Sand Storm
Copyright© 2026 by MicaMeesha
Chapter 3
After Edward walked to his car, Geraldine quietly closed the front door. She turned and stood for a moment in the hall, gathering her thoughts. There was much to think about and possibly little time to make the necessary arrangements. There was definitely a game afoot, and this was a game that could be interesting to play and one that she hoped would finish up with no losing side.
“Right, Ger,” she said softly to herself, “time to get a move on and see what happens.”
The pager interrupted his preparations for the evening once more. Wiping the foam from his face before he had even started to shave, he left his wife soaking in the bath and padded downstairs to the study.
“Hello. What news?”
“Hello Sir. Another meet.”
“I see. Anything else.”
“Sir, yes sir, there was an exchange again.”
He was beginning to tire of Natalie and having to drag every item of detail out of her. If things were to develop further, he looked forward to the duty manager shift change and a different perspective.
“Natalie, what was exchanged?”
“Flowers, sir.”
“Flowers?”
“Sir, yes, sir.”
“Natalie, is it remotely possible that what you have been observing today is nothing more than a romantic interchange between two adults?”
“Sir, that is possible but highly unlikely; may I remind you that the initial contact this morning was classic textbook and straight from the training manual? It was accidentally observed and appeared exactly as if it were real and assumed to be an exercise but stood out immediately as odd to both the observer and his trainee, as theirs was the only exercise scheduled, sir. Do not forget, sir, immediately following the initial contact, Trader initiated a low-level search. In fact, Sir, we have noted that Source also instigated a search.”
“Very well. I require you to note my enquiry concerning a possibly romantic interest in the duty log. I am not commenting in any way adversely on your judgement. If matters take a turn, please advise me further.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Natalie, are you out with your man this evening?”
“Sir, I don’t see what this has to do with Trader Sir?”
“Does your man ever buy you flowers, Natalie?”
“Sir, no, sir, waste of money, sir.”
“I see. Natalie, take a suggestion from an old man. Hint to your man how you would like flowers; see if he takes the hint and buys you some. Treat it as a lesson in life. Enjoy your evening out, Natalie.
“Sir, yes, sir.” He put the phone down and shook his head at how hopeless sometimes things could appear and how hopeless sometimes his duty manager could be; he returned upstairs to see if his wife had finished marinating in her bath and to see if he could finish his shave without further interruption.
Geraldine took the flowers into the kitchen, plugged the sink and ran the tap, dropping the flowers stem first into the bowl – she would deal with them later. There were more important things to sort out right now. Things had to be arranged. Geraldine looked across at the open report that needed still a few final touches. Work, she decided, would have to wait for now. Fortunately it could, well, for two or three days anyway.
First she would phone Richard at ‘A Cut Above’ and book herself in for hair and nails Tuesday afternoon. Then she needed to book a session in the tanning room for before the hair. This afternoon there was just time to get into town for a new outfit; most shops would be shut tomorrow, but first she had to get back on the phone and make the appointments.
“Hi, I’m looking for an appointment Tuesday afternoon.”
“I think Madam may have left it a little late. What would Madam require?”
“Cut it out, Richard; it’s me, Geri.”
“Oh, hi, love. Sorry, I never know for sure who it is. One has a reputation to live up to, you know.”
“Yes dear, I know all about your reputation. Never mind all that, I need a good hair-do session. I want to look my best for Tuesday night.”
“Hot date?”
“Now, now, Richard. I too have a reputation to live up to, so Mind Your Own Bizwig, Richard, MYOB. Look, I’m planning on going to get an outfit later on this afternoon and a tan tomorrow or Monday morning. Hair and nails I need your salon to do Tuesday afternoon, if you can fit me in, that is.”
“And if I can’t?”
Geraldine sensed that Richard would say no, even if only because she wouldn’t tell him if she had a date or not, and decided a little white lie was called for.
“Snips can, and they are reputed to have a fabulous new Director, supposed to have styled for the Parkinson Show on ITV, or it may have been BBC; I’m not sure.”
“Geri, I’m not stupid; don’t con a con, okay? if you know they have a vacancy, why wouldn’t you have confirmed with them already?”
“Richard, as if I would, or even could, con you. You can make the call yourself if you wish. Stop messing me about it; you know I prefer to stay with you as my stylist – I know what I am getting then. Look, can you fit me in or not? If not, just tell me now and I’ll get back to Snips.”
“Let me know how good he is, Ger – perhaps I’ll see you out Tuesday night and see for myself. You know you can never get same-week appointments with anyone. Ciao babe.”
“Bugger,” Geraldine said to the empty room as Richard cleared the line. Now where? Her white lie had failed. If she had stopped to think, she would have realised that Richard would know everything to know about his competitors, and he would know that Snips would absolutely not have a vacancy Tuesday afternoon. In fact, if she had stopped to think at all, she would have realised no one would have a vacancy on Tuesday, and if she had played it a little softer, Richard might have squeezed her in somewhere.
Now faced with little choice, she phoned The First Snip just on the off chance. “Hello, yes, I was hoping to get a hair and nails makeover sometime soon?”
“Hello, miss, let me see. I don’t expect that we will have any slots this coming week; I know that we are really busy.”
The talker went quiet and Geraldine could hear as pages were turned at the other end of the line.
“No, actually we may be able to help. One of my colleagues has just taken a cancellation for Tuesday morning at 12. Mr Adrian, who, as you may know is our new Director, would be available for that slot. It would be at a premium charge rate. It is only a 60-minute slot, and so full colour, or permanent wave or lights would not be possible.”
“Brill. I just need a good cut, and perhaps I can seek Mr Adrian’s advice when I see him Tuesday morning and possibly make a longer appointment for the next time. Now when can you do my nails?”
“I see that Phillipa is free at 1; I can book you in for 45 minutes with her for a basic manicure.”
“That would be fine.”
“Can I ask for your name, miss, please?”
Geraldine handed over the information and made a note on her Jotter of the times. Sorted, bit of luck really; they would never believe it at A Cut Above – she hardly believed it herself, and she almost hoped that she would bump into Richard Tuesday night – that would show him, ha. Tuesday then, she had to be at ‘Snips’ for just before 12 and wouldn’t get out much before 2, and from 2 onwards she wanted to just go home and chill and not get her hair messed.
Next on the agenda was a top-up tan. She hunted around under the coffee table until she found the parish magazine. She could just never remember the number of ‘The Tanning Solution’, and they were too new to be in the phone directory, and as for trying to work out what the number was for directory enquiries these days, well that was all too complicated. She had been caught out before. She had not been able to remember the new number of her best friend, Anne, who had just moved house.
Usually you would expect people to take their telephone number with them if they were moving locally, but not Anne. She just had to take over the number at the cottage she was moving to.
“Well, Ger, darling, the cottage knows its telephone number, and the fang shoe is so right with it. My old number is just so wrong for a cottage; I don’t want to upset the ambiance.” Geraldine had nodded and agreed; it seemed the most sensible thing to do with people tied up in the mysteries of feng shui, even if they pronounced it ‘fang shoe’ and tried to correct you every time you said ‘fung shway’.
Geraldine never did see the imbalances that had been supposedly corrected by feng shui and often thought a room seemed colder and certainly more impractical after it had been ‘done’. If she wanted her settee to face the telly, then it jolly well would. And if she wanted the TV next to the aerial point thoughtfully installed by the builders just next to the also thoughtfully provided double electrical socket – then that was where it would jolly well go.
A few weeks before, she had wanted to phone Anne but could not remember the number, tried 192 and got a useful message informing her that the directory enquiries number had now changed but did not give her its replacement number. That puzzled her for a moment, of course she knew that the numbers were changing to 118, something or other, but had just assumed that the old directory enquiries would give you the number for the new directory enquiries.
Now what? Who do you call for the number for directory enquiries? She had a plan. Sit down to watch her completely un feng shui’d TV and write down the number of the first advert for the new 192. Every time she turned on the telly these days, it seemed adverts for directory enquiries were interrupted by programmes on how to re wallpaper your garden and repot the small beech tree covered in Christmas Lights in the corner of the sitting room, all hosted by a man who seemingly could either not afford cufflinks or whose mother had not taught him the intricacies of their use.
The devil knows how difficult they must be to do up if your mother had not taught that small detail to you at the kindergarten stage. Several hours of television study later she had known why women cheated on their husbands with other men and then cheated on the other men back with their husbands, had watched wonderful programmes on beauty hosted by women who were anything but, dieted by women who were at least a size 18, and had learned from Delia how to boil an egg.
What she had not seen was any adverts at all for directory enquiries. True, she had spent nearly one hour watching ‘Big Strong Boys’, and they were on the BBC and so of course were never interrupted by adverts, but well, there they were, men who knew how to dress themselves, no need for cufflinks at all. She had suspected that the adverts had all been on whilst she drooled over their pectorals, or all came together and rushed into her TV in the two minutes that she had put the kettle on and nipped to the loo.
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