doesn’t work that way. So stay open.” He touched my arm reassuringly.
“You need someone to talk to, Kate. It’s good to talk to someone like me who has been through the same thing because the early stage is very raw.”
“Thanks, Alan. That’s kind of you. Your phone calls have been a support.” Suddenly aware that I’d had two gins and tonics to Alan’s four, I asked the waiter for a
glass of water. Never one to tolerate much alcohol, I was now feeling somewhat disorientated.
“You are such an incredible woman. Your husband must be a very foolish man to let you go.”
These words brought tears of self pity to my eyes and I found myself telling Alan about Martha stealing Trevor from under my nose. What had come over me? “I don’t know why I told you
that.” I anxiously squeezed my hands together on my lap. Cupping his hands over mine, Alan gazed at me reassuringly,
“It’s good to get it off your chest. It’ll help you heal. You can trust me.” He moved so close I felt my personal space being invaded. Now I realised where the moldy
smell came from. Alan’s clothes smelt musty, like he’d slept in them for the past five months without washing. I was sure I could also detect sour milk and silage. I knew he acted as a
consultant to dairy farmers, but surely the least he could do was wash before meeting a woman for the first time? On top of that, it seemed like Alan felt my confidences allowed him to presume I
was easy prey.
As he finished his fourth gin, he again touched my knee. Then he grabbed my wrist tightly and – locking my eyes with a narrow gaze – blurted, “Now that I’ve met you,
Kate, I’m never going to let you go.”
Aagh! Yuch! Alarm bells were going off left, right and centre as my stomach heaved. I’m not going to be a bird in a cage for you or anyone. It was difficult not to show my
horror, yet I didn’t feel I could go just yet. Wishing to change the mood and give his hands the slip, I asked him about his love of reading and creative writing. “I love Oscar
Wilde’s wit and use of language.” I freed my hands from under his, and sipped at my water.
“Oscar Wilde was not a great writer. His language is overly descriptive – too flowery. He’s not in James Joyce’s league. I’m presently doing an evening course in
creative writing and everyone says my writing style is similar to Joyce’s. You need to forget about Wilde.” He patted my knee.
I covered my mouth to stifle a yawn. I had trusted this man and now he thought I was so naïve that he could completely dominate me by overruling every opinion I held. His clothes were not
the only things stinking up the atmosphere – his arrogant attitude had a pong all of its own. I disliked him more with each passing minute spent in his company. Now a flurry of yawns were
emerging from behind my hand. I glanced at the clock on the wall. “God, I never realised it was so late. I should go now.”
“You look exhausted, Kate. What you need is a good massage to liven you up and help get rid of all that tension. I did a course in sports massage.” He looked at me in the way a
priest would when offering spiritual advice, his tone mellifluous as he continued. “I’d love to see the new apartment you told me about. Do you want me to come back with you?”
“No thanks. I really have to go.” I hopped off the barstool, grabbing my bag. “I have an appointment in the morning.”
“Hey! Hang on a minute! Kate!” he called to my fast disappearing back.
Freedom had suddenly become a much cherished commodity as I escaped to what now seemed like the bliss of solitude.
Chapter Six
E mails on the dating website were mostly ridiculous but for the first time in my life I was placated by empty flattery, partly due to the
fact I didn’t necessarily have to deal with the person behind it. Strangers telling me I sounded interesting or looked great was the ego boost I craved, irrespective of whether it
“You need someone to talk to, Kate. It’s good to talk to someone like me who has been through the same thing because the early stage is very raw.”
“Thanks, Alan. That’s kind of you. Your phone calls have been a support.” Suddenly aware that I’d had two gins and tonics to Alan’s four, I asked the waiter for a
glass of water. Never one to tolerate much alcohol, I was now feeling somewhat disorientated.
“You are such an incredible woman. Your husband must be a very foolish man to let you go.”
These words brought tears of self pity to my eyes and I found myself telling Alan about Martha stealing Trevor from under my nose. What had come over me? “I don’t know why I told you
that.” I anxiously squeezed my hands together on my lap. Cupping his hands over mine, Alan gazed at me reassuringly,
“It’s good to get it off your chest. It’ll help you heal. You can trust me.” He moved so close I felt my personal space being invaded. Now I realised where the moldy
smell came from. Alan’s clothes smelt musty, like he’d slept in them for the past five months without washing. I was sure I could also detect sour milk and silage. I knew he acted as a
consultant to dairy farmers, but surely the least he could do was wash before meeting a woman for the first time? On top of that, it seemed like Alan felt my confidences allowed him to presume I
was easy prey.
As he finished his fourth gin, he again touched my knee. Then he grabbed my wrist tightly and – locking my eyes with a narrow gaze – blurted, “Now that I’ve met you,
Kate, I’m never going to let you go.”
Aagh! Yuch! Alarm bells were going off left, right and centre as my stomach heaved. I’m not going to be a bird in a cage for you or anyone. It was difficult not to show my
horror, yet I didn’t feel I could go just yet. Wishing to change the mood and give his hands the slip, I asked him about his love of reading and creative writing. “I love Oscar
Wilde’s wit and use of language.” I freed my hands from under his, and sipped at my water.
“Oscar Wilde was not a great writer. His language is overly descriptive – too flowery. He’s not in James Joyce’s league. I’m presently doing an evening course in
creative writing and everyone says my writing style is similar to Joyce’s. You need to forget about Wilde.” He patted my knee.
I covered my mouth to stifle a yawn. I had trusted this man and now he thought I was so naïve that he could completely dominate me by overruling every opinion I held. His clothes were not
the only things stinking up the atmosphere – his arrogant attitude had a pong all of its own. I disliked him more with each passing minute spent in his company. Now a flurry of yawns were
emerging from behind my hand. I glanced at the clock on the wall. “God, I never realised it was so late. I should go now.”
“You look exhausted, Kate. What you need is a good massage to liven you up and help get rid of all that tension. I did a course in sports massage.” He looked at me in the way a
priest would when offering spiritual advice, his tone mellifluous as he continued. “I’d love to see the new apartment you told me about. Do you want me to come back with you?”
“No thanks. I really have to go.” I hopped off the barstool, grabbing my bag. “I have an appointment in the morning.”
“Hey! Hang on a minute! Kate!” he called to my fast disappearing back.
Freedom had suddenly become a much cherished commodity as I escaped to what now seemed like the bliss of solitude.
Chapter Six
E mails on the dating website were mostly ridiculous but for the first time in my life I was placated by empty flattery, partly due to the
fact I didn’t necessarily have to deal with the person behind it. Strangers telling me I sounded interesting or looked great was the ego boost I craved, irrespective of whether it
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