Note: This is my entry for the 'summer lovin' story contest 2010'and is a work of pure fiction.
*
"Well, here is the house. What do you think? I know that it's a little rundown and needs plenty of work but generally speaking does it suit your requirements?" inquired the estate agent his patter obviously well rehearsed.
I tried to hide my excitement for this old Summerhouse was exactly the right size and location I needed. It was a small single storied building with ornate Georgian pillars propping up a classic canopy entrance. The three white marble steps leading up to the front door were quite discoloured. Windswept debris lay strewn into the corners of the steps while an undergrowth of creeping weeds covered most of which once was a beautiful manicured lawn.
"May I see inside please," I asked while trying to sound as disinterested as possible, even nonchalant.
The agent grinned with the same self assurance displayed by a hunting dog sniffing the scent of game on the wind, "Of course, let me get the keys from the car. I won't be a moment!"
'Agents' I thought; they never miss a trick. The ploy of fetching the keys was to allow me a little time alone to think. I must have displayed my delight. Alas, I shall never be a good poker player!
"Here we go," panted the agent on his return. He slipped the key in the lock as he half turned towards me, "You should remember that this beautiful property has stood empty now for nigh on five years. It will need quite a bit of work before its true value becomes apparent!"
The floors inside of the house appeared more off-white than the steps outside. A deception mainly created by the light grey streaks that ran through the marble. Rooms lay off the main hallway however, there were no doors just open portals. One room had been kitted out as quite a modern kitchen; another as the main bedroom with en suite bathroom, while a third room had become a second smaller bedroom and the last, the largest of them all, a comfortable lounge. The original Summerhouse window openings were without frames but now supported double glazing.
"What do you think?" ventured the now slightly nervous agent as he continued without hesitation and in the knowledge that he badly needed the commission from the sale, "The owner, I know, is prepared to drop the price quite considerably for he is going overseas to live, shortly!"
"It's very grubby! How much is he prepared to drop?" I asked.
"Twenty percent below the brochure price," was the instant reply.
"Make it thirty and he has a deal!"
"Done, you drive a hard bargain, but done, I have his prior consent for his absolute lowest price!"
We both smiled and shook hands, the deal was sealed.
****
It was just three days before Mid-summer's day when I next stood in the centre of the Summerhouse lounge and reviewed the changes which had taken place since that first viewing day. I had employed a decorating and landscaping company to go through the entire property. Although it had taken longer than I hoped; looking at the difference some six weeks later, the result was simply stunning.
One might think that the marble floors should be cold however, when considering the Summerhouse as a respite from the build-up of summer heat in the main house then it's understandable that the owners wanted a cool and tranquil environment. And yet, as I stood in the centre of that room I could feel not only a comfort of well being I could also feel, strangely, an inner strength that I hadn't experienced in years. The latter of those feelings had me confused until I realised it was one of quiet confidence that one gets when you feel you are not alone. I glanced around but, of course, the room was empty. As my eyes scanned the open empty space, I started to retrace my troubled history.
Two years ago my eleven year marriage ended in divorce; needless to say it was over long before the divorce papers had been served. I knew five years ago my marriage was a sham and that my wife had been unfaithful the whole time that I had known her. I opted first for reconciliation and tried to carry on performing my husbandly duties; however, things went from bad to worse.
Prior to starting a bout of counselling, some five years ago, I happened to go out drinking at a local pub with a few friends and bumped into the guy who I had recently learned was the one fucking my wife. When I saw him walk towards the 'john' I stood up to follow him in there. One of my friends grabbed my arm and advised me not to do anything stupid! I shrugged off the grip he had on my arm and cornered the guy in the bathroom. He must have recognised me for he backed away till he was cringing up against a urinal bowl.
"I'm not going to hurt you. I just want some answers to a few questions!" I had said quietly but still with menace.
He answered all my questions without hesitation and by his very manner I knew he was telling the truth. The realization that became apparent was my marriage was over and the years I had invested into it just a waste of time and effort. My wife still approached me for sex on occasions; however, once knowing the truth I started failing to perform in the bedroom. An erection became as distant as my chances are of winning millions on the Lottery.
My failures were meat and gravy to my wife who chose to taunt me mercilessly; eventually, bringing home one of her male friends. She had underestimated me for although I could not achieve erections my normal body strength was impeccable and I beat her smirking lover half to death. The next day she filed for divorce.
The past two years, since my divorce, haven't seen any change in my erection problems. I have been on dates a few times and willing ladies have never been too hard to find; regardless of that fact dead meat remained dead meat and my mental wellbeing kept on deteriorating. A short while ago I thought a change in lifestyle might help so that's why I started looking for some remote 'hideaway' where I could take fresh stock of my life and hope for a new beginning.
****
I was interrupted from my personal thoughts when I noticed paint daubed on the Portland stone adjacent to one of the freshly painted window frames. I checked the other windows and found the painting to be just as sloppy. I quickly dialled the decorators on my cell and made a complaint. They promised that 'Someone of authority would be with you shortly'.
It was perhaps three quarters of an hour before I heard the sound of high-heeled shoes clicking across the marble hallway floor, and when they stopped at the portal to the lounge I glanced up to see the person who had entered my abode.
