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I slipped off the G-string and pulled on full briefs and then my flannelette pyjamas. If I’d stayed at the cigar lounge, I could have ended up naked in the arms of the Beast. My body shuddered.
“Boring, old Amanda,” I growled, dragging out the ironing board from my wardrobe. I wrenched it open with the tortured metallic cry that only ironing boards made. I grabbed the first shirt from the washing basket, and roughly shoved it over the end of the board.
“Take a chance and do something interesting, Amanda,” I trilled with a falsetto voice, plugging in the steam iron. I held the starch spray like it was a Colt revolver in a spaghetti western film and squirted liquid over the shirt.
“Go out and meet someone new, Amanda!” I shouted, throwing my hands in the air.
Someone pounded on the wall, yelling to keep it down, which was a bit rich considering I could hear word for word what they were watching on TV.
“Say yes to the promise of pleasure, Amanda,” I whispered, staring at my starch-covered shirt. “Why didn’t I stay for pleasure?”
The iron answered me with a puff of steam.
“I wanted the pleasure!”
All dolled up and ready to meet someone and when I did, I caved. I ran home to iron work clothes when my alarm went off as a ten-minute warning to leave and catch my train home.
So many lacklustre dates since I’d started work in London. Too many ex-lovers who’d lied and cheated.
And then I meet a guy tonight who had my heart pumping right from the start.
Tall, dark hair, brooding; god, he was good-looking. Even his slightly crooked nose, which looked like he’d broken it in the past, added to his attractiveness. And had I seen the hint of a dimple under his beard? I’d had the offer of a one-night stand on a platter, and I fled. How did my flatmates do it? Sleep with a guy they just met?
I glanced at my laptop on my bedside table.
“Stuff it, ironing can wait a little longer.” I pulled the cord out, booted up the laptop and opened a spreadsheet; one I’d been adding to since last year.
Columns of explicit confessions about my secret desires came up on screen.
In an empty cell, I typed:Next time, say yes to the promise of pleasure.
* * *
It was Tuesday, after nine in the morning, and I wasn’t in the London office of Reedman, Williams and Dennis: Accounting and Financial Solutions.
I was in Scotland.
I yawned as rail passengers made for the exit via the ticket office at the end of the platform. The sign beside me read ‘Oban Railway Station’. The wind picked up off the Atlantic and cut through my suit.
Son of a biscuit tin, it’s so fucking cold!
My boss should’ve been here, not me. Suspected food poisoning at a children’s party over the weekend had turned into a trip to the emergency department with acute appendicitis.
I’d been told to go in his place, the sweetener being this job could guarantee a promotion at my annual review. I’d hastily packed a bag and caught two connecting trains on the Tube to make the overnight sleeper service leaving Euston Station. At London by nine at night, to arrive in Oban by nine the next morning.
Nine at night by nine in the morning. Nine by nine. Eighty-one, a squared number. I smiled. I loved numbers.
I pulled on my yellow woollen pea coat and my pashmina, printed with Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’, that I’d bought at the National Gallery on Trafalgar Square during my first winter in London. I turned a full circle on the spot, taking in the view from the platform.
I yawned again. So, this was Oban at nine in the morning.
Sunrise was technically six minutes ago but cloud cover dulled everything on this midwinter’s day.
Beige stone houses in rows flanked a harbour I could hear and smell but not quite see. Seagulls squawked overhead. A multi-decker ferry blasted its siren to herald imminent arrival, while lorries honked their horns by the station.
On the hill behind me was a circular structure that looked like a knock-off Colosseum. I was pretty sure the Romans never made it into Scotland; perhaps it was a reservoir made by locals with delusions of grandeur. Nevertheless, the structure was an impressive sentinel over the small town, not unlike a massive stone crown on top of the ridge.
In between, everything was green. Rolling green grass and dark pine trees popped between bare trunks of deciduous trees.
