Stockings and Cellulite by Debbie Viggiano Page A

better. See you tomorrow evening.’
    The following morning I beetled off to the local DIY store’s kitchen department. An earnest salesman tapped the vital statistics of my kitchen into a computer. Hey presto! In no time at all I was being shown a computer generated virtual tour of a kitchen Delia would die for.
    ‘I want it,’ I squeaked excitedly.
    ‘I’ll get the fitter to give you a call. Are you around this afternoon?’
    I didn’t have long to wait.
    ‘Hello, is that Mrs Cherry?’
    ‘Speaking.’
    ‘My name’s Euan. I’m the fitter who will be installing your new kitchen. Would you mind if I paid a brief visit just to verify the drawing measurements and check out power point locations?’
    ‘Not at all,’ I replied. ‘When do you want to come?’
    ‘Well I’ve actually got a slot right now.’
    I hung up feeling tremendously excited. Things were already starting to move on this new project.
    When I opened the door to the fitter, I literally caught my breath. It was as though I’d been slugged in the stomach by a bag of cement. He simply oozed sexiness. I invited him in, all the while blushing furiously and feeling ridiculously tongue tied.
    ‘I suggest that if you’re removing the breakfast bar and relocating this row of cabinets, it might be prudent to put in a bank of electrical sockets in this area.’ Euan’s eyes were a mesmerising sapphire blue fringed with long sooty black eyelashes. My own mousy-browns positively shrieked with jealousy.
    He smoothed the drawings out against the worktop with strong looking hands. I was shocked to find myself wondering what those hands would feel like travelling over my body.
    ‘Mrs Cherry?’
    ‘Oh please, call me Cass.’
    ‘Cass?’
    ‘Mm.’ I liked the way he said my name.
    ‘Cass?’
    ‘Mm, mm.’
    ‘Er – do you agree Cass?’
    ‘Oh sorry! Yes, that sounds absolutely fine. Fantastic. Ha ha!’
    I hadn’t a clue what he’d been talking about.
    ‘Is it just the kitchen you’re doing up?’ Euan asked conversationally.
    ‘Well I started off thinking it would just be the kitchen but,’ I shrugged and gave what I hoped was a mysterious little smile, ‘I imagine it might extend to other things – some new furniture maybe. Top of the list is a sexy leather bed,’ I grinned.
    ‘A sexy leather bed eh?’ Euan murmured.
    Was it my imagination or had the room suddenly gone terribly still. And if I wasn’t mistaken, was that not a twinkle in his eye? Too late I realised this wasn’t Nell I was gossiping with.
    ‘Y-yes. Amongst other things of course. Well thank you so much for your time Euan,’ I smiled brightly, determined to put the conversation back on a businesslike track. ‘See you again soon.’
    That evening Morag picked me up in her natty little sports car and together we drove into Boxleigh Village. She’d somehow managed to secure a booking at an exclusive Italian trattoria which usually required a fortnight’s advanced booking. I pondered how she’d achieved this. Perhaps she’d ventured down earlier in person and bandied her not inconsiderable chest around in front of the mesmerised maitre-d’.
    I sipped my wine and listened as, bit by bit, Morag once again took me through the meltdown of her fledgling marriage.
    ‘I hope you don’t mind me repeating myself Cass, it’s just that it helps to talk about it.’
    ‘Of course,’ I nodded my head, understanding exactly what she meant.
    ‘It was destined to fail from the start,’ she grimaced. ‘When I met Gordon he was a debonair fifty-two year old with a senior partnership in a top London law firm.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘And very definitely married.’
    ‘Oh dear.’
    ‘Yes. Oh dear. He captured my heart within moments of our meeting and within days we’d embarked on an illicit love affair. It was giddy stuff. A month later Gordon declared he couldn’t live without me unless I was permanently by his side – as his wife.’
    There was a pause while a waiter