It was a miserably wet day and Rachel was driving home after her day's work at the radio station. Her mood was attuned to the weather. The carnal delights of Amsterdam had faded into a distant memory and she felt in need of somebody in her bed. Since returning there had been nothing but trouble of one sort or another.
The friendship with Kate seemed to have waned and they seldom saw each other. Even when they did, conversation was restrained, their previous light chatter reduced to stilted information about what they were doing. Not very much, as far as Rachel was concerned, whilst Kate still seemed determined to throw everything up and go to live in Amsterdam.
Desmond was another irritant. He had approached Rachel when his wife was once more in Scotland, but she preferred not to go down that path again, good though it had been the first time.
Work had also proved a bind and she lacked concentration, leading to several fairly grave errors. Much to her chagrin, Desmond had hauled her over the coals for being slap-dash, and she felt he had taken particular delight in humiliating her after her refusal to have sex. She had to admit, though, that his criticism was justified and mentally kicked herself for her lack of commitment to the job.
Then her car broke down and had to be towed to a garage where the mechanic shook his head, informing her that it was a big job and the car would be out of action for at least a week.
"That's the bad news." He grinned as he saw her dismay. "The good news is that we'll give you the loan of a car."
Rachel wrinkled her nose. "That's the good news? How much will it cost?"
"To you, nothing. The insurance takes care of it."
She immediately brightened. "That's great."
"Thought you'd appreciate it."
Now she was driving along, windscreen wipers washing back and forth with a monotonous and irritating scratching sound and a peculiar bumping at the rear. It became worse and she gradually realised what had happened.
"Oh, fuck it!" she cried, hitting the steering wheel several violent blows.
She had a flat.
After pulling over to the side of the road she sat for a few minutes in miserable contemplation of what had to be done to get her moving again. Out in the rain, jack up the car, take off the wheel and put on the spare. She had never done it before and felt this was not the best time. Worse still, she had no coat to protect her from the downpour.
"Fuck it." This time she swore in quiet resignation.
Rachel reluctantly climbed out of the car and opened the boot.
"Oooooh!" It was a wail. "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" She stamped her feet in frustrated rage.
There was no jack.
She was hardly aware of the car slowly driving past and pulling up a short distance ahead. Still staring at the empty boot, her hair a bedraggled mess and mascara running down her cheeks, she suddenly heard a voice close to her.
"Need any help?"
She looked up and saw an elderly man with a kindly face standing next to her. He was dressed in a long raincoat and wore a sou'wester, both of them giving him good protection from the weather.
"I've got a flat and no jack," explained Rachel.
"No problem. I always carry one for just such an emergency."
"So do I," snapped Rachel, aware that he probably thought of her as a dizzy female. "This isn't my car."
The man smiled, ignoring her ungracious manner. "I suggest you get into my car where you'll be a little drier, while I do battle with the wretched wheel."
Rachel hesitated momentarily, unwilling to put herself into the hands of a total stranger, yet aware of her need for assistance.
"Thank you."
She quickly sought the sanctuary of the Samaritan's car, grateful to get out of the persistent rain. She heard the boot close behind her as the man took out his jack, but was unable to see anything clearly through the rain-streaked rear window. Settling down in her seat, she patiently began to wait until the job was done and she could be on her way home. The end of a perfect day.
Rachel's eye was caught by a magazine peeping out of the glove compartment and she pulled it out, hoping for something to occupy her mind. She soon realised it wasn't the kind of magazine to be read by women. It was a glossy almost entirely devoted to worshipping the female - undressed - form. She opened it. Leaving little - she turned a page - no, nothing to the imagination, these models were displaying themselves in full colour to anyone who cared to fork out £3.50.
Women's bodies had not usually been a source of fascination for Rachel, but her brief lesbian experience with Kate had shown her that anything was possible. As she flicked through the magazine she felt a small stirring deep within her. There were pictures of breasts, both large and small, thrusting off the page at her, and open crotch shots, some of them with the vagina lips pulled open. Although most of the models were obviously professional there were a couple of pages featuring amateurs. Some had wedding rings on display and not all of them had the flattering measurements of true models. The photography, with a couple of exceptions, was also sub-standard.
The boot slammed down and Rachel hastily tried to push the magazine back where she'd found it, but the driver's door opened and the owner climbed in. Water was pouring off his sou'wester and he vigorously shook it outside before throwing it onto the back seat and slamming the door shut.
"You're all ready to go."
"I can't thank you enough."
"My pleasure. I enjoy helping attractive maidens in distress." He grinned. "Even the less attractive ones." He indicated the brochure. "Find it interesting?"
"I'm sorry. I was being nosey. Just looking for something to read....to pass the time."
"No problem. There's nothing secret about it."
"Not even from your wife?" Rachel could instantly have kicked herself. What did she know about him? He could be divorced or, worse still, a widower and she'd made a crass, flip remark.
He smiled. "My wife? Oh, she knows all about it. After all, it's what pays the bills."
Rachel looked puzzled,
"I'm a freelance photographer for this magazine and several similar publications." He reached into his pocket and brought out a small leather wallet from which he produced a brightly coloured business card. He offered it to her. The name John Cane was embossed in gold letters and beneath it, in smaller print, was the legend: Photographer.
"That's you?"
He smiled. It was a nice smile. He must have been handsome when he was young; in fact, he was still handsome, though aged about sixty, with grey hair and a neat grey moustache. His clear blue eyes twinkled as he studied the girl in his car.
"That's me." She offered the card. He waved his hand. "No, no. Keep it. You may want to use it."
"Do you think I'm desperate enough to take my clothes off for twenty pounds?" She had seen the figure mentioned in the magazine. Rachel sounded as indignant as she felt at the suggestion.
John shook his head. "Oh, that's just for the sexy snaps taken by husband or boyfriend. You get much more than that for a layout. I'm always on the look-out for women attractive enough to fill a page."
Rachel frowned. "You mean.....I might have a layout?"
"You might indeed. You have all the right qualifications as far as I can tell. You should keep my card, just in case you decide you're interested."
"Thank you, Mr. Cane, for your help." Her voice was like ice.
Quickly climbing out, she slammed the door behind her and ran back to her own car. It was still raining and she scrambled in, then sat for a few moments trying to recover her breath and her composure. How dare that man suggest she should become a nude model in a dirty magazine! For that's what they were. She should have slapped his face. She should have....it was then she noticed his card still in her hand. She should at least have thrown it away; but there it was.
