Is This Really Me?, Brian Doswell [books that read to you .txt] 📗

was because he wanted to see this house.
We call at the Estate Agents but there is no one free to show us round so they give us the keys, the place is empty, the owner has gone abroad, Zambia they think.
37 Larch Avenue is a large detached house with a long drive leading up to a broad parking space and garage. I like it straight away. I guess it’s a typical 1930’s house with a mixture of red brick and white rendering and an arched porch over the front door. I could live here.
Alec selects a key from the bunch that the agent has given him, opens the door and picks up the pile of junk mail on the doormat. The owner has left the house furnished and, for an instant, I see Alec and me coming into our own place.
“Let’s start at the top.” Alec bounds up the stairs like a New Zealand lamb.
Four bedrooms, master including en-suite shower etc., walk-in wardrobe and family bathroom with good size airing cupboard.
Downstairs, lounge, dining room, kitchen, recently refitted, large conservatory overlooking long, well-tended garden.
I sink into one of the low rattan conservatory chairs, making sure that my skirt rides high on my thigh.
“I could relax with a cool glass of wine in a place like this any night of the week.”
Alec smiled down at me, “I was thinking the same thing.” He sank into the chair opposite mine.
“Good size rooms.” He said.
“Good size rooms.” I echoed.
“Four double bedrooms.”
“Four double bedrooms.” I inched my skirt a shade higher.
“Nice garden.”
“Nice garden.”
“I think the kids will love the garden.”
“Kids?” I ask, “What kids?”
“Ah! I forgot to tell you Alisha and the boys arrive at Heathrow on Saturday. Do you think you could run me down there to pick them up?”

§§§§§

Red mist clears into a crowded room with pairs of bodies hunched over small tables. A bell rings and the men all get up and move to another table.
“Hello, I’m George, I’m 32 and I’m a deputy manager at Wolf’s Engineering Plant.”
“Liar.”
“ I’m a body double for Madonna.”
“Liar.”
The trouble with speed dating is that no one ever tells the truth. Why would you?
George is forty if he’s a day and there’s some sort of preparation on his scalp covering the bits where the hair used to be. I give him a visual once over and I swear he is wearing a corset.

§§§§§

I’m in a boat, a sailing boat and I’m getting wet from the spray. There’s salt on my lips and I’m laughing. There’s someone leaning on the tiller but I can’t see his face. He’s wearing swimming shorts and I’m wearing a bikini. We’re lean and tanned and on holiday somewhere warm. We’re part of a flotilla, a fleet of sailing boats following each other around a group of Greek Islands. I take hold of a rope and I sense that I’ve done this before. The rope slides easily through my hands and the boom swings round over our heads as we tack after the boat ahead of us.
Garry and I have been on flotilla holidays twice before. We have been an item for four years. We met when we both answered an ad for a group of novice sailors to go on a ‘learn-to-sail’ cruise in the Med. We paired up on training day and have been a pair ever since. It was the perfect start, neither of us had a clue how to sail so neither had the upper hand. Everyone likes Garry, he’s so soft natured; in four years I’ve never heard him say a bad word about anyone. He makes love so gently that I melt under him. I sometimes wish he would be a touch more macho, maybe treat me like a slave girl, order me to pleasure him. But then that would not be Garry, and on the whole I prefer him to be the man he is.
There are ten boats in our flotilla this year, mostly pairs and two boats with four on board. We are mooring tonight off a tiny and totally uninhabited island so we have to cook and do everything for ourselves. We will sleep on board but the evening promises to be a big old beach barbeque with everyone pitching in. Our flotilla leader has his guitar with him, so I guess we will end up with a campfire sing song.
It’s dark and the circle of faces around the fire display a mixture of laughing and singing, mouths open and eyes smiling. It’s late but we are all still in our swimming costumes, there’s no need to change here, we are the only ones on the island.
The song comes to an end and Costas; no one knows his real name, plays a lazy harmony on his guitar. The fire is burning down but no one is rushing to find more driftwood. The sky is gin clear and a myriad of crystal pointed stars frame a moon the size of Texas. It’s almost time to swim back to our respective boats, moored in a line across the tiny natural harbour.
The couple beside us are the first to leave. They wander hand-in-hand down the beach to the water’s edge and then stop, strip off their costumes and dive naked into the shallow water. Their white bottoms seem to glow in the moonlight as they break the silver sheen of the surface. We all watch as they swim side-by-side with over-arm strokes perfectly synchronised. It takes but a few minutes for them to reach their boat and we all watch the two silhouettes climb the chrome ladder on the stern board and disappear into the cabin. We all know, or imagine what will happen next.
Across the dying fire a couple are kissing, some more than that, but ignoring the rest of us as we try to ignore them. I nudge Garry, its time we left but he doesn’t respond. Another couple have slid down onto the sand and her top has disappeared. Her hand is inside his trunks and they have disappeared into their own private world.
I lean towards Garry, my head on his shoulder as his arm slides round my back. I feel him unhook my top and my throat tightens. I have always wanted him to be a bit more aggressive in the bedroom but not necessarily on the beach, in public. I make my decision, I breathe in deeply, knowing that the action will cause my top to drop into my lap. I look up into Garry’s face and smile the smile that he knows means it’s OK with me.
His arm slides around my back and I feel his fingertips lifting my breast. I lift my arm as if to caress his face but really to allow him to reach me. I roll onto my back with my head resting in his lap and Garry bends forward to take my nipple into his mouth. As we move together, my head falls back and my eyes lock with the couple beside us. They are watching us with eyes wide open and blank staring faces. I panic. This is not my thing and suddenly I’m suffused with shame. I can’t help it; I push Garry away and run down the beach, my arms crossed across my naked breasts, intent on hiding in our cabin as soon as I can.
In the morning, I wake alone. I think I must have cried myself to sleep, mostly because I’ve been such a softy and I hate myself for letting Garry down. I don’t know if Garry has got up early or even if he has come back at all. I pull a T-shirt over the bikini bottom that I’m still wearing and climb up on deck. There are three figures sitting on the aft rail of the boat next to me. They are all naked, and the one in the middle is Garry.

§§§§§

Now I’m driving on a motorway, it could be the M1; it could be any of a dozen such roads, they all look the same. My company car is purring like I imagine its Jaguar namesake might. I reach out to touch the polished wood trim. Girls are not supposed to like cars but this one is different. This one is my executive perk, and I like being an executive.
I like being the MD of the company even if it is a subsidiary of a much larger group. When Jock offered me the job he made it pretty clear that my name was on the door and the end of year report. “The two things stand or fall together.” his broad Scots accent ringing in my ears.
I have never regretted taking the chance, and I like to think that Jock McClellan, our group Chairman has never regretted making the offer.
I’m heading north to a meeting with my marketing director. I appointed him all of nine months ago and he has proved a good investment. Jock likes him too, he told me so just last week.
Graeme Sylvester is three years younger than me, but so what? Tonight I’m due to take him out to dinner to celebrate meeting our half-year targets. I hope he knows his way round Leeds because I certainly don’t. I know that he has worked in Leeds before; in fact I know a lot about him because I have his CV. I know what school he went to and what University. I know that he rowed on the Thames and his daddy bought him his first car. I know that he shaves regularly and he wears neat suits and silk ties. I know that his name came to me through three separate agencies, which is not supposed to happen, but I took it to be a demonstration of his ability to market himself. Above all, I know he’s single.
Tom-Tom sat nav is telling me to take the next exit and prepare to take the second exit from the roundabout. Who am I to argue?
Tom-Tom leads me to a country house hotel in the middle of nowhere. Smoothly manicured lawns either side of the drive tell me that this is the sort of place where the ladies are presented with menus without prices. Don’t worry Graeme - I’ll sign off your expenses.
The motor has barely stopped before a liveried footman is opening my door and asking me if I’m staying overnight and should he carry my bags.
I’m grateful for the air-conditioning in the car, it’s been a long drive and I’d hate to be met by a footman before I’ve had a proper chance to smooth out the wrinkles in my skirt.
I follow the footman up stone steps to the open door where Graeme is waiting to greet me. He reaches out to shake my hand and waves his left arm in an expansive gesture, “I hope this is to your taste.”
I take his hand and nod. “Looks good so far, how did you find it at short notice?”
“I’d love to say I stay here all the time, but the truth is