All persons involved are over 18 years of age at all sexual liaisons.
***
Author's note: Section 28 was a legal measure introduced in 1988 by Britain's Conservative government stating that local authorities 'shall not intentionally promote homosexuality or publish material with the intention of promoting homosexuality,' or 'promote the teaching...of the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship.'
Primrose Ryan, 33 years old - Rosie to her friends - peered blearily at the street sign: Wim...no, Great Windmill Street. She stumbled on, supporting herself against walls and shop windows with one hand, oblivious of amused or scornful passers-by giving her a wide berth. Shit, that bloody awful song Windmills Of Your Mind had lodged itself in her head now, it'd be stuck there all bloody night. Angrily she swiped at her eyes, smearing her already tear-damaged mascara across her cheek.
The day had started so well: Steve had met her off the train, they'd met up with dozens of others going to the Anti-Section 28 march, it had been chilly but sunny, tens of thousands of protesters had marched, there was music, colour, a really gay atmosphere (no pun intended, Rosie thought with a sniffle)...she'd even managed to get Ian McKellen's autograph. God knew how many hours they'd spent pub crawling, but she'd drunk way too much Chablis, then Steve had told her not only that he'd applied to buy his bloody council house, capitalist git, but that he'd actually just taken a well-paid new job with a firm of solicitors well-known for suppressing trade unions and workers' rights. He'd been very pleased with himself until Rosie had thrown his pint of beer over him and stormed out.
She seemed to have been wandering for ages, sobbing and cursing all bloody men, telling a couple of the bastards who'd asked if she was all right to sod off. Now she was lost, pissed, cold and...bloody hell, the heavens had just opened. Instinctively she reached to pull her leather jacket over her head, then remembered she'd left it in the last pub. She checked her bag for something, anything, to cover her head, and realised with a shock that her purse wasn't there: she must have left it in the sodding pocket of the sodding jacket. Huddling herself into a doorway she took a deep breath and tried to clear her head. This was London, whichever way she walked she was bound to come to a tube station sooner or later; and then what, with no money, no cards, at this time of...what time was it? She squinted at her watch, but in the flashing red neon light nearby the face was too small for her to read in her boozy state. A shadowy male figure approached her and grunted "How much for a half-hour love?" Shocked, Rosie balled her fists at him and told him squeakily to fuck off.
As the rain seemed to be easing, she took a step onto the street, and was instantly drenched by a taxi speeding through a deep kerbside puddle. She screeched "Baaastaard" after the disappearing taillights, then stumbled across the road. Startled by the blaring horn of another taxi rushing towards her, Rosie threw herself forward and landed in a heap in the opposite gutter. Her hip burning with pain, she stared down her length: she'd lost one shoe, her white sock and blue jeans were soaked and filthy, and the white 'F☹ck Thatcher' T-shirt she was so proud of looked like a disgusting oil rag. Bile rising in her throat she rolled over and retched wine and kebab into a blocked drainage grill. Feeling utterly defeated, she rolled onto her back, let her head fall into the stream of putrid gutter water, covered her face with her hands and sobbed afresh.
Not for long though: after a few seconds, or maybe hours for all Rosie could tell, she felt hands, soft but strong, curling around her wrists and pulling her upwards. She scrambled her feet under her and tensed, terrified but ready to try and fight off an attacker, but found herself looking up into...a pair of purple eyes! They were surrounded by improbably long lashes and pale skin. An arm reached around her and a soft female London accent purred, "Come on love, that's no place to sleep on a night like this."
Rosie felt herself being sat on a low shop windowsill and looked up at not one but two tall figures, silhouetted by a streetlight behind them. One crouched, a hand on her knee, and Rosie saw those same unearthly eyes, set in an angular pale face framed by long silver-blonde hair. Glancing down for a moment Rosie noticed a deep cleavage, emphasised by a push-up bra and a plunging neckline. Her seeming rescuer smiled with pouting rouged lips and murmured, "Oh dear hon, you are in a state aren't you? What we gonna do with you?"
The other figure, a curvy female, seemed to be leaning forward and staring at Rosie. After a moment she said, in an inquiring tone, "Miss Ryan?"
Rosie was stunned. The woman also crouched and gazed at her with concern. She was Afro-Caribbean, dressed in a red boob tube barely able to contain her heavy bust, and a low-slung silvery-blue ra-ra skirt far too short for a cool, damp night like this. A silver ring pierced her navel. Hazily Rosie tried to peer through the gold eye shadow and blusher and the glossy plum lipstick which adorned her face and, recognition dawning, mumbled "Sarah Fergus?"
Oh great, just cunting great. If there was anything better than being dragged out of a sodden gutter, looking like shit, pissed and with puke on her chin, it was that one of her draggers was a former pupil at the school where Rosie taught; no doubt the story would be all round the place by Monday. But what was a girl from Wellingborough doing in Soho close to midnight dressed like a prostit...? Ahh, Rosie might not teach Maths but she did realise that sometimes one plus one really did equal two.
The blonde spoke again. "Look babe, we'll flag down a cab and put you in it. Where are you going?"
