Born Lucky

'OK,' I said. 'Makes sense. Is there anything that you need me to do for you while you're away? Collect the newspapers? Feed the cat?'

For a moment, Titch looked confused. 'Cat? I don't have a cat.' But then he twigged. 'Oh yes, I see what you mean. And thanks, but no, I don't think so. Celia seems to manage most things. Although she might enjoy a bit of company from time to time. Left to herself, she has a tendency to work too hard.'

'In that case, I shall do my best to offer up the odd distraction,' I said.

'Right. See you in ten days then.'

'OK,' I said. 'Bon voyage. And give my regards to Broadway.' But, by then, Titch was already on his way.

The following morning, over a breakfast of leftover stewed apple, tea, and toast, I decided – a little impulsively perhaps – that I should go in search of a vehicle more suitable for life beyond the streets of London. For almost ten years, my little Peugeot hot hatch had served me well. But out in the countryside I felt that I needed something a little higher off the road, something a little more suited to deep puddles, muddy tracks, and unpredictable roe deer and muntjac.

Even before I set out I knew that I would not enjoy the process of purchasing a new vehicle. I knew that I would end up having to accept next-to-nothing for my faithful old Peugeot. And I knew that I would inevitably exceed my budget for whatever replaced it. But at least it might provide me with the bones of a This Country Life piece.

I was just piloting the little Peugeot out of the gate for what was likely to be the last time, when I spotted Celia in the garden next door. 'Good morning. Looks like it's going to be a nice day.'

'Oh, hi.' She looked at her watch. 'A bit early in the day to be running away from your typewriter, isn't it?'

'Off in search of some bigger wheels. I'm feeling a bit vulnerable sitting this close to the road surface out here.'

Celia smiled and nodded knowingly. 'Good luck.'

'Thanks. I'm probably going to need it. By the way, what are you up to later? I was thinking that I could probably rustle us up a bit of supper. Perhaps not up to your high culinary standard; but I can promise that it will be edible. And I'm sure that I can find a decent bottle of wine.'

'That would be nice. Thank you.'

'OK. Say six-thirty, seven? Something like that?'

'Can I bring anything?'

'Nope. Just you,' I said.

I had not expected the 'car swap' business to be quick business, but it ended up taking longer than even my most pessimistic estimate. By the time I returned to Partridge Cottage in my new (well, third-hand, actually, but with a low mileage and a full service history) BMW X3, it was already well past five o'clock.

On the way home I had stopped off at the supermarket and purchased a pack chicken thighs and a pack of chicken drumsticks, some potatoes, some small onions, a head of garlic, and a bunch of fresh rosemary. I'd also bought half a head of red cabbage and some bacon lardons. I knew that I couldn't compete with Celia in the culinary stakes, but I was confident that I could whip up a perfectly-acceptable one-pan dish of roasted chicken pieces and root vegetables with lots of rosemary. And the cabbage and bacon, lightly braised, would make a tasty and colourful side dish.

Celia arrived on the dot of 6:45. 'Mmm, something smells good. I just love the smell of rosemary.' She was wearing her party dress. 'And I notice that you managed to find a new car.'

'Yes. I hope I've done the right thing. I sort of ended up going halfway,' I said. 'I tried out a couple of big beasts – a Range Rover and a Mitsubishi thing – but after the Peugeot, I felt as though I was driving a lorry.'

'I know what you mean.'

'Vodka and tonic,' I suggested.

'Lovely. Thank you.'

I poured the drinks, and we sipped and chatted while I dealt to the cabbage.

'Anything I can do?' Celia asked.

'No, no. Pretty much done,' I said. 'Just need to turn the oven temperature up for the last five minutes and we're there.'

The rustic chicken dish turned out almost perfectly. The meat itself was soft and succulent. The bits of skin were crisp and golden. The whole small onions were soft and sweet. And the pieces of potato were crunchy on the outside and fluffy within. And, throughout the whole dish, there was the sweet-yet-pungent flavour of rosemary and garlic.

To accompany the simple fare, there was a bottle of M. Chapoutier's Châteauneuf-du-Pape Croix de Bois, a deep, full-bodied red wine with a sweet bouquet of liquorice, roasted Provencal herbs, kirsch, raspberries, and black currants. Perfect.

For the best part of an hour, we nibbled and sipped and conversed amiably. And then Celia announced that she needed to 'powder her nose'. 'Top of the stairs, isn't it?'

'On the left,' I said.

Celia smiled and nodded.

'While you do that, I'll find some more music,' I suggested. 'A bit of Chris Botti perhaps?'

Celia frowned slightly.

'Trumpeter? American? Laid back. In fact, laid way, way back.'

'Oh. Yes. Perfect,' she said.

As Celia ascended the stairs, I couldn't help but notice her shapely behind moving gently beneath the swishy, silky skirt of her dress. It was a very nice behind. And a very nice dress.

'That really is a very nice dress,' I said, when she came back downstairs.

'Thank you. It is nice, isn't it? Although technically it's a skirt and a top. Two separate pieces.' And as proof that what I had taken for a dress was in fact two separate garments, she briefly fiddled with something at the waist and then, with the flair of an old-fashioned stage magician, removed the skirt. Completely. And she was not wearing any knickers. 'See?'

'Well, yes. I do now,' I said. 'Silly me. Fancy making a mistake like that.'

For a moment or two, we both just stood there, grinning. And then Celia said: 'I think this is the part where you're supposed to kiss me.'

'Oh. Right. Are we up to that bit already?'

'It would seem so,' she said.

And so I kissed her. And not just once, but several times. And, of course, my hands found their way down to the beautiful, shapely globes of her naked arse.

'You kiss very well,' Celia said. 'I knew that you would.'

'Oh? How did you know?'

'I just did. I hoped that you were going to kiss me last week – the day that you arrived. In fact, on a couple of occasions I felt certain that you were going to kiss me. I don't know why. But you didn't, you bastard. You made me wait.'

'You only had to ask,' I said. 'Or you could have kissed me.'

Celia smiled.

'This may seem like a strange question,' I said, 'but do you normally eat supper sans knickers?'

'I left them upstairs,' she said. 'I thought that they would just get in the way.'

'Good thinking. Much easier without them.' And I slid my hand around to the front and placed it over her soft pubic mound, my fingers finding their way down between her swelling labia. We kissed again – a long and lingering kiss – while I continued to explore her damp cleft valley with my fingers.

'I think,' I said, 'that this next part might take a moment or two. You might want to consider making use of that armchair that is just behind you. It might be more comfortable.'

Celia smiled. 'Well ... if you think so.'

'I do,' I assured her. And I gently guided her back onto the big leather armchair that was waiting to receive her elegant behind.

'And I suppose that you would like me to rest my legs on the arms of the chair.'

I nodded. 'That would be perfect.' With Celia comfortably settled in the chair, her legs raised and splayed, I got down on my knees in front of her and began gently massaging her outer labia with my thumbs before going to work on her exposed pink slit with my tongue.

At first, her delicate slit was but a narrow valley; but, with each pass of my tongue, the valley widened and her inner labia bloomed like a fragrant flower responding to the first warming rays of spring sunshine.

'Oh, fuck, yes,' she said.

'Fuck yes indeed,' I mumbled.

After a while – maybe two or three minutes – my forefinger discovered her swelling clitoris.

'Oh, fuck yes,' Celia said yet again.

And so we continued. My tongue explored the entrance to her vagina. My fingertip strummed her swollen clit. And then one finger entered her. And then two. And Celia squirmed and thrust her now-wet vulva against my hand and made little yelping sounds like an excited puppy. And then, all of a sudden, she began to shudder and rock and laugh and squeal all at the same time.

'Oh, fuck yes,' she said for a third time. 'Yes, yes, yes. Fuck yes.'

For a couple of minutes, Celia lay, there grinning like the Cheshire Cat. 'God, you certainly know how to press all the right buttons,' she said eventually.

'A chap does his best,' I said. And then I suddenly realised that my knees were about to give out. Gingerly, I got back to my feet. 'Knees,' I explained. 'Too much rugby in my younger days.'

Celia nodded. 'In that case, I think we should get your trousers off.'

'Will that help?'

'I'm pretty sure that it will,' she said. 'Distraction, you see. With your cock inside me, I don't think your brain will be too worried about your knees.'

And she was right. With Celia kneeling on the edge of the chair, offering up her shapely arse, and me with my hands on her hips and my cock deep in her beautiful cunt, I soon forgot all about my knees.

Later, when we had retired upstairs to my bedroom (and done it all over again), it started to dawn on me that things between Celia and me had changed – and not just in a small way. 'You know, this could be ... well, a bit awkward,' I said.

'How so?'

'Well, I might want to do this again. In fact I know that I will want to do it again. It would be madness not to.'

'Well, I'm free tomorrow,' Celia said. 'And the next day. And the day after that. But I'm not sure why that should be awkward. You live here; I live just over there. I would have said that that was convenient. Perfect even. Not awkward.'

'Convenient ... yes. But ... well, I'm not sure that Titch will quite see it in quite the same way.'

'No?' Celia chuckled. 'Personally, I think Titch will be chuffed. He really likes you. And I'm pretty sure that he likes me too.'

'Of course he likes you,' I said.

Celia grinned. 'I'm just kidding.'

'I'm not following.'

'You're worried that Titch will somehow disapprove of you and me putting our pink bits together?'

'Well, yeah. I mean ....'

'Don't worry. He'll be fine,' Celia said. 'Titch and I ... we're friends. Housemates. But that's it. Apart from anything else, Titch is gay.'

'Titch?'

Celia smiled again. 'See how good he is? Even you didn't realise.'

No I didn't. I had no idea. 'Titch?'

'I know. He doesn't think that being gay is good for his image as an ageing rock star, so we sometimes tease the paparazzi a bit. I have to say, some of the things that I read about us in the gossip mags are really quite funny. Not that I make a habit of reading gossip mags, you understand.'

'No, of course not.' Actually, the more I thought about it, the more it made sense. 'And so Simon ...?'

'Is Titch's current squeeze. Yes.'

For several minutes we just lay there. And then I said: 'Titch is really lucky. You know ... to have a friend like you.'

'I'll take that as a compliment,' Celia said. 'But you're right about Titch being lucky. Titch was born lucky. He's the original four-leafed clover kid. Mind you, at the moment, I'm feeling pretty lucky myself.'

And I was too.