Chapter 2

Lisa Alcott.

In many respects, I’m a lucky girl. Blessed with good looks, above average intelligence, and parents well-off enough that I’ve never had to worry about money. I’ve always been fascinated with history, so an archaeology degree was an easy choice. Thanks to Dad, a studio flat in West One, half a mile from the university, became my home away from home. I’m on an upper floor, so the view is terrific. There are shops not too far away, and there’s an indoor car-park forming the ground floor of the building.

When I passed my driving test, I started off with a Mazda MX5. That was a fun car to drive, but I soon wanted something with more character. Now, I’m not into retro styling, or steampunk, but a classic British sports-car is something else. A friend who was moving abroad offered me his 1954 MG TD (in British Racing Green!), and I couldn’t resist. It was – my excuse – my reward to myself for my BA distinction in archaeology. A Master’s soon followed, and I began some teaching along with working on my doctorate.

And what, I hear you asking, about boys? I dated in Sixth Form, but honestly, I got tired of fending off ‘wandering palms’. I’d have thought that I was with the cream of the crop, in terms of intelligence, and maybe I was, but that certainly didn’t translate into treating a woman with respect. Anyway, practical experience was a part of my degrees, and I participated in ‘digs’ all over Britain and elsewhere in the world, too. I lost my virginity to one charmer in the south of France. I might have married him, but fortunately overheard him boasting to a mate about tupping the rich chick, and more similar stuff, so I dropped him. He didn’t like that, at all, and I had to put up with a load of shit from him until I lost my cool. He didn’t realise I’d learned quite a lot of self-defence; Dad insisted as I was likely to be a target in view of my family’s wealth. I didn’t put him in hospital, but he walked with a limp and avoided me for the rest of the season. After that, I avoided liaisons and even gained something of a reputation as an ice-maiden, which I did nothing to discourage. But I also got a reputation for being a careful, competent digger, and was welcome almost everywhere.

Notwithstanding my ‘ice-maiden’ persona, I was not – am not – averse to the opposite sex. As I approached the big ‘three-oh’, I couldn’t help regretting I hadn’t found a man with the qualities I was looking for. Besides, Mum and Dad were making noises about grandchildren. However, I was not going to ‘settle’. Mum kept producing young men and some of them might have been almost acceptable, but there was always something. Sometimes, an otherwise intelligent man would (out of sight of my parents) be a little free with his hands. Some, to be brutally frank, were arrogant, and others ... vapid. No. I wanted an intelligent man, who shared similar interests to mine, considerate and (less important) reasonably good looking.

The day I met Rob, I’d been visiting my parents in Gainsborough. I’d had an early lunch with them and another young man who was rather full of himself, and had set off back to Sheffield to meet a student I was trying to support. I thought I had plenty of time, but the MG misfired as I approached the roundabout by the A1 and sensibly, I pulled off to the restaurant there. If I had a mechanical problem, I wanted to be somewhere I could relax and get a drink and, if necessary, food. The motor actually died as I pulled into a parking space. I was going to call for recovery, but noticed a motorbike of similar age to the MG.

“Perhaps,” I thought to myself, “the owner of that may know more about engines than I do.”

And he did. Inside the café, I could see a young man – well, a year or so, maybe, younger than me – sitting at a table with a salad and a mug of coffee, helmet on the table by him.

He was, obviously, the owner of the old bike outside, and I looked at him as I approached. My mind – obviously I didn’t say anything – said ‘nerd’. He was skinny and tall, as far as I could tell. He looked clean, but, again obviously, didn’t take a lot of trouble over his appearance. Glasses – far from fashionable – a beard and hair apparently trimmed down more or less evenly with clippers. Face and hands somewhat weathered. Generic shirt under a light high-vis jacket.

He looked up as I got closer and, full marks, met my eyes after a brief glance at the rest of me, and stood. Wow.

“Excuse me,” I smiled, “is that your bike out there?”

“Erm, sure.”

“Do you know anything about motor mechanics?”

“Well, I built Oscar ... the bike ... from a wreck.”

“I’ve got a problem with my car. It was misfiring, and quit just as I got into the parking space.”

As I sat, he followed suit and continued, “I’ve never had much to do with cars, but I don’t mind having a look. Have you got recovery?”

“I have, but if I have to wait for someone to come, I’ll be late for an appointment.”

He began to stand, but I held up a hand. “Finish your lunch. I’m going to get myself a drink while you do.” I stood, and as I did, he stirred. “No, relax and finish your lunch.”

At the counter, I ordered, and obtained, a frozen caramel macchiato, which soothed both my taste-buds and my agitation.

Rob finished before me, but didn’t move until I set the empty glass down and rose to my feet.

He walked with me to the MG. Now, he did say he wasn’t really familiar with cars, and the MG is, well, dated in its design and build, but he seemed to go straight to the bonnet fastenings without hesitation. It may have been luck, but he opened the correct side to access the ignition system, too, and within five minutes had identified the problem – in gross, at least – and informed me that he wouldn’t be able to do anything effective without more tools than those he was carrying.

I wasn’t particularly bothered about that – the vehicle could be recovered and the garage would sort out the problem – but I was stuck fifteen miles or so from my parents, and forty-five miles from my appointment in Sheffield. What to do? “I need to be in Sheffield in a couple of hours. I don’t suppose you have a spare helmet in that box, do you?”

“As it happens, yes. And yes, I’m heading for Sheffield, too. Um ... if ... um ... you’d like a lift...”

“Really? I’d love a lift, if you don’t mind. I’ll warn you, I’ve never been on a motorbike before.” That was true enough. My parents looked down on motorcycles as socially inappropriate. I, however, quite fancied the idea, and here was an opportunity to try something different. An adventure, in fact.

I went into the café to leave my keys and a substantial tip, called the garage to arrange for them to collect the MG, and went back to Rob. He had to show me how to fasten the helmet. “It is a bit fiddly,” he told me. “My helmet is much easier.”

I was going to climb on, but he stopped me. “Gotta start him first,” he said, fiddling with levers on the handlebars. He somehow managed to balance the bike while jumping in the air to put all his weight on the starting lever, whereupon the bike coughed into life. He looked at me and nodded.

I felt awkward as I trod on a footrest and, holding his shoulders, got my leg over the seat and settled into place. Rob pulled at my hands so that I would wrap them round him – he told me it was so I’d stay in line with him and not upset the balance of the bike. I was immediately aware of the vibrations. Oh, my. Vibrations. Dad likes his sixties music, and I hummed the Beach Boy’s song as I clung to Rob, so glad I had the excuse to hold him like that. It helped with the nerves for the first few miles, but soon enough I calmed down; the tingling in my tits and crotch distracted me, too. I was getting randy by the time we got to the University! But the ride was fun. I wanted to do that again. When we arrived at the Archaeology building, I found a card in my purse, and made sure he had my number. Mind you, I really should have realised he’d be too shy or nervous to actually call me.