The Writer who came for Tea

Chele Crawley

It started with a recommendation. ‘The Auto-Sexual: Unlock the Sexiness in You’. Curious, I took the book from my friend’s outstretched hand. It had been a while. Twenty years of marriage, two teenage kids, a body distorted from birthing those two nine-pounders in quick succession and the hum-drum of juggling work-life and the domestic life of service to the family. You know how it is, one falls into the downward spiral of self-loathing whilst draping a long woolly cardigan around the bulging tummy.

I picked it up at teatime. A Penguin bar tucked between the index finger and my thumb and a cup of tea in the other hand. It wasn’t long before I was poring over every page. It was almost as if the author, Sergio Novak, was in my mind. Hell, he was in my lady garden unlocking the floodgates!

I read it cover-to-cover, on my working-from-home tea-breaks, which had become more frequent of late. Who was this guru? A sexual beast no doubt. I immediately ordered his second book, ‘The Art of Furious Jumping’, and began Googling him until I acquired all the information I was permitted to know about this Eastern European sex therapist. One grainy picture was all I could weed out. I suppose one could hardly blame him for wanting privacy. I’m sure he had plenty of fans like me – melting in states of sublimation as he enlightened them on clit stimulation. Oh Sergio!

So naturally, you could appreciate the sheer euphoria pulsing through my body when Charlotte, that friend who had made the book recommendation, texted me to say she was bringing him to tea. ‘Be there in five.’

Ahhhh!

I bolted up the stairs like a greyhound on speed, ditching my frumpy jumper on the banister and the porridge stained sweatpants on the landing. I squeezed my fat rolls into the tiny shape-wear I had purchased in a blind rage with myself after the Christmas glut. I rifled through the rail, cursing myself for wearing my little black dress at the weekend. It was dripping wet on the line. A blouse and leather pants will have to do. Leopard print – meow!

Sergio would approve. I ram my feet into my killer heels until I’m sure I have possibly broken my baby toe but no pain, no gain right?

Pinch the cheeks, pat down the puffs under the eyes, line the lips with rouge and layer on the lippy. No time for serious application. I could hear the car pull in to the driveway. Roll-on-deodorant rubbed under each arm and two squirts of Poemme. I walk into the cloud with purpose. Good God! There’s no time for the hair so I scrunch my curls with my hand as I glide down the stairs. Remember you are married! I instinctively turn the diamond towards my palm.

‘Till death do us part!’ I mutter. ‘Oh God, why hasn’t he croaked it yet.’

I swung the door open.

The man in front of me was balding, rotund, and short. Charlotte was beaming. ‘Let me introduce you to Sergio Novak,’ she giggled. He shook my hand, not that I remember giving it, and greeted me in what I assume was Croatian. Even his handshake was weak. He sat in my kitchen, gorging on a scone like a boar making minced meat of a sheep. My tea had gone cold. Stone cold.

Chele Crawley is a member of Inklings Writing Group, who meet on Tuesdays at 11am and on Wednesdays at 7.30pm in the Annebrook House Hotel. Mullingar. Aspiring and fun writers welcome.