Author's note: Two part story. I decided on the category Romance because it seemed the best fit. The second part will be darker and will be in the group sex category.
*
It was my mum who got me into all this in the first place. It wasn't entirely my idea although I suppose the initial stimulus came from me. I meant well, you know. My dad always says there's nothing worse. Than people who mean well. Anyway I've no regrets. Not now. Want to find out why?
Well settle down with a drink and a partner beside you and picture this. It's just like a picture book....remember? I write the words and in your mind you add in the pictures. So that in practice every time someone reads the story it becomes a different one, with a slightly or maybe radically different set of accompanying images, dependent upon the mindscape of the reader.
I'm drivelling on, aren't I? I suppose it's because I've decided to write it all down but I don't want to look a complete idiot. Because in many ways I was but in the end, and probably no thanks to me, it turned out... Well, how did it turn out? You'll just have to read the story, won't you?
And the title? Well, it's deliberately ambiguous. It could be a story about affairs to do with the preservation of trees or it could be an ecological mantra. It's the former by the way. It all began with a tree, a bit like Adam and Eve. It's either about my favourite tree or it's about me. You can decide.
Now in so many stories you are told first about the gorgeous wife who at 35 is still drop dead gorgeous with a size something or other figure and lord knows what else. And she's a bit bi or something with long blonde hair and green eyes. Well you'll get nothing like this here. I'm not married for a start. I'm twenty-one, petite and when I look in the mirror I like what I see. And you can just imagine the rest -- or if you really pay attention I'll pop in a few clues as we go along as to what I really look like. To start you off my name is Heather [a name I really like] and I live with mum [Carole] and dad [Ed] in Cromer, near the sea.
'Get on with it!' I hear you muttering. Sorry, I like a slow start to a story. I settle in and get nice and comfortable. Adjust the cushions; pick up that glass of Chardonnay. Ready? All right, impatient reader!
ooo000ooo
We live not far from the village green and in the north-west corner of the village green there is a field, used for years for grazing by the occasional local pony. In the apex of the corner, if that's the right word, stands a large old tree. A copper beech. The lower branches are all cut off at one perfect level, no doubt by generations of animals grazing on the lower branches and leaves there and the sheep, ponies or whatever seek shelter under my tree from the sun, the rain and so on.
It's not my tree actually. I just think of it as my tree, our tree even, because mum likes it as much as I do. I don't think dad is that bothered about trees but he supports us from a distance. In our campaign I mean. You see the problems began when the field was sold to a local builder who wanted to build 5 exclusive homes in the field. We campaigned against that but we lost. The village has to grow and change, I suppose. We thought the tree was safe because it had a preservation order. But even they can be overturned if profit margins are at stake. Or maybe a councillor received some hidden favour or promise. Anyway, they said the tree would have to go. We marched on county hall, we got on the TV. Mum chained herself to the tree itself. We attracted media attention and became a public nuisance!
And then the builder called. He was very nice and explained how if the tree stayed one of the houses would have to be much smaller and his profit margin on the land and the build would be reduced substantially.
We listened and smiled. And waited. And then he made us an offer. He showed us a plan even, which showed a parcel of land in the corner of the field and a proposed boundary twenty feet outside the perimeter of the tree, drawing an arc if you like around the field side of the tree. Quite a bit of the tree naturally overhangs the field boundary making the tree appear from a distance to be a feature of the village green itself.
'Nine thousand pounds,' he said.
We sat in stunned silence.
'Give us some time,' mum replied.
'Honest, Mrs Simkins, I can only give you three weeks. Take it or leave it -- or the tree comes down. Sorry.'
And he left.
And we started fundraising. Raffles, bring and buy, coffee mornings. We got some grants from countryside organisations - and then mum suggested the auction in the Town Hall. We attracted some good publicity and we received some wonderful lots, such as TVs, dvd players, a hot tub, a motor bike and so forth. Mum hoped for a car or something as the star item but that never came. A car hire firm offered us a car for the day and a couple of smart restaurants offered meals as lots. So it was looking good. By the time of the auction we had raised four thousand pounds but now the momentum was slowing and we realised the final five thousand would be a struggle.
And then mum had her big idea. She told me about it one evening when we were on our own.
'You could be the star lot, Heather. You know, the social company of a beautiful young woman for a weekend. Together with a hire car and meals in exclusive restaurants. Have an amazing time with Heather Simkins!'
I roared with laughter, and said: 'You must be joking, mum. It might be with some dreadful old man or something!'
'I'm sure only some of the nicest people in town will be at the auction,' she wheedled. 'And we're only talking about going out for meals and general socialising, Heather. Don't be so cynical about people. There's far more decent ones than the other kind.' She finished a bit lamely but once she had convinced me that a lot of people might bid for 'me' and that I would be making a major contribution to the tree's future security, I gave in. I was arrogant enough to believe I might make some real money on the night.
And the night came. Mum had made me dress in a clinging evening gown which showed off my good figure. I knew I looked good even though I was incredibly nervous. Mum was the auctioneer and she had been entertaining the small crowd with her auctioneer's banter as she took the bids and tempted people to spend. She had also been drinking white wine.
'To give me a bit of confidence and liberate my humour gene,' she joked.
She had been funny, I had to admit.
'And now it's thirty-six hours in the company of my beautiful daughter, Heather.'
There were, of course, cheers and much laughter as I stepped forward onto the raised platform of the town hall.
'Just imagine: candlelit dinners, a trip out into the country. A weekend to remember!' Her voice boomed into the microphone.
Bidding was a little dilatory and had only reached thirty pounds.
'Come on everyone,' my mum was exhorting the thinning crowd, 'I'm sure Heather will grant you a weekend to remember. Just imagine, there's no knowing what pleasures she can grant you.'
I wasn't really listening or paying attention to the voice which had become a loud insistent drone. What I did notice, however, was that the bidding suddenly picked up. And my mother was getting carried away.
'You'll be able to do whatever you want together for thirty-six glorious hours, folks. So come on, roll up, open your wallets!'
Now I was listening and I realised what my mother had done. I'm sure it was unintentional but the punters were taking her at her word. There were four bidders now, all men, and I had reached the dizzy heights of three hundred pounds. It wasn't the meals or the hire car they were after. They wanted me, standing there so stupidly while they were trying to buy me!
'Eight hundred pounds,' mother screamed. 'Any increase on eight hundred pounds?'
'One thousand pounds!'
A new voice had joined the bidding. I looked around and I recognised him vaguely. Then I remembered he was the young, well thirtyish, solicitor who had dealt with granny's will last year. Mark something.
'One thousand pounds. Any increase on one thousand pounds? One thousand pounds once, one thousand pounds twice,' she paused dramatically and brought her gavel down sharply on the dais before her. 'Sold to Mr. Delagrange for one thousand pounds.'
And then she even winked at me. 'That's the last wink you'll ever wink... before I kill you,' I thought.
ooo000ooo
He came over to me.
'Remember me?' he asked.
'Yes,' I stammered, blushing.
'Mark Delagrange.'
