0 comments/  1720 views/  1 favorites

Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 02

By: PontyNPop



Before I proceed with Chapter 2, I need to introduce you to Emily, or Em. It will be two more instalments before she returns to the story properly, but it will help you to understand the scope of my history, and where it is going. Emily Barrington - Em - my teenage best girlfriend, that is, best friend who happens to be a girl. We were both school friends and swimming team mates from the age of 10 or 11 to when I dropped out from the club at 17. As teenagers, we spent a lot of time together. Three evenings a week in the pool and one early morning session; we shared lifts with parents to the pool. We ate lunch together at school once or twice each week, discussing diets and nutrition for swimmers. We were a pair, but never a couple; when I stopped swimming to concentrate on my school work, it was Em that I missed more than anything. We still met and talked in school of course, but within the year I was off to university and in terms of our being so close, that was just about that. 

*************** 

I was married for almost nine years, six of them very happy, three of them increasingly difficult. Throughout all of this, I taught a full generation of secondary school children, the youngest when I started having now all but finished their college and university courses. How time flies. 

Just over two years after my divorce from Eve, I had an interesting conversation with my mother during one of my weekend visits. For a while, she had been suggesting I re-establish contact with my school-time friends who lived in various bits of the expanse between Exeter and Plymouth. Dartmoor is such a beautiful part of England that it's not surprising that many of my teenage-years friends returned there after college, and some of them never left. (If you don't know this part of the world, it's well worth a visit!). I had resisted, quite stubbornly, partly because I could think of very few with whom I shared any deep friendship; in fact, I could count them on one hand, and to my regret, I had not been in contact with any of them for at least ten years. The other reason for my reluctance was that I felt that my weekends down west were for my parents. I don't think I've said before, but I'm an only child and seeing Eve lose her mother made me perhaps a bit precious about the time I could find with mine. But I'd not considered moving home as the solution; that was possibly a residual reaction and resentment to my wife abandoning me in London. 

One evening though - it was just after Easter, in early April, Mum just said it straight out: "Look, we'd like to see more of you, you'd like to see more of us, why don't you just look for a job nearer to us? You always said you'd move out of London someday, and I know you'll not have kids, and we'll not be grandparents, but why should that matter? We'd just love to have you closer". This was Mum asking, pleading, and it wouldn't get more direct. Dad chipped in, in mediation and compromise mode. "Doesn't have to be Devon; there'd be schools in Bristol or Bath, Taunton, or down on the South Coast in Dorset, I'm sure. You'd be an hour or two closer to us, and two hours away max in light traffic". This made some sense. 

As I sat on the train back to London that Sunday afternoon, my mind was slowly, but quite assuredly made up. I called up a map of Britain on my laptop computer, and imagined a circle around my parents' home representing about an hour's journey by car or train. Bristol and Bath were actually well outside my imagined area, but within were Exeter, Plymouth, Torquay, and with Taunton just on the edge. And then, some of my favourite semi-rural Devonshire towns, Tiverton, Crediton, Tavistock. I'd be half an hour from the coast, and less still from the complete wilderness of countryside. And I started to get excited that I might, just might, be able to put my big city years behind me, to improve the quality of my existence with a change of scenery. And I'd be going home, the Prodigal Son. 

I spoke to my head of department at school as soon as we started back after the Easter break; he said he'd been expecting to lose me for over two years, and that it was no surprise but "for God's sake, look for a head or deputy head of department role". It proved a good time to be looking for a move; the summer term in schools brings retirements and promotions, the annual round of recruitment from newly-qualified staff and a general, but ill-defined migration from school to school. Through the specialist advertising routes, I shortlisted six possible jobs within my first month of looking, and applied for all of them. My best guess was that three of them would go to newly-qualfied teachers (NQTs), the cheapest teacher to employ; the one head of history department of a small school might be a step too far (and in my experience, could well be earmarked for an internal promotion anyway). But sitting in between was one teacher role and one deputy head of department role, which both looked 'my job'. So without having to hand my notice in until I'd got a job elsewhere, my applications were submitted with a fearlessness which surprised me. 

As suspected, I was not shortlisted for two of the most junior roles; I had phone calls from both schools explaining the situation, that as much as they valued my experience in applying, with budget cuts as they were, they could not afford my salary. I was invited to interview for the third of the junior roles, but I declined the invitation; it was the least desirable of the schools, but more significantly, an invitation arrived relating to the deputy headship. My job. 

Later on in this story, we'll come to the swimming pool and I've had exciting anticipation of writing that chapter for some time. But for now, I just want to share a piece of advice with you that my father once gave me ahead of competing in a swimming gala. I competed for the town swimming club at every age group from 10 to 16 years old and I wasn't bad, as it happens (as I say, more of that later). I must have been quite young, 11 or 12 perhaps, when Dad said "take a look at the opposition, work out who the real competition is, and then feel sorry for them, because you are going to win today, not them". It didn't always work, of course, but as a way of strengthening my resolve, not to mention my self-confidence, it became something of a mantra. 

I'd not been for an interview for a teaching job for many, many years, but as I arrived at the school and was introduced to the other candidates, Dad's words came back to me again. 'Work out who the competition is' - that was easy - one candidate of the four seemed far too young to be sufficiently experienced, and one other was clearly petrified of the whole set up (indeed, his communication skills amongst the adults were so poor, that I had to wonder how he ever touched base with kids; but hey, not my problem). That left the fourth candidate, who looked and sounded every bit as I did, confident, experienced, and - ah, yes - an accent which said inner-city London as well. I checked this with him, and sure enough, he was originally from North London, now teaching out near Slough. He was looking to travel down the M4/M5 motorways with his young family and didn't mind where. 

In a flash, I decided to play a completely different card, which I had to trust would work to an advantage. Assuming that we were equals in terms of our experience, ability, skills, commitment and enthusiasm, all those things that tick the essential boxes, what could I do to appear stronger in this context? Answer: local knowledge; the local boy (well, to within 25 miles) coming home; someone who understands the Devon Way, the beautiful accent (which I could rediscover most weekends!). I had been one of these kids, I'm still one of them, and I felt sorry for my new acquaintance from Slough who just didn't have that, and never would. 

My Dad had been right; knowing your opponents gives you an advantage over them, one which I was able to exploit, not in any deceitful way, but simply to play to my own strengths. I was offered the position of Deputy Head of History and Politics in the large, mixed comprehensive school; a salary increase which would cover the cost of a new (second-hand!) car, and the prospect of life outside London for the first time in over a decade. I accepted without a second thought and the Prodigal Son was on his way home.

Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 03



I lost touch with Em very early on after leaving for university; we bumped into each other once or twice in the holidays perhaps, but always when we were in the middle of shopping or something else, and with no time. These were the days before Facebook or even mobile technology, so it's not just that we had no particular reason to keep in touch - we didn't really have the means to do so either. Beyond the age of writing letters, but not yet the age of the text message - we were quite a sad generation in some ways.

*******************

I had accepted the post of Deputy Head of the History and Politics Department of a large, mixed ability secondary school, just on the northern edge of Exeter, just about 25 miles from the town in which I was born and brought up. I had left my job in London at the end of the Summer Term, and the job was to start for real six weeks later, on the 2nd September, but what with having to prepare before the start of term, it had been agreed that I would be contracted from the second week of August; in truth, neither employer wanted to pay for my summer vacation! I told my parents of my plans to find a small house or flat in Exeter, a city which I'd always enjoyed - not so small as to be missing out on city life (having a thriving university helps in that regard) but also not so big as to be without character. But time was against me, and what with the hassle of moving after a very long time in London, I failed miserably to find something suitable on the two weekends I'd allocated to the task.

My mother is, and always has been, a pragmatist, and more or less insisted I returned to the house I grew up in whilst I 'sorted things out'. After all, 25 miles wasn't so far as to be impossible to travel each morning, and I was certain to be outside the catchment area of the school itself. So I sorted my personal effects into two categories; those I would need to have at hand in my parents' house, and those which I could allow to be put into storage. Finding two old photo albums of my life with Eve proved a little painful. Looking through them, I wondered how we'd let it all go so wrong. The photos reminded me of love, of happiness, of friendship too and perhaps most of all, they reminded me of hopes and dreams which Eve and I once shared. I cried. I considered whether I should destroy them altogether, but simply could not; and yet, I did not need them in my new life either, and so they went into a box, one with other things which may or may not ever see the light of day again. But I know where they are should I ever need them.

And I moved back home, and indeed back to the room which had always been 'John's Room' (because Mickey Mouse still said so, on the door!). It was strange, very strange, even though we had agreed that it would be a temporary arrangement, until the end of the year at the very latest, and even though I had insisted that I pay a fair rent for heating, lighting, hot water and to share the food bill. Actually, I took great delight in being chauffeur for my mother's visit to Tesco's Supermarket the first two weekends I was there. Not only could I ensure that some of my favourite food went into the trolley (mothers will tell you that what their sons ate at the age of 14 might not be best served now they'd reached 34) but my wallet was first to pay the bill at the end of the shop. Duty done, but actually, a real pleasure to be sharing such things with a loved one again; don't abandon your chances to do that, ever.

I went to Barcelona for four nights, a short break just to get a little bit of sun and warmth, and because the summer allowed for flights from Exeter's small airport. Really though, I was itching to get on with the next stage of my life, professionally in the main, but in every other way too, as circumstances presented themselves. For that, I needed to be back in Devon.

When term started, I realised what a mammoth job I had in front of me, re-adjusting to a new school, new colleagues and new curriculum. Actually, the curriculum itself wasn't that different (History is History, so to speak), but the teaching patterns, some of the classroom protocols and codes of conduct, that sort of thing, were very different, and it took all my professional flexibility, and no small amount of bluff, to get away with it. I had found myself in a good - possibly great - History department. On a personal level, the staff were friendly, welcoming and showed both respect for and interest in my outsider's point of view. But they were also intelligent, they knew their stuff, and they knew how to teach - pedagogy as it's called. They knew how to teach this type of school child, and they knew how to get examination results without sacrificing the real purpose of school education (which, in case you don't know, is not to pass exams, but to equip our children and young people for the life ahead of them).

For the first month, I was in school by 7.45 every morning and with travel, my day was at least a 12-hour shift. Though school finishes at 3.15pm every day, I chose to stay on to complete the paperwork and forward planning rather than take it home. Having just a few hours a day with my parents in the week would mean that we'd not run out of things to say to each other. Dad loved the fact that the school taught Politics alongside History; 'wish they'd done that in my day' he'd say, lamenting the political ignorance of the younger generations. I'd inherited my liberal (not quite socialist) views from him, and we enjoyed re-establishing that common interest.

My mother, for her part, was more interested in re-establishing my social life!! I think I've already mentioned her suggestions about former school friends. My colleagues at work though were my first thought in terms of finding new friends, and I was grateful to accept an invitation to what had become something of a habit for some of the younger, and single, teachers on a Friday - a few pints in the local pub (if the Sixth form hadn't got there first) followed by an early evening meal together. I tagged along for three weeks (curry/italian/curry) and enjoyed the company, drink and food; though living a car journey away, I could not partake to the extent that one or two others did! But as the alcohol flowed, so too the staff-room gossip, and being officially 'middle-management', and the only Head or Deputy Head of Department there, I started to feel a bit uncomfortable. This feeling was not helped in the least when one of the younger female members said (at my slightly early departure the third week) 'Bye John, we can talk about you next!' She was less than half-joking too. By the fourth weekend, I desperately needed an early night and made my excuses. My parents shared a Chinese Takeaway with me, and I was asleep in bed before 10pm.

I woke early the next morning, and went out for a walk to the newspaper shop, only to find that I was there before it had even opened at 8.am. I extended my walk by 30 minutes so as to get a paper, which meant that by the time I got in again, mother had breakfast on the kitchen table, and was planning her day. My arrival encouraged her again to think of planning mine. 

'Why don't you go for a swim?' she asked. 'The pool has been refurbished these last few years, and is very popular. There's a multi-gym thingy there as well, you know, rowing machines and weights and things; go and get yourself membership and get some exercise. You really loved the swimming and should never have stopped even if you didn't want to compete as much'

'Mum,' I replied, 'there was no real point in being in the club if you didn't compete, and unless you were prepared to swim every week, every day even, then you didn't get a look in. I enjoyed my time, but I stopped when I needed to. I will, though, wander down to the sports centre later and check things out - it's a good idea and thank you for mentioning it'.

And with that, we turned to eggs on toast and fine English Breakfast tea (about the only bow my mother made to quality in her entire kitchen).

On Saturday afternoon, I went for another walk, this time, a five-mile round trip. The swimming pool had been easy walking distance from school as a kid, but there was no direct bus route home; the two-miles-plus was an ok walk in the summer, but not an option after dark. Still, I retraced childhood footsteps, remembering the short-cuts and reliving some memories. I left my kit bag at home; actually, I didn't have a swimming costume, and summer shorts were not really designed for the gym either. As I approached the pool however, a wave of nostalgia swept over me - a really strange sensation. It's not like I'd stayed away from my home town completely - I'd been here to visit frequently. But this was territory I'd forgotten, this was somewhere I'd been very comfortable, and really very happy as a child. I'd learnt to swim in this pool, and then swam for miles and miles there. I'd won races, medals, certificates and badges; time was, my photograph was on one of the walls of the cafeteria, a 14-year-old embarrassed by his own body, but chuffed to bits with his 'swimmer of the year' cup! 

As I walked in, I expected to see Monica - the ever-present receptionist - behind the glass fronted office inside the doorway. But both office and Monica had long gone, and replaced by an open plan arrangement and a blond 20-something chap in tracksuit-come-uniform. 

"Can I help?" he asked, pleasant enough.

"I hope so" I replied. "I used to be part of the club here, 20 years ago, and just moved back to the area. Just looking for information about membership, opening hours, that sort of thing".

"Sure," he says, handing me a leaflet. "Membership is essentially free to anyone living in the post-code area, you just pay by the session, discounts if you're unemployed, low-earner, registered disabled and that. If you're wanting to use the gym, there's a compulsory induction session, but it only takes us about ten minutes to show you the equipment, and just let us know when you're coming first time and we'll book that in. Gym is open 10am to 10pm most days, with periodic closure shown on the notice board. Pool is open all day, but is booked in for schools, lessons, swimming club and parties for a good amount of time."

I looked in through the open-glass into the familiar-but-not-quite pool, and sure enough, on top of a giant crocodile were about 20 kids, with parents dutifully accompanying them in the pool and one brave father throwing the children in turn on-top the croc. My new friend continued his patter:

"Lane swimming starts at 7am for the early birds, public swimming is 4.30-6.30 daily and Saturday mornings; Friday night from 8.30pm to 9.30pm is adults only, lane swimming mostly but I'd say the few who come are pretty static for the most part. The coffee shop is open when it's open and there are machines when it's not. When the pool is booked to a party, like now, they get the coffee shop area too to bring their party tea. Bar is open from 7pm in the evenings, but if you ask me, it's a bit of a private drinking club and - no offence - but you probably know the clientele more than I would."

I made a mental note to avoid the bar at all costs. I thanked Stu (for that was his name, or else he was wearing someone else's badge) and then asked whether he minded whether I had a quick look around the centre, to see the refit and refurbishment. "Sure", he said, "but please, no going into the pool area itself, and without so much as a tracksuit on, please don't be tempted to sit on a rowing machine or try the cross-trainer". 

With that, I went exploring. 

The main sports hall, with its basketball, football, badminton and other lines marked in the floor looked much as it ever did, though obviously the lines had been re-laid and the equipment on view was not as old as my memories. Above the hall, the two squash courts were still used, one of them occupied. There was a viewing gallery into the courts, which had always put me off having a go at the sport for fear of being watched, a strange thing really, given that I didn't mind people watching me swim. 

The multi-purpose gym was where a weights room had been when I was younger: two rowing machines, two treadmills, a cross-trainer and still some weights, though contained now within a contraption of some-sort, rather than the free bars and dumb-bells of an earlier generation. 

I crossed the corridor to look into the male changing rooms but was surprised to see the sign say 'unisex family changing'. I was aware that this was now quite normal in some newly built sports centres and swimming pools - a large area with individual cubicles and some larger family rooms for privacy, but shared lockers and even shared showers. The trend seemed to be that by giving everyone more privacy in the cubicles, there was no need for gender-specific facilities. Besides which, changes to the way in which public bodies deal with issues of sexuality, not to mention protection for children and other vulnerable people, meant that 'open plan' was a distinctly safer way forward. (I found out later that another pragmatic reason had been a catalyst for redesigning the whole changing area, namely the need to completely renovate the plumbing. Ripping out the pipes strangely necessitated taking down some internal walls- luckily not load-bearing - and it seemed a waste of money to rebuild them.) So, two changing rooms became one huge area. I quite liked it.

I left the sports centre resolved to return for the adult swimming session the following weekend. To say I was looking forward to it was an understatement!



Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 04



Chapter 4: The Swimming Pool 

It had been nigh on eighteen years earlier that I had left the town's swimming club to concentrate on my school work. Having returned to my hometown from an abandoned life in London, I had been encouraged by my mother, and a visit to the pool of my youth, to return for the adults-only Friday night swim. Not that I'd abandoned swimming completely in the meantime, of course - I doubt anyone who has swam seriously can ever give up the bug completely, as it's such a relaxing form of exercise. But for a variety of reasons, I'd not returned to my home pool. Tonight was the night; and it proved to be a life-changer. 

The adult swim was for the last pool hour of the day - 8.30 to 9.30pm - though this was not necessarily the last working hours of the whole sports complex, since gym and squash courts closed at 10.0pm, and the bar at 11.0pm. (Don't ask me why anyone would choose to play squash until that late hour, but the world is full of strange people!!). I drove to the pool and arrived bang on 8.30pm - I did not want to be the first adult into the pool, but did not want to lose too much of the hour either. I paid my entry fee and walked around to the unisex changing area. Mum had explained to me that there had been quite a fuss locally to begin with - one of the Churches had condemned the immorality of communal facilities and created a stir. But then there had been a court case at a town on the coast, the prosecution of a man who had been charged with exposure at another pool. In that pool's male-only open changing room, his lawyer argued that sexual exposure could not be proven; he was wrong, and the man was found guilty. It helped convince the town that individual changing cubicles within a larger area was more secure than the previous arrangement. 

I quickly changed into my swimming costume - I'd had to go out and buy new at lunchtime, plain red swim shorts, neither too small in the Speedo-ball-hugging sense, nor too baggy as if for the beach in Bermuda. Having stuffed my clothes into my sports bag and retrieved a coin for the locker, I stepped out into the locker room. 

From my right, I heard a voice and my name. 

Hello John, long time no see! 

I turned my head and there, three paces away (I know, because I counted them) was Emily, or Em as she'd always been known. In a plain black one-piece swimsuit, functional and yet not without allure, she stepped forward and surprised me with a brief hug and a peck of a kiss on my cheek. The hug was so quick that I didn't have time to respond; I wondered whether it was instinctive or calculated. But it contained a certain warmth, one which found further expression later. 

Emily Barrington - Em - my teenage best girlfriend, that is, best friend who happens to be a girl, and as close as friends could be without so much as a snog or an adolescent fumble. Em is a year younger than I am, but we were both school friends and swimming team mates from the age of 10 or 11 to when I dropped out from the club at 17. (Since girls tend to go through puberty and mature a little earlier than boys, the year's difference had never been noticed, in fact most people had thought Em was older than me). As teenagers, we spent a lot of time together. Three evenings a week in the pool and one early morning session; we shared lifts with parents to the pool, and travelled together in the club mini-bus to competitive meets, falling asleep on each others' shoulders on long journeys home. We ate lunch together at school once or twice each week, discussing diets and nutrition for swimmers. We were a pair, but never a couple; neither of us had time to establish those other usual youthful relationships and in a way we were too close to realise just how fond we were of each other. When I stopped swimming to concentrate on my school work, it was Em that I missed more than anything but, emotionally immature, I had no way of expressing it, neither in words nor in action. We still met and talked in school of course, but within the year I was off to university and in terms of our being so close, that was just about that. 

Hello stranger, do you come here often? I asked, feeling immediately very stupid at my corny line. Often? We lived here as kids. But Em smiled, a really beautiful smile, and answered: 

I still try and swim once a week, either with the family or else I come to adult sessions on a Friday. My daughter is 7 and stays with her father every other weekend, so I come here to see if there's a good looking bloke I can chat up. 

Em must have read some query in my facial expression but she just started laughing gently: 

Oh, stop your worrying, we'll chat later and we can tell each other our life stories over a glass or two in the pub. That'll be something new for us but for now let's go and swim, just like old times. 

I swear that if I'd put my hand out, Em would have taken it, but she led the way. Me? I had only one piece of clothing on, and that was not designed for heat. But in the half a minute since Em had called out my name, warmth had spread through me. And, you'll be wondering by now, I'm sure: yes, my eyes drifted to the mature and wonderfully curvaceous hips and backside walking with purpose just ahead of me. 

And so we went and we swam. When you've been taught properly, technique is something you don't really forget. You lose strength and some fitness as you get older, of course, and the finer points of competitive swimming are lost perhaps, but the muscles remember, the wiring within the mind stays intact and it comes back pretty quickly. 

There were six other people in the pool, and so we were able to choose a lane and share it. I followed Em as we swam cycles of 100 metres, 4 lengths, two of breast stroke followed by two of front crawl. Then we'd stop and have a few minutes' break, a chat about swimming for the most part, comfortable common ground in a familiar setting. Em's memory about this or that club competition, of the times we'd won but also the times we'd got beaten, was very good indeed, reminding me of things I'd not thought of in years. And then, mid-sentence almost, it was 'come on, another hundred' and off she would go, and I'd follow. 

We had completed, I think, 6 sets of 100 when we looked up and realised that the last people other than ourselves were heading for the changing area, though there was still ten minutes left of the hour. 

Fancy a race? Em asked 

No. thanks! I replied, honestly. 

You're not chicken are you? You're in good shape, were always miles quicker than me and if you feel out of touch, then it may be no more than making us equal. Winner chooses the post-swim venue, loser buys the first round. Four lengths freestyle. If you say 'no' again, I may go straight home for a mug of hot chocolate and leave you regretting having turned down the race and the date. 

I looked into Em's face, perhaps in a way I'd never done before. How does that work? Someone you knew so well a generation earlier, someone you feel you hardly know at all now. But still someone you can look at, communicate with, with a lift of the eyebrow, a smile. I swear it's as close to telepathy as you can get. I knew that this was an offer to spend quality time with someone; someone I once cared for and who was so much like me. Em was offering not only renewed friendship, but also shared experience, from the past, into the present. 

How can I refuse? I can't imagine I have a chance here, not after swimming a third of a mile already, but I'm game if you are. Four lengths, diving start? Can you still do a tumble turn, because I know I can't! 

Em nodded, I can, but I won't - I'll touch turn, same as you. 

And with that, Em placed her hands on the side of the pool and for the first time in three-quarters of an hour, hauled herself out of the pool. I watched, transfixed, as her long legs rose no more than a meter in front of my eyes, and for a second or two her gorgeous arse proved a distraction beyond words. I suspect now that she knew exactly what she was doing, because the next thing she did was to turn round, bend forward, and offer me a hand out myself. Before I could stop myself, and certainly before any attempt to conceal it, my eyes strayed from her face, to her tits and torso. Realising what I'd done though, I lowered my eyes to her feet at the side of the pool, placed my hands firmly alongside and jumped out myself. 

We stood there, face to face for the briefest of seconds, trying to read each others' minds. And again, Em smiled a melting smile, and I felt a leg buckle beneath me. 'Pull yourself together and race her' I thought to myself, 'don't be such a jerk!' 

Ok, are you ready for this race? I asked; she just looked fitter, healthier than me, and if I stood any chance at all, it would be on my extra few inches of reach, and brute strength rather than technical refinement. 

You bet! Em replied. Prepare to have your backside kicked by a girl! A raised eyebrow from me and she added: metaphorically, for now! 

We moved into the middle of the now still pool, Em taking the lane to my left, which suited me fine, as I was intending to breathe every fourth stroke until the final length, at which point I'd switch to three to keep an eye on her. I had no idea how fast she would try and swim, and whether I'd have any chance of staying with her, but I had no intention of going out in front or of exhausting myself; either could lead to embarrassment. I was astonished by my own competitive spirit, something I'd not seen for many, many years. I now wanted to race!! 

Em's voice got us ready, and her calling the start gave her the advantage, but I wasn't going to complain. I'll give just 'Marks-set-go' she said, nothing else. And no holding back, a proper race, whatever we've got to give. Ready? I nodded. 

Marks ... Set ... Go! 

And with that, from the edge of the pool, we both dived, as close to a full racing dive as was possible. And all of a sudden the pool was both deathly quiet with the concentration of two swimmers battling for bragging rights, and at the same time a cacophony of splashing water, whirling arms and legs, nowhere near as efficient as at our prime, but raw energy and power. I was in trouble almost immediately, Em had swum more often than me, and had technical superiority without question; by the end of the first length, my head was barely level with her toes as she turned a full stroke and more ahead of me. I ploughed on with the same speed down the return 25 meters, breathing to my left, I could only see Em straight ahead, and despite lane dividers, I was starting to feel the wake of her swim. But there was no way I was going to go any faster even with 50 meters to go - I had to rely on Em running out of steam, hoping that she had somehow overdone it. There seemed to be little chance of that as she maintained her lead down the third length, down towards the shallow end of the pool, but as we turned for the final time, I caught the briefest of glimpses of her face, and saw the tiredness. With that, I redoubled my effort, and set off after her, sod the technique, just swim hard and fast, arms and legs full speed. 

Had the pool or the race been another 10 or 15 meters, I might have caught Em, but I'd left it too late, or her early pace had been enough, one or the other. But we were both immediately very tired and hung on to the lane dividing floats between us, just like you see at the Olympics and World Championships. I conceded defeat, graciously, and gratefully too: Very well swum Em, that was some race; forgive my language, but I'm fucking knackered now. 

Also just like at the Olympics, Em leaned over into my lane and hugged me in thanks. But unlike the Olympics, she whispered in my ear: I sincerely hope you are not fucking knackered, because it's only 9.30pm and the night is young. Come on, let's go take a shower... 

And then, with utter mischief she added: 

... and I'll climb out first again, so you can have another good look at my arse... 

And with that, Em pushed herself up, backside virtually in my face, climbed onto the side of the pool and was on her way. Gathering my thoughts, calming them even, and summoning enough energy, I climbed out too, and headed for the locker rooms. Em had already retrieved some shower gel from her locker, and I had to confess there and then that I'd not bothered to bring any with me. I had intended to just rinse down, get changed and go home for a soak in the bath, but Em just beckoned me to follow her, and said I could share hers, so we could 'both smell the same in the pub'! 

The other people who had been swimming were somewhere in the changing cubicles or else had already left, because there was not a soul in sight. So we had the shower area to ourselves, a large square area with 12 showers on two opposite sides; we stood facing each other under streams of hot water on either side of the room. Em poured gel onto her hands and lathered her short-cut brown hair. Her eyes were closed, but I stood watching, completely transfixed by the water and soap as it cascaded down the curves of her shoulders, breasts and body. No matter at all that she was still enveloped by her swimming costume; if anything, it was accentuating shape and contour. I was mesmerised by Em's beauty, completely captivated. Her tits were shapely - more so than I ever remembered as a teenager - but it was the overall effect which got to me. Full, a woman and a mother. 

And I was getting hard. Again, as if by telepathy, I think Em sensed my watching; she opened her eyes slowly, peering through the water glistening on her face. Quickly, I asked her to throw me the gel, which she did, and to hide my now semi erection, I turned and faced the wall to soap up. No sooner had I quickly washed and rinsed my hair, than I both sensed and heard Em crossing the shower area to my side and so when she touched my back, I half-expected it. The hands were warm, gentle, supple yet confident and, more than all that, they were loving hands, hands which cared. I went to turn and face her, but she stopped me and said 'I'll do your back, then you do mine, and then we're out of here'. She finished rinsing my back and turned hers to me; I took just a small amount of soap and as gently as I dared, worked it into her shoulders and upper back. I've never had any training in massage, but I've always had a 'touch' and an appreciation of that fine balance of pressure which both caresses and invigorates. As I worked from shoulders, slowly down the crease of the spinal cord, Em let out a soft moan and I knew then that, just as her presence and touch was getting to me, so too I was getting to her. I leaned forward and made my first seriously risky move of the whole evening, kissing her gently on the top of her right shoulder. She moaned again, still being soaked by jets of very hot water coming from the shower head. 

I whispered in her ear: This is probably neither the time nor the place... Em turned her head and kissed me full on the lips. The First Time Emily Barrington Had Kissed Me Properly Ever. God, we were like our 17 year old selves again, but twice the age, and I dare say twenty times more experienced. 

Come on Em said quietly, let's go get changed. 

Without another word, we both went to our lockers to get our kit bags and other personal effects. For twenty seconds or so, Em went out of view, and I looked down at the enormous bulge that was now full mast in my swim shorts. I was about to disappear into a cubicle, a chance to calm down whilst I changed, when Em reappeared: 

No, follow me, she said, I'm not letting you out of my sight. And with that, she proceeded to open the door to one of the small rooms marked 'Family Changing'. I swallowed hard. Was this happening? I followed Em inside, and again, for the third or fourth time, she read my mind. She nodded to me to close the door behind me, and put the lock across - not massively secure, but an indication that the room was occupied. I did as I'd been bidden, and Em took a step towards me again. In the gentlest of whispers, some words which I don't think I'll ever, ever forget: 

Hush now John, we need to be quiet. The swimmers have all gone but there are still some in the gym and the staff will be in to mop down and clean. We're perfectly safe, like any couple which comes to the pool and changes here, and no, we're not going to have sex here, as much as I would love to release your tension and mine. But something happened in the last hour, something which I can't quite understand, and don't want to either. John, I've no right to be, no particular reason to be, but I am completely and utterly at ease with you this evening. It seems to make no difference that at one moment, it's like we've only just met - do you believe in love at first sight? Don't answer! That's the closest I can think of. But then, in another moment, I feel as though I've known you all my life, which I know I have, sort of, but I mean, really know you, understand you, even before you speak. And I get that you sense that too. I know already you've come home a single man, and I want you to know that the only unquestionable commitment I have is to my daughter. [I saw half a tear creep into her eyes as she continued]. If you want this, I'd happily, very, very happily, be your best friend again, and as long as that dick of yours is connected to your brain, I think we might even be lovers. I can't expect you to love me straight away, I've got a bit of baggage which can be complicated at times, even if not often, but can we share things again? Can we rediscover lost friendship? 

I didn't know what to say, seriously so. no idea. And so I just pulled her towards me and kissed her again, with more passion than the shower kiss, but not roughly or forcefully. I whispered back a very simple Of course. Breaking our embrace, Em went to pick up a towel - not hers, but mine - came back and started to dry my torso, patting me dry as she might her young child, all gentleness and care. Having done so, but without another word, she motioned for me to remove my swim shorts and I complied. As I stood there naked in front of her for the first time, Em murmured appreciation. For the briefest of moments, she held my cock in her hand, but then expertly wrapped the towel around my mid-rift and went to fetch her own. 

Turning back towards me, and handing the towel to me, she locked my eyes to hers, and with me concentrating on her face, she lowered the top half of her swimsuit down, exposing her breasts. Without breaking the gaze, she said: Please would you now dry my body John? I wrapped her towel around her top half, and in small rubbing movements, mopped the water from her body, front and back, gently massaging. It was a long time since I'd truly appreciated the softness of a woman's body, a long time since the touch of the present had more meaning than the promise of what might come. As I dried Em's top half, she reached down with a hand, and removed her swimsuit completely. My hands (and eyes) now free to wander, I continued the motion needed to dry Em completely, working my way down. Her towel was long enough to extend to the top of her buttocks and keep her pubic mound just out of view. 

On one side of the changing room was a bench where we had put our clothes, and I motioned for her to take a seat, towel now wrapped around her naked body. As she sat, I took my own towel from my waist (being now almost completely dry myself) and took it to dry her legs, which were still, as they had always been, long, strong and completely without blemish. Unashamedly naked, I started from the feet and ankles and then worked my way towards the shin and then the knee and then on to the thigh. I had taken Em's signal that we would not be having sex in the changing room on its merit and as truthful, but kneeling in front of her in this way, I could but wonder how tempted she might be. As my right hand moved to dry the inside of her left thigh, she answered me by parting her legs and giving me full view of her innermost secret: a neatly trimmed strip of pubic hair sitting on top of her mound, clit prominent and forward, and a hint of dampness betraying what I knew to be significant wetness beyond the slight opening of her vagina. 




Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 04



I don't know exactly how long I had to think about it, and it may not have been very many seconds at all, but a decision had presented itself, offered by the unambiguous action of Emily. It's not that I didn't want sex there and then, or that I was not ready for it. But I'm something of a romantic and have always considered my relationships honourable - even in those alcohol-fuelled one-night-stands I would insist on maintaining control and integrity. And so, quite quickly, but not without a touch of regret, my response to Em's offer was not what many would have imagined. My words were as gentle as hers had been thus far: Not here, not now. Em, I don't want our first time together to be a locker-room quickie, half worried about whether there's someone just outside that door ready to ban us from ever swimming in our pool again! We've got all night, all weekend if you want! 

I think I'll be eternally grateful that Em didn't take this as rejection; on the contrary, she had interpreted my words 'not here, not now' in exactly the correct way: lovemaking would happen somewhere else, but sometime very soon. 

Come on then she said, breaking the spell but not the smile. Em got up, letting her towel drop the bench, making us equals in our nakedness. She picked up her underwear and slipped on her knickers: Let's go and get that drink, and perhaps even something to eat. We can go to The Plough - my flat is about half a mile further on from there and the Anarlkali is on the way if we want some food. The cars will be safe overnight in the Plough car park if we need to leave them. I'm assuming you drove? I nodded; we were now both getting dressed and were keen to get on our way. Good Em continued, we'll meet at the pub but I've got to go via a cashpoint first. 

No need I replied You said winner chooses venue and loser buys, so it's on me. I've got about fifty quid on me, and that'll do us for tonight, I'm sure. Might even stretch to the take-away. 

At that, Em started singing Hey Big Spender, spend a little time with me. I'd never heard her sing in all the years of our youth, and now I knew why. It was fucking awful! 

Having got dressed in double-quick time, we left the 'Family Changing' but not without Em peeking out of the door first to check that the way was clear. We need not have been worried. As we left the locker room, into the corridor, Em grabbed hold of my free hand, some might say a little possessive for a relationship which was (in one sense) barely an hour old, but actually, I found it quite endearing. I lifted her hand to my face and kissed the back of it; Em responded by squeezing it tightly, and then she giggled again, like the schoolgirl I once knew. 

What are you like after a few glasses of wine? I asked, half laughing myself. 

Not long now and you'll find out! She replied, winking at me. 

As we approached the car park we could see that although there were now only 6 or 7 cars still remaining, our two were actually some distance apart. I took my mobile phone out of my pocket, giving rise to a quizzical look from Em which I could just make out in the gloom of the now 10pm darkness. Don't worry, I'm just phoning my mother to tell her not to wait up! 

Emily replied Give her my love! And with that she shot off to her left, to get to her car before I could mine. I phoned my mother, and explained that I'd bumped into an old school friend at the pool, and that we'd decided to go for a drink, and possibly catch up with a late-night curry or Chinese take-away. I was being as brief and as non-specific as I could be in my news; I'd not even said who it was I had met, and if by chance I never made it home, I'd worry about explaining to my mother the actions of a grown man another time. But my mother, with the timing of an Oscar-winning actor said only one thing before hanging up on me: 

"Give our love to Emily"



Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 05



Chapter 5: In the Pub and What Happened Next 

Em got to the pub before me, but was waiting for me in the car park. As tempted as I was to start asking questions, I kept my counsel; the evening had already taken so many different and unexpected turns, I didn't want it to take a wrong one. 

I slipped my arm around Em's shoulder and gave her a quick squeeze and again she turn to me and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. We went into the pub together, and it struck me that this was the first time we would have ever have been for a drink together. We were both well under age to drink alcohol last time we socialised in the same crowd, but in any case, any swimmer drinking alcohol was frowned upon. We were athletes, we were in training, we were expected to stay sober and to keep poisons out of our bodies. We ordered, myself a pint of bitter ale, Em a glass of white wine spritzer, and chatted about our drinking habits whilst waiting. We quickly discovered that whilst we both enjoyed a drink, neither of us had ever enjoyed being drunk - a throwback to the athlete perhaps, or just that's how we'd been brought up. I can actually count the number of times I've been blind drunk on the fingers of two hands, and I don't think I've ever 'not known' what has happened of an evening. Yes, I've done some very stupid things under the influence of alcohol (mercifully most before the advent of social media and permanent record), but I never saw the point in the sort of excess which the current generation seem to enjoy, the binge drinking and associated hedonism. 

Finding a quiet corner to sit together, Em looked at her watch and announced that we had just about 60 minutes to tell each other everything that had happened in the last 15 years. So, given the impossibility of the task, we agreed to give each other 10-minute potted histories, and leave the detail to another time. Em insisted I went first and, well, my story wasn't much different to that which you have read in this account. I tried very hard to be fair to Eve, to not make her out to be a villain in the piece, because really she wasn't. What happened, happened as circumstances dictated and as humans responded, with all our imperfections and all our mistakes. But I did find myself wanting to draw sympathy from Em, primarily for 'being abandoned' by my wife. Was I? I don't know to this day. Em listened, without judgement, I think; I didn't know at that point that her story would be at least on a par with mine. 

Having finished Em said That was twelve-and-a-half minutes so I'm having that amount too. And off she went. I'll tell it second-hand rather than trying to capture her voice. 

A year behind me in school, Em had finished her A-levels the year after me, but though gaining two A-levels with moderate grades, she had no interest in a university education. For a long while, she had been considering nursery or pre-school teaching and the local Further Education college had a well-regarded course in Early Years Education, two-years full-time, fully funded and with a small bursary attached for the 'in-class' work experience. Em's parents had said she could live at home 'for as long as you like, but we'll throw you out when you hit 30', and so making ends meet wasn't a big problem. At the same time as doing the course, the swimming pool had given her work as a lifeguard and as a teacher to the 4-6 age group for their lessons (actually, quite lucrative, since some of the more affluent parents would happily pay a good rate for their spoilt brats to be given small-group attention; teaching 6-10 hours a week at £4 an hour put as much pocket money in Em's hands as she needed at the time). Em continued to swim for the club until she was 21, but like me before her, by then had had enough. 

Having finished the diploma course, Em got her first job quickly as a nursery teacher at a small but thriving operation (one at which she'd had a placement whilst at college). With anything between 12 and 30 pre-school children, aged 4 months (yes, seriously!) to 4 years, Em's hands were full, literally so at times. And she loved the work. Colleagues came and went over the next 4 years, some lasting no more than a few weeks, but Em had found not only a job but a vocation. At the age of 24, Em realised that to move forward in nursery care, and especially if her ambition to open her own nursery was to be realised some day, then she would need more than the initial diploma; further qualifications and accredited certification were a must. So, switching to part-time employment (still supplemented by teaching swimming to the little ones, still subsidised by parental home comforts) she returned to college for a further two years of part-time study. 

It was during this period that she met Jim or James. (Em might not thank me for this observation, but I noticed that for the most part of story from this point, if something nice or supportive was said about Jim, then that was his name. If something not-so-nice was being recounted, the name used was James. I decided at that moment that I would not, ever, say E-mil-y if I was annoyed at her.) I'll call him Jim. 

Jim was studying civil engineering, two years younger than Em, but by all accounts a 'bit-of-a-catch'. Civil engineering in the week, rugby player at the weekend (and for that matter two nights a week), Jim was every bit as sporty as Em, every bit as fit, and they seemed made for each other. Em readily confessed to me that she had fallen for Jim quickly; her first boyfriend of any serious description and, though by no means the one to take her virginity (an ill-advised short relationship during college, first time round), certainly her first lover. Even listening to Em talking, I could hear that there was residual affection for Jim, and I wondered if I'd conveyed any similar sentiment in my description of Eve. I would, Em was sure, get the chance to meet Jim; it is most unlikely that she will ever meet Eve. Anyway, they dated their way through the years of study, and emerged with their vocational qualifications. Em went back to full time early years education, and started thinking of how and when she might branch out and become her own boss, with a small set up of her own. Jim, clearly good at his level of his chosen field, was also employed, but with a company which required occasional travel to the various building projects to which he was assigned. 

It's one of those small quirks of semi-rural life that both Em and Jim had continued to live with their respective parents, or rather Em with hers and Jim with his mother (divorced from Dad). As their relationship developed, so too their acceptance in each others' homes. Granted, Em's dad wasn't best pleased the first time Jim stayed over (and they stayed at Jim's family home more often), but everyone seemed to accept things as they would be. 

I could hear the 'But' coming from a distance! 

But... Despite outward appearances, Jim had something of a problem with commitment. I have to get this right - as Em insisted I understood it. It wasn't that he didn't love her, that they weren't compatible. But Jim had seen his father walk out when he was ten years old, a complete surprise to him then, and still, that two people seemingly so alike, so in love, so comfortable in each others' presence, could suddenly decide that 'actually, we're a bit bored with this, time to move on'. Jim was secretly petrified that this would happen to him and Em. 

Emily explained to me that she tried increasingly serious and life-changing moves to get Jim to understand how she thought their relationship was for keeps. In a move straight of 'Four Weddings and a Funeral' it started by her proposing that if he was worried about divorce, she would be happy to not marry in the first place, just as long as they were together and could, at some stage, move on from being 'couple' to being 'family'. Almost four years into their relationship (longer than the marriage of some friends), Em suggested, successfully, that it was time to move and get a house together, a shared mortgage on a small two-up two-down starter home. Em was almost 28 years old at this point, and though not worrying about her body clock unduly, was certainly worried that if for any reason she could not make Jim stick (and there seemed to be no logical reason why not) then time to find another prospective father for her children would start running out. 

Like I said, I heard the 'But' of her relationship with Jim coming from a long way out, but the next turn of events made me jump a little for its familiarity, and I prayed again that I had not painted too bad a picture of Eve and her actions. Because Emily now confessed to me that, without Jim's knowing, she had stopped taking oral contraception. They had, after all, spoken about children, and the circumstances for it were coming together. Jim had received a promotion of sorts at work, such that Em could afford some time away from her work; they could afford family as well as home. And so it was that Em became pregnant, and nine months later, give or take a 10-day wait and an induced birth, their daughter, Daisy, was born. 

Em had gambled that a common law relationship, a shared mortgage and a family would pin down her man. With real sadness, she told me that she had lost her gamble, and that as much as Jim loved his daughter, he really could not play happy families; he'd not had one himself, had too little of experience to draw on by which he could trust himself. With Daisy barely six months old, Jim had moved out; six months later, they had sold the house (mercifully for a decent profit) and Em and Daisy moved to the flat which they now rented. Jim continued to visit at the weekends and for a while, they would even sleep together if the mood allowed. But, Em explained, a proper family was not going to happen. 

And then, another little surprise in Emily 's narrative, and for this, I'll try and remember how she said it: 

You'll be wondering whether Jim's lack of commitment was evident in his other behaviour, whether he was faithful to me when we were together. [I had not thought about it in those terms exactly, but yes, I had been wondering]. The answer is that, at the time, I had no idea. A little bit of me blocked even the possibility; I may have been subconsciously ignoring the evidence, I really don't know. But during the break up, hints were made - by Jim himself - that 'I shouldn't be trusting him anyway', or phrases like 'I don't deserve you and Daisy, so it's best if I go'. It transpired that he was making references to other liaisons which had happened over the years (even when I was pregnant with Daisy). Several years earlier, he'd seen a girl who lived in Reading, on and off, as his company sent him there for days at a time over a nine month period. It was Jim's mother herself who told me this, by the way, she'd known all along. Didn't think it was her place to say when we were together, but as we were splitting and she blamed Jim, she thought I 'deserved to know'. Wish I didn't to be honest. And then, one of his rugby mates thought it humorous to drop some jokes about the lads on tour and the old 'What goes on tour stays on tour' line. Jim's embarrassment cost him his place in the conspiracy of silence; I could read his face. Yes, he'd been involved in various night-time activities over the years. But Jim was insistent: these bouts of unfaithfulness (if that's how we interpret it) were the result of his fear of commitment, not the cause of it. 

Anyway, all that was four years ago. We're friends now, with a shared daughter; Jim's seeing the sister of one of his rugby mates, someone who is quite happy with a fit bloke to shag and no thoughts beyond her trophy boyfriend. Said girlfriend is also quite friendly with Daisy, provided she can give her back to me on a Sunday afternoon, which is exactly how I want it - as does Jim as it happens. He's a good, if limited dad, he pays his share without the courts ever having to tell him, and he respects me and my parenting decisions too. But then, as he told me often enough, I'm the one who is a fully qualified minder of children Daisy's age; just wait until she hits 13... 

With this, I leaned over to Em's side and took the initiative to kiss her on the cheek. And said: 

If she's anything as good as her mother was at that age, she'll make you proud! 

We shared other news over the next half an hour and with a second round of drinks. I told Em a little of my new job as well as one or two of my funnier school stories from London days. We shared genuine admiration for each others' abilities to handle different age groups; primary and secondary teaching are different enough - nursery is a complete mystery to me, of course. 

Having finished our drinks, a decision was to be made. Food or no food? Sit down meal or take-away. It was now just after 11 pm and the Indian Restaurant would still be open - happy to serve as long as a customer was paying, as a rule. I asked: 

'How hungry are you?' 

'Enough to know I want to eat, and honest enough to say that if we go straight back to the flat with a take-away, the food may end up getting cold!' 

'Fair enough' I replied, and we agreed to sit down in the restaurant for a small, manageable meal, with one more drink each. We'd be in not long after midnight, with the benefit of another hour's company and chat. As planned, we left the cars at The Plough and walked to the Anarkali, a medium-quality, medium-priced Indian restaurant, which served the very British version of Indian food, in what had become something of a standard British ambience. A place where most of the townsfolk had eaten their first 'Chicken Korma' and progressed to Biryani and hotter dishes, and where several generations of drunk teenagers discovered that if you order a Vindaloo it's unlikely that you'll taste the main ingredients on their way down, but receive sphincter burns as they find their way out. 

We went in, sat down in a small booth, ordered drinks and nibbles and I swallowed hard before saying: 

I've been trying to find the courage to ask for an hour: what part, if any, did my mother play in arranging our meeting tonight? 

Em smiled that delicious smile and broke into another giggle. John, your mother knows you and loves you deeply. 

Em got up: I'm just going for a wee, and when I come back, I'll tell you all. She leaned over me as she passed and kissed my forehead.



Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 06



Confessions and Giving in 

After the best part of eighteen years, I've been reunited with my childhood best friend, Emily, a school friend and swimming partner. It came about because after a failed marriage, I moved back to my home town; it came about also because my mother encouraged me to rediscover the swimming pool, a place where I'd been happy and comfortable as a growing child and teenager. Em was at the pool, and we swam together and raced again. Then, somehow, we were suddenly very close to making love in the showers and in the locker rooms, but we resisted; instead we've been making love with our words, our conversation, just in company with each other. We've rediscovered a bond, one which promises both a future relationship and no small amount of emotional healing, for both of us. First however, some questions needed to be answered - just how much of a coincidence was all this? I needed to know. 

So then I asked, just as the Indian food arrived at the table, how come my mother knew who it was I'd bumped into this evening before I'd said anything myself? What is it you've not told me Ms Barrington? 

Emily put a fork of chicken and rice in her mouth, a stalling tactic, If ever there was one. She thought a short while about how to phrase her answer, before launching into a short story: 

I've seen your mother on and off these last eighteen years, in town, around and about. We've always passed the time of day, kept up with news - nothing regular of course, and perhaps we've gone as much as two years without news at certain times. But I always liked your mother, she was very kind to me as a kid, and of course, we have some shared history. As I started my work, and then more recently, had Daisy, we mostly spoke about the nursery and then Daisy herself. Your mother doesn't pry, she is in no way nosy, but if you share something, she is genuinely interested and has a way of showing concern without treading on toes. When we were in our early twenties - ten years and more ago - I would ask about you and she would share your news. She is proud of your teaching career, and that you had found a wife who could share and understand that career. But she wouldn't talk about you unless I asked; she's a wonderfully reactive listener, not the generator of gossip at all. 

Em paused to eat some more and to take a few sips of her wine. Then she continued: 

We met whilst Christmas shopping a couple of years ago, and when I asked of you then, your mum told me that you had been separated from your wife, more or less since the death of her mother. Your mum wasn't sure how much to share at that time, I think it troubled her somewhat, but she did tell me of your then decision to stay in London to sort things out, rather than attempt to move to be nearer to your wife. I honestly think your mother predicted your return to Devon at some point, but couldn't predict how and when. I was another six or eight months later before we met again, and again we talked about your staying in London, but no mention whatsoever was made of your return. There was a little bit of me that wanted to ask for your contact details, but I just couldn't. My focus is on Daisy, please understand that. 

I nodded, still intrigued as to how and when our 'random' meeting at the swimming pool had come about. 

I think I know now that your mother was trying to get you to contact old friends when you came to visit at the weekends? I nodded my admission of this fact. So Em continued. You resisted, and whilst you did your mother couldn't bring herself to 'put us together' so to speak. I have no idea whether you ever asked after me, but that's not really the point. Your mother saw you regularly, and me less so, but after our respective relationships ended, she saw two people who were - are perhaps - a little lonely for company. My guess is that what she saw was an accurate, if not wholly complete picture. 

Again, I nodded; again Em paused for some food. 

You came back in August sometime, and it was another complete coincidence that I saw your mother when you were on holiday, Spain I think. I'm sorry, John, but knowing that you were back in town, I wasn't going to be able to resist getting back in touch with you, the only question in my mind was whether I should just turn up on your doorstep, phone to say hello, or find another way of meeting you. This, probably to our benefit, is where my daughter and your school work gets in the way to some extent, and we both had other priorities. But in the end, I phoned your mum when you were in school and asked whether you'd spoken about visiting the sports centre since being back. Yes, John, I suggested to your mother that you'd enjoy the adult swim. 

I coughed on my rice and beer and was now smiling like a Cheshire cat! 

Not that, you dirty sod, the swimming. Anyway, I was telling the truth when I said I was a regular on Friday nights - I love an hour in the pool when Daisy is with her dad - I was hoping that our meeting would be as it was, a stage-managed coincidence. I had no idea where it would go from there, it might've just been an occasional drink together after a swim, or whatever. Tonight has, already, been beyond my wildest dreams. It might yet be somewhere close to my wildest fantasies too! There: I've said my piece, are you satisfied? 

I'm extremely satisfied I replied. We could speculate as much as we want about the 'what ifs' of getting back in touch sooner, but everything has a time and a place, I think, and your timing tonight has been perfect. Seriously so. 

So how soon can I ask you to finish your curry, pay the bill and take me home? 

You can ask me whenever you like I replied again but actually, you're the one who has been talking, and it's you that needs to eat up! 

With that we settled to finish our curries and drinks, chatting about mothers mostly, and their perpetual matriarchal influence. It wasn't difficult to imagine how Em was doing a good job of being one herself, given difficult circumstances. It struck me, for the first time, I think, that perhaps Eve had never been 'quite the right sort' of wife for me - possibly not the right sort of mother for children. Ah, who knows? That was a life that was never lived. 

I drained my pint and with that Em picked up her glass of wine and finished it too in one swift mouthful. Our plates weren't clear, but it was late, and we'd had enough to eat. In one sense. 

Em said: I think it's time for us to go home. Will you stay the night, please? 

If that's really what you want, then yes, of course I will. 

Thank you. It is what I want, more than I could say, but hopefully I'll be able to show you. 

I paid the bill, and we left the restaurant, hand in hand. It was now approaching midnight, but there were no thoughts of tiredness; we had both had a little alcohol, but neither anywhere near intoxication, in fact, senses and sensitivities seemed as sharp as they needed to be. We were at Emily's flat in next to no time, and she opened the door to let us in. I'd love to tell you of my first impressions, of the flat which was at the same time perfectly clean and yet demonstrably lived in by a mother and child. I'd love to tell you about how I failed to find a glass for some water, or the light switch of the small closet toilet. But the rest of this chapter is bedroom talk; in fact, not so much talk, as we reverted to the telepathy of our swimming pool action earlier in the evening. 

After ablution, we went straight to Emily's bedroom, a functional room with a double bed, lamps either side, furniture for one and a small television with in-built DVD player. The decor and bedding were lightest green, some floral pattern, but not overly feminine. The floor was wooden and bare, but deliberately so, and not a cheap or cold feel. I put my hand on the bed, which was firm to the touch; I hate climbing onto or into a bed without knowing how it might respond. But before I could take in any more of my surroundings, Emily put herself in my arms, lifted her head towards mine and, after a moment or two of looking as deeply into my eyes as she could possibly have done, our mouths met. They locked, not with aggression, but with insistent passion all the same, tongues exploring, teeth nibbling lips, bodily fluid passing between us with no questions ask and no quarter given. Emily was, literally, drinking from my mouth and asking the same of me from hers. 

Em climbed onto the bed in a kneeling position, and had me stand in front of her, our heads still level with each other, the kiss broken for no time at all between changes of position. I leaned forward and lifted her sweater over her head, and followed it immediately with her t-shirt which was a tighter fit at the collar, and got stuck momentarily. Emily giggled as I leaned forward to kiss her collar bone and then the top of her left tit, exposed flesh above the plain white bra. Although we'd been naked together in the changing room earlier, the eroticism of this disrobing was on a different level entirely. Em's hands were now grabbing at my sweater, and I shifted to allow my t-shirt to be removed with it as if one garment. Once it was off, Em took me completely by surprise, suddenly clamping her mouth over my left nipple, but as I tensed slightly, expecting to be bitten, her quick-fast tongue flicked and teased, causing sensations I'd hardly ever experienced. By now, my cock was beginning to ache, an erection which had been on and off all evening, and with the tension of holding back the inevitable for well over two hours; I'd never endured such prolonged foreplay nor previously understood those who have insisted that the build up should be as much of the mind as of the body. 

Em stood up on the bed, and mischievously removed her sports leggings whilst ensuring that her panties stayed in place; within the action of kneeling back down in front of me, she deftly removed her bra and I again clasped eyes on one of the best pair of tits I've ever seen. I fleetingly wondered how magnificent they would have been at the age of 18 - perhaps I'd missed out on a sure thing earlier in life - but take nothing at all away from what was now being offered. Neither too big nor too small of themselves, it was the proportions of the athlete's body which were just so right. I went to work immediately, mouth and tongue teasing from one dark-toned nipple to the other, both now fully erect and demanding. Em was moaning gently again and I was reminded of her reaction when I kissed her neck in the pool earlier. 

For a second, I wondered where Em's hands had gone, I seemed to remember them having been on my head and shoulders momentarily. Glancing across at her right elbow, just below my mouth, I followed her arm just in time to see her hand slip inside the top of her panties and a finger slip into her pussy. I watched her for a minute or so then said: give me a hand with my jeans and boxers and I'll show you what I can do with my hands and fingers. 

More giggling from Em, she motioned to me to get onto the bed and lie down. I did as I was told, raised my hips as she leaned forward to grab at my waist, and my jeans and boxers were removed in one swift and experienced motion. My cock sprang up, now at full mast. Our body language in harmony, I motioned to Em to lie back so that I could remove her panties in similar fashion. She obliged, and this time, once naked, the Em opened her legs to reveal her full glory. You are utterly beautiful I said, because I just had to and, well, because she was. And then, ever the gentleman, I asked: 

Permission to finger-fuck you? Emily nodded. 

Permission to suck your clit and lick your pussy? Emily nodded. 

Permission to sit you on my cock and fill you with my sterile cum? To which Emily laughed and said: 

If you can hold off whilst I suck you off, you can fill my cunt, but I doubt very much you'll get that far. My guess is you're leaking already. Now tickle my clit, with fingers and tongue. NOW!! 

Lying on Emily's right side, I positioned myself alongside so as to both suck her right nipple and tickle her pussy simultaneously. I didn't need to see what my hand was doing - I could feel my way and Em had subtle way of adjusting her position to help me stay on the button. By this time, she was sopping wet, and so intoxicating was the aroma that it was drifting all the way up the bed. I slipped two fingers into her juicy cunt, continuing the rubbing of the clit with my thumb. Em rocked on my hand, moaning all the while, not in any loud or extrovert way, but unquestionably both appreciative and encouraging. Judging the moment, I now moved my mouth and tongue down the length of her body, across the tummy, pelvic bone and onto the soft part of the inner right thigh, quite possibly my favourite non-genital part of any female body. But don't anyone say it ain't erogenous! I didn't dare stay there long, as my attention returned to the glistening bud an inch from my face. Quick-tongued, I flicked at Em's clit and immediately tasted her pussy juice for the first time. I could do nothing but go in for more, and soon my oral exploration was full on, sucking hard on the clit and tongue delving into Emily's deepest recess. Minutes later, as the moan intensified, I heard her squeeze out a short-breathed sentence: 

I - am - going - to - cum - fuck me - I'm - cumming! 

With my tongue still working overtime on Em's clit, I rammed two fingers back up her in time to feel the full force of her orgasm, the heaven-sent muscle spasm flowing from deep within to all ends of the body, one of the most glorious sensations that any woman can share with another person. I have no idea how long it lasted, but eventually Em asked me to give her a breather. It's your turn she said and fuck don't you deserve it! 

She now pushed me onto my back and climbed onto my waist, her legs straddling my midrift, her pussy juice still dripping onto my tummy. Some women aren't too keen on the taste of their own juices, but with Em's still on my tongue and lips, she started the cycle again, kissing my mouth deeply. With her mouth still on mine, I felt a hand descend and grab my cock, and gently, expertly, start to wank me, a slow, rhythmic massage where touch and timing joined together. A nail traced itself to the top of my shaft, a fingertip testing gently for precum; I could see nothing but Em's dark brown eyes gazing into mine, smiling, teasing, offering, promising. 

And then, without a word, she lowered herself and took my cock in her mouth. Emily was right - this now wasn't going to last long at all, I'd been building up for far too long to play the ever-hard, limitless-stamina of the porn star. I was ready for release and on the touch of her tongue, I near on exploded. I breathed that I wouldn't last long, and managed to say that Em should not feel obliged to take my load in her mouth, whether she wished to spit or swallow. Em looked up for a second and said I won both races, and winner chooses the venue, loser pays for the drink. And with that, she lowered her head back onto my cock, smiling all the time, bobbing, with a hand at its base feeling, judging the moment of my release. 

I lasted no more than another 30 seconds; I came with one of the strongest, most completely mind-blowing orgasms of my entire life. It seemed to mirror the one which Emily had experienced some ten or fifteen minutes earlier, full bodied, deep, There was a sense in which we had achieved this synchronicity entirely from having allowed ourselves to be open. We had given to each other without condition, but already knowing that the gift was mutual and the sex was utterly unselfish. Two individuals, two friends, for too long on their own. Two friends previously let down by possibly more selfish partners, now upheld by the promise of something better. I couldn't bring myself to say the 'three magic words' that evening, but if this isn't what loving someone is, then I don't know what love can ever be. 

Emily got up and quietly went to the en-suite bathroom, and disposed of her mouthful in the toilet basin. Spit then. She came back to the bed, and tucked herself under my arm. 

If we fall asleep now, so be it, but if we're still awake in ten minutes, I'm going to take another shower, and I'd like you to join me. 

The next thing I knew, I was waking to the sound of the shower, but the clock on the television said 7.21 am.



Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 07



The Weekend's Conclusion and a Postscript 

Friday night had been a revelation. At 8pm I thought I was popping down to the swimming pool for an hour's much needed exercise. By 1.0am Saturday morning, I'd had that swim, plus three pints of beer, a curry and hot, passionate sex - all of this with a MILF (a genuine first for me, I believe) - one who just happened to be Emily Barrington, by childhood best friend. 

It's almost embarrassing, but honestly, it was very natural, I simply fell asleep alongside Em after the most complete blowjob I'd ever received. Em hadn't just blown my cock, she had blown my mind, and shut down for sleep was obviously all it had left. And so I woke, to the sound of the shower in her tiny en-suite bathroom, and on listening carefully, Em having a pee on the toilet. Yes, the walls were thin. 

I allowed the sound of toilet and flush to subside before crawling from the bed gingerly. It was still early, and light wasn't breaking, but since the last thing I had remembered Em saying was that she would like me to join her in another shower, it would be the height of rudeness not to fulfil the request, particularly as Em was (how shall I put it?) such an accommodating host. I tapped lightly on the door and asked can I come in? 

Of course you can, you daft bugger came the reply I think we might take up where we left off last night, I mean, earlier this morning! 

With that, I joined Emily in the bathroom - only just big enough for two people, but the hot water of the shower was already enticing. We were, of course, both already stark naked, and I appreciated again just how astonishingly gorgeous Em was. Standing 5'10" to my 6 feet, with legs up to her armpits, so to speak, she was a picture of pure radiance; but also fit and firm, someone who had worked hard after the birth of her daughter. My cock was already springing to life - morning glory and all that - but it was not going to be satisfied with oral relief this morning. I wanted to make love to Em, no question, but crudely, I also wanted to fuck her, and suspected that she wanted to seal the overnighter with that most intimate of hetero acts. 

We can both fit in the shower, just, I think said Em. I nodded and stepped into the wet area of the room behind the glass panel which ran most of the way across the small room at the far side. Em followed me and we squeezed in together, cuddling close by. Holding each other tightly, we just stood there, for quite a few minutes, I think, warming ourselves and each other under the hot stream of water. In a while, Em lifted her head and our lips met - funny to think we'd gone perhaps as much as fifteen minutes already without so much as a peck good morning! 

But once we started, there was only one way this contact was going. Free rein was given for mouths, hands, fingers to explore. Face, neck, breast and nipples - hers and mine - torso, front and back, and at an early point in what became a no-holds barred physical encounter, Emily even sat herself on the floor to lift my foot to her mouth for the mythical 'toe job'. Not normally my thing, if I'm honest, but strangely erotic in the context of the whole. When I suggested I return the compliment, she got up and lifted a nipple to my face, which was another way of answering, I guess. 

Several times my hands and fingers slipped down between Emily's legs, teasing touch, nothing lingering, but just a tester, a promise. In similar fashion, Em would grab my cock, give it a rub, a yank or two, a slap against her lower abdomen, in that remarkably flat area between the belly button and the trim of her pubes. But we were not quite ready yet, there was more to be done, with mouths and tongues in particular, and also with soap and water. 

Without losing the moment Em broke the embrace for a second and asked a question: 

Do you remember when we were kids, and all those other teenagers were experimenting with heavy petting and stuff? I nodded, and Em continued. None of them were having sex, or if they were, the girls weren't talking about it, but do you remember one of the tell-tale signs of seriousness in an adolescent relationship around here? 

This time, she had me bemused: the boys measured these things in 'bases', starting with French kissing, to hand up the t-shirt, or even inside the bra, and if you were very lucky, or the girl was thought to be 'loose', then you might get permission for the hand to slip into her panties. But just as the girls would never have acknowledged it, neither did any of my circle of male friends ever claim to have gone 'all the way'. Em was referring to something slightly different. 

What if I tell that one of my fantasies as a teenager was to be allowed to wash your hair? I looked down at my pubes and lifted my eyebrows, as if to say 'be my guest'. Em shook her head and tutted. But I had twigged what she was referring to, as she continued: 

No, if a girl really liked a boy, she would offer to wash his hair for him on a weekend, before going out to the cinema, or disco or whatever. The answer from the boy would let her know just how serious he was about the relationship. It was like a code, or a game, but it was also a first and pretty harmless way of exploring physical contact beyond the kiss at the school disco. If I boy refused the offer, you dumped him. Simple. So then John, I'm the best part of twenty years late, but would you like me to wash your hair? 

I answered that I would love for her to do so, and reached for the shower gel to hand to her. I arched my back, head leaning into the stream of hot water, soaking my hair, whilst I could see Em pouring the gel out in generous measure. How d'you want to do this? I asked. 

Turn round Em answered and as I did, she reached up to lather my scalp, gently massaging, but in fact, my height meant I was just a little out of her reach. Let's make this easier she continued, kneel down, so that I'm above your head. 

I did what I was told, and this time, the sensation of her firm hands on my head was fantastic. I'd just never considered this before, and wondered how many of my school friends had kept this erotic secret years ago, and how many of them had locked themselves in lavatories to jerk off just to relieve their tension! Em continued, as did the waterfall above my head. The soap suds had all but dissipated. I'm going to repeat and rinse again, like it says on the bottle, said Em. And she did. But just as I could sense the soap receding this second time, I turned round, still on my knees, so that this time, whilst her hands rested on my head, my face was towards her, and my hungry mouth and salivating tongue were level with her cunt. 

Em understood my body language perfectly, and hauled my head into her crotch. My tongue shot out, and straight onto her clit. Opening her legs slightly, she gasped as I nibbled her labia and then with no warning at all pulled back my head to thrust two fingers up her, still from below. Giving myself a quick rub to ensure that I was rock hard for her, I slowly got up, fingers still spreading her pussy and thumb working her clit, by now, pushing Em slightly back against the shower wall, the physicality reaching a crescendo in the torrential stream of water. 

We kissed again, this time, very hard, full force almost. And then, Em grabbed my cock and quickly lifting her left leg to create the space, thrust me deep into her glory. Fuck me, John, now fuck me! she called as I started to build a rhythm, resistance coming only from the confines of the space and the wall behind her back. I grabbed hold of a tit and Em grabbed my head again and thrust my mouth down onto the nipple, seemingly her preferred pleasure dome, and it seemed like almost no time at all before she was on the brink. 

John, turn me round, fuck my cunt from behind, quickly, I'm on the edge. 

We lost contact for three seconds max as I turned Em round and she bent in front of me, spreading her legs wide, and presenting me with full view of her glistening hole. Her head was virtually in the stream of water, but there was no holding back now. She took my full length, right up to the hilt, with my thighs slapping her backside. And then, almost like a contortionist, her right hand came down, and actually got right round to tickling my balls from below! 

Think we can cum together? Em gasped. 

I grunted in return: You just tell me when, I'm ready when you are! 

The rhythm intensified yet again, but I could feel just how close Em was, so sensitive was the connection. And then, probably as loud as any woman has been with me, ever, Em exploded: 

Now, now NOW NOW, NOW!! And if she called out NOW five or six times, I had shot my load up her no later than the fourth call, and just continued to pump. It was, with no exaggeration, one of the best fucks of my entire life, for no reason other than the complete and utter abandonment of the moment and its synchronicity. 

With the rhythm subsiding gradually, I eventually withdrew. Em got up and turned to face me, her face radiant and her breasts heaving gently, both with comfortable satisfaction of sexual exhaustion. Again, she lifted her head to mine to be kissed, a slow, languid, comfortable kiss and then Em whispered thank you, thank you and melted into my arms again. 

We stood there for a few more minutes, then washed properly before turning off the water. Taking fresh towels from the bail in the corner of the room, we dried each other, and on returning to the bed, realised we had been under the water for a full forty minutes. Time flies when you're having fun! I said. 

But John, Em replied, it's still not half past eight, and we've got all day and another night. Whatever are we going to do? 

Actually, I had already got ahead of myself the previous evening with respect to the answer to that question, because it had seemed to me that by asking me to stay, Em had already signalled her hope of spending a Saturday with me. Given that her daughter was at her father's house, it would have been rudeness beyond acceptability to be throwing me out as soon as I'd shot my load. Surely I was good for more than a fuck?! 

Here's my suggestion: We have a light breakfast here, then go and get the cars. I need to go home for some clean clothes, but then I'll come back and pick you up and we'll drive down to the coast, somewhere like Brixham Harbour. Pub lunch, a coastal walk and some fresh air, then back home for a cosy night in - a film or some TV, snacks if we're hungry, and, um, sex if you're hungrier still? That's if' I'm welcome back here after taking advantage of your hospitality in such a fashion. 

Emily was giggling like a school child again, all of a sudden. That would be wonderful, if you are absolutely sure you want to spend the whole weekend with me, I mean haven't you got work to do, or... 

Oh, shut up! I said, but not unkindly, I can't think of anything I would rather do in the whole world today than spend it in your company. Fuck the work for a day, I can do some tomorrow afternoon. This Saturday is ours together. Friends Rediscovered. Lovers United. 

And so it was. I could write you a whole chapter just describing our day out - fresh air, fish and chips by the seaside, more hand-holding than I'd done in over five years, laughter, reminiscing, you know the sort of stuff. Corny, clichéd it may have been, but, shit, it was a great, great day out. 

We returned home and although Christmas was still a few months off, we watched 'Love Actually' - and argued, for the first time but without malice, which of the couples was most credible. In the end, we settled for 'none of them'. We ate 'French' - cheese, biscuits and most importantly, a bottle of wine. Each. And then we went to bed, and did as we had done the night before, framing deep and full rest with two sessions of love-making. 

During our walk on Saturday, we had agreed that I would not stay around to meet Daisy (and Jim!) on Sunday. Em cheekily suggested we should be going to church to ask forgiveness for our nights of obscenity and debauchery, but we've done nothing wrong; on the contrary, it felt very right indeed! But I did have work to do, not to mention some explaining (perhaps 'limited reporting' a better phrase) to my mother. We agreed however that next Saturday could be a shared day out, or perhaps afternoon walk, followed by pizza (or if Daisy had been very good, perhaps even McDonalds). We also agreed that alternate Fridays (Jim's turn with Daisy) would be swimming practice and curry night; there seems still to be no reason whatsoever for not repeating such a successful formula. 

I did indeed meet Daisy the following weekend, and loved her immediately. She is a close image of her mother as a child, and has inherited the sporty genes of both her parents; she will grow to be at least as tall as her mother, and might even get close to six feet herself. I met Jim very briefly the following weekend, he had been warned of my existence, and seemed genuinely happy that Em also now had a new partner, albeit early days. I don't know why I was so concerned about his 'blessing' (as it were) since it's really not that much of his business, but people can be funny-peculiar about these things sometimes. 

So there you have it: Rediscovery and Recovery. Not just a friendship rediscovered, but emotion recovered. I hope you've enjoyed reading as much as I've enjoyed writing, and if our story hasn't appealed to you, perhaps it's enough that you've not been hurt by it. Wherever you are in life and in love, know that there is someone there, somewhere, who will love you. Sometimes it just takes a while or a lucky break. Sometimes, it takes a meddling mother!! 

Postscript 

The events of these last few chapters took place one weekend at the end of September last year. I was just a few weeks into my new job, loving every minute (still do) and the way in which my social life and romantic life was resuscitated was of enormous significance. I called this whole series 'Rediscovery and Recovery' because it was the best I could do to explain what it meant to me. Rediscovery of both a lost friend and the ability to express love, but also recovery from a state where I had little idea of where my life outside work was going. Emily, and indeed her daughter Daisy, have changed all that. 

I'm writing this postscript in mid-July; I've got a day left before the end of the school year and the prospect of six weeks away from school (not all 'holiday' - at least half of the time will be spent preparing for the next year). Within that six weeks, Em, Daisy and I will attempt to do all of the following: 

Complete the purchase of a house*; move the contents of Em's flat to the house and then find some space for my worldly goods; clean and close up Em's flat to the satisfaction of the owner; go on holiday to Tenerife; swim lots; have lots and lots of fun; have lots and lots of sex ** 

* I am buying the house, with help from my parents who have given me enough for a 20% deposit. But though the house will be in my name, the intention is for us to live as one household with otherwise shared resources. More of which in a moment. 

** Daisy is not included in that last bit, obviously. 

I can't express how deeply I've fallen for Emily and how much I've come to love Daisy too. There's such a sense of 'right' about our relationship, that we have to wonder what we saw in our previous partners. That might sound a bit harsh, especially on Eve, who knows nothing of this, unless she reads this web publication and works it out - doubtful. It's not harsh on Jim who I meet regularly at weekends. We've become friends of a sort, in a limited way, since we have some sort of shared responsibilities. But in truth, he reminds me of a joke which British people of a certain age might recognise - for many years if you looked up 'Boring' (as in drilling holes) in the Yellow Pages, the classified advertisements, it said, simply 'See Civil Engineering'. 

My original plan had been to look for somewhere to live in Exeter; that plan never got off the drawing board. As our friendship and love deepened, I realised that if I was going to move out of my parents' house at all (and I wasn't spending much time there anyway) then it would be to buy in my home town; I can afford the 3-bedroomed house on my salary, albeit with a little help with the deposit. I never considered buying a house in London, it's quite nice to think I'll have my own property now. In doing this however, it made no sense to me, financially or domestically, for Em to continue in her rented flat. I offered her an unconditional cohabitation arrangement as soon as my mind was made up. "I guess you want me to be your cleaner and sex slave in return for free rent?" she asked. I nodded and told her that if she wanted to view it that way, then fine by me, but I preferred the more conventional relationship, called 'family'. At which she cried. 

You'll be wondering whether that means that I've also asked Em to marry me. The short answer to that is 'No, not yet'. There is though a longer answer. 

About six weeks ago, at the end of May, Daisy was invited to be a flower girl at a cousin's wedding. It was the first time that I had received an invitation to such an event as Emily's 'significant other' - Daisy of course looked absolutely beautiful. I was given to understand that the family had enquired as to whether Jim ought to be invited, more because his daughter had a role than because he was part of the family himself, but Em was a bit put out and reminded her kin that Jim and weddings really don't mix. So I got to go, and met several members of Em's extended family for the first time. 

It was inevitable, and I was prepared in advance for the questions which would be asked about my own status. Most could be answered swiftly: 'Divorced for 3 years, have been with Em for over six months, very happy, thanks'. But I was less prepared for the direct question which Em herself slipped in to the conversation later on in the day, bearing in mind that in previous months we had mutually agreed to stay clear of the 'M' word: 

How does this compare to your wedding all those years ago? Em asked me, casually. I answered on merit. 

Smaller, less formal and more family-orientated. Ours was church, this was registry office, this a small local venue within a tight budget, ours a lavish country-house reception. My wedding was my wedding, and it was what it was, but I think I prefer this set up. 

Em looked into my face with a quizzical smile and then jumped in with two feet: 

You are not obliged to answer this question if you don't want to, and you are not to read into it anything at all beyond my wanting to get to know you completely as my partner. Do you understand? I nodded. Good. So, my question: would you get married again? 

I wasn't expecting it, and I had to take a breath to answer within the terms I had been given. Emily was not asking me to marry her, for God's sake!! But having thought a while, this is (just about word for word, if I remember correctly) what I said in reply: 

I have nothing against marriage as an institution, despite the chronic failure of my marriage to Eve. Jim uses his parents and my example as evidence that he is right, but I still disagree. Marriage is a solid foundation for a family, it formalises the commitment and it has tax benefits. And to be clear, I have no problem with gays and lesbians tying the knot on exactly the same grounds; marriage may have started off as a religious ceremony but that's irrelevant to me now, it's about commitments of love enshrined and protected. So, would I marry again? Yes I would. But - and you may as well know there's a 'BUT'. But weddings are a different matter. As part of a wedding ceremony, whether religious or civil, you have to promise ''til death us do part". You have to stand there and say that you are going to stay with that person come what may, and to be honest, given the numbers of people who can't keep that promise - including me - I would be very nervous about saying it and expecting everyone present to respect it as a promise. I know that as part of divorce proceedings, Eve and I effectively released each other from the obligation to keep the promise, but it remains a plain fact that we had both broken it, even before that release. I've got no time for these celebs who make pre-nuptial agreements and then declare everlasting love. Pre-nups require consideration of 'what if this doesn't work' - the wedding ceremony does not allow for that possibility. I'm not saying I don't like weddings, but if I can't at the moment believe the promise myself, how can I expect my future wife and everyone else around to believe it either? 




Rediscovery and Recovery Ch. 07



I wondered whether I'd overstepped a line, and so in the spirit that Em had asked the question, I thought it best to check that. Em is remarkably good at giving straight answers; I don't think 'whatever' is in her vocabulary. I asked: 

Did that answer your question, but more importantly, did it help you get to know your partner better, and most importantly of all, did getting to know him better put you off at all? 

Em thought for only a second or two and answered warmly: 

Yes, yes, and no fucking chance. Kiss me please. 

And so I did. Several times and then a few times more for good measure. 

By August, we'll be living under one roof, and will for all common purposes, behave as a family together. We had a conversation about what Daisy should call me, but we've stuck with John. I'm not her father, she has one of those who she sees for at least seven or eight days each month, and who is good at what he does for her as a father figure; Daisy has known no different, of course. But I'm quite good with kids myself, and she'll be no worse off having a man about the house permanently. 

One more thing to report, and that is Emily has been doing some research into fertility treatment for those who suffer from low sperm count. If you Google 'intracytoplasmic sperm injection' (ICSI) rather than the more common invitro (IVF), you'll discover that there are treatments available. I can hardly bear to type this, for it may be the final part of the 'recovery', but my parents might yet be natural grandparents, and there may yet be a little sister or brother for Daisy. That's a measure of Em's love for me, and how can I but return that? 

Happy Days xx