Aisling Gayle by Geraldine O'Neill

rope as though on a washing-line. Aisling had never seen anything so feminine and lovely. Not even in the bigger stores in Dublin did they have anything like this. Underwear was a most discreet, serious business there, and certainly not something to be flaunted in the front window of a shop, under the gaze of all the men passing.
    In a few seconds she was standing inside the shop.
    “Good day, ma’am,” a middle-aged shop assistant greeted her, “would you like some help or would you like to browse?”
    “Thank you,” Aisling said, blushing, “I’m just having a little look around.”
    “You just go straight ahead,” the lady told her, smiling. She motioned to a space at the side of the counter. “You can leave your parcels here, and it will leave you free to have a good look at the merchandise.”
    And that’s exactly what Aisling felt – free. Free to wander about on her own, and free to look at these, delicate, feminine things that she would love to own. She moved about the shop, gently fingering the silky garments.
    There was a time when she would have loved Oliver to see her in skimpy little things like these, but not any more. Especially after finding another woman’s brassierre under the seat of his car when she was cleaning it out last year. A much fancier sort of brassiere than the type she wore herself. Since then, Aisling had constantly been aware of being in competition with someone else.
    Even when they were staying in the hotel at their anniversary, she found herself covering up in pyjamas and long nightdresses – unwilling to have her body compared to another woman’s.
    Her hand lingered now over a beautiful, sleeveless, Victori an-style nightdress. It had thin blue ribbon threaded through broderie-anglaise cotton, and had rows of delicate lace stitched down the front and hem. This was something that she could happily wear in front of her mother and father, and it was perfect for the lovely, warm weather in America.
    She picked a nice cotton brassiere and matching knickers, and one of the polka-dot sets. Then she left them, along with the nightdress and a matching dressing-gown she’d spotted, for the lady to wrap, while she wandered around picking up a heart-shaped nightdress case for Carmel and some small lace lavender-bags as gifts for the women teachers.
    As she walked out of the shop, childishly examining the beautifully wrapped contents of yet another attractive American carrier bag, a familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.
    “Buy anything nice?”
    The hairs stood up on the back of her neck. It was the man from the bookstore. She turned around, and there he was – just standing looking at her. And just like before, he was moving too close for comfort. She backed off now – realising that he must have been watching her while she was inside the shop, watching her as she walked around looking at all the lovely underwear, watching her as she picked up brassieres and knickers and nightdresses, watching her as she held the nightdress to her body, and looked at herself in the mirror.
    Watching her do things that she would never even want her husband to see her doing. Even at the best moment in their relationship, she would have felt embarrassed choosing underwear in front of Oliver.
    But this wasn’t Oliver. This man who had been watching her was a complete stranger. And he had been watching her and waiting for her outside the shop.
    This time Aisling did not make any pretence of being polite. Instinctively she knew she should not acknowledge him – that this was not a normal, friendly encounter. For all she knew he could be a rapist or even a murderer. The street was almost empty and he could easily grab her and drag her into one of the parked cars. He might even have a gun. You often heard in the news of people being shot in America.
    Anything could happen – and no one would know where she was.
    Aisling turned on her heel, gripping her shopping tightly to her and headed for a gift