Chapter 1

Growing up, I lived close to my aunt, my Mum’s eldest sister, and her daughter, my cousin, Wendy. Aunty Marion was the black sheep of the family. She’d got pregnant as a teenager, had given that baby up for adoption, and had had a series of affairs with married men - she’d never married herself - so wasn’t highly regarded by many of the women on our estate. Wendy was the result of one affair, and Aunty Marion brought her up on her own.

Despite all the scandal and promiscuity, my Mum felt closer to Aunty Marion than anyone else in the family, though they were miles apart in their morals. Aunty Marion was my favourite relative too; she was always funny, always pleased to see you, and always kind. Wendy was ten years older than me and as much a handful as her Mum had been and still was, and locals often muttered darkly.

“The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree!”

Wendy was like a mini-version of her Mum. Both were tall, both with long dark black hair, both with small boobs, and both with long legs, of which they were justly proud and often showed off in short dresses, skirts, and hot pants. Wendy still lived at home in her mid-twenties. Lots of firms were closing down in the late seventies and early eighties, and unemployment loomed large in my area. It helped both of them to share a house.

As a sixteen-year-old, I remember lusting after both of them, but mostly Wendy. Wendy knew the effect she had on guys and wasn’t shy about coming forward. I was just her annoying little cousin, but as long as I kept my distance when needed and didn’t spoil things for her, she tolerated me hanging around. Up at the Rec, towards the main road, there was a parkkeeper’s building. A grand structure, paid for by a mill owner at the end of the previous century, now the windows were covered in a metal mesh to stop them from being broken, and it was only used to store equipment. It was popular with us because it had a veranda along two sides that was sheltered from the rain. It was secluded, and many young couples first explored each other under its terracotta tiles.

So it was no surprise that I’d hide amongst the bushes and undergrowth to see what show might be happening - this predates the Internet, remember - and likewise, it was no surprise to see my cousin there, being snogged madly as a flares-wearing guy was frigging her with his hand under her skirt. As long as I kept quiet and wasn’t noticed, I could see a great show. Of course, my eyesight was better then! If I was noticed, I needed to run fast!

As I got older, there were rumours about Wendy and Aunty Marion sharing and swapping guys. If that happened, I never saw it, and given the reputation that both of them had, there were often unsavoury rumours passed around locally. Mud sticks, and there’s no smoke without fire, but really, it takes two to tango, so without the regular supply of guys, they couldn’t have done the things that led to the unkind rumours. It was the first time I realised that guys who bed lots of women are called studs, and women who bed lots of men are called sluts. The unfair nature of that double standard has stayed with me ever since!

Years went by, and I moved away, got married, had kids of my own, got divorced, and found myself in a very small studio flat watching porn on TV and un-impressing those women I’d ‘met’ on Tinder and had persuaded to come back to my place. To make matters worse, my firm decided to close down the site where I was working. I was luckier than some; I got offered a transfer to head office, which was about a thirty-minute drive from where I grew up. No relocation expenses, but hey, I still had my job.

I decided to look for somewhere to live back where I started out. Accommodation prices were cheaper here, but lots of the places I looked at were so bad that I knew they wouldn’t suit. I took a break from my search and went into one of the pubs on my old estate for a ham roll and a beer. The pub wasn’t busy, and I took a seat at the bar as I waited for the barmaid to come back from the cellar. As she came in, I realised it was Wendy. I hadn’t seen her for almost ten years. Life moves on! She was really pleased to see me, and we sat nattering between the very few drinks she was called upon to serve that lunchtime.

She told me that I wasn’t to leave the area without popping in to see her and Aunty Marion. I told Wendy I was looking for a small flat or house in the area, and she said she’d keep an eye out for me. She looked amazing, and I realised she was now sixty-four, nearly sixty-five. She was wearing a slim and short red dress, still showing off her fabulous legs. She could easily pass for someone twenty years younger! After the lunchtime ‘rush’, I followed Wendy back to her house. From the outside, it really didn’t look much different from the other houses on the street. Aunty Wendy had moved in just after it had been built, at a time when mortgage rates were low and house prices were tumbling. It was hers outright, and she’d always been very proud of it.

Inside, though, was another story. Considerable work had gone on to extend the kitchen, develop the garden, and otherwise improve this 1950s semi. Wendy showed me around, and her pride was obvious too. A huge shower room and bathroom upstairs with a rainfall shower and a large curved bath! They’d extended into the attic, and her old bedroom was now empty as they’d created a suite in the attic with a bedroom and seating area with her own TV.