Two Sides To Every Story Pt 03

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Running the risk of being mistaken for a terrorist, I spent the night in the airport, shifting from one area to another, mingling with crowds whenever possible. Every now and then I'd try to snatch a nap, taking care to pillow my head on my backpack, not wanting it to be assumed to be stray and blown up by the bomb squad.

Thinking back, I reckon I must have been in a state of mild shock to believe I was being cunning. The airport had CCTV cameras everywhere. I was probably being watched by a dozen security officers at every moment. Moving about a bit wouldn't have fooled them. But for some reason I didn't get thrown out. They must have put me down as just another harmless, penniless Pom.

At least I know I don't look like an Islamic State guerrilla!

My stomach eventually told me it was time for breakfast. Fancying another go at steak and eggs, I decided to head back to that nearby town, calling in first at the ticket desk.

'Sorry,' said my favourite sheila, passing me a business card. 'Listen, I'm Cathy. Our number's on there. You don't have to keep trailing out here to check. Ring us instead. In fact we'll ring you as soon as anything changes.'

I told her to call me Kat and set off in search of some tucker. Then, shored up the Aussie way, I sat and sipped coffee, wondering what to do next. I'd seen the sights of Sydney years ago and was no longer in the mood to see them again. More to the point, I didn't want to go too far away from the airport, in case a flight became available at short notice.

Picking leaflets out of a conveniently placed rack, I studied the more local attractions. Botany Bay immediately jumped out at me.

Why haven't I been to the most famous bay of them all? I wondered.

Remedying the oversight took up most of the day. As I foot-slogged it back to town I rang Cathy.

'Sorry to nag,' I began.

'And sorry to have no news,' she replied.

While quenching my thirst on a veranda outside a bar, I considered options for the coming night. It was another couple of miles to the airport and no fun there anyway. Glancing across the street I saw a sign advertising "UK Style B&B". I went to have a closer inspection before moving on to the next watering hole.

The place came well-equipped; I had to give it that. According to the sign they had Wi-Fi, "all televised sport" and a "late bar". There were other luxuries listed but the claim that caught my eye concerned contactless payments.

The door was open so I went inside and found myself in a reception-cum-hallway. There was no-one behind the small desk but it had a bell push and a sign saying Ring for Service. I pressed the button and heard an electronic buzz somewhere within the depths of the building.

Perhaps a minute later I was joined by an attractive woman in her early forties, wearing an apron with a picture of Scrooge McDuck on it. 'Good evening,' she said in a soft, lilting Scottish accent, 'I'm Morag.'

'I'm Kat,' I said. 'I need somewhere to stay. I don't know how many nights I'll be here. Can I sort of pay as I go?'

'Don't tell me,' she said, a little sassily, 'you're down to a credit card and want to pay contactless.'

'Yes,' I said. 'I was robbed. Is it that obvious?'

'Robbed?' Her attitude changed dramatically. 'You poor thing; did they hurt you?'

'It was a cybercrime, so I never saw anyone. Thank God.'

Morag had a closer look at me and nodded. 'You deserve a discount. Let's say it's sixty dollars a night; nice bed and full breakfast. Paid in advance and bar bills settled before you turn in.'

'Sounds good to me,' I said, waving my card at her, 'where do I swipe?'

*****

A pattern developed as the days passed. By eight o'clock I was up and showered, ready for my full Scottish, and by half past I was ringing the ticket desk. As the ticket news didn't ever change I would then pay for another night and, leaving my backpack up in my room, go out and roam the day away. Then I'd eat my evening meal in one of the pubs near to the B&B and, after ringing the ticket desk to wish them goodnight (hee-hee!), I'd hit a few bars.

Here's a little amplification to that paragraph.

Firstly: a "full Scottish" is very similar to a "full English" but includes a big bowl of porridge. Trust me, however much roaming you do after one of them, you don't need to eat at lunchtime.

Secondly: I know Cathy promised to let me know if she had any news, but I couldn't stop myself ringing for updates. Needing to hear was an itch that couldn't be scratched away.

And thirdly: my evening pub crawl always ended up in the bar at the B&B. Morag ran it, as well as everything else in the business, and said it was her favourite job of the day because she could for once slow down and talk to people.

Now I've always like lilting Scottish accents and Morag's was a sexy as any I'd ever come across (or cum fantasizing about). I found it very pleasant to sit at the bar and yarn with her. By my third night I knew all sorts about her background.

Morag been married to an Aussie but he'd died in a horrible RTA. She used the insurance payout to buy the guest house (once she'd got over her loss, of course). At one stage she'd employed an assistant but, breakfast time aside, there hadn't really been enough work for two.

'When she went home to Halifax I didn't replace her,' Morag said. 'I've been running the place on my own ever since.'

'Halifax,' said I, 'that's only just over the hill from where I live.'

'Halifax, Nova Scotia?' My landlady laughed. 'Only joking; she was from the one in England. And I don't know what it is with you Yorkshire lasses, always wanting to go home.'

'Don't you miss home too? All those mountains and lochs, with green monsters and wild haggises running through the glens?'

'There aren't many mountains and lochs in my bit of Edinburgh.' Her smile was wry. 'And I don't have a home in Scotland anymore. My parents died young and I'm an only child. All of my friends are here in Sydney, nowadays. I guess it's different for you. I guess you'll have lots of people waiting for you back there.'

'I don't have many,' I said truthfully. 'I'm looking forward to seeing my dad, but that's about it.'

'What about your mum? Is she . . .'

'Oh, she's still in the land of the living. But she disowned me years ago, when I came out. Not that she liked me much before she got the news.'

As I said that I wondered how Morag would take it. I had my suspicions but, although she'd grown very friendly towards me, she hadn't dropped any hints, direct or otherwise.

'I see,' she said, smiling more warmly. 'Your mum's a bit old school, is she?'

'You could say that.'

'And there's really nobody special ticking off the days 'til they see you again?'

'There was, but she excommunicated me. I had three strikes and got struck out. I suppose I keep going back out of habit as much as anything else.'

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Morag's B&B only had six rooms to let and, even though she encouraged locals to use the bar, it was usually quiet. I outlasted everyone else that third night and called it a day around eleven-ish.

'I'm going to try Botany Bay again tomorrow,' I told her. 'I don't half shift when I'm not carrying my backpack. I'll probably cover every inch of the National Park.'

'Unless you get good news about your ticket,' she said.

'Fat chance of that.'

I went to my room and, after checking my phone for non-existent texts, washed my face and then brushed my teeth. Then, before I could undress, I heard a knock at the door.

It was Morag, bearing a bottle of Glenfiddich, two glasses and a water jug.

'I can't seem to sleep,' she said. 'Fancy joining me in a nightcap or two?'

I let her in and closed the door, shutting us away from the world.

'You can't have counted many sheep,' I said, grinning. 'I only left the bar five minutes ago.'

'Don't you know a subterfuge when you see one?' Morag's laugh was a little nervous. I picked up on it straightaway but said nothing.

My God, I thought, a hint at last!

She poured two generous measures and asked if I wanted water.

My laugh wasn't in the least bit nervous. 'Water,' I exclaimed. 'Heaven forbid! What do you take me for? A heathen Sassenach?'

'No,' she said, passing me a glass. 'I take you for someone as alone in the world as I am.'

*****

Would you like to know how we fucked? You would? Oh, go on then, I'll give you a bit of an idea.

Sitting side-by-side on my bed was heaps better than facing each other over the bar. And drinking a fine single malt was heaps better than swigging Tooheys (not that I'm knocking my favourite Oz beer!). I suppose what I'm saying is that we were out of comfort zones and it was exciting. Morag had ventured into my air space and I wanted to venture into hers.

But not too abruptly; last thing I wanted to do was scare her off.

She began by asking me about my mother . . . or, more specifically, about my coming out.

'I've known forever,' I told her. 'That is, I've known I tend to prefer girls to boys.'

'So you do like boys?'

'I like a certain type of boy. Unlike me and girls; I don't bother with types for girls. I like them all.'

'I'm the other way round,' she said. 'I like most blokes, but do have a type for girls.'

'Which is?' I asked, never one to miss an opportunity.

'As if I'd tell after one wee drink!' Morag topped our glasses and gave me a chink as well as yet another smile.

'Can't fault a girl for asking.'

'I'm not faulting you for anything. I just want to hear more about your track record.'

'I experimented as a teenager,' I said, 'kissing with some of the other girls, pretending we were practicing for boys. And then I went to uni and practiced kissing for real; kissing and a whole lot more.'

'I experimented at uni,' Morag admitted. 'Up until then I didn't dare.'

That was good to hear. 'Girls are much better at it,' I reminded her. 'Never mind just kissing, girls know how to make love.'

My landlady hummed at that, filling an uncomfortable silence by re-topping our glasses.

Three doubles in ten minutes, I thought, if that's not a come-on . . .

'I reckon I'm eighty-twenty,' I announced, 'eighty per cent women, twenty per cent men.'

(Maths has never been my strong point. I've worked out again just now, and it's more like ninety-five per cent women!)

'Maybe we're a perfect fit,' she replied. 'I'm about eighty-twenty the other way. Except it's been a long time since my last girlfriend. And, sex-wise, I had tons with my husband. Does that wreck my reputation?'

'Husbands don't count,' I said, 'so your reputation is sound.'

'Thank goodness for that. I wouldn't want you thinking I'm a stick-in-the-mud.'

We sipped whisky and eyed each other a while. Then, deciding we'd done enough groundwork, I went for it.

'Eighty-twenty, twenty-eighty,' I said with a chuckle, 'does that mean I get to go on top?'

*****

Sex with Morag was as good as any sex I've ever had. She was very slippery and slidey and had her own unique way of responding to a direct trib. Instead of thrusting up to meet me, she sort of slithered and slid left and right like a madwoman. And trust me, it worked! When I'm tribbing a girl I always try to forget about me and concentrate on pleasing her. With Morag that was impossible. Whatever I did, the more I gave her, the more she gave back.

And some!

Our activities weren't restricted to tribbing, either. We started with kisses and quickly progressed to fingers and tongues (she wanted to go down first; unsure of the etiquette when a paying guest fucks with her landlady, I didn't object). Then we sixty-nined. Then we spent perhaps as much as an hour rubbing our tits together.

And then we tribbed!

Twenty-eighty! My arse! Nobody so supposedly inexperienced should be able to make me cum so easily . . . but she did it time after time.

And I'm almost cumming again at this very moment, just thinking about her.

'Thank you,' she said as we lay side-by-side in the dark. 'You've made an old woman very, very happy.'

For some reason I didn't want to tell her about Honey, so I resorted to a bit of subterfuge of my own. 'I've always liked older women,' I said, 'especially ones who aren't really very old and who seduce me with single malt whisky. Right now I'm probably a lot happier than you are.'

'I tend to doubt that.' She put a hand on my knee and squeezed in a matey way. 'I have to be up by five o'clock,' she went on, 'to collect fresh eggs from my friend's backyard. Oh, the trials and tribulations of a modern woman! We'd best get some sleep while we can.'

I checked the time on my mobile (and no; there were no text messages). It was two fifteen; yonks before five.

'Sod sleep,' I said, 'we've nearly three hours yet. You make the most of it . . . or should I make the most of you?'

*****

I was tempted to loiter around the B&B next morning but Morag wasn't having it. That is to say, she left me in no doubt I'd get in the way.

'I've a million things to be doing,' she said. 'Succumbing to your charms again isn't an option. You will have to wait 'til tonight.'

From then-on my daily pattern included a sleeping partner and became easier to bear. In fact I spent every day looking forward to the coming night. And with good reason; the sex started great and got better and better. Morag had been dead-on; we were a perfect fit. I couldn't have hand-picked a nicer person to be marooned with.

But I was still elated when, on my second Thursday in limbo, I got the call.

'Kat, it's Cathy. Good news at last. One of our passengers has had a heart attack. You're flying out on Sunday, landing in Manchester Monday morning.'

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Thankfully the heart attack wasn't fatal. I wasn't stepping into a dead man's shoes when I finally boarded a plane.

Home, I thought, stowing my backpack in the overhead compartment. Home for twelve months of hard labour and my money back from the bank. I'll be quids in. Next time I'll be gone for eighteen months, no worries.

My fellow passengers could, I reckon, be split into two groups. There were the Australians, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, off on their first long-haul, eager to see Mother England. And there were the Brits, pissed off after experiencing life Down Under, not at all keen to be going back to rainy old Blighty.

Normally I would be in with the pissed off crowd. Not this time, however.

Twelve months hard labour, I reminded myself. I can do it, easy as falling off a log.

Long-haul flights are best dealt with by splitting them up. I tend to do them in three-hour blocks. I'll eat, drink and watch a movie for the first three. Then I'll sleep the next three. Then I'll go back to eating, drinking and watching a different movie . . .

The trick is not to let boredom into your head. I'm very well-practiced at that. By the time we got to Manchester I was as chilled as if I'd just had a week at a spa. I was also more or less back on GMT . . . unlike everyone else. By then there was a distinct lack of bushy tails and some of the bags under eyes were bigger than my backpack.

Dave was waiting for me at Arrivals. Sad to say, there was no card with my name on it that time. And there were no hugs and kisses either. All I got was a reserved smile.

'I've had the spare room decorated,' she said as she drove us along the motorway. 'You can stay as long as you need to, but there's something you should know.'

'Don't tell me,' I said, 'you've got back together with Phil.'

'No,' she replied, staring ahead through the windscreen, looking more Velma-like than ever. 'I've met someone else.'

Something in her voice troubled me. 'You sound serious,' I said.

'I am serious. Phil was just a fling. Mikki's different. I love her.'

Now I'm not sure what impression you have of me. If you read Mikki's version of events, you most likely set off believing I'm an evil, calculating bitch. I hope that by now, a fair way into the truthful version, your beliefs have softened a little. Okay, I know my behaviour sometimes leaves a lot to be desired. And I know my mother is close to the mark when she calls me a whore. But I'm not a calculating whore; I'm more of a free spirit. I only ever fuck with people who want to fuck with me, and never for gain in any way.

I hope you appreciate that that's gospel.

And I hope you appreciate that my tough cookie façade is just that: a front I put on to protect me in a mad, mad world.

My not-so-tough heart fell when I heard Dave's words. 'You can't love someone else,' I bleated. 'I want you to love me.'

'You never let me love you.' Dave was still staring grimly ahead. 'You didn't let me fall in love with Phil, either. And I'm sorry, but you're not going to destroy what I have with Mikki.'

In case you haven't put two and two together, "Mikki" is none other than Darling Mikela. I hated her even before Dave told me more.

Up until recently the girl thought she was straight (hah!). Dave had met her at work and they had clicked almost immediately. And then, during a platonic (hah!!) hiking weekend in The Lakes, she had given Dave her virginity. It hadn't been discussed yet, but marriage was a possibility . . .

So I was up against a younger woman who claimed she was a virgin (not a card I could recall ever playing myself). She was "beautiful" and "sweet" and worked in Credit Control. Hmmm . . .

Call me cynical, but I didn't believe credit controllers put "sweet" in their CVs. And it certainly isn't there in their job descriptions.

Dave did give me one crumb of comfort. Apparently Darling Mikela had thrown her toys out of the pram yesterday, when she found out I was coming home. As a matter of fact, she'd stormed out of The Busfeild and wouldn't answer her phone. And she was currently away with her boss, that lezzie nympho called Joyce, visiting a customer in Brighton.

Hmmm . . .

Pretending to accept the situation, I told Dave I'd start flat-hunting straightaway. 'My dad's lending me the deposit,' I said. 'Assuming I have a bank account to put it in.'

Dave patted the glove compartment. 'I think you'll find it's in there. I signed for it last Saturday.'

The recorded delivery envelope was sizeable. I opened the smaller, regular post one first. It had a PIN number in it. Encouraged, I ripped apart the other and found a banking treasure trove.

'New cheque book,' I said, 'a paying-in book, Switch card . . . three grand overdraft limit; I didn't even ask for that.'

'Don't ever use it,' said Dave. 'That's my advice.'

'I might have to, to get me through to pay day.'

'Have you got a job already?'

'No, but I've got two interviews at the end of the week.'

'Is one at the Widget Company?'

'No.'

'Haven't you spoken to Craig?'

I studied Dave as she drove. 'I thought Craig might still be a touchy subject,' I said carefully. 'And isn't he busy making people redundant now Phase Four's over and done with?'

'We've already been through all that,' she told me. 'Now we're short-staffed again. And I happen to know he needs a programmer. One he hasn't recently sacked.'

In other words me; my heart leapt back up out of my boots. Then I considered the down side.

'You wouldn't mind me working in the same place as you again?'

'We're grown women and good friends. Of course I don't mind. Ring him this minute.'

I rang and Dave was absolutely correct: Craig needed someone with exactly my qualifications and experience.

'You could start today if it wasn't for HR,' he told me. 'After the redundancies everything has to be done by the book. Look, I'm out of the office tomorrow. Let's do the interview on Wednesday and start on Monday. Okay by you?'

I rang off and regarded Dave, who was still doing Velma impressions as we neared Bradford.

'I've now got three interviews,' I announced. 'Can you drop me in Keighley? I want to speak to my bank manager while I'm on a roll.'