Gorgo the Barbarian
- 2 years ago
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Eloise free porn video
Williamson had just played a glorious cover drive when my phone rang. Since I could see that it was Brian, I was tempted not to answer. On the other hand, I knew that he would just keep pressing redial until I did.
‘What?’
‘Where are you?’
‘At home,’ I said. ‘Watching cricket. On the box.’
‘Good,’ he said.
‘Good?’
‘Yes. I thought that you might have been doing something important.’
‘Watching cricket is important,’ I said.
‘You can watch the highlights package later. That way, you won’t have to watch the boring bits.’
‘The boring bits – as you call them – are what cricket’s all about.’
‘Whatever,’ Brian said. ‘Anyway, I need you to come down to The Squirrel. A-sap.’
‘Oh?’
‘There are a couple of women here. One of them is definitely my type. I might even have to marry her.’
‘So, why do you need me?’ I asked. ‘Sounds like you have it all sorted.’
‘Easier if there are two of us. You know … in case we have to split them up. Divide and conquer.’
The bowler lost his line, and I watched as Williamson tickled the ball around the corner and down to the fine leg boundary. Beautiful. Effortless. ‘Oh, OK,’ I said. ‘You’re buying. See you in five.’
‘I’ll have a small shandy waiting with your name on it.’
Even before I got to The Squirrel’s Drey, I knew what Brian’s ‘my type’ woman would look like. Somewhere between 25 and 35, skinny, probably blonde, and wearing the kind of designer clothes that would have cost a fortune but didn’t really suit her.
‘Those two,’ Brian said, nodding not very discreetly towards a table in the corner. And, yes, I was right: blonde, skinny, etcetera, etcetera. At least one of them was. The other one was dark and … well … plump. Although I have to say she was by no means unattractive. I followed Brian across to their table.
‘Evening, ladies,’ he said. ‘I’m Brian. Mind if George and I join you?’
The skinny one – who clearly considered herself to be ‘in charge’ – frowned a little, looked Brian up and down, and then said: ‘Yeah. OK then. I’m Janey.’
‘Nice to meet you, Janey.’
‘And this is Eloise.’
Brian smiled and nodded. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you lovely ladies in here before.’
‘Umm … no,’ Janey said. ‘Not really our neck of the woods. Just been looking at a flat along the road. Thought I needed a glass of fizz.’
‘Any good?’
Janey looked at her champagne and frowned.
‘The flat, I mean,’ Brian said.
Janey shook her head. ‘No. Terrible. That’s why I needed the fizz.’
Eloise frowned. ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say terrible,’ she said. ‘Just not … quite … what you were hoping for.’
‘That’s what I said. Terrible,’ Janey repeated.
‘Are you looking for a place to rent?’ Brian asked.
‘Buy.’
‘Oh. Right. Buy.’ Brian’s older brother, Terry, was an estate agent, and I could hear Brian’s brain going into overdrive at the thought of a handsome referral fee. ‘So … what exactly are you looking for?’
As Brian and Janey got down to the business of discussing Janey’s rather demanding property needs, I thought that I had better do my best to pull Eloise into the conversation. ‘And are you looking for a place, too?’ I asked. ‘To buy, I mean.’
Eloise’s face lit up and she laughed as if I had just told a particularly good joke. ‘Around here? Are you kidding? A bit out of my league, I think.’
And then, suddenly, Brian and Janey were getting up from the table.
‘Just going to take Janey to meet Terry,’ Brian said. ‘We’ll be back in half an hour or so.’ Oh well, he did that it would be easier if there were two of us. ‘You know … in case we have to split them up.’ Yeah, thanks, Brian.
‘Well, Eloise, your drink seems to have evaporated. Perhaps I can get you another.’
For a moment or two, Eloise looked as if she was going to say no. But then, once again, her face lit up like the sun breaking through a bank of clouds. ‘Why, thank you, George. That would be very nice.’
I returned the cooking lager that Brian had bought me and got the barman to pull me a pint of Pedigree. ‘And whatever the young lady’s having,’ I said.
‘That’ll be Bacardi, lime, and soda,’ the barman said.
I also bought a couple of bags of salt ‘n’ vinegar crisps. ‘I didn’t have time for lunch,’ I explained to Eloise.
‘Oh, you don’t need an excuse to eat crisps,’ she said. ‘At least I don’t.’ And she laughed again.
For the next 20 or 25 minutes, Eloise and I sipped our drinks, munched the crisps, and chatted like a couple of old friends. And then my phone rang. It was Brian. He was half whispering – as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear him.
‘Terry’s just going to show Janey and couple of flats,’ he said. ‘And then I’m thinking that I might see if I can get my leg over. We seem to be getting on rather well.’
‘And so when are you planning to be back here?’ I asked.
‘Umm … probably not.’
‘Not at all?’
‘No.’
‘Gee, thanks,’ I said. And I pressed the Call End button. ‘It seems that we have been abandoned.’
‘Abandoned?’ Eloise said.
‘Brian and your friend …’
‘Janey.’
‘Yes. Janey. They’ve gone to look at flats. And they’re probably not coming back. Well … not today, anyway.’
Eloise briefly frowned – as if she was having difficulty in making sense of it all. But then her smile returned and she shrugged her shoulders. ‘Oh well … in that case I’d better buy you a drink. What was it? Pedigree?’
A few days later, Brian told me that his attempt to help Janey find a flat to buy turned into a bit of a nightmare. ‘Boy, that woman is high maintenance,’ he said. ‘Buckingham Palace wouldn’t be good enough for her. Just because her family owns half of Bedfordshire.’
‘Do they?’
‘Apparently.’
‘I take it that you didn’t get your leg over then.’
Brian grunted and took another sip of his beer. ‘Oh, and sorry to leave you with her fat friend,’ he said.
‘Eloise?’
‘Was that her name?’
‘Yeah. And she was actually quite nice.’
‘Really?’ Brian looked surprised.
‘Yeah, really.’ I didn’t mention that Eloise and I had sort of hit it off and that we were going to catch up for a drink at her Shepherd’s Bush local on Saturday afternoon.
‘OK. Whatever,’ Brian said. (Brian often said whatever.) ‘But I still feel bad about it, so I’ve bought us a couple of tickets for the Middlesex match on Saturday.’
‘This Saturday?’
‘Yeah. This Saturday. They’re playing Sussex.’
‘Yeah. But no, I can’t do Saturday. Sorry. Not this Saturday.’
‘Why not?’
‘Umm …’ Why couldn’t I? Good question. ‘My aunt. Aunt Gemma. Yes, she’s coming up to town. It’s her once-a-year thing. You know how it is. Wants me to have lunch with her.’
‘Well, why don’t I see if I can get another ticket, and then we can have lunch at Lord’s.’
‘No. That wouldn’t work. Aunt Gemma hates cricket. Look why don’t you take your new friend Janey. Give you another chance to have a go at getting your leg over. Not at the cricket, of course. That might be a bit unseemly. But afterwards perhaps.’
‘I gather she only likes sport if she’s watching it from a corporate box. You know … a glass of fizz, some smoked salmon, a bit of caviar.’
‘Take a hamper,’ I suggested.
On Saturday, I made sure that I was out of the flat just after midday. I also turned off my phone. I didn’t want Brian catching me out. I ambled down New Bond Street, Old Bond Street, and then across to galleryland. Moseying around some of the smart dealer galleries used up close to two hours, and then I burned off another three-quarters of an hour – give or take – at a half-decent coffee shop. From there, I headed out to Shepherd’s Bush via Bond Street and White City.
From the Tube station, it w
as about a five minute walk to Eloise’s local. And I must say that it was a pleasant surprise. It was one of those traditional pubs that had been modernised – but not too much. It was like a cross between a traditional London pub and an All Bar One. And it had two big-screen TVs, both showing the cricket.
It had only just gone four, and Eloise and I had agreed to meet at 4:30, so I ordered myself a pint and sat down to watch the match. Middlesex were 198 for four, chasing 278. The required run rate was just over 8.
‘A doddle,’ said a voice behind me. ‘Still six batsmen back in the hutch. It’s a done deal.’
I turned around and there was Eloise. ‘So you’re a cricket fan?’ I said.
‘Oh yeah.’
‘Well, in that case, you keep an eye on this and I’ll go and get you a drink. What will it be?’
‘Thank you. A pint of Stella would be nice.’
‘Not Bacardi, lime, and soda?’
‘Only when I’m drinking with Janey. She doesn’t approve of women drinking beer.’
Eloise was right. Middlesex got home with nine balls to spare. ‘What did I tell you?’ she said.
‘You said it was a done deal. And you were right. I think we should celebrate.’ I gathered up our glasses and headed back to the bar.
‘You missed a good game,’ Brian said when I caught up with him a few days later.
‘Yeah, it looked like a good game. I caught the last hour or so on TV,’ I said.
‘Right. And how was your aunt?’
‘Oh, pretty much as always.’
‘Pity she doesn’t like cricket.’
I nodded. ‘And how are things going with the lovely Janey?’
‘They’re not really. I think I’ll have to mark that one down to experience. But I met this real stunner at The Volunteer. On the way back from the cricket. She was with this bloke. But he was a bit of a damp squib. And I managed to get her phone number.’
‘So … all set then.’
‘Yeah. I just need to work out a bit of a plan. Shouldn’t be too difficult.’
‘Good luck,’ I said.
I wasn’t really surprised when Eloise phoned to invite me for supper.
‘Say seven o’clock?’
‘Yeah, fine,’ I said. ‘Can I bring anything?’
‘Just you.’
‘What colour wine.’
‘Up to you,’ she said. ‘I’m thinking that I might do something with duck. But, as I say, up to you.’
Duck? I immediately thought pinot noir. Full of flavour, but not too heavy. I was pretty sure that I still had a couple of bottles of gold medal-winning New Zealand pinot noir in my mini ‘cellar’ under the stairs. Yes, one of those should do nicely.
More by luck that judgement, I arrived at Eloise’s Shepherd’s Bush flat pretty much on the stroke of seven.
‘Gosh, is it that time already?’ she said. ‘I was going to have everything ready for when you arrived but, as usual, I’m a bit behind.’
‘That’s OK,’ I said. ‘I could just hang out here in the street for half an hour or so.’
Eloise laughed. I liked that about her. Eloise laughed a lot.
‘You’ll just have to come into the kitchen and supervise,’ she said.
I thought that my kitchen was small, but Eloise’s galley kitchen made a telephone box look spacious.
‘There’s beer in the fridge,’ she said. ‘And glasses are in the cupboard in the living room, just around the corner. You’re in charge.’
I grabbed a couple of glasses and a couple of bottles of Peter Pickleman light stout from the six-pack in the fridge. ‘I assume that you’d like one.’
‘Does that Pope fellow have a balcony?’
I poured two beers and passed one of them to Eloise.
‘Cheers,’ she said.
‘Cheers.’
Eloise took a sip (well, a draft, really) and went back to chopping (with considerable expertise) a couple of shallots and an assortment of mushrooms. And then, from a pot of barely simmering water, she produced a couple of bright green plastic-wrapped ‘sausages’.
‘Looks interesting,’ I said.
‘Duck breasts,’ she said, ‘wrapped in savoy cabbage leaves.’ She stabbed one of the fat sausages with a meat thermometer and watched, intently, as the needle rose. It stopped at 55°C. ‘That should do it.’
From the unsteady stack of pots and pans atop the refrigerator, she took a couple of medium-sized pans and placed them onto the gas hob. Into one of the pans she put a slosh of olive oil and a knob of butter. Then, when the butter had almost melted, she added the finely-chopped shallots. Three or four minutes later, she added the chopped mushrooms and a liberal grind of salt and pepper. And then, after another couple of minutes, she added half a cup of cream.
‘Damn. I meant to add some thyme,’ she said. ‘Oh well … better late than never.’ And she plucked a sprig of fresh thyme from a pot on the windowsill and stripped the tiny leaves into the gently simmering mushroom mixture.
‘You’re quite the little Master Chef,’ I said.
Eloise laughed. ‘I wouldn’t say that. But I do like food. Which is probably why I’m not the little anything. I thought you would have worked that out by now.’
Like food? Yes, one only had to see her at work in the kitchen. But more than that, I got the impression that Eloise liked life. And she liked it in generous portions.
‘Right. Off, off, and down,’ she said, turning off two of the gas burners, and turning the third, the one below the empty pan, to its lowest setting. ‘I thought we’d finish off our beer with a few oysters – au naturel – and then we can move on to the duck.’
‘Hence your choice of the Pickleman.’
‘OK?’ she asked.
‘Oh, very OK,’ I said. ‘Very OK indeed.’
Eloise produced a large platter of chilled oysters on the half shell. I gathered up our beer and followed her through the living room and out onto the small flag-stoned patio beyond the French doors.
The oysters were delicious. ‘And I love this dressing,’ I said. ‘Sort of sweet and hot and salty all at the same time. And yet it doesn’t overpower the oysters.’
Eloise smiled and nodded. ‘Basically, wasabi, Mirren, and soy. As you say: sweet, hot, and salty. It works well, doesn’t it? It also works with things like tempura prawns.’
There must have been about 18 oysters on the platter, but it wasn’t long before it was just a platter of empty shells. They were perfect.
‘Right, now let’s go and finish off the duck,’ Eloise said. ‘Or you can just sit here if you like.’
‘No. I’d like to watch,’ I said. ‘I’m intrigued.’
Back in the tiny kitchen, Eloise turned up the heat under the empty pan. Then, with a hand blitzer, she reduced the mushroom and cream mixture to a smooth sauce. Into the heating pan she tossed some thin strips of something. ‘Duck skin,’ she said. ‘It makes a nice garnish.’
As the duck skin strips started to crisp up, she undid the cling film wrap from the duck breast and cabbage ‘sausages’. She trimmed off the rounded ends, and then cut each of the sausages into three portions.
Two warm plates were produced from the oven and a generous sweep of the mushroom sauce was spread on each plate. The duck and cabbage rounds were placed – artistically – on top of the swooshes of sauce.
‘Oops! I almost forgot the spuds,’ she said, reaching for the Start button on the microwave. ‘I know that some people look down on using a microwave but, for some things, I think they’re brilliant.’
Another couple of shakes of the pan in which the duck skin was crisping, and it was time to spoon the contents out onto a stack of folded sheets of paper towel. ‘Almost there. Have you got the wine open?’
From the microwave, came what appeared to be a perfectly reheated pommes purée. Eloise grinned. ‘See. That’s what a microwave can do.’ She spooned some of the purée onto each plate, and then scattered the slivers of crisp duck skin over the top of everything.
‘Right, time to eat,’ she said.
And so we did. The food was excellent, the company was delightful, and the wine choice – even if I do say so mys
elf – was spot on, the Central Otago pinot noir complementing the duck and mushroom perfectly.
‘Tell me about your friend Janey,’ I said as I scraped the last of the delicious sauce from my plate.
Eloise frowned slightly and seemed a little disappointed. ‘Did she phone you?’
‘Did she phone me? No. Why would she phone me?’
‘Oh. I just thought that she might have. She asked me for your number.’
‘Oh,’ I said. And then after a while I said: ‘Are you sure that she didn’t mean Brian? Are you sure that it wasn’t Brian’s number that she wanted?’
Eloise laughed. ‘No. She had some … well … not very nice things to say about Brian. It seems he may have misread her intentions slightly.’
I nodded. ‘He does sometimes rush in where angels fear to tread.’
Eloise laughed again. ‘So, what do you want to know?’
‘Well, for a start, how do you come to know each other?’
‘We met at Cambridge.’
‘University?’
Eloise nodded. ‘And then when I had been at GSK for about six months, Janey turned up there too.’
From Eloise’s smile, I think I must have looked a bit surprised. ‘I see. So Janey works at GSK too?’
‘Yes. She’s also a biochemist. We even worked on the same project for a year or so – although she’s working on something else now.’
‘I didn’t realise,’ I said. ‘I mean that she was a biochemist.’
Eloise laughed. ‘You thought that she was just a lady who lunched?’
‘Well … I certainly didn’t pick her for a scientist. From what Brian said, I got the impression that she was … well … yes, a lady who lunched. I suppose. I gather she comes from a rather well-to-do family.’
‘With her champagne tastes, it’s probably just as well,’ Eloise said. ‘But that doesn’t stop her from being a bloody good biochemist.’
‘So, is she … umm … Doctor Janey?’
Eloise nodded. ‘Penelope Jane Mathilda Morris, PhD.’
Eloise’s revelations were interesting. In fact, they were very interesting. I had completely misjudged Janey. As, indeed, it seemed had Brian.
But the ‘Janey diversion’ had also introduced a moment of hesitation into the course of my evening with Eloise. I was no longer sure where it was headed. Eloise and I had hit it off from that first half hour in The Squirrel – the half hour in which we had been abandoned but hadn’t yet realised it. And things had just got better from there. But now … well … I suddenly started to worry that perhaps I may have misread Eloise’s intentions (as Brian had misread Janey’s). Were we heading for Eloise’s bedroom? Or were we destined to become ‘just good friends’?
Janey did phone me. ‘I need to talk,’ she said. ‘That place …? What was it? The Squirrel’s Drey?’
‘The Squirrel. Yes.’
‘Seven o’clock this evening?’
By the time that Janey arrived, it was more like 7:30. But, hey, that’s London for you.
‘So what are your intentions?’ she said, as I placed a glass of the house fizz in front of her.
‘My intentions?’
‘You know what I mean. Where are you going with Eloise?’
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I think that might be up to Eloise.’
Janey tilted her head back and looked at me down her elegant patrician nose. ‘Up to Eloise?’
‘Well … sort of,’ I said.
‘Do you like her?’
‘Do I like her? Yes. Very much. But, look, I’m not sure why we are having this discussion.’
‘Because Eloise is my friend,’ Janey said.
‘I rather gathered that.’
‘And I don’t like to see my friends being messed about. I don’t like to see them getting hurt.’
For a split second, I was tempted to say: ‘In that case, maybe you should look the other way.’ But I didn’t. Whatever it was that Janey was trying to say, it seemed to be really important to her. ‘And so what does this have to do with my intentions?’ I asked.
‘Eloise is a good woman,’ Janey said. ‘Intelligent … warm … witty.’
‘You and I are on the same page,’ I told her.
‘But for … well … for almost as long as I can remember, she has struggled with men. She has always been what might be described as a big girl. At university, there was a certain coterie that always referred to her as Ellie. Not Ellie for Eloise, but Ellie for elephant.
‘And, as Ellie the Elephant, she was always accepted at the pub and, often, as the object – and, yes, that’s what it came down to: object – of an after-pub fuck by some chap who should have known better.’
I said nothing.
‘The point is … most men seem to have a preference for … well … less generously proportioned women than Ellie. Your friend Brian is typical of that kind of man. He keeps referring to Ellie as ‘the fat chick’.’
Elle
- 31.08.2021
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