'Fuck, it's weird being back here.'
The man turned and looked at his wife, eyes searching for signs of comprehension in her face. She furrowed her brow and scrunched up her face before her brain solved the conundrum.
'Oh,' she said. Then grinned and playfully slapped him. Right there in middle of the fruit and vegetable section of the supermarket.
No secrets
they had agreed when they got married. So Jack had told her; he'd told her about his immediate previous girlfriend. Or rather, he had confirmed to her what they'd got up to; what he and his last girlfriend had done - and where they had done it. He didn't need to tell her about her, per se, because Jack's previous girlfriend, the one before he'd got married, was his wife's close friend. Jack met Sarah, his wife, through Rachael, his previous girlfriend. Apparently, according to Sarah that is, Rachael and Sarah shared a lot of secrets. A lot.
As they walked through the fruits, Jack thought back to Rachael. Beautiful, quirky, individual Rachael. He'd liked her, she was truly beautiful, she was truly crazy and she was truly intelligent. Oh, and she was absolutely sex mad. A man could not really want more.
Jack did want more though, or at least he wanted different. He wanted her best friend. He wanted Sarah. Sarah: beautiful Rachael's best friend; not beautiful like Rachael, but certainly attractive and most definitely very funny, with a smile that lit up her face like a firework lights the new year sky.
He met Rachael one Friday in a pub after work. Normally on a Friday afternoon he'd be off to climb artificial rock faces in a disused church. This week though, the church was closed, a new rock face being put in, so he went with work to the pub just outside the office. He was waiting at the bar to get a round in: it was his round his colleagues had argued, because he never bought a round. The fact that he was never there, made no difference to the situation his workmates had laughed. Go get the round in.
So there he was in the pub leaning against the bar, enjoying the coolness of the place, eyeing up the row of pumps on the heavily scarred old counter and deciding which beer to go for when she appeared beside him like a desert mirage.
'Hello,' he smiled at her without thinking.
'Hello,' she'd smiled back.
Silence. He looked away, felt uncomfortable about holding this beautiful stranger's gaze. Didn't want to seem like he was staring. Which he was.
He stole another glance. Man, she was beautiful. Long golden hair trailed over her thin, cotton summer dress, that hugged small pert breasts which needed no artificial support; nipples that strained against the slight material in the cool pub air, eyes that looked azzurri blue and tanned skin borne of plenty of hours under ultraviolet light – whether natural or artificial.
'Ah fuck it,' he actually said out loud, 'don't suppose I can get you a drink?'
She laughed: '
Oh fuck it?
', she repeated a glint in her eye.
'Yeah, fuck it. You're bound to say no, but if I don't ask I might always regret it.'
'I'm bound to say no am I? Hmmm.' She rested her elbow on the bar and her chin in her hands. 'If I'm bound to say no, knowing how contrary I am, I might just have to say yes.'
She thought a while with a faux puzzlement on her face then grinned. 'You know, I think you
can
get me a drink,' she finally said. She liked his kindly face, his lovely rich voice and cultured accent. He didn't have a bad body too she decided, as she quite openly looked him up and down. Jack wasn't sure whether to be shocked, pleased or both at being checked out by such a woman. Or by any woman for that matter.
'What's your name?' she asked him.
'Jack,' he said.
'Rachael,' she replied, holding out a hand. She held his hand with a good firm grip. As they shook she said, 'Tell me, Jack, do you like fun?' and he felt a tingle through him as he answered in the affirmative at her devilish smile.
He'd taken the beers to his colleagues who'd been watching him chat to the beautiful woman and who watched with a mixture of open mouthed amazement and, in the case of his male colleagues, bare faced jealousy as he told them something had come up and he
might
be back later.
He spent the next three hours talking to Rachael, who drank in every detail he was giving her. At times, she seemed to be interrogating him, wanting to know what he did, where he was from, what he liked, where he was educated, where and how had he grown up. She had patiently watched him, nodded where necessary, clearly hooked on what he was saying.
At half past eight, she upended the remnants of her wine into her mouth, suddenly stood up and calmly told him she had to go. His stomach flipped that she was suddenly going to disappear from his life, just like that. She touched his arm and leaned closed to him. 'You're lovely, Jack, I'm going to see you again. See you at eight o'clock on Tuesday in the Lion.' He looked relieved and overwhelmed; as she kissed him on the cheek it sent a little shock though his being. She sashayed away, her peach of a backside swayed in the thin cotton dress, tiny panties visible and he grew hard at the thought of her naked. Maybe on Tuesday night he thought. Then: no, get real. She's so out of my league. I'm Kettering Town and she's Brazil – we're not even in the same competition.
Tuesday crawled around. The weekend, for once, seemed interminable and the first two days of the working week even more so. When Tuesday night finally arrived he was in a state of great nervous tension. The time that had crawled like a terminally injured tortoise now ran faster than an Olympic standard hare, and he was mortified when she stood up again and told him at ten o'clock she had to go. Once more she had leaned across and whispered into his ear while holding his hand, 'I still think you're lovely, Jack'. Come to my house on Friday and I shall cook for you. Come after your climbing. 57, St Thomas Drive.'
'I can miss climbing and get there earlier,' he said, rather desperately.
