Author's note: I am so indebted to my sweet muse and editor.
Many thanks to all of you who have told me you enjoy Chapter 1, and other stories. Your comments, public and private, supportive or critical (or both), really do help me hone my skills. I will try to respond to everyone who leaves me a contact address.
New readers might find it best to start with Melanie: Chapter 1.
*****
Sunshine teased his eyelids apart long before the alarm rang. He had in his turmoil forgotten to draw the curtains the previous night, and the morning brightness streamed into the east-facing room.
He lay for a while, listening to the sweet melody of a songthrush, and reflecting on the events of the evening. Knew without doubt that he was falling heavily for the beautiful and intriguing woman who lay, still fast asleep, on the narrow bed above him. Sat up and leaned over to watch her sleeping face, a soft mask of relaxation as she recovered from her long journey.
He knew that she would be confused when she woke: her first morning on a far continent, still jetlagged, and with no memory of how she came to be lying in his bed, near-naked. She would surely be embarrassed, possibly even concerned at what might have happened to her.
He thought carefully. He wanted her wakening to be as pleasant and unstressful as possible. Realised that the last thing she needed was to find him naked in the room with her.
So he rose and donned a shirt and underpants. He paused before going to shower, realised that if she did wake before he was ready, she would be alarmed to find she couldn't move from the bed as she was near-naked. He spread his ancient silk dressing-gown on the foot of the bed for her.
Then he padded to the tiny ensuite cubicle to shower. The morning was so wonderful, and he was so happy, that he couldn't resist singing softly to himself in the shower.
His ablutions were nearly complete when his song was interrupted by a sound at the door. It opened a crack and Melanie's sweet Australian voice drifted through the noise of the spraying water, querulous: Sandy?
- Good morning Melanie. I do hope you slept well?
There was a giggle: Yeah, I did thank you Sandy. But may I enquire precisely who undressed me and put me to bed?
He stuck his wet head round the shower-cabinet and found an impish pair of brown eyes twinkling at him from the door, a grin broadening around them.
- Um, I ... I have to own up lassie. You fell asleep -- as I was reading to you actually -- and I ... err, I didn't want you uncomfortable, and your lovely dress all crumpled. He was immensely relieved that she didn't seem at all angry.
- Well since you've already seen me in a condition of some intimacy, would you mind shutting that curtain and not looking for a minute, whilst a girl has a pee? I'm desperate, I need the toilet NOW.
He would have suggested she wait till he was out of the shower, but she'd already swished into the tiny space in his gown and was lowering herself onto the toilet. He drew the curtain and modestly turned to face the wall. But the sounds of her release, and the knowledge that she was performing such an intimate and private act just inches from him, had their natural effect on his body.
The toilet flushed and he heard her wash her hands. Thank you Sandy! and the door clicked shut.
He stepped from the shower, dried, and shaved. Thankfully his arousal had abated a bit by the time he was finished, and had wiped the shower down in case she wanted to use it. He slipped on underpants and shirt, emerged into the room. She was standing on the balcony, and the morning breeze spread her hair in a tracery of black against the sun.
- Sorry Melanie. He blushed. I ... um ... I thought you wouldn't be awake until I dressed properly. Let me just grab my suit, and then the shower-room'll be free for you. She turned and her eyes retained their twinkle, raking his partially-clothed condition.
- Go and dress then Sandy, and while you're doing that I'll slip into my clothes and head off to my own room to get ready for the day. She moved into the room and stepped up to him as he stood, hair dripping from the shower. Kissed him lightly on the cheek.
- And thank you for looking after me last night, Sandy. And putting me to bed like a gentleman. She stepped back. He scented her sleep-sweat. Now go and dress. See you at breakfast in about an hour?
He moved into the shower with his suit and presently she sang a goodbye and the door clicked shut. He was half into his suit, but he wasn't sure anymore what he was doing. Was uncertain whether the suit was the best thing to wear.
He made himself tea, half-dressed, and stood on the balcony reflecting. He really couldn't make up his mind how formally to dress now, and it was hard to focus as fragments of Melanie kept drifting through his memory. Wee looks, gestures, intonations.......her voice and the words of her extraordinary poem. He sipped the Darjeeling and listened to Paris wakening around him.
*****
Melanie sat at a window table as he entered the dining-room, reading-glasses peering into Le Figaro. Simple white blouse and loose light skirt, sensible Paris dress. He was glad he'd forsaken his suit for tie-less shirt and slacks.
- Good morning madame, would you mind if I share your table?
She glanced up: Why not at all sir. A lady can get lonely amongst strangers over breakfast. They both laughed softly, lightening the morning together.
As they ate they discussed the festival programme; which readings seemed the most interesting. Her focus was on poetry and his on prose, but they had a common list by the end of the meal.
The programme didn't begin till ten that first morning. When they had eaten they took tea and sat on a terrace, as the dining room was noisily cleared behind them.
She glanced in his face: Umm...Sandy? His brow cocked. I ... I really must thank you for helping me to bed last night. It was so sweet and gentlemanly of you. I slept so well. I really do appreciate it. A deep smile, slight flush.
He blushed, slightly uncomfortable, and his laugh was a wee artifice. I -- he blushed deeper -- there, err, there wasn't really much else I could've done. Other than leave you dressed. Maybe I shouldn't have. Undressed you. I did have another couple of stiff whiskies before I decided to. It wasn't so hard. He looked up, finally able to smile at her.
- I woke, you know, when you were taking my dress off. It was Melanie who blushed deeply now. How you managed I don't know. You must have realised that I was ... a bit aroused? And I heard you afterwards, on the balcony. She giggled.
He wished he wasn't there. Didn't know where to look: I ... I umm, I do apologise. If I'd thought for a second you were awake ...
... you might have been tempted to join me? She smiled, face flushed. I had to ... after I knew you were asleep. Her eyes fell to the table, suddenly examining the cups. Regretted her impetuous words now.
He leaned and touched her hair, a little stroke. Then touched the back of her hand as it lay on the table, feathered the length of her fingers methodically. Heaved a deep sigh.
- Well. At least we both know where we stand lassie! He wondered where he'd found the courage to say that.
There was an edge of unease between them after their exchange, a few minutes of awkward silence. Then they looked up at each other simultaneously, and burst out laughing.
- I have never spoken to anyone like that in my life before Sandy.
He rose and drew her up: And neither have I, sweet woman. Hesitantly, their lips met.
*****
He was more nervous than he could ever remember as people began to enter the room. Not many, he thought, but enough. There were about twenty there by the time a distant clock struck eleven. Melanie entered at the rear of the room, slightly pink, as the convenor stood to introduce Sandy in French, then flawless English.
He rose and thanked the woman for her kind remarks, in both languages. Said a few stumbling words of appreciation to the organisers for their invitation. A hush fell as he began reading.
He sat down to a smattering of applause. Polite, he thought, not enthusiastic. But all he felt was relief as he sat, wiping his brow.
Just a few questions at first, his use of vocabulary, what did he think of Kelman and others who often wrote in phonetic dialect. As the discussion became livelier, he was surprised at how knowledgeable several were about modern Scots literature. Began to enjoy himself as he opened up, expounded a bit. Only Melanie made direct and positive comments about his reading, said she had enjoyed it.
Then a tall bearded man, who introduced himself as a Norwegian professor of English, stood. And methodically, clinically, took the chapter to pieces, in the context of the whole novel. Nobody else had given any sign of having read it. Sandy was hurt at first, but began to hear what the man was saying. The Norwegian closed by saying dryly that it wasn't a bad first novel.
Few comments followed. The convenor rose to end the session, and folk began to drift out of the room. The Norwegian came up to shake his hand with a smile, said he knew a first reading was hard. Melanie hovered behind as a handful of others spoke briefly to Sandy.
Then a striking familiar face said thank you, she'd enjoyed the reading, would have to read the novel in full. Moved away again. Margaret Atwood! He stared after the Canadian, too stunned and exhausted to give her a signed copy from the wee stack on the table.
- Well, Sandy! You hardly need my praise after that, now do you? Melanie's smile glowed as she hugged him warmly, kissed his ear: You were wonderful. Well done! And she picked up a book, scurried after the famous author, said a few words to her.
His arm went round Melanie as they moved from the now empty room.
