Blocked!

"I have not."

I considered for a moment; "Well, perhaps not, but call me darl...I mean...Christopher by all means."

"Thank you. Now, Christopher, shall I take a chance on you?"

"Chance?"

"You've got very little time to get a story in to Eros and Cupid and I think you need help."

"You're right about that."

"Your typing is terrible and you haven't run the spell and grammar checker yet."

"Well, it all happened so quickly."

"What did?"

"Wendy giving me...I mean...dashing the outline down."

She looked at me speculatively for a moment, then went on; "Suppose I stay and help you. You can dictate the story and I can type it. I'm very fast."

"I told you, I can't afford you."

"I'm not a prostitute Christopher; I'm not demanding cash up front and a condom. All I'm saying is I'm prepared to take a chance on you and your story. If we come up with something really good and it gets published, you can pay me then."

"That's very generous of you, but Eros and Cupid don't pay much and..."

"I know that, but I do freelance work for several publishers, and much better ones than Eros and Cupid. If the story is really good I might be able to use a bit of influence, you know, be persuasive."

"No!" I yelped, "I don't want you to...you know."

"I do know and I don't, and I think it's insulting of you to even think such a thing. I've a good mind to leave right now."

"No please, don't go, Wendy. I apologise. Just put it down to the bad company I usually keep."

"All right, Christopher, I accept your apology. Now, I shall need to arrange for a room, and by the way, you haven't eaten your lunch."

"Would you?" I asked.

Wendy looked at the soup and pulled a face. "Ugh, is this what you've been getting to eat?"

"Yes."

"Hmm, well I got to arrange for a room..."

"Wendy, you don't want to stop here, it's awful."

"Perhaps if we are stopping here together it will be less awful."

She had a point, and after the briefest consideration I decided that having such an attractive girl around would brighten up my life considerably.

"I'll see Mrs. McIntosh," Wendy said, and as if we had called up the devil the lady made her entrance.

She looked at the bowl of soup and grunted; "'Aven't eaten yer soup."

Wendy cut in; "Mrs. McIntosh, I shall be staying here to work with Mr. Dennis. I shall require room. We shall be working rather long and odd hours, so we shall require breakfast at nine o'clock, lunch at one and dinner I think at seven."

Mrs. McIntosh looked stunned; "But..."

"I shall discuss menus with you the day before and perhaps you will be good enough to provide us with an electric jug or kettle and the means for making tea and coffee, and... Oh yes, make sure fuel for the fire is brought in before we run out. I shall probably think of other things, but I'll come and see you shortly to discuss terms."

Mrs. McIntosh seemed to go into a sort of daze and muttered, "Yes Miss," and began to leave the room. Did I notice a bit of a stagger in that stately tread?"

"Oh, just one other thing while I think of it, Mrs.McIntosh," Wendy called after her. "I do prefer a bath to a shower, so I shall require some large soft bath towels please."

Mrs. McIntosh continued her now less than stately tread.

I slumped back in my chair, amazed. The "Take it or leave it" Mrs. McIntosh humbled.

"Well, that's settled," said Wendy with a seraphic smile, "Now, our working arrangements; I think it best if we work late and rise late in the morning. After breakfast an hour's walk – I think I saw a track going into the forest as I drove in – then work until lunch. After lunch we can discuss where we've got to so far, and then carry on. Does that sound all right?"

"Er...yes, I suppose so."

"Don't sound so enthusiastic, Christopher, you might burst a blood vessel."

"Sorry, it's just that I'm not used to being so orderly."

"I can imagine," she replied. "Well, we're about to change all that. Now just let me go over the notes again and put them in some sort of order, then we can go ahead. Go and have a nap or a walk for an hour."

Christopher Dennis also humbled. I chose the nap.

Chapter 7. I Begin Again.

From that moment onward a number of things became obvious. First, when I returned to the dining room Wendy had tidied up the notes and there were printed sheets for my inspection. Second, the cuisine improved far beyond my expectations. Third, Mrs. McIntosh addressed us as "Sir" and "Miss". Fourth, there was always plenty of fuel for the fire to hand. Fifth, the story began to flow and I worked at a speed I had never experienced before.

I had thought it would be delightful to work with such a lovely companion as Wendy, but this brought its own problems.

To explain: I had seen and copulated with girls I thought attractive before. The trouble was, after a while they looked less attractive than my sexual craving had made them in the first place. I began to notice things like a wart on the back of the neck, blackheads round the nose, pimples on the forehead; things like that. With Wendy no such disillusion occurred. If anything she seemed to get lovelier.

So you no doubt see my problem. Deprived of sexual gratification yet in the presence of a very desirable specimen of the female gender, I got more and more frustrated. With most other females, and given the situation, I would no doubt have made a direct sexual approach. With Wendy I got the impression that such an approach would not only be unsuccessful, but might lead to her departure.

One day as I - I should say "we" – developed the story from the rough notes Wendy stopped typing and laughed.

"You know, Christopher", she said, "This is almost my story."

I felt a bit threatened by this comment as I had to admit to myself that she was having a big hand in writing it; constantly throwing up ideas when I got stuck, suggesting rephrasing, and generally helping me along.

"If you want to have your name along with mine on the cover, I suppose you're entitled," I said, not very nicely.

"No, no, I didn't mean that," she said in a placatory manner; "I meant what is happening to the Wendy in the story is a bit like something that happened to me."

"Oh, in what way?"

She gave another laugh; "I had two men in love with me once. Not a Duke or an athlete though."

I felt a pang of jealousy spear through me. "What were they then?"

She sat back in her chair and looked into space for a moment, then went on in a dreamy sort of voice; "One was a successful publisher I was working for. He promised me a heaven on earth if I would let him be my lover. The other one was an arrogant young salesman who thought he was irresistible to woman."

The pang of jealousy got even more painful. "Which one did you choose, or did you take them both?"

She turned to look at me, anger flaring in her eyes, and said very slowly and deliberately; "If you really want to know, I told the publisher to stick with his wife and four kids, and the salesman to bugger off. He was so far up himself it's a wonder he didn't disappear up his own fundamental orifice. The publisher stuck with his wife and the salesman joined the navy. And here's something I'd like you to know, I'm bloody angry with you, Christopher. You were quite right about the bad company you've been keeping, but now I'm asking you very nicely not to include me among that company. Have I made myself clear?"

I was mortified and tried to make amends, but only succeeding in making it worse.

"I'm sorry," I said contritely, "It's just that the girls I've known would've, you know... would've..."

"Yes, I'm sure they would, Christopher. I'm not a bloody fool. I know quite well you'd like me to be the Wendy in the book so that you could stand by the bed looking down at my 'lovely and unsullied body'. My God that's a corny line, we'd better revise that. Well, I'm not the Wendy in the story, neither am I one of your girl friends. The only man who will look at me lying naked on a bed is one who can see something more in me than a sex organ, and has some respect for what he sees. In other words, someone who will value me for more than my cunt, if I must put it crudely; get my point?"

"Yes, Wendy. I really am sorry."

For once I really was sorry. I silently excused myself by acknowledging that the only other woman I had knowingly met who took the same stand as Wendy was my mother, but as much as I loved her, I had done the usual teenage thing and rebelled against her principles. Being fronted by a girl about the same age as my self still holding the old values was somewhat unexpected and awe-inspiring.

"All right, Christopher, just so long as we understand each other. So let's get on, shall we?"

"Yes, Wendy," the humiliated self muttered.

For the next half hour I managed to not think of Wendy as a sexual being and focused on her skills as a typist and an editor, because that was what she was doing, editing the story as we went along.

Her constant proximity, however, took its toll. I found it nigh on impossible to not feel sexually drawn to her, despite my acknowledgement of her other many qualities.

Had Wendy continued to treat me coldly after our confrontation, it might have made things easier. The trouble was, she did not seem to be able to hold a grudge and quickly returned to her warm and friendly, if dominating, self.

At one stage I tried a little ploy. There are some people I love to hate. People who have looks, intelligence, physical prowess and sparkling personalities; what I think of as "people who've got the lot." I tried putting Wendy into that category. It didn't work. She had "the lot," or almost, but my trying to dislike her only made things worse. It made me concentrate on all the good things about her, and she became even more desirable.

To counter this, I tried to focus on what I felt were negative things about her. All I could come up with was her tendency to dominate. Even this didn't work because I realised that her dominating manner was leading me to write better than I ever had before.

I finally gave up and allowed myself to bask in her presence and put up with the sexual frustration.

Chapter 8. A Monetary Crisis.

At the end of two weeks the novel was still not finished despite the mighty effort we had made. My time to get the work to Eros and Cupid had run out, and to add to my woes, my money had run out with it.

One evening I had to tell Wendy that I couldn't stay at Mountain Hideaway after the end of the week. She nodded but said nothing.

Two days later she said that we would have to cancel the morning walk and work because she had something to do in Wingalila Creek. Without saying anything further she went to her car and set out for Wingalila.

She was gone for three hours and I tried to make some progress on the computer, but having got so used to Wendy being there, I got little further ahead.

When she returned Wendy announced baldly; "I've just given Mrs. McIntosh our board money for the coming week. If we need to I can manage another two weeks after that."

Humiliation heaped on humiliation. "But you can't Wendy! I won't let you pay for me; and anyway, where did you get the money?"

"I made a few telephone calls to people who owe me money for work I've done for them. Asked them to forward the money to the Wingalila Creek Post Office; three of them came up with the goods; I'll catch up with the others when I get back to town," she said with a glint in her eyes.

"But I won't be able to repay you," I protested.

"I'm not really a gambler," she answered, "but I'm gambling on you and this novel. You can repay me when you're back in funds."

I was overwhelmed and said, "I don't know what to say, Wendy."

"Try 'Thank you'," she said, smiling.

I wanted to hug and kiss her, but having been given my warning I restrained myself and said, "It was a lovely and generous thing for you to do, thank you."

We continued the work, but now at a more leisurely pace. We could forget about Eros and Cupid since my deadline with them had passed. It was now a case of coming up with the best possible work to try and lure another publisher.

Now if you will excuse me, I must sidetrack.

Chapter 9. What is this Thing Called Love?

As you may have worked out for yourself, my previous experiences with women, apart from my mother, had been of a somewhat superficial nature. I might, for example, mutter something about loving them when I got horny over some girl, but when I'd had my wicked way with her I usually felt a slight revulsion.

I'd used the word love in some of my previous stories, but the context was about as superficial as my use of the word in real life. In short, I hadn't really known what it was to be "in love" as opposed to being "in lust." Love, I thought, belonged to the realm of stupid people's castles in the air. It was a feeling or state that did not really exist.

To my horror I was now starting to feel what I can now only describe as "love" for Wendy.

Of course, I tried to persuade myself it was only lust and the sexual deprivation I was feeling, but whatever way I described it, the condition was serious. I couldn't eat or sleep properly. I wanted to constantly be in Wendy's company. To be apart from her even for half an hour was misery.

I'm a fairly hefty sort of bloke, but when I started to feel as pale and wan as a flower sniffing poet, I got really worried.

Chapter 10. The End in Sight.

Wendy noticed the changes in me and commented; "Christopher, you're not eating properly and looking rather pallid, aren't you feeling well?"

"Just a slight touch of cancer," I replied feebly, trying to make a sick joke.

"Are we going ahead with the book too fast, is that it?"

"No...no...I'll be okay."

"I'll have a word with Mrs. McIntosh," she said;"See if we can do something about your diet."

"No, no, it's okay."

Never the less she did see Mrs. McIntosh, and next day items like calves foot jelly came onto the menu. It didn't help.

Dear God, here I was, trapped at last by the thing I didn't think existed. I was deeply in love with Wendy, overwhelmed, besotted; a helpless gibbering idiot. I was drifting around like a desolate wraith.

How we managed to finish the novel I have never been sure, but as we drew towards its conclusion a new debilitating terror weighed down upon me; Wendy and I would part company.

When the last paragraph had been typed and all had been saved to floppy discs and also printed, I tried to give some expression of how I was feeling, but in a roundabout way.

"I'm deeply grateful to you for your wonderful help, Wendy, "I began. "If only I could afford to employ you all the time...we make such a great team."

"Yes," she said quietly, "I've had a number of authors say the same thing."

The spear of jealousy was more agonising than ever.

"They've been in...I mean...they've appreciated you as much as I have?"

"Yes, although I've never been in a situation like this before, semi-isolated and with a deadline that we failed to meet."

Her mention of isolation brought me to the realisation that I had hardly noticed being isolated with Wendy around, and even the house had not seemed so ugly. It was as if her presence brought a touch of grace to everything around her.

As it had to, the hour of departure arrived.

Mrs. McIntosh, a transformed woman, told us we had been wonderful guests and hoped to have the pleasure of our custom again. We packed up and loaded our cars. Wendy had promised to try and arrange interviews for me with various publishers and she would telephone me about arrangements.

I promised to pay her the first moment I got some money that in fact would be the miserly sums Eros and Cupid would still have to dribble out to me for my past work.

As we prepared to get into our cars Wendy kissed me on the cheek and said, "It's been fun, Christopher."

I watched her get into the car, start the engine, and begin to move off.

The demon in me came roaring to the surface and I yelled, "I love you Wendy."

Her car jerked to a halt. The driver's side window was partially open, and now it was opened fully. Wendy looked out at me for a full half minute, and then said, "I heard that Christopher. I'll be in touch." She drove away.

Our cars had been drawn up near the front door of the house and Mrs. McIntosh had been standing on the steps to see us off, or to make sure we didn't get away with the silver.

In a return to her laconic mood she said, "Marry 'er. Best thing that'll ever 'appen to yer."

She turned and disappeared into the house.

Chapter 11. Back at the Flat.

I got into the Volks a thoroughly mixed up Christopher and began the journey back to the city.

"Marriage!" I thought, "Not bloody likely; that went out with the dinosaurs. A 'relationship', yes, by all means, then if the fire died down I could...but then, so could she. My God, supposing I still...and she...?"

To quote from something I can't remember, "I'll think about that tomorrow."

Getting back to the flat Ivor was still at work. I saw no visible signs of damage around the place and nothing seemed to be missing. There were several letters waiting for me, including a couple of miserable cheques from Eros and Cupid. There was also a letter from them which I shall quote verbatim:

Sweetheart,

Dear Eros and I have decided that we need to terminate your contract with us. Don't go to law, darling, until you read the very fine print at the bottom of your copy.

As much as we have treasured your presence among us, I must point out that we depend just a teeny bit on literary turnover if you see what I mean. Your turnover of late has been less than satisfactory.

So, Sweetie, it's a sad goodbye.

We are constrained to continue to pay you royalties on the sale of your works, but I am sure that will soon tail off.

May we wish you an absolutely fabulosa future, but I fear our wish will be in vain.

Farewell my Treasure.

Lucretius Cupid.

"Bastards," I thought, but realised there was nothing I could do. Either Wendy could come up with the goods, or an unskilled future seemed to lie ahead.

The bank was still open so I paid in the cheques and drew out the lousy bit of cash that was available to me.

"Better see Social Services tomorrow," I thought, "Declare myself to be unemployed; probably unemployable as well," I thought gloomily.

As so often happens in such situations, when you're strapped for money more people than ever seem to be creditors.

"When Ivor got home the first thing he said was, "You owe me your share of three weeks rent." I stumped up and counted what was left. "Couldn't even buy a packet of arsenic to kill myself with," I concluded.

Ivor, having got the money, became very matey and asked how I had enjoyed my stay at Mountain Hideaway.

I was in no mood to be nice to him, so I told him to "piss off." He shrugged and pissed off to his room.

Following his example I crept to my room and flopped down on the bed. I had one printed copy of my novel so for about the hundredth time I started to reread it. I failed to get past the first couple of pages because I drifted off to sleep.

I dreamed but this time when I awoke I knew it had been a dream. No apparitional Wendy, but a dream Wendy who stood before me saying, "You see darling, I said it would be good." The only trouble was I couldn't work out which of the Wendy's it was.

"Who bloody cares," I thought, and then the nasty thought of how much money I owed the real Wendy came to mind. I felt sick. How the hell was I ever going to repay her?

I did some adding up, and with what she had given Mrs. McIntosh and the money I owed her for her work it came to about eight hundred dollars.

When later Ivor and I came face to face I got all placatory and apologised for my behaviour, and then asked if he could lend me a thousand dollars."