Davina Does Scotland

Chapter Forty-Six

Technically Kat's contract ended the day before my birthday. Steve, the Head of IT, agreed she could do one more day to attend my "presentation". And how embarrassing was that! The previous year had been bad enough, and that had only really been marked by fellow techies; my twenty-first had people attending from lots of different departments.

And yes, I did have to wear a badge with "21" on it . . . a bloody great big one that was readable from four hundred yards!

Then our working day was over. I rushed off to night class, meeting Kat afterwards in our local before dragging her to my new home and having her on that table . . . and on the kitchen floor . . . not making it halfway into the bedroom before having her again . . .

And then it was morning and a cab arrived to whisk her away to the airport.

That sense of finality had become enormous. It hung over me like the blackest of storm clouds. Eating breakfast on my own was heart-breaking; I nearly burst out in sobs when the café owner stopped and asked me where my friend was. Walking to work alone was just as bad.

This is it, I thought. This is how life is going to be from now.

For all her promises I genuinely believed Kat was gone for good. Never mind the everyday risks she was running of being abroad: beautiful, goddess-like Kat wasn't going to come back to cartoon-faced Dave. She was as gone as Stan and Bethany. And she was destined for better than me. Heck, she'd probably only left those few items of clothing because they wouldn't fit in her rucksack.

Me and my inadequate self-image!

My colleagues in IT all knew, of course. Most of them acted as if I'd been bereaved, greeting me with nods or thin smiles and generally keeping out of my way. That was preferable to being sympathized with, I suppose, but I must admit it was a relief when I got a call to Lending.

The problem was only a minor one: a new starter's PC wouldn't work. I didn't hurry much in fixing it and then stopped off at the drinks machine on my way back to IT. And didn't I curse when I realized I'd got the usual two cups instead of just one!

Taking a seat on a nearby window ledge I opted to drink the evidence. Would Kat have re-joined the Mile High Club yet? I wondered. She'd had no other partners in the last year; I was as good as certain of that. And she openly confessed to liking the occasional hard dick. Maybe some co-pilot was getting lucky right at that moment.

Then I recalled my own year without other partners and tried to work out whether all of my old school chums would have gone back to uni, after their long summer break. I had got a little out of touch, you see. That is to say I had let everyone know I was in a serious-ish relationship and they'd all obligingly kept their distance.

Sara was on the train when I rang. 'That's too bad,' she said, 'I won't be home again until December. I'll gladly attend to your Christmas box then . . . as long as you wear your Christmas stockings for me.'

Meryl sounded as if she was in a disco (really, and it wasn't ten in the morning!).

'Birmingham,' she said when asked where he was. 'I'll be back in November, for my mum's birthday.'

Before I could try Ellie an email arrived. I blinked when I saw who it was from. Margot had not made any sort of contact in over fifteen months. She didn't even know about Kat because I hadn't bothered telling her.

Yet here she was, only a few hours after I became single again . . .

I honestly do not know if Margot had been keeping tabs on me. It is quite possible she knew someone who worked at the building society and had been tipped off. She was crafty enough to play that sort of game but, when I eventually asked her, she swore it was coincidence.

Anyway, I opened her message and read:

"Guess who's been a naughty girl? I deserve and desperately need spanking. 9:30 in the BH?"

I hesitated a moment. Margot was scheming, conniving and probably wouldn't have had her nails cut short since she'd last clawed me; in fact she'd more likely have had them sharpened. Did I really need her silliness and sexual demands at a time like this?

Too right I did! I kept my response concise and to the point.

"I'll be there. Bring a toothbrush."

*****

As it turned out, Margot's old, rich and single man wasn't all it said on the can. Ray was, according to her, old enough to retire if he hadn't worked for himself.

'Not that he's past it,' she added, lying side by side with me during a break in our renewed activities. 'He has no problem getting it up and keeping it up. But I don't suppose you want to know about that, do you?'

Hoping my freshly raked back wasn't bleeding too heavily onto the duvet, I confirmed I had no interest in the abilities of Ray's private parts.

Margot duly moved on to her second-favourite subject: money. Apparently Ray's house was virtually a mansion but still had years of mortgage on it. And his first wife still didn't only just own fifty per cent of his company; she was obviously the one who wore the trousers when it came to decision-making.

Even worse, his second wife hadn't got round to divorcing him yet. Instead she'd been down in Puerto Banus for the last three years, spending his dosh like there was no tomorrow.

'You said you'd been naughty,' I prompted, realizing we had skipped the spanking in favour of frenetic tongue-lashings.

Suitably encouraged, Margot told me about Ray's cocktail party, held on Midsummer's Eve. As it was mostly for business acquaintances, his first wife had been there with her "toy boy". Playing her part as "toy girl", Margot had helped meet and greet and couldn't help but notice the very last arrival.

'It was only his mistress,' she said, incredulously. 'She's a dead-ringer for Marilyn Monroe . . . and a twenty-five-year-old Marilyn Monroe at that.'

Naturally Marilyn hadn't been invited, but Ray didn't want to make a scene in front of guests (and his ex), so he let her saunter in and help herself to Moet and canapés.

'I bumped into her when I went out on the terrace for a ciggie,' said Margot. 'I thought she was after a fight but, once I gave her a light she was as nice as could be. We ended up exchanging numbers and she told me to call in next time I was in Gargrave.'

I could guess what was coming but asked anyway.

'Yes,' Margot grinned, 'I'm fucking my boyfriend's mistress once a week . . . in the lovely little cottage that he bought for her. So now do I get my spanking?'

Chapter Forty-Seven

After night school on Wednesday I went home alone and had an early night. That left me full of beans for Thursday and just as well . . . that's when I got my first overnight stay.

As background, the building society's outlets each had a "branch computer" and networked PCs. In theory the physical kit was systematically replaced every few years, long before the manufacturers' warranties ran out. That meant that product failures were addressed under warranty and us techies were rarely physically called out.

In practice the global meltdown was still very much happening and replacements of all kinds had been put on hold. That meant that aging bits of kit were no longer guaranteed and callouts were becoming more and more frequent, as more and more things wore out.

Between us the Head Office techies had a rota to support the branches during opening hours. As we were paid a premium for that, we didn't mind. Like everywhere else, overtime had got hard to come by but we had it written into our job description. And it was always good to get out and about, even if the calls weren't quite as frequent as I just made them sound.

Anyhow, by that particular Thursday my entire callout career totalled three visits, all of them relatively local, with the most remote being in Nottingham. The question of staying over hadn't arisen. Then, on a day when I was top of the rota, we got a call from Aberdeen.

'They have a big promotion tomorrow,' my line-manager told me, 'and their systems have crashed. A woman on the ground is desperately needed, and you are she.'

I didn't bother asking if anyone had tried a remote fix. The guys on the IT Help Desk were very good and past masters of remote fixes. If they couldn't sort the problem centrally, nobody could.

'Aberdeen,' I echoed, trying to picture it on a map.

'They need you yesterday and it's too late in the day to drive,' my manager went on. 'Mick's ordered you a cab and he is booking your flight even as we speak.' He passed me the magic Callout Credit Card. 'You'll need this for expenses and a hotel room. Go to a Travelodge if you can find one; we get a discount and the accountants like that. Here's some cash for taxis and the likes. Sign on the dotted line, please.'

I took five slightly tatty tenners and signed a chitty. 'Aberdeen,' I said again.

'The card works contactless up to twenty pounds.' He gave me the PIN for larger transactions. 'And a word to the wise; anything you buy up to fifty quid will sail past the bean counters. So feel free to take the branch manager out for a bite to eat once you've done.'

I raised an eyebrow at that.

'You won't be able to start until the branch closes,' my manager explained. 'And the place is virtually a bank; the guy's been there forever and won't just leave you there, unaccompanied. He'll stay with you until you have done everything you can. Feeding him afterward is only polite.'

*****

I would be fibbing if I said I didn't enjoy the jet set lifestyle. Ten minutes after being briefed a taxi was whisking me away to Leeds-Bradford, dropping me off close to the entrance (as close as permitted by the very visibly armed police, anyway). Then I was inside and the girl on the flight desk was expecting me, saying I had just quarter of an hour to board but not to worry, "Jason" would escort me every step of the way.

Before I knew it we'd landed in Scotland. Free from the worries of Customs or Passport Control, I was able to saunter straight out of ABZ and into the first cab on the rank. I told the driver where I wanted to go but he stopped me before I could give him the address.

'I know where it is, lassie,' he said in a pleasant burr of an accent. 'Don't ye worry; I'll get you there in one piece, safe and sound.'

He did, too. Settling up, I looked at the familiar branch façade: it was exactly the same as the one in Bingley Main Street. Taking a deep-ish breath, very aware the locals were depending on me, I went in through the plate glass door.

*****

The customer-facing area was open-plan and totally dominated by women. While I was vainly looking around, trying to spot a grizzle-faced Scotsman, a very attractive female rose from her chair.

'Please,' she said, 'tell me you're Dave from Head Office.'

I smiled at her because it was impossible not to. 'I'm Davina from Head Office,' I said, hoping to avoid the "I thought you were a bloke" conversation. 'But you're welcome to call me Dave.' Then, less than smoothly, I added, 'Is the manager about?'

The woman held out her right hand. 'I am the manager,' she said, 'and have I got a problem for you.'

'Hi,' I said, taken aback.

'Sue Johnston,' she replied, taking my hand and shaking it.

Sue ushered me into her swivel chair then, leaning across me, tapped her keyboard until a dropdown menu appeared.

'All the society's systems, right?' she said.

I nodded. There were ten or so lines on that menu, all of them familiar to me.

'This one works,' she went on, clicking on the third one down, opening a welcome screen. 'And so does this one . . .'

I watched as she demonstrated that four out of a dozen systems let her in and the rest did not. Then she asked Sandra, the girl at the next desk, to repeat the exercise. Sandra could only get into three of the systems, all different to the ones Sue could access.

'It's the same for all of us. We get three or four each but not the same ones. And nobody can get onto Possum. Did you hear it's a promotion day tomorrow? Without Possum we're doomed.'

Sue's accent was gorgeous. Even so, I had to smile when she said "doomed". It made me think of the re-runs of that old Home Guard series.

'It's got to be the branch computer,' I said aloud. 'I'll need to take it offline and investigate.'

'You'll need to wait 'til five, then,' said Sue. 'Let's go and drink coffee.' Then, her brown eyes flashing: 'God, what am I like! Have you eaten yet?'

By then it was four in the afternoon. I admitted I'd got the call immediately before lunch and, airline peanuts aside, hadn't properly dined. Sue took me into the back office/kitchen area and produced a Tupperware box of salmon and cucumber sandwiches.

'I was too worried to eat,' she said, 'you have them.'

I told her to stop worrying and insisted we shared them. She, reluctantly at first, complied and soon we were chatting as if we were old mates. Sue was, I discovered, thirty. She had been at the branch six years and manager for three months. Archie, the previous manager, had been in charge for ever and a day. Tomorrow was her first big promotional event; if it went wrong . . .

By that stage my attraction to the woman was becoming dangerous. She had short black hair and, on first sight, seemed to be petite. But in reality she wasn't much shorter than me. That voice of hers was addictive and her ass was as pert as could be. And yes, I know what you're thinking . . . I had noticed her tits; for a slender woman they seemed to be beyond splendid, into miraculous.

The only negative thing I could see about Sue was her wedding ring. Disappointing or what? Thirty years old and married; she probably had kids, PTA meetings, child-minders and all sorts of similar crap occupying her mind.

How unfair!!

Chapter Forty-Eight

Five o'clock rolled around and the rest of Sue's team left. Only Sandra paused to say goodbye to me and I didn't miss the way she said it. Although perfectly presented . . . as were all her colleagues . . . Sandra had the look of a punk about her. I found it only too easy to picture her with hair spiked up and face caked in eyeliner, pogoing away with the likes of Meryl.

Dismissing her from my head, I set to work.

Now, for reasons of confidentiality, I'm not going to tell you what the system problem was. Let's just say it took two hours to locate and revolved around one supposedly unbreakable component.

'It works with it taken out,' I said to Sue, 'but everything's still haywire when I put it back in.'

Sue had been drowning me in Kenyan coffee. She had just tried all her team's PCs and knew I was right. 'So what happens if we leave it taken out?' she wondered.

'It weakens a firewall,' I said, 'not massively, but a bit. In the unlikely event of a hack, the hacker may have his chances doubled from none to slim.'

Sue asked for odds and I said branches got on average three unsuccessful attacks a year. She rang her boss at that; he said to leave the component out but to replace it as soon as humanly possible.

I rang the appropriate manufacturer's 24 hour help desk and got a guy who clearly knew his onions.

'That component never fails,' he said, 'it's unbreakable.'

'Trust me,' I assured him, 'I'm looking at a broken one right now.'

I heard him tapping keys. 'Three broken in five years,' he resumed.

'Make it four; how quick can you get a replacement to Aberdeen?'

'It'll be there by tomorrow afternoon.'

'What if I bribe you with bottles of single malt?'

He laughed. 'Then I'd be eternally grateful, but it'll still be tomorrow afternoon.'

I rang off and turned to Sue. 'Do you think you could replace this part if I show you how?'

It was her turn to laugh. 'I've had my new car three years and I haven't yet opened the bonnet.'

'Okay then,' said I, 'here's the plan. I replace it now, so we're secure overnight. Then I remove it in the morning before you open. Then I hang around until the spare arrives and replace it as soon as I get a window of opportunity.'

'My hero,' said Sue. 'Can I feed and water you? My boss said I ought to.'

'My boss said something similar to me,' I replied.

*****

I sincerely do not want to offend any Scottish or Indian readers (or anyone else, for that matter), but I had wondered what to expect from a Bengal restaurant in Aberdeen. Would the waiters be in kilts? Or would the background music be the Bay City Rollers?

I needn't have worried. The place Sue took me to favourably compared with the better restaurants in Bradford (Bradford long being known as the Curry Capital of the UK). In fact it was right up there with the best one I'd ever been in, anywhere: up on the rooftop in my home town.

Rafiq, the head waiter, obviously knew Sue. He led us to a table under a propeller fan and bade us sit before flamboyantly presenting us with leather-bound menus.

'Will it be Cobra?' he asked.

Sue looked at me. 'Do you drink pints?'

I grinned at her. 'I'm a Yorkshire lassie; of course I drink pints.'

As if by magic two brimming glasses appeared together with a basket of poppadums.

'Please,' said Rafiq,' 'tell me when you are ready to order.'

Sue showed no sign of opening her menu. Guessing they were waiting for me, I said, 'Mixed tikka as a starter, followed by Keema Madras.'

Rafiq bowed his head. 'Where in West Yorkshire are you from?' he asked.

I frowned at that. I hadn't mentioned "West" at all. There again, despite his local twang, his command of English was as good as mine. He probably knew British accents better than I did.

'I'm from North Yorkshire at the moment,' I conceded, 'but I was brought up in Bingley.'

'The Shama,' he cried delightedly.

'I used to go there all the time,' said I.

'It is owned by a friend of a friend's friend,' Rafiq told me. 'And if you go there you won't want rice, will you? Is it two chapattis or three?'

'Three please,' I said.

'What was that all about?' Sue asked when he'd retreated.

'I think he was trying to impress me with his culinary knowledge,' I replied. 'In fact he did impress me.'

'I think he was trying to get into you knickers,' Sue responded, swigging beer and chuckling.

As if I would have reacted to a prompt like that!

*****

Our meals were fantastic and, after tossing to determine the privilege, I settled the bill on the Callout Credit Card. Then, with Sue alternately saying "the night is young" and "I have to be up with the larks in the morning", we retraced our steps towards the branch, stopping outside a good-looking pub.

'The Bonnie Prince,' said, I, 'wasn't he the enemy of all Sassenachs?'

'Round here "Sassenachs" isn't an insult,' she assured me. 'It's people from Edinburgh we distrust. A Yorkshire lassie like you will be made welcome with open arms.'

I was, too. We had perhaps an hour and at least four pints of Deuchars. Then, conscious it was going on for ten o'clock and Sue really did have to be up early, I feigned a yawn.

'Me too,' she said. 'I'll get a taxi and we'll have a wee nightcap while we're waiting.'

Twenty minutes later we were outside at the exact second a cab drew up. Greeting the Asian driver as "Fraser", Sue said, 'Drop me at home and my saviour at the Travelodge.'

Fraser's English was as perfect as Rafiq's. Or should I say his Scottish? He rabbited away ten to the dozen as he drove, using the odd word that Sue understood but left me completely bamboozled. Not that I was complaining. I was well fed and watered and at peace with the world.

Sue's place was in a large granite block. She thanked Fraser as he pulled up outside then turned to me.

'I mean it,' she said, 'you are my saviour.'

Then, to my amazement, she kissed me on the mouth and was gone.

Chapter Forty-Nine

It didn't take me long to check in to the hotel. Valiantly walking past the bar I quickly found my room, shrugged off my clothes and tucked myself up in bed.