Is It Safe? Ch. 04

Next morning, Sunday, I stared in dismay at the dangling lightshade and blew at the auburn hair that invaded my mouth. It drifted up, paused and feathered down to the same place. I let it rest. I had greater problems than a lock of hair.

The hair's owner slid her arm across my chest, edged closer and giggled into my ear. "Morning, pet."

Pet? Urgh! Though her voice was soft and sensual, I was tetchy and the word rankled.

"Morning." I replied grudgingly.

Nina palmed my face around and fixed a soft hello kiss on my lips. "Do you know you snore?"

"So!" I challenged.

"Don't worry, no problems. Just as long as it doesn't become louder."

She kissed me on the cheek since my head had resumed its prior position. My eyes restored their glazed upward glare.

"Must rush," she said, as she skipped out of bed. "Some of us must work."

Great, she's leaving, I thought, Another advantage of Sunday opening at Waterstones.

Nina was on her way to the en-suite and, I confess, I allowed my gaze to fix itself on the french curves of her sweet bottom where they joined her slender legs.

She started the shower and returned en route to the landing. As she glided past the bed, I gourmandised my eyes. She was incredibly tasty.

"Need towels," she informed me, as the airing cupboard door creaked open. She drifted by with her face rumpling the towels. "These are gorgeous, Adam, so warm and soft."

Just like you, I was forced to admit, but didn't tell. Instead, I grunted.

She entered the en-suite and, within seconds, I heard the steady blast of water against the shower door.

Inside I groaned. It was the part I dreaded - the morning after. The previous evening, from the moment she stepped into the house, we knew what was supposed to happen. Her ESP notes had nothing to do with the house call. I may be too scared to ever make the running myself, but I'm not so stupid as to not know when a woman is interested. The whole time, until it happened, I kidded myself it wouldn't. I have the will power. I'll be polite, but show her the door at bedtime. Instead, I whisked her through the door into my bedroom. How pathetic am I!

I would have been ecstatic if she'd left after her shower and hushed, "That was nice. Let's do it again sometime." Contrary to that, it was obvious she wanted commitment - a word some women have commandeered for themselves. I doubted she'd settle for one night, for she'd already given me a sign, deliberate or not.

The other part of the problem was, in one way, I welcomed what occurred. Since Sandra divorced me, the women hadn't formed an orderly line down the drive. In fact, one woman, in or out of any queue, would have been pleasant. As they say, 'a bird in the hand ...'

As I pondered, the 'bird' was back, a king size bath towel wrapped snugly over her bosom and a hand towel around her head. I was forced to admit she was cute, fresh 'scrubbed' with the unadorned pinkness of her face and the slight smudges of freckles.

She dramatically flicked the towel from her head with one hand, shook her hair loose and there followed a stillness of probability. I fought it, but I knew a damned smile was tugging at my face muscles, and ... there it was. She watched it grow, and victorious, she let drop the restraining arm that bridled her modesty.

Later, I sat up in bed and watched her stoop to gather the scattered garments from the floor. She turned to face me and, without haste, reached into her clothes. I leered at this reverse striptease and was obliged to admit it was an excellent way to spend an easy Sunday morning.

Before she left, she enjoyed a long time look around the bedroom. "Love your house, Adam."

Did I detect her imagining herself living in it? I shuddered.

"I'll let myself out." She bent over me and my heart rate accelerated as the delicate texture of her tongue probed my lips. "See you this evening."

Was it a question? I guessed not. Nina didn't wait for a reply.

As she skipped down the stairs, I slid under the duvet and cursed my weakness. When was I going to bar my penis from doing my thinking for me? I vowed in future to insist I made the important decisions in my life.

After I heard her car sprint away, I slipped on my bathrobe and collected my notepad, plus Nina's notes. Neither were examined or discussed after her arrival.

I sat in bed, while I gawped at her notes. They were unreadable. Her scrawl seemed nothing more than a squiggled line which joined the right and left hand margins of the sheets. No doubt, she would translate that evening.

My own notes were better.

The gist of what I read was simple and illuminating, and confirmed what Nina had told me on our trip from Birmingham.

In a dream, lucid or not, the subconscious selects the environment and the people. In a normal dream the sleeper is unable to control what he or she does, however as soon as the dream is lucid, the subconscious loses control of the dreamer. From that point, he has free will. That's the exciting part, when a person is aware he has virtually unlimited power to do what he wants. In essence, he's able to indulge his own fantasies. What's more, whatever he does, there are no consequences, no punishment, nil payment.

However, there was an unforeseen problem which I didn't discover until after my arrival in Monaco. When I began to comprehend the difficulty, it was too late. My dilemma was my inability to control where I was, to be specific, where I lived. But, more on that later.

I wasn't to know that once I taught myself to lucid dream, I would go beyond the limits of the book learning into another unknown aspect of dreams. Many extraordinary experiences were ahead of me, filled with strong and contrasting emotions, some superb and others desperately poignant.

Day 3, Thursday

Next morning, Charlie and I checked on Dad. Mum's selection for his bedroom, was one of the larger guest rooms.

As we entered, the dogs followed. When Mum retired from nursing, and was alone during the day, she wanted the companionship of a dog. Colin, ever the image guru, reasoned a Great Dane would provide him with the air of the 'Lord of the Manor.' Not to be outdone by any of his neighbours, he bought two, a dog and a bitch, both fawns with rich golden coats. They never took to him because he refused to play with them when they were pups. They adored the rest of us - that included Dad who always fussed them when he visited.

Prospero and Portia went straight to Dad as he lay in the bed. The dogs sniffed around his face while their whip-like tails swung in the air, fortunately well away from ornaments. A Dane's tail will clear a coffee table in one movement.

While they slobbered over him, I scribbled a mental note to wash his face afterwards.

We were in the main part of the room where his bed was. It was against the wall, opposite a large window which overlooked the rear lawns. Down two steps was a lower level which also contained a picture window. That section of the room accommodated a square shaped table with two green leather chairs and, under the window, a dressing table.

"This is a great bedroom," Charlie observed.

"You're right. I'm going to nose around. There was no time yesterday."

In the lower section were two doors. Charlie entered the one nearest the window.

"It's the en-suite," she called.

I ambled through the other door into a room. where hidden lights illuminated automatically. It resembled an expensive gents' outfitters, an oblong dressing room which contained mahogany wardrobes on the long walls and mirrors on the others. It was superb.

Charlie followed. "Hey, this is great. Wish there was one in my room."

"What a shame Dad's unable to enjoy it?"

I was ready to snoop through the wardrobes when Mum shouted for Charlie.

"I'm in Dad's room," she hollered back.

The three of us assembled by the bed. With a single stroke, Mum tissued the dog drivel from Dad's face, straightened a sheet that was already orderly and eyed the rest of the bedroom. Mum's existence revolves around everything being proper - each object has its designated place within the Universe, and nothing aggrieves her more than finding that something has been misplaced.

"Charlie," she said, "are you ready?"

"Yes."

"We're going, Sam. I'll have my mobile if there's a problem."

"Thanks, Mum. Enjoy yourselves."

It was a clothes shopping expedition. Normally, I would have been keen to go with them, however someone was obligated to stay with Dad. Also, it was a favourable opportunity for further study of his research material. The plan was to take advantage of having the house to myself. It was a well thought out strategy, even though it failed.

As I heard Mum's car roar down the drive, I collected the satchel. On my way to the dining room, I opened the front door and left it wide.

My workplace was the dining room, chosen mainly for the ample working surface provided by the large table. Also, the room was a matchless vantage point. I didn't wish to be caught. The square hallway led onto four rooms: the cloakroom, sitting room, kitchen and, facing the front door, the dining room. With the front door ajar, I would be able to observe the return of Mum's car. I would have more than enough time to scoop up the books into the satchel and be in my bedroom by the time she reached the front door. That was the scheme.

I laid everything out and completed an inventory of books, folders and the single notepad, the focal point. I sat down, stretched out arms and legs and that's when my stomach beckoned me to eat. It was time for a snack.

I glanced over my shoulder at the dogs. They were outstretched on the lawn by the dining room, lazily enjoying the sun's warmth. As I stood, Prospero raised his head to investigate my movements, but decided it would take too much energy to lift himself and follow me. He allowed his head to fall to the grass and closed his eyes.

There was a breeze and I slid the patio door shut. I didn't want the loose papers to blow from the table.

In the kitchen, I put a tray on the work surface by the large window which overlooked the lawn, poured a glass of ice-cold milk and scooped a mix of biscuits from the barrel.

As I nibbled on a bourbon, I gazed out of the window.

There was a terrace which boundaried three sides of the house. Tom Devereau, the local window cleaner, was striding along the terrace as he headed for the swimming pool enclosure, fifty metres beyond the tennis courts. I idly watched his lanky frame disappear behind the hedge before I picked up my elevenses.

As I entered the doorway to the dining room, there was a violent shattering of glass. A patio door demolished in a shower of light and colour as the sun shone through the shards of glass. The simultaneous effect of noise and vision was so sudden, my mind was unable to assimilate the event and I instinctively ducked, threw my arms over my head as protection and shrieked. The clanging of the tray and its contents as they hit the ceiling and bounced to the floor, added to the commotion.

I continued to crouch as my mind absorbed the mess before me. Stretched along half the length of the dining table was an aluminium ladder. On the carpet was a scattering of books and papers, mixed with broken biscuits and tiny puddles of milk. There was a predominance of glass and there didn't appear to be any part of the floor that wasn't sprinkled with its pieces.

A half naked man was lying midway into the room. I assumed he was the cause of the mayhem. He was stunned and not thinking straight, because he rolled over onto his back, crunching into the glass. That seemed to channel his thoughts and he jumped up.

"Shit!" he said.

Whoever he was, I approved. Oh, wow, did I approve!

He was stripped to the waist and it was obvious from his deep tan, he'd taken advantage of the excellent weather. He was fit with broad shoulders, slim waist and around six foot, a few inches taller than me. He wasn't strikingly handsome, although it was an interesting face. Well, it interested me. He was, I guessed, a couple of years older and displayed two things which always turned me on: blue eyes, the colour of robins' eggs and blond hair, messed-up to casual perfection. Without a thought of the mayhem around me, he held my full attention.

He smoothed himself down while he peered around at the chaos and under his breath, he repeated himself. "Shit!"

I rose from my squat posture and our eyes met. I swallowed hard. "Hi," I said.

He blinked and, speechless, looked once more at the debris.

"I'm not going to recite a dull cliché such as, 'Are you alright?'" I said, "Come with me ..."

"Don't you think I should ..."

"No. We'll worry about it later. The priority is to fix you up."

He came over, I took his hand and, without protest, he allowed me to lead him upstairs. I pointed out the bathroom, went for fresh towels and, when I joined him, he was inspecting his forehead in a shaving mirror. His eyes captured mine in the reflection.

He introduced himself. "I'm Brad, Tom's son."

I slid past and, without any notion of what I was doing, took out tweezers, antiseptic and gauze from the cabinet.

"Sam," I said, "Samantha Burbank."

He frowned at the tweezers. "Are you going to pluck my eyebrows?" he smirked.

"Pardon?" I stared at him scornfully. "These will remove the glass," I sneered, as I waved them in his face.

He grinned. "It's safety glass. All sliding doors are manufactured with it. Watch." He brushed the glass crystals from the hairs on the back of his arm and they bounced in the sink.

I was embarrassed. If I hadn't been mesmerised by him downstairs, I would have noticed there was no blood on his body, in fact no blood anywhere. What did I need the antiseptic and bandage for, let alone the tweezers? As the thoughts crowded my mind, I went scarlet and started to leave.

He grabbed my arm. His grip was firm, without aggression. "Please don't go."

I turned and glared at him.

"Sam, I'm sorry if my teasing upset you." His eyes beamed. "If you knew me better you would realise I'm an incorrigible tease ... but harmless."

"Harmless!" I protested, as I raised my voice an octave, "If I'd been at the table ..." I hesitated, unable to finish the sentence as I visualised the 'what if' scenario.

"I don't think I've made a good impression on you. Perhaps, if I start again?"

"You mean a different entrance?" I suggested as a leading question.

Brad was sheepish and didn't respond. He guessed what I was likely to say.

He was right. "I doubt you could conceive of a more spectacular entrance."

"I bet I can." He hummed a fanfare, bowed and doffed an imaginary cap. "Miss Burbank, for your delectation and amazement, 'The Incredible Devereau,' Master Acrobat."

I giggled. "You fool."

He raised an inquisitive eyebrow. "Does that make us even?"

My voice softened. "Yeah, I guess so."

I inspected his forehead. "That's going to be a massive bruise."

"I know. The ladder did it. As it hit the glass, it rebounded onto my head. I fought to stay upright, but my body was falling forwards and I pushed the ladder through the door."

I dabbed antiseptic on the bruise. I knew nothing of first aid, however I perceived it wouldn't do any harm, and more important, it put me in close proximity. He wore blue denims and light brown boots, didn't have a shirt and there was a mild, sweaty tang, the result of working in the sun. I found it surprisingly pleasant. I was in front of him and he had the perfect opportunity to put his hands on my waist. Absurd though it was, I hoped he would. He didn't!

"What were you doing?" I quizzed.

"With the ladder?"

"Uh, uh."

"I was on my way to the front of the house, missed the step up from the lawn to the terrace and tripped." He grimaced. "I've only had this job a couple of weeks."

"Really?" I intoned.

On impulse, I took his hand for the second time and he didn't object. "C'mon, help me clear up the mess downstairs." I clutched it as long as I dared and didn't release it until we re-entered the dining room.

While Brad placed the ladder on the terrace, I recovered Dad's books from the debris and bundled them into a cabinet drawer. The plan was to move them upstairs later, whereas for the moment, for the most obvious of reasons, I didn't want to leave him.

The next quarter-hour flew by and, without effort, we talked as we worked. I explained, with only brief information, why Dad was staying and avoided all mention of comas and dreams. Brad told me he helped his father during the holidays and cleaning windows wasn't his normal work. I suggested he practised with bungalows in future as it didn't involve ladders and he easily dealt with my mockery.

While he was engrossed in his work, I studied him, grateful he remained stripped to the waist. I was sure I caught him eyeing me with endorsement from time to time.

A substantial portion of the mess had been cleared when I noticed Tom. He lounged in the entrance and watched us, his face inscrutable as though there was nothing abnormal.

"Morning, Samantha. What's my lad been doing?" He gave Brad a quizzical look.

"Hello, Mr Devereau. Your son has diversified your business into demolition."

"Hm," he murmured. "After lunch we'll tack up a covering of plastic sheet in case of rain." He used his tape to measure the opening and scribbled the dimensions on a scrap of paper.

The three of us had exchanged small talk for a few minutes, when we heard angry voices at the front door. Charlie screamed a string of unintelligible words at Mum and ran upstairs. There was a slam as she closed her bedroom door.

Tom talked as if nothing happened, until Mum entered the room. His face dropped when he saw the expression on her face and his words tailed off.

She reacted as though the Devereaus had backed a juggernaut into the side of the house.

Since I was a child, I'd experienced the spiked acidity of her tongue and I left as soon as I was able - I hate to see grown men cry. As I reached the bottom of the stairs, Tom was outlining the one million pound cover generated by his Employers Liability Insurance.

Best of luck, I thought, it'll take more than that to switch her off.

Later, when the noise of Mum's thunder had calmed, I sneaked down.

She sunbathed on the lawn and Charlie was in her room.

I lay the satchel wide open on the dining room floor and deposited a jumble of books and folders into it. My chest was beating fast as I ran to make my getaway up the stairs. There and then, I decided to cross out armed robbery from my list of potential careers. My heart wouldn't stand the strain.

Not long afterwards, I was back downstairs as I searched for Brad under the pretence of hunting down the dogs who had ran away when the patio door was demolished. Danes may appear courageous due to their size and bearing, despite that they have a tendency towards timidity.

They hadn't gone far. The dogs bounded alongside me as I completed a lap around the house, followed by a survey of the swimming pool area. Brad and the ladder were gone.

I was miserable and consoled myself by talking to Dad while we listened to The Counting Crow's - August and Everything After. At the time, I didn't realise the significance of the album title.

That night, I was unable to sleep. In the early hours, I wrapped the dressing gown around me and visited Dad.

As I pushed open the door, the nurse's face registered alarm, followed by a relieved smile when she recognised me.

"Hi," I whispered.

"Hello," she hushed. "Shall I go?"

"Would you mind?"

"No, of course not. I'll be in the kitchen with a mug of coffee until you need me."

Her soft shoes made no sound as she went out the door.

Dad was still, nothing more than up and down chest movements. I took his hand and held the palm to my face. It was warm and friendly as it had been, ever since I could remember.