Fran

Fran

Francesca's G reg Ford Fiesta nearly reversed into a row of trolleys. Maneuvering with more attention, she backed into an alternative space, across the aisle of the supermarket carpark.

"Daydreaming!" she chastised herself.

She couldn't stop thinking about Carl. It was as well this was a Saturday, so she wouldn't be seeing him again till Monday at work.

"And as for you, Fifi." she muttered to the car. "You don't want to go bumping into things. It's your MOT test next month, so you need to be on top form. You're ten years old now and need to be more careful!"

The engine over-ran and shuddered as she turned it off.

Carl Stevenson had recently arrived at her company. Blackstones had bought the derelict land adjacent to their office block and were building a new head office there. Their current location would be turned into a leisure area. There would be a coffee shop, a running track and an outlet shop where customers could buy their goods at discount. Carl had been brought in from London as project manager and would be working in the existing head office for the next eighteen months. He'd been allocated a workstation in Francesca's department and she sometimes carried out secretarial duties for him. Blackstones were paying his rent in a small place nearby. He was a handsome distraction, and the girls in her department were fussing around him; even the married ones. She shook herself, gathered her thoughts, and headed into PriceSmart. A passing black cloud turned the carpark grey.

She was most of the way to the far side of the store, and her trolley was full. She didn't particularly like shopping, so this load should last a week - probably two. There was only her and her daughter after all; her ex had long gone. Before Isabella had reached eighteen, he'd divorced Francesca, and disappeared to South Africa. Then he'd stopped all the maintenance payments. He hadn't even sent his daughter an eighteenth birthday card. So buying in bulk and making it last, was just being sensible. Less spent on petrol with supermarket trips. And the Fiesta had seen better days.

Francesca stopped in her tracks; she'd forgotten the potatoes and they were all the way back near the entrance. She finished loading the last items into the trolley, and went back. Now she was standing there with a five pound bag, and knew it should have gone on the bottom. It could crush the more delicate items on top, starting with the eggs. There was a metal ledge below the carrying space, so she put it there. Satisfied she had everything, she swung round to go to the check-out and nudged against a man in overalls. He was stacking packets of chili con carne mix. They slid gracefully out of the box he was holding, and scattered half way along the aisle.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" she said. "I was daydreaming again."

These storeroom workers did a thankless job, and didn't get paid very much. Francesca was expecting an unpleasant response from him; surly at best.

"No harm done, miss. I'll soon have them back in place."

She rather liked the 'miss'. Squatting beside him, she helped pick them up. Then rose to her feet too quickly, and swayed. He grabbed one arm to support her and her other hand clutched at the trolley.

"Oops, steady." he said. "You got up too quckly."

Her head cleared and Francesca looked at the man. His trainers were probably cheap market rip-offs rather than genuine Nike. And his grey work uniform had the company logo on the top pocket, but no name. Supermarket status presumably; customers might like to check the name tags of check-out staff, but who would be bothered to speak to the back room boys?

He was good-looking in a rugged kind of way. His brown hair was unfashionably long, and he was rather too bristly around the chin for her taste. George Michael had a lot to answer for. She often played a mental game with strangers, trying to guess what kind of car they drove. She had this guy down for a motorbike; probably an old Harley. His hand on her upper arm hinted at muscles beyond, and his knuckles were touching her breast. He caught her eye and dropped it.

"You ok?"

"I'm fine. Got up too quickly, as you said."

In the check-out queue, her mind was wandering again.

"You're on!" said the woman in front, removing the 'Next Customer' wedge.

Francesca put her purchases onto the conveyor belt, on autopilot. She wondered what Carl's hand would feel like against one breast. More than just knuckles... more than one breast perhaps. As she loaded everything back into the trolley, she picked up a packet.

"What's this?"

"Colman's chili con carne mix, madam." said the girl on the cash register.

"I can see that!" Francesca replied, irritated. "I mean who put it in there?"

There was a collective sigh of frustration from the shoppers further down the line. This was going to slow them down.

"Well I rather imagined you did. It's your trolley, and I've rung it up now."

"My fault entirely." said a voice at her shoulder.

There was a collective sigh of relief... salvation! A hero in grey had come to the rescue. He picked up the chili mix and looked at the check-out girl.

"You can void this Molly." he said. "I must have dropped it in the lady's trolley accidentally, and have been looking for it. I knew I was one short."

He grinned at Francesca and looked down. She followed his gaze and spotted the potatoes.

"Did you pay for them?" he whispered.

"No, sorry!" she whispered back.

He picked them up and passed them to Molly.

"And add these to the total. My fault again; I moved them to the lower ledge when I helped the lady repack."

Molly looked sullen.

"I'll have to issue a new receipt now Bob." she whined.

"Then do so."

There was a somewhat harder edge to his politeness now; rather at odds with his status. And a feeling in the queue that their irritation had transferred from Francesca to Molly.

"Thank you so much." she said, arriving at the exit doors. "I was going to pay for those potatoes, honestly. I just forgot I'd put them there."

"No problem. I've done the same thing myself."

"You're very polite, but I don't believe that for one moment. Good timing, you coming to my rescue like that."

"Bad timing with the weather though." he said. "That thunderstorm they promised has arrived."

Right on cue, there was a flash of lightning and the heavens opened. A second later, a huge boom of thunder. There would be times in the future when Francesca would remember this moment in detail. Their meeting - well second meeting - accompanied by lightning and 'B' movie sound effects.

"Got an umbrella?" he asked.

"No. I suppose my hero is going to whip one out of mid-air and walk me to my car... sorry, that sounded rude."

He laughed.

"I'm on a break now. Why not come to our coffee shop? The forecast says this will pass soon."

There was plenty of space round the tables. People kept their trolleys close.

"Looks like an airport doesn't it?" he said.

"How do you mean?"

"People drinking coffee and keeping their luggage next to the table. Hoping to get away soon."

"I suppose it does." Francesca laughed.

She was surprised a shelf stacker had ever been to an airport. Then admonished herself for being such a snob. She'd only flown twice herself.

There was the usual half-hearted argument about who should pay. But Bob said there were three reasons why it should be him. The first two were: he had invited her, and he got a staff discount. She found him entertaining and was comfortable in his company. There was one last moment of slight embarrassment as they were about to leave.

"Is there some reason you don't want to tell me your name?" he asked. "You know I'm Bob. Bob Rice actually."

"Sorry!" she said. "Of course not. I'm Francesca."

"Lovely name."

The moment passed and she diffused thiings by holding out her hand. He grinned at her pink face and shook it. His grip was firm, but not crushing. Their contact was a second or two longer than necessary. She felt a tingle. The rain cleared and he did indeed come and help her pack the groceries into the car.

"You should have parked nose-in." he said.

"I was always told to reverse into carpark spaces."

"Usually, yes. But at the supermarket, it's easier to fill the boot, if it's on the outside."

It hadn't occurred to her.

"Leave the trolley Fran. I'll return it."

She paused with her key in the lock.

"You're the one who suggested going for a coffee, and you're the one who gets a discount." she said. "So what was the third reason you should pay?"

"I'm so glad you asked." he replied. "I was hoping you might pay next time."

He really did have a lovely smile, and completely lacked any embarrassment for blatantly asking her for a date. Albeit just a supermarket coffee. She liked him.

"Next time? I might do just that Bob. Though I doubt if I'll be shopping next weekend."

He passed her a flier.

"Special introductory offer on our own brand of white wine next week. My phone number is on the bottom. You know, in case you're passing this way, and need a caffeine fix."

"You're very forward!"

"Not usually, but you're very beautiful!"

She couldn't think of a reply to that.

"If I do see you again; it's Francesca - not Fran."

"Sure."

"Wow, you bought a lot of stuff!" said Isabella, helping her mum put away the groceries. "Won the lottery?"

"Far from it. We need to cut back a bit, so I'm chopping out some supermarket trips. And Fifi's sounding odd."

"That bad, is it?"

"Not yet, but we need to be careful."

"Hence the one ton bag of spuds!" said Isabella. "I can hardly lift them!"

"It's only a five pound bag love, and they're very nutritious and filling."

"But I don't want to be full; I want to be thin!"

"Well you're livng with the right mum then!"

All packed away, Isabella folded the supermarket bags, for re-use, while Francesca put the kettle on.

"What's this?" she said pulling out a leaflet.

"It's a flier about next week's wine offer. It's Italian so, if I'm feeling flush, we might splash out and buy a bottle."

"I mean the phone number."

"Oh, nothing."

"Mother! I've lived with you all my life. Who's phone number? It's a man isn't it? And about time too!"

They sat at the kitchen table with their tea, and Francesca told her about the encounter, and the coffee that followed.

"So our hero's name is Bob. Did he have a bristly chin, and lots of muscles?"

Francesca was shocked at her daughter's insight.

"He did have that unshaven look, now you come to mention it. As for his muscles - I never saw them."

"Well perhaps you should see him again soon. Get another caffeine fix!"

(This was getting uncanny.)

"I doubt if I'll be able to find him love. I think he's out in the storeroom most of the time."

"No problem. That's what his phone number's for."

Isabella handed back the flier and told her mum to keep it.

Monday at work, Carl stopped by Francesca's desk.

"Sorry to bother you, but it's my birthday."

She looked up at him - another tingle - what a good start to the week. Her heart started beating faster.

"Oh, happy birthday."

"Thanks. But I've just heard that those celebrating usually buy the department cream cakes."

"They do."

"So, could you please tell me where the best cake shop is? I'll try to nip out at lunchtime."

This was too good to miss.

"Look, I'm not exactly snowed under with work. I'll go and get them for you. I'm familiar with the local supermarket, and they have a good selection."

"Oh, would you? That's so considerate. I'm rushed off my feet to be honest. Will twenty pounds cover it?"

"Plenty. I'll make it up with some apples. There's always those who claim they're on a diet."

"Great. Keep any change for your petrol expenses."

Francesca sent a message to Bob saying she'd be in briefly at lunchtime, buying office supplies, and told him she was up for a coffee if he could get away. He replied immediately saying he'd watch out for her. On her way, she thought she might have enough left over from Carl's cash, to buy the two coffees. She felt a twinge of guilt at that, but times were tough. She pulled into a parking slot nose first; then smiled. No need to access the boot with a couple of bags of cakes. But this would be her new habit. The car did an alarming shudder as it stopped, and seemed to cough. That was worrying. She was about to start it up again but chickened out. Bad news now would mar her trip.

Bob appeared at the check-out again, and they walked to the coffee shop. He laughed when he saw what she'd bought.

"So these are office supplies aes they Fran? I hope you're going to share them with your staff."

('My staff? Does he think I'm a manager?')

"Yes, they're for the whole office." she explained. "It's traditional on someone's birthday. But I prefer the full Francesca, if you don't mind."

"Sorry."

When they'd finished, Francesca cleared her throat.

"Sorry, I know this is a bit of a cheek." she said. "But would you mind having a quick look at my car? It gave a horrible lurch as I parked."

"Delighted to. Please excuse me a moment, before we leave."

Bob left the table and Francesca thought: 'Please excuse me a moment'. Not, 'I need a pee.' Or that awful contrived expression 'I need to use the facilities'. He really was polite.

At the Fiesta, he started the engine. It needed two attempts, and sounded lumpy for a few revs, and stopped.

"That's not going to get you back to work." he said. "Don't worry, I know the lads in our garage bay. They keep our trucks on the road, so I'm sure they can fix this."

"Really? That's very kind of you. I'll go and call for a taxi."

"No need Fran. I'll run you back. Wait here."

He trotted off across the carpark. 'Fran' again. Her family was Italian, and set great store by full names. She'd once seen Isabella slap a boy's face, for calling her Izzie. An old Japanese car pulled up. Not a motorbike then.

"Hop in!"

They arrived in her company's carpark and he handed her an envelope.

"What's this?" Francesca asked.

"A card. Happy birthday."

There was a pause.

"Thanks but..."

She had to tell him. Everything would get far too complicated if if he didn't know the truth.

"I'm sorry Bob. It isn't my birthday. The cakes are for someone else."

"Oh. Never mind, give it to her then. Tell her it's from a secret admirer - that'll be fun!"

Carl was delighted with her cake efforts and happy to tell her so. After she finished her sandwiches, he appeared at her desk with a cup of coffee. If she was honest, she'd had enough for one day, but thanked him anyway. Later, he said: "I feel I owe you Francesca. I'd like to take you to dinner one evening."

"Dinner?" Her heart leapt; and he was getting her name right. "Just for a few cakes, bought with your own money?"

"Well I would like to. But say no, if you think I'm being inappropriate."

Later she realised that was a clever response. To turn him down would be akin to saying he was somehow breaching office rules. She agreed that she'd let him know.

As she left work, there was Bob, waiting in reception.

"Sorry I didn't have time to call you Fran. The guys just told me your car won't be ready till tomorrow lunch time. They've had to order some parts. I'll bring it round here tomorrow afternoon."

She winced at the 'Fran'.

"So you came to tell me in person?"

"No, I came to give you a lift home."

"Oh, I..."

"You already have a ride?"

"No. A lift home would be most welcome."

They arrived at her house. This felt bizarre. No male on the horizon for such a long time, then two turn up at once; like the joke about London buses. Neither one of the men was aware of the other. But if it were a competition, Carl had the financial status and always got her name right. Bob had the enthusiasm and the smile. And was helpful of course, asking nothing in return. So far anyway.

"Do you need a lift in the morning?" he asked.

"No thanks, it's sorted."

"OK." he said, cheerfully. "I'll bring your Fiesta round when it's done."

He was so considerate.

"Bob, I know this sounds petty, but would you please call me Francesca. I don't like the name Fran."

"Sorry, I forgot. You did tell me before."

"Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"

"That would be nice - Francesca." he emphasised.

They went in and he sat at the table, while she busied herself with kettle and cups. Isabella waltzed in.

"Mum, did you wash my black... oh!"

She was only wearing tiny black panties - pubes peeping round the sides - and a pair of old slippers.

"Bra?" Bob asked, grinning.

"Shit! I didn't know we had company. I'm so sorry."

She grabbed a tea towel and covered herself.

"Without wishing to embarrass you further; don't apologise on my account. You are the highlight of my week."

It should have come across as crude, but somehow he carried it off. Isabella spun round and walked out. Bob thought the panties looked just as good from the back.

Later, Francesca saw him to the door. She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek, and said thanks. So, if it was a competition, Bob was now in the lead.

"Cool car." said the now clothed Isabella. "I saw it from my bedroom window."

"Did you think so? I thought it looked garish."

"Was it comfortable?"

"He's put those little bucket seats in, but it was fine. Could do without the fancy go-faster stripes though, they just make it look even older. Only someone with a heap like that would tart it up so much."

"That was a matte black bonnet mum. Go-faster stripes are down the sides."

"Whatever. He's a boy racer at heart. He's even stuck one of those wing things on the back, to make it look like a racing car. God, it's even older than our Fiesta."

"Well I liked it. I liked him to. You should cultivate him. Whatever he drives, he seems capable of keeping it in good order. And he obviously fancies you."

"You saw much on such a fleeting visit. Are you sure it wasn't your topless charms that he fancied?"

"Mum! You know that was an accident. I thought he behaved very well."

"Only joking, yes he did. But he must be in his thirties he's still only a shelf stacker."

"Oh, is he?"

"Yes. And I know it shouldn't make any difference, but I've got the big four-oh looming soon. If I get involved with another man Isabella, I'd prefer someone more than solvent than us."

"Fair enough."

Francesca got the message next morning.

'Fiesta all fixed, can drop it off any time. Fancy lunch?'

She thought the kiss on the cheek was far enough.

'Sorry, too busy.'

'OK. I'll leave the keys at reception.'

She spotted him from the third floor window. He parked her car and walked into the office. She waited till he'd gone before retrieving the keys. She couldn't resist checking it. The first thing she noticed was the smell of polish. It must have been valet cleaned. It was immaculate inside and out. She turned the engine over and it hummed like new. Then she noticed the post-it note on the steering wheel.

'Had all its necessary checks. Put it in for its MOT test any time. It will pass. Bob. X'

Back at her desk, Carl stopped by.

"How about Saturday evening for that dinner?"

"Thanks Carl, but it really seems too much."

"Oh please Francesca. I'm going to be here more than a year, and I hardly know a soul. And weekends are the worst. I'm renting a little two-bed place on that Greenwood estate - not really my kind of people. I don't often get back to London. Forget the cakes; you'd be doing me a favour."

"Saturday it is then." she said.

This could be it; her first proper date in years. And Carl was certainly handsome. She couldn't afford a new dress, but might manage some underwear. She was on cloud nine for the next couple of hours; then Bob called.