Page 2 of Festive Flings

“I’m just a bit tired, Mr. Matthews. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.” I smile at him, but from his enquiring look I know he doesn't believe this is the reason for my dour presentation. However, he lets it slide and accepts his coffee.

Taking a seat, I give him the rundown of his day and he tells me everything he needs me to do.

By the time our morning meeting is finished, I am falling apart, the kind of crumbling that can only be solved by a good cry in the toilets. My life is a mess. I am twenty-four years old and for the first time in my adult life, I am single.

Wait a minute. I am single.

Suddenly, I realise the world is my oyster. All along, I’ve been looking at this as a bad thing, but it doesn’t have to be. I am single and I am ready to have some fun. Carl has moved on; it's time I do too.

Carl and I were together for all my adult life. I have never really been on other dates. I have never slept with another man and the prospect is both scary and exhilarating.

For the first couple of months after our split, I had no sexual desire whatsoever. Nothing. It is as though Carl ripped that out along with my heart and soul. However, pent-up sexual frustration has slowly started to show up, and I have had to invest in a couple of toys to assist me. But God, I miss the feel of flesh on flesh, the heady feeling of being one with another person.

It’s time to get back in the saddle. I am ready to start again, but first I want to have a little fun.

Christmas Eve is about six weeks away. Surely, by then, I can be over Carl, and maybe even have a true date for his wedding. The city is full of men, and it’s time I stopped crying over just one.

~ Billie ~

While running around my kitchen trying to locate a lunch box, I shout to my children to hurry up or they’ll be late for school. Oscar stomps in, annoyed that he has to go to school in the first place. At seven years old, he is already developing an attitude. Chloe, my little girl, not quite five years old yet, skips towards me with no shoes or coat on.

Once again, I’m going to be late.

In the morning rush hour traffic, I drive the children to the breakfast club attached to their school and make my way to work.

Even traffic can't sour my mood for long, though, since I have the ‘Best Job in the World’: I’m actually thinking of trademarking it.

I own and run my own tearoom, Tables & Fables Book Café. Fortunately enough for me, my husband, Jonty, inherited the building from his grandparents,so I set up here with very little costs. It is in the popular borough of Greenwich, near to the market and the Thames. Because the area is steeped in history and culture, including a few tourist attractions around it, I get quite a decent footfall.

My tearoom combines two of my favourite things: books and cake. People come here to read and write and chill out, and I provide the best refreshments known to man.

We have an Open Mic Night on Thursdays and Saturdays where people can recite their poetry or read excerpts of their work, while songwriters can sing their latest pieces of brilliance. We have short plays when scriptwriters have a breakthrough, and my current favourite is stand-up comedy night.

After getting married and becoming a mother, I gave up my job, but I quickly grew tired of being the doting mother and wife and began looking for something more I could do. Then, inspiration struck. I wanted to offer afternoon teas and specialty coffees and make cakes like I had dreamt of as a little girl.

Jonty was not impressed. “You are not going to earn much doing that, Bilbo. It’ll be hard work for buttons.” Eventually, though, I got what I wanted, because Jonty could never, ever refuse me. I know his weaknesses, and I worked and worked on him until he eventually gave in. Oh, the days when a blow job could get me my heart's desires!

A scant few weeks later, my handsome husband took me to view the rundown building that he had inherited and told me if I could make a tearoom out of it, it was all mine. That is how Tables & Fables was born. The more I thought about what I wanted from the space, the more my vision developed. I could see creative types writing and reading while eating my homemade signature bakes and drinking the specialty teas or themed coffees.

Now, Tables & Fables is well-established. We have solid cherry bookshelves filled with old classics and more modern literary greats, some of which have been penned right here.

My food is well known and liked. I now have a team that helps to create and make the freshly baked items together with a merchandise line. We also offer tourist experience days and a takeaway service.

It will never be a multimillion-pound business, not when the chains who shall not be named keep popping up coffee shops all around me, but I have something they don’t. I have a complete package and an array of services that they can never compete with.

Today marks six weeks until Christmas and it’s time to decorate the place for the festive season. My menu will completely change over in a couple of days to festive afternoon teas and themed hot chocolate and lattes.

It truly is a magical time. However, I find that lately I am more excited about work and my tearoom than my marriage and sex life. How sad is that?

I am madly in love with Jonty. He is sexy, handsome, and giving, but it feels like something is missing lately. We seem to be drifting apart, and I don’t like it. I love my husband, but things have become stagnant and old between us. We used to have fire between us. Now, it’s like wet fireworks. Our spark is fading fast.

Letting myself into the building, I notice my sister, Jamie, has left my mail on the lamp table. Jamie moved into the apartment above the café after splitting with her boyfriend. At first, she wouldn't tell me the full details, but I finally discovered that he cheated on her in her own bed, and when I did, I moved her here. Although she was hesitant to accept my help, I set her up as best as I could. She deserves better than that piece of shit.

Looking at the fancy parchment in my hand, I can hardly believe what I am reading. Why is it that the bad guys always get the happy ending?

I will never forgive Carl for what he did to my sister. She suffered greatly, not just because of the breakup, but from the humiliation of everyone knowing why they broke up, too.

My sister looked shell-shocked for a couple of months. She lost weight, her pallor was grey, and the spark extinguished from her eyes and smile. She is just starting to live again, and I don’t want this to knock the stuffing out of her.

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