Page 7 of Pyg

A reminder not to make herself uncomfortable for anyone else, ever again.

“Spring has sprung.”

FRANCESCA DALTON

NINE MONTHS EARLIER

Agiddy ball of excitement bounced around in Alice’s stomach as she stepped through the door of The Dog & Duck. Her eyes scanned the room and settled on Fran, sitting in the corner, all pouting red lips and chestnut curls which skimmed the shoulders of her crisp white shirt.

Age had done nothing to diminish the older woman’s beauty and elegance — if anything, the opposite was true. At fifty-six, she was practically a goddess, her sculpted olive skin smooth over her high cheekbones and jawline.

Fran tossed her head back and drained the crimson liquid from her glass. She flicked her wrist and stared at her watch, which prompted Alice to glance at her own.

“Where have you been?” Fran’s obsidian eyes set on Alice as she approached.

“It’s three p.m. You said to meet you here at three p.m.”

“I know I did. But I’d hoped you’d come earlier.”

Alice felt the smile slipping from her face.

“Never mind. I’m just not used to waiting.” Fran stood, gripped Alice’s shoulders, and pecked a kiss on her cheek, so hard it almost hurt. Alice inhaled the rich, musky scent of her, which lingered in her wake when she retook her seat.

“Are you going to sit down or just stand there looking pretty?” asked Fran.

“Er, yeah. Of course.” Alice smiled. “Shall I fetch you another drink first?”

Fran patted the bench next to her. “Sit.”

As Alice slipped out of her coat, Fran waved her arm until she got the barmaid’s attention and gestured for two more of the same. “You’re fine with the Merlot, aren’t you?”

Alice nodded and eased her long legs, courtesy of her heels, under the table.

Fran breathed through her nose and stared straight ahead as she placed a hand on Alice’s thigh. “Is this the skirt I bought for you?”

“Yeah, do you think it’s a bit short?”

Fran answered by squeezing Alice’s soft flesh and edging her slender fingers higher, their French-manicured tips scratching into her skin ever-so-slightly. Heat surged through Alice and Fran grinned, fully aware of the effect she was having.

“There you go.” The barmaid placed their drinks on the table and scooped up the empty glass. Fran’s hand fell away.

“So, you said you had something to tell me?” Alice lightly tugged at the hem of her skirt.

Fran reached for her wine and took a swig. “Well, that’s a mood killer.”

“Sorry.” Alice sipped from her own glass and winced. She’d never been one for red wine, but she was trying really hard to like it for Fran.

“No, no. It’s quite alright. I do need to talk to you.” Fran twisted around to face her. “It’s about Jeremy.” She pressed her lips into a thin line.

“Oh?” Alice took a mouthful of wine, but her throat refused to swallow it. She couldn’t spit it back into the glass, so she held the tart liquid in her mouth.

Fran sniffed. “I’m leaving him.”

Alice coughed, and her eyes widened with horror as she spluttered wine over Fran’s pristine shirt. The muscles twitched in Fran’s clenched jaw as she breathed loudly through her nose.

“Oh fuck. Let me…” Like a shit magician, Alice produced a string of balled-up tissues from her handbag and dabbed at the red splotches sprayed across Fran’s chest. “God, Fran. I’m so sorry. It’s soda water for red wine, isn’t it? Or is it salt? I’ll get some?—”

“No. Leave it. I’m not letting you season me like a hog roast.” Fran snatched hold of Alice’s wrists and fixed her into place with a piercing stare.

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