PAMELA’S LAST DAY.

By Bob French

Jill Burnham sat looking out over Huntington Beach just west of the small town of Costa Mesta in California.  It was turning seven on a Friday evening, one of the best times of the day; the groaning sound of traffic on Highway 55, replaced by the gentle sound of the waves as they gently crept up the sandy beach, and the exotic birds that came out to serenade the beach lovers and tourists.  If the air was clear, you could see all the way out to Cataline Island.  Jill was at the top of her game in the high-end sales department of Partridge and Partridge, the estate agents to the movie-stars.

Bartram McKensie worked up state Los Angelese, in the blue-chip market place of fast-moving stocks and shares, futures, bonds, and foreign banking, which Jill found thoroughly boring. Their relationship was an unspoken arrangement, woven into the fabric of their busy lives.  Neither of them had time for romantic entanglements, but when a rare free evening presented itself, they would meet up and dine at Mario’s over at Long Beach or some of the other renown restaurants in LA.  Indulging in fleeting moments of companionship before returning to their respective financial empires.

Jill felt mentally and physically drained.  It had been an extremely busy fortnight, ending at lunch on, with her closing a multimillion-dollar deal with one of the stars who’d chose to remain anonymous. There had been much drinking to her success, and as the sun gradually faded behind the western horizon, Jill closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, oblivious of the prearranged dinner date with Bartram at Santa Monaca’s best fish restaurant at eight.

Monday morning Jill was up early and was in work by half Seven.  Met by her dizzy secretary, Pamela, she settled in to studying the markets, whilst Pamela supplied her with copious cups of double latte with three brown sugars and a Danish.

Jill always held her meetings with her staff at mid-day on Monday’s, to go over the properties that had been flagged up earlier.   Jill felt uncomfortable.  So far Pamela had not made any blunders which disturbed her, then realized as she glanced around the room that she’d forgotten to circulate the agenda for the meeting. As Jill and her area managers were still on a high from last Friday’s drinks, everyone seemed to grin and get on with the meeting.

It was coming to the end of the meeting when Jill suddenly sat up, as though someone had just slapped her across the back of the head.  She had just remembered that she was supposed to have met Bartram in Santa Monica last Friday evening.  She knew that sometime today she would have to apologize to him; something she hated doing.  Ignoring the winding up briefings from the various area managers, Jill decided that she had had enough of this pretend affair with Bartrum. she wanted something with a little more zing, something that would make her feel good inside, relaxed and carefree. Bill from down Santa Anna way popped his head in to Jill’s office. 

“I have had a good look at the French chateau in Le Bouscit near Bourdeaux Jill. Very promising.  I visited it last week and the owner of the Chateau is a chap call Maurice du Champion.  Speaks good English. He is also the bank manager of the town. I‘ve left a report with Pam.”

It was just past two in the afternoon and Jill had been trying to convince herself that this casual affaire with Bartram wasn’t what she wanted, but each time she tried to come to a decision, her mind told her to just wait a little longer.  Then the door to her office burst open. Pamela rush in, note pad at the high port, and in a complete flummox.

“Jill, it’s him, on the phone!”

Jill staired at Pamela, and slowly stood.  “Who is it on the phone Pam?”

“Its him, the bank man, you know.”  Jill froze.  She had made her mind up to dump Bertrum once and for all, but she felt unsure of herself.  Could she do it?  They have been friends for nearly six years.

“Thank you, Pam, put him through on my private line then switch off your line, No interruptions until I tell you, understand?”

Jill sat there in silence, staring at the little red winking light on her telephone. Her thoughts going over and over in her head. She knew He was going to call her and rebuke her for missing Friday’s date and she dreaded it. God! it was only a dinner date.  She spoke out loud  “I shall take command of the situation and tell him straight how she felt about him, and more to the point, that she didn’t want to see him again. Don’t let him get control of the conversation, just tell him what you expect in a relationship. Then she took a deep breath.

“Before I explain, I want to get something off my chest.  I’m sorry but what I want in a relationship is something you don’t seem capable of providing, I want to meet you at my front door after a busy day, slowly remove your clothes, item by item, smother you in kisses, as you devour me.  Then have slow and crazy sex with me on the sitting room floor, before you pick me up and take me gently to my double bed where I want you to explore every part of my body until I drift off into oblivion.  After that I want to sit naked in bed with you, drinking iced champaign and eating lobster sandwiches and watching Fifty Shades of Grey. Then, as mid-night chimes, I want you to take me down town to Saint Philippes, on fifty first and second and dance exotically like those young Latin kids until I wet my pants.” 

She heard him try to but in, but she was having none of it.

“Don’t interrupt me, just listen!  After leaving Saint Philippes, I want you to take me down to Emerald Bay and swim naked and dance in the sand as the tide gently come in.”  Jill took a deep breath, then eased herself back into her plush office chair. 

“Well what have you got to say?”

There was a short pause. Then she heard a voice that she didn’t recognize.

 “Well I can certainly fulfil your desires up until I take you dancing down at Saint Phillips, then I think you lost me.”

Jill suddenly sat forward. “I’m sorry, who is this?”

“Maurice du Champion.  I hope I am speaking to Ms Jill Burnham?”

Jill stood up, pushing her chair back and screamed at the top of her voice. “Pamela, get your sorry backside in here!”

Copyright Bob French