Is This Really Me? - Brian Doswell (books to read this summer TXT) 📗

that I waited behind the bar here while I was at Uni. I still know some of the staff.”
We both laugh together at his honesty.
Graeme suggests drinks on the terrace. I order champagne and Graeme has a spritzer which arrives with pretty little smoked salmon sandwiches, with the crusts cut off. We talk about marketing G’s & O’s. I hate goals and objectives but Jock likes them. There’s not much to talk about because everything is on track. We are ahead on three main goals and we agree to keep our powder dry in case the third quarter slips a bit. Graeme has prepared a power-point for me and we run through the slides on his laptop. It all takes less than an hour.
The sun is dipping in the west and we agree to meet at six thirty in the bar before dinner. As we part on the terrace Graeme slips an envelope into my hand, “It’s a little thank you for my appointment.”
I wait until I’m in the lift before opening the envelope. Inside is a card with my name on. Day membership of the Hotel Spa Club all treatments paid for providing they are booked and taken before six-thirty. And it’s only four o’clock.
Also in the envelope is a menu of spa services on offer and guess what, there are no prices.
In an instant, the image is of me on a massage table, doing that thing with the hot stones on my back. I had always wondered what all the fuss was about. Now I know. I’m naked save for a towel around my hair and a strip of linen cloth across my bum. A girl with firm hands has explained the idea and left me to perspire gently under the hot stones. I would never have believed it could be so relaxing. Every few minutes she comes back and wipes my back, from shoulders to ankles, with the rough linen cloth, it feels so good and I tell her so. She says “Thank you.” and goes away again.
My head is resting on the massage table, my eyes closed and my mind in neutral.
I hear a swish of the door opening and a hint of footsteps behind me before the linen cloth is lifted from my bum and falls on my shoulders again. I open one eye and see a blank white wall with low cupboards, doubtless stuffed with exotic massage potions. On the top of the cupboard is a chrome steriliser machine and reflected in the polished metal is Graeme, leaning against the door post and gazing at my body.
After dinner I invite him to my room for a nightcap. I don’t think he expects it but he does not refuse. I invite him to raid the minibar, which he does, choosing scotch for himself and brandy for me. There’s something inherently naughty about drinking straight spirits out of tooth glasses.
“Was it worth it?” I ask.
Graeme’s brow crinkles, “Was what, worth what?”
“The Spa Pass.” I elaborate.
“You tell me.”
“How much did you pay to see me in the nude? And, was it worth it?”
Graeme smiles, “I wondered if you knew. And, what am I doing here?”
“Not half enough.”

§§§§§

I’ve still got the Jag but a different, bigger desk. Jock still likes Graeme but he likes me more and I can’t be with both at the same time. Jock is nearly sixty but he is as fit as a fiddle. He plays a lot of golf and is often away from home at weekends. So am I.
I’m sure half the Board knows about us, but they don’t seem to care. My well educated guess is that I’m not the first, nor will I be the last. I have no illusions about Jock leaving home for me or anyone else, come to that. In fact, I seem to be past my sell by date. All my contemporaries are married with children and I’m only ever asked to baby-sit or play godmother at the next Christening. I do my job for the company and I’m well rewarded for it. I’m just glad that I got the job before I got Jock; it helps me sleep at night to know I did it on merit.
There is a glimmer of light on the horizon. When Jock moved me onto the Group Head Quarters Staff he put me on the fifth floor two offices along from the Company Secretary who just happens to be divorced with no kids and no other baggage in tow. Arthur Ellis is mid-forties and quiet but not half as serious or boring as his job suggests. We have enjoyed several sundowners together at the local pub but nothing much more. He knows about me and Jock.
These images are brief and meaningless. We are at a concert, saying nothing, listening to the music. We are in an art gallery, saying nothing, looking at pictures. We are on a river boat, in France during the Paris sales conference, saying nothing, looking at a million light bulbs on the Eiffel Tower.
Jock knows about Arthur and Arthur knows about Jock. Neither mentions the other in my company.
Neither of us is in a hurry to commit to anything and neither of us is going anywhere else.
I think my time with Jock is coming to an end; he hardly talks to me any more.

§§§§§

I’ve been head-hunted. Actually, I think Jock may have put in a good word for me. A new position, a big Mercedes and a whole box of company toys to play with in the West Country.
I had no idea that Falmouth was so beautiful. Our offices are in a converted warehouse on the harbour and I could spend all day watching the variety of sailing boats coming and going, if there wasn’t work to be done.
I realise the favour that Jock has done for me and I’m determined to prove that I really can manage the company as well as be his ‘bit-on-the-side’. Better make that a retired position.
My PA brings the newspapers into my office each morning with post-it notes marking things that she thinks I should know about. Occasionally the local paper has something about us and today is one of those days. My PA tells me that the Mayor wants to see me personally about our planning application for a new warehouse with river access. I agree. “Let me know when.”
The town hall is a dreary place with utility fittings everywhere. I’m clutching a folder of plans and my Site Manager is by my side with another box of detailed drawings.
We are ushered into the Mayor’s office which is enormous, with equally enormous windows overlooking the harbour and views up and down the river. A nautical telescope sits on a tripod beside his window and I realise that he can see into my off ice. How nice? The Mayor stands beside me and we exchange pleasantries.
After all the fuss with the planning department, he tells me that he will personally approve our plans and that Jock sends his best regards. I begin to see the light, its time to pack our drawings and send our underlings home for the day. I wonder if I will have to sing for my supper and for how long?
The Mayor explains how his civic duties require him to spend time out and about and how he is accustomed to taking local chiefs of industry with him from time to time. How would I feel about a weekend away in two weeks time? I realise, Jock didn’t just bid me farewell, he has passed me on.
What can I say; it appears the die is already cast. “Let my PA know the details.”
I remember sitting in my office for two weeks wondering what else I would have to do for a Mercedes and a big office, apart from actually run the company.
I’m wandering along the quay, looking at boats and remembering happy days among the Greek islands. My life since then has made a nonsense of my silly modesty on a dark and distant shore.
On impulse I flip open my mobile and tell my PA to cancel the arrangements for the weekend. The hell with the Mayor and his personal planning permission, he needs my permission for what he has in mind, and I’m not sure that I‘m in the mood.
I walk past a news-stand and the evening paper has a headline announcing the story about our new warehouse plans. There’s an artists impression of the finished building with stock pictures of me and the Mayor inset, and a blurb about the long-term benefits to the town. I head back to the office, my mind in confusion now about my side of the bargain, if that’s what it was.
My PA is running round in circles. There is a queue of people wanting to interview me. Am I available for a slot on Going West, the local TV programme? There are fifty emails waiting and several personal ones among them. What should she do?
Make tea and draw breath, seems the safest answer.
I agree to all the interviews and leave her to schedule the diary. I need to get across town by six o’clock for the TV slot, plenty of time to check some emails.
The issue of waterfront access seems to have stirred up a hornet’s nest and several emails are from corporate boat builders who are keen to know what sort of vessels we will be using on the river. One name catches my eye. Custom yachts built to order – Dot – Com. Proprietor - G. Stean. The name sounds very familiar.

§§§§§

The incandescent flashes are happening again and again. They hurt my eyes and I want to protect them with my hand but I’m holding something, or something is holding me. My arms won’t move.
The images are there again. I’m naked in front of my bedroom mirror. I’m dressing, pulling on stockings with fancy lace elasticated tops. I don’t remember buying these. There’s a matching bra and pants on the chair beside me. Suddenly the reflection in the mirror is wearing the underwear and behind me, on a hanger, is a white dress, satin with miniature white roses in a spray across the shoulder. Is it mine?
I look back to the mirror and I’m wearing the dress. My hair is brushed and clipped up with a spray of miniature white roses. I look like as though I’m going to a wedding.
Bells are ringing in my ears and the flashes won’t stop. There are voices all round, people laughing, calling my name. I open my eyes and I’m standing at the top of some church steps, holding a bouquet of white roses. I’m the bride, but who is the groom?
I’m looking downwards at the roses and I see feet beside mine. I know the shoes, functional black polished shoes, plain fronts and no toe-caps.
There are voices calling, “Kiss the Bride.” I raise my face to join the kiss and at last I know,