Outside on the pavement, Patrick took a step back – figuratively, it seemed, as well as literally.
‘See you in November,’ he said, raising a hand before turning and half-running, head down, into the slow dawning of another Friday night.
Perhaps a few days in the 1950s – I mean, Isle of Wight – were exactly what was called for. My mother was keen to know if I had ‘met someone’ – my break-up with Gareth had disappointed her, though she was good enough not to show it – but I couldn’t exactly give her the love-life lowdown. One one-night stand, a flurry of internet messages and an unattainable crush. It didn’t amount to much.
Sitting on the grass on a windy, stormy day, looking out at The Needles, I tried to analyse my relationship with Patrick Marks. Was it more than professional, or was I deluded? What he’d been saying when Gareth interrupted us that last night … Wasn’t it something to do with workplace romances? What had he said? I tried and tried to call the exact words to mind, but the threads wouldn’t disentangle. And besides, if he was married … Oh, it was no good.
I would go home, draw up my lesson plans up until Christmas and return to work with renewed professionalism and efficiency. Perhaps I would get a twinset and wear my hair in a bun, go for full-on librarian chic instead of the slightly messy, distrait image I tended to present to the world.
And then Patrick could unpin my chignon and take off my glasses and … But, Ms Delaney, you’re beautiful …
God, I’m a twat sometimes.
I took the hovercraft back on Hallowe’en, a Friday this year, and braved the gathering gloom along the promenade, past the kids in Screammasks shaking hollowed pumpkins full of candy, until I arrived at my cold, unheated flat.
I switched on the computer before I attended to the boiler – for some reason I had this itchy premonitory feeling that SecretSadist might have a new message for me, but I was wrong.
Sitting down with a cup of tea and a chocolate Hobnob, I found the usual stream of messages from hopeful pain-inflicters on MasterMe.com. Delete, delete, delete. My finger hesitated over something different, some kind of flyer or general invitation.
‘Come to the first Solent area Munch!’
What the hell was a Munch? I thought of The Scream, then some kind of picnic affair, before clicking out of idle curiosity and reading on.
‘Do you despair of ever being able to meet and socialise with like-minded local people? Well, now you can cheer up and get your spank on, because the first ever Solent area Munch is scheduled for Sunday 9th November at 1 p.m. In the Mason’s Arms, Itchin Lane.
‘Come for a drink and a chat – no obligations, no pressure, discretion assured. Dress code = casual. No school uniforms or latex please!
‘We hope to see you soon!’
Interesting. The message was signed by one Soton_Spanker. A little bit of rummaging around MasterMe.com revealed him to be a male aged 30-40 with interests in corporal punishment, fantasy role play and astronomy. A kinky geek! The side of me I had planned to squash bounced back in full effect, my deviant synapses firing once more.
A smidgen of additional detective work dulled my overactive libido, though. He was in the “in a relationship” category, with a cute-looking girl called BadLilBunny.
All the same, the invitation was intriguing. What did a group of spanking fetishists look like in the field? Somehow, I didn’t think I’d be able to resist the temptation to find out.
The first week back at school was rough, both weather-wise and in terms of workload. I staggered through the Friday rehearsal without Patrick, who was at a conference, before falling into a pit of vodka with Lou.
I was still mildly fuzzyheaded on the Sunday morning, though the worst excesses of the hangover had receded and I was at least able to eat.
The storm appeared to have finally blown through and the sun made itself known for the first time in some days. I could do this. I could have brunch and then get on the train. It wasn’t a long journey, and it was in the neighbouring city, which boded well for my anonymity. Could I really do it?
I logged on to the computer and messaged Soton_Spanker.
‘Is the Munch still on?’
I’d eaten my toast and was on my second cup of coffee when the reply pinged in.
‘Very much so! Are you coming?’
‘I hope so. Will try to make it.’
‘Excellent –
we’ll be in the corner furthest away from the dartboard. Look forward to seeing you.’
There it was. A commitment. Not unbreakable, of course, but it put a weight of motivation beneath my idle curiosity, heavy enough to send me to the cupboard for coats and scarves and make sure my railcard was in my purse.
All the way on the train I entertained a stupid fantasy of Stuart, my spanking surgical sailor, being one of the parties lurking in the corner of the snug. A reunion, all the more passionate for being unexpected – he would bend me backwards over the table for an extended kissing scene, then he would bend me forwards and bare my bottom, right there in the pub, while the Munchers looked on and applauded.