as instructed. ‘I, but … I mean … why?’
He grabbed his jacket and turned, reached for his shades. ‘Why what?’
‘Why did you, you know, just then, do that?’
His gaze latched onto mine. ‘Let’s just say I like to keep my fans happy and you, Miss Fenchurch, are someone I’ve always wanted to make happy.’
Confusion wriggled through my mind. I clutched my necklace and twisted it like a rosary. Trying desperately to figure out the puzzle. ‘You say that like you’ve known me for a long time.’
He pointed to the jar of mint humbugs next to the till. ‘When I was a kid you used to give me a sweet whenever you helped out my mam, which was a lot.’
‘Your mam?’
‘Petunia Kirkwood.’
‘Oh, Petunia, yes, of course.’ I dropped the beads and clasped my hands to my mouth. ‘Bloody hell, you’re little Johnny Kirkwood? I would never have – God, it’s been so long since your mam told me you were heading to LA with stars in your eyes.’
‘Yeah, I guess it has been a while.’ He slotted his shades on and opened the shop door. The bell tinkled as a self-satisfied grin spread on his face.‘ I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he said.
And just like that little Johnny Kirkwood, who was not so little any more, was gone.
Sighing I sat on my chair, my nether regions swollen and damp. I couldn’t help but wonder if tomorrow, when he came back for his porn, there might be a repeat performance.
And, if that was a possibility, I would have to watch the movie all over again, just in case he asked if I had another favourite scene and offered me a personal performance.
B and B
Primula Bond
My friends swore I’d be bored stiff in the countryside. A year ago Soho was my stomping ground. Bars and clubs my natural habitat. Conference calls my mode of communication. But a girl can get tired of the stress and grime, tube trains and flight paths, impossible deadlines and demanding clients.
One-night stands were my sex life, fuelled by frustration, wine and the potential for danger. But a girl can tire of thumping hangovers and meaningless fucking, especially when she hits forty.
So when my fairy godmother bequeathed me her chocolate-box cottage and thriving bed-and-breakfast business I shocked everyone by upping sticks and moving to Camber Sands. People even laid bets on how soon I’d tire of green fields, oast houses, gossiping neighbours and the slow grey roll of the English Channel.
The arrival of a slick, single city girl in a village full of retirees and young families certainly wasn’t greeted with fanfare. I stuck out like a sore thumb with my red lippy and loud laugh, my vociferous reluctance to bake cakes or join the flower rota. I was viewed with suspicion as I struggled to keep my godmother’s hollyhocks and roses going, the tourists arriving and the husbands at arm’s length.
But when the London gang turned up unannounced on the first anniversary of my move they didn’t find me alone and palely knitting. Oh no. They found themselves gate-crashing a raucous gathering of apple-cheeked locals singing along to X Factor and getting rat-arsed on my vodka cocktails.
‘Us backwater types thought Sara was like the woman from that film, Chocolat, springing from nowhere,’ the vicar, who also teaches street dancing in the school hall, confided once my shell-shocked mates were parked in the inglenook fireplace. ‘She was like a beautiful alien, but now you can’t keep people away.’
‘It’s a mystery,’ my friends muttered later as they piled back into their Lexus because there was no room at the inn. ‘I guess you can take the career girl out of London, but you can’t take London out of the career girl.’
Like the meerkat says – simples. People flock here because I give them what they want. So, not only the extra draw of a studio and painting tuition for budding artists, but also food, and lots of it. People have to eat, don’t they, especially on holiday? As well as all-day breakfast, I do a wicked cream tea. And people have to drink. My garden bar is full every evening, cosy in winter, out on the terrace last summer.
They have to sleep, don’t they? I’ve got rooms. Exposed beams, four-posters, chintz. Everything you’d want from a chic B and B off the beaten track. And since the summer, when it was mostly families, there’s been a rash of youngsters, art students arriving in groups. Boys, mostly, the odd smattering of girls. Word of mouth apparently, and my inviting website. They come here to get away from parents, from college. They come to learn to paint. To get stoned. Oh, and they come here to –
‘By the way,’ my ex-secretary shouted as the car pulled away. ‘Where did you find the young hunk handing round the cocktails?’
– get laid. I was going to say they come here to get laid.
Forget the bastards I left behind in London, the hungry husbands I have to fend off here. What I’ve discovered down here is boys. Old enough to have driving licences, obviously – hell, what do you take me for? – but still cute, fresh-faced, uncomplicated. They don’t want much at that age. Just food, friends, sleep and sex. They’re permanently hard at that age, aren’t they? Permanently ready. And permanently grateful.
So where did I find my young hunk? Sniffing my knickers.
It was a breezy autumnal afternoon and I was prowling about in an old maxi skirt and flowery blouse tied round my middle, watering, cleaning, cooking, rearranging the art work. The students had gone to the sand dunes to paint the sea birds.
Except someone was in my garden, fingering my washing. A tall boy I’d seen earlier. I stepped out on to the wet grass, poking my bare toes through the rustling leaves just as he lifted my knickers to his face and inhaled.
‘Oh, God! Didn’t know anyone was there. Got left behind.’
Such a deep voice. Such a deep blush.
‘I can drive you down to the beach to find the others.’
I swayed towards him, cold air whistling over my skin where my shirt was unbuttoned. I’d got hot while baking scones.
‘Rather stay here. Didn’t feel too good.’ He was breathing hard and staring straight at my breasts, bulging in their dark-pink bra. He yanked his jeans up by the waistband, but not quickly enough to hide the outline of his prick, which was trying to stand straight up in his pants.
I came closer and laid my hand on his forehead.
‘Maybe you should have a lie-down.’
His face was so smooth, golden spikes of stubble pushing through his chin and cheeks. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple jumping. He could easily shove me away but he glanced up, brown eyes smouldering. Quarter boy, three-quarters man.
It had been nearly a year since I’d been fucked. I wanted him, badly. But he was a punter. And I have an open-house policy. Anyone could walk into this garden.
As I was about to turn into the house, he lifted his hand, pushed my blouse to one side, and touched my left breast. It was
