Guess Who Just Got Ditched Today

And I had other irons in the fire too.

Being basically faithful, an extra month to go or not, I somehow controlled Fervent Dave and ignored that bloody persuasive red devil. Far as I was concerned we could all of us wait: me, new lovers-to-be and old flames alike.

Waiting only added to the experience, no?

And please don't think I wanted rid of Kat. Far from it, I wanted her to stay. But she wouldn't ever stay so it was going to be back to the good life for me.

Not that I had any inclination to be "good" while she was away. Okay, so maybe "good in bed", but not in spirit. No, not good in spirit at all.

*****

Three weeks before Departure Day I was doing a routine visit to our branch in Guiseley, not a million miles from Head Office and closer still to Leeds/Bradford Airport. In explanation there was utterly no reason for me to be there. Eighty per cent of Legacy fixes could be done remotely. Ninety-seven per cent of Replacement fixes would be fixed automatically, long before anyone even noticed there was a problem (allegedly), but our North England Division sales director was old school. He was the original people-person and wanted to see "feet on the ground".

Consequently, and because he was next in line for overall Sales Director and possibly a future CEO, we humoured him and regularly visited all of the branches in his division. And if that sounds like crap politics, don't blame me. Personally I'd have told the bastard to eff off. Leaving four other divisions to wait for a big mishap, spoiling his with monthly check-ups . . .

Don't get me going!

Done with checking perfectly fine connections and twenty brand new "Replacement System" keypads, I said my farewells and sat a moment in Maxine 2 on the car park, sipping now and then from a bottle of water and wondering why I'd paid a pound for something that came free out of a tap.

Then my work mobile rang.

That was never good news . . . unless you thought of the overtime and mileage expenses.

Neutral about the outcome, I answered the call.

'Hi mate,' said Ritchie, one of my old techie muckers, 'how far are you from Warwick?'

Warwick was a relatively new branch and I'd only the vaguest idea. 'I'm at White Cross,' I said, 'you tell me.'

'Three and a half hours away in heavy traffic, according to Google,' he told me cheerfully. 'You'd best be on your way.'

He proceeded to describe the problem I'd find when I got there. It sounded very familiar. When I rang off I stayed on the Guiseley branch car park and rang Warwick. Two minutes' chat with the main man there and I was convinced I knew the root of the problem.

That flipping unbreakable component had broken again!

Taking the gamble, I rang my contact at the component's help desk.

'Hiya babe,' I began, 'it's me. Guess who's rattling your cage.'

My contact was known as Sinead and was based in Dublin. Over two or three years of telephonic chat we had carved out a flirty relationship of sorts. By then I knew she'd ditched her most recent boyfriend and wanted nothing more to do with "bastard men". For her part she knew I lived with a girl who would soon be deserting me . . . yet again.

Trust me, Sinead didn't just have a lilting voice, she had a quick brain and a mouth to match.

If only I knew what she looked like!

I'd asked for a selfie and she sent me a snap of a twenty-year-old Brigitte Bardot. Responding in kind, I sent her a snap of Velma, minus her glasses and obviously yelling "I can't see without my glasses!" Sinead's next, and as of then her latest offering, had been an image of Raquel Welch in One Million Years BC.

Call me a sceptic, but I doubt cave-girls a million years ago were anywhere near as well-presented as Raquel was in that film!

Playing the game, carrying it on a step farther, I'd sent Sinead a shot of a gold star porn actress with a far better chest than I'd ever have . . . meaning she'd compare favourably with anyone, never mind a girl without any sort of chest at all.

Frozen as the shot was, the porn star was clearly tribbing a grateful girl hard.

"Possibilities," I'd put as an aside.

"Crazy dreams," Sinead had replied.

But she'd never once said no.

Since those exchanges we'd dropped visual in favour of verbal. Disloyal or not, I kept on promising to visit when "the Kat's away" and she kept on softly chuckling and encouraging me.

'So what's the deal this time?' she asked, tongue in cheek. 'What assurances are you going to give to me before breaking my heart?'

I didn't know much about breaking hearts but that accent of hers melted mine.

'I do need your assistance . . .' I began.

'Don't tell me. A quick grope in my knickers and off into the sunset.'

That was more graphic than usual. Usually we were much more oblique. Seizing the opportunity, I laid down the winning hand.

'A quick grope is so naff,' said I. 'And I don't do sunsets. Do you fancy the first week in September?'

'Doing what? Surely you're not going to finally visit my fair city.'

'Not this time. I'm asking if you'd like to go abroad with me. I've got a fortnight off and the first week is set up for Lanzarote. Sea, sun, sand, sex and sangria; the old formula's always a good one, isn't it?'

For once Sinead sounded unsure of herself. 'We've never even met,' she murmured.

'That only adds to the occasion, doesn't it? And I forgot to tell you: the accommodation is free. It's my dad's timeshare. All you need is air fare and cash for beer and food.'

'Hmmm,' went Sinead, 'my cousin happens to work for an airline . . .'

Chapter Four

I arrived at the branch late-afternoon and breathed a sigh of relief when I confirmed the "unbreakable" component was at fault. The signs had all been there but, if by some mischance something else was to blame, I'd have screwed up big time.

And I'd have pissed off Sinead. That would have been the last thing I needed.

Speak of the devil; she rang back as I was climbing into Maxine 2.

'I've carefully considered your offer,' she said, 'and I gladly accept. Please accept my apologies for not biting your hand off as soon as you asked.'

'The answer's the right one so who cares,' said I, silently punching the air at her decision.

'I've booked off the same fortnight as you,' she went on.

'But I've only got the timeshare for a week . . .'

'Shush, listen and learn,' Sinead cut in. 'I also spoke to my cousin at the airline company. He can do us discounted tickets on separate planes there. He can also do us a pair of seats back to Dublin. And then he can do you a ticket back to Leeds-Bradford a week later. Look on your personal phone. I've sent his quote.'

I checked it out and whistled. 'I've paid more for one single flight there and back. Lots more, come to that.'

'For sure girl, it's not what you know . . .' Sinead laughed. 'And it's the only sure way I can think of to get you to visit Dublin. Are you up for it?'

'You bet I am.' I hesitated. 'Where will I sleep on the banks of the Liffey?'

'We'll share my double-bed; where will we sleep in Puerto Del Carmen?'

'There are two bedrooms with twin beds. We can rotate if you like, sharing different singles.'

She laughed again. 'Seven nights means one poor bed is going to get short-changed.'

'We'll have siestas as well. Going to bed won't just be a seven times thing. I'll make sure every bed is given its fair share.'

'Jesus girl, you've got me persuaded. Are you okay to pay for your flights online?'

Too right I was. The quote split the charge fifty-fifty, even though I'd have three flights to Sinead's two. Not that she was missing out. All told she would have paid more for a train from Leeds to London.

'I'll pay it here and now,' I assured her.

'Then so will I.' Still more laughter. 'Haven't you looked at my attachment yet?'

I'd noticed it but had been more interested in the flight prices.

'It's a picture of me,' she added, 'the real me, not the fantasy figure of my dreams.'

I hastily opened it and nearly died. The image was of an exceptionally shapely woman in a bikini as she emerged from the sea. What can I say? She had long, dark red hair, beautiful bright green eyes and tits that leapt out and slapped my face.

'Is this really you?' I asked, wondering if it was some other cinema superstar I'd somehow never seen before.

'Yep, that's the real me. Are you still on for the full fortnight?'

'Cancel my flight home,' I said in response. 'I'm staying in Dublin forever.'

*****

Still in Maxine 2, still on the Warwick branch car park, I went onto the airline company's website and, after converting the quote into an invoice, paid direct out of my bank account. Then, after five minutes drooling over Sinead's attachment, I decided I needed to respond in kind.

As if I could ever look half as good as she did!

Flicking through my options . . . none of them featuring tits or bikinis . . . I found a sequence of me in climbing mode. One of my companions had snapped me going up Malham Cove. I selected one with me halfway up, one with me defying gravity tackling an overhang, and another with me sitting safe on top.

I hate seeing photos of me, by the way. But that third pic was my best-ever. Still adrenalin-pumped, I was visible triumphant. A beam of sunshine bounced from my glasses, my freckles were noticeable, my face was flushed and I was grinning from ear to ear.

Calling it good, I sent all three.

Then I noticed the time and realized that Kat would be ready for her lift home.

Oops!!

I called her work landline and she answered on the first ring.

'Warwick,' she said, 'another overnight job.'

'You heard, then.'

'Ritchie told me.' A short pause ensued. 'So what's Warwick like?'

'It's got a castle. And it's got a Widget Company branch. That's all I know as yet.'

'It's near Coventry, isn't it?'

Entranced by the image of Sinead, Kat's throwaway comment flew straight over my head. 'I've been recommended a hotel on Coventry Road,' I said innocently, 'so I guess it's not too far away.'

At this point I feel I should observe I didn't feel at all guilty about booking a holiday with a girl I'd never actually met. Kat would be gone long before September. By then she would be in Kathmandu or Tahiti or wherever. By then we'd both be footloose and fancy-free again.

I did, however, feel guilty for condemning her to going home on the bus. Normally she relied on me to ferry her to and from work in Maxine 2.

'Get a taxi,' I advised. 'I'll refund whatever it costs you tomorrow.'

'I'll probably stay here all night.' Kat sighed. 'You know I've been fault-finding.'

'Trying to break ten million quid's worth of kit, you mean.'

'Yeah, well you know me and breaking kit; I'm very good at it. And this afternoon I excelled. There's a lot I need to put right, and like instantly.'

There was actually a "rest room" built on to the enormous IT cavern of an office most of us occupied by day. While the other teams worked shift patterns programmers did not. Except sometimes they had to stay over due to force of circumstances. At such times midnight naps on the rest room settee were not unheard of.

I told her to look after herself and to get that taxi first time she yawned. She told me not to expect any phone sex and said she hoped to see me tomorrow.

Another email from Sinead had arrived while I was talking. Aware this was the longest ever stop on a Widget Company car park by anyone, I opened it.

"Feckin hell girl, how athletic are you! Too right you're staying in Dublin forever. I'm going to chain you to my bed!"

*****

I won't bother describing the budget hotel, budget dinner or (far from budget) drinks in the bar. Instead I will confess I retired early to bed and masturbated for England. And I did it staring at that far beyond glorious image of Sinead.

No, to be completely honest, I did it thinking about her delicious voice (even if I did stare at the image all along). Keeping the honesty theme going, at that stage I wouldn't have cared if she had tricked me with someone else's photo and really looked like the Wicked Witch of the West. All I wanted was to be with her, to hear her lilting tones as she murmured sweet nothings into my ear . . .

And omigod; didn't I cum!!

Digging my bare heels into the mattress I arched my back until my spine was in danger of snapping.

'Yes, yes, yes,' I grunted. 'Fuck, fuck, fuck!'

It was so good I did it again, dragging it out even longer. And then I heard a knock at my door.

Out of practice as I was, I assumed it was some housekeeper or other, possibly there to ask me to keep down the noise. I pulled on my dressing gown, holding it together at the front (as if I had the big boobs to suddenly spill out!) and answered.

It wasn't a housekeeper; it was an Eastern European-looking girl dressed in next-to-nothing, and all in tasteful black leather. She was exceptionally good-looking and reminded me of someone's glamorous wife. Don't ask who; some mega-billionaire or other likely as not; possibly one who'd already bought a Premier League football club and fancied himself as president of God only knows where.

'Want to do business?' she said, her husky accent alluring.

For some reason I'd subconsciously classed Warwick with Morecambe. Those were not places you'd get hookers knocking on hotel doors.

This hotel was clearly an exception.

'I'm a girl,' I said stupidly, recalling the zillions of times I'd been mistaken for a guy.

'I can see that,' the blonde beauty replied, 'and girls get fifty per cent off. Want to go for it or not?'

I massively did but, through loyalty to Kat . . . and with Logical Dave yelling no, no, no . . . I turned her down.

'Your loss,' she said with a shrug. Then, with what I took to be a genuine smile, 'Maybe mine too.'

While she moved on to the next door I locked up and retired to bed.

And sleep didn't come anytime soon.

Chapter Five

Next morning I arrived at the branch early, half an hour before opening time. And guess what? There was a white van already parked up. Recognizing the logo on the side, I left Maxine 2 and rapped on the window.

'You must be Dave,' the van driver said as he clambered out and handed me a tiny package, 'the girl with friends in high places.'

I did my (pathetic) best to flutter my lashes at him. Sinead wasn't supposed to guarantee any delivery time apart from "within twenty-four hours". Ignoring protocol, yesterday she had told me the part would be there "morning not afternoon".

Yet here it was at literally the crack of dawn.

(Lucky old Dawn, I hear you cry!)

I signed to verify receipt and watched the white van drive away. Then, because I still had twenty more minutes to fill, I rang Kat's mobile.

And I got nothing at all. That surprised me. Kat was always contactable wherever she was. I'd spoken to her when she was in Nepal, Western Australia and the middle of the Great Basin Desert. Hell, I had even got through to her from north Lancashire!

I briefly considered ringing her work landline but pictured her asleep on that communal settee.

Then I saw a breakfast bar van pull in to a layby across the road and thought about coffee and bacon butties.

Sorry Kat, but no contest.

*****

Two days passed and it happened again. I was doing another of those pointless political branch visits in Huddersfield when I got an emergency call from Ritchie.

'Paignton,' I echoed, 'where on earth is that?' (Yes, I had been there before and knew how to find it. I was just winding up my one-time boy admirer.)

'It's in Torbay,' he told me. 'Six hours away with a following wind. You need to get on the . . .'

'I know the way,' I said gently. 'And I know how busy the motorways will be.'

'Look on the bright side,' he said. 'You can drive into Torquay and spend the night in Fawlty Towers. With any luck you might cop off with Polly the Maid.'

'Knowing my luck I'll get Manuel,' I countered, 'or Basil.'

'Didn't think you did the likes of Basil and Manuel,' Ritchie said.

'I don't. But it would be just my luck. If I didn't have bad luck I wouldn't have any luck at all.'

Not so very long ago Ritchie had been little more than a callow youth. But he had matured faster than his fellow Trekkie-techies. He also knew his Fawlty Towers inside out. 'Could be worse,' he drawled, 'could be Major Gowen . . . or God forbid, Sybil.'

'Give me Miss Gatsby and Miss Tibbs,' I responded smartly.

'Aren't they a bit old?'

'Wash your mouth out with soap, young man. Older women are just incredible. You should give them a try yourself.'

'I'll bow to the voice of wisdom. But I still think those two are a bit past it.'

We exchanged a little more (flirty?) chit-chat then I headed south. As I have said several times, I like guys as friends. And, although I had rarely had the inclination to have a man, I had felt an attraction to Ritchie and a handful of his young workmates. If I ever was to stray . . .

*****

Six and a half hours later Maxine 2 slotted herself neatly into a parking space and I bounced out.

Or maybe I slumped out. Youth was still on my side but six and a half hours of busy motorway saps a girl. I'm prepared to guess it saps a guy, too. UK motorways are nothing if not repetitive. Subtract the will to live, add in the urge to pee at every service station, take into account the twenty minutes you'd need to stop to pee . . .

Highway to Hell or what!

Andrew, the branch manager, had been waiting for me. He was overdue to lock up, all the rest of his staff long gone. But still he made me welcome.

'My saviour,' he said, thrusting a pint pot of black coffee into my hand.

We'd met before so I knew he was aware I was a girl who took her coffee without . . . well, most of the time.

'I took a gamble,' I said, disconnecting the key piece of kit. 'I already ordered the bit I hope we need.'

'I hope you guessed right. We've a big day on tomorrow.'

'Is it a Trade Day?'

'No, it's Retail; similar products but ten times the turnover, if you know what I mean.'

I knew all right and the socialist in me prickled. But then again I'd paid through the nose for my granite worktops, wanting the effect to be just so.

'There,' I said, removing the faulty part and bypassing its absence, 'try your systems now.'

'They all work again,' he declared after a minute or so, 'it's a miracle!'

'No, it's a short-term fix. Anything can go wrong at any second. But I've got that replacement part on its way. And I'm ace at installing it. Whenever it arrives you can chat up potential customers while I fit it and get out of your hair. It'll only take me five minutes.'

'You sound as good as your reputation,' he said, like the born salesman he was.

'Thank you, kind sir,' said I, only too used to salespeople's sneaky techniques.

Most of my workmates were "sales" and they all had silver tongues.

Or believed they had; most of the time they could talk the talk without walking the walk . . . if you know what I mean.

Best-intentioned but offering empty promises.

'I would love to ask you out to dine,' Andrew said after sipping from his own mug, 'but I have to be at a concert in thirty minutes.'

Thinking AC/DC, I asked who was on and where.

'Preston Primary,' he replied, 'my daughter's an angel . . . in the play, I mean, not in real life.'

'I'll give it a miss,' said I after no consideration at all.

'Where are you staying?'

'I dunno. Wherever's nearest.'

'This time of year accommodation is hard to come by. Hang on; I'll ring Auntie Cathy.'

He'd dialled out before I could ask who Auntie Cathy was.

'She's got one single vacant in her B&B,' he said as he disconnected. 'It's up a lot of steps, but it's very nice. Can you manage a lot of steps?'

'I climb sheer cliffs,' I replied. 'Steps ain't a problem.'