Alison

I'm not sure why Max chose me for Project Horatio. I was a city boy. My experience up until that point was all about urban renewal projects. My idea of water was the Thames. 'Are you sure that you want me to lead this?' I asked Max.

'Just think of it as Saint Katherine or Canary Wharf, but with the other side of the river being the coast of France,' Max said. 'Oh, and I may have somewhere for you to doss.'

'Oh?'

'Yes. Remember Alison? Alison Neasham?'

I didn't.

'She worked with us for a few months. In Gerry's team. Although, now that I come to think about it, it might have been slightly before your time. A nice girl. Very bright. Very ... umm ... spirited. I think you two might get on. She's ... well, you can make up your own mind. Anyway, go and talk to her. If you don't think it will work, then we can find something else. But I think it's at least worth a chat.'

'Actually, I'm planning to go down for a bit of a reccy on Thursday,' I told Max. 'Maybe I could pop in. Say hello.'

'Good idea. I'll let her know you're coming,' Max said.

On Thursday morning, I took an early train from Charring Cross to Ashford, and then I caught a local train to Frumley via Hamstreet, Appledore, and Rye. Alison was waiting for me at Frumley station. There was a cold breeze coming from somewhere, and Alison was wrapped up in a navy pea jacket and a Breton fisherman's hat.

She was slightly built, and she was younger than I had expected. Probably early thirties. Thirty-two, thirty-three? Something like that. She must have been just a baby when she worked at Hunniford's.

'Thank you for coming to meet me,' I said. 'Max gave me instructions and drew me a bit of a map, but ... well ... no substitute for local knowledge, eh?'

'Max's instructions probably tell you to take the Frumley Park Road. Which is fine. That's the normal way in. It brings you out at the western end of The Prom. But there's a shortcut, a bridal path, that takes us almost to my back door. We'll take that, shall we?'

The bridal path wasn't sign-posted, and it looked as though it led into a scrubby wood. However, the 'wood' turned out to be little more than a rather broad hedge. And, once we were on the other side, we were in a field that sloped gently down to the village, with the harbour to our left and what was left of the old pier straight ahead. Alison's house was at the front of the dress circle, overlooking the little harbour.

'Gosh. Great view,' I said.

Alison smiled. 'Not bad, is it? It will be good to have the pier back in working order, and it will be good to restore the length of The Prom, but I must confess that I quite like it in its tumbledown state. Not good for the local businesses though.'

I could see what she meant. As it was, it almost looked like a seaside version of a Victorian folly.

Alison took me on a tour of her house and showed me the room that was available. It was fine. 'Yes. This will be fine,' I said. 'In fact better than fine. Perfect. Thank you.'

'You're welcome.'

'Max tells me that you used to work for our lot.'

'Only for a short time,' Alison said. 'Just after I left university. But I didn't really take to London. I think I'm a seaside girl. And then, when my mother died, she left me this house. So, with the rent paid, as it were, I decided to take my chance and have a go at writing.'

'Oh? You're a writer. What do you write?'

'Whatever will turn a penny,' she said. And she laughed. 'Bits and pieces for magazines. Columns for a couple of the local newspapers. But my main project at the moment is a novel.'

'Hey, serious stuff.'

'Well ... sort of. Although it's a comic novel. So hopefully not too serious.' And she laughed again.

'I suppose that I had better go and introduce myself to the construction crew,' I said. 'I see they have the portacabin in place.'

'Yes. That arrived here a couple of days ago,' Alison said.

'Right. Well ... I'll see you again. On Sunday, I guess. I'll send you an email, shall I? When I find out what the trains are doing.'

As it happened, on Sunday, the trains weren't doing very much at all. The line was closed for maintenance, and they were running a bus service from Ashford. In the end, I arrived at Frumley shortly after five.

'I've had a good day,' Alison said with an air of unabashed satisfaction. 'Three-and-a-half thousand words. But, as a consequence, I haven't done anything about supper. So I thought we could wander down to The Ship. The Ship has a Sunday roast on Sundays. Funnily enough. And, sometimes, a choice of more than one.'

'Yeah. That sounds like a plan,' I said.

From the outside, The Ship looked old. And inside it looked even older. Alison introduced me to the landlord. 'Declan, this is Nick Wolfe. Nick is here to make sure that the chaps rebuilding the pier get it right.'

'Nice to know,' Declan said. 'Welcome to Frumley on Sea.'

'Oh? Is that the proper name?' I said. 'Frumley on Sea? I didn't realise.'

Declan shook his head. 'Proper name? No. But you have to admit it does have a suitably-grand sound to it. Now ... what will it be?'

Alison opted for a glass of red and I chose a pint of best. 'And take one for yourself,' I said. I thought that Declan and I had better get off to a good start. The Ship seemed to be the village's only pub. And I couldn't see myself surviving three months or so without a local watering hole.

The Sunday Roast was a choice between rib of beef and slow-cooked pork shoulder. Alison and I both chose the beef with roast potatoes and Yorkshire pudding. And we talked. And we talked. And we managed to drink quite a bit too. And then, back at Alison's place, we had 'one for the road'. Well, one for the stairs, anyway. Yeah ... I could see Alison and me surviving three months under the same roof. No problem.

On Monday, my first day on the job proper, Huey sent it down by the bucketful. At least we were working on the big bones. Driving piles and stuff like that. It would have been a disaster if we had been trying to work on some of the finishing stuff.

'It's days like this when I'm happy to be sitting at a keyboard,' Alison said when I returned at the end of the day.

'Tell me,' I said. 'It wasn't too bad in the site office, but I had to spend most of the afternoon out checking on the pile positioning. I got drenched. Although at least it wasn't cold.'

Alison smiled. 'I know what you need,' she said. 'A cocktail. A warming cocktail.' And, before I knew it, I was nursing a high-octane Whisky Sour.

Somehow, in between spells at her keyboard, Alison had also managed to prepare a very tasty venison casserole which she served with creamy mashed potatoes and green beans. It was delicious. And to help it on its way, there was a bottle of New World Pinot Noir. 'I hope that Max is paying you well for this,' I said.

'It's nice to ... umm ... have your company,' she said. 'I should probably be paying Max.' And she laughed.

The following day, the last of the clouds drifted away and, by mid-morning coffee break, it was a beautiful Spring day. 'Vunderbar,' Otto, the foreman, said as he joined me sitting on a parcel of decking planks out in the sunshine. 'Vot we are needing is three more months like this. You can be ordering? Ja?'

I smiled and shook my head. 'Sorry, I don't do weather, Otto. That's above my pay grade.'

Otto laughed, took a sausage roll from his pocket, and dunked it in his mug of 'milk-and-three-sugars' tea.

When I got back to Spraydon House that evening, I thought for a moment that I had disturbed Alison in the midst of ... well ... in the midst of something. Dressing? Undressing? She was in the kitchen. And all she was wearing was what appeared to be an oversized T-shirt. Or was it a very short dress? 'Oh, I do like it when the sun comes back,' she said. 'I don't much like having to go 'round togged up like an Eskimo.' She most certainly wasn't togged up like an Eskimo. And she did have very nice legs.

'No,' I said. 'Or yes. Or ... well ... you know what I mean.' Was I flustered? Yes. Perhaps a little.

And then she bent over to retrieve something from the floor, and I discovered that at least she appeared to be wearing knickers under her T-shirt or whatever it was. 'For supper, I thought I'd do some herb-crusted chicken breasts with new potatoes and a bit of salad,' Alison said. 'But first I thought I'd make a jug of Margarita.'

'I think I might need a shower,' I told her.

'OK. You go and do that. The Margarita will be waiting when you return. Oh, and if you need someone to scrub your back, just give me a call. I shall be more than happy to come and help.' And there was that laugh again.

When I got back to the kitchen, Alison had the chicken breasts prepared (pounded out in herbs and spices and breadcrumbs) and ready to go into the pan. The new potatoes were in a pot of water with a couple of sprigs of mint. And the ingredients for a simple salad were laid out on a platter. She had also made a jug of Margarita. 'Expecting company?' I said.

'Company?'

I nodded in the direction of the tall jug. 'That's a family-sized brew you have there.'

Alison smiled. 'Well ... I was thinking that we might need more than one,' she said. 'To celebrate the arrival of the golden weather. Now ... are you a salt-on-the-rim kind of chap? Or do you just want two straws?'

I have to say she made a very nice Margarita. Heavy on the tequila, light on the triple sec. Fresh lime. Sour without being unpleasant. 'Cheers,' I said. 'And, yes, here's to the golden weather.'

'To the golden weather,' Alison echoed.

And while the supper was cooking, we did have a second Margarita. It was that kind of drink: moreish. But I was also beginning to realise that, after a day at the keyboard, Alison liked a tipple or three. Are all writers drinkers? I was beginning to suspect that they might be.

As we ate supper (and sipped Pinot Grigio), Alison wanted to know all about Project Horatio. Why were we restoring the pier rather than simply rebuilding it? Wasn't there a risk that the next big storm would undo all the good work?

'A slight risk,' I told her. 'But I suspect that's true whenever you try to extend something which is essentially a finger of land out into the sea. But I'm not the designer. I'm not even the paymaster. I'm just the project manager. I'm just here to try and ensure that what has been designed is what gets built. Hopefully, on time and on budget. Is your novel set beside the seaside?' I asked.

'Umm ... in a sense. It's largely set on a boat. But the boat never really goes anywhere. The hero dreams of faraway places, but he can never quite bring himself to cast off. He lives on the boat, invites various characters onto the boat, and looks out to sea in much the same way that I live in a house and look out to sea.'

'So he might just as well live in a house.'

'Well ... yes. But then he wouldn't be able to call himself a mariner.'

We chatted on for another hour or so and the Alison asked if I would like to watch something.

'Watch something?'

'A bit of entertainment,' she said.

I glanced at my watch. It was only just gone nine. 'Yeah. If you like. Why not?'

As we cleared away the dishes and loaded the dishwasher, Alison said: 'I must confess that I have a bit of a weakness for the amateur stuff.'

'Amateur? Right. Britain's Got Talent?' I said. 'Top Chef? That sort of thing?'

Alison frowned. 'No. I mean amateur ... you know ... Wendy and Wayne on their couch at home. Or Wendy and Wilma on their couch. Or all three of them for that matter.' And she laughed.

It was my turn to frown.

And then, perhaps seeing my frown, Alison also frowned. 'No?' she said. 'Come and sit on the couch with me and I'll show you.'

I followed Alison over to the couch, still not sure what she was talking about. Alison turned on the TV, picked up her iPad, and started tapping away. And then I suddenly understood what she meant. Amateurs. 'Oh.' I laughed. 'Amateur porn,' I said.

'Porn?' she said. 'Hmm ... I prefer to think of it as erotica. Amateur erotica. Porn is .... Well, I'm not quite sure what porn is. But I like to think of this as erotica. Now, these two are quite fun.' And, when I had overcome my surprise, umm ... yes, they were.

'She' was probably 40-something. Well upholstered. Big breasted. I could imagine her as a checkout operator. Or perhaps as a general helper in a DIY superstore. ('Can I help you with something there, sir?') She was wearing one of those sturdy deep suspender belts that are part suspender belt, part corset. She was also wearing black stockings. And she had what I thought was a particularly attractive snatch thatch, dark and, I thought, probably more silky than springy.

'He' was probably a year or two younger than she was. And he was a good six inches taller. If you told me that his day job was something in the building trade, I would have had no trouble in believing you. He was wearing a Norwich City FC replica shirt. Canary yellow descending into green. And that was it. Nothing else. Not even socks. Was he a dyed-in-the-wool Canaries fan? Or was he trying to tell us that they were proud Norfolkians?

'OK?' Alison asked.

'They ... umm ... have my attention,' I said.

'Oh, good. But maybe we should finish what's left of that wine.'

I got up from the couch and retrieved the wine and our glasses and, when I returned, Alison was wriggling herself out of her skimpy knickers. 'Just making myself comfortable,' she said. And she laughed. 'You might want to open the hatch a little yourself. This woman has the sexiest of sexy cunts. Well, I think so, anyway. Family-sized portions. I'm afraid that's not an attribute to which I can lay claim.' And she tapped her own little neat-and-tidy pudendum.

Mr and Mrs Norfolk certainly put on a good show, and it wasn't long before Alison had raised the hem of her already-short T-shirt-like garment still higher and put her rather elegant fingers to work. And, yes, I could see what she meant: Mrs Norfolk did have a very sexy cunt. Plump outer lips and almost-flappy butterfly-like inner lips. Very sexy indeed.

While the Norfolk's performance was certainly arousing, it was not especially long. Fifteen minutes, perhaps? Certainly not a lot longer. And the quality of the filming could have been better. Or maybe not. Maybe it was what it was. Maybe the low quality production was one of the things that made it so gloriously ... well ... 'dirty'.

'Let's see what else we have,' Alison said, and she tapped a few more keys.

I wondered if Max knew about this side of Alison.

'Ah, yes. Now this woman is fun,' Alison said. 'I haven't watched this for a while. Her name is Anna -- although, of course, I very much doubt that it actually is. And she claims to be a retired civil servant. Or at least someone claims that she is a retired civil servant. See what you think. What was she? Treasury? Home Office? Department for Transport -- or whatever it's called these days. Or was she MI5? I quite like the idea that she was MI5. I like the idea that she was so undercover that now, in retirement, she can come out and no one has a clue who she is or where she has been. Well ... I say no one, but .... Anyway, see what you think.'

Allison had said: 'This woman is fun' but, when the video started, there was no woman. There was just a high stool in the middle of what appeared to be a white room. And there was soft music playing. I thought that I recognised the music. Gustav Holst perhaps? Ralph Vaughan Williams? William Walton? Or maybe Dvorak. And then there was a knocking sound.

'Come,' the well-modulated voice of an unseen man said.

Behind the stool, a hidden door opened, and a woman entered the room. She was possibly in her early sixties. Maybe slightly older. And she was dressed rather like an official at an international athletics meeting. The sort of thing that you see on telly. A world championship perhaps. She was wearing a mid-blue knee-length skirt, a pale blue blouse, and a navy blue blazer. On the blazer's breast pocket there was what appeared to be a stylised iris in shades of pink. I thought that there were hints of a Georgia O'Keefe flower portrait about the design. Or was it a vulva?

The woman entered the room, closing the door behind her, and stood in front of the stool, facing the camera.

'Anna. Welcome. And thank you for making yourself available at such short notice,' the man's voice said.

The woman -- presumably Anna -- smiled and nodded slightly but didn't say anything.

'I do like your hair like that,' the man's voice said.

Again, the woman, Anna, nodded slightly. Her hair was a soft silvery-white colour. Perhaps it had once been blonde. And it was cut in a rather attractive short bob style.

'A very smart outfit,' the man's voice said. 'Very smart indeed. But I think you know what I am looking forward to seeing. Perhaps if we start by removing the blazer.'

Anna unbuttoned the blazer and slowly took it off. And then she held it out at arm's length and let it fall to the floor.

'Yes,' the man's voice said. 'Thank you. Yes. And now ... the skirt perhaps?'

Anna reached behind her back and, apparently, unfastened some kind of fastening and lowered a zip. For a few moments she held the skirt where it was. Teasingly. And then she let it fall to her ankles, and she stepped out of it. After a further moment or two, she bent over and picked up the skirt and tossed it to one side.

With skirt out of the way, it was now evident that Anna was wearing stay-ups. Also, there was just a peep of blue lacy knickers.

'Nice,' the man's voice said. 'Yes. Very nice. And now perhaps the blouse?'

Anna nodded slightly and began unbuttoning the buttons at her wrists. First the left wrist, and then, after a brief pause, the right. And then, starting near her throat, she slowly undid the rest of the blouse's buttons. As the two sides of the blouse separated slightly, it became evident that Anna was wearing a blue lacy bra that complemented her blue lacy knickers. Slowly, deliberately, she removed the blouse, held it at arm's length, and let it fall to the floor.

'Yes. Very nice,' the man's voice said. 'I may have to ... umm ... rearrange aspects of my own dress. To accommodate the ... umm ... expansion you are inspiring. Ah ... yes. That's better.'

Anna, 60-something-year-old retired civil servant Anna, just stood there. With the same half smile.

'And now,' the man's voice said, 'I think the next garment to go should be the lady's choice.'

Anna nodded her little half nod and, after a moment or two, inserted a thumb into each side of her blue lacy knickers and, slowly, very slowly, she pushed them down over her hips.

'I am pleased that that was your choice,' the man's voice said. 'Yes. Perfect.'

Anna stepped out of the knickers and then she reached behind her back. She paused for a moment or two, but then it was time to remove the bra. Her breasts were the breasts of an older woman. But they were certainly not unattractive.

'And now ...,' the man's voice said.

Anna turned around to face the stool. She spread her feet apart, placed her hands on the top of the stool, and bent over. Her buttocks were not as full and shapely as they may once have been but, like her sagging breasts, they were not unattractive. And, right at the top of her thighs, there was a clear view of her 'points of entry'.

'Very nice,' the man's voice said. 'And now ... the finale.'

Anna turned to face the front once more and eased herself up onto the stool. For a moment or two she just sat there, her knees together, her hands resting on her knees. And then, slowly, she pushed her knees apart. At first, just a little. But then she spread them wider and wider. And then, as the music -- Holst, Vaughan Williams, or whoever -- swelled, her hands slowly slid along her inner thighs until they were framing her now-gaping vulva, her now gaping sparsely hair-fringed cunt.