The Reunion

David and Bridget meet at a twenty-five year school reunion. Neither of them had been a member of the in-crowd at school and on the evidence of the reunion, their social standing hasn’t improved since then.

Disengaged from the other party-goers, David develops a teenagesque passion for Bridget who manages to draw out details of David’s difficult recent past. However, she is reluctant to reveal anything about her own background or current life.

This humorous contemporary novel traces the development of the relationship between David and Bridget. There are many obstacles including a demanding soon to be ex-wife; a deceased husband; a tyrannical new boss; encounters with the police; and children struggling to get used to the new state of affairs. In addition to planning how to hitch up with Bridget, David sets out to fulfil his dream of opening an arts café.

• Description
  
• Chapter 1
  
• Chapter 2
  
• Chapter 3
  
• Chapter 4
  
• Chapter 5
  
• Chapter 6
  
• Chapter 7
  
• Chapter 8
  
• Chapter 9
  
• Chapter 10
  
• Chapter 11
  
• Chapter 12
  
• Chapter 13
  
• Chapter 14
  
• Chapter 15
  
• Chapter 16
  
• Chapter 17
  
• Chapter 18
  
• Chapter 19
  
• Chapter 20
  
• Chapter 21
  
• Chapter 22
  
• Chapter 23
  
• Chapter 24
  
• Chapter 25
  
• Chapter 26
  
• Chapter 27
  
• Chapter 28
  
• Chapter 29
  
• Chapter 30
  
• Chapter 31
  
• Chapter 32
  
• Chapter 33
  
• Chapter 34
  
• Chapter 35
  
• Chapter 36
  
• Chapter 37
  
• Chapter 38
  
• Chapter 39
  
• Chapter 40
  
• Chapter 41
  
• Copyright and publishing information
  
• Author information
  
• Extract from ‘The Engagement Party’
  

by

R J Gould

Here they were at the twenty-five year school reunion, crowded
around the bar area of the upmarket Hotel Marlborough in Henley. Huge sash
windows provided a magnificent view of a fast-flowing, grey River Thames. Rowers
were flying downstream. Beyond the river was a steep bank with a dramatic display
of early autumn trees.

“David. You’re David!”

Turning, he was clamped in a bear hug by a woman whose
strong grip took his breath away. A face with two scarlet lips came hurtling
towards him. His desperate attempt to avoid impact failed and their lips
collided.

“Well, well. David. Incredible – just incredible.”

What did this ‘incredible’ mean? That he’d hardly
changed? That he’d transformed beyond imagination? She stepped back and her
vice-like grip transferred to his shoulders.

“David, David.”

How long would this continue, wasn’t she going to advance
the conversation? He knew he was David. Obviously she did too. Unfortunately he
couldn’t assist because his natural response – hello Alice, hello Barbara,
Clare, Diane, Elizabeth, Fiona or whatever – was impossible. He had no idea who
she was.

“You do remember me, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“That field trip!” She had released her grip, but the
physical assault continued with a punch on his upper left arm. It was no more
than a prod really, but right on the spot where the flu vaccination had been
applied.

David winced. She noticed.

“You’re much too tough to worry about a little tap like
that. Well you certainly were back then,” she continued, her face contorting
into a grotesque smirk. She gave him another slightly harder punch in the same
place.

“Helen darling!” The boxer turned to acknowledge the
greeting as another unrecognisable ex-schoolmate approached. Now he had her
name and with that a distant memory of groping with a lithe blond girl during
the fourth form field trip to the French Alps. He noted the dramatic change in
size and shape since her schooldays.

“It’s, let me see now, don’t tell me. It’s…it’s Sharon!”
Helen screamed and the two women jumped up and down before regressing into
adolescent reminiscences about their poor behaviour in various lessons at
school. If he closed his eyes he could be listening to his own teenage
children. But he didn’t close his eyes because a shaft of late afternoon sun
had burst through the voluminous clouds and now the trees beyond the bank were
ablaze in their full glory.

A week or so ago the leaves would have been green. Now
they were dazzling reds, yellows, oranges and browns.

“Are you listening, David? You agree with me, don’t you?”
Sharon asked.

“Yes, I do. Absolutely.” Of course green wasn’t one
colour, he reflected. There were shades – light, medium, dark and variations
like sage and jade.

“That’s not true. It wasn’t like that was it, David?” It
was Helen.

“No it wasn’t. Absolutely not.”

“But a minute ago you said it was,” Sharon countered.

“It’s all to do with perception,” David mumbled, eager
not to disrupt his train of thought. Without doubt there was a wider range of
colours when it came to the reds, oranges, yellows and browns. Bronze, sienna,
ochre and sand for starters. Chocolate. Copper. Mahogany. Rust.

“Are you with us, David?” Helen delivered a punch to
precisely the same spot, her accuracy was uncanny.

“He always was a dreamer, drifting off into his own
little world,” Sharon added, her voice high pitched and piercing. The two women
were giggling, making it hard for him to concentrate on colours.

He was ill at ease because there was a frustrating gap, a
missing one on the tip of his tongue. Then it came to him, perhaps the dominant
colour out there across the river. “Russet,” he announced.

“David, what on earth are you going on about?” He turned
away from the autumn beauty; both women were frowning at him.

“Rush it you said. Rush what?”

David remained silent as Helen continued. “We were
remembering how Mr Strickland used to take the piss out of you in Geography.”

“Highlight of the week that was.” Helen laughed coarsely
as Sharon took over, speaking with a deep voice in an attempt to impersonate
the teacher.

“And where are we now, David? I hope in the Australian
outback with the rest of us.”

“Toss-er” Helen added in teenage-speak.

“I rather liked him,” David announced to the gap between
the two women. “Excuse me ladies, must circulate.” He turned and headed towards
the bar.

“Well, look who we’ve got here.” The voice hadn’t
changed, it was Bill Thatcher.

“It’s our little David,” another unchanged voice, this
was Ben Carpenter.

‘We’re Bill and Ben the flowerpot men’ they used to joke
ahead of verbal and minor physical bullying of whoever they fancied picking on.
Way back when television was still black and white and there was a choice of
just two channels, Bill and Ben, the two wooden puppets on a children’s
programme, were a highlight of the week. And by the time David was at school,
the programme was a retro must see. They lived in giant clay flowerpots and
were as sweet and gentle as anyone could possibly want puppets to be. Their
excitement came from escapades like playing hide and seek in potato sacks,
rather different to how the ex-school bullies literally got their kicks. Their
first line of attack had been to call their victim Little Weed, a warped take
on the withered daisy puppet that was the co-star in the TV show.

An over-zealous slap landed on David’s back. “You buying
the drinks mate?” Ben asked.

David realised he was no longer scared of them. How could
you be, looking at these two pot-bellied, balding, greying men with sallow
puffy faces? They had lost their menacing edge. Also, he was prepared to admit
when he’d had time to reflect, he wasn’t scared because he didn’t much care
what happened, not after what he had been subjected to over the past few weeks.

He eyed Ben. “Why don’t you get me one?”

Ben looked aghast. “What?”

“I’ll have a bottle of Bud thank you.”

“Is fuckin’ little weed acting tough?” Bill enquired.

“I think he is,” added Ben.

“It’s not a case of acting tough, it’s about growing up.
And I seem to have made a better job of it than you two. I suppose keeping fit helps,
the judo.”

“You do judo?” sneered Bill.

“Yes. And not drinking as much beer as you has assisted.”
With that, David gave Ben a generous whack on his pot belly. When he analysed
his action afterwards, readily admitting it had been a step too far, he wondered
whether the annoying physical maltreatment by Helen might have been part of the
reason for his own mild assault. But probably it all came down to his profound unhappiness
– he couldn’t care less about the outcome of his actions. Not at that instant
at any rate. But he did care a few nanoseconds later when Ben floored him with
a right hook to the chin.

Ben looked down at him with contempt. “You gonna try your
judo on me, little weed?”

Of course there never had been any judo, only badminton
which had kept him in reasonable shape but hadn’t prepared him for fighting. David
gazed up at a gathering of his ex-classmates in a circle around him, some with a
look of concern, most smiling. Helen and Sharon were in the smile group, but at
least Helen did have the decency to tell Bill and Ben to lay off as it was a
festive occasion. The crowd dispersed and David stood gingerly. He made his way
to a chair by the window. In the short interval between boredom and humiliation
dusk had enveloped the trees. Now they stood as forlorn grey silhouettes. Despite
there no longer being anything of interest to see, he chose to stare out the
window rather than look inside the room at the alcohol-fuelled gathering.

“One Bud coming up.”

He turned. The woman handed over the bottle and sat next
to him, a glass of white wine in her other hand. “You OK?”

“Just my pride hurt a bit. Well my chin, too.”

“Poor you. Those two were appalling twenty-five years ago
and they haven’t improved by the look of things. I’m titless.”

He glanced from her face to her upper body and saw
shapely curves. When he looked up she was smiling and he reddened.

“Not anymore, but I was then. I took a while to develop. Too
long for Bill and Ben, so that was their nickname for me.”

“I remember you. Bridget.”

“Congratulations. You’re the first to know my name
tonight, not that I’ve spoken to many.”

“Well, you’ve changed beyond all recognition.”

Like every parent, David had told his children the story
of the ugly duckling that turned into a beautiful white swan, and he
appreciated the moral symbolism. But he had never seen such a transformation in
real life until now. Bridget had been an unsociable awkward girl, liable to
blush the instant someone addressed her. She had appeared friendless and was
known as ‘spotty swot’ amongst his circle of friends. He hadn’t been aware of
the ‘titless’ nickname, not surprising as he kept well away from the gang. Her
legs, he remembered, had looked too spindly to support her. He’d felt sorry for
Bridget, a loner, rather sad looking, but he’d been too shy to do anything
about it.

The woman by his side was divine – a goddess. Not in a
garishly sexy way, just downright beautiful. Every facial feature of textbook
perfection. A narrow face with high cheekbones, a little upturned nose, pouting
lips, soft powder blue eyes. Eyes that were now smiling at him.

“I feel like I’m being inspected. Do you approve?”

“Yes, yes. You look lovely if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Thank you, I never say no to a compliment. I was
wondering though, what on earth made you come along to this awful reunion?”

“It’s a long story.”

“It’s a long evening.”

It was a sunny Saturday and David was sitting in the
garden with a mug of tea, flicking through the Daily Mail. According to the
newspaper there was a lot wrong with the world. En route to the financial news
he paused at
Femail
, the women’s pages. He had never been able to
understand why this was Jane’s newspaper of choice nor why the editor had
decided there was a need to have part of it for one particular gender. Was it
assumed that the rest of the content – national and international news, sport,
money – was only for men to read?