Dottily in Love

Chapter One

Image this! Me, writing a love story . . . no, a goddamned romance!!

How crazy is that?

As the youngest of three siblings I've always been the least likely to get involved in a love affair. If in need of a likely suspect you'd never need look further than my big sis. Erika has "romance" tattooed on her heart. Six years older, she used to mother me as if I was her personal, lifelike doll. At least ten times a day I'd be changed, bathed, wrapped up in swaddling clothes . . .

Okay, "Exaggeration" maybe my middle name, but emotionally and practically me and Erika have always been chalk and cheese. I loved her and I loathed her. As soon as I was old enough to protest about her endless attentions I begged her to leave me alone.

For maybe a year she ignored my protestations.

Then, very grumpily, she finally obliged.

Erika spent her formative years reading the Famous Five, absorbing them all word for word before moving on to the Secret Seven. Then, as she aged like a fine old wine, she soaked in every word ever written by the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen.

Trust me, never mind "a truth universally acknowledged", that particular young lady could quote a girl anything from Agnes Grey to Pride and Prejudice, and woe betide anyone who put even a comma out of place.

Cue tons and tons of awesome admiration from me. As far as Erika is concerned Ms Austen is the best, end of. If Ms Austen says Mr Perfect is Captain Wentworth then all other competitors can simply fuck off.

Not that Erika would ever succumb to uncouth language in any way.

Not even when she's right and all doubters are at the wrong end of a donkey's ass.

Please excuse me if I seem less than convinced! So far as doubters are concerned I'm up there with big sis. Ms Austen rules okay. Nobody else come close, not even Emily B.

Well, Emily does come close, but not quite close enough.

Here's a little more detail about me: my personal teenage reading focused more on Martina Cole and, as I matured rather than aged, Mandasue Heller. Yes, I did take a detour via Agatha Christie but mostly I wanted "gritty" and "real". If I ever needed a digression I'd go read an article in one of Dave's classic collection of magazines.

Failing that I'd front up with personal experience.

I was good at fronting up, so why not?

Dave is my "middle" brother, by the way. He is barely two years older than me in reality but in fact he is mentally at least a decade younger. That said, his collection of glossy porn is second to none.

Leastways in my very limited understanding of porn, it is.

Note to Dave: Find a better place to hide those antique mags; right there under your mattress!

As if!!

*****

Enough of the beating about the bush, let's get down to it. I'm basically at heart a ballsy go-ahead girl who relished every last minute of the sixth form. And I headed off for university determined to add to my sex education in every last way. Okay, I was pig-headed, belligerent and thought I knew it all. But I did really believe that I was in control of my emotions.

Wrong!

Two terms of spreading it around and I fell in lust with a guy who was, to say the least, athletic.

All I can say in my defence is that he was stacked. Not that size is everything but trust me, he had enough to always make me smile myself off to sleep.

Did I just say size isn't everything! Try combining size, technique and a fair measure of experience and then tell me I am mistaken!!

Not that being stacked is the be all and end all . . .

Cutting to the chase, I had two semesters playing the field before falling in lust with Mick. Then, in lust deeper than I'd ever believed possible, I had wasted another seven months being totally faithful to him.

Meanwhile he was increasingly less than faithful to me.

I know it's the same old story but, supposedly "together" although with Mick off AWOL more often than present,' I found myself unaccompanied at a Christmas party; unaccompanied and entranced by a well-built black guy with the world's most attractive grin.

I'm not going to explain myself in any great detail. At that moment in time my alleged regular lover had been less than attentive for several weeks and I'd never really cared for him in the first place.

Okay, I'm over-elaborating (or else making excuses), but the diminished attention wasn't a figment of my imagination. We'd gone from five times a night, every night, to once or twice a week.

In other words I was missing out, big-time.

Being caught underneath an enthusiastic, very well-built black guy wasn't exactly a disaster.

And please do not for one instant imply anything to do with me and skin colour, I didn't succumb to the guy purely because he was black . . . Well, I did, but only to the extent that he looked good in his skin and he looked good on me . . .

And he felt good on me because we were human beings and our bodies worked together ever so well.

Yes, yes, he pleased me. Yes, yes, he pleasured me. Maybe I got off on his blackness sliding on me, over me, but only in the nicest of ways. In all honesty I soon forgot all about our colour-clash and perceived differences.

Far as I am concerned, different toned skins look good together. End of. There's nothing kinky or perverted about it. On the contrary, it's natural.

Opposites attract and all that.

*****

I guess we're overdue introductions. My birth certificate says "Dorothy" and I would much prefer to be known as "Dot" but I've been "Dotty" ever since my seventh birthday; nothing to do with me and not of my doing. Best I can say is my primary schoolmates realized I didn't have a dog called Toto and didn't resemble Ms Cotton off Eastenders.

(|'m not so bothered about missing out on the Emerald City, but can't help being glad I wasn't ever taken for Nick Cotton's mum.)

As background I'm just gone twenty-one and currently a final year student in a university up in the north west of England. I am five ten in height, not in the slightest overweight and, with longish, straight blonde hair I have never struggled for dates.

Yeah, yeah, I've struggled with being known as Dotty . . . implying that I'm halfway insane . . . but I have long since come to accept that arguing only makes folk more intransigent. In other words I'm just stuck with it and moaning isn't going to do me any good.

A girl has to know her strengths and weaknesses, no?

So Dotty I am. And nowadays I take it as a significant strength.

But enough of all that. Let's get on with the tale and drop back a couple of months in time.

Chapter Two

For my sins I am an undergraduate in Mathematics. And yes, I know what horror that inspires in a lot of right-thinking folk. But I just happen to have a logical mind. I sailed through all my scientific A-levels and saw Maths as the easiest course for the future.

Ask me, most people are afraid of Mathematics. They're beaten before they even begin. Take off the blinkers, follow logical steps . . .

Okay, okay, I'll ditch the sales pitch. As I said a moment ago, I have a logical mind and Maths was an obvious choice for me.

The coursework was logical, too. Our entire first year was an amalgamation of everything that had supposedly been already ingrained into us, quickly running through a zillion or more disparate A-level subjects, pulling everyone up to speed before going boldly beyond.

(Rather like Star Trek!)

Back in those early days we used the largest lecture theatres, mostly on K Floor and above, filling them with at least a hundred students at a time. Back then it was tricky to get to know everyone; there were simply too many faces to link names with.

That all changed with the start of my second year. Suddenly, instead of a zillion disparate subjects we were obliged to pick six each. Consequently we were left with different groups of up to say twenty, meeting in much smaller theatres or tutorial rooms. And just as consequently, we all got to know each other much better.

My third year followed the same pattern. That is to say we were supposed to remain in our second year groups and press on for our finals. In reality nothing is set in stone so there was a certain amount of chopping and changing, but only in a superficial sort of a way.

Theoretically it was, anyhow.

In other words I was surprised to arrive at my opening tutorial . . . the dreaded Numerical Analysis . . . to see three unfamiliar faces.

Three in twenty was a big proportion, no?

Told you I was good at Maths!

As per always I arrived at the last second, barely one pace ahead of our tutor, a notorious political incorrect who was one of the university's best-loved. Somewhere in his fifties, cranky as heck, the guy could say simply anything without fear of criticism.

Criticising him would be like criticising John Lennon. It was not allowed to happen.

Grabbing the nearest available place, I sat and did my utmost to look as if I'd been waiting ages in eager anticipation.

Mr Wooller grinned at me, fooled not at all.

'Order,' he said, using considerably more authority than Black Rod, and getting considerably more respect.

'So new beginnings,' he went on. 'And a few new faces too. Let me make some introductions. Mr Clark, please stand and address this learned gathering.'

A guy on the back row stood up and awkwardly bowed.

'Mr Clark loved his final year so much he's doing it again,' Wooller said. 'God only knows what his total indebtedness will be when he finally waves us farewell.'

I laughed along with everyone else. Avoiding repayment of student debt was a hot topic. And now I looked again, I recognized "Mr Clark". He was the sort who'd stay in higher education forever if at all possible, and then only apply for low-paid jobs, avoiding repayments indefinitely.

Not that I blamed him. I just personally wanted a highly-paid job. Sooner I settled my student debt the better.

'Mr Smith,' said Wooller, 'please take your turn.'

A very sporty guy stood, self-confidence personified. I recognized him too. He wasn't only one of the university's leading sportsmen, he'd played cricket professionally for Lancashire.

Okay, so Lancashire weren't all-conquering Yorkshire or even Surrey, but they were probably next best after the two county giants of the game.

'I caught one with my right eye,' he said without being prompted. 'I was keeping wicket and the so-and-so of a ball came up off of the stumps.'

'Mr Smith was lucky not to lose that eye,' Wooller added. 'Fortunately he was very well insured as a cricketer. So ladies, all of the drinks are on him.'

More laughter ensued.

'Last but by no means least is Ms Fisher,' Wooller continued. At that the girl beside me waved in a very embarrassed sort of a way.

I looked at her with surprising interest. At this point I must explain that I had never had a same-sex thought in my life . . . well, hardly one thought. Okay, so I was capable of admiring another girl's looks, but doing something about it . . .

Like no way José.

Something about Ms Fisher attracted me, though. She was as tall as I was but somehow seemed to be petite; short, jet-black hair and a face to die for. And no, at that moment in time I didn't spare a glance at her tits.

No, I saved that for at least 24 hours.

And they were glorious in every way.

'Ms Fisher has relocated from Bath,' Wooller enlarged. 'Please make her welcome.'

That was about as much as she got. I kept looking askance at Ms Fisher, wondering why such a southern superstar would head north and coming up with zilch as an answer.

Every time l looked at her she looked better.

How dotty was that!

*****

Way it turned out Ms Fisher's six courses matched mine spot-on. With a zillion options to choose from that was a miraculous enough coincidence. So was my urge to find out more about her. Already I had a great need to be her friend.

Don't ask me why; it's just how it was.

Yes, not one hour after setting eyes on her I needed to be her friend. And it wasn't an urge, it was a craving.

On our way to our second tutorial I found out her first name was "Michelle". And, after that second tutorial I suggested coffee. She dithered. Then I suggested beer or wine and she rewarded me with a coy smile.

'I'm not exactly looking for a confidante,' she said, her voice soft and sexy.

If that was meant to alienate me it didn't work. 'I'm not cut out to be a confidante,' I replied. 'But I am intrigued as to why you're here. Isn't Bath supposed to be one of the best universities in England, if not all of the world?'

Cue a weighty hesitation, followed by a reluctant nod. 'I had a major break-up,' Michelle admitted in almost a whisper. 'I'm not really ready for any sort of a relationship yet.'

'I beg to disagree,' I said sincerely. 'I'm not going to force myself on you, but I reckon you need a good old chinwag, whether you realize it or not. So what's it going to be, beer or wine?'

'It's only eleven o'clock in the morning.'

'It's actually just past. The Union has been open two minutes already. Come on, I'm buying.'

We looked at each other and something audibly clicked.

'You're a bad influence,' said Michelle, 'but go on, twist my arm.

*****

So I twisted Michelle's arm and we stood there at the bar for over an hour, swilling dry white wine and becoming closer by the second.

Trust me; I had no idea about her orientation right then.

And trust me further; innocent as I was, fully informed, I wouldn't have changed anything, not even as much as one second of anything and everything.

Michelle attracted me in ways I had never previously imagined. Come to that she attracted me in a lot of ways I did not at all understand.

Craving is right. It was inexplicable but I simply had to be her friend. Ninety minutes of small talk only added to her allure.

Talking about small talk . . .

I set off by expounding about classmates in the two tutorials we'd already had, then moved on to expound about classmates she'd not yet met. And I was honest and accurate with it. Covering males and females, I gave Michelle my best opinion on everyone's characters, good and bad.

'So,' she said when I at last stopped for air,' 'nearly everyone's footloose and fancy-free.'

'Apart from the ones I've described as committed,' I corrected.

'What about you?' she replied. 'Are you committed?'

Wincing internally, I gave her a brief recap of my affair with Mick and its somewhat abrupt ending. Michelle laughed. 'Way to go, girl,' she said, but otherwise didn't comment.

I soon realized that I wasn't going to get any feedback about her broken relationship. Not at that very early stage in our budding friendship, anyway. So I didn't press her at all. Instead I told her that I had appointed myself as her next-desk-mate for the foreseeable future.

'We're in all the same classes,' I said, 'so why not?'

'Why not indeed,' she replied, perhaps succumbing to my enthusiasm if not my charm.

Where do you go after?' I persisted.

'Where do I go after what?'

'I mean after our academic day is over and done with. Where do you eat and drink?'

'So far I've been eating in the refectory and drinking in my room.'

'Boring,' said I. 'Cheap and practical, I agree, but why run up all those vast, mighty mountains of debt without enjoying yourself? I know a dozen different eating places and thousands and thousands of watering holes. Let's make an evening of it.'

Michelle rolled her eyes, looking all the more alluring.

'You,' she began, 'you're . . .'

'Twisting your arm again,' I finished for her. 'So what's it gonna be girl, yes or no?'

*****

Quite late at night we strolled back towards halls, our arms hooked casually, the way girls do, in no way meaning anything,

'I can't.' Michelle said as we drew to a halt twenty yards from the main entrance.

By then we were both tipsy and full of vindaloo. 'You can't what?' I asked, bemused.

'Kiss you goodnight,' she explained. 'I want to, but I just can't.'

I gave her a matey peck on the nose. 'There,' I said, 'goodnight to you and thanks for giving me a day to remember.'

Michelle flinched at that. 'I want to give you a day to remember,' she said mysteriously, 'I really do. But I can't. Not yet.'

Then she pecked me on my nose and exited rapidly, stage left (as if pursued by a bear).

It took me nearly an hour to fully appreciate what she meant. Then, for the first time in three years or more, I went to bed alone and jilled . . . and rather vigorously at that.

Chapter Three

By Thursday lunchtime I'd spent an awful lot of time with Michelle. We'd sat side by side for every last lecture/tutorial, we had swigged coffee, vino and ale together more often than was strictly healthy and we had eaten snacks, curries and Chinese in half dozen local venues.

And I'd jilled every night without fail.

Straight as I supposedly was, I had it bad.

Cards on the table; that urge, the craving to be Michelle's friend had only got stronger. And it had been very powerful to begin with. By Thursday I was prepared to do absolutely anything to further that aim.

Yes, absolutely, utterly everything . . . even if I didn't quite understand what I really wanted.

For once, as we scoffed cheese baguettes and swigged Marston's in the Union Bar, Michelle was subdued. When I asked if she had a problem she shrugged.

'It's halls,' she finally admitted. 'I'd forgotten how primitive they are. There are rules and regulations everywhere you look, but it's still a zoo. I hardly got a wink of sleep last night. Some nutter played The Last Post on a trumpet every five minutes.'

'What are you doing back in halls anyway?' I wondered.

'As you know, I left Bath in a hurry. I was offered a package that included halls and I snatched at it. Now I wish I hadn't been so eager.'

My heart sank. The idea of a disillusioned Michelle quitting was horrendous. It couldn't be allowed to happen.

'Find somewhere else,' I urged. 'The town is full of student accommodation, In fact . . .'

At that moment my housemate Martha arrived at our table.

'Girlfriend,' she said, punching me medium-hard on my shoulder, 'and you must be Michelle.'

Michelle smiled back at her. 'You must be Martha.'

'Yes, guilty as accused. I'm only surprised Dotty has mentioned my name. Lately whenever I have spoken to her she only ever goes on about you.'

I rolled my eyes at that. Martha never has spared time for tact of sensitivity. I love her to death but regularly have to keep from strangling her. Like maybe ten times a week. Fortunately Michelle took to her instantly.

'Girlfriend, we have a problem,' Martha said. 'Get me a pint and I'll reveal all.'

It did happen to be my round so I bought three more beers. And, while I was being served, I had a glance back at our table and almost died. Martha and Michelle had their heads together, laughing and joking like lifelong buddies.

Already, faster than the speed of light!

The stab of jealousy was immense. And no doubt about it, it was directed at Martha. Loving her as much as I did, she was invading my territory.

The strangling impulse was more mightily in me than ever. Somehow I overcame it and shipped three pints back like a perfect little barmaid (meaning a busty German blonde one, dripping suds and full of promise).

'So what's the score?' I demanded, ruining the blonde barmaid impression by slamming down the glasses and glaring at Martha.

What followed was one of those coincidences that would never work in a book.

'Our darling landlord rang,' Martha told me, 'he said our summer deal is over. Carole has to stump up for this month by next Wednesday or she's out on her ear. And he will be looking to us to cover the shortfall if she is.'

I groaned at that. Carole was our third housemate. While Martha and I had stayed put for summer she'd swanned off as a tour guide, supposedly learning new lingos while downing gallons of ouzo and screwing dozens of hapless holidaymakers. She'd been expected "home" a fortnight ago but hadn't as yet showed. Not that that was a shock. Carole and timekeeping were not compatible. If she said she'd meet you somewhere at eight you might as well turn up at ten the day after.