A Flash in the Pan (4 page)

“Where did that come from?”

“I love the way you always laugh at my jokes.” He had his arm around her shoulders now and it seemed natural to lean against him.

“Well, you’re a funny guy
. T
he funniest.” This time, she was prepared and tilted her head back as he kissed her again. It was longer, stronger and to an eighteen-year-old, significant. A night out with a friend had just become a date.

So many years later, she’s forgotten the name of the film they saw that night, but she remembers the kiss. She doesn’t know how they got home through the blizzard that was raging when they came out of the cinema, but she can still see the old blue quilt her mother produced so Zac could sleep on the sofa. She can still hear how the stairs creaked as she crept down in the small hours. She recalls the details of the next two hours perfectly, and as she lies on her hard, narrow bed, her fingers help her to relive those sweet and tender moments.

At dawn she rises and dresses in her bridal gown, helped by her sisters. Then she is left alone for a while. She uses the time to pray.

At nine o’clock, they will call her down to the chapel and before the Community she will take her final vows and leave behind her worldly possessions. She will start her new life as Sister Mary Bernadette with nothing except her memories.

13. A Conversation

“He was in love with you for years, you know.”

“I didn’t know. He never said anything about that.”

“He told me, many times. He was afraid to tell you. He thought it would spoil your friendship.”

“I wish he’d told me.”

“Would it have made any difference?”

“It might have, but we’ll never know now.” I turned away from her, not wanting to let her see the tears.

“You could always have anyone you wanted. You must have known he was just like all the rest.”

“But he wasn’t like all the rest. He was my friend.”

Johnny always saw beyond the boobs and the legs and the body to die for. He saw me with all my faults and stuck with me anyway. He listened to all my woes and insecurities. His shoulder was always there to lean on when I screwed up; to tell me that I looked prettier in blue than red; even to advise me about my disastrous relationships. Life without him was unthinkable and yet I had to start thinking about it now. Finding out, too late, that he had been in love with me was no help at all. He should have told me
. Y
ou see, I loved him too. I realised years ago that everyone else would only be second best, but I had no idea he felt the same way and I didn’t want to lose his friendship by scaring him off. Men hate it when you get all serious, don’t they?

I picked up a handful of soil and when my turn came, I dropped it into the grave where it rattled onto the box containing the last of my dreams. His sister put her arm around my shoulders and at last I let the tears fall.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said anything,” she whispered.

“I just wish you’d said it sooner, that’s all.”

14. Sweet Sixteen and Never Been ...

I wanted a party, but the ‘olds’ didn’t think it was such a great idea.

“We’ll go away on a family holiday instead,” said Dad.

So there I was, spending my sixteenth birthday on a beach somewhere in the South of France. I don’t like heat; bright sunshine gives me migraines and being fair-skinned, I burn easily. Why anybody would think the Med in August would be a treat for me, I can’t imagine.

My eight-year-old brother, the bratling, squealed with delight as he and Dad took turns at dousing each other with buckets of water and Mum was fast asleep, stretched out on a beach towel. I huddled on a sun lounger, under a parasol, bored and uncomfortable.

“Come on, sis. This is fun!”

“Yeah, right.” I said with as much sarcasm as I could muster.

“Coming to get ya!” I couldn’t move fast enough, and the water from the bratling’s bucket hit home, soaking my chest and turning my bikini top practically transparent. I was mortified.

“I hate you, Adam! I hate this bloody beach!”

“Language, Eve! Your brother was only playing. It’s what people do at the seaside. Why don’t you have a swim to cool off? You’ll feel better.” Dad always wanted to keep the peace.

“Leave me alone!” I was fighting back the tears and so they left me to it and went back into the water. I picked up my towel and wrapped it around me to cover my embarrassment. That was when I first saw Daniel and the day took a turn for the better. He was standing by my lounger with an ice cream in each hand; as I looked up he knelt down.

“You are English, n’est-ce pas?” He handed me one of the cones. “It’s ...
fraise
...
er
... stwobbewy
–
or I have vanille
–
if you prefer?”

My bad mood was fading fast. This boy was a vision! Tall, tanned, blond and a sexy French accent into the bargain. Suddenly, I wished I’d been more attentive at school as I struggled to respond.

“Er, merci. Strawberry … fraise ... is fine. Je m’appelle Eve.” I felt like an idiot, but he smiled and my ice cream wasn’t the only thing that started to melt.

“Je m’appelle Daniel. Tu parles français?”

“ Un peu ...
a bit ...
not very well.”

“Is
okay
. I speak English good. You are not content here, Eve? I see you are fighting with your brother.”

“It’s the sun ...
le soleil. Je n’aime pas. Je suis chaude.” I was really proud that I’d remembered so much, but Daniel was looking at me oddly and laughing.

“What? Did I say it wrong? Chaude is hot, isn’t it?”

“Yes – but it’s not so simple. To say ‘I am hot’ is ‘J’ai chaud’ like
…
er
…
I have heat.”

“But ‘Je suis’ is I am.”

“Oui, certainement. But in French when you say ‘Je suis chaud’ you are saying like ‘I am ... er … hot stuff’ that is why I laugh. I am sorry.”

For just a second I wanted to die of embarrassment, but then his eyes met mine and I laughed too.

“I think I’ll give up trying to speak French if I’m going to get it wrong.”

His smile was incredible!

“Well, is not exactly wrong, Eve. If I can say … tu es chaude … you are hot in every sense. I will buy you a Cola, maybe? There is a café not far.”

Mum was still sleeping; Dad and the bratling were still playing in the water. The hottest guy I’d ever met wanted to take me for a Cola. What did I have to lose? I scooped up my beach bag, slipped my feet into my sandals and took his proffered hand. It was only as we stepped off the beach onto the footpath that I hesitated and looked down.

“Daniel, I can’t go into a café dressed like this!”

He laughed. “Ma petite anglaise! You are so cute. Pink bikinis and blue towels are très à la mode here.”

I felt the blush rising all the way up from my waist to the roots of my hair.

“I … I just can’t.”

“You have clothes in your bag, perhaps?” I nodded. “Then you can get dressed in there”

He pointed to a telephone booth a few yards away
. I
t was one of the really old-fashioned yellow ones that you rarely see nowadays. It was a bit of a squeeze, but I managed to pull my sundress on, comb my hair and place my sunglasses on the top of my head. I emerged after a few minutes feeling a little more presentable. Daniel was leaning against a lamp post and he seemed to approve of the change.

“You were a long time,” he mocked, flashing that killer grin. “I missed you.”

I faked indignation. “Do you have any idea how difficult it is getting dressed in a phone booth?”

He took my hand, pulled me towards him and kissed me. It was my first proper kiss and when he released me I was weak at the knees.

“Now we will ‘ave Cola, or I might ‘ave to show you how Clark Kent becomes Superman.”

Still breathless from the kiss, all I could say was “Oui, Daniel.”

15. The Devil on my Shoulder

I read the message twice before the implications actually sink in; then I close the laptop, walk around the room a few times, drink some more coffee and sit down
–
exhausted from my workout.

I’ll have to get out of it, somehow. I haven’t written an original word in weeks
–
leastways
,
none that I’m admitting to. I can’t get out of it, of course. That would be to concede defeat and this lady
is
no quitter. So I open the laptop, start a new document and try to get myself into the ‘zone’ where my imagination takes over and the story writes itself. That’s when SHE takes over
– the devil in a red dress. I’m not writing the story at all; SHE is and I’m incapable of stopping her once she
has
started. She’s out of control. I mean, just look at what she’s written:

Jennifer looked back over her shoulder as she let her white silk robe slide off and land at her feet. Satisfied that Leon was taking the bait she undulated towards the bathroom, feeling the heat of his gaze with every step she took. She paused at the door, without turning, and reached behind her, skilfully unfastening her bra and throwing it across the room. Then, hooking her thumbs into the waistband of her tiny white lace panties, she bent forward as she pushed them down her long, slender thighs
…

What kind of story is that, for Heaven’s sake? Why can’t she just go away and let me write a real one, with a plot and characters and stuff? I’m an author, not some sex-crazed weaver of erotic fantasy. Oh Lord! Here she goes again.

Leon stood transfixed in the doorway. He’d tried not to follow her, but the unspoken invitation had been irresistible and now as he gazed at the flashes of pink through the steamy glass panel of the shower cubicle, he found himself struggling to breathe. He found that if he squinted he could just about see her shape; her hands moving across her body spreading soapy foam over her full, firm breasts
…

Make her stop it! Stop, right now! That’s not my story. I don’t write that stuff! I’m going to email the editor right now and tell him to forget it. This time I can’t meet the deadline. Unless
... I take over and … take control. That could work … maybe. What was his name? Ah, Leon
–
yes.

‘
Leon pulled off his shirt, losing several buttons in his haste. His wife had given it to him for Christmas and she was going to be mad as Hell, but right now she was the furthest thing from his mind. In seconds his jeans and boxer shorts joined the ruined item on the floor
.
’

Not so difficult after all, is it?

“
You think this is easy? Let’s see how you get on once he steps into the shower! We’re not writing Psycho here, you know
. T
he punters are expecting rampant physical interaction with soap and sponges and body parts. You’ll never be able to handle it.
”

‘
He took the four paces to the shower cubicle, his quivering manhood pointing the way ...
’

“
His what? You cannot be serious, girl. No real writer ever uses a phrase like that. ‘Quivering manhood’
–
O
h my God
, my sides are hurting now from laughing so hard! What’s wrong with erection? Or penis even? You wouldn’t have to use a ‘rude’ word like cock or …
”

“
I know the words
.
I just don’t choose to use them. They’re not suitable for public consumption.
”

“
You crack me up! ‘Cock’ is not suitable for public consumption? How about private consumption? Forget I said that
–
which of us is going to finish this? I’m getting bored.
”

“
I’ll do it
–
I didn’t want you involved in the first place.
”

‘
The steamy water coursed down her luscious curves, and Leon could no longer control himself. He stepped into the shower and took the sponge from her hand
.’

“
Then what happened? Come on, this is supposed to be an adult story. The readers want to know what happened next.
”

“
If this is an adult story
–
then I imagine most of them can fill in the rest, and if they can’t, well maybe they need something a little longer than Flash Fiction. I’m not writing any more until you go away and let me do it my way.
”