Simply Anna Read online



  Copyright © 2017 by Cristina Hodgson

  Artwork and Design: Coffee

  Editors: Sue Barnard

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for brief quotations used for promotion or in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  About the Author

  Simply Anna

  Dedication

  For the reader: the only one who can enter the writer's world of solitude and leave the door open for others to follow.

  About the Author

  Cristina Hodgson, mother of two, born in Wimbledon, London, currently lives in southern Spain. Cristina had a long career in sport, reaching national and international level and still actively participates in Triathlon races and enjoys outdoor activities. In her spare time she also enjoys reading and writing. She won a sports scholarship to Boston College. After a period in Boston, she returned to the UK and graduated from Loughborough University with a degree in Sports Science.

  A Little of Chantelle Rose is her debut novel. Amazingly, it has nothing to do with running!

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  Simply Anna

  By

  Cristina Hodgson

  I glanced from the mirror over to the clock and squeaked in horror. Christ, he was going to be here in about five minutes and I couldn't get this bloody face mask off! I looked as though I’d just turned into the wife of the Incredible Hulk. Somehow I’d even managed to get great lumps of the home-made avocado face mask stuck in my hair, making it look like I’d just sneezed backwards on myself, if that was physically possible. I didn’t think you could sneeze upwards and backwards – unless, of course, you were on a fairground ride and you were actually upside down. In which case, a little bit of snot in your hair was almost certainly the very last thing you’d be worried about.

  Why on earth had I thought that trying a home-made face mask was such a good idea the very day I was meeting Nick (or rather Niccolo) for a drink? Well, it had been a drink up until about ten minutes ago, when he’d texted me asking me if dinner would be better. The buzz of the text had startled me awake. I’d managed to doze off without setting an alarm, and now he was arriving at any moment and I looked like a green pea, with matching big green eyes.

  I jumped into the shower, mentally running through my wardrobe trying desperately to think of the best thing to wear. A little black dress was always going to be the best bet (especially for an out-of-the-blue dinner date), and I’d just picked mine up from the dry cleaners a few days earlier. So as it was probably the only item in my wardrobe which was clean and immaculately pressed, it was by far the safest and most practical option. I’d just go for the windswept look with my mousy brown hair. Or rather (considering it was now getting soaked under the shower as I desperately tried to remove the face mask, and there was no chance I’d be able to dry it in time) the wet look. I just hoped Niccolo wouldn’t interpret it as the drowned rat look.

  As I frantically tried to dry myself and change into my little black number (which, to my horror, seemed to have shrunk somewhat despite the dry clean; it was either that or, to my even greater horror, I’d put on a couple of pounds), I scolded myself for getting into such a flap because Niccolo was taking me out. I didn’t even want to contemplate it being a “date.” I didn’t need to get myself more excited than I already was.

  I was actually rather confused that Niccolo wanted to take me out. We’d met six months ago, when his Mercedes Jeep bumped right into my little Corsa at a red light in the middle of Kingston. I was priding myself that, for once, I was going to be on time for work. But of course, I wasn’t.

  I’d got out of my car in a blazing temper.

  “You cannot be serious!” I’d exclaimed, reminding myself of John McEnroe’s tennis vocabulary, as I surveyed the damage. “The light was red!”

  And out of the Mercedes stepped this guy who looked like a Greek god. I was stunned into silence for a moment as I took in the tall and well-built frame, coupled with the tanned skin and sun-bleached blond hair which couldn’t possibly have been the result of any beach in Britain. I figured he was probably in his early thirties (a few years older than me), and was dressed in an extremely expensive-looking executive suit.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  I could trace a slight accent in his quick, smooth reply. Italian, perhaps? That would explain the sun-tan, which was a relief for me as I didn’t want to imagine this Greek god lounging under a sunbed. It didn’t go with any of the possible fantasies I was conjuring up in the split second that I’d seen him.

  Why he was wearing shades in this cloudy weather was another mystery, but it probably explained why he’d driven straight into my rear bumper. He obviously couldn't see where the hell he was going. Just as I was thinking this, he took his shades off. His eyes were dark brown, almost black, a contrast to the blond hair, which probably meant that the Californian highlights had come out of a bottle.

  In all honesty, I wasn’t too sure if this mixture of looks was appealing or not. Too high-maintenance, Anna my pet, as my Nan, God bless her, would have warned me. But in any case, I was letting my thoughts run away with me. The likelihood of bumping into him again, or rather him into me, were slim.

  “The insurance will cover the damage,” he continued in his enticing voice as I caught him sneaking a glance at my rear. Not that I really minded him looking, especially considering how lush I found the whole of him, but really, it should have been my car’s rear that he should have been examining!

  “You mean your insurance.” I corrected. Though I wasn’t too sure who was going to “cover my rear” at work this morning. And so, yet again, I arrived late. Not my normal five minutes (blame it on the City traffic lights), but a good hour over. Why is it that being late is fashionably acceptable, even recommended at times, in every social context, and yet, so unfortunate that this perception doesn’t transfer in quite the same way to the world of work? Especially for me, who has the art polished to perfection.

  Fashionable or not, it got me fired that very day, despite the evidence that for once it wasn't my fault. I'd always thought my boss was hard-nosed, and this pretty much confirmed it. Though now I could also add hard-hearted and inhuman. I'm not sure if the fact that I'd once turned him down for a dinner date has anything to do with it, or if he really thought I could make up a fantastic lie and reverse into a wall just to piss him off. Either way, I was fired, and there was sod-all I could do about it (except find myself a lawyer and press charges for discrimination in the workplace). But in all truth, I was actually relieved to get out of that suffocating job.

  That had been six months ago, and it had been the best day of my life. Not so much for the whip-lash to my neck that I'd had to endure for the next few days, or the humiliation of being told, right in front of my fellow work colleagues, that I was no longer employee of the month. Or, for that matter, employee at all. It was a telemarketing firm and every one of my colleges simultaneously picked up their earpieces and started dialling furiously whilst I walked out onto the street and into the pelting rain. But rather because it was the push I needed to sort myself out. An alarm clock set half an hour earlier would have worked wonders too, but it was a bit late for that.

  I dawdled on the street outside the telemarketing company for a while, getting drenched, much to the bewilderment of a couple of school
kids, who gave me an odd look as they ran past my sopping wet figure. They were obviously late too! I gave them a conspiratorial wink, but they just turned to each other and giggled, presumably thinking I was a bit cuckoo.

  As I stood there, I was overwhelmed with a feeling of freedom. Well, it was either that or panic. After all, my mortgage wasn't going to go away. So it was just as well that, despite the rather negative start to the day and the pissing rain, I was feeling optimistic. I’d got myself into that vicious circle of cosmopolitan life that many fall into: commuting to a job I really disliked, putting up with petty work adversaries, and getting paid crap! But now, thankfully, the chain had broken. Here was a golden opportunity to pursue the job of my dreams. Well, not exactly my “top” dream job of being a pop singer. Much as my Nan had said that I had a voice like a nightingale, let’s be honest, I didn't think I could ever rival Beyoncé or Taylor Swift. So I went for the next option on my list, which was slightly more realistic.

  I was a qualified primary school teacher. I know, don't ask me why I'd never got a teaching job before, but I was finishing my PGCE when my Nan took seriously ill, and she became my priority. Then the bills and mortgage became my priority, and one thing led to another, and before I knew it, career-wise I'd wasted three years of my life. So it was about time I put my vocation into practice. It was either finding some kind of teaching job or churning out half a dozen children of my own. As my love life was variable to non-existent, the first choice was going to be rather more achievable than the second – at least in the short term.

  With the chaos of job-hunting, and then finding and starting work at a local prep school, I'd completely forgotten about my prang with Niccolo.

  My car had been repaired, and as far as I was concerned that had been that. Until a week ago, when a text had arrived out of the blue, from a number I didn’t recognise, asking if the insurance had “fixed my rear”. For a panicky moment I wondered if this was some sort of practical joke and that someone thought I needed surgery of a more cosmetic nature on my behind. Although it didn't reach the fainting insurance figures of J-Lo, it was an asset I was very proud of. I felt quite humiliated that anyone would think I should alter it.

  I'd texted back saying my rear was in perfect condition, thank you very much, and that I'd been wolf-whistled at that very morning! The fact that the whistle came from a five-year-old kid in my class was irrelevant, and the fact that it didn't sound like a wolf-whistle at all, rather a “ffffff” “ffffff” spitting sound, is a matter of personal opinion.

  Then another text had come through asking to take me out for a drink, to make up for bumping into me and “denting” my boot, and this time it was signed “Nick”. A “dent” was a slight underestimate in my view: my whole boot had collapsed, as if a 6000 kg African bush elephant had sat on it.

  Why on earth did Mr Greek God want to take me out for a drink? Somewhere in the back of my mind a little warning bell rang. But as it was only faint, not like a red flag or anything, I didn't think twice and texted back: “OK”.

  That was when the red flag appeared. He was much too upmarket for me. Bit out of your league, poppet, as my Nan would have pointed out. He probably spoke five or six different languages, whereas I'm still struggling with the Queen’s English. Unless of course I've downed a pint or two, and then my “Pardon my French” gets pretty good.

  But what was the harm, I asked myself, in going for a drink with Mr Greek God? I'm sure he's harmless (at least when he's not behind the wheel). Surely one little drink wouldn't hurt.

  Except that now it wasn't a simple drink, it was dinner – and I was squeezing myself into a tiny black dress. When I zipped it up, I actually sighed with relief. I hadn’t put on any extra weight after all. I could confirm however, that this sexy number wasn’t mine! There had obviously been a mix up at the dry-cleaners; this dress showed off much more cleavage than I would have dared reveal, and the slit up the left leg certainly hadn’t been there before. My heart was pounding. There was no time to change. I was already going to have to go with the windswept look as it was.

  But at least my face was no longer green. It was pink. A very flushed pink, to be precise, as I’d had to really scrub it to get the bogie-looking mask off. I looked like I’d just sprinted around the block. It was either that or (and I hoped to God that he wouldn’t think it) like I’d just climaxed in orgasmic delight.

  The doorbell rang.

  I slipped on my shoes, grabbed my coat and handbag, took a deep breath and slowly made my way down the stairs. There was no need to rush, and it certainly wasn't the time to suss out if I still possessed any of my school days acrobatic skills by trying to dash down the stairs in break-neck heels and cartwheel off the last step. Why on earth I'd texted a complete stranger my home address instead of meeting him at some random restaurant was also beyond me. Clearly I’d lost not only my gymnastics ability, but also my common sense.

  I opened the door. I'd obviously been a spy in a previous life, because my observation skills were razor-sharp. In the split second that we stood in silence before greeting each other (if you can call “greeting” the little dance-like introduction we gave each other) I took in every detail of his appearance: his camel loafers, his beige trousers, the mirror shades tucked into the V of his cream jumper, his perfectly-groomed hair, brilliant white teeth, Hugo Boss cologne, the silver chain around his neck (at least he wasn't sporting a gold medallion) and his Emporio Armani wristwatch. I could go on, but just thinking about it again makes me feel a little breathless.

  I held my hand out to shake hands, but he leaned forward to kiss my cheek, which took me completely by surprise, causing me to step back a pace, my hand sandwiched between us, pressed against his firm chest, causing my heart to start pounding wildly. At the same time he handed me a huge bouquet of flowers, forcing me to rush back inside to put them in water. I didn't have a vase, and ended up dumping them in the kitchen sink.

  I was rude enough not to invite him in. It would do me no good to have him walk through my sitting room with the remaining evidence of the green bogie-looking face mask still on the coffee table, looking as though I'd sneezed everywhere and hadn't bothered to clean up. I just didn't think I could explain it and come out looking glamorous.

  I glanced at him again. Yes, definitely what Nan would have described as high maintenance. But I had to give it to him, he looked bloody gorgeous. I could hear Nan’s voice in my mind: Anna, my pet, this will only lead you to trouble.

  Quite right, I thought excitedly. But let me just figure it out for myself...