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to
know that we were required to shed our outer garments in the
afternoon session, so that we could start working with the
aromatherapy oils?
    'What's the matter?' Ben looked confused. 'Would you rather
work with someone else?'
    'No. Uh, no, no, not at all.'
    I couldn't explain, not then. He went on, 'Then should we
grab a sandwich? We've got a half hour before the practical
and there's a café on the corner.'
    'No!' I realized I was shouting and toned down my voice.
'I mean, no thanks. I've got a few things to do during the
break.' I was thinking fast.
    I ran outside. The course was being held in one of those
residential parts of London where there wasn't a shop for
miles, not the kind that sold women's lingerie anyway, but an
ex-boyfriend of mine, Tony, lived only a street away. While I
got his number on my mobile, I crossed the fingers of my
other hand and prayed that Tony was home. He was.
    I explained the problem. Tony, knowing me well, somehow
wasn't surprised. 'How can I help, though? You want to borrow
a pair of my boxers? They'll be a bit big.' Tony is huge, broad
and muscular.
    'Not yours. I was thinking of Caro's.' She was his girlfriend
and though they didn't live together, I knew she was at his
place often.
    At last Tony got back to me. 'I found a good stash. You're
in luck.' I ran most of the way. Tony was waiting at the door,
a pair of white bikini briefs edged with pale blue lace dangling
from his little finger.
    I got back just as the group was beginning the practice
session. Half the class was lying on the special treatment beds,
clad in panties and bra, and the other half were being given
oils to work with and directions by the tutor.
    Ben was waiting for me. I mumbled an apology for being
late. 'Should you go first or should I?' he asked.
    I didn't mind. I was now chastely covered where it mattered,
and would not be disgraced in front of the whole class.
    We smiled at each other. I knew that it wouldn't be long
    before we'd be getting to know each other much, much better, and that I'd
    be telling him the whole story of my ex-boyfriend's girlfriend's knickers.
     
    Firmly back in the present, I stop at the hamlet down from
Eleanor Gibland's cottage. It is a cluster of six granite and
slate houses on a slope overlooking the sea and I park the van
where Susie had parked when she was showing me the route,
in a rough lay-by at the edge of the narrow track up to the
houses. Then I grab my satchel ready to set out, but first I
have to sort out the dog biscuits, as this is deep canine country.
Susie had given me a list of each dog's requirements. The first
two houses have either sheepdogs or mutts that will eat
anything, the third one with a yellow door has a cat and no
dog, but the last three are tricky. There is the border terrier
that will only eat the green biscuits and an odd poodle/ bearded
collie cross that likes only the bone-shaped yellow ones. As
for that last house at the edge of the cluster, there is a black
German shepherd dog that will eat anything you throw into
the enclosed garden, including posties if you're not careful.
    'But not to worry, m'bird,' Susie had said, nodding her sage
head. 'He's locked in the garden and the postbox be outside
so he can't get to you.'
    It starts well enough. The first two houses are silent and
closed, the owners either still in bed or not at home. The dogs
inside bark but no one comes to look so I put the post inside
the front porch of one as I'd been shown and drop the letters
for the other into a plastic box with a lid and a rock on top,
just outside the door. I put a dog biscuit inside each one, too,
so as not to disappoint the dogs. The house with the yellow
door and the cat looks empty but there is a proper letterbox
in the door and I slot the post in there.
    The owner of the border terrier is a sweet, simple sort of
woman who wishes me the luck of the Irish in my new job.
She doesn't sound at all Irish, and I'm sure I don't either, but
I'll accept any luck