A Girl with Moonlight In Her Eyes

But that was later. In the café that day I learned that they had been boyhood best friends and their dissimilar sexual orientations made not a scrap of difference to them. While Oscar had always been showbizzy, Stephen had been a keen rugby player which probably explained the nose. Then I spilled the beans, telling them that I, too, was gay and showing my companions Sofia's letter. "It could have been worse," Oscar told me, setting the letter aside.

Choking back a sob I blurted: "Worse? She broke my heart. How could it be worse?"

There seemed to be some kind of telepathy between Stephen and Oscar for they often knew what one another were about to say. "Look at it this way," said Stephen, "without that letter you could have taken it into your head to pay her a surprise visit in Spain..." (Funnily enough, I had been thinking along those lines overlooking the fact that I had no address for her.) "...imagine how you would have felt if you arrived at her front door and her husband answered it." He shrugged.

Oscar nodded. "Can I suggest that you get rid of that letter," he advised, "It may not immediately cure your unhappiness but it'll go a long way towards it. Don't read it again, burn it, cast the ashes to the winds and try to cast memories of Sofia with them." Despite his natural theatricality, Oscar could be serious when needs be. "Then start concentrating on the now. Dismiss what's gone. Make new and interesting friends." He brightened. "You can start with us. And remember, everything will come out right in the end."

"Another little thing," added Stephen, "When you feel a bit better, try standing in Sofia's shoes and looking at things from her viewpoint. Her family are probably an upper-middle class lot, good pedigree, staunch Catholics, maybe not exactly homophobic but certainly disapproving... 'Nothing against their kind, just not in our family, thank you'. She probably had pressures piled on her if not overtly. Think about it, Eleanor."

Stephen and Oscar took me under their wings and within a couple of weeks they had

dragged me out of my gloom and made me start living again. It took a combination of gentle bullying, a lot of chivvying and a load of genuine caring but it worked.

We became a most unlikely trio once they had managed to restore me to a good place. When we went out together, I would walk in the middle, hands clasping theirs. Other students generally considered us a peculiar bunch and perhaps we were but we were great friends, not giving a stuff what others thought of us. On some occasions we sought other companionship according to sexual inclination. Oscar preferred young men like himself, off-beat and flamboyant. Stephen's taste ran to jolly-hockey-sticks kind of girls, sporty wholesome types bursting with fresh-air good health. Like Oscar, I favoured my own type, feminine rather than butch, but I studiously avoided sultry girls with Mediterranean good looks (once bitten... yes, I know, a girl from South London could have been just as bad but...). If the lads pulled and I didn't, they always made sure there was a trustworthy taxi ready to take me home. Oh, and they were very good at seeing off self-styled Casanovas who wouldn't believe me when I said no to their offers of drinks and company ("Mmm... she must be a lesbo..." Well, this time you're right you idiot).

Stephen and Oscar graduated a few months before me and I really missed them when they left. Both hugged me and kissed my cheeks before piling themselves into Stephen's car along with their belongings. The last thing Oscar said to me was: "Remember, li'l sis, we're always on your side and everything will work out right in the end." I waved until they were out of sight. We stayed in touch, though, and I knew without asking that they would always be there for me when necessary.

1994 -- Helmsford: Blossoms

Following graduation I returned to work in the nursery/garden centre where I had previously had a part-time job. Now it was full time although the boss didn't bank on me staying for too long---he knew that my ambition was to have my own business in time. Many employers wouldn't have wanted me because of this but he said that I was a good worker and unlike many other staff I knew and understood plants. The practical experience I gained there was priceless.

After a few months my chance came. An ad in a local paper offered an empty shop for lease in Market Square, Helmsford. I knew Helmsford slightly. It was about sixty miles from the city and was an attractive little town with numerous historical links.

The boarded-up shop looked ideal, a perfect size, neither too large nor two small. It had obviously been empty for quite some time and needed a lot of TLC but that was okay. I asked the letting agent just how long it had been empty. He wouldn't exactly meet my eyes as he mumbled a few evasive and indistinct words. I eventually got him to admit to a little over six years.

"Given that," I said, "the price of the lease is a bit high---that's what it might have fetched six years ago in good condition and it's just been sitting deteriorating and gathering dust in all that time. I'd be happy to take it for a thirty per cent discount." I tried to look as if I was an experienced hardball negotiator.

He shook his head. "Sorry, you have the quoted cost of the lease and that's it."

I picked up my handbag. "All right, then I won't waste any more of your time."

I was half-way through the door when the agent called out to stop me. "Perhaps we can talk about this. I take it you'll need a mortgage or bank loan?"

"No, I'm a cash purchaser and that should count for something." After some minutes of back-and-forth haggling, I became the lease-holder at a twenty-three per cent discount.

You may be wondering how a twenty-two year old graduate could afford to pay cash for a shop's lease and set up a new business without a bank loan. My father had a much older brother who had been some kind of financial wizard and had made a fortune. However, my uncle was a workaholic and a diet of sixteen-hour days, junk food at his desk and sixty-plus cigarettes a day did him no good at all. He died of a heart attack while I was still a toddler. He had no wife or child and my father was his only living relative. Mum and Dad were left substantial sums and an equally huge sum was put in trust for me, net of tax. It accumulated well over the twenty-odd years (at one point during the 1980s interest rates in the UK hit fifteen per cent) and I was at university before the days of massive student fees. So financially I was very comfortable.

My business, which I named 'Blossoms', was a success from the start. Helmsford had been without a florist for a number of years, people usually having to take the twenty-mile trip to Newcombe Parva. And I gained a good reputation for the fairness of my pricing. For instance, most florists and supermarkets push up their prices enormously for special occasions such as Easter and Mother's Day. I lowered mine. It worked.

Within a couple of years I had invested in several more shops in nearby small towns. I was on my way up. I was so very lucky and I appreciated the fact.

1998 -- Helmsford: Simone

We like to joke now that Simone fell for me. Yes, she did fall---literally---and I just happened to be there to pick her up (in both senses).

I'd been to the other side of Market Square to buy a wholemeal loaf from the excellent bakery there. It was a miserable day, had been all along, dark sky with a fine misty drizzle which dampened the spirits along with just about anything else it touched. I'd be glad to get back into the shop so that I could rub my hair down with a towel.

I reached the public crossing just as the pedestrian light turned green and joined the small crowd stepping out into the road. A slim young woman was walking a little way in front of me and I couldn't help but admire the gently swaying backside below her stylish leather jacket. As backsides go it... well, let's just say it took my mind off my damp hair. And then as we reached the opposite pavement she fell. I didn't see exactly what happened---I guess she either tripped or slipped on the drizzle-slimed cobble-stones at the pavement's edge and fell heavily, landing on one knee.

There was a cry of: "Merde!" Along with a couple of others I rushed to help her up. A burly young fellow in motor-cycle gear lifted her bodily from the ground, I was there to take her weight for support and an elderly couple retrieved her bag from where it had fallen. I got my first good look at the girl's face and I think that's when I started to fall too. She was so lovely that for the moment I forgot all about the backside that had first attracted me. I saw a perfectly-shaped face framed by auburn hair, slightly retroussé nose, green eyes with little flecks of gold and perfect lips just made for smiling (and more than smiling, although right now she was grimacing with discomfort as she tried to put her weight on the injured leg).

I bent to take a look. Her stockings or tights, whatever, were ripped and blood oozed from a nasty scrape. Nothing life-threatening there but the knee must have been very painful. I pulled a tissue from my bag and pressed it to the wound. "There's a pharmacy just a few yards this way," I said to my fellow rescuers, "I'll take her there, see if they can do anything. Thanks for your help."

"Yes, thank you," added the girl.

I put an arm around her waist and told her to put an arm about my shoulders. She was limping pretty heavily but fortunately the pharmacy was only about thirty or so yards further on. Once in the shop, I sat the girl down in a chair while I explained what had happened to the duty pharmacist, a friendly acquaintance of mine. Donning latex gloves, he came to have a look. With a muttered "Excuse me," he prodded at the injured kneecap and she winced. "I don't think there's anything broken," he said after a brief examination, "but you're going to have a hell of a bruise tomorrow and most likely some swelling. The knee's going to be stiff and painful for a while." He led us into the consulting room where he cleaned the knee with a liberal application of antiseptic, applied a large plaster and told the girl to rest the leg as much as possible. "Take a couple of aspirin when needed for the pain," he instructed, "and if it doesn't improve within a few days, go to A&E at the hospital to get it checked."

As we left the pharmacy I said: "You need to rest up for a while. My shop's just along here---come in and I'll make you some tea or coffee." It was my lunch-hour so I locked the shop door once we were inside.

I made sure she was comfortable in the back room, pulling out a low stool to support her leg, and when we were settled with our drinks I said: "Are you French?"

"Why do you ask?"

"When you fell you yelled 'merde!'. Now if I remember our snigger-behind-our-hands-schoolgirl French, 'merde' means 'shit'." She laughed softly and nodded when I said that. "Neither would many of the young women I know round here have been quite so polite after a fall like that," I continued, "and another odd thing ---you cursed in French but you don't have an accent."

She laughed again, a lovely friendly sound. "My father is French, my mother English," she explained, "I was born in France and brought up to be bilingual, virtually from babyhood. When I'm in France I sound French, when I'm here I sound English."

"A useful ability." Then I remembered my manners and held out my hand. "I'm Eleanor... Eleanor Montgomery."

She took my hand in hers which was smooth and warm and I felt a little tingle... well, I was going to say down below but in fact it was a head-to-toe tingle, although perhaps a little stronger down below. "Hello, Eleanor, and thank you for your kindness," she said, "I'm Simone Degas."

"I'm pleased to meet you, Simone. Degas? Is that like the painter?"

"Yes. No relation though. You know his work?"

"I think so," I replied, "Isn't he the one who painted all the ballerinas?"

"Oui. And so much more, not just ballerinas and musicians, oui, so much more. He painted a lot of lovely nude women, many of them getting in or getting out of a bath---so many that I wonder if baths were some kind of fetish with him."

"I'll have to look out for those," I said, "What brings you to Helmsford? Are you interested in the history."

Simone shrugged. "Partly, I suppose. Mainly, though, because my maternal grandparents came from round here and I wanted to remind myself where some of my heritage lies."

"Are they still in this area?"

"Non. My grandfather died several years ago and grand-mère now lives with my parents in France. Grandfather was quite a few years older than grand-mère." She looked around the shop with apparent interest. "So, are you the florist or are you an employee?"

"It's my business," I told her, "I do have an assistant called Jill here but it's her day off. I have interests in several other florist shops in nearby towns but I like to work here for preference."

"Quite a coincidence. My parents have several florist shops but they're very well off and want to retire early within the next year or so. I think they're hoping I'll take over but I'm not certain about that." She gave another of those little Gallic shrugs. "I do love flowers so it's a maybe. I've got enough time to think about it."

"What do you do now?"

"I'm an accountant," she said, "although I do find it a bit tedious at times. Some people just thrive on spreadsheets and columns of figures but generally I find them boring. We will see. Now, I have taken up too much of your time, Eleanor. It must be time for you to open your shop so I'll go now. Thank you for all you've done for me." She stood and winced suddenly as her injured leg took the weight.

"I think I'd better forget any sight-seeing. I'll go back to my hotel and rest. Would you kindly call me a taxi?"

"Of course," I said, picking up the phone, "Which hotel are you staying at?"

"The Malmsey Arms. You know it?"

I knew The Malmsey Arms. Several miles out of town and you didn't stay there if you were on a tight budget.

* * * * *

I went to the library after work and found a large book on Degas' work. Simone was right, he had painted many interesting nudes. Most of his models were in truly natural poses as though caught unawares. And I could see what Simone had meant about the baths. It looked as if Degas definitely had some kind of thing about them, a fixation if not exactly a fetish. There were so many others too: women shopping, milliners working, old men sitting and gossiping, racehorse meetings, readers in libraries, prostitutes waiting for clients, all of them like the nudes, apparently unaware of the artist's interest. To think I'd known nothing of these marvellous works---in school art-class we were told Degas painted dancers and it was left at that. I had Simone to thank for expanding my knowledge.

As for Simone, I thought I'd seen the last of her when I helped her into her taxi. A couple of days later, though, I had a phone call from her. I hadn't given her the shop number so I guess she'd picked up one of my business cards on the way out. "Eleanor, would you have dinner with me tomorrow night, here in my hotel? By way of a thank you for your recent kindness."

"I'd love to," I said.

"Bon." I had noticed when she was in the shop that despite her accent-free English, her conversation was peppered with the odd French word. "Shall we say seven-thirty? The hotel has a couple of courtesy cars, I'll get them to send one for you." I gave Simone my address and when we hung up I gave a little fist-pump in the air. "Yes!" I don't know why I suddenly became so excited at this stage. Simone was very attractive but for all I knew she was most likely straight. Still, a girl can dream.

Then came the age-old question of what to wear. An evening dress was a bit extravagant for dinner with a new friend: on the other hand The Malmsey Arms was not a place where you could get away with t-shirt and baseball cap. I rummaged through my wardrobe several times, finally opting for middle-of-the road, a flared dark-grey three-quarter-length skirt with a broad belt and white long-sleeved blouse fastened at the neck by a jet brooch. Leaving it to Jill to close the shop the next evening, I treated myself to a long, luxurious bath and finished by giving my more interesting bits tiny squirts of my favourite perfume. A touch of pale lipstick and... Not bad, kid, I told myself once I was dressed and checked myself out in the mirror. Five-seven in height with high cheekbones, slightly feline eyes ("I'm so jealous of those cheekbones and eyes," a cousin had once told me) and dark, stylishly tousled hair, I guess I could hold my own with most although it wasn't most I wanted to impress, just one.

The car arrived a little after seven, a luxury Mercedes driven by a very handsome young man who said his name was Mel. On the way to Simone's hotel I gleaned from him that he wasn't a chauffeur per se, it was simply that his manager thought him the best and safest staff driver they had. And he was a good driver, I felt totally safe with him as he guided the car through the twisting country roads. At the hotel, I was greeted at Reception by an equally handsome young chap with the name-tag Daniel. Now if I had been straight...

"Miss Montgomery, is it?" he smiled as he picked up the desk telephone. He could have been a good guesser but more likely he'd seen the car pull up. "Ma'amselle Degas, your guest is here."

A few minutes later the lift reached the ground floor, the door opened and Simone emerged. I think I gulped, although not visibly I hoped. I rushed to meet her, taking her hands in mine. "How is the knee?" She still limped a little but there was an obvious improvement. It wasn't that that made me gulp, however. Simone was just gorgeous. Her high-necked dress, about the same length as my skirt, was a very dark green which set off her auburn hair and she wore jade earrings. For the first time I noticed how small and elegantly-shaped her ears were. She squeezed my hands and kissed both my cheeks in the Continental fashion. "Enchanting perfume you are wearing, chérie," she said, adding: "Our table is booked for eight so an aperitif in the lounge?" She took my arm and we went through to the bar where we each had a dry sherry and talked. Among other things, I learned that Simone was eight months younger than I am.

It was the first time I'd been to The Malmsey Arms and I was impressed when we were escorted through to the dining room. There were tables for between two and six persons with white tablecloths that gleamed and silverware that glistened with light reflected from the room's several handsome chandeliers. I hadn't been put off by the hotel's costly reputation---with my very successful businesses I could easily afford it. It's just that it wasn't really a place to go by yourself---you needed someone special to share it with and I didn't have anyone special. I hoped that perhaps Simone saw me in that role.

The food lived up very well to reputation. For the main course I had herb-crusted wild salmon with asparagus and tiny baby potatoes sautéed in butter and black pepper while Simone had Dover sole. For dessert we both chose the champagne syllabub. Several times throughout the meal, Simone reached out to touch my hand. I wasn't sure whether she was simply being friendly or if there was something deeper there. Oh to have been born with perfect gaydar which I obviously wasn't.

We took coffee with liqueurs in the lounge and after several minutes chat Simone said: "I've enjoyed this evening so much, Eleanor, but I'm afraid it must be goodbye now. I'm returning to France tomorrow, catching a flight from the City Airport to Orley."