Contents

Title

Copyright

Dedication

Yorkshire Slang Guide

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Coming soon

Also by Andie M. Long

About Andie

NEW BALLS PLEASE

Ball Games Book Three

by

Andie M. Long

COPYRIGHT

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Copyright (c) 2016 by Andrea Long

All rights reserved.

Cover photo from One Dollar Photo.

DEDICATION

To the staff at Center Parcs Sherwood Forest who helped a woman out of a drainage ditch…

Yorkshire Slang Guide

Dear Reader,

Welcome to the third novella in the Ball Games Series. You may be reading this novella from outside of South Yorkshire, England. This story is centred around the Turner family, who I hope you will become familiar with as I write further novellas in the series, all complete stand-alone stories. While I refrained from writing in the broad Yorkshire style of ‘Where’s tha bin?’ (Where have you been), I did want to leave in some British and Yorkshire words as I love providing an opportunity to learn new rude words, (I’m naughty like that.) So what follows is a list of what you will come across in the novella. If I’ve missed any feel free to contact me and I’ll teach you what they mean.

Love Andie

13 February 2016

British/Yorkshire Slang.

Bingo - result. Said when you’ve found something.

Brew - hot beverage, usually tea.

Bloke - man.

Bollocking - telling off.

Brood - family.

Budge - give up.

Built like a brick shithouse - really wide and strong.

Clobber - clothes. Also used as an expression for hitting someone, E.g. I clobbered them round the head.

Cuppa - cup of tea.

Dick - idiot.

Dickhead - stronger use of idiot, used with disdain when you really want to insult someone

Do one - Go away or fuck off.

Fair enough - okay.

Fucker - utter bastard.

Fuck me - as well as the obvious it can also mean goodness me.

Full whack - top speed.

Gear - clothes.

Get the sack - fired from a job.

Got the face on - sulking.

Grand - a thousand pounds (money).

Knackered - tired.

Knobhead - idiot. Can be used jokily or to be awful. If you’re joking, laugh as you say it, *chuckle* You knobhead. To be rude, dangle your little finger near your forehead to indicate a tiny penis and say it.

Lass - see Love.

Loo - toilet.

Love - term of endearment. E.g. Are you okay love? To confuse matters, you can be called it by someone you’ve never met before in your life. It’s a Yorkshire thing. Ps Yorkshire is pronounced York-sher.

Manic - busy.

Meat and Two veg - penis and balls.

Mop - hair on head.

Necking - drinking.

Nursing a sore head - feeling delicate because you’ve been drunk.

Piss - urine.

Pissing it down - raining heavily.

Poorly - ill.

Pop to - go to quickly.

Shit - as well as excrement it’s a word for when you think something’s rubbish, E.g. this song is shit.

Starving - very hungry.

Swanned off - if you go somewhere and people resent/dislike it. E.g. Oh she’s swanned off for a week in Benidorm with the window cleaner.

Threads - clothes.

Twat - idiot.

Vino - wine.

Wagging it - playing truant.

Wanker - idiot.

Chapter One

Tim

I used to call my other half Dora the Explorer because her hand was always down my trousers fondling my meat and two veg. I might need to rethink that now. She's gone missing, along with a small suitcase, some money, and the credit cards. I rub my chin. What do you do when your partner goes AWOL? I try to recall what happens on TV. I guess I should start by searching for a note? There’s nothing on the pillows or the dressing table. There was nothing on the kitchen table either. The bed’s not made, but that’s nothing new for Dora. It doesn’t mean she’s left in a hurry. I shake out the duvet. Oh, here we go. There's a piece of paper under it. I consider the folded paper that’s now held between my fingers. It’s a ripped page from a jotter. I bet she's arranged a raunchy weekend away after reading one of her bloody books. I read:

Tim. I've gone to Center Parcs for the week to learn how to play tennis. Don't ring me. I won't answer. You and the kids can cook your own fucking Sunday lunch. Yes, I'm feeling a lot better not that any of you asked. D.

Oh shit. It would seem it's new balls, please, for Dora.

***

A few days earlier...

Dora

Discover the New You? What, from behind the clump of tissue held in front of my ever spluttering mouth? Nowhere in this goddamn book by the uber-famous Tatiana Patrick does it say anything about bringing the spark back to your marriage during a bout of tonsillitis. I throw the book, attempting to shout fuck it, but I have no voice so all I get for the effort is more pain. I've been in my cesspit of a bedroom for two days now. Fuck, I smell. For the last twenty-four hours, I've sweated the cold out of me and two sets of pyjamas lie discarded on the floor. Tim is at work. My days have been filled browsing my Facebook news feed, watching Jessica Jones on Netflix (I want to be that kick-ass, but am I supposed to feel sorry for her being mind controlled by David Tennant? He can order me into his bed anytime he likes), and sleeping. The only time I've surfaced is to make the evening meal. Tim's good and would fix his own but he'd never think to check if I wanted anything, so I may as well get up or starve to death. Personally, I wouldn't want a meal prepared by a woman with the plague but that's a partner for you.

I ring the kids on a Thursday night. Well, I say kids - Tyler is twenty-five and Camille twenty-one. They both live away from home. They come round every Sunday for lunch and I call them every Thursday night. Tim can answer when they ring later. They'll wonder what's wrong as I always call them between eight and nine pm. With luck, they’ll give their dad some grief about looking after me.

9.25pm - Little fuckers. Not one call. Not one.

Saturday. Well, my darling children never called - and still haven't. I could be dead. The ignorant brats are supposed to be coming for lunch tomorrow and I'm still bedridden. Well, I could get up because I'm a lot less poorly but I'd have to do housework then, and I’ve more Jessica Jones episodes to watch yet. If they turn up tomorrow, they can view my half-dead, unwashed corpse. I will stagger from my bed looking like Cathy from Wuthering Heights, hand to my forehead. They deserve to feel guilty. I grab my Kindle and start a search. There must be a book on here about how to be respected by others.

Bingo. Tatiana's therapist, Tess, from her Reality Show, Love is All Around, has a book out: How to reclaim Visibility in a world that makes you feel invisible. Tess Emerald will save me.

I one-click and start reading...

Chapter One - show them a world without you.

'Dora? Dora. I'm off to the local for a couple of hours. Is that alright?' Tim's voice booms up the stairs.

I try to answer but my voice disappears on me.

The door bangs. He hasn't even made sure I'm okay before leaving me home alone.

That's it. I'm heeding Tess' advice. They can try a world without me in it. First stop the shower, second stop Center Parcs. It's only an hour’s drive to Sherwood Forest. I've been saving up for Tim and me to enjoy a few romantic weekends away but he can do one. Thoughts flick through my mind. Spa, fresh air, someone else cleaning. Sheer bliss.

I turn off the book I’ve been reading and tap the internet icon on my Kindle Fire. Oh, what's that on the website? Tennis lessons with ex-pro Cole Grant. I've always wanted to learn how to play tennis. Well, at least, I do every June when Wimbledon is on.

With the credit card payment made, a one-bedroom comfort villa is mine for the week. Now to pack.

The first thing I put in my handbag is my Kindle and charger. I may need Tatiana and Tess' advice this week. As I rifle through the wardrobe, deciding what to pack, I spy a cellophane-wrapped packet lurking somewhere near the back and reach in for it. Hmmm, you never know. I might use them. The unopened package is tossed in my suitcase.

I have to sit on the case to fasten it. Maybe I've overdone the packing but you never know what you'll need. I haven't had time to prepare my body for the trip so I've thrown a lot of things in the case like fake tan. A woman my age has to make an effort to look good.

I write Tim a quick note and stick it under the duvet. He might notice it when he climbs into bed.

I’ll show my brood. No-one messes with The Mother.

I close the door behind me, my temper means there’s a bit of a slam, then I get behind the wheel of my Ford Fiesta. In an hour or so I’ll be enjoying the comforts of my villa. Feeling centred in Center Parcs.

Chapter Two

Dora

Center Parcs, Sherwood Forest, should take between fifty minutes to an hour from my house. Well, it would have done if I’d put the Sat Nav on and followed it. Instead, I figured I'd know where to turn off. That was until I saw the signs for Twycross Zoo and knew I'd gone too far. It's also been pissing down with rain for four consecutive days so the potholed ground is full of overflowing puddles. The windscreen wipers are at full whack and sending me dizzy. A U-turn and several swear words get me back on track. You’re allowed to access your villa from four pm, and with it being eight pm, I drive straight up to one of the little kiosks. I receive leaflets, a car park sticker, and keys. I thank the woman who lets me through the barrier and follow the signs to my comfort villa. At first, the navigation is easy, but I have to keep stopping for pedestrians and cyclists. I struggle to find out where my allocated villa is on the signs. It's a quarter past eight now and I'm ready for my villa, unpacked and necking a cuppa.

'Oh, at last,' I mutter as I drive right past it. There's a little parking bay where I'm allowed to stay while I unpack. I park up my Fiesta and lug my case into the villa. While I gaze longingly at the kettle, I decide it's best if I get the car returned to the car park before it goes dark. Then I can forget about it for the week and chill the fuck out.

Back behind the wheel, I reverse to do a three-point turn. Then I realise what else I can do. Swear my head off. There’s no-one to say Dora! or Mum! Is there a law somewhere that says Dora can't swear? Am I Snow White? Fuck that shit. I sit in the car and let it all out.

Fuck.

Twat.

Knobhead.

Dick.

Fucktwatknobheaddick. Fucktwatknobheaddick.

My window taps and an angry mother glares at me. Oops, my window was down a bit. I apologise profusely and wind my window up. When she's safely in the distance, I shout, ‘Piss off you fucktwatknobheaddick. Holier than thou prissypussiedwankstain.’

With a cursory glance, I note there's not a lot of room to turn around and it’s going to be more like a thirty-point turn. I drive the car forward again, only noticing the drainage ditch when it’s too late.

Fuck.

My tyre is resting just above it. I take a deep breath. Jeez, I only just missed going down the ditch. With a relieved exhale I hit reverse.

Whirrrrrrr. Spin. Spin. Spin. Whirrrrrrrr.

My car won't move. 'For fucks sake.' I get out the car and check what’s happened. My tyre’s stuck in the mud. The ground has churned over where I've tried to reverse and there's an overwhelming smell of burning rubber.

A car pulls up behind me and the driver gets out. 'Are you okay, love?'

I bite my lip to prevent my gob from shouting Do I fucking look okay? Instead, I give him doe eyes.

'My tyre is stuck in the mud.' I sigh. 'I was only trying to turn around so I could take the car to the main car park.'

'Turn around?' His brow crinkles.

'Yes.' I say firmly. What did he think I was trying to do, a donut?

He points to a sign ahead of me. I put my hand to my forehead. The sign clearly states one way.

'Oh...’ I feel my ears heat up. Thank goodness for my hair. He can’t see they’ve gone red. ‘So you mean I'm trying to turn around to drive in the wrong direction?'

He nods in agreement. 'I'm afraid so.'

By now another car has pulled up behind his. The driver is tapping the wheel, looking annoyed. To add to the misery of the situation, it’s raining again.

‘Well I’m blocking the road so I’d better get out of the way. I’ll see if I can flag down a member of staff for you,' says the first driver.

‘Okay. Thank you.’ I watch as he returns to his lovely dry car. He has to drive up a hilly grass verge to get past as my car is blocking three-quarters of the one-way system.

More cars troop past like a metal follow-my-leader. All the drivers and passengers stare at me with an assortment of expressions - disgust, hilarity and plain amazement. I need a pointy hat on my head with a ‘D’ on it.

I get back in the car and try again but it's no use. Whirr. Whirr. Whirr.

Ten minutes pass before an older guy with sparse white hair, wearing a Center Parcs uniform, walks down the road and up to me. He’s wearing a baseball cap which keeps the rain off his face.

'Got yourself in a bit of a predicament there, lass,' he says as he appraises the car.

'I really have. I didn't realise it was one way. I'm so stupid.' My eyes fill with tears.

'Now hey, we'll get it towed. Let me handle it.' He extracts his walkie-talkie from its fastening and radios for a tow truck.

By now the water is running off my face and my coat is soaked through. I glance at my comfort villa only a few hundred steps away. The man's eyes follow mine.

'Listen, I'm Jim. You look like you could use a cup of tea. Why don't you go to your villa? Get dried off a little and make a brew? I'll stay here and wait for the tow-truck.'

I pull at my collar. 'No, it’s fine. I couldn't possibly ask you to do that.'

'Love, there's no sense in us both being here. I have to wait so I insist. Get yourself inside.'

What I actually want to do is lie down in the ditch and hide. Instead, I say, 'Would you like a drink?'

'No, I'm fine, love. I'm used to the inclement weather working here.'

I tremble and realise I'm experiencing something akin to shock. 'Okay. I'll be back soon.'

'No rush, love.'

Pushing the door of the villa open, I walk through to the living area and collapse on the sofa. I'm so embarrassed. Out here on my own, and I've almost blocked the main route around Center Parcs. My first action would usually be to call Tim and ask his advice but there's no way I'm phoning him. I doubt he'd hear his phone ring in the pub anyway.

There’s a pile of towels on the bed and I lift the larger one and cover my hair with it, making a turban. I rub the towel through my hair to get most of the wet out. After a change of clothes, I take my waterproof coat out of my case. When the kettle is on, I realise I have no milk or groceries. I'll drink hot water for now and find a shop if I ever get out of this mess. A glance at my watch shows me it's now nine pm. I wonder what time the shop closes?

There's no way I can settle in the villa knowing Jim is out there in the rain, so I wander back out to him. I am less hysterical now so I chat to him about his job. There aren't many cars passing at this time but the occupants of the ones that do have a good old nosey at my car and then at me. I smile at them as if nothing is wrong and I had planned to leave my car here. Then a four-by-four pulls up and four blokes jump out. My heart rate increases as I stare at them. They appear in their early thirties and are built like brick shithouses. They've got to be some kind of sportsmen with muscles like theirs. I try my hardest not to let drool run down my chin.

'You stuck, love?'

'Yes,' I swish my hair from my face and adopt the posture of a damsel in distress. 'My car is stuck in the mud and I'm blocking the road. I feel so foolish.' I pout, channelling my inner Marilyn Monroe.

'Not a problem.' Hunk Number One nods to his pals. 'We'll lift it out. Get you back on the road in no time.'

I beam. ‘Oh, thank you.’

Jim puts his hand up in front of Hunk Number One. 'Sorry, mate. No can do.'

'What?' Me and Hunk Number One say at the same time.

'Health and Safety. You could injure yourselves. We need to wait for the tow truck, sorry.'

The hunks apologise, return to their car and drive away. I lament the loss of my car being rescued and the muscle driving off. At least they'd kept my eyes busy.

'Here we are, look,' says Jim as a Center Parcs car turns the corner.

After explaining my actions for what appears to be the thirty-seventh time, the tow guy fastens the rope to the back of my car and drives his own forward. The tow rope breaks in two.

'Sorry. Can't shift it,' he says. 'Are you with a breakdown company?'

'Yes,' I answer.

'Good. You need to ring them. There’s nothing else we can do.'

Jim apologises. Shaking his hand, I thank him and he hitches a lift back to base with the tow man. I return to my villa, hoping no-one prangs my car. There’s a lump in my throat and I feel like I can hardly breathe. Luckily my phone has an almost full battery and I manage to get a signal, something that’s difficult when you’re among so many trees. I inform the breakdown company of my predicament. They must be used to idiots ringing them because the lady is lovely and reassures me that a trip to Center Parcs is no problem for their rescue vehicles.

I lie back on my bed. It's now ten-fifteen. Why did I not stay at home? I could be curled up in bed reading, or watching a DVD. I could have made Tim suffer for a day and had the kids in my pocket until they'd apologised. Instead, I'm in the middle of the countryside in the midst of chaos.

The breakdown company tells me they could be up to three hours. Fuck my Life. Like I’m hypnotised I can’t keep away from the window, so I’m intrigued to see flashing lights outside and go to explore. Two guys are taking out the wooden post from the hilly bit where the cars have had to drive up a little.

I walk up to them, my arms crossed over my stomach. 'Oh dear. I've caused a lot of hassle.'

'Yep, you're the talk of Center Parcs,' laughs one of them.

The other one nudges him. 'Leave her alone.' He turns towards me. 'We've got to remove this post in case the other cars hit it. It'll give them more room to get past yours until it’s moved.'

I nod. 'Well, the breakdown company are on their—'

A large rumbling sound interrupts our conversation. A tractor comes around the corner and pulls up next to my car. He sticks his head out of the window.

'Heard there was a woman who needed a proper bloke,' he winks and jumps down from the tractor.

Less than five minutes later my car is free of the mud. The tractor driver even gets in my car and parks it for me. I don't think my trembling limbs could have managed it. The relief is overwhelming.

'Leave it there,' he tells me. 'I've had a word with the traffic people and you can keep it there all week.'

I place my hand on my heart. 'Thank you so much,' I throw myself at him and embrace him in a warm hug. 'What's your name?'

'Tony. It's my pleasure. Now you get yourself settled for the night.'

I slap my forehead. 'Shit. I need to cancel the breakdown people. They're on their way.'

‘So off you go. Then relax.' He chuckles.

'I will. Promise. Oh by the way. What time does the shop close?'

'Eight-thirty.'

I glance at my watch. It's now ten-fifty-five.

‘Right. Okay. Thank you.'

'You okay?' he asks me.

'Yeah. I'm great now the car is out of the road,' I tell him. It’s the truth. Although I'm miffed there’s nothing to eat and only tap water to drink, my relief about the car makes up for it. I bid him good night and return to my lodge.

I cancel the breakdown people first. Then I make another mug of hot water and change into my pyjamas. I'm overcome with exhaustion. Maybe I should rest and start again tomorrow? It seems an intelligent idea and I climb beneath my sheets and close my eyes. Luckily my mind decides I shouldn’t suffer any further. It gives me a lovely dream where the muscle-bound guys rescue me after all. Except this time, there’s no car.

Chapter Three

Camille

I look around the lounge as if she will appear. 'What do you mean she's left?'

It's Sunday and I've turned up for lunch. Lunch that isn’t cooked. I could have done with a day in bed. The Play Centre I own has been manic this week, plus I've got a cold trying to start. My dad passes me my mum's note.

I rub at my eyelid. 'What does she mean… no-one's asked about her? I rang you Thursday night!'

My dad shrugs. 'So did Tyler. But I forgot to tell her you'd called. I turned the ringer off in the bedroom so she wouldn't be disturbed. Now she assumes no-one cares.'

'Oh, for goodness sake. So she booked a week in Center Parcs?'

My dad’s face tightens. 'Yes. A whole week. In June. To learn how to play tennis, and less than three weeks before the start of Wimbledon. You know what that means?'

I hand him the note back. 'What?'

'It’s going to be expensive. Plus, this is your mother so—'

'She’ll buy new gear.'

My usually easy going father’s nostrils flare. 'She's using the money we saved together. For going away together. I'm not impressed, Camille.'

'Have you tried ringing her?’

‘Of course, I have. I’m struggling though. She's in the middle of the forest so it won't connect. When it does, she's not answering.'

I take a deep breath and speak calmly. 'Well, you'll have to go and get her.'

'No. No way.' My dad shakes his head. As he finishes speaking, his mouth tightens in a firm line. 'I'm fed up of her acting like a spoilt teenager. She's wasted our joint savings. She'd better flipping well enjoy the week off. Hopefully, while she's there, she can see how ridiculous she's being. I'm at work all week and she's due back next Saturday. If she's lucky, I won't have changed the locks.'

Shit. 'But, Dad, this is how Mum is.'

'Well, it's got to stop. It's just your mum and me now Tyler's left home. I was looking forward to a week or two abroad, now there's a huge deficit in the savings account. She works three days a week and I work five. It’s a bloody insult that I'm working full-time while she's swanning around Center Parcs.' He folds his hands across his chest. 'I'll tell you something else. Tomorrow morning, I’ll ring the bank and cancel her credit card. She's not spending any more of our money. I wonder how she'd feel if I swanned off for a week. There’s an idea. I might go shopping and buy myself some new threads. Spend the rest of our savings.'

Bloody hell. I've never heard my dad be so vocal. Mum’s really gone and done it this time. 'Dad, please don't say threads.'

'Clobber then. I’ll get some new clobber.'

Dear God, he's so old.

I place a hand on his shoulder. 'Do you want me to come with you?'

'No, I'll be fine. I'll have a look at what's in fashion on the internet. When she comes home, that mother of yours will find she has a new partner. One that's not putting up with her drama anymore. I might even have some of my own.'

The doorbell goes and my dad walks to answer it. It's my brother. Half an hour late as usual.

I watch as a dishevelled mess plods into the dining room, says 'Eh?' and then notices I'm in the lounge.

'Where's lunch?' Tyler strokes the stubble on his chin. Shaving must have been beyond him this morning.

'Have you even washed today?'

He flops on the sofa. 'Oh, don't you start. Lindsay was on at me about not getting out of bed. I'm knackered.'

'Well, Mum's left home.'

‘Oh, is she at the shops? What’s she forgot this time? The peas?’

‘No, I mean she’s left. Packed a suitcase.’

He laughs. 'You're funny you are.'

'Where is she then? And where's lunch?'

He leaves the room, walking past Dad and looks around the house, occasionally shouting 'Mum,' then returns.

'Aw, stop messing about. I'm tired and absolutely flipping starving. I didn't get up in time for breakfast.'

My dad hands Tyler the note.

He reads it and rolls his eyes. 'Oh, for God's sake.’ His stomach rumbles and he places his hand on it. ‘I'm so hungry.'

'Mum's left and taken herself to Center Parcs and all you're bothered about is your stomach?' I scold.

Dad shrugs. 'Us blokes really do struggle with an empty stomach. Come on, I'll treat you both to a carvery at The Red Lion. I'm fed up thinking about your mother’s antics. Give me a minute to put my coat and shoes on.'

Dad goes off to get ready.

Tyler stares at me.

'What?'

'I'm waiting for you to tell me what I've got to do.'

'You can think for yourself, you know. What do you think we should do? Dad is set on leaving her to it.'

'Camille. Any time I've suggested anything in our whole lives you've told me it’s stupid and then bossily made me do what you want.'

I narrow my eyes at him. 'No, I haven't.'

'Okay.’ His tongue pokes the side of his cheek. ‘Well... I think we should leave Mum and Dad to get on with it. It's their relationship.'

I huff. 'That's a stupid idea.'

Tyler looks skywards and mutters under his breath. It sounds like 'Told you.'

'If Dad leaves her at Center Parcs she'll think no-one cares. What if she doesn't come back?'

'Where's she going to go, Cam? She has a cushy number at home and she knows it.'

'But Dad always sorts her out and calms her down. What if they split up?'

He walks over and pats my head, the twat.

'Little Cam. The folks will do what they need to do. They'll argue and either sort it out or not. They're grownups. I'm surprised Dad hasn't snapped before with all the money Mum wastes on her obsessions. Now she thinks she's Serena Williams.'

Dad walks in. 'Right, are you two ready?'

We nod and head to the local.

The Red Lion is always heaving Sunday lunchtime, but the staff there are used to it and get customers through to the tables steadily. It's an idea to book a table if you don't want a long wait but Becky, one of the regular staff there tells us she's just cleared a table for three and we can go straight through. The table is tucked away near the toilets and fits around a post. It’s not the best table but it suits us today, seeing as we are all so hungry.

Dad rubs the condensation off the side of his pint glass. 'I wonder what your Mother's doing right now?’

'As long as it’s not the tennis coach,' says Tyler.

Dad looks stricken.

'Tyler!' I shout. 'Don't be so stupid.'

He looks at his feet. 'I thought it was funny.'

'Do you think the tennis coach will be a bloke? An attractive bloke?' asks my dad.

'Given the number of attractive men in the world, the odds are seriously against it,' I reassure him. 'I'll check the website later and let you know if you like.'

Dad nods.

We get up and queue for our carvery lunch. Mum's a great cook but there are a choice of joints and an array of vegetables here. The pièce de résistance though is the Yorkshire Puddings. They are enormous. Our mum has never been able to cook a Yorkshire Pudding and has to rely on ready cooked frozen ones from the supermarket. She says she's tried every recipe going. At one point she even bought a new oven as she was convinced her own wasn't reaching the correct temperature. They still came out as flat as a CD. Our eyes widen in delight as the small crunchy planet is placed on our plates.

We return to our table. Tyler takes a bite of the pudding.

'Mmm. Do you think we could come here every Sunday?' he asks.

'Are you going to ask your Mother that?' Dad replies.

‘Not if I value my testicles.’

Dad sighs. 'There's one thing preying on my mind about your Mother, though.'

'What's that, Dad?' I ask.

'I don't know that she hasn't lost her way a bit. Gone depressed like. Only…’ he clears his throat, ‘before Tyler moved out your mum really got a grip on things. The house was spotless. She was in a great mood all the time. Then Ty left and well… her housework went… almost non-existent. If I ask her to do anything she looks so miserable.'

Tyler changes the subject, saying how nice the gravy is. I turn to him and he's tapping his foot on the floor.

'What do you know that we don't, Tyler Turner?’

'Me? What do you mean?' he protests.

'You're all fidgety and changing the subject. Has Mum been depressed? Has she said anything to you?'

Tyler sighs. 'Do not shoot the messenger, okay?'

My dad sits back, 'Go on Tyler. Out with it. Whatever it is. I need to hear it.'

So Tyler owns up.

'Let me get this straight. For a couple of months, before you left our house, your mum was paying you to do the chores?'

Tyler gulps. 'I needed the money.'

'And she told you to not mention this to me? Took all my praise for the lovely standard of cleaning attained as if she’d done it herself?'

‘Glad you liked it.'

I elbow him. 'Not the right time Tyler.'

Dad tilts his head to one side, his arms are crossed and his finger taps against the shirt sleeve of the opposite arm. 'So what did your mum do on her days off?'

'Watched box-sets mainly and went shopping.'

Dad exhales deeply.

'So shall I talk to Mum?' I ask. It's the last thing I feel like doing but someone needs to talk sense to this family. It's like being in a troop of quarrelling chimps right now.

Dad puts his cutlery down on his plate with force. It makes a chinking noise. 'No Camille. Absolutely not.'

'Why not?'

'Your mum has taken herself off, annoyed that she isn't getting our attention. I'm going back to what we did when you children were acting up and trying to get our attention in a negative way.'

Uh oh.

'So you're going to ignore it?'

'That's right. Then eventually, she’ll bring her backside home. If she starts to tantrum about being ignored, I'll confront her about the housework issue.'

Oh dear God, there'll be a murder and I love my dad.

'Dad, no. Don't go there,' begs Tyler. 'You'll not win. It's Mum.'

'Everybody stop saying that,' Dad snaps. 'All these years I've let things slide. No more. She's gone too far. This worm has turned. Tomorrow, I'm going to the bookshop and I’ll find myself one of those self-help books like she's always doing. There must be a How to survive a Manipulative Wife tome out there somewhere.'

'If there's a companion book on girlfriend, can you get it for me?' says Tyler.

I shake my head. 'You've only been going out with Lindsay two and a half months.'

'I know, but she gets me to do things and afterwards I’m wondering how she did it.' He complains. ‘It’s some form of brainwashing.’

'Exactly.' My dad waves his finger about. 'They're like witches or something, son. Take a lesson from me. Don't let Lindsay lay down the law.'

They do a bro fist. I roll my eyes.

I decide that I'm getting nowhere and my Yorkshire Pudding is getting cold, so I stuff a large piece in my mouth to prevent me from shouting at them both about being dickheads.

Tomorrow I hope Beth makes it to Kid Zone. I need the opinion of another female.

Chapter Four

Dora

I make sure I’m up nice and early on Sunday morning and head over to the on-site ParcMarket at around ten to get stocked up on groceries. There's a bottle of wine in my basket for later, and plenty of milk and tea bags. A life without a cuppa is a miserable one. After a good sleep, I've calmed down about the car issue. When I left the villa and walked up the road, other than the missing post and the tyre marks in the mud, you wouldn't know it had happened. Recalling the events of the evening, I return to the alcohol section and add a four-pack of beer to my basket. The heavy basket makes my arm ache but once I’ve called into the Information Centre, my bags will be lighter. I pay for my items and make the short walk there, then wait in the queue for a few minutes.

'Can I help you?' An older woman greets me and then smiles.

'Yes, could I leave these cans to split between Jim and Tony?' I place the four-pack on the counter. 'Also, do you have some paper and a pen so I can leave a note?'

The woman appraises me with a knowing smile and passes me some Center Parcs headed paper and a pen. She says nothing until I hand her the note.

Thank you for helping me out of the mud. Please enjoy a beer. Sorry once again, Dora. Villa 332.

The woman gives a throaty chuckle. 'I thought it must be you. Are you okay now?'

I flick my fringe. 'Lots better thank you. I’m going to try to forget about it and enjoy my break.'

She places the beer under the counter. 'Well, I'll see these get to the guys. They'll appreciate the thought.'

'Thank you.'

I head out of Information and hope I don't need to go in again for the duration of my break.

Although some of my shopping needs to be in the fridge sooner rather than later, I'm passing the Jardin des Sports and its patio area looks lovely. Five minutes later, I'm nursing a Tia Maria coffee and enjoying the extra warmth of the outdoor heater. As I relax, thoughts cross my mind.

I wonder what Tim and the kids are doing today. Whether the kids turned up for lunch and what they think of me being here.

I catch sight of my distorted reflection in the cafe window. Being a forty-five-year-old woman is hard. People say I appear in my mid-thirties, but they aren’t greeted with the face I wake up with. It takes a subtle fake tan, lots of exercise and care with my diet to maintain this image. Plus, a heap of foundation and anti-ageing products. Tim gets to see that morning face. I'm surprised he comes anywhere near me, never mind inside me.

I sigh. The tennis lessons start tomorrow, so what am I going to do with today?

I recall that I passed a sports shop when I came through to the café. I'll treat myself to a nice outfit for the tennis, then get this shopping back and spend the day relaxing. Oh, I could book the Aqua Sana spa too! Maybe have a quiet stroll to find the wildlife. Then I’ll consume lots of cups of tea and read a book on my Kindle.

Perhaps my family will call me later. I’ve had missed calls from Tim, but he must have changed his mind. He’s not left any messages. I refuse to think about it anymore. Well, I'll try not to. It’s hard when you feel invisible and no-one cares.

I finish the liqueur coffee. It went down a treat. I feel all zingy inside.

In the shop, I buy a pair of cropped black leggings that show off my calves, one of my best features, and a tight tee. My boobs and ass look amazing and I thank the Lord for my gym membership. I sweep my hair up with my hand to imagine it in a ponytail. Yep looking good, Ms Evans, looking good. I pretend to swish a tennis racket and slap the changing room wall by accident. ‘Fuck.’ It’s made of plywood and the whole thing shakes and rattles.

'Erm, are you okay in there?' the assistant asks.

'Fine. I'll be out in just a moment.' I reply, shaking out my hand. For heaven's sake, Dora, don't destroy the shop. You’ve embarrassed yourself enough already.

Back at the villa, I unpack my shopping and sit on the small sofa which looks out over a patio. In the distance is a pond. Geese and ducks waddle right up to the glass door and at one point a squirrel sits on the table. It’s hard to believe this place is only an hour from the bustle and pollution of the city. Placing a call to book into the evening spa, which starts at five pm, I grab my Kindle and relax and read for an hour.

After making a sandwich for lunch and enjoying another cuppa, I decide that I need to let my food digest and then get out for the walk. I've had a read so what shall I do now? I head into the bedroom and search through my case to see what I actually packed in my rush to leave. There must be something I can do. Did I bring my colouring book? I spy the cellophane-wrapped packet and pick it up. I remove the wrapping as if the contents will bite.

I purchased this set of Ben Wa balls about three years ago. Do you know what they are? Basically, it's a string with a couple of balls on it that fit inside your vagina. I was intrigued by that scene in the Fifty Shades book and walked into the sexy store in Meadowhall and bought them. Then feeling foolish, I'd thrown them at the back of the wardrobe and that's where they’d stayed.

Until now.

I stare at the plastic packet. Inside are two plastic pink and white balls on a string. They are attached to each other by a thin piece of the plastic or latex or whatever it is. There are instructions for use on an enclosed leaflet, but what exactly are they supposed to do?

Fingers crossed that I can get Wi-Fi access, I place the packet on the bed, get my phone and search Google.

Okay. So for a start they can help control urinary incontinence, so if I get no other satisfaction from them, I might manage to wear a pair of pants without the liner that catches the trickle of piss leaking out of my body on occasion. Bloody children, destroying my vag.

You can keep them in all day. Gosh.

It helps to tighten up your vaginal muscles so you can have stronger orgasms. Hell yeah, that would be nice.

Some people say they do nothing. That it's as exciting as a tampon. Oh dear, that would be disappointing.

Don't use the proper Ben Wa balls first. They're tiny and hard to keep in. That's okay, mine seem like the beginner's version. They're larger and have the string. How the fucking hell do people keep those marble sized ones with no string inside? They must fuck pencil dicks for practice, or pencils. I shudder.

Now, what do you do with them when they're in?

I read on.

Sit in a rocking chair. What? Yes, we've all got one of those handy. Who's using these balls? Grandmothers while they're knitting or telling stories?

Tug of War. Hold them in with your vaginal muscles and then try to pull them out. I cross my legs as tightly as I can. My poor vagina. What do they want me to do to you?

Practice by keeping them in for ten minutes a day. That seems manageable.

Go for a walk. Oh...

I open the packet and extract the balls. On the packaging, mine are described as Luv Balls. They are pink with a white pattern and resemble two lots of swimming goggles stuck together and packed to resemble boiled eggs. The instructions say to wash them first, so I head to the sink and douse them with a liberal amount of fairy liquid. I can't get out of my mind that I don't know how these got into the packet. It may have been via machinery, or it could have been a worker, therefore, they aren't going anywhere near my private parts until the stranger’s DNA is wiped off of them. I dry them off and hold them in my hand. This is too weird for words. At least a vibrator is supposed to resemble a knob. Here I'm basically going to fuck hard-boiled eggs.

I head back to the bedroom part of the villa, get under the duvet and read a few pages of a dirty book to get me in the mood. The instructions said to use lube, but I wasn't expecting to need it on my minibreak so I don't have any. I need my natural juices to assist. Placing the Kindle to my side, I raise my knees and drop them apart, trying and failing to stop the image of a smear test from entering my mind. Holding the looped string at the end so I can't lose them, I try to push the first ball in. Vagina says no. I'm clamped shut like an uncracked pistachio shell. The egg is going nowhere.

Oh, vag, it’s not as wide as Tim's dick so what's your problem?

The problem is my vagina does not want a boiled egg in it.

I tell my mind that once this is inside the eggs will bounce together and I'll have a great time. After a few minutes, I relax enough to get the first one in. Carry on, woman. The second is half way there. I stop. I have half an egg still outside. I've become a chicken.

One final, deep relaxing breath and they’re in. I sigh with relief. The little-looped string is outside, so it’s rather like having a weird shaped tampon inside. Slowly, I stand up so I can feel them bounce together. There's no sensation, other than it feeling like I have an oversized tampon inserted. Motion. I need motion.

I look around the villa and spot the vacuum cleaner. Maybe they'll move around if I do a spot of cleaning? Ten minutes later, the floors are pristine but my vagina is still asleep. It said to take them out after ten minutes but no chance. After all the effort to get them in there, I’m not giving up yet. I can't be doing it right. It’s time for the walk.

One thing I am nervous about as I begin my walk around the village is the hope that my vagina is clamped around the balls and string and I'm not going to birth the eggs on my woodland walk. I can imagine having to explain to a child that they are the pretty egg shells of a Big Tit, the big tit being me for trying to walk around with them in, as they depart my vagina and roll onto the floor.

Still there is nothing but the vaguest sensation of them smacking together. I recall one of the Google articles which said they can always be used as a cat toy and wonder if our Camille's Bob would get more use out of them than I am.

The smell of the pancake house I stroll past is gorgeous. I’m about to head inside when I spot the manmade beach area and see the kids swings. There's a spare one. Shall I give it a go? It's the nearest I'll get to a rocking chair.

As I make my way over to the spare swing, I can see other parents eyeball me. A few stand next to their swinging children. Why can't I go on one? Where does it say it’s only a children's play area? Oh, over there near the path. Oh, well, it’s only going to be a minute before I find out the balls are no use whatsoever. I smile at a parent next to me.

'It's years since I went on a swing.'

The woman awards me a polite smile.

I take a seat and use my feet to start the motion. As is usual when I’m nervous, I start to talk bollocks to the stranger next to me.

'My daughter's twenty-one so I guess it'll be about twelve years since I went on a swing. They should open playgrounds for grown-ups, shouldn't they?'

The woman nods and looks around, then at her child. 'Come on, Harriet. Let's get those pancakes now.'

I'm left on the swings by myself.

I use my feet to launch myself, pick up motion and smack. The balls come together with more force, kissing each other like balls on a snooker table.

Oh, my.

Another parent comes over with her two children and the kids fight over who is having the free swing. The mother looks at me, her glare clearly indicating that as a grown up, I should get off the other fucking swing.

She hasn't got a prayer.

I kick my feet on the ground, swinging faster and faster. My smile gets bigger as the rocking does its work. 'Swings are so much fun,' I shout at the angry mother whose lips pucker even tighter.

'Wheeeeeeee.'

My face is flushing but as excited as I’m getting, I'm still in a children's playground. I jump off the swing with a playful bounce my interior finds delightful and skip the whole way back to my villa. My crescendo reaches as I walk through the doorway and collapse on the sofa. Wave after wave of pleasure passes through my body.

I sigh in bliss and keep my eyes closed for a few short moments. As nice as it was, it was far too much effort and I won't be inserting a Ben Wa ball or Luv Egg ever again. As I open my eyes with the intention of going to the loo to extract the balls and clean myself up, I come eye to eye with a duck outside the patio doorway.

Can ducks have knowing stares? Feeling embarrassed, I make my way to the loo.

Chapter Five

Camille

I gaze around my busy play centre Kid Zone and find it hard to believe that next month it will have been open for a whole year. Not a bad achievement for a twenty-one-year-old. A week on Friday, I'm twenty-two. I wanted to go out for a meal with my boyfriend Dylan and the family, but I'm not sure what will happen now, parent wise. Dad still won't budge and texted me this morning to say he's called the bank and shut down Mum's credit and debit card. They’ve always been close and now it's like parents at war. Don't get me wrong, they've quarrelled like any couple does, but this… it seems serious this time. My mum may have gone too far.

After lunch, my friend Beth comes through the doors of the play centre. Her cute curly haired son beams at me.

'Hey, Trey. Hot chocolate?'

'Yes, pease.'

Now he's three, Trey spends his mornings at nursery, meaning that Beth has had time to devote to her new online business selling children's chocolate bars. It's taking off and is a job that works perfectly around having kids.

She puts her bags down on one of the tables and hands me a white carrier bag full of chocolate bars. Of course, I stock her chocolates here. The bars shaped as teddies, hearts, and footballs, sell fabulously. After yet another argument about me paying her (she doesn't think I should because she gets to use the centre for free), I shove the money into her bag and tell her to shut up. She loses the argument every week when I say ‘but the money isn't for you, it's for Trey.’ She can't argue with that.

I bring a coffee over to her table and seat myself on one of the other chairs.

'How are you then? Good weekend?'

'Yeah. I took Trey to Clifton Park and he had a go on a few rides. It was nice. You?'

'My mum absconded to Center Parcs and my dad refuses to fetch her home.'

Beth almost spits out a mouthful of coffee. 'What?'

I fill her in on the details.

'So, any ideas on how to sort the parentals?'

Beth raises her eyebrows. 'Yeah, cos I'm wonderful at relationships, aren't I? I can see why you'd think I'd be able to help.'

I stick my tongue out at her. 'You've got parents haven't you? What would you do if it was yours?'

'My parents are dull. They go to work, then sit at home and watch TV all night. They kid-sit Trey every Friday night. It's all a boring routine.'

'Safe though.' I sigh. 'Whatever’s going on in my mum's mind, I don't know.'

'Have you called her?'

'No. My dad has but apparently she's not answering.'

'Well, try her phone now.'

I chew on my lip for a bit. 'Okay.'

While I press the keypad to connect to my mum's phone, Beth grabs a local newspaper from further up the table.

'What?' My mum's tantrum voice echoes down the line.

'Mum. At last. Dad's been trying to phone, but the connections been off or you haven't answered.'

'Well, I thought you could all see what it would be like without me, seeing as none of you were bothered when I was actually at home.'

'What are you talking about?'

'Thursday night? No phone calls from my children to see how I am. It hurt, Camille.'

'We did ring you. Dad put your phone on quiet so you could sleep. He knew you'd been up all night coughing. He just forgot to tell you.'

There’s a pause. 'God, that man is stupid.'

I feel tension in my jaw. 'That man was looking out for you, to make sure you got the sleep you needed.'

There's another pause. 'So is he going to call me then?'

Now there's a pause on my end.

'Well?'

'Err, no, Mum. He's offended that you've left him and spent the holiday savings.'

'Oh.'

'He's also called the bank and stopped your credit and debit cards.'

'He's done what?'

I have to hold the phone away from my ear because the shouting is so loud.

'That complete and utter bastard. After all I've done for him? Right, well I'm staying here for the rest of the week. I've got to go, Camille, my new friend has just come out of the changing room. If you see your father tell him if he doesn't reinstate my cards, I will never give him oral again.'

'Lalalalalalalalala. Mum, I am not going to say that to him. Oh my God, that's so inappropriate. You've scarred me for life.'

'How are you anyway? You and Dylan okay?'

'Great, Mum, thanks.'

'Only I can highly recommend love eggs. They take a bit of getting used to—'

I need bleach for my ears. 'I've got to go, Mum. I'm glad you're okay. Please ring Dad and sort out this nonsense.'

'Sorry, Cam, but no. The ball is in your dad's court.'

The line disconnects.

Beth looks up from her paper. 'That went well then?'

'Yup. All I am after that call is psychologically disturbed. She recommends love eggs if you’re interested.'

Beth bursts out laughing. 'Oh my God, your mother. Actually, I might have to buy some, seeing as I'm not getting any.'

I scan the page of the newspaper Beth has open.

Golf lessons at Rother Valley Country Park.

'Hey. Are you thinking of getting Trey lessons?'

'Wh-what? No. I was just looking.'

I drag the paper over. 'Gosh, I remember your dad taking you to golf matches when you were younger.'

'Yes. If only I'd been the son he really wanted. I used to enjoy it. Quality time with my dad. University and Trey put a stop to all that, though.'

'You ought to go again. Your mum would sit, wouldn't she? Your dad might like to get out of the house.'

'I doubt it. I think his arse is stuck to the sofa. That's part of my past now. I'm not interested anymore. Trey is my focus.'

'These lessons aren't that expensive, though. Can Auntie Cam pay for him to go?' I stare at the picture of the Instructor, Leo Coleman. Dark chocolate skin, shaved hair, muscles on muscles. 'Fuck me. I think I'll have lessons.'

Beth pushes the paper away. 'I'm sure Dylan would have an opinion on that. Thank you for the offer of lessons for Trey but I have enough to juggle each week as it is, without trips to Rother Valley.'

'Fair enough.'

I glance at my friend and think about everything she has to do. All the responsibilities she has as a single mum. There's been no significant other and while I understand her reluctance, with Trey's dad being a total loser bastard, it’s a shame she can't have some hot loving to make her days sweeter.

Beth tilts her head at me. 'I'm off to play with Trey in the ball pool… you're giving me that look.'

'What look?'

'The everything can be solved by the love of a good man look. I'm glad you're loved up with Dylan, but seriously, I'm okay as I am. Go greet your customers and give them your lovesick face instead, it's making me want to bring my coffee back up.'

I blow her a kiss.

Though I’m busy with work, my mind constantly drifts off to wonder what my mum is doing at Center Parcs. I don't like to think of her there by herself with limited cash. I'd sub her some money but I think it's better she runs out and has to come home. She’s so stubborn. I wonder how much money she has on her? Knowing my mum, she'll be reading a survival guide and working out what to go forage in the woodland. It'll be pigeon pie for tea.

My phone beeps. It's Dylan.

My dick is a heat-seeking missile. Expected time of entry to Planet Camille?

I text back.

I'll be home for seven. Prepare for launch.

Chapter Six

Tim

Going to sleep in an empty bed and then waking up alone the next morning isn't a strange thing for me. I've always let Dora go off on minibreaks with her sister, Miranda, and so for one or two nights it's quite normal. Usually, I'd ask our Tyler if he wants to go down the pub for a game of snooker and a few pints. This time, though, I'm in the house alone, Ty having moved out a couple of months ago. I painted the kids’ rooms after they'd left as directed by Dora and now they are both spare rooms. She wanted them that way in case Cam or Ty stayed over. Something they've never done and are never likely to do.

The alarm goes off on this Monday morning and I sigh as I consider having to throw off the duvet when I’m comfortable and warm. I wonder what Dora will be doing while I earn. Bloody enjoying herself with our savings, earned by myself as the full-timer. Do you know what? Fuck it. I'm not going. I switch the alarm forward to eight-thirty and fall back to sleep.

When the alarm goes off, I call work and tell them I've got Dora's virus and can't make it in. After a period of thinking, ranging from anger towards my common-law wife and daydreaming of a bachelor pad, I finally get up, get some breakfast and then set to work. I get the loft ladders down because while the cats away...

By early afternoon, I’m admiring my old hi-fi equipment, my record player and vinyl that had been consigned to gather dust in the eaves by Dora. They are out of their boxes and in the second bedroom. This room is on the no-neighbours side of our semi-detached and is now my music room. There's no wife to stop me and I'm making this my own. I remove the vases and other ornaments from the shelves and get out my screwdrivers. A few adjustments and the shelves fit my vinyl on them. A fitting use, rather than a place for the shit Dora buys. I appraise the room and nod my head. There are going to be some changes around here. I stick the ornaments in one of the dusty old boxes and place it in the other spare room. She can have that one. This room is mine. It’s my money that pays most of the bills around here anyway.

After an afternoon of getting re-acquainted with my music equipment and blasting out some great tunes, I throw myself through the shower because I'm covered in cobwebs and muck and then head to The Red Lion for a burger and pint. Stomach satisfied and under the alcohol limit, I travel over to Meadowhall.

Meadowhall shopping centre is located in Sheffield but is very near Rotherham so it doesn't take long to drive to. Dora and Miranda meet there twice a year for the most obscure reason. Well, obscure to me anyway. They save up fifty pounds and buy paperbacks. Now Dora has a Kindle and one bookshelf, whereas Miranda has some kind of obsessional compulsive disorder with books. I've told Dora time and again that she shouldn't meet up with her and pander to it. But apparently 'it’s a ritual’. They've done it since childhood. So for no other reason than book shopping they meet up, go to the bookstore, pick lots of books, spend time looking at the books and then buy some. Because the other thousand on their shared Kindle, the two hundred on Dora's shelves, and the nine-hundred and counting on Miranda's aren't enough. I think Miranda buys books rather than compulsively eats. At thirty-eight, she's divorced, and I guess it was books, food or cats and books won. Anyway, its bizarre behaviour, but to get a book about how to man up and take charge of my missus, I need to go there.

Entering the vast domed building, I walk up to the information desk and ask where the bookshop is. Luckily for me, it's more or less opposite the information stand, so purchasing a cookie on my way past, (well, there's no nagging partner to tell me I've eaten enough today), I head towards the store.

I don't know what I was expecting but I walk in and well, there are books (obviously), and a counter. I spy a couple of stray chairs around the place. I have absolutely no idea why my partner and her sister think this is an amazing place and spend all day here. In fact, I now believe they are lying and going to a strip club or something, as this is well, nothing special.

I stroll around the store - fiction, nope. Travel, nope. No money for that now thanks to Dora. Sci-fi and Fantasy - it's my other half living in a fantasy word. Self-help. This might be the ticket. Ten minutes later and there are guides to everything except for how to handle a woman. I can train my dog but not a misbehaving partner. With a sigh, I head to the front desk.

'Can I help you?' says an afro-haired teenager wearing a Hogwarts tee and round glasses.

'Yes. I want a book on how to handle women.'

He snorts and tries to disguise it as a cough.

'Gosh, mate. If there were a book like that, the author would be a millionaire.'

'So there isn't one?'

He shakes his head. 'Only jokey-style ones.'

I sigh.

A red-haired woman who looks about thirty wanders over. Her name badge says Michelle.

She openly stares at me. 'Did I hear you right? You want a book on how to handle women?'

I sigh again. 'Yes. I'm fed up of my other half getting her own way all the time. It's time for me to rebel.'

She chuckles. 'Look, love. You're not going to win a war against a woman if she puts her mind to it, believe me. The best thing you can do for a quiet and happy life-' she winks as she says happy life, '-is to let her think she's getting her own way.'

I finger-tap the counter. 'She does get her own way. All the time.'

The woman shrugs.

I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears. 'She's currently in Center Parcs… spending our holiday money.'

'Whoo, sounds like you have a hot one there,' says Harry Potter.

I raise my hand in a gesture of surrender. 'Well if there's no book, then God knows what I can do to take back some control. Other than I stopped her finances.'

The woman gasps. 'You stopped her money?'

‘I did.’ I smirk.

Michelle laughs. 'Oh, honey, you think you stopped her money, but I reckon she'll be just fine.'

'What do you mean?'

'Can't give away a sisters secrets. I could be wrong though I'm not usually. Look, here's my advice. What books does your wife like?'

'We're not married.'

I get a dirty look for this and pursed lips.

'How long you been together?'

'Almost thirty years.'

'Christ you don't get that for murder,' says Harry Potter. The red-head hits his shoulder.

'I'd spend all your money too,' she says to me. 'Now I’ll ask you again. What books does your wife like? You could buy her some. That would win you a few points. Other than that, I suggest you propose while you have some assets of your own left.’ She mutters to herself, ‘stopped her money.’

I'm getting nowhere. Why is there not a bloke my age here? He'd understand.

'She reads that sexy stuff, the grey stuff.'

'That I can work with. Okay, wait there.'

Michelle returns with six different books. All of them have black covers and items like pearls, scarves, and ice-cubes on the front. 'Okay, you buy her these and maybe read a few. This is the holy grail. This is what women really want. That's my advice to you. Have a look at them. Get some tips.'

'Really? They aren't just grown up fairy tales?'

She shrugs. 'Of course they're grown up fairy tales. Do you see many suited and booted billionaires coming in here? No, me either. Now are you going to buy these or not?'

I agree. I thank the staff for their time and take my books out of the store. I practically stomp out of the shopping centre. No books for blokes. I should bloody write one, I’d make a damn fortune. Then again I’d get hits ordered on me because women form a kindred gang when it comes to us blokes. I went in to get help and came out with presents for Dora. How did that happen? It would appear I have some reading to do to find out what women want and see if there’s a way to get my own way.

What the fuck does she read?

I called in sick again. It's now late Tuesday morning and I've spent hours pouring over these books. Billionaires. Cowboys. Rock Stars. I've also been through the shelves. Dora already had a couple of the books I've bought her. One thing they all have in common? What I have seen termed as an Alpha Male. Basically, you start off treating the woman like absolute shit, but it's okay because you have issues. It's not personal, it's because you're an orphan. In these books, every one of them is an orphan. Could the authors not be fucking bothered to write parents and family in? Fuck those few thousand words and complications. Road accident for Ma and Pa. Job done. Well, I'm not an orphan but my mum died a few years ago, so that's something I can work with. I'll develop some kind of issue with it, to make myself angry.

Then there's the sex. No missionary position for these people. Now, myself and Dora, well I don't really like to talk about it, but we have a good sex life. Not only relegated to missionary. We have a range of positions and we don't always do it in the bedroom though of course that the main place. I'm not converting my new music room into a sex dungeon, that's for sure.

As an alpha I have to speak like this: 'You are mine. Do you fucking hear me? Mine.'

Or even Alphier, 'That fucking cunt belongs to me. Spread your legs, I want to taste that sweetness.'

I've obviously been getting it wrong with my odd tit grope and pressing up behind her with an erection to see if she gives me a hint she's up for it. I'd better read up on some of this language.

Tuesday evening and I'm back at Meadowhall, this time to buy a new suit, a few ties (with the dual purpose of looking smart and tying a woman up). I call into the hairdressers and have my mop tidied up. I also need to grow a little stubble to be more alpha. My body isn't in too bad a shape for forty-eight as I swim regularly, but it looks like I might have to cut down on the evening beer.

When Dora gets home, she'll wonder what's hit her. Probably me, with my belt, with what I'm reading.

When I wake Wednesday morning, I have to say I'm very surprised that Dora has not returned home yet, skint and with her tail between her legs. I check the bank transactions online and there has been no action on them. She could have cash on her, but I find that hard to believe as she usually sticks purchases on cards to get points she can then convert to book vouchers.

I check out the Center Parcs website to see what this tennis thing is she's doing. Camille never did it like she said she would. It's not long before I spot the image of ex-professional Tennis Player Cole Grant. Dressed in tighty-whities, he’s six-foot-plus. In the pic, his wrist is curled around the racket, causing his arm muscles to bulge out. Even I can see he exudes Alpha pheromones. I've left my partner having lessons with this man? I throw off the duvet. Bloody woman, she's won. Well of sorts. I'm going to Center Parcs to make sure Dora knows she needs to come home. She'll soon find out I've changed, though. No more Mr Nice Guy. I'm going broody on her arse and if she plays up, I'll spank it.

Chapter Seven

Dora

Monday morning and I'm up bright and early. I hit the shower and dress in my new fitness apparel. Last night at the spa, I applied my healthy glow fake tan and plucked my eyebrows. Today, a dusting of blusher, a flick of mascara and a pop of lip-gloss and I'm ready. I decide to wear my hair down until we start the actual lesson as I look better that way. You can see less of my wrinkles. A quick spritz of hair shine over the straightened golden blonde locks and I'm ready for tennis.

After reporting to reception at the Jardin de Sports, I'm directed to the court. Altogether there are eight of us. Seven women including myself, most of whom seem to be in their late twenties/early thirties, and a middle-aged bloke with a mullet hairdo.

Cole comes sauntering over, a white towel around his neck as if he's just had a workout. The other six women perk up and their breasts perk out. Now don't get me wrong, Cole is a good-looking guy. He has spiky, almost jet black hair, dark brown eyes and, of course, an athletic body, all honed and toned. However, he is clearly one of those men who considers themselves God’s gift to women. In situating himself at Center Parcs, he no doubt has a weekly buffet of offerings, also known as, simpering, pathetic women. I watch them preen and it's sad. There's possibly only myself and Dave (I've no idea what his real name is but he looks like David Essex) here to actually learn how to play tennis.

Cole addresses everyone.

'So, welcome all to your first tennis lesson. We'll get to know each other a bit and then I'll start showing you some introductory moves.'

I bet you will.

He then spends five minutes explaining his professional experience and how wonderful he is. Yawn.

'Today, we’ll focus on the correct techniques for forehand and backhand. Nothing too difficult, but learning how to hit the ball correctly will improve your game straight away. Before we move onto the court and pick up the rackets, can we all introduce ourselves and say what we hope to achieve.'

Five women introduce themselves with a flick of their hair, a giggle, and say they're here to learn tennis. Duh. Now I know why he said nothing too difficult. They’re all dumb.

I wait for David Essex to be the first to say he's here to learn properly.

'Hey there, I'm Terry and I absolutely love your style. I've watched every one of your games and it's an honour to meet you. Though I hope to learn a few moves, for me, it's mainly about meeting you.'

The other five women nod.

Oh for fucks sakes. My fist clenches.

There’s one woman left to speak other than me. She looks in her early thirties. Her hands shake. I bet she hates these kind of introductory sessions.

'I'm Jackie, my sister wants me to go on a sports holiday next year for her fortieth. I saw this training advertised on the internet and thought it would be a great opportunity to gain some skills from a professional before next year.'

Cole beams but I bet my own is wider. Jackie actually wants to learn, not flirt. Hurrah, I've found a friend.

Cole looks at me.

I stand up straight. No simpering from me. 'I'm Dora. Every year I watch Wimbledon and vow I'll learn to play. I love sports and I'm quite fit.'

'I can tell,' says Cole.

Vomit.

'I'm always in the gym and it would be nice to do an outdoor sport for a change. I don't want to take out a tennis club membership unless I know I'll make the most of it.'

'Fair enough. Well, thank you, everyone. If you all want to pick up a racket and place it on the floor in front of you.'

He looks down every female’s top as they do so.

I turn to Jackie. 'Is this guy for real?'

She sighs. 'Do you know, I met him a few years ago on a holiday abroad though he obviously doesn't remember me. He wasn't like that then. He was engaged to a total bitch but madly in love with her. I needed some help to carry lagers back to my table. When he realised I was on a hen night he bought a round of drinks for us and asked them to be delivered.'

'Well, something must have happened between then and now, cos his ego has definitely landed.'

Jackie shrugs.

'Okay, now I know women like to gossip, but come on you two, we only have another hour.' Cole taps his watch.

We apologise.

'Okay, everyone pick up a racket. That's it. Hold it like you would a frying pan. Okay line up over here and we’ll get you hitting the ball over the net one at a time. Let's go.'

We have varying levels of success at hitting the ball. Every time he gets hold of one of the other’s arms to correct their wrist position they look like they're about to faint. It's pathetic. Even Jackie keeps giving him a weak smile.

'Do you fancy a coke after this? I'm dying of thirst,' I ask her.

'God, yes. I'm knackered.'

Cole isn't the slightest bit tired. He's in his element. 'That's it. Hold your core muscles. Both hands on the racket now. Guide it, let that hand go. Keep the racket closed. That's it, Sophie, follow the forearm with the racket going over that shoulder. Fantastic.'

He gathers everyone around to teach them the backhand and then after more practice we're done.

'Don't forget you can book into the courts Wednesday to have a practice before we meet again. I'll be demonstrating how to volley and the slice.’

'The only slice I want is lemon… in a vodka,' I mumble.

'Do you fancy booking in for a practice lesson tomorrow?' Jackie asks.

'Go on then. Would be good to practice. Now, before I change my mind and stay in my villa all day, let's go book in and then get that drink.'

I stick to a coke as I plan to have a few glasses of vino later and then face plant on my bed like no-one's watching. Because no-one is.

'So are you on your own at Center Parcs?' I ask Jackie.

'Yes. I've come for the tennis. I've been here before with friends so I didn't mind coming by myself. As a self-employed book editor, I've been able to work while I'm here.'

'Gosh, that sounds exciting. Do you edit for anyone famous?'

'Not yet. I'm still quite new to it all, but I hope so eventually. I might even write my own book one day.'

'Ooh, I might have met a famous author and editor.'

She laughs me off while her cheeks turn a little pink.

'So how about you? Are you here by yourself?'

I explain my running away from home. Bless her, she actually appears concerned for me.

'Aren't you worried about your relationship?'

'Nah. One of us will come around in the end. But I'm not giving in while I'm enjoying myself.'

'Hi there, ladies.' Cole saunters past holding a large bottle of water.

Jackie starts playing with her hair. I want to smack her hand.

'Hey, Cole. Care to join us?' I ask.

'Sure.'

He takes a seat, and his legs splay apart in a wide-legged stance. You know like some men do on the bus? As if their package needs DHL heavy delivery options.

'So what are you ladies doing this evening?'

'I don't have any plans,' says Jackie hopefully.

'I've got a date with a bottle of wine,' I add.

'So you’re not letting your friend have any of your wine?' he asks me, his eyebrow cocked.

'We only met at your lesson. We're both here alone,' I inform him.

'Right.' I see him check out both our hands.

He indicates our glasses with his hand. 'Do either of you want another drink?'

'No, we're fine.'

'Actually, could I have a lemonade?' asks Jackie. Oh, my God, this girl needs lessons on how to handle a man.

I chat with her while he goes to the bar.

'Why does your voice go all girly when you talk to Cole?'

She plays with her watch strap. 'I'm trying to sound sexy. I want him to notice me.'

'Look, I don't want to sound harsh but you're going about it the wrong way. Have you heard the old adage treat them mean to keep them keen?'

'Yes, but-'

'Did Sandy get her man in Grease by being the whiny girl in pink or the edgy chick in black leather and tight trousers?'

Jackie's looks glum. 'He doesn't even remember me.'

'How long ago was that?'

'Four years.'

'Four years? You've been crushing on this man for four years? Please tell me you've dated other men in the meantime.'

'I have, but I felt a connection when I met Cole. I haven't felt it with anyone since.'

‘But he only bought you and your mates a drink. It was hardly love at first sight.’

‘It was for me.’

I slap my cheeks with my hands. 'Do you trust me? I know we only just met, but do you trust me?'

'Well...'

'Come on.' I say and drag her out of the bar by the arm.

Cole passes us with Jackie's drink in his hand.

'Sorry, we've had a better offer,' I tell him.

He takes a step backwards. ‘Sorry?’

‘Ciao.’ I get her out of there before she clings to his ankles.

I take her to the sports shop. 'You need to be inspired by funky Sandy. Here.' I show Jackie a pair of wet-look tight Capri leggings with a black and white chevron pattern down the side, a matching chevron bra top and an off-the-shoulder black tee. 'See if they have these in your size and get them tried on.'

Jackie laughs. 'Are you always like this?'

'When I have a project, yes.'

'I'm a project?'

'No, but you're in a Project. Project Get Cole.'

'Oh. Okay. I like the sound of that. Does it come with a money-back guarantee? This kit costs a bomb.'

'You need to invest in that kit anyway, so you can upstage your sister at her fortieth.'

She gasps, then chuckles. 'You are a wicked woman.'

'Changing rooms, now.' I point. Jackie heads over, shaking her head.

A few minutes later she appears, her shoulders slumped.

'They're too tight.'

I sigh. Honestly, they fit around her arse like a monkey hugging its mother. Tight. I can't stop staring and admiring.

'Seriously, if my arse looked like that I'd never take them off. Anyway, with the top draped over the bra top like so-' I do a bit of adjusting so it slants off the shoulder at one side. 'It's long enough to cover most of your butt.'

Jackie checks herself in the mirror. 'That's better.'

'Don't forget, though. When you get hot, or Cole makes you hot.' I wink. 'Top off and show off those bloody abs. Oh, to be fifteen years younger.'

'You look fab.'

'I do my best but you can't escape being forty-five and having had two children. You need to own it while you have it.'

'Okay, I'm buying it.' She returns to her changing room to put her old gear back on.

My phone rings. It's Camille. I give her some grief about not ringing me on Thursday only to find out they both rang me, but Tim had switched the ringer off. Shit. They had bothered. Tim was making sure I got some sleep. I've fucked up. I consider returning home, but then Cam tells me Tim has stopped my debit and credit cards. The complete and utter fucker. I'm staying put.

After Jackie has made her purchases, I say goodbye and that I'll see her tomorrow. Then I go into a clothes store that sells beautiful Kipling handbags and purses. I've always wanted to own a Kipling bag but put the needs of my family first.

I spend some time perusing and choose a medium travel tote that my gym kit will fit into, a shoulder bag, a large purse, and a travel document holder. Then I take my purchases to the counter and take out the credit card Tim doesn't know I own. I shall pay off the bill with money from the account Tim doesn't know about. The money for a rainy day, or what I call the if you get on my nerves and I have to leave you account. There's over two grand in there so I'm good for the rest of the week.

'Oh, you are having a treat aren't you, love?' says the assistant as she carefully wraps my new items.

'You have no idea,' I tell her, then smile sweetly.

Game, set and match to Dora.

That evening, as I down my third glass of wine, I become a miserable drunk. The purchases haven't given me any lasting satisfaction. As I peel back the duvet to get in bed, a wave of grief comes over me. I miss Tim. Most of the week we come up to bed at the same time. He's usually a little later on a Friday and Saturday night because he can lie in the next morning, but on work days, we tend to hit the sack together. I miss his body being next to mine, his falling asleep before me and snoring. Tears fall as I consider myself a rotten, selfish partner. I've spent a load of money on this week away and now I've bought all these bags. All he's ever done is work hard all week and have the odd trip to the local for a pint. Perhaps I don't deserve him. I vow to be a better partner and pick up my Kindle. After a quick browse, I download a copy of a book called Your husband has the Balls. Reading the blurb, it’s a guide to being a bit of a Stepford Wife, giving your partner control and letting them feel appreciated. Maybe I could try it? I start reading.

Okay, never say no to sex. That one's easy. I never do. Tim's more likely to turn me down. Oh, I'm not allowed to ask. Less sex then. Not sure how I feel about that but I'll give it a try.

Don't question your husband’s decisions ever. You can ask him to consider your ideas but ultimately the decision lies with him. Fucking what?

Do not answer back with snotty and ill-judged remarks. Instead, let your husband know he has hurt you. Show it in your demeanour. Hmm, I can certainly work with that.

Let your husband choose how you look. Fuck off.

Assess your appearance. Do you need to lose weight? Dress better? Be someone he wants to come home to. I'm hot as fuck and he's lucky to have me, bitch.

Ooh, keep your mind full of things to discuss. Take up a hobby, maybe a sport. Tennis - tick.

Don't discuss your relationship. But I wanted to discuss what we did now the kids have left home.

Let him have peace and quiet and don't nag. Fuck, I'm never going to speak again. I might as well take a vow of silence.

Leave him alone. Doing that right now - tick.

As my eyes follow the rest of the advice, I can't believe the words on the e-reader, but there are qualifying pieces written by wives who followed the books advice and they swear by it. I take a deep breath and vow to give it a try. Then I down another glass of wine cos if I'm doing this shit I need alcohol.

Chapter Eight

Dora

Tuesday is spent having a game of tennis with Jackie, who turns up wearing her old kit as she wants to save her new things for tomorrow. She admires my new Kipling kit bag.

I'm nursing a sore head, the result of last night’s drinking and reading, so I have a wander around the pathways of Center Parcs to take in a little fresh air. I call in at a restaurant where I enjoy a cup of tea and a sandwich for lunch. From there I head to the ParcMarket to buy some overpriced cleaning materials to take back home with me seeing as I have to keep the house clean and tidy to make my man happy. I add another bottle of wine to my basket. Back at the villa, I look through the activity brochure and find Lavender Relaxation at three pm. That will do nicely.

I'd forgotten how much lavender stinks. I'm given a cushion, and we are guided through a meditation and some stretching. The floor is hard. We are given a mat but it's only a flimsy thing. A draft sweeps across the floor. It's not relaxing at all. I can't help wondering if anyone's fallen asleep and drooled on this lavender pillow. God, it smells like a bingo hall full of old women in here. Plus, the floor’s filthy.

I leave the room in a bad mood, wanting my money back. I'm as relaxed as Gordon Ramsey with a new chef.

So I book a game of archery and enjoy shooting arrows at targets. Some of them hit. It's very satisfying.

Wednesday arrives, and it's time for another tennis lesson.

Cole walks in and shimmies past the simpering women (and man). He does a double-take at Jackie in her new kit. She turns away from him as advised. Good girl.

After demonstrating the volley, Cole has us run up and do a forehand volley. We all take too wide a swing and I can see he's getting annoyed.

'Take your slouchy tee off,' I whisper to Jackie.

'No,' she protests. 'I'm still cold. We haven't warmed up yet.'

'Seriously, take it off,' I hiss.

'God, okay.' She whips off her tee to reveal her ripped abdomen and firm boobs in the bra top. She throws her slouchy tee at me and gets in line. Cole hasn't taken his eyes off her. As she runs up, her boobs jiggle around. Her nipples are peaked because of the cold. This is exactly what I planned for him to see. 'Fantastic,' says Cole, and I have no idea if he means her volley or her rack. What I do know, is that he's in a much-improved mood for the rest of the lesson.

Watching them flirt with each other reminds me once again of Tim. I'm so distracted that Cole comes over to me in the middle of my practice.

'Here, you're holding the racket all wrong.'

He stands behind me, close, puts his hands on mine and wraps them around the racket. Then he holds the racket up. 'Like this… and then slice.' He swings us together.

As I swing around, I see a man watching us. Leaning against a wall, he’s dressed in a sharp suit. I note his close cut salt and pepper hair and the five o'clock shadow. He's dark, brooding and erm, Tim.

He strolls over to us.

'Dora.' He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow awaiting my response.

Remember to be obedient. 'Tim.'

Cole holds out his hand to shake. 'Good to meet you, Tim. Dora, I need to get back to the lesson. Shout if you need me.'

Tim gives him a cold stare so Cole goes off to the others, most of whom are focused on us rather than practice.

Jackie comes running up. 'Are you okay, Dora? Do you need security?'

'Nah, it’s my other half,' I whisper. 'He's just got the face on because he's lost the argument.'

'Eh?'

'He's come to get me. I win. It was nice to meet you. Hope you land Cole. Don't forget to show off your assets and act cool.'

I walk off the court and stand in front of Tim. Then I drop my gaze and look upset.

'Tim, I'm sorry about running away to Center Parcs. I realise I made a mistake.'

'What?' Tim coughs. Then clears his throat. 'What I mean to say is… this stops now, Dora.' He points to my nether regions. 'That pussy is mine. I own it, and you'd better not forget it. Now, where's your villa, because you need to be punished.'

What the fuck?

Tim taps his watch. 'Time's a wasting. I said let's go.'

Demure. Demure. Never turn down sex. 'Whatever you say, Mr Turner.'

I unlock the villa and head through to the lounge. The walk from the Jardin de Sports was silent, the air charged. Tim's cheek was pulsing with a tic, like he was raging inside, so I prepare myself for a bollocking now we’re indoors.

'Dora. Strip down to your tee and pants.'

'What?' Shit. Shut up, Dora. 'Yes, Tim.'

I strip off until I'm standing in my sports tee, Victoria’s Secret bra and pants.

He walks over to me with a slow swagger. What the fuck is wrong with him? I figure he's horny and it's overruling him being mad at me. It's coming out in sexual tension instead.

Tim grabs hold of my pants and pulls them upwards and to the side hard. My pants make a tearing sound and cut into the inside of my leg. He does it again… three times. Each time it cuts into the side of my groin area.

'Just a minute,' he huffs and walks into the kitchen. He returns with a pair of scissors and cuts through the side of my pants so they fall off. Then he picks them up and puts them in his trouser pocket.

'I'll be keeping those.'

Okay, nutter. What's he want them for? I bet it’s the silky material. He'll clean part of the bloody car with them or something.

I’m led over to the bed and told to lie on my back. Tim lifts my top up and puts it across my eyes.

I hear his clothes hit the floor and feel his weight above me on the bed. He puts his dick against my entrance and starts to push in. I'm as dry as a bone so it fucking kills when his dick drags across my vagina.

'Aaaaaahh.'

'Like that do you? You dirty bitch. I'm going to fuck you hard.'

Oh, my God, he thinks that noise was arousal, not pain. Of course, he can't see the tears in my eyes because he's covered them the fuck up. Dora, think sexy thoughts quick. I imagine it's Tom Hiddleston, not Tim, and my fantasy assists with being shagged from dry. I fake an orgasm in the hope this will end quickly. But no, I'm dragged into various different positions while he continues to say the most ridiculous things I've ever heard. If I weren't following that book, I'd be laughing and crying right now.

'You are quite something, Ms Evans.'

Ooh, compliments. This fucking subservient shit works. I'll carry on. Looks like I won't get bollocked for running away after all.

'Thank you, Tim.'

'Anytime, kitten.'

Kitten? KITTEN?

He pulls my top off my head and I squint as my eyes adjust to the light. He pulls me over to him and nestles me in the crack of his arm. Loving though it is, his underarm stinks of sweat after all the sex. Now, I'm not allowed to tell him he stinks, so how do I word this? Oh yes, as a suggestion.

'If you'd like, perhaps we could use the shower now?'

There's a pause. He scratches his chin while he thinks. 'Yes. Great idea. Let’s.'

He stands up. 'Come on then. What are you waiting for?'

He must want me to go in first. Fair enough, he takes forever anyway.

In the bathroom, I stand next to the bath, reach up to the overhead shower and turn it on. After a few adjustments, the water is at the right temperature for me. I climb over the side of the bath and get in. My butt keeps hitting the plastic shower screen as there's not much room in here. So I'm a little perplexed when Tim gets in.

'Tim, wha-'

I'm silenced by his lips on mine. He pushes me against the bathroom wall. Oh my God, anyone could have been pressed up against this. It looks clean enough but ew. I'll need to scrub my back with exfoliant now. I can't speak because he won't stop kissing me. His stubble is making my face sore. Why hasn’t he shaved? What on earth has got into him? His behaviour is well over the top. Then it hits me. Of course. He thought he'd lost me this time. Tim's showing me how much he missed me and loves me. He’s a desperate man.

'Open your legs.'

I do as I'm told and the next thing the water from the shower head is no longer cleaning me but being pointed upwards. I'm getting a douche. It's supposed to tickle my clitoris, not wash my insides! If I get any more water up my arse, he'll need to be paid for a colonic irrigation. I quickly fake another orgasm. It works as he moves the shower head back onto our bodies. He pushes me back against the shower tiles and enters me again. With each thrust he speaks.

'You. Fucking. Love. This. Don't. You?'

No, I fucking don't. I've got an arse cleared of good bacteria and a chafed and sore vagina.

He comes as I fake a third orgasm. On the whole, I usually have real ones and only fake when I'm dead tired and want to get it over with quickly. This is a record. I’m more fake than a reality TV show.

'Love you, babe.'

Babe? BABE?

I can't cope with being awake anymore. I can't take another hour of his penis, or his gob.

'What about an afternoon nap?' I suggest.

'Great idea, babe. Let me finish showering and I'll come join you.'

When he gets in the bed, I've faked being asleep so he can't attack me again. I hear a relaxed sigh escape his mouth. Glad someone enjoyed themselves.

Chapter Nine

Tim

I call Center Parcs and after I explain my situation, they book me a day pass. They say if Dora wants me to stay she can come down to their Visitor Centre and add me on to the accommodation list. I ask when the next tennis lesson is and set off in good time to see her there.

I'm not expecting to see the Tennis player with his body wrapped around hers.

Although I want to go charging over there and drag him off of her, I remember what I've read in the books about playing it cool. Also, that bloke’s bigger than me. I might get hurt.

I feel stupid wearing a bloody suit when everyone around me is in fitness gear. But that's what these billionaires in the books wear. Gone is my old suit that's shiny at the knees. Now I'm in a brand new dark grey suit. A pale grey shirt and silky black tie complete the ensemble. I even polished my shoes. I've not shaved to attain the rugged image. Have to admit, I could keep the rugged image. Shaving is a pain in the arse, well, the face actually. I don’t shave my bum.

So I walk over, taking my time while Dora looks at me, eyes wide with what I guess is surprise or apprehension. Once she's recovered from seeing me, I’m sure this court will see a slanging match. Dora won't give in easily when she thinks she was wronged. Heaven forbid she gives me time to explain.

The tennis bloke holds out a hand to shake mine. Fuck off, dickhead. I glare at him and he goes away. Thank God that worked. I can hardly lift my arm in this new jacket.

Then a woman comes over, looking like she might start on me. Dora talks to her and she goes back to her tennis lesson.

Dora turns to me and starts to apologise. I take a deep breath. I need to start as I mean to go on.

'That pussy is mine. I own it, and you'd better not forget it. Now, where's your villa, because you need to be punished.'

Her jaw drops. She nods and walks towards the exit. I follow. Bloody hell, this book stuff might actually work. For the first time in the history of our relationship, Dora's done as she's told.

I make her strip down to her pants and tee shirt. Firstly, I need to address the pants issue. In several of Dora's books the alpha male tears off the woman's pants. I grab them and pull and... nothing. I try again. Nothing. I end up cutting them off with scissors. Fucking books. Get your facts right. It doesn't bloody work. I almost cut off the circulation in her vagina. Why do the alphas keep the pants in their pocket after? I feel like a right pervert but Dora's not complaining, so I carry on.

Next, I put her top over her head like I saw Mr Grey do to Ana in the Fifty film I endured last night. Ana had nice tits, that's about my whole take on that DVD. I wrinkle it up so it covers her eyes and then shag her. She makes moaning noises and comes. Bloody hell, she's really enjoying it. I want to lie at the side of her and rest but they don't do that in the books. Time to try some positions I've read about. While I bonk her, I call her a dirty bitch. I make sure I add some endearments I noted from the books too, kitten, and babe.

Absolutely fucking exhausted, I pull her towards me so she's tucked under my arm in a macho embrace.

She asks if I want to get in the shower.

She's not done?

I can hardly say I'm tired. That’s not something I’ve read in one of her books so I agree and follow her in. I grab the shower head. At least my dick thanks me for a well-earned rest while I bring her off with that. She loves it. My dick lets me know that actually it will have another go, so I shag her quickly and hard while I do some more macho posturing.

'You. Fucking. Love. This. Don't. You?'

Now don't get me wrong. We're in our forties, not dead and we have had marathon shagging sessions, just not very often these days. I've always treated her with respect. It’s ridiculous yelling out this bullshit. But look at her. She's come again. I don't remember the last time she came three times in one session. She really does love it.

We get out of the shower and Dora asks if I fancy an afternoon nap. I really do, but she probably doesn't mean sleep. I say yes but decide I'll stay in the shower for a while longer, have a nice wash and rest my dick for a while.

When I get to the bed, she's asleep. Thank fuck for that.

I crawl in beside her and let out a satisfied sigh. Then I turn over and close my eyes. Please don't let her want another shag when we wake up.

When we awaken, Dora suggests we book into the spa and do the couples session. I check out what she means and it’s sitting in a steam room and having a swim. That I can cope with, so I agree. I call work and let them know I won't be in the rest of the week. To be truthful, I feel rather guilty wagging it but I can hardly ask for holiday straight after sick leave. I just hope I'm not seen by any clients. As a Tax Inspector, I'm sure they'd be only too pleased to exact revenge. Before we go there, Dora goes to the Visitor centre and adds me to our booking. At least I'm getting some benefit from all the money she's spent.

The couples’ session is relaxing. Dora has booked us into a restaurant after and we enjoy a three-course Italian meal with wine. We both drink a lot more than usual and arrive back at the villa too pissed and relaxed to do anything but sleep.

Thursday, I fancy a go on the karts. It's fucking brilliant tearing around the course pretending I'm Lewis Hamilton. Then Dora suggests we both go horse riding. I point out the paddles in the stables and she laughs and rolls her eyes. I'll not bother buying one of those then, it didn't seem to appeal, thank God.

On Friday, it's time for Dora's last scheduled tennis lesson.

'Do you want to come see me play?'

'I want to come all right. We'll see about taking that kit off you after the lesson.'

She giggles like a little girl. I'm not sure how much longer I can take being this Alpha.

Dora has told me all about Cole and Jackie so I no longer fear meeting him. Instead, I walk over to him, introduce myself and shake his hand. Today I'm dressed in the nearest outfit I could find to Christian Grey’s hoodie and running outfit from that damn film. At least I can move my arms around.

I watch Dora going through the different training in her lesson and she's really good. She's also got an amazingly fit arse. I'm glad my jogging bottoms are baggy because even though it should be broken given all the action it’s seen over the last few days, my dick has woken up at the sight of Dora picking up a runaway tennis ball.

From Dora's expression, though, something is annoying her, and I watch as Cole flirts with the other women. She watches him closely and I note the flare of her nostrils. Don't tell me she fancies him after all.

Lesson over, she says goodbye to Jackie and then thanks Cole. She comes walking over to me, still with that underlying rage.

'Are you all right?'

'Listen. If it's okay with you, I need to get something off my chest.'

She does fancy him. I can't hear it. I can't.

'Okay?'

'You don't mind?'

'What is it?'

'Just a moment.'

Cole passes her, and she grabs hold of his arm. For a big bloke, he looks shocked as she spins him around. An angry Dora is a surprisingly strong Dora.

Oh God. This is where she tells me they've been having an affair and she's leaving me.

'Cole.'

'Er yes, Dora.'

He looks edgy. Yes, you'd better be nervous. Come on, Tim, think of the Fifty film where Christian punches that bloke who gets fresh with Ana. Ready?

'Take my advice; stop flirting with all those other women and see what's happening right under your nose. I really don't know why you men have to have love pointed out to you with a giant fucking stick.'

Eh?

Cole's jaw drops.

'Jackie met you on holiday years ago, where she informs me you were a lovely bloke who got messed around by an evil ex-fiancée. For some reason she thinks you're a top bloke. I just see a wanker with a large ego who thinks he's God’s gift to women.'

Cole's jaw tenses.

'If you're a wanker then it's a real shame as you're a good looking bloke with talent. If you're not, then you might want to take a closer look at Jackie because she’s leaving tonight.'

Cole takes a deep breath. 'Not that it’s any of your business but no, I'm not a wanker. I'm a bloke who got played and I don't want to be put in that position again. I'm the player now.'

'Well, Player, you're a Loser.' My wife tells him. 'Your ex is still winning the game.'

He bites on his lip. His cheeks aflame.

Dora carries on. 'Well, as they say, the ball is well and truly in your court. Thanks again for the lessons.'

Cole crosses his arms. 'Why am I of the opinion I'm the one being taught something?'

As Dora walks away, I lean towards Cole. 'If I were you I'd do what she tells you, mate. You don't want to be on the wrong side of my other half.'

He nods and we leave.

We pack up early on Saturday morning. Dora insists on doing all the packing and won't let me help. Instead, she makes me a cup of tea and tells me to put my feet up. She obviously feels guilty for leaving me, and although she hasn't said it, I've let it go as she's making up for it with all this fussing around me. I put my feet up on the sofa and look at the birds and squirrels outside the patio doors for a final time, and then we're on our way back home. Dora's car is right outside the villa, whereas I have to walk to the main car park.

'How come you got to keep your car outside? Did you chat up the parking men?'

'Something like that,' she replies, looking closely at the floor. She’s become obsessed with cleaning.

Back home, she launches into unpacking the bags and starts the laundry. It's never been known. I'll tell her she doesn't have to do all this at some point. But not right now. She brings me a cup of tea and a biscuit.

'I'll do lunch around one.'

'Okay, kitten.'

A man could get used to this.

Chapter Ten

Dora

I want my normal life back. Everything was all right before I went away. So sometimes I got taken for granted. I realise I'm as guilty of doing that to my family as they are to me. When I'm full on with one of my obsessions, I can ignore all of them. Now I'm stuck in this role play of the submissive wife. I can't believe I asked for permission to tell Cole off. Tim's loving it, though. He told me he was playing golf today. A game he set up a while ago with a business client. While he's away, instead of grabbing a book, I grab a duster and clean the house. The kids would usually come over on a Sunday, but it's Cam's twenty-second birthday tomorrow and she wants to go out with us all for pizza, so I cancelled today’s lunch.

Instead, I'm on Pinterest looking at cleaning schedules, trying to find one that gives me the weekend off and doesn't have seventy-four chores listed on it. According to the most straightforward one, today’s chore is to clean all the floors. All the floors? In a three-bedroom semi in one day? They've got to be fucking kidding me. I pin the post and right click the photo to save the schedule to my computer. Then I make it my screen saver so the tasks are staring me in the face.

I make a cuppa and read some more of my Kindle book to remind myself how to behave.

You need to look lovely for your husband at all times.

I stare at the old pyjamas and fluffy dressing gown I’m wearing. Huh, I haven't even got showered yet. I sigh. First a shower. Then I need to buy some housewife-looking attire. I'll pop to the retail park. After this, I must clean and prepare lunch for two pm. It's now nine-thirty am. I'm up early because I made Tim his breakfast before he left for his game. On a Sunday, I'm not normally out of bed until ten.

I pop into Next at the Retail Park and find a fifties style floral patterned dress. Belted at the waist with a swing skirt, it’s navy blue with pink flowers. Then I head into a kitchenware store and buy a pale pink pinny to put over it. I find some pretty pink washing up gloves with a fluffy white edge and finish by picking up oven gloves in the same fabric as the pinafore.

Back home, I get a bucket of hot water with a tiny drop of washing up liquid (as advised on Pinterest) and set about on my hands and knees scrubbing the floors, using a sponge and then drying it off with old tea towels. Starting at eleven am and emptying out and getting fresh hot water on a regular basis, it takes me until twenty-to-one to do them all. While I clean, I wear my old gym kit and a pair of regular rubber gloves. My knees are killing me. Half way through I grabbed a cushion from the sofa to place under them. I hope Tim doesn't want a blowjob tonight because I may cry.

There's no time to rest as Tim will be back soon. It's time to get Sunday lunch underway being as I now have to ensure he gets a starter, main course, and dessert, along with a beverage of his choice, be it a cup of tea or a beer.

At one-thirty, it's time for yet another shower, after which I put on make-up, style my hair and dress in the new frock and pinafore.

When I hear the key in the door, I rush to the entrance. I pass Tim his slippers.

'Oh, thanks, love. Let me just get in.' He hasn't changed out of his golf shoes and as he walks into the hallway large clumps of dirt fall off them.

I fix a smile on my face and increase my grip on his slippers. No, you can't beat him around the head with them. You are a loving and caring other-half.

He finally takes the slippers off me.

'If you'd like to get changed, dinner is almost ready,’ I tell him.

'Dressed like that we might not make lunch. It might be straight to dessert.' He undresses me with his eyes and winks.

I emit my new girly giggle. It's very high pitched because I feel strangulated.

Monday. Camille's birthday. Thank God Tim has gone to work. I work Wednesday to Friday so today I can enjoy the silence. Firstly, I text Camille a happy birthday and then open the laptop. The housework schedule pings up. Today I'm supposed to clean every window, picture and mirror in the house. That's just for starters. I clean for a living. I don't want to clean my own fucking house. It's a Busman’s holiday. I glance towards the glass filled conservatory. Fucking hell. Life was so much easier when Tyler lived here and I could pay him to do the housework. Ping. Lightbulb moment. I Google local cleaning services. In an hour, I'm talking to a lovely lady named Claire who will be around at twelve. If we get on okay I can book her to come Mondays and Tuesdays to do a deep clean, and then I can spend the rest of the week doing minimal housework such as laundry. She'll even take the ironing with her Monday and bring it back Tuesday. Perfect.

I scan through Pinterest and research birthday cake ideas. Finally, I spot coated cake pops and get an idea. I read up on how to dip them and then pop out to the supermarket for some ingredients. While I'm there, I purchase a lucky dip, something I always put in birthday cards as an extra treat. The woman behind the counter asks me if I'd prefer a lottery ticket instead as it's a rollover. I buy one and stick it in the back of my purse.

At home, I spend the afternoon making cake pops and enjoying the silence. The phone rings at four pm.

'Well, hello there, sexy lady.'

'Hi, Tim. Everything okay?' Tim doesn't ring me unless it's an emergency so my heart rate increases.

'What are you wearing?'

I glance down at my flour and icing covered jeans. I need to lie because I’m supposed to look lovely at all times.

'Erm, a black skirt and a white blouse.' Have I got to go meet him at the hospital or something?

'And what's under that skirt. Lacy panties?'

Omg, is he phone sexing me? Shit.

'Yes. A black lacy thong.'

I sit on the sofa and switch the laptop on while I'm on the phone. While he's chatting, I skim Facebook. He talks about me putting a finger in myself. I'm sorry, but the only place my fingers are going is in the cake mix.

'Now… use two fingers.'

I stick them up at the phone.

I imagine what it'd be like if I was excited and I breathe a bit heavier and say, 'Oh, Tim.' In reality, I'm up and checking on the cake pops to make sure they're drying okay.

'Now you're feeling my balls, describe it.'

I peer at the cake pops. 'They're lovely and round, warm to the touch and I want them in my mouth.'

He groans. I don't know where he is at work but I hope he's somewhere soundproof. We can't do with him getting the sack from revealing his sacs.

'Tell me about taking my penis in your mouth.'

I have an idea. I pick up the cake pop. It's so fucking gorgeous. As I eat it, I make the most terrific moaning noises. The not quite set icing dribbles down my chin.

'Describe it.'

'I've been sucking you so hard, so damn hard, and your cum has dribbled down my chin.’ I bite into the cake pop where there's a runny chocolate centre.

'Mmmm, so good.'

I hear him come on the other end of the phone.

'Oh, Dora babe, did you?'

'Oh, Tim. It was truly amazing.'

'See you later, kitten.'

Honestly, I have to bite my lip so I don't fucking miaow at him.

I get ready for tonight. At least he can't go on about sex while the children are with us. Even if they are adults, he will draw that line. Well, the old Tim would. I've no idea about this one.

Chapter Eleven

Dora

We meet at Camille's chosen venue at eight pm. She looks beautiful in a red shift dress. Even my son Tyler has put on a smart shirt and trousers. They've both brought their partners, Dylan, and Lindsay. Dylan's busy chatting to Tim. They have their heads together and appear to be scheming, then they high five each other. What's that all about? I'm the one who plans things for birthdays and stuff so they’d better behave. I sigh. Who am I kidding? I have no voice as long as I’m playing the submissive housewife, and the kids are growing up and doing their own thing anyway. I sit quietly and eat my meal. When desert comes, I've asked the staff to bring out the cake pops. That’s one thing I’m proud of. My daughter’s face lights up when she sees them. Fixed atop a cake base, they're multicoloured, like the balls in the ball pool at Kid Zone.

'Oh my God, Mum, that's amazing.'

She gives me a massive hug and whispers in my ear. 'Are you and Dad okay? You seem really quiet. It’s not like you.'

'Yeah, we’re fine, love,' I tell her. I can't really say ‘your dad’s turned into a sex fiend and I'm fucking knackered trying to be some kind of fifties housewife,’ can I?

As usual, we put money in her card so she can buy what she wants. For the finale, we sing a loud and embarrassing round of Happy Birthday.

Then Tim stands up, saying he has an extra present for her.

From his pocket, he takes out a folded piece of paper. I see the drawing on it and my heart thuds so hard I could pass the fuck out. The drawing, I know off by heart, was crayoned by Camille when she was about eight. It's a picture of me, her father, her, Tyler and a vicar. It says on it, please marry my mum. I was heartbroken when she drew this. Tim ignored it, saying he wasn't changing his mind because of a child's drawing, adding that the week before she'd drawn herself with a pet unicorn.

'Camille, do you remember this?' he asks her.

'Er, yes.'

'Well, your mum leaving last weekend made me think that I never want to lose her again. It was far too easy for her to walk out of that house. I also think it's about time your mother was a Turner.'

He goes down on bended knee.

'Dora, will you marry me?'

They all stare at me.

'No.'

Both Tim and Dylan shout 'What?'

A tornado of temper bursts out of me. Fuck being a demure housewife. I need to sort this shithead out.

'No, I will not fucking marry you. You didn't want to get married when she was eight so why the fuck do you want to get married now?'

Heads of people in the restaurant turn towards us. Thank goodness there are no children around because I need to vent big time.

'Is this because I've been acting like a servant? Is that what I needed to do? Clean the fucking house? I clean for my job, so forgive me if I don't do my best at home because it's God damn boring.'

Tyler looks around 'Mum, what's got into you? Calm down.'

'What’s got into me? He's got into me. Your bloody father. I'm knackered.' Oh sod it, they're adults. 'Your dad's turned into a sex fiend and I'm fucking knackered trying to be some kind of fifties housewife. It’s doing my box in. Both my head and my vag.'

I sit down, exhausted.

'But, but, you've been enjoying all the sexy stuff.'

I put my hand to my brow. I can feel a headache nagging. 'No, I haven't. I've been faking ninety-five percent of it. Plus, if you call me a kitten again, I’ll scratch your eyes out.'

'But it's in those books you're always reading?'

'What?' I take a large sip of my wine, hoping alcohol affects my brain to a point where this situation starts making sense.

'On your shelves. Like The Alphabet Game. Then I watched that Fifty Shades on DVD. I thought you wanted an alpha.'

I look at him like he's just told me he's a cross-dresser.

'Tim, they are fiction. They're what I read for escapism. Men like that don't exist in real life. We don't want that in real life, just in our imagination.'

'So I didn't need to do any of those things? I wore that suit and stupid jogging outfit for nothing?'

I take a bigger drink. 'Oh my God, you need a shrink.'

'What about you? What's all this about being a housewife? Where have you got the notion that I want a servant? We've been together for twenty-nine years and I might have groaned about the state of the house but I've never demanded you clean it. So where's that come from?'

'I was reading a book and-'

Tim, Camille and Tyler groan.

Tyler shakes his head. 'Mum, you need to stop with the crazy.’

'I have. I'm done. There is no way I was built to be a domestic goddess.'

Everyone at the table cracks out laughing.

'Oh, the lot of you can fuck off.'

'Can someone please get your mother a swear box?'

I realise I'm at Camille's birthday party and I've just thrown what amounts to a tantrum. Who are the parents and who are the children here?

'Camille, I'm sorry.'

She laughs. 'It's okay, Mum. At least we can’t say my birthday meal was dull. Anyway, is that all the drama? Can we have coffee now?'

Dylan stands up. 'Well actually, no. Not yet.'

He drops to his knee. He looks scared to death which isn't surprising given my negative response to Tim. He'll be praying she isn't her mother's daughter on the subject.

'Camille, I know we've only been together for ten months, but I know for a fact that you are the love of my life. Please, would you do the honour of marrying me?'

In the ring box, I can make out a square diamond. It glistens. Cam shakes. I see her lip tremble as she shakes her head to the positive. After what must seem like forever to Dylan, she finally utters her answer, 'yes.'

Dylan takes out the ring. Cam holds out her left hand. But Dylan hasn’t finished talking.

'Camille. I’ve something to confess. This isn’t your real engagement ring. I want us to shop for one together, so you can choose one you like.'

She laughs. 'So where's this one from?'

'Primark.'

'Well, it’s a beautiful stand-in.'

I've never seen a man look so relieved.

As they kiss, Tim flags down a waitress and orders a bottle of champagne. I don't know if it's to toast or to help him cope with seeing his only daughter locking lips with her future husband.

Later, Cam corners me in the ladies. 'Are you sure you won't change your mind, Mum? We could have a double wedding.'

'No, love. You enjoy your time in the spotlight.' I embrace her and kiss her cheek. 'You're going to be a beautiful bride.'

'Thanks, Mum. Are you and Dad going to be okay?'

'I think we will be, Cam. I've had an idea.'

'Oh my God, Mum, not something from a book, please.'

'No. This is from Grey's Anatomy. I will marry your dad but not officially. I'll marry him via a post-it.'

Cam, who watched the series herself, laughs. 'Do you know, for you and my dad, that's perfect.'

Chapter Twelve

Dora

Tim walks in from work on Tuesday evening and sees me sitting with a post-it note, a picture frame, a pen and a screwdriver.

I'd talked to him last night about our post-it wedding. He apologised for proposing, said it was a reaction to seeing Cole's arms around me on the tennis court. I told him commitment went beyond a piece of paper but if he wanted one, a post-it was all he was getting. Meredith and McDreamy did this on Grey's Anatomy. They wrote their vows on a post-it, then signed and dated it and placed it in a frame above their bed headboard. This is exactly what we're going to do tonight.

'Let's eat first,' I tell him.

After our meal, we sit in the lounge and talk about what to put on the note. I get a separate piece of paper so we can brainstorm.

'Okay,' I tell him. 'I want a cleaner to come once a week.'

Tim looks perplexed. 'You want to work as a cleaner so we can pay another cleaner to clean our house?'

'I know it seems stupid when I say it like that, but yes. Just for the floors and windows and to take the ironing, which I hate.'

'Dora. Why don't you find another job if you hate cleaning so much? You worked because the extra money came in handy with the kids but they're grown up now. Even Tyler's becoming responsible.'

'It would be nice to not feel dirty after cleaning up other people’s mess.'

'Well, why don't you pack your job in and clean our house?'

'Because I'd not do it, Tim. When I'm at work, I have to clean or I'd get the sack. Here, it's too easy to get the laptop out.'

He nods. 'I suppose so.'

'I will look around. I think Asda needs extra staff.'

'Well, I'm behind you on changing your job, Dora.'

'Thank you.'

‘About the cleaner. Get the ironing done by someone, but I'll do the floors and windows every Sunday.’

‘Okay. Thank you.’

Tim clears his throat. 'Now, my turn. No spending our joint holiday money without agreement by us both. In fact, I want the account changed, so it requires permission from both of us to withdraw the money.'

'Agreed, and I should search for a job that pays more so I can pay back what I spent.'

‘We’ll manage to save it back up. I’ll tell you what, will you carry on doing my pack-up? It's been lovely these last couple of days and saves me spending at the shop.’

'Yes, I quite enjoyed that to be honest.' I'd made lovely little sandwiches. I could add home-baked stuff like cookies too.

'Dora, please don't run away again. If there's a problem you need to bring it up for discussion.'

I nod. 'Okay.'

'Now. The next is controversial, but I’d like Sunday dinner at the pub every week. Their Yorkshire puddings are amazing. It’s not worth all the effort you put yourself through.'

I sigh. 'Fine. At least it means we get extra time in bed on a Sunday morning.'

His face lights up. 'Which is a bonus but don't expect any alpha moves on my part.'

'Or submission on mine.'

He winks. 'I like a woman who can dominate me.'

I shake my head while I chuckle.

'Is that it?' he asks me.

'I'm going to tell the kids to ring me one night in the week, but I'm not demanding the day they do it. Also, they can join us for lunch on a Sunday if they want to, but I'm not forcing the issue. They're growing up and it's not fair to guilt them into keeping contact. They've their own paths to make.'

'They'll come on a Sunday.' Tim reassures me. 'They love The Red Lion’s Yorkshire puddings.'

I throw a cushion at him.

He throws himself at me.

Afterwards, he lies back on the lounge rug but he has a grimace on his face rather than a look of sexual satisfaction.

My brow furrows. 'What's up with you?'

'Dora,' he says, then winces. 'I swear to God I've worn myself out over the last week. My dick hurts and my balls, they've been flapping about like a fish breathing its last.' He cups them in his hand.

'Dora I need new balls.'

Later, written on a post it. Framed and fixed on the wall above the bedhead.

We vow:

To speak to each other when there are problems.

To get the ironing done by someone else.

To have a lie-in on a Sunday and have lunch in the pub.

To enjoy some fantastic joint holidays.

To stick together through good times and bad.

To love each other.

Signed Dora Evans and Timothy Turner

21 June 2016

Saturday 25 June 2016

‘Tim. Tim!’ I squeal.

Tim comes rushing downstairs from his music room. I must have screamed loud because he usually has the music turned up that high I have to enter his room to tell him anything.

‘What’s the matter?’

I point at the TV. ‘I’ve won.’

‘Won what?’

I do a facepalm impression and point to the balls on the screen. ‘The lottery, you div. I’ve won the lottery.’

Tim turns pale.

‘Not the big prize. I’ve got five numbers, though. Oh, my God. I wonder how much I’ve won?’

The prize turns out to be eighteen hundred pounds. About what I spent in Center Parcs.

Sunday, I receive an email from Jackie. She and Cole have been together since that final Friday in Center Parcs and it’s going well though it's early days.

I’m reading a book about fate. It was obviously meant to be that I left that Saturday. If I hadn’t, Cole and Jackie wouldn’t be together now. I’m a born matchmaker.

I settle myself in front of the television with coffee. It's Monday 27th June and it’s the first day of Wimbledon.

I listen to the umpire. ‘New Balls Please.’ I think of Tim holding his the other night and chuckle.

THE END

Coming soon

It’s Beth’s turn for romance in Balls Fore, coming 7 June 2016. You can pre-order it here: http://getbook.at/BallsFore

Here’s your sneaky advance peek:

Beth

It’s not every day a chocolate penis is wanged in your face.

‘Mum. Stop it, you’re in a Children’s Play Centre,’ yells my best mate Camille. Her shouting only has more people turning towards us.

‘Oh, Camille. How do you think all those children were made? If it wasn’t for willies, there wouldn’t be anyone in your business.’

‘Talking about in your business, leave Beth alone.’

‘But she’s an expert.’

‘Not with penises I’m not,’ I sigh. ‘But chocolate yes. Cam, go make us a drink so I can have a proper conversation with your mum.’

Camille huffs and goes off, giving her mother a sly look.

‘What can I do for you, Dora?’

‘I’m giving up my cleaning job with Tim’s permission and I’ve had a good think about what I could do instead. At first, I was thinking of taking a job in a supermarket but then I read a book about careers and it asked what I enjoyed. Well, that’s my baking. Then my thoughts went on and before I knew it, I was making chocolate willies. But as you can see, mine needs work.’

I appraise a penis. It’s a little wonky.

‘You need a good mould, and you have to learn the process of tempering chocolate.’

‘Would you mind if I sold willies and boobies, Beth? I don’t want to take your trade if you were thinking of expanding.’

I sell children’s chocolate bars. As a single mum to my three-year-old son, Trey, it’s a business that fits in around nursery runs.

‘Dora, you’re absolutely fine. I can’t sell sexy stuff alongside children’s chocolate. It wouldn’t be right.’

‘Well, my thought is to set up for hen nights and weddings. I’m fantastic at baking so I could do wedding cakes and cupcakes for brides and the naughty stuff for their hen nights. I’ll be able to do Camille’s when her and Dylan eventually set a date.’

‘They’ve only been engaged a week.’

I take a bite of the penis. ‘Mmmm, this tastes good, though.’

Dora beams.

‘So would you teach me that temper thing and how to do the books? I’m really keen to get underway.’

I can imagine. If there’s one word you can assign to Cam’s mum, its enthusiasm.

‘Sure. Come round this evening if you like. I’ve no plans.’

Dora appraises me. ‘Still no man in your life then?’

‘Just Trey. He’s all I need.’

She hands me a packet full of chocolate penises. ‘Here, you need to remind yourself what you’re missing.’

Pre-order link: http://getbook.at/BallsFore

Also by Andie M. Long

THE ALPHA SERIES

The Alphabet Game (FREE ON ALL PLATFORMS)

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The Alphabet Game: Play It Playbook

http://getbook.at/playthealphabet

The Alphabet Wedding: Amazon: http://getbook.at/alphabetwedding

The Calendar Game: Amazon: http://getbook.at/calendargame

THE BALL GAMES SERIES

Balls (Book One): Amazon: http://getbook.at/AmazonBallsOne

Snow Balls (Book Two): Amazon: http://getbook.at/AmazonSnowBalls2

New Balls Please (Book Three): Amazon: http://getbook.at/NewBallsPlease

Balls Fore (Book Four): Amazon: http://getbook.at/BallsFore

ALSO AVAILABLE

UNDERNEATH: Amazon: http://getbook.at/underneath1

QUICKIES: Amazon: http://getbook.at/Quickies

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Sometimes you just have ten minutes. Or you're waiting at the bus stop. It could be a small train journey. Maybe your partner is due home. Or friends are on their way. In Andie M. Long's Quickies, you are invited to lose yourself in short stories, poetry and flash fiction. Enjoy a quickie where time is pressured or precious. Some stories are 18+ and contain adult themes.

About Andie

Andie M. Long is author of The Alpha series which includes Amazon Number One Erotic Thriller The Alphabet Game; The Ball Games series, which starts with BALLS and comes complete with a Yorkshire slang guide, Drama/suspense Underneath and short story and poetry collection Quickies.

She lives in Sheffield with her son and long suffering partner.

When not being partner, mother, employee or writer she can usually be found on Facebook or with her head in a book.

Andie will be signing in Liverpool 2017.

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