Natalia scooped the parcel upstairs, shut her door, threw the box on the bed and sliced a half-regretful scissor through the lovely writing. The flaps opened to his writing whole again - this time, words that made her blood pool warm in her stomach, her heart stopped in time as she read:
‘Darling Natalia
Hope this arrives in time…
Extrapolating the superfluous from my gargantuan library, I thought you might like these.
Enjoy,
Good Santa’
What in Neillian heavens was this selection box! For underneath the note she could now see, and smell, two neat piles of paperback books. She often wondered what people meant when they spoke of their heart melting; right now her own beat itself into slush. Her eyes kept running over ‘Darling Natalia,’ whether or not it was his perfunctory endearment, was of no matter; there it was, penned, signed by him in biro. Gifting her! Sending these direct to her house! Even with no name but Santa, it was brazen, risky. Headmaster sends box of books as Christmas present to his ‘darling’ student. What if she tells someone? No-one will believe her? After weed rides and wrist grabs, WhatsApp messages and a staring Mrs Williams in the canteen?
She sighed and sighed and smiled and smiled, reading the note over and over again till she mustered the strength to take and lay out the books.
Fifteen in total, all classic literature. The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. Pollyanna byEleanor H. Porter. Roxana by Daniel Defoe. Shakespeare’s Macbeth, Hamlet, Romeo & Juliet. The Life of Charlotte Brontë by Elizabeth Gaskell. The Princesse De Clèves by Madame De Lafayette. Dickens’ Christmas Books. Selected Poems by Lord Byron and by D.H. Lawrence. Wordsworth’s The Prelude. And more Shakespeare. Many were by women or about women. Either he was purging his chick themes from masculine disinterest or was gorgeously tending to her tastes. Did it matter either way, when they were landed on her lap?
Old scent arose as she flicked each volume’s tan, aged aroma under her nose, laughing to herself when she imagined him seeing her fetishistically sniffing his tattered old books, like a desperate homeless dog rummaging into a wrapped up bone chucked out by some comely chef. How wonderful is it going to be to sit leafing through each and every one - some even pencil-annotated by Young Neill - knowing it came from him, from his possession, his abode; sitting for any number of years on his shelves, each of their spines an eyeless witness to the details and sounds of his life, his wives, his world!
She noticed a sixteenth one she’d missed at the bottom of the box. Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure by John Cleland. Looked erotic. Did he slip that one in after a glass of whisky?
Then, glancing to the very bottom of the box, her heart backflipped.
There was a mobile phone.
Had he dropped his phone in the box?!
Well, next to it was a charger cable, coiled up flat like a tea coaster.
She pulled the phone out and stared. Her finger brushed against paper stuck to the back. She turned it over to find a pink post-it note written with:
‘Best for last! I got an upgrade. Didn’t pay for this nor the books so you can’t moan! No more cracks honey! I win again… or rather you do! X (p.s. incinerate me please!)’
She stared and blushed. Laughed, and blushed again, incredulous at this super-sweet message. Honey, at the deep dark bottom of the box. Jesus God! Neill’s phone, Samsung S7 Edge, better than her S6; his cool slab of silver smoothness now in her hands! Never mind spines of books round his wives! This phone is from his own wanking hands, his own recent, Barnes-banging fists, oh shit - it smells like him - and now she’s going to turn it on and have her face lit up by His Light, the same screen that’s been clamped to his ear was now going to be nestled in her palm. She could stroke it all night with one hand and stroke herself with the other!
Oh shit, oh shit, but her fingers felt so weak right now, she doubted she even had the strength to turn it on. Where’s that little pin thing for the SIM? She hunted round her room for something small and sharp, tripping over the box, till she was plugging herself into him, watching a piece of him glow anew with her innards. Contacts all loaded, she scrolled to ‘G’ for Grottweiler. Surely she was allowed to reel off a thank you, as effusive as she could make it!
Did he have the same number? Just text ‘hello’ to be sure?
‘Hello’
Ten thumb-twiddling minutes later:
‘Hello?’
- ‘Neill?’
‘Yes…’
- ‘Thank you so much.. for the books… and the phone… omg… it’s really kind!!!!’
Then she added:
‘Xxxx’
The reply:
‘You’re very welcome.’
And then:
‘Xxxx’
She smiled and typed:
‘But what do I get you in return???’
- ‘You accepting the phone is enough. Happy crimbo, keep smiling’
With little money to spend on anything lavish, and she couldn’t start posting cakes, she knew she had to send him the Harrogate book. It was the latest lovely thing she had, and so appropriate!
‘Can I have your address???’
- ‘No, stalker’
‘You’ve got mine, stalker’
- ‘I’m the Head’
‘But I want to send you an Xmas present back!!’
- ‘No silly. I don’t want anything x’
Her heart began to sink a bit, but she overrode it with girlish insistence - he was a cheeky enough sleazebag to her in the Grotto, after all…
‘Please :)) I have something really nice’
Immediately followed by:
‘Pleeeeeeease!’
And:
‘…sir :)))))) xxxxx’
A minute later he was typing back…
‘3 The Firs Cottages, Redhill Lane.. LS14 3HN. But I’m in London now. There’s no porch and letterbox is sized for a fairy so send it after 28th you rascal. X’
Oh, sweet rascal success! She was sure she made him smile there too! And she could post it anytime, for she knew her fairy-sized gift would fit through the letterbox just fine. She texted back:
‘Ok!! :) thank you!! xxx’
She wasn’t going to incinerate his note, nor the other - both went straight between the pages of her diary along with the half-cut, sellotaped address note. And she went straight onto Google Street View, obviously. Stalker rascal wanted to see his cottage.
After some swivelling and grumbling on the Maps app, there it was! Number 3, ah sweet Fairy Firs Cottage, tucked out of full view like a blush-brick bug in a rug of hedges. Six-pane white-framed windows with pointed turrets; a tiny two-pane one at the bottom. A white wooden door with a round brass knocker. Duck-egg oval-top gate flanked by pink rhododendrons. A white Vauxhall Astra parked outside - street view photo taken last summer - ah, before the Firs became filled with Neill scent.
Pocketing the phone, she needed to take her bountiful energy somewhere, to sing out her tidings of comfort and joy! So an hour later there she stood at the Carol service, for the first time she could remember, crooning between strangers as ebulliently as Neill had serenaded her with Chris Rea. O Come, All Ye Faithful! She was faithful he would answer her, so many times over and he did. Stroking him in her pocket, come, and behold him! Born the King of Angels! O, cum let us adore him! She Sam-sung herself hoarse. O Holy Night, indeed! For in thy dark streets of Gipton, will shineth this everlasting light, of his phone under her bedcovers.
The service ended on Ding Dong Merrily on High! with a smirking flashback to Bad Santa, just asa small wrinkly man with a turnip nose not dissimilar to his, turned to stare at her from the pew in front. She smiled back.
Drifting out, the wrinkly man was following her, and she could see from the unfortunate front view he was wearing a Christmas jumper worse than Laura’s. What did he want? To complain she’d bust his ear drum just now when she took on the twenty descending synonyms of ‘Gloria’?
‘You’re Natalia? Molova’s girl? Haven’t seen Mary in donkeys!’
She paused. ’And you’re who, Joseph?’
‘Haaa!’ A disturbing guffaw distorted his face like he was having an orgasm. ‘Sorry, you won’t remember me, you were only a swaddling baby! I’m Bill. Bill Cooney from the Parish. I used to know your mum way back! And your dad, Anton isn’t it?’
‘Erm, yes. He’s not around anymore.’
‘Oh, he’s not d…?
‘No no, he just left.’
He glanced at the exit. ‘Oh—’
‘No I mean left home.’
‘Oh! Shame. Are you here alone then?
‘Yeah. Just fancied some carols.’
‘Well, tell Mary I said hello. Be nice to see her again! We meet on Sundays after Mass at 7.30 for tea and biscuits in the presbytery.’
‘Not sure she would…’
‘And even a tipple or two on New Year’s Eve!’
‘Maybe she would then. Bye, Bill. Oh dear, another pun for you.’
She left him orgasming by the leaflet table.
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*
Christmas morning came in all its drizzling glory, her mum gazing through the window with the usual excuses as to why there were no presents under the threadbare fake tree by the telly - no money! And yet, enough going for a small crate of Carlsberg in the fridge, which was now all hers after the non-arrival of Uncle Andy from Manchester who’d phoned up with the flu.
Natalia watched her yank a small trussed-up turkey from the fridge and flop it on the counter where its cavity gruesomely gaped.
‘Now that is a fine bit of ‘Arrogate meat!’ Natalia mock-wheezed. ‘Crackin’! Smashin’! That’s how Uncle Andy speaks, isn’t it?’
‘What you on about? It’s from Uncle Aldi,’ she cackled. ‘And that’s how we all speak up here, you daft brush.’
‘We all speak like a daft brush. Exactly.’
‘All except you with your poncey words. Get doing the spuds and the veg.’
The usual melancholy of Christmas was mitigated, or at least distracted, by a new addiction to Candy Crush that Natalia had found to her amusement left on the apps on Neill’s phone - but of course, hiding the screen whenever her mum leaned over her for the remote, so she wouldn’t question how it had become magically healed.
‘Boys then,’ Mary muttered. ‘Guess you’re gonna be 16 in a couple of weeks.’
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*
Matilda came on at lunchtime on Boxing Day. ‘Leave this on!’ implored Natalia, wanting to enjoy pigtails and cakes and Trunchbull whilst her mum looked sceptically upon Natalia’s shrieks of laughter. ‘Look, it’s you!’ nodded Natalia at Mrs Wormwood.
‘I’d never get a poodle perm like that.’
‘Oh by the way,’ Natalia crunched through her third bag of crisps, ‘bloke called Bill Cooney says hi from St Augustine’s.’
‘You went to church? What the ‘ell?’
‘Trying to improve the chance I end up in the other place, obviously.’
‘Bill! Bloody ‘ell. He still with Judy?’
‘No idea. He says come meet after Sunday mass for drinks. Might get you out of the house.’
Her mum swigged in thought. ‘Think you need to, it’s not raining today. How many packets of crisps you ‘ad?’
‘How many beers have you had?’
‘Give over. If I don’t have one my hands get all shakey. Pass the remote, there’s a Bond on at one.’
‘Not that cheesy smut. I’m off for a walk then.’
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*
Natalia hopped on a bus up to Temple Newsam. Walking amongst the strangely beautiful slumber of nature in all its December deadness, she looked up at the manor to the exact window she’d gazed at through Neill’s windscreen when he gave her the contraband. Treading her feet on the spot where his tyres had been, musing that he was now in London, four hours down that motorway where he’d pointed. Driven home for Christmas, to Mum and Dad’s sniffling faces! Had he been on a date with Joan first?
She thought that if she could redo that meeting right now, she’d do what he asked of her better. Smoke the fag as wholesomely as he did, be more willing to take the weed and feel its effects. Had she missed out going through the door he opened to her? Was she too uptight? Bet ‘fine fellow smoker’ Joan would have no problem sucking anything he gave her, nor cry on him for bullies or whine about PE with only an alky mum as a backdrop to her life.
She dropped by the post office for a decent envelope for Neill’s present, then sat at home wondering what to write. Inside the first page? No; a note inside the book, so he could put it in his car and not have awkward questions from Joan or anyone else. What should she write?
She scrunched up seven drafts till she liked what she wrote, and another four till she liked her own handwriting:
‘To R,
I bought this for myself. So if it got my approval, then it’s good enough for you!
Happy new year in ‘HARRAH-gate’.
P.S. She’s called Joan.’
She longed to get a bus up his way, find his vacant cottage and hand-deliver it. But without a postmark, he’d know stalker had been. She could put a stamp on, as sometimes stamps missed getting postmarks. But if he queried her, her face might give it away. And what if his neighbours spied her rocking up? Or if Neill was home early? Too many risks.
Post Office it was. Addressed to Sir Neill. Then an attack of doubt walking back home… was she too arrogant, cheeky in the note?
She let it go. Somehow, Neill was the first person in her life who seemed to believe in her right from their first meeting. There wasn’t that need to keep trying to prove herself to people, like her own mum, who seemed to have already made up their mind that she was up to no good.
On the 30th, playing Candy Crush at 10pm, she was just about to put her phone away from aching eyes when a text buzzed through. Neill!
‘I got your present, thank you, beautiful’
Ah god. She stared. Ambiguous wording! The devil!
She replied:
‘You like it?’
A minute later:
‘And the book is lovely’
Oh god!
Oh god!
Oh god!
Oh that And!
She was redder than the book and he probably knew.
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Three days till school again. Three days.
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*
‘I’ll think I’ll go off to the drinks you were on about,’ her mum pulled on her duffle coat the next day at 7. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve after all, it’ll get me out. Are the drinks free?’
‘Well, that’s great!’ enthused Natalia. ‘Take some money for the collection box at least!’
‘Catch yer later for the countdown.’
Natalia lay couch-bound with Jools Holland till 10pm, 11pm passed; still no mum home. Was she having her own Banana Pound with Bill? She could have her own Cum All Ye Faithful right here on the couch, but even imagining Neill having a horse-arse fuck or stuffing a smashing bit of Christmas pork, her hands lingered lazily at her knicker hem. Maybe after inferring she was beautiful, and gifting her with these wondrous things, there hung a flushing reticence in her body - a kind of curious, slow-brewing wine running through her - that made her want to just lay and bask in, like on a sunbed that time-travelled her into 2018 as she slept.
Woken by popping fireworks on both the telly and the window pane at 12.10am, she blinked to see no sight yet of mum. Should she be worried, like for some wayward drunken daughter confusing bourbon with bourbon biscuits in the Parish Hall? No message on her phone, so Natalia retired to bed, and an hour later woke to the sound of staggering at the front door.
‘Good night out with Bill?’ Natalia peered from the top of the stairs.
‘I were at the bus stop,’ Mary laughed, slurring, as waves of cold air came up from the door she was taking a good minute to close. ‘And got talking with this bloke. Name’s Darren. Cracked me right up! Ended up at the Roundhay, talk about free tipples, all night bless him! I haven’t had a head this bangin’ since John’s wake!’
‘Oh jeez.’
She hiccuped. ‘Sorry I din’t text.’
‘So you didn’t even make it to church,’ as Natalia followed her into the kitchen to grab a banana, and watch her mum pull out a tin of Fruit Cocktail. ‘Careful with that! You’re already half-cut, let’s not make it A&E.’
Natalia prised the ring-pull for her. ‘Wait! This is three months past its Best Before Date!’
‘It’ll be fine,’ her mum snatched it. ‘Got mega munchies thanks to Daz.’
‘You’re stoned? What does it feel like?’
Her mum poured the tin straight into her mouth, unable to answer with a syrup-dripping grin.
Natalia winced. ‘Happy new ye-urgh.’
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*
New Year’s Day dragged on; her mum in bed all day, Natalia’s period resigning her to the same. Finally Tuesday was back to school, and just as Neill had promised, and as had been sent out in an email in the holidays, a new second PE lesson was now on her timetable before lunch.
What with her heavy abdomen and her breath held in anticipatory tension of seeing Neill at any moment, she felt like she would collapse right in the middle of Miss Barnes’ Aerobics class.
But she didn’t see him, nor the next day, and had just about returned to her usual nonchalance in Geography on Wednesday when her ears pricked up to hear Mrs Tracey nattering with Mrs Coleman.
’Because Neill’s been off ill…’
‘Oh ok, I’ll do it - when is he back?’
‘Hoping tomorrow, but he sounded pretty bad on the phone.’
Winter bug seized the indefatigable Neill? Her gaze fell to the floor.
She mooned over their last texts, debating whether to write something, then thought of Joan and put her phone away. Despite his sweet gifts and notes, he had a real girlfriend, a real actual woman! Lord knows, she’s probably serving him Lemsip in a chalice in a palace in Harrogate somewhere, having sex with him only three times a day instead of five, laughing in a way that he didn’t despise, wrapping her stout shapely legs around his hairy own, kissing his lovely mouth back to life whilst he sizes her up as wife number three - even though he said wives can go jump, her Finest Dessert Menu In The Country will be topped by Banana Pound Wedding Cake with a basting of Hot Husband-Winner Sauce.
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*
There were more school tours being conducted this time by Dinkey; Natalia marvelling at how different his presence was from Neill’s - and how bored the parents looked by comparison. Suffice to say, when Neill did get back, he would be in popular demand by everyone after the holidays.
The next day was Friday, a grey January day she hoped would be enlivened by Neill at morning Assembly. But it was replaced by an even greyer Dinkey, and she began the day feeling bleaker than she’d begun the year. She hadn’t had a tiny interaction with Neill all week, and her addiction was craving a hit like her mum’s fingers for a can of Carlsberg. Now the long weekend loomed to return her to the emptiness she’d just finished surviving during the holiday. She hated the feeling of waiting and wondering and expecting some tidbit from a man, from anyone. Maybe it was just a chat she wanted? Maybe she’ll meet a Joan-cum-Darren at the bus stop tonight. He’ll crack her right up like her old phone.
But after Science, drifting down the stairs amongst a torrent of pupils towards lunch, there came a moment that was to make her head spin.
At the bottom of the stairs, coming up the other way, was a familiar forehead, suit and stature.
He was back.
Her heart and clit ping-ponged each other just to see his hand now, squeezing the handrail to haul up against the down-flow of pupils, probably heading back to his room, whilst she - holding onto the rail too - saw their hands were gliding right toward each other like trains on the same line.
His eyes raised and caught sight of her, just as she gave a cordial ‘hi Neill!’ This was only a moment of passing, in public, and yet his look rested on her for that extra two controversial seconds, just as she slowed to stop on the step above him, both halted by their insistent grip on the banister.
She motioned toward him, but he wouldn’t budge. He motioned toward her, but she clung on too. She was looking up into his sore, pinkened nostrils as he returned a silently haughty look down at her with his usual enigmatic eyebrows.
‘Let go,’ she giggled, the closeness of his body making her giddy.
‘No, you let go,’ in a low, irresistibly scratchy tone from his throat, and she was forced to let go, stepping down and brushing right into his warm shirt as she squeezed to pass on the other side - and she felt a hot tickle of his fingers in her palm - shooting like a bolt through her - along with a sumptuous elfin whisper into her scalp:
‘Happy new year, honey.’
Heart like a flapping parrot in a pet shop, she went to find a lonely spot just to sit and smile and hug her knees and exhale that bolt of energy through a hundred sighs till her dry mouth called for her water bottle, and her phone vibrated another 100 volts into her:
‘How are you?’
She smiled deliriously.
‘Good thanks! :)’
- ‘Been too busy for catch up :( and ill! :(‘
‘That’s ok! Hope you’re better!’
- ‘Meet me for a drive? Hometime'
She almost spluttered water over the screen.
‘Omg… r u sure?’
- ‘Where I got you last time.’
She shoved her phone into her pocket upon sight of Mrs Williams ambling up.
‘Natalia, can I have a word?’
‘Er, yes miss?’
‘Come to my room please.’
She followed her, as the door closed and she motioned her to the desk.
‘I want to ask you about Neill.’
‘What about Neill?’
She pursed her lips. ‘I want to ask whether he has done or said anything inappropriate to you.’
‘What do you mean?’ Her voice dropped a pitch. ‘Like what?’
Williams looked sceptical. ‘You know his character. Especially with the females. I don’t know what to think of some of the things I heard his actor friend was saying to pupils in that Grotto,’ she tweaked the corner of her spectacles, ‘or whether it was all true. But I just saw you now on the stairs with him, brushing close to you. He wasn’t doing anything inappropriate, was he?’
‘No! Of course not!’
‘Right. It’s just that I’ve seen you often talking with him, and going to his office a few times. Mrs Coleman mentioned you were sick on the coach trip and he sat you with him. Is everything…?’
‘Is everything what?’ Natalia swallowed hard, hoping her growing red face would come across as innocent indignation.
‘Is everything in order?’
‘Of course. He’s not doing or saying anything bad,’ she shrugged. ‘He’s just a… proactive Headteacher, more than Mr Neary was—’
‘Oh proactive, that’s what they call it,’ she laughed sarcastically. ‘I know everything was a lot more conventional and in order with Mr Neary!’
Her eyes ran down Natalia and sighed. ‘What are you talking about with Neill?’
‘Well, you know about Marcia don’t you. She was practically bullying me, like I told you—’
‘You did not say she was bullying you, Natalia.’
‘Teasing then. Very unpleasant for a teenage girl, you know. Well, after she got done, for drugs or whatever, I was happy of course the cow had gone—’
‘Natalia!’
‘Yeah well? I’m being honest. Wasn’t my fault she got expelled. My life is much happier without her, or Luxton, or Cohen. So I’ve just let Neill know.’
‘And that’s what you’re talking about is it? Gloating over the latest to be dispatched from Thornwood? Including Nora O’Callaghan, whose mental health has deteriorated now she has had to re-mortgage her house?’
Natalia frowned. ‘No!’
‘Ahh.’ She shook her head dolefully. ‘It’s just that I’ve been here nearly thirty years, Natalia. I’m not used to seeing such fast upheaval, by someone so unorthodox in more ways than one. But there’s unorthodox, and there’s improper, and someone here has to make sure that line isn’t crossed…’
‘Hm. Maybe it’s time to move on.’
Williams stared. ‘What are you suggesting?’
‘Lunch. I’m gonna pass out,’ Natalia smiled faintly. ‘Can I go now please?’
‘Oh, yes, of course, yes.’
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*
Last lesson was one big fidget. Nerves over what Williams said; nerves over Neill texting to meet her like some bestie; and even more nerves to tell the latter about the former. When hometime came, her ribs clanged up the drive, and then banged with nausea when she saw his taillights waiting.
She glanced around. It was a ideal place for a private pickup - just by an alley out of the view of the neighbouring houses, but she pulled the door open with a look that must have spelt out her fears.
‘Get in, jitterbug!’
Climbing in and drawing down her seatbelt without looking at him, she urged, ‘Drive then!’
‘Oh! Disgustingly demanding,’ he chuckled as he moved the car out. ‘Are you ok, Natalia?’
She looked at him. Still as radiant and groomed as always, even as he gave his nose a loud dry blow on a tissue that he chucked down his driver door.
‘Care to have a fag and chinwag with me up at the same place, Tremble?’
Her incredulous thrill at this invite was briefly buried under the urgency to purge her pressing worry.
‘Williams was questioning me earlier. Asking if you’ve done anything inappropriate to me. I said no of course but she saw us earlier…’
‘Saw what?’
‘She saw, you know… there on the stairs.’
‘Where on the stair? Right there?’ He added in sing-song: ‘A little mouse with clogs on?’
Natalia stared. ‘Shut up. You… brushing past me.’
‘Oh no, brushing! What’s that, the new PC word for grooming?’
‘You wouldn’t let go of the banister.’
‘Neither would you. And that’s not a euphemism, you two filthy-minded…’
‘And then your hand went into mine…’
‘Ohh, and she had Mrs Tittlemouse’s periscope for that, did she? Did she also see my balls shrink like Mrs Tiggy Winkle and Pricklepin hibernating in their hedgehog love nest when that cold gust came in from the open door that the kids always bang back and forth, clip-clippety-fucking-clop?’
She sighed. ’Nothing scares you, does it?’
‘No!’
‘Most teachers love the new Head. But Williams has really got it in for you.’
‘The only reason Williams doesn’t like me, Natalia,’ he frowned as they sped up the carriageway, ‘is because I speak better French than her. I speak like a Frenchman whilst she speaks like a tourist.’
‘Oh, really?’ she said cynically, with a dash of awe.
‘Right when we first met. I began a conversation with her and she couldn’t reply. Talk about not letting go! Alors, cherchez la femme!’ he sighed, glancing now to her. ‘Elle ne comprends pas à quel point j’adore passer du temps avec toi, mon petit chouchou!’
‘Er, I can understand French but not that fast…’
‘Exactement! Just how she felt. My idiomatic French left her looking like an idiotic Grinch. Then I told her in French how much I’d love to jump up and down on her ginormous tits like a kid on a bouncy castle—’
‘Oh my god…’
‘And she just smiled, nodding!’
‘Jeez, you’re so brazen. Look, I just want this, er, what we do…’ She glanced to him, finding it suddenly very strange to be referring to the Great Unsaid of their antics, ‘…to be safe and discreet.’
She frowned, thinking she sounded like a sanitary towel advert.
‘Hm,’ he gave a long breath. ‘Well, let me give you some new perspective tonight, ma bichette,’ as he slowed at the side of the country road, nodded up at a red triangular deer sign, and tapped on his phone in its cradle.
‘Oh, deer. What is it this time? Contraband cocaine?’
‘No. Novacaine.’
‘Huh?’
‘Stratstone,’ he muttered as he swiped a map. ‘17 minutes. I’ll do it in 12.’
‘Huh? Neill? Wh—’
‘Make a U turn!’ the Google lady ordered.
With a wild lunge he spun the car back round the other way as Natalia clung onto the door handle, wide-eyed.
‘Neill! Where are we going!’
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