker.” Why I chose that particular fixture when the rest of the house was so inordinately beautiful I’ll never know. I put it down to nerves.
Freud would be having a field day.
And the nerves only heightened when Adele removed her jacket and flung it onto the chair inside the doorway. Tight jeans and an even tighter white t-shirt. Dear fucking god are you trying to kill me?
“My… erm…” An explosion of colour instantly painted her cheeks as she cast a surreptitious glance down, one which I followed. She clearly wasn’t wearing a bra, and I mean clearly. I then realised how my question might have been construed, blurted out as it was.
