Chapter 6

Easter 2002

The following year, the family congregated for the Easter weekend. After the dismal end to the summer holiday and the gloom that hung over us at Christmas - ‘absent friends’ and all that - we resolved the Easter holiday would be the turning point. Something must happen!

It was the start of the holiday, Friday evening, and we were around the grand table in the dining room for dinner. Needless to say, the patio door glass had been replaced with the unbreakable, Brad-proof type. Without permission, the man on my right put his hand on mine, leant his head towards me and whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “I have a strong emotional tie with this room. It was here I met the most adorable woman.”

“Oh yes,” I noted with disinterest. “Do I know her?”

“You should. She’s sitting opposite.” He waved his knife in the direction of Mum, who responded with a raised eyebrow.

“If you prefer, I’ll arrange to change places with her,” I offered, as I kicked him sharply on the ankle.

“Is everything satisfactory, Brad?” Mum asked the man beside me.

“Yes Sandra, thank you. The meal’s superb, although I did want a word with you in regard to the seating arrangement. I’m sure it could be improved.”

She shot him a condescending look, glanced at me as though I was to blame and resumed her attention on her other guests. Ever since he destroyed her door, she pretends to disapprove of him, although Brad and I know it’s an act.

There was a reason to congregate over Easter. We’d organised a conclave, a secret meeting on Sunday. Charlie, Brad and I were the exclusive members, except for one other, a friend of Brad’s from Edinburgh University. I hadn’t determined if I was paranoid, yet I remained insistent no-one else was to know of our discussions. I could only assume it was Colin, in particular that was my fear. After all, he represented the establishment.

Brad’s friend, a lecturer, was in Birmingham during Easter, but had agreed to an overnight stay on Saturday in one of Colin’s guest rooms. The three of us had exhausted the research into Dad’s sleep. There were many theories, but no answers and we needed to move beyond the impasse. We hoped this expert would lead us through onto the next stage.

Saturday afternoon, Brad and I drove into Solihull to collect his friend from the station. It was a typical Easter; it snowed in the morning. We waited with the heater on full blast while we watched the snowfall turn the parked cars into polar bears. The train arrived and the passengers scurried out, running for shelter, although the friend didn’t arrive.

“Brad, are you sure this is the correct train?”

“Yes, but maybe the snow’s delayed the Edinburgh intercity. I’ll pop into the station and find out.”

At that moment, my mobile rang. It was Mum and she wasn’t pleased. “Brad’s friend has arrived by taxi,” she announced.

I relayed the message and Brad scowled and grunted. “Typical.”

We drove home in silence as Brad concentrated on the iced road surface. The snowfall was threatening a blizzard. After parking, we ran through the deep, crisp and even and into the cloakroom, where we hung our coats and stamped the flakes from our shoes.

“In here,” Mum shouted from the sitting room.

We entered, holding hands, but when I saw the new arrival, my euphoria departed. The friend bounded across the room towards Brad.

It’s unfair to say ‘bounded.’ Large dogs bound and this was no dog. How do gazelles move? Do they glide? Carly, that was her name, reminded me of a gazelle as she cruised over the carpet. Later, I read in the dictionary, ‘They are graceful, swift and slender limbed with large eyes.’ Bingo, that was her. The definition continued, ‘they are small, mostly thirty inches high.’ That was wrong; she was maybe an inch under six foot; she could have been a successful international model. In addition, she was outfitted as though she was one, with a simple, yet stunning black chiffon dress, off-the-shoulder with transparent sleeves and a ruffle hem. Later, I discovered it was a Prada - or a copy. On her perfect, manicured feet she wore lace-up gladiator sandals. In order to protect them, I assumed the taxi driver had been elated to carry her through the snow drift to deliver her to our front door.

When Carly reached Brad, she continued to glide - right into his arms, where she stayed as she kissed him full on the lips. It wasn’t a quick peck either, it appeared to last thirty or forty minutes, although I accept I may have been mistaken.

I took an instant dislike to Carly Travis and wondered if gazelles were a protected species. I hoped not - I felt the urge to shoot one of them.

I left England and reached Monté-Carlo, via a long weekend in Paris. I knew the city well and I was interested to see how my subconscious worked with my memories of it. The capital provided some interesting paradoxes. The Arc de Triomphe had been sold to a burger franchise and the new owners had mounted a massive picture of a clown’s face on its pinnacle.

On my arrival at Monaco, I was eager to start my new life. Most people never have total freedom to do what they wish and I was determined not to waste the opportunity. I did everything a wealthy playboy would, or at least, whatever I was able to think of that a man with an unlimited fortune would wish to do. Initially, it was amusing, exciting, sexually fulfilling - all of those, yet after a few months it became tedious. For one thing, sex is more than the bodily act, it’s much more. It’s in the mind - it’s the shared intimacy of the relationship between two people who care for one another. It’s about giving as well as taking pleasure.

Also, unless you’re born into La Dolce Vita, the lazy life of wealth, pleasure and self-indulgence, it’s difficult to enjoy it full time. I was conditioned from childhood to work and it wasn’t easy to adjust - although work, or lack of it, was not the major dilemma. My desire was fundamental, I wanted someone to share the simple pleasures of my life. The problem was I didn’t know how to obtain what was essentially a basic requirement of living, someone to love, a woman who would return my devotion.

In my dream existence, that was impossible for two reasons, both hopeless obstacles. The first: nobody was real, they were mental creations. Narcissus alone had the ability to form a relationship with a figment of his imagination.

If I’d been able to conquer that difficulty, it left me with number two. When the woman left, as Giselle had, they departed forever. It was impossible to form a lasting relationship with a person I knew for a day. So, that was it, I wanted a real woman to relate to. Only with such a one would I form a rapport. I even knew her identity, the one I hungered for, and it wasn’t Nina.

It was Emma and for a brief interlude, she was my gentle addiction.

Before Emma entered my life, I endured a problem, the timeless classic - women. I adore them, they fascinate me and I’ve always preferred their company to a man’s. Their conversation is invariably more interesting.

Like many difficulties with the ladies, the predicament was the fault of the man, and mine was no exception. Most women, that is those I didn’t desire, caused no difficulty. With them, I was charming, witty and, if it was mutually enjoyable, I flirted outrageously. In general, women love attention, hence those ladies thought I was wonderful. Sadly, any female I wanted, caused me anguish. My desperate shyness swung into inaction and I stood before them, intellectually naked, acting stupid and incapable of any remotely sensible conversation.

I’ve always wondered if that was the reason I married young.

Before Sandra there was only two dates, one per girlfriend - they gave up on me very quickly!

Julie, the first one, dumped me when I was tongue-tied all evening and too bashful to kiss her at the end of the evening. She didn’t appear at the venue for the second date, however her friend was delighted to explain the reason when I bumped into her a few days later.

With Paula, the second girl, I reasoned that Dutch courage would provide me with the nerve to talk and, maybe kiss her. I took her to a pub. A large whiskey at the bar was the first quota of Dutch courage and it worked well, I was amazed - I held a conversation with Paula. We chatted, I flirted, she responded and life was unexpectedly good. I’d cracked it! By the end of the evening I was full of Dutch courage. Outside in the fresh air, as I bent to kiss her, I threw up the excess. The overflow missed me, but caught her and there was a loud shriek as it tumbled down her blouse.

From that time forward, my unenviable reputation amongst the girls, began to flourish.

Sandra was the next. I suppose I missed the awkward first stage of asking for a date because I wasn’t attracted to her. Not because she was unattractive. She was tall, slim, with well shaped legs and a charming derriere, She would have been athletic if she hadn’t sprouted a generous bosom. Her dark hair was long, curling upwards at the ends, a slim face with high cheekbones, green eyes and perfect white teeth. Overall, she reminded me of a cheer-leader. Sandra was remarkably pretty, despite that, she didn’t appeal to me.

Looks were never enough. When I saw a girl, it was essential there was a combined biological and chemical reaction. Not a boring scientific experiment, but the opposite - an excitement, a passion.

Sandra and I became friends, ‘acquaintances’ would be more accurate. One winter evening, we went for a drink and, because I didn’t fancy her, I was comfortable and the chat was easy. Later, the same evening, my ineptitude surfaced once more. Because I was relaxed, I practised flirting with her. She took that as a sign of affection and afterwards, in a dark corner of the car park, the unexpected happened. She took the initiative - and my virginity!

In the weeks that followed, my mind was blown with the sudden onslaught of sexual passion and, with hindsight, I suspect ‘I fell in love with love.’ There was a question which was never resolved. Was I also in love with Sandra, the person, or was it her body?

With my lack of sexual maturity, during an early escapade, I made a complete hash of the basics of birth control. Time was wasted as I probed in a pack of condoms for ‘the operating instructions.’ Unable to find any, I used initiative. My ingenuity let me down and Samantha was the result; unplanned, yet forever loved.

When the pregnancy was confirmed, we agreed to marry. There was no pressure, we simply got on with it. I think, subliminally, I was afraid I would never find another girlfriend. I kept an above average physique and my face was reckoned to be a fraction better than ‘alright, ‘ however my reputation as a loser had spread throughout the district. If I’d located a girl who didn’t know of my repute, I would have been left with the fundamental problem of my shyness. All in all, I lured myself into a steady relationship, followed by the full commitment - matrimony.

When I consider the weak premise of our marriage, it lasted a long time. For many years, I believed I was in love with Sandra and, to a certain extent, it may have been so. We were always close friends and years later, I care for her. Perhaps, I confused affection for love.

A criterion of matrimony is faithfulness, and it’s a sure sign a marriage is meaningless when one party participates in a long, torrid affair. That, I did - with Emma.

Carly’s facial features were invisible, due to them being pressed hard against the face of my boyfriend, but I took note of what I was able to see. She was tall and slender, near flawless skin on an oval face. Her unnatural dark red hair was bunched in tight curls onto the top of her head.

Their kiss lasted for half an hour, give or take thirty minutes, and I was irritated that Brad allowed it to continue. I was rigid and gawped at them like a timid mouse. As I began to wonder if he would pick her up in his arms, take her to his bedroom and ravish her, he struggled and forced her away.

It was obvious Carly Gazelle was unaccustomed to men who pushed her away, though she was brave and capitulated by taking his hands in hers. She was so adept at the manoeuvre, I didn’t notice when she removed my hand, the one that was attached to Brad’s. When I did realise, it was too late.

She eyed him ardently and gushed, “Brad, it’s lovely to see you. How have you been?”

He was annoyed. “Carly, we arranged to collect you at the station.”

“Oh yes, I decided to board an earlier train and shop. I wanted to see the new Mall. What do they call it? Touchstone, Touch ... something or other. Afterwards, I caught a taxi.”

“Why didn’t you ring my mobile? We waited for you.”

She peered over his shoulder, more interested in a wall painting, until she realised he was talking. “Sorry, darling. What did you say?”

“The station. We went to collect you.”

“Did you? Oh, OK.”

Without warning, my mind drifted back to my childhood and large picture books. Authors always ‘spoke’ with simplistic language in block capitals,

“LOOK OVER THERE CHILDREN, IT IS CARLY GAZELLE.

CARLY EATS ALL OF HER GREENS; SHE IS EATING THE GRASS.”

turn page

“WHO IS THIS CHILDREN? OH DEAR! IT IS THE WICKED HUNTER WITH HIS BIG ELEPHANT GUN. ISN’T HE NAUGHTY?”

next page

“MR HUNTER, WHAT ARE YOU DOING?”

“RUN, CARLY, RUN. RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN.”

BANG! BANG!

final page

“CHILDREN. CAN YOU SEE WHAT I SEE? POOR CARLY! POOR CARLY IS DEAD MEAT.

“BYE, BYE CARLY, BYE, BYE.”

I enjoyed my ‘book, ‘ until I became aware of the mention of my name.

Brad stared at my faraway look as he attempted to introduce me to Carly, though he didn’t get further than, “Carly, this is...”

She strutted past me as though I wasn’t there, and in the hall spun on her toes and held out her hand to Brad. “Darling, while I unpack, come and tell me what you’ve been doing.”

Brad gawped at me in helpless frustration and shook his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe it. By now, I assumed she would have grown up.”

“Hurry, Brad, hurry.”

“Sam, I’ll be no more than a minute,” he promised. “It won’t take long to sort her out.”

“No, babe,” I said, “she’s a guest.” I put my hand on his arm. “It’s not a problem,” I lied.

He bent and kissed me. “Are you sure?”

“Brad!” Carly called. “I’m waiting.”

A few years after I married, I started a business. When it was established, I made an amazing discovery concerning women. The first indication was when I noticed the implausible number of plain, ugly and plain ugly politicians who had affairs. Not with plain or ugly women, which would not have been unusual, but stunningly beautiful ladies.

In parallel, I noticed the attention I received from my female colleagues. In particular, two women who were attentive and took special care to please me. Both were in their mid twenties, attractive and unmarried. At first, due to my lack of self esteem and innocence in such matters, I presumed the attraction was either money or their ambition. I learned it was neither of those. From their body language, it was evident they wanted sex; their leers, the touches and finally, from what they said, it was explicit they wanted intimacy, without strings attached.

The aphrodisiac those women craved was power, not in themselves, but in their lovers. In the same way the politicians held it, so did I. By that time, I owned and managed a successful company and that was inextricably linked to the authority of power. I was uncomfortable with the situation. For me, sex and commitment were inseparable, and I would never form a relationship built on lust. I enjoyed the flattery, yet spurned the advances. I didn’t want an affair.

With Emma it was different. Emma, my wondrous Emma, you were beautiful - both body and soul.

I met her the day after her twenty seventh birthday. She was a local girl who spent her childhood in Edinburgh, from where she gained a faint Scottish accent. With her melodious voice, it was an excellent mix. Emma was the ideal height, midway between five and six foot and, although slim, she once confided in me how she fought hard to remain a size 12. Her light brown hair was medium length, with a simple unaffected cut. She had a round, pretty face which was enhanced by her constant cheerfulness.

Her laugh thrilled me. She bubbled and effervesced as she moved around the office, and it was wonderful to have her near. However miserable I was in those early days, as I struggled with the business, she always cheered me up and never failed to make me laugh. When I was exceptionally wretched she’d wait until lunchtime and take me to the local pub, where she delivered comfort as I down-loaded my problems.

She joined me a few weeks after I initiated the business and, at first, she was my Girl Friday.

That first year was hideous as I struggled to survive. Contracts and money were scarce and we operated from a rented annexe which was attached to an engineering factory. Our office was a shambles, with a jumble of second-hand furniture and equipment that was defective for most of its working life. Emma didn’t mind the working conditions, or if she did, she never complained. She enjoyed the work and I suspect that was the prime motivation. She endured the intense winter cold and exuded joy, despite the frustration of the noise of the machinery in the neighbouring factory. She enjoyed an affluent style of living at home, however she wasn’t too proud to work in deplorable conditions, or reluctant to work hard for a better future.

That future arrived and there was a rapid shift from one office to another, each larger and superior to the one before. Our final move, in the fourth year, was when I bought a three storey building on a new Technology Park, surrounded by man made lakes and parkland.

As the business grew, I wanted to utilise her skills and dedication, so I promoted her to manage her own department which she ran with flair and expertise. Emma was married and, like me, had two young children. Ralph, her husband, was an agent for an engineering company, and his work forced him to travel to Europe and the Middle East. This was to her advantage and she used his absences to immerse herself in her own career.

Over those four years, Emma and I become close. We weren’t personal friends, but amicable in our working relationship. As the result of a tiny, though significant event, that changed.

One afternoon, Emma left to collect her children from nursery.

Around 5.30, my direct line rang. “Hello.”

“Oh good, you’re there.”

“Hi, Emma. Are you surprised?”

“No, not particularly. Will you be there at 6.00?”

“Yes. In my usual spot, shackled to the desk. You intend to keep me company?”

“No, I left the presentation files in your office and I must work on them this evening.”

“Should I unlock the main door or do you remember the PIN number? Everyone’s left for the day.”

“What do you think?” She laughed. “Bye, Adam.”

My question was superfluous, she rarely forgot anything. Except ... maybe that evening?

A little later than the 6.00 she told me, she entered my office. I lifted my gaze from the computer keyboard and choked on my welcome. My stomach knotted with passion and my throat constricted as I gaped at her. She was topless - well as close as. She wore an almost transparent blouse - without a bra.

Once more, I attempted a greeting, but my mouth twitched out of control and my lips were dry.

“Sorry, I’m late,” she said, “Ralph has only just arrived to take care of the children.”

I was hypnotised, transfixed by the view. I’ll never know how I succeeded in pulling my eyes away from her body and back to her face. “That’s ok,” I replied, unable to think of anything else to add.

I expected her to say more, but she said nothing. She was unashamed, brazen in fact, and I was certain she waited for me. If she was, I was powerless to respond. It was difficult enough to merely regain my composure. She half smiled at me, a manner of smile I’d never seen before. I was certain it contained a message. After she delivered the unspoken declaration, she left without either of us saying another word.

The event lasted no more than thirty seconds.

She crossed the car park. I watched her, wanting her to return. I thought of opening the window to call her back, but that would have been stupid. What would I have said? Instead, I gawped at her car as it drove away.

I collapsed onto my chair, stunned to a degree I wouldn’t have thought possible. After all, they were breasts, hardly a rarity. I attempted to shrug off the memory, yet for the remainder of the evening, there was a deep hunger within me.

The longing continued over the days. It was impossible to destroy the image from my mind and I didn’t want to think of anything else. I kept reclaiming the memory. There was an indefinable something relating to her nakedness that fascinated me. During the week, a gradual realisation dawned as I perceived that primarily, it wasn’t her exposure that enthralled me. It was because it was Emma. It was the person. That was the fascination.

In the week that followed, neither of us referred to the incident, although we were less talkative. On occasions, I caught her looking at me. Each time she looked away and there followed an awkward silence. It was clear the episode had not been forgotten.

One week after the bra-less event, we spent the day in the hospitality suite which doubled as a conference room. It was evening and we were at the ten seater table.

Emma skidded her pen onto the writing pad. “That’s it,” she said as she collapsed back into her chair, “it’s finished.”

I looked at the clock. “Ten past eight. Eleven hours. We deserve a break. Coffee?”

“Please.”

I took our mugs to the cabinet and filled them from the pot. “There’s leftover sandwiches. You hungry?”

She shook her head.

I smiled down at her as she took the mug from me. “You should be at home. Go on, tuck up the children and tell them a story.” I slumped in the chair, my arm resting over the back.

“Ralph will have done it ... for once.”

I sensed a trace of bitterness, but remained silent. She sipped her coffee. Despite the overlong day, she’d been her usual bubbly self.

My eyes drifted lower and lingered on her blouse. That time it was puritan, opaque and securely buttoned up to her neck. It was severe, but in defiance I discerned the everyday stirrings of excitement within me and the longing which returned each time I saw her.

I raised my eyes. She watched me. She caught me, had seen my nomadic gaze. Her mouth was taut, without its regular smile.

“OK, Boss Man. One final read through.” She slid the papers over the desk top and they fell into my lap. She chuckled.