Last Man in Watford

"It's just that from time to time, school holidays especially, or while I'm working out of the country... and Lizzie does seem to have taken a shine to you... I was wondering..."

'Wondering what? Wondering what?' Mog herself was wondering, her heart racing.

"I do need... well..."

'Need what? Need what?' Mog was silently living her wildest dreams.

"I have to get another nanny for Elizabeth. You do seem to fit the bill, so, if you popped your CV over to my office, we could perhaps come to some arrangement. Anyway, I'll leave it with you. Let me know later what you think. I need to go now and check back in."

And Mog was left sitting alone, staring through a transparent Zaragoza tourist brochure at an image of her bleak, loveless future. She was too stunned even for tears.

7/9

"What's up, doll? I can't bear to see you looking so sad." It was Elvis, more than a little worse for wear.

"Go away, Gary," Mog replied, knowing she would need to say it several times before it registered with him.

Gary sat beside her on the lounger. "I was off to bed, but Mark's got the room key and I can't find him anywhere. You sure you're OK, doll?"

Mog knew exactly where Mark was, but didn't let on. In no way did she want to give Gary any ideas. "Gary, you're totally stocious."

"Oh babe," Gary slurred, "You're such a turn on when you use those lovely words. But honest, I don't deserve them -- I'm not really that special. I'm just an ordinary guy..."

"It means you're drunk, you idiot."

"No, no!" Gary protested. "Just tired -- hard skiing, the mountain air, a couple of San Miguels, untox-hicated by the sweet perfume of the fabulous fatal femme Mog with the Mognificent maracas..."

And within seconds his doe eyes were shut and slumber had overtaken him. His head lolloped onto her bare shoulder, leaving her to contemplate her hopeless situation. It seemed the chances of her winning the affections of the suave, talented and successful aesthete Paul were as remote as those of good-natured but thick-skinned and uncultured Gary ever getting anywhere with her. She carefully laid Gary's head on the armrest of the settee, and set off again for her own room, where happily, her room-mate Emma was asleep, alone.

8/9

It was the last day on the slopes. Everyone agreed it had been a great holiday. Even Mog, who eventually had become quite a stylish skier, had to admit it was sad they all soon would be going home, maybe because right now, the sanctuary and solitude of her own home seemed less inviting than it usually was.

On the final run, guys and gals were confidently showing off their new-learnt skills, taking liberties with tight turns, and audaciously jumping over enticing brows. Then disaster.

Emma skied recklessly across Mog, who almost went flying trying to avoid a collision. But Emma lost it altogether and fell heavily, crumpling in a heap, and emitting alarming moans and groans. Mog rushed to her aid.

"I've done my shoulder, Mog," Emma croaked. "Oooh..."

Mog was no first-aider. "Don't try to move," was all she could think to say. Her friend's obvious distress was painful to witness, and not knowing exactly what to do heightened Mog's state of panic. Some of the others started to arrive, including Gary, who came to an ugly halt with his customary flop-dive. With an uncharacteristic air of authority, he rushed over to where Emma lay. "Whoa, Emm, this is no time for an afternoon nap," he joked. "Let's have a look-see what you've been and done."

"Rubbing liniment on a bruised shin doesn't make one a paramedic, Gary," Mog said. "We must get her to hospital."

Gary carried on regardless. "Looks like a slight dislocation. We may be in luck. The more we do now, the better the chances of good recovery. The longer we leave it, you'll end up needing a general anaesthetic -- you'll be out of action for ages... Jeff, ski down to the lift station, get them to radio for the mountain rescue -- they can stretcher her down. Get them to arrange an ambulance from town -- whatever we do now, we'll want it checked out and X-rayed...

"RICE -- that's what we want. Not paella, though. Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation...

"Here," taking off his ski-jacket, "someone stuff this full of snow. I'll do a cold-pack sling, wrap it tight for compression and tie the sleeves to support the arm... it might even pop back into place naturally after this...

"Check pulse... regular... strong... hey Emm, good news, you're still alive. Let's try a little reduction... gentle rotation... scream if it hurts..."

Mog watched incredulously. Was this 'her' Gary, a man on a mission competently taking charge like George Clooney in ER? What if he made things worse?

Mark sensed Mog's anxiety about Gary's proficiency, and quietly reassured her that his roomie was training to be a physio, which surprised but relieved her somewhat.

Then came the answer to the second question. Emma groaned, groaned again, then uttered "Aaah... that's so much better." It seemed as if the ball-joint had indeed 'popped back in'.

The rescue team arrived impressively quickly. They were complimentary about Gary's handling of the incident, and their sled, laden with Emma, with Mark in attendance, soon disappeared down the slopes to rendezvous with the waiting ambulance.

Mog couldn't help herself but wrap her arms round Gary and plant on him probably the biggest sloppy kiss he'd ever had. "I am SO proud of you," she admitted.

9/9

Mog had been a singleton in the morning chair lift ascent. She had been able to reflect on her love-life in idyllic silence. Now, on the final descent, after spending the previous week trying to avoid Gary, she happily rode down with him, brimming with admiration.

"How long have you been training to be a physio?" she asked casually.

"Oh, about a week or so," Gary answered. Mog couldn't help smiling. A week or so? It restored her faith in his irrepressible resilience.

"That's Andorra over there," Mog indicated. "They say life expectancy there is higher than anywhere else in the world. Closest you can get to El Dorado."

"Really? Fascinating," said Gary, impressed with her knowledge. "What a thought, eh? Mind you, it would depend on who you were shacked up with for those never-ending years..." And with his doe-eyes he looked lovingly at Mog, who, recalling her own earlier less positive opinions about immortality, raised her eyebrows in dismissal of his incorrigible optimism.

"Um... talking about shacking up..." Gary continued, tentatively.

Mog quickly interjected. "Gary, I wouldn't shack up with anyone who thought Andrés Segovia was someone who played football for Real Madrid. Not even if he was the last man in Watford."

After a few moments came Gary's inevitable response. "So that's a maybe, then?"

Mog realised that being a loner with good friends was what she was comfortable with. Always competing, or constantly having to adapt, to make a relationship work, was never going to make for a happy life. Here was an opportunity to carry on being the same person she was, but with a ready-made supply of love and support from a capable, funny, attractive man who was impervious to her dismissive sarcasm and negativity.

Realising she would otherwise miss Gary more than her poor heart could stand, Mog snuggled up to him, her head on his shoulder, a hand on his chest, and purred encouragingly, "Maybe..."

End.