Simply Anna By Cristina Hodgson


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 on 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.

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