The Lovers of Wensley Dale (part one) by Bill Kirton
I spent 3 weeks over the Xmas and New Year period in hospital and the (slow) recuperation process is likely to continue for several more weeks. A whingeing 'poor me' blog, however, as well as being boring and unattractive, would win few friends (or readers), especially in the context of this month's excellent and varied posts. So, instead, I want to put some distance between me and the experience by falling back on recycling blogs from long ago. This time, I have a sequence of three: numbers 1 & 2 are parodies of a romance (And, before aficionados of the genre complain, please remember that parody is a sincere form of flattery.) Number 3 will contain some observations on the writing process based on 1 & 2. Here, then, is part one of:
THE LOVERS OF WENSLEY DALE
|by Kevin via Wikipedia Commons
Leticia's eyes softened as she turned from the window and looked back into the cabin. Outside, the snow was still deep, the tracks left by Roger’s Black Bentley Bentayga were beginning to fill as the wind drifted the fresh falls over them. But here, the logs crackled, the flames glinted on the bottle of Château Pétrus Roger had opened before he left, and the unhurried notes of a Beethoven sonata curled towards her through the warm, pine-scented air.
She walked slowly to the hearth, pausing to check her reflection in the long cheval mirror. The cream satin of her dress clung to her, her green eyes smouldered as she deliberately lowered her eyelids and pouted a smile at herself. God, what a difference love had made to her. Was it really just a month ago that she'd been living in a tenement room with Gavin? Could it really be just four short weeks since she'd had to put up with his shift work as a hospital porter and somehow combined looking after him with holding down her job at the Wal-Mart cheese counter?
As she draped herself over the chaise longue and watched the flames flicker, she let her mind drift back to the day Roger had appeared. She’d been setting out slabs of Dolcelatte, Brie and a particularly ripe Camembert when she heard a polite ‘Excuse me’. She looked up and felt an instant frisson of delight shimmer in her heart. He was leaning towards her but she could see that he was tall. A lock of his tousled dark hair fell forward over his brow and his electric blue eyes pierced into hers. He smiled and, as she felt the frisson melt into a delicious warmth, she knew that she was his.
‘Have you got any Wensleydale?’ he purred.
His voice reached out and enveloped her, its textures soft and dark as chocolate, its slight
accent lilting her into a willing submission.
As she unwrapped the cheese and cut a wedge, she felt his eyes on her,
felt his gaze as a gentle, loving violation.
Her hands shook and the knife slipped, nicking the end of her left
forefinger. She gave a little gasp and
lifted it up from the cheese. But before
she could move away he reached across, took her hand softly in his and drew her
finger to his mouth. She watched, her
eyes wide, as his full lips parted and he gently guided the tip of her finger
between them. She felt his tongue wet
and warm against her skin. Highland
‘Come with me,’ he said as he withdrew her finger and looked at it. ‘I have a first aid kit in my car.’
Unhesitatingly, she followed him out to the car park where his second car, a Ferrari Testarossa gleamed across two disabled parking spaces. Roger leaned back against it, drew her to him and they came together in a kiss that shook her world.
Forty yards away, Gavin leaned his bike against the wall and watched as his life’s dream splintered and his heart broke.