achievements and growth rates interspersed between "Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, with best wishes, the McCartney-Corkhill and Fillowbright-Locham Families."
At the birth of each of Fiona's and Jane's children, Sara was in love with a different man. Truly, really, madly, deeply in love. She was good at being in love: loyal, faithful, devoted. No birthday was ever forgotten, no dinner ever nutritionally deficient. And she was loved in return. Until it was over. And it was always over. Abruptly, definitely over.
In the mid-eighties, when she started working for the Maestro, their association brought her a lot of money. She bought the five-bedroom house and devoted herself to making it a home. By the time she'd finished, nothing was lacking: tropical hardwoods covered the floors, teak and mahogany were flown in and transformed into furniture which she personally designed. The kitchen was huge, bright, airy, co-ordinated precisely. Colourful ceramics, rugs and contemporary art completed the picture. There were books everywhere and bibelots from her journeys: woodcarvings, more ceramics, coloured glass. Carl had called her taste eclectic which at the time, she had taken as a compliment.
When Carl was around, she would come home early and make him dinner. Ready to eat gourmet food. Special food because he was special. Lovers all those years ago. Lovers again now. Then Carl would be gone for another twenty days. In anticipation of his return, the kitchen cupboards remained full of the hermetically sealed, vacuum-packed gourmet delights.
Yes! They were still together. And still alone.
Sara stopped reminiscing and made her way to the kitchen. She unwrapped a pork pie and stuck it in the oven. She snipped the ends of a handful of crisp french beans and steamed them in a milk pan for five minutes. A punnet of fresh strawberries needed to be eaten; they would be dessert. Only the Valpolicella left. That would have to do.
"Ping ping ping" squealed the oven timer.
The pork pie was ready.
***********************
The next morning, Sara returned to the Town Hall in Goldarn. She took the same route through the Meer valley, driving slowly to avoid a head on collision with marauding sheep. Luckily the drive was sheep free.
Still planted behind her ugly desk at the Town Hall, the gnome greeted her.
"Good Morning, Miss Perrins."
Sara was already half way across the room but turned around when she heard her name.
"I don't remember giving you my name..."
"Oh yes, yes," interrupted the gnome, "you filled in a registration card."
Sara continued walking. She hadn't filled in a registration card.
She returned to the dark corner where the microfiches were stored and resumed her search where she had left off. August 1968.
Between 23rd August and December 31st, nothing more was reported about Sarah Lunn.
Sara let out a long sigh, pulled off her glasses and rubbed her temples wearily, saying to herself:
"Well, I suppose old news is no news."
She packed the microfiches away and left the building, ignoring the "Goodbye, Miss Perrins!" as she walked through the door.
Crossing the square, a voice rang out behind her.
"Sara?!"
Sara froze, every single muscle tightening in her body.
"Hello, Sara."
Guillaume Gillane was standing beside her.
"I thought it was you. I saw you when I was parking the car," he drawled, reaching for her hand.
He clasped Sara's hand gently then released it quickly.
Sara was intrigued: where had he come from? And why now, this minute, had he appeared so suddenly?
"Which is your car?" she whispered hoarsely.
"That blue one over there," Gillane replied, waving towards the centre of the square.
Sara could see several blue cars in the square, some old, some new.
Gillane continued on, nonchalantly.
"Are you here to shop? I must admit it’s better than Glymeer."
"Well, actually I was going to have something to eat...."
"May
At the birth of each of Fiona's and Jane's children, Sara was in love with a different man. Truly, really, madly, deeply in love. She was good at being in love: loyal, faithful, devoted. No birthday was ever forgotten, no dinner ever nutritionally deficient. And she was loved in return. Until it was over. And it was always over. Abruptly, definitely over.
In the mid-eighties, when she started working for the Maestro, their association brought her a lot of money. She bought the five-bedroom house and devoted herself to making it a home. By the time she'd finished, nothing was lacking: tropical hardwoods covered the floors, teak and mahogany were flown in and transformed into furniture which she personally designed. The kitchen was huge, bright, airy, co-ordinated precisely. Colourful ceramics, rugs and contemporary art completed the picture. There were books everywhere and bibelots from her journeys: woodcarvings, more ceramics, coloured glass. Carl had called her taste eclectic which at the time, she had taken as a compliment.
When Carl was around, she would come home early and make him dinner. Ready to eat gourmet food. Special food because he was special. Lovers all those years ago. Lovers again now. Then Carl would be gone for another twenty days. In anticipation of his return, the kitchen cupboards remained full of the hermetically sealed, vacuum-packed gourmet delights.
Yes! They were still together. And still alone.
Sara stopped reminiscing and made her way to the kitchen. She unwrapped a pork pie and stuck it in the oven. She snipped the ends of a handful of crisp french beans and steamed them in a milk pan for five minutes. A punnet of fresh strawberries needed to be eaten; they would be dessert. Only the Valpolicella left. That would have to do.
"Ping ping ping" squealed the oven timer.
The pork pie was ready.
***********************
The next morning, Sara returned to the Town Hall in Goldarn. She took the same route through the Meer valley, driving slowly to avoid a head on collision with marauding sheep. Luckily the drive was sheep free.
Still planted behind her ugly desk at the Town Hall, the gnome greeted her.
"Good Morning, Miss Perrins."
Sara was already half way across the room but turned around when she heard her name.
"I don't remember giving you my name..."
"Oh yes, yes," interrupted the gnome, "you filled in a registration card."
Sara continued walking. She hadn't filled in a registration card.
She returned to the dark corner where the microfiches were stored and resumed her search where she had left off. August 1968.
Between 23rd August and December 31st, nothing more was reported about Sarah Lunn.
Sara let out a long sigh, pulled off her glasses and rubbed her temples wearily, saying to herself:
"Well, I suppose old news is no news."
She packed the microfiches away and left the building, ignoring the "Goodbye, Miss Perrins!" as she walked through the door.
Crossing the square, a voice rang out behind her.
"Sara?!"
Sara froze, every single muscle tightening in her body.
"Hello, Sara."
Guillaume Gillane was standing beside her.
"I thought it was you. I saw you when I was parking the car," he drawled, reaching for her hand.
He clasped Sara's hand gently then released it quickly.
Sara was intrigued: where had he come from? And why now, this minute, had he appeared so suddenly?
"Which is your car?" she whispered hoarsely.
"That blue one over there," Gillane replied, waving towards the centre of the square.
Sara could see several blue cars in the square, some old, some new.
Gillane continued on, nonchalantly.
"Are you here to shop? I must admit it’s better than Glymeer."
"Well, actually I was going to have something to eat...."
"May
Similar Books
Kane's Mate (Armageddon Mates)
Hazel Gower
Sliding Down the Sky
Amanda Dick
Sudden Hope
Mira Garland
Curvy Like A Witch
Sage Domini
MEGA-AX1 The Inferno
LaShawn Vasser
The Power of Silence
Carlos Castaneda
Finally Home
Dawn Michele Werner
Spells of Blood and Kin
Claire Humphrey
Losing Israel
Jasmine Donahaye
The Seventh Witch
Shirley Damsgaard