The Ghosts of Summers Past

I drove into Newcastle this morning to visit a new client. Rather than fight for a parking space in the City Centre I dumped the car on the far side of town and took a long walk through Westgate, an area which I haven't visited since my student days.

As ever, Charlotte Square was teeming with office workers, all looking for respite from the interminable summer heat although they were plainly disappointed. The usually crowded seating area had been taken over by a dozen or so old drunks, several of whom were crashed out on their favourite benches, the remainder content to spend their day screaming obscenities at anyone foolish enough to look in their direction. I took a long, long diversion around that lot.

Walking down the leafy streets near Old Eldon Square, I decided to visit one of my favourite haunts, a shop I fell in love with for a whole bunch of reasons when I first went up to University. Sadly, I was in for a shock. The front door was firmly locked and a huge 'To Let' sign had been crudely hammered into place high up on the main facade.

I stood on the steps outside and looked up at the empty, faded windows, and at the pile of bills behind the front door. And I felt my heart sink.

Let's step back in time nearly twenty years. It's May 2004 and my twin sister, Sophie, is visiting me at my digs in Jesmond. She graduated some years before and has a steady job in York but is up here for a break from the turmoil that is her love life.

Sophie is presently re-discovering her inner Goth. For her, everything is black. Black hair, black clothes, black nail vanish.

She dragged me into a new shop she'd discovered earlier that morning. It was at the rough end of town, the kind of place that only poor and impoverished students would infest. Home from home, really.

Now, even though I'd said on many occasions that Goth wasn't my style, she was convinced that I might find something to lift my mood a little. University was not an easy experience. I was older than most of my class mates, didn't really fit in with any of the usual cliques and had become somewhat lonely and sullen.

As Sophie fought her way through row after row over-stocked shelves and crowded racks, I suddenly came face to face with one of the shop's managers. She was about thirty, perhaps closer to thirty five, slightly taller than me, and decked out in the usual wannabe-Vampire attire. I wondered if Anne Rice had started giving out fashion tips. Scruffy jeans, baggy t-shirt, hair dyed to match her boots. That said, I only noticed her clothes afterwards. What struck me first and foremost was her eyes. Deep. Black. Intense.

And that was it. Zing. An immediate exchange of thoughts and ideas, and the closest I've ever come to genuine telepathy.

Our eyes locked and we just stared at each other for what seemed like minutes.

Wow.

The feeling didn't last. Before I knew it, Sophie was dragging me by the arm towards the back of the shop. I have no idea what she was babbling on about or what she was trying to show me. I wasn't interested. Not at all. My mind had dissolved into a kind of semi-conscious fugue, perhaps trying to make sense of what had just happened.

When I came to my senses, I turned and scanned the shop for any sign of this woman. Alas, she'd gone. There was no sign of her.

In time, we left the shop but not until Sophie had blown more than she had in her purse on a bondage skirt that I thought looked utterly hideous.

On the way home, I told Sophie what had happened. She wasn't surprised. She'd seen the look on my face. I asked for advice. Sophie just shrugged her shoulders and frowned. This was well outside of her comfort zone. She was utterly straight and had no concept of the whole bisexual thing that seemed to be such a major preoccupation for me.

Later that night, in the wee small hours between wide awake and fast asleep, I decided that a return visit was required only, this time, I'd be on my own and free of any possible distractions.

I knew that most of the shops in that quarter of the town were in the habit of closing on a Wednesday afternoon, usually for stock-taking or staff training or just for bunking off down the pub. I decided to skip one of my extended Lab sessions and took the bus into town instead.

I timed my arrival perfectly, walking through the shop's front door about twenty minutes before the shutters came down.

The racks were pretty full - a slow week I guess - and what was on offer didn't really appeal but I found one or two full length dresses that might just about work in the right context. There are always posh events going on someplace around campus and I decided I might need something to wear in the unlikely event that I found myself invited to one academic function or another.

Alas, and to my dismay, my quarry was nowhere to be seen and, disappointed, I was on the point of leaving when she suddenly came charging down a flight of stairs with both arms full of stock.

"See if you can find room for these," she said to the assistant behind the till. "There's no room out the back and no room upstairs either."

She dumped the garments on the hapless assistance and turned to face me. I don't think she recognised me at first and she more out of politeness and a need to get rid of some of the excess inventory than anything else.

And then, slowly, her expression changed as she began to recollect our earlier meeting.

I took the two dresses and went to the changing rooms at the back of the shop. The first was a pretty good fit in all of the right places but the second was awful. It did nothing for me. Outside, I could hear the assistants closing the shop down for the afternoon, followed by a series of "Goodbyes" and "See Ya tomorrow".

I returned to the racks to find something else, and walked straight into the Manageress. She smiled except, this time, the smile wasn't forced or merely polite. Instead, it was warm and heartfelt.

"Can I help?" she asked.

"I was after this," I said. "In a smaller size please, if you have it...'

The Manageress turned to the rack and quickly pulled out exactly what I was looking for. I retreated to the changing room with the dress in hand although, by then, my heart punching a hole in my chest.

"We have loads more upstairs," she said. "Let me know if you want something. We're closed now but just take your time. I'm here all afternoon."

I heard her lock the door and my head began throbbing. I started to whisper "What the fuck? What the fuck am I doing?" It went on and on in the back of my head, like some kind of Buddhist Mantra. "What the hell am I getting myself into?"

Then a voice from the far end of the shop.

"Would you like tea?" she called through.

Somewhat taken aback, I replied "Yes, please."

I put on the new dress, which looked and felt fabulous but... I looked sideways at the price tag and did a kind of double take. I could afford it but... it would be a struggle.

"You don't have to pay the price on the ticket," she said, handing me a cup full of hot liquid. "You can have it wholesale, if you like."

"That's very kind of you, but why?"

She smiled. "Because I can't sell jack shit this week, and I need the space to bring in new inventory."

"Why not try this instead?' she continued, handing me an alternative. Out of habit, I checked the price ticket. Still out of the ball park but looking better.

"Try it on. See what you think... "

I took the dress into the changing area although, strangely, it felt rude to draw the curtain across. There didn't seem much point given that there was only two of us in the shop.

I stepped out of the old dress and handed it to the Manageress.

"By the way," she said. "I'm Lesley."

"Sarah," I replied. There was a nervous flutter in my voice that I found impossible to disguise. I felt my knees trembling.

She passed me the new dress and turned away out of politeness. As before, the dress was nice but uncomfortable around the bust. Looking in the mirror, Lesley spotted the problem straight away.

"It's a backless dress," she whispered. "You're not supposed to wear a bra with it."

Feeling a bit of a klutz, I reached behind me, undid my bra and then tossed it to one side.

Outside, someone tried the door, a dull shapeless figure looming through the frosted glass.

"Don't worry," said Lesley. "It's locked. We're closed until tomorrow and they can't get in."

The fit was perfect and the dress felt really, really nice. I decided that I had to have it. The ticket read two hundred and eighty quid, a small fortune for me.

"You can have it for half that," said Lesley. "That's what I paid for it, so I'm not making a loss. And I can't afford to return it to the Distributor..."

I had sixty pounds in my purse - not even close to being enough - but my credit card would cover the cost with ease. "Fine," I said. "I'll take it."

"Good, excellent," said Lesley. "Let me have it here and I'll wrap it for you."

The sense of relief on her face and in her voice was palpable. I began to wonder if she'd sold anything that week.

Without really thinking - I was in something of a daze because this was the largest amount of money I'd ever spent on a single item of clothing - I undid the dress and let it slide down to the floor under its own weight. Lesley just stood back and watched as I picked up the garment and handed it to her.

Lesley smiled, and quite openly took a sly sideways look at my boobs. She smiled again.

She took the garment, folded it neatly and placed it in a bag. Meanwhile, I was still more or less in a daze and standing with my hands on hips, oblivious to the fact that I was topless and wearing little more than a pair of scruffy, careworn knickers.

I retreated to the safety of the changing room and sat down on the small ledge within, trying to locate my tights. Lesley returned with the dress in a small paper bag bearing the shop's logo and then paused right in front of the tiny cubicle. When our eyes locked, she walked forwards, bent down and kissed me very gently.

I drew back, not sure what to expect.

She took a single step backwards, kicked off her shoes and then began to undo her jeans. They fell around her calves and she stepped out of them in a single, graceful movement. Her t-shirt, a regulation No Fear article, was discarded in a similar Cavalier manner. Likewise, her bra, frayed around the edges and tinged beige by over-use, landed on the floor in a messy heap.

I stood up, kicked away my clothes and walked towards her. We kissed, arms wrapped in a tight embrace. The kiss was long and slow and passionate. Lord above, I was seriously into her.

That said, and perhaps sensing a little inexperience on my part, she led the proceedings and seemed happy for me to take something of a back seat.

Physically, she was nice to look at but wore a neat set of stretch marks across her belly and a set of tats on her shoulders that, combined, betrayed her mature years.

She took her time and was incredibly gentle, and backed off when I panicked as she attempted to draw down my knickers for the first time. Ashamed of my reticence, I let her continue and I was glad that I did so because my overriding memory of that afternoon was of looking down and seeing her face buried deep in my bush as her tongue worked its way into and around my pussy. She was good too. Experienced I would imagine. She knew exactly how to touch and what to touch, knew the taste and flavour of my pussy better than I know myself, and also how to bring me rather expertly to orgasm with tiny, delicate lapping motions of her tongue around my clit.

Yeah, I came within a couple of minutes, an orgasm that was loud and physical and everything I hoped it would be.

She then led me by the hand to their back office. There were people outside and I was convinced that anyone looking directly into the shop would have seen my bony ass running up the flight of stairs.

The office area was crammed from floor to ceiling with stock, some of it in boxes, some of it just lying on any available surface. In the corner, a small bed. Lesley led me over to it and sat me down before lowering the blinds to exclude whatever remained of the daylight.

We continued to make love, only this time, I was encouraged to experiment, to learn from her example. I don't think I disappointed. Her scent was intense though not unpleasant and I took to the art of cunnilingus with surprising vigour.

Exhausted, we fell asleep, only waking when the steady rush of people moving along the pavements below told us that the working day was at an end and that it was time to go home.

Lesley retrieved my clothes and my purchase from downstairs, and helped me dress.

Before leaving, I handed her my credit card.

"Better keep the books straight," I whispered. She smiled but we both wondered if a financial exchange had been the right way to end the afternoon. This still bothers me years later.

"Did I just pay to get fucked?" I would wonder in the wee hours.

I took the dress back to my digs and wore it to nearly every social function and dinner date for the next five years. I think I got my money's worth.

That was twenty years ago. Today, the memories left me feeling sad and a little nostalgic as I made my way back across town. Peering down river from atop the Tyne Bridge, lost in thoughts and daydreams, I paused and watched a small vessel fight its way upstream against the outgoing tide.

And I thought of Lesley and wondered what had become of her. I wondered if she ever thought of me.

I still have the dress though it's been stuffed in a box since I left University. It almost certainly doesn't fit anymore because I've grown physically (and mentally) since that afternoon, but it's one of those little pieces of your past that you can't ever get rid of.

I will miss that shop, and Lesley.

But not the Goths. :)