An Elegant Seduction

In this final instalment, Lynne travels to Lewis with Petra and her mother. Fatima has been told the truth about what went on between Petra and Lynne and has given her free rein to court her daughter, but as she warns Lynne, her flirting and overt sexual come ons could be nothing more than Petra preparing for her new role. Lynne must discover the answer to two questions. Is Petra questioning her sexuality? And, is she attracted to her? I hope you enjoy this final story, apologies to those who wanted a quicker tale but I felt as if this needed a little more drawing out and filling in. Thanks to all who commented and a shout out to Old Romantic for your comments and suggestions, I certainly found them encouraging. I hope you all enjoy this story.

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Whenever I fill out an official form that has an optional section for nationality, I list myself as British/Scottish and in everyday life I just say I'm Scots. I was born and raised here and I've been all over the country, from Dumfries in the south to St Andrews in the east. I've been as far north as John O' Groats and right up and down the west coast, but although I've seen most of the Western Isles, I've never been to the biggest one, Lewis. Don't ask me why, it's just the way it is.

There's a lot of misconceptions about the Western Isles, some of which are based on historical fact and the rest are just plain old fashioned bigotry. Yes we have it here too.

The first thing you'll notice is the language. Many people on Lewis and other islands are bilingual. They speak Gaelic and English.

The second thing is the slow pace of life in general. Islanders do things at their own pace because if you're stuck on an island when your car breaks down, someone will get around to it sooner or later and that's both a good and a bad thing depending on your outlook. It does leave time for more social interaction and as a result you form closer relationships with your neighbours.

The third thing is the importance of tradition. The most obvious one being religion, which still plays an important role in regulating business and other matters but that's confined to the older generation for the most part. But one of the nicer traditions is good old fashioned Scottish hospitality. Go for dinner in almost any Island home and inevitably the fiddles and guitars come out. Staying overnight is usually expected if you're from the mainland. One of their most famous greetings is céad míle fáilte, which literally translates to a hundred thousand welcomes. Don't try to say it in Gaelic though because you don't say it the way you read it!

Alain McClain, the guy who let us use his house had already told his neighbours to expect Fatima, Petra and a couple of extra guests to arrive at his house. Thus, our just walking in without being let in surprised Petra, although Fatima had been told in advance.

"So we can just walk in?" Petra looked around, "God, look at the kitchen, mum. It's almost as big as your one at home."

Fatima was reading a note left behind by Alain.

"Well this should be interesting," she walked through to the lounge, "we've got the sofa bed or a choice of three smaller bedrooms," she led us down a hall, checking each one in turn until we got to the very end bedroom.

"Huh, all single beds,," she looked at her daughter, "I'm fine in a single seeing as Anke isn't here, do you want the sofa bed?"

"Okay, thanks," Petra walked to the window, "God, it's isolated out here. What do people do here besides stare at nothing?"

"They get online," I replied, "they've got satellite broadband."

"Even so," she folded her arms.

"Okay, I'm going to drive into town and pick up some food, you girls are welcome to come along or just chill out," Fatima leaned on the door jamb.

"He'll have food in the fridge," I replied.

"I know, but we're not a burden."

"I'll come with you," Petra spoke up.

"I'll stay," I shrugged.

They left shortly afterwards, which left me to contemplate the next couple of days. First up was an examination of the house. Alain had been married but I saw no evidence of a woman's presence. The wardrobe in the main bedroom contained man's clothes and a white wedding gown wrapped in a plastic carrier. So maybe Alain's wife had died or left him the wedding dress. I suspected the first because he still had wedding pictures hanging in the living room and then I noticed the urn on the mantelpiece. It had a name, Morag Ina McClain and a date, 11.12.2014. Fine, so he kept his wife's ashes on the mantelpiece. Weird, but to each their own.

Overall though I was impressed with the place. Everything had a place and a purpose and I settled down with a cuppa and my trusty laptop. Alain had generously supplied the router password, which was taped onto the top of the actual router. By the time Fatima and Petra arrived back with a few bags of food from Tesco I was having a grand old time on You Tube.

The isolation bothered Petra. It wasn't immediately obvious because there were things to do like unpacking shopping, putting things away and Petra did her own exploring, although because Fatima was there, certain areas like the master bedroom were out of bounds.

"What's he got in there, a sheep?"

"His wife's wedding dress," I turned down the volume on an old Joan Jett song.

"Where is his wife?"

"She's in that urn," I pointed to it.

Petra stared at the urn, made the connection and jumped off the couch with a scream. Fatima came running through to find Petra with her hand over her mouth and me laughing out loud.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"She um, just met Alain's wife," I nodded at the urn, "the late Morag McClain."

Fatima looked at the urn and burst out laughing.

"Okay, so I guess that means I'm on the sofa bed tonight."

"Doesn't bother me," I stretched and yawned, "she's quite a peaceful soul, hasn't said a word all the time I've been sitting here."

"I can't believe you said that about someone who died," Petra spoke up.

"The dead don't bother me," I shrugged, "I'm just injecting a bit of humour into a bizarre situation, most people sprinkle ashes into Loch Lomond for the fish to shite on but some keep the ashes on the mantelpiece. Oh and if you want the broadband user name and password, it's taped onto the router and the instructions for the Sky box are on a laminated sheet beside the screen," I pointed to the television.

"He's an old guy, live and let live I say."

"I'm not sleeping in that room with that," she approached her mother, "can't we cover it with something?"

"Then she won't be able to see," I chuckled, "and what if one of us accidentally brushes past it and pulls the cloth and Morag down as well?"

I turned after I said that because I could hear peals of laughter. Fatima had her hand over her mouth and it sounded almost like a chicken. Petra was fidgeting and her mother finally recovered and took a step backwards.

"All right, I'll call Alain and see if we can move Morag to the master bedroom," she broke out into another fit of laughter as she headed for the kitchen and her phone.

Morag was soon moved to the bottom of Alain's wardrobe. Petra followed me at a distance as I placed the urn on the floor, much to Fatima's undisguised amusement.

Apparently Alain was quite embarrassed that he hadn't thought to move the urn, he's an older, retired man whose only source of income apart from his pension is his sheep. One of the tasks I volunteered to do was drive half a dozen sheep into a smaller paddock closer to the house that night while Petra looked on. For the life of me, I can't see why city folk look all starry eyed at sheep, I've lived most of my life in the country and sheep are the most stupid animal to ever walk the Earth. They'll eat themselves off a cliff, which is why the bible refers to Christians as sheep!

Seeing me drive six sheep into a paddock looked innocent enough but Petra was looking at me with undisguised amazement when I finally managed it. She closed the gate on the sheep as I vaulted over the barrier and landed next to her. She stepped in front of me and then backwards, I put my arms around her waist and she snuggled into me.

"I've always wanted to adopt a lamb."

"Lambs grow into sheep," I replied, "not so cute."

"I like this."

"What?"

"Being here with you."

We stood there like that for the better part of ten minutes, listening to the bleating of sheep, the wind and the clanking of the metal gate against the keeper before Fatima stepped outside and called us in for dinner. There were no more words spoken, it was just the two of us and I felt as if something had changed, maybe it had been there all along but I'd been so focused on the day to day jobs like teaching her to ride and other things that I just missed it. The only one who had seen it was the one who'd hired me in the first place.

Despite those few minutes of quiet intimacy there was nothing else to suggest that Petra felt anything more than just secure around me. Dinner was a pleasant affair, Fatima is a great cook and could probably make camel dung taste good and that was one of her jokes not mine! I nearly choked when she cracked that one. Afterwards I surfed the Internet and Petra watched a film.

Petra still felt uneasy in the lounge and had put a vase of flowers where the urn had been and the sleeping arrangements had changed. She took a single bed and Fatima claimed the sofa bed. Petra decided on an early night but I stayed up chatting to Fatima until half past eleven when she decided to turn in.

"Something's changed with her," she said as I reached the door.

"Good or bad?"

"Good I think," she folded out the bed, "I'll be away early in the morning so just help yourselves to breakfast and do whatever you want. I should be back by mid morning."

"She was really freaked out by the urn."

"I know," she folded the legs down, "it was funny but the poor old guy was embarrassed when I told him Petra had freaked out. It just slipped his mind completely."

I didn't have to check on Petra but I did, opening the door just a touch to hear her call out softly, "good night."

"Night."

I stripped down and put on a nightie, it's a phobia whenever I'm sleeping away from home, and clambered into a single bed set against the wall and settled down for a good night's sleep. The silence was broken by the sound of Fatima moving about the other room and then I heard the click of a light switch and closed my eyes.

My door opened a few minutes later and I rolled over to find Petra standing in the doorway with her pillow, she was also wearing a nightie.

"What's up?"

"Can I sleep with you tonight?"

"Sure," I pulled the duvet off, "but it's a tight squeeze."

"That's fine," she clambered over me and slid down beside me, I put my back to her as I pulled the duvet over us and Petra snuggled up behind me and tucked her knees up as well.

"Can I put my arm around you?"

"Aye."

Her arm snaked around to my belly and she adjusted her sleeping posture so that her other arm was behind the pillow. I put my hand on top of hers and I felt her move closer.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For what I did the other day."

"You're forgiven, seriously, I actually enjoyed it."

Nothing more was said for a minute or two.

"What do you think she was like?"

"Who?"

"Morag."

I giggled.

"I hear the name Morag I think of my grandmother's mother, she was gone before even mum was born but she had this big wide face like a smashed in wellie, a long skirt down to her ankles and an arse the size of Frasers. I've known other women called Morag who weren't like her but that picture always sticks in my mind."

"She looked pretty in the wedding picture."

"It's an old picture."

"How do you think she died?"

"Um," I slapped her hand, "her heart stopped beating? Fuck, I don't know, you should ask him when he gets here in a couple of days."

"You don't think he'd mind?"

"Shouldn't think so," I stroked her hand, "is it important?"

"No, just making conversation."

"Is something bothering you?" I stopped stroking her hand.

"Something happened to me last night but you must promise not to tell mum."

"Okay, I promise."

"Anke kissed me."

"What the fuck?" I rolled onto my back and stared at the ceiling, "when?"

"When mum took that bag of lingerie to the charity bin."

"Jesus," I murmured, "so, without actually demonstrating it, how did she kiss you?"

"On the mouth," she touched her lips, "like guys do when they want you."

"And what did you do?"

"I froze up. She got scared and begged me not to tell mum or she'd lose her job," she looked down at me, "you're not going to tell mum are you?"

"No, I promised but you need to break your promise to Anke. For fuck's sake, Petra. She's your mother's girlfriend. She's betrayed your mother's trust. Kissing you is not the issue, it's a matter of trust," I pinched my nose.

"Your mother came around to my place with the lingerie. She was on her way to the charity bin but she really came around to get me to come with youse. If she had made a move on me, I would have reacted the same way but she didn't because your mother is not like that, at least not as far as I can work out. But Anke doing that to you is wrong because your mother trusted her. I mean you backed off and she realised she'd fucked up, but do you see where I'm coming from?"

"I do," she sighed, "I like Anke but not like that."

"It's up to you what you do, I won't say anything but if she's done it once she'll do it again. Maybe not with you but someone else and if they're up for it then it'll go further than a kiss."

"Hold me?"

Now I once had a conversation in a Glasgow pub with an Irishman who'd been having troubles with his girlfriend and he decided, for some strange reason to ask me for advice after he found out my orientation. His girlfriend had said the same thing a few weeks previously and so he held her but then nature took over and he started kissing and fingering her. She pushed him away and turned her back to him, which left the poor man confused.

"What did she mean? You're a lesbian, I'm just trying to understand her."

"Women want to be held but not always fucked," I told him. "We just get off on lying in each other's arms and feeling warm and secure." I don't know what happened with Patrick but that night I just held her until she fell asleep. She felt so small and fragile in my arms that I ended up falling asleep on my back and waking up in the morning to find we were both in the same position and Fatima was standing in the doorway.

"I'm off for a bit," she smiled, "everything okay?"

"Yes," I replied.

She closed the door quietly and left the house. Petra woke up with a start and for a moment I thought she was going to fall asleep again. She twitches in her sleep from time to time but then she rolled over and propped on her elbows.

"Where's mum?"

"She went out, just now."

"Oh," she fell back down again, "sleep all right?"

"You drooled on me."

"Sorry."

"It's fine, I wiped it off with your hair."

She giggled and rolling over, kissed me quickly on the lips and then sat up, taking the duvet with her. It hung about her shoulders and from where I was lying I could see her vaginal hair because her nightie had ridden up her arse. We looked at each other and I actually expected it to happen then, she had a smile on her face as she parted her legs slightly.

"Wanna go for a walk after breakfast?"

"Where to?"

"I don't know, just walk."

"Okay," I put my hand on her thigh, she looked down but didn't make any attempt to move my hand and then she swung her leg over me and put it on the floor, the duvet dropped back onto me and she walked to the door. When she reached it she smiled and pulled her nightie up to reveal her buttocks and then left the room.

I flopped my arms outwards.

"Women," I muttered.

Because she wanted to go walking I chose sensible clothes, my favourite jeans and a white shirt Fatima had given me with a notched collar along with a wool blend waistcoat and my new walking jacket. I thought they looked cool and kind of retro. Petra whistled as I stepped into the kitchen a little while later and I actually blushed.

"Wow, I like that. My love interest is wearing something like that. The shirt and waistcoat that is, jeans weren't worn by a lot of women in the 1940s."

"Oh, aye?" I ran my hands over my arse, "I'm looking very retro."

"Nice," she dug her hands into the pockets of her jeans, "I like it."

"I like what you're wearing," I ran an eye over her outfit. She was also wearing a white shirt and jeans but she'd also put on a cashmere jumper with a floppy turtleneck collar that hung quite low, I reached out and tugged playfully at the collar.

"Nice jumper."

"It's cashmere," she looked down at my hand, "what do you want for breakfast?"

She was flirting with me but considering the way she'd 'flirted' with me previously, this was almost innocent and childlike, which left me feeling as if I was some oversexed lesbian with a penchant for younger straight, virginal women. Was this also just an act?

It felt a bit like that as we had breakfast and set out on the walk. She donned a thick jacket and more out of curiosity than a desire to get physically closer, I zipped it up for her. She seemed fascinated by my hands and as we walked down the road, her hand slipped into the crook of my arm. It wasn't that action that told me she wasn't acting a part any more. It was her silence. Petra is an incessant talker, she could talk the legs off a chair without breaking a sweat but for three hours she barely said a word. When we stopped now and then for a break just to take in the scenery she wanted to be held and I put my arms around her and drank in her scent. It was addictive, she has a love of perfumes, that day it was Guerlain Idyll. A couple of times she stepped up behind me, put her arms around my waist and propped her chin on my shoulder.

Fatima's car was there when we got back and she waved as she got something out of the car. Petra released me a moment later.

"There's something I have to do."

She reached Fatima at the front door and followed her inside. I stayed outside because even though she hadn't told me what she was going to do, my intuition gave me enough warning to stay by the car and just wait.

Sure enough some five minutes later both women stormed out of the front door and Fatima threw her arms in the air.

"You fucking bitch!"

Fortunately because our nearest neighbour was so far away, Petra and I were the only ones to hear her outburst. I stayed put as she screamed it again and then she sank to her knees and wrapped her arms around herself. Petra ran to her and put her arms around her and I finally took a few steps forward. Fatima was shaking and Petra was whispering in her ear. She looked up, her cheeks wet with tears and I tried to think of something to say.

"I've got to get out of here," she struggled to her feet and looked at me.

A moment later she threw her arms around me and squeezed me tightly and then released me and got into her car.

"Look after Petra," she wound down the window, "she needs you."

She drove away and I dug my hands into my jacket pocket.

"Will she be all right?"

"She'll be fine," Petra replied in a low monotone, "it's what she does whenever she breaks up with someone. She goes for a drive and sits by herself for a while and when she comes back she's fine, dad's the same in some ways but he stays away much much longer."

She brushed the hair out of her eyes and folded her arms.

"I told her this would never work out but she just wouldn't fucking listen."

"What?"

"Anke," she replied, "don't you know how they got together?"

I guessed it before she told me.

"She kissed her, Anke just kissed her and mum told me afterwards. I told her to fire the little bitch then and there. She was her assistant for fuck's sake but she said it'd be fine. Then I walked in on them sitting on the couch and I knew what had gone on, I'm not stupid. She wanted to know what was wrong with me and I said nothing and just sat there for a while and then went out to a club. When I got back that night they were both in bed, I told her again the next morning and she just told me to mind my own business."