Broken Places by Wendy Perriam

accompany her, or at least try to spend more time with her than this inadequate few minutes. ‘Well, actually, I am in a bit of a hurry. I’m desperate to get to …’ He paused – somewhere on the way to Guildford, where she could drop him off – and somewhere a fair bit further than his flat. ‘Kingston,’ he declared. OK, it would mean abandoning his bike and he would be stuck in Kingston with no public transport over Christmas to take him back to London, but he would just have to beg a refuge from his former neighbours, Annabel and Ted. Who cared what they might think? Nothing had ever seemed more crucial than to stick close to this woman. Even lying didn’t matter. In fact, lies were now essential. ‘Trouble is, my car’s been nicked.’
    ‘Oh, Lord!’ she said. ‘How awful! But look, I can give you a lift. Kingston’s directly on my route.’
    ‘Are you sure it’s not a nuisance?’
    ‘Not at all. I’d be glad of the company. Though I don’t even know your name.’
    ‘Eric,’ he said reluctantly, tempted to change it to something more romantic or heroic: Apollo, Tristan, Romeo, Alexander, Galahad … And if only he could change his clothes, as well; wear a laurel-wreath, a toga, a figleaf or a halo – anything to catch her eye; keep him in her memory. She was dressed in a fuzzy mohair sweater, which lusciously defined her just-waiting-to-be-fondled breasts, and was as blue as her blue-speedwell eyes. A coat was slung across her shoulders – again adorably soft and fluffy, and which made him want to hold her close and stroke her. And her short grey skirt displayed her lovely legs; legs clad in patterned tights, but naked now as he ran his hands along them.
    ‘Great to meet you, Eric. But excuse me a moment, will you? I’d better go and find Sydney and explain what’s going on, and also say hello to acouple of other people here. One of my sisters lives close by, so this is her local parish. That’s how I got roped in – to make the cake, I mean.’
    ‘Is she here?’ he asked anxiously, refusing to have an inconvenient sister cramping his style on the journey down to Kingston.
    ‘No. She went to Guildford last night – sensible girl! I always leave things to the last minute.’
    Thank God, he thought – and yes, perhaps there was a God; a benevolent God who had arranged this miraculous meeting. Although the lunch itself had been a trifle disappointing – tasteless, tepid and overcooked – he no longer cared a jot, since he was now tucking into Mandy: nibbling on her succulent flesh, sucking up her juices, savouring each delicious crumb as he rolled her round his mouth.
    ‘I mean, I should have made that cake last week, not on Christmas morning. And I rushed in here at a speed of knots, knowing I was frightfully late, so the whole thing’s really my fault.’
    ‘No, it’s my fault. And I’ll replace the cake, of course – that goes without saying. I’m afraid it won’t be home-made, but I’ll buy the nicest one I can find and deliver it in person to this Freda lady, if that would help at all.’
    She laughed – the most wondrous sound he had ever heard.
    ‘Don’t worry. I make cakes for a living, so one more’s not going to bother me.’
    Already, he was biting into feather-light sponge and tooth-tinglingly sweet icing; a whoosh of jam and butter-cream ravishing his tongue. All those birthdays when no one had made him a cake were being gloriously rectified at this very moment, as she baked cake after cake after cake – yes, right there in the porch.
    ‘Look, we’d better make a move, Eric. It’s freezing out here and you don’t seem to have a coat. Be an angel, could you, and see if you can find a shovel or a broom or something, and maybe a bucket of water. We don’t want someone coming in and slipping on all this cream. And, while you’re doing that, I’ll put Sydney in the picture, and then we’ll get off, OK?’
    ‘OK,’ he said – except he was singing it,