The Key by Geraldine O'Hara

“I had a feeling, despite you coming across as forward, that you weren’t really, that you hadn’t behaved like that before.”
    Shit, and there was me thinking I’d successfully pulled the wool over his eyes. “No, but it was fun being someone else. I would like to do it again, but I suspect that the moment you drop me off that will be the end, despite what you have said.”
    “Then you’d be wrong.”
    He got up and dropped a kiss on the top of my head, and from the sounds going on behind me, I guessed he was getting the coffee. The smell of it drifted towards me, and I longed for a cup to not only wake me up properly but smooth the ragged edges of my nerves that had decided to act a little torn. I was afraid of rejection, that was it, and the sooner he got rid of me the better. I could continue with my crappy little life and look back on this time with a sad smile and a Sainsbury’s carrier bag full of what-ifs.
    He poured me a cup. “Help yourself to sugar and whatnot. Something to eat?”
    “Thank you. I am not hungry, though.” That was a lie, I was ravenous, but like I’d told him last night, I wasn’t a dainty eater. The last thing I wanted was to have milk dribbling down my chin or oats and raisins attaching themselves to my bottom lip instead of going inside my mouth where they belonged.
    “Fair enough, whatever makes you happy.”
    He sat then filled his bowl with muesli, seeming totally at ease with having a Neanderthal-looking woman sitting at his table. All I needed was a leg of lamb in one hand and a club in the other and I’d be set.
    “What do you do for a living?” he asked, adding milk to his bowl.
    “I work in an office. I do not enjoy it, but it pays the bills, no? What about you?” I added two sweeteners and a spoonful of creamer to my coffee. Sipped and closed my eyes while swallowing.
    “Same as you.”
    “Ah. You do not enjoy it either?” I opened my eyes.
    “Yes, I enjoy it, although I hardly need to be there anymore. They can get along well enough without me, which is why I wondered if you could take the day off. But”—he lifted one hand to stop me repeating what I’d already told him—“I know you have to go in.” He paused. “Mind you, there’s always that thing called ringing in sick.”
    “Are you saying you wish to spend the day with me?” I asked, blinking, telling myself I’d made a rather massive assumption.
    “That’s exactly what I’m saying. What do you think?”
    “What would we be doing?” I kept my eyes down, drank some more coffee.
    “Whatever you want, but I thought it might be nice to have a walk by the river then have a pub lunch.”
    “That would be very nice. I need a moment to think about it.” And it would only be a moment. I could call in sick, but… God, I couldn’t walk down by the river in these bloody clothes. “Okay, I agree, but I still have to go home to change. I do not wear this kind of thing all the time. I am sure you are happy to hear that. I am also sure you would not want to take me out as I look now. People would think you had picked me up on a street corner.”
    “So?”
    I shook my head. “I will wear my usual clothes for this jaunt.”
    We sat in comfortable silence, and once we’d finished, I stood and allowed him to take me home in his red sports car. Discussing what books we liked on the journey was interesting, and I felt that at last I’d found someone of like mind. He parked outside my place and glanced out of the driver’s-side window at Mr Big Bollocks.
    “That your swollen neighbour?” he asked, tilting his head.
    “It is. He is waiting for me to come out of my flat to go to work. He will be surprised to see me get out of this car.” And you’ll be surprised if he speaks to me and I have to answer with an English accent. This had the potential of being a bit of a mess. I wasn’t ready to reveal Jane Smith to him. She belonged in my past, but I knew she couldn’t stay there indefinitely. At