When I was small my mother used to say that after God made me he broke the mould. She lied. There are thousands like me in every town and village and you can find us all waiting at the school gates every afternoon ready to pick up our two point four children and take them back to our identical new build boxes on the new estate in the leafy suburbs in the nicer parts of town. We're the wives, the mothers, the carers and I'm a fully paid up member of the club. School plays, violin practice, cubs scouts, Sunday football, swimming practice; I'm right there ferrying the little darlings hither and thither, filling their lunch boxes, ironing their clothes and in all ways possible being the perfect mum.
But it's not just the kids I have to look after, far from, for if you're not there for your man then it's your fault if he strays, or so says the school gate gossip. We may be the liberated generation but you would never guess it around here. Domestic goddess in the kitchen, nursemaid in the playroom and whore in the bedroom; these are the roles we have to aspire to and it doesn't come easy. His status depends not just on the job but also on his acquisitions like the car, the house and, of course, the "little woman" and to boost his ego we're expected to look our best at all times. Hours down the gym keeping the body fit and trim, trips to the beauty parlour and, of course, exactly the right designer labels all combine together to show the world just how successful he was to bag you. And then, when the kids are asleep, it's upstairs to bed where, with the lights out it's a quick grope followed by wham, bang, thank you ma'am and as long as he's satisfied then where's the problem.
The one plus side; I've always had a soft spot for sexy clothes and Roger, my husband, sees pandering to my Janet Reger and Jimmy Choos habit as part and parcel of looking after his possessions and there's nothing like fine undies and beautiful shoes to help you look and feel your best even when doing something as mundane as the school run.
But I was bored, bored with the sameness of it all. Bored of the pettiness of lives measured out by who's got the biggest SUV or who went on the most exotic holiday let alone whose kid won the most prizes at sports day. Bored of a social whirl that consisted of cocktail parties with neighbours and work colleagues where lukewarm chardonnay and Marks and Sparks "nibbles" let people get just drunk enough that the "friendly" grope by Roger's boss was somehow deemed acceptable and I'd be a party-pooper if I were to make a fuss about it. Anyway, making a fuss might imperil Roger's annual bonus so I had to bite it back.
So maybe it was boredom that made me do it. I can't think of any other reason.
It all started with a flat tyre. I was down in town trying to track down a new bit for Roger's home gym. The supplier's warehouse was located in a set of lockups underneath the railway arches down an old cobbled lane around the back of the docks which is just about as off the beaten track as it sounds. The sat-nav was leading me through the maze of backstreets when the car lurched and slewed to the right. I got out and, tiptoeing gingerly around the oily puddles, I went to the front of the car and had a look. Technology isn't my strong point but it didn't take much to see that one of the front tyres was completely flat and I was going nowhere. Even if I had known what to do white jeans and a pale cotton blouse, let alone designer heels, are not the clothes to be doing it in so I looked around for help. There, two doors down, was an auto repair shop and so I set off to see what I could find.
As I approached I found that the double doors sealing off the archway were padlocked but the Judas door was ajar so I knocked a couple of times and, getting no answer, went on it. The inside was dark and grimy, much as you'd expect from a working garage in a place like this and, at first it seemed unoccupied. A large Mercedes which was propped up at the far end took up the main body of the archway but there was plenty of room to make my way past looking for someone to help me. I called out 'hello' a couple of times but got no answer and was just about to leave when a loud curse told me that someone was, indeed, here. I looked again and at the front of the Merc where a pair of legs sticking out indicated that someone was busy working underneath so I leant down and tapped them gently. The owner of the legs was lying on a sort of trolley and they pushed themselves out from under and, for the first time, I saw her.
The woman that emerged was Rosie The Riveter's rougher, tougher sister; whilst quite obviously a woman she made no concessions whatsoever to femininity. Her oil-stained overalls were tied off around her waist revealing a singlet that had once been dark blue cotton but had seen far better days. The singlet was tight enough to show every ripple of her well muscled body and to reveal that she was not wearing a bra. Her light brown hair was short cropped which only emphasised her toughness, that along with the numerous tattoos on each arm. She took off the iPod headphones she was wearing and looked up at me with the impatience of one whose work has been disturbed.
"Well?" She asked.
For the life of me I don't know what came over me. I couldn't speak, I was transfixed, my heart was racing and my throat was dry. I still can't explain just what it was about her, I've never been into women, I'm as straight as an arrow, but there was something about her that I responded to in a very physical way. Was I scared, well, sort of, she is a pretty scary character, but it was far more like a rabbit caught in headlights, fatally fascinated by their ultimate doom. All I could do was stare.
"Well? Come on, I haven't got all day." She repeated.
"My car..." I managed to stutter. "The front tyre..."
"And you want me to fix it?"
"Please, would you?"
She stood up slowly and walked round me looking me up and down. It was as if I were being weighed in some sort of balance and found wanting. I kept wondering whether she would touch me and wasn't sure whether I wanted her to or not. I was now really scared and was about to run away when...
"We'd best have a look at it then. Where is it?" The woman seemed to have come to some sort of decision.
"Outside, out in the alleyway."
"Come along then."
Together we went out to where my car was waiting. She went over and squatted down next to the tyre to inspect it.
"You've got the luck of the devil. I just so happen to have one of these in the back of the lockup. It'll only take ten minutes or so to fit it. We'd best move the car out of the middle of the alleyway. Give us the keys?"
I passed the car keys to the woman who went back into the lockup, opened up the doors and returned carrying a plastic seat cover. She then jumped in and manoeuvred the car until it was just inside the lockup tight against the tail end of the Merc.
I could only stand and watch as, with practiced skill, she jacked up the car and removed the wheel. Again I felt the overwhelming physical attraction; it wasn't that she was beautiful in any ordinary sense of the word but she was so strong and sure of herself, so self contained, so different from anyone I had ever met before and I was mesmerized; I couldn't help but stare. She swung the wheel up onto some sort of bench and, as she did so, her unconstrained breasts moved beneath her singlet. I wondered what it must be like to be so strong and yet still so much a woman. I wanted to touch her, to feel her skin but more than that, I wanted her to touch me, to grab me, to...
