Chapter 1

My name is Peter Brewster – Pete to my friends. Nothing special; six foot, slim build, brown hair, blue eyes, receding hair, trimmed beard, glasses. I'm a simple sort of chap ... but the English language being as it is, I probably have to qualify that. Simple, not stupid. My IQ (for what it's worth) is above average. Of course, brains aren't everything and social stuff is quite another matter, not to mention emotions. Anyway ... where was I? Oh, simple stuff. Simple pleasures; steak pie and beer. Sitting with a good book or music by a roaring fire in winter. Riding a classic motorbike in the country. Walking the dog. Sailing; alone or with a good friend and anchoring in a quiet place; a glass of wine listening to water-birds while sitting in the cockpit at anchor.

"Here with a loaf of bread beneath the bough,

A flask of wine, a book of verse – and Thou

Beside me singing in the wilderness -

And wilderness is paradise enow."

And there, as the Bard once said, is the rub.

Is anything simple? Simple food ... cooking is a gift. Simple food is tasty, satisfying and not too difficult to eat. Haute cuisine is not simple food. The roaring fire? Hard work to maintain unless you pay someone else to do it, but for me the task of clearing the ash-pan, chopping kindling, splitting logs is a simple pleasure in itself completed by the use of them in fireplace or stove. The classic bike needs tender loving care; cleaning, lubricating, tuning. In some cases, riding a classic bike is far from simple because a simple machine needs more input from the user. The sailing boat is similar in that sailing requires skill, knowledge or even art. Again, part of the simple pleasure.

Not so simple, is it?

Particularly when we turn to emotion. Omar Khayyám (who I can only read thanks to Edward Fitzgerald) described a simple pleasure I could only aspire to. I had no 'Thou' beside me, in the wilderness or anywhere. At thirty ... ish ... I hadn't found anyone I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. There was always something that didn't fit. Not just with me; the decision to part after a week, a month or more would be roughly equally divided between my self and my erstwhile partner-of-the-moment.

Sometimes, I got fed up of waiting. I mean, I don't expect perfect punctuality from a woman, but waiting up to an hour in her lounge as she finished whatever preparation she needed? Make-up. I don't like it and don't believe any of the ladies I courted needed any. Okay, I know it's for the woman rather than the man usually and I can live with it, but getting the deposits off my clothes after an evening out? Or having her disappearing into the bathroom immediately on waking because she can't bear to be seen without make-up or with untidy hair?

Clothes. Let's not go there, alright?

Then there's sex. Surely there's a happy medium between boring and weird? I enjoy cunnilingus and don't much care whether she reciprocates, as long as Pete Junior finds a nice, snug, warm home in a welcoming pussy. No, anal doesn't do it for me. That was the reason I parted with ... Jessica, I think it was. She liked it that way and wanted to end up that way every time. But ... was it Linda? Wouldn't let me go down on her at all and insisted on missionary every time.

But I've got off track. I'm sorry – I really didn't intend to go off into a rant. However, I've laid the ground work for the background of my story. Perhaps I should say, the story.

It got so I'd about given up. Not completely, but I made a practice of every month or so taking off to a different city. I'd get a hotel room, pick up a professional who looked as though she'd be congenial for a couple of days, and negotiate a deal. If she made a little less than usual, she was off the streets and got square meals and a couple of nights' sleep once she'd tired me out. It worked quite well, especially after word got around on the street I was a good mark. I even had one or two I was happy to hire for a repeat performance.

One of them was Felicity. That wasn't her street-name, of course. I first met her as 'Bambi'. When I explained what I was after she raised her eyebrows, but quite quickly agreed. I parted with fifty pounds, not without qualms, but it was a necessary risk ... and a couple of hours later she showed up at my hotel, pimp in tow, make-up either absent or very subtle and dressed modestly and well enough, with a small bag. Over a drink or two we agreed terms and arrangements, and I had my ... companion ... for the weekend.

That first week-end we just ... seemed to fit. I assumed it was because she was going out of her way to please me, but for whatever the reason, it was very enjoyable. When we parted after lunch on Sunday, she (predictably, but apparently sincerely) asked if I'd like to do the same again. I smiled and told her, 'absolutely'.

I'm not wealthy, but as a senior administrator in a successful business, I could afford to pay for my house and indulge myself from time to time, say, one week-end a month. I'm not saying how much I spent, though. I have to say ... in the end, it was worth it.

The second month, I noticed 'Madama Butterfly' was on offer the Friday night I planned to enjoy 'Bambi's' company again. 'Why not?' I asked myself. I'm not a great enthusiast for opera, but for once I just fancied that. I booked two seats and a table at a nearby restaurant for afterwards. A restaurant, do I have to say, that offered good, wholesome, unpretentious food.

It was only as I got off the train that it occurred to me I might not find 'Bambi', but I told myself I didn't really mind if I had to settle for a different girl. I had a mobile number, though, and her voice sounded genuinely pleased to hear from me. I left a package at the reception desk and sent a text so 'Bambi' knew where to come.

That first week-end, I thought she was playing a part. By the end of the second one, I was almost convinced she was genuine. If not, she was a world-class actress. 'Butterfly' had her in tears. Over our meal, we talked about opera and classical music in general. I found she was fairly familiar with some better-known composers but rarely had the opportunity to explore. I said I wasn't keen on grand opera because the endings always had to be sad (otherwise it wasn't grand opera). She looked very serious.

"But that's life," she said.

Which set us into an argument about hope, destiny and karma. We were quite late and a little tipsy by the time we got back to the hotel. In our room we headed for bed, shedding clothes on the way. I didn't understand at the time and wasn't about to analyse what happened, but when we kissed, something 'clicked'. That kiss was something else. Something more than before. Our hands were all over, though mine definitely concentrated on her breasts. They were maybe average in size, or a bit less, but they were firm and round, with only a little sag. Her nipples were quite large and got even larger as she was aroused. When we fell back onto the bed, I tried sucking on them, which both of us enjoyed. I forgot who I was with to the extent that I went down on her; she made some half-hearted protests but those stopped as she ramped up to her first orgasm.

It may have been an act. Professionals do act, but I can usually tell and I thought it genuine, not that I was really thinking about what we were doing ... I was too busy positioning myself to enter her. Once we were joined, I had to stop for a moment.

Someone once spoke about 'the bits fitting', and, yes, they usually do, but in this case it was more than physically fitting and we both just pressed together until our bodies took over and began to move. I nearly said something about synchronising, but I'd have to say it was more of a ... harmony. But however I describe it, it was special; way beyond anything I'd experienced before. We made love.

I woke, briefly, in the small hours of the morning. She was turned away from me – possibly that was why I woke, as she moved away from me – and she was quietly crying. I laid a hand on her waist and slid it up her side and she stopped instantly, captured my hand and moved it to her breast; I spooned up behind her.

"What's the matter, Sweetie?" I think that was the first time I'd used an endearment and I did so without thinking.

"Oh, nothing. Just being silly. Don't worry."

Perhaps I should have pressed her at the time, but I didn't and dropped off to sleep immediately afterwards.

We spent Saturday exploring art galleries, would you believe? She knew something about art – more than I, to be honest, though I didn't mind arguing about the subject. I like art that looks like something and on the whole don't enjoy surrealism or abstract art. However, this isn't the place for my Philistine opinions.

We had a very nice Italian meal in the evening, but she drank very little even though it was a very nice wine. Not that I know a thing about it. Anyway, we made our way back to the hotel where I enjoyed her body and she relieved me of a couple more loads of semen. I was aware that something was missing, however, though I couldn't put a finger on it at the time. When we parted Sunday afternoon, she didn't ask me if I'd want her again, but when I suggested seeing her in a month she found a smile and agreed.

The following two months I had her again and the weekends followed a similar pattern. Except we never had a repeat of that second Friday; never the ... one-ness ... that I, at least, experienced. We had intercourse, fucked, and it was very good, but it was not making love. However hard I tried to make it so ... and I did try.

The next month ... it was early November ... I thought I'd call Bambi and try to make sure of her ... but ... she... 'wasn't available'.

I was a bit – make that very – peeved. "Why not?"

After some pressing, which she could have avoided by just hanging up, she said, "Dazz," (that's her pimp) "doesn't want me seeing you again. He says it unsettles me."

I wanted to say, 'I'll unsettle him.' but managed to resist. Somehow, I couldn't work up any enthusiasm for trolling for a replacement, though, and didn't go after all. But a couple of weeks later she rang me – it was a Friday afternoon.

"I need to talk to you, Pete. Will you come? Will you meet me at the big Starbucks in the town centre?"

"Yes," I said without a moment's hesitation. "Tomorrow? What time?"

"Eleven?"

"I'll be there," I said.

As usual, I took the train, but on a day-return and I was in place before ten-thirty with my coffee and one of those little bags of shortbread 'bites'. My expectations of female punctuality meant I had a paperback novel tucked in my pocket both for the train and the wait I expected in Starbucks; but I was wrong. She came in the place at quarter to eleven and having got her own cappuccino looked around for a seat. Her eye passed over me until I waved and caught her attention, when she made a bee-line for me.

I looked at her and suppressed a frown; she'd lost weight and there was a bruise on her cheek just below her left eye, new lines on her face, her eyes seemed ... dull, somehow.

"Thank you for coming, Pete," she said, sitting down. She sipped her coffee.

"I was glad to come," I answered. "I was disappointed not to see you a couple of weeks ago."

She gave me what I can only call a 'speculative' look. "I was sorry about that. I should not be here, really, but I need a big ... an enormous ... favour."

"If I can, I will," I shrugged.

"I am not well," she said, "and Dazz ... has started suggesting that Anji, my daughter, is old enough to..." she stopped abruptly, but her implication was clear enough. She swallowed hard then, looking me in the eyes, said, "I want you to take her away from here. Anjali is fifteen, but she'll be sixteen in a few weeks. I have some money for her and she's bright, but she needs a safe place and someone to support her. I think ... I'm sure ... I can trust you to do that. I ... never mind. Will you do that for me?"

I didn't have to think too long. "Yes, Bambi, I will. But I have a condition," I paused, looking at her as she had looked at me. "I will only take your daughter if you come too."

"Oh," she waved a hand dismissively, "you don't want me. Why would you want to saddle yourself with a prostitute?"

"That's not who you are," I said, "it's what you have been doing. Get away from this town, have a place to live and a bit of support and you ... and ... Angela?"

"Anjali," she corrected, "it's a Sanskrit name. It means, 'Gift'."

"Okay. You and Anjali can have a new start. Beginning with a visit to a doctor for you."

She took a little persuading. In the end, I reached across the table and took her hand.

"Bambi," I said, "when you were with me, were you acting a part? Humouring me? Or did you enjoy the time too?"

Her eyes fell to the table. "I ... liked ... looked forward to the weekends with you. Dazz could tell I ... was fond of you. He ... hates the idea of one of his women getting attached to someone else."

"Bambi, I'm thirty-two. I haven't had a relationship that lasted longer than a month. The reason I kept coming back to you was that we seemed to fit well. Something I've been looking for since puberty. I want you to come. If it doesn't work, at least you can have a new start in a new city. Pay rent, if you like, though I don't need or want it. No obligation."

She straightened up. "Very well, if you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

"Then ... My name is Felicity Lindon and I'm happy to accept your offer."

It took a few minutes to make plans, then Bambi... Felicity left to organise her daughter, whilst I ... paid a call on Hertz, then a barber.

I didn't have much idea of a disguise, but at least I could shave off my beard. I carry contacts with me, but my eyes don't make enough tears and they're uncomfortable for more than a few hours; I thought the lack of beard and glasses might be enough to divert anyone who tried to describe me.

It went smoothly enough. They lived in an undistinguished block of sixties flats, rather ugly. Anjali was expecting me and was all ready with several suitcases and bags and a couple of boxes of books. It took some time to lug all the stuff down to the Galaxy I'd rented, and we set off to find her mother, who was to be patrolling around a couple of streets I knew from our initial encounter. Wonder of wonders, she was and I only had to circle the block once (with Anjali out of sight on the floor) before stopping next to her and winding the window down. She peered in.

"Get in Mother," Anjali whined from the floor, "so I can get up and be comfortable."

No sooner said than done, and we were on our way...

I headed north, initially, before turning on to the motorway and heading east, then south on the M1 to Sheffield. It was around midnight when we drew up outside my terraced house, and we carried all their luggage indoors.

I showed them the attic room. Like many houses of the type, it had a large attic, which had been converted well into a very satisfactory bed-sit place. When I first bought it, I had a student, sometimes two, rent the space, which helped with the mortgage, but I hadn't needed that for several years. There was a single bed and a futon that folded up into a couch or out into a double bed: I got out linen and a double and a single duvet.

"We'll sort everything out in the morning," I told them, "for now, let's just get a few hours sleep."

Felicity looked puzzled, but didn't say anything right then. The two looked at each other, then back at me. I retreated down the steep stairs and shut the door behind me. 'I should tell them about the lock' I thought, 'and find keys'.

I fell into bed in my usual t-shirt and boxers, asleep almost as soon as my head touched the pillow. I stirred once in the night enough to be aware I had company, but not enough to actually stay awake.

Ah, the simple pleasure of a lie-in on Sunday morning, especially after a rather tense as well as late night. Augmented by finding I was not alone. Is there a greater pleasure than waking alongside someone you know you're getting very fond of? I turned and faced Felicity, who was already awake and looking at me with an anxious expression.

"Do you mind?" she asked, tentatively.

I smiled and slipped my arm under her neck, then drew her toward me. Initially stiff and tense, she relaxed against me and laid her head on my chest as I caressed her, finding that she was thinner than even I'd thought. I'm sure I could have counted every rib if I'd tried and the breasts she pressed against me were definitely not as firm.

I thought for a moment. There was no need, I thought, to express my concerns for her health, so I just said, "Mind? No. Not at all. In fact, I'm very happy."

It would have been nice to just stay in bed cuddling Felicity; however thin she was, holding her made me happy, but ... things to do, places to go, people to see. Actually, not the last, not on Sunday. We needed a couple of wardrobes and more food; trips to IKEA and Tesco were in order. But first, we needed breakfast. I was a little surprised that both Anji and Felicity wanted porridge. I mean, I like porridge. I'd have rolled oats in the house anyway for making flapjack, but, anyway, porridge was made and consumed, followed by boiled eggs and toast. By the time we'd finished that, it was getting on for mid-day. Still hungry we went straight on to lunch. The larder was a little sparse, but I had potatoes, and fried up chips to go with baked beans.