Evolving Doors

Maybe he’s exhibiting good manners, or maybe he just hasn’t noticed I’ve run out of Veet.

I take a moment to catch my breath and wait, realising that either way, it’s not as bad as I remember.

I needed a milkman. An actual, traditional milkman. One of those that delivers the milk at unearthly times of the morning. You know, when the rest of us are still in bed smashing the living daylights out of the snooze button (not our partners).

Yet here I am, splayed out like last month’s turkey on the kitchen table wondering if it’s just me who ends up in such odd situations.

As I push my stomach down to flatten it, I cannot help but think how “well-marbled” I appear these days – some would say, similar to a quality steak, if they were being polite. Admittedly I’ve always been an hourglass - nowadays I’m just a slightly easier one to see from a far distance.

Perhaps it would be best if I explained how I arrived at this moment, starting from yesterday.

Sat at my desk, I check my phone screen for what feels like the fiftieth time, or possibly even more, and finally see that Mabel Wainwright has approved my request to join the Malthay village community page. It seemed like an eternity since I had submitted the request, even though it was probably only a couple of hours in reality.

I desperately needed recommendations for a local milkman and was eager to get started on organising my new life; me being “ancient” and single, as my brother, Jack, referred to my present and un-chosen, situation.

Since I had moved to the village between Christmas and the New year, this was my first opportunity to begin settling in and making necessary arrangements. A morning cuppa was crucial for me, and the cat with attitude had a habit of getting cranky if he didn’t receive his saucer of milk first thing upon waking.

After taking ages composing my message

“Looking for a milkman in the area - urgent! Please PM me for info.” and hitting “send” I now hope to receive some responses by the end of the day, with a few potential candidates to reach out to.

The office remains quiet, and I too, am quietly doing a grand impression of a goldfish in a bowl, in my case, peering through the rippled glass panes, hoping for someone to arrive who either wants to sell a property or is interested in buying Mr Coburn’s immense Edwardian home. Since his childhood, he has resided there. His father used the ground floor as a town surgery while his mother worked at the school. The Coburns are well-known among the locals, and it’s disheartening to witness the house deteriorating.

In hindsight, adding the property to my books may not have been a wise decision, as it is unlikely to sell quickly.

However, that’s just me. I specialise in taking on properties that other agents overlook - the ones that are rich in history or character. These are the properties that emit a musty smell when the front door creaks open once again and have dust playfully dancing in the shafts of sunlight that break through the yellowed window nets when you first enter the room. These are the properties that have a story to tell.

Generally, people sell their homes due to one of four reasons: births, deaths, marriage, or divorce.

As “mere” estate agents, we are often regarded as dishonest and untruthful, which may lead some to believe that this is not a viable, nor wise, career path. However, I am passionate about my work. I love it as a job and put my heart and soul into my small business. I take pride in the fact that neither myself nor my staff (Dylan) have received a negative review on the renowned ‘Trusttheagent-ornot.com’

Yet again I check my mobile. And surprise, surprise, nothing there. It’s like waiting for a text from your crush who never actually liked you in the first place. This new phone is supposed to be the latest and greatest, but I’m starting to think it’s smarter than me. That teenager who sold me on the idea of a phone, equal in size to an actual telephone directory, clearly didn’t mention the hours of online video tutorials I’d need, just to figure out how to turn the darn thing on.

Maybe I should log onto “Slapface” and see if anyone’s messaged me. Nope, just the sound of crickets.

Since there isn’t much activity going on, it is agreed, at an impromptu staff meeting, to have an early lunch. As I step outside, the aroma of damp autumn leaves, abandoned and decomposing in the storm gullies running with the pavement, whacks me full on up the nose, enough to clear any blocked airways - if you happen to have such an inconvenience.

It’s the end of the first week of January, and everything still feels incredibly slow. From the weather to the familiar faces of others sluggishly returning to work, everything appears to be in a seasonal slumber with post-Christmas blues added to the mix. The fog not having lifted yet leaves my fringe hanging with small droplets of water from the wet air; I regret not putting on my faithful hat to protect my rather unruly mane of hair.

Turning the corner into the High Street, Dave, the butcher, is serving Mrs Bates, no doubt purchasing tripe for Hedley, her husband. I smile as I duck under the lime tree branches - one of many limes planted to line the high street decades ago - he nods and tips his trilby back in jovial acknowledgement.

The cobbled streets reflect the glow from the modern equivalent of the old gas streetlamps interspersed between the limes; they’re not the same as the ones replaced but at least the parish council allowed us something I suppose, and they still maintain the ambience and heritage of the place.

The old bakery, with its twin, bottle glass bay windows and seemingly miniature front door, is only a few hundred yards from the office. The card shop, next door, originally the newsagents, is also owned by the same family now. “Gives the daughter something to do away from the kids” according to Bob, who inherited the business from his father.

“Usual, Diana? Or can I entice you with these strange plant-based steamed bun things? They’re not proving popular with the regulars but the through traffic seem quite keen.”

“I think you may be on a losing streak trying to get this farming community to give up their daily bovine, ovine, galine and swine, Bob!”

“Only you would describe it like that Diana. Like father, like daughter.”

Despite the tempting scent of bacon, I manage to resist and opt for my usual chicken salad sandwich and a can of fizz. After lunch, sat on a memorial bench for the late vicar, I take a leisurely stroll around the block, which involves walking along the rest of the high street and through a narrow twitten between the old Methodist Hall and a towering Ash tree.

If you look closely at the tree’s bark, you can spot the faded carved initials “NM x DD forever,” which I etched into it with my trusty penknife many years ago.

Continuing on, I arrive at the once bustling Richdore Station, which has been repurposed as a trendy craft beer bar called “Bobcats & Boots,” popular among the younger crowd.

The former railway line that runs alongside the station has been converted into a public footpath and cycleway thanks to a local fitness grant initiative. I’m yet to use it. I get enough exercise helping out at the farm.

Besides, I still recall the excitement of the train coming in and how we’d go on school trips to the coast, playing “I Spy” for landmarks along the way, and personally, I much prefer to reminisce of the halcyon days of youth than get on a bike.

I’m greeted back at the office by the top of Dylan’s head. “No calls.” he informs me and grins, before returning to watching ten second videos on the latest trending app. I have no idea what it’s called but he seems to like it.

The afternoon passes with tidying the post-Christmas tat and paraphernalia away, interrupted only by sporadic conversations. And, as the day draws to a close, I start to tidy up my desk, making a mental note of what needs to be done tomorrow. Dylan returns from his deliveries, proudly showing me a handwritten note from one of the vendors thanking us for the personal touch. It’s these small gestures that make our job worthwhile, and I feel grateful to work in a community that values them.

With a final check of my emails, I shut down my computer and grab my coat, bidding farewell to Dylan and the empty office. The fog has finally lifted, and the streetlights glow warmly against the darkening sky. I take a deep breath of fresh air, feeling content with the day’s work and the familiar surroundings of my hometown.

As I walk back to the car park, passing by the lime trees and cobbled streets, I reflect on the beauty of small-town living, where everyone knows each other’s name and life moves at a slower pace. It may not be the most exciting or glamorous place, but to me, it’s home.

Back at the cottage I let the pups out. Christa, next door, has kindly been checking in on them. She will be returning to work in the next few months from baby-making leave and I’ll need to sort a dog sitter out, but in the meantime she’s happy with the arrangement and gives her a bit of peace and quiet from her home life I would imagine.

I reach for my brick sized mobile and see that I have a notification from the Malthay village community page.

It’s a response to my request for a milkman, but it’s not the enthusiastic “Yes, we’ll get right on it!” that I was hoping for. Instead, it’s a stiff message from Mabel Wainwright, requesting more information before they can even consider my request.

“We appreciate your request for a milkman. However, we kindly ask you to provide additional details before we can approve your request. It would be helpful if you could provide us with more information. Remember – be kind. Be inclusive. Thank you. Best regards, Mabel Wainwright.”

Oh dear, Mabel Wainwright and her bureaucratic approach to milk delivery is giving me flashbacks of dealing with the local council. I mean, what more do they need to know? Do I need to submit a full CV and cover letter to get my milk delivered?

But ever the people-pleaser, I take a deep breath and try to compose a post that will satisfy Mabel and her milkman approval committee but at the same time, not make me sound desperate.

“Attention all milkmen... or woman… or is it milkperson these days? Single lady, new to village, seeks early riser milk delivery to fuel her morning addiction. Must be punctual, reliable, and able to resist the temptation to take a sip from the bottle. Please slide into my DMs for more info.”

And just like that, my post is approved and up on the community page. I get the feeling Mabel Wainwright was literally sitting, phone in hand, awaiting that text! I can practically feel the judgment from the other villagers as they read my sad plea for milk. But I don’t care. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do to get her dairy fix. Bring on the milkman…milkperson darn it!

Propped up in bed, surrounded by two pups and the cat with attitude, all staring up at me wondering why I was purposely starving them at midnight, I open “Slapface” and check my private messages. There are a few and scrolling through there are obviously some not meant for me. I stop on one from “The Milkman.” Self-explanatory and to the point.

“Message me your address and I will deliver whatever you want in the morning. Welcome to the village.” It reads.

“Hi. Hazel Cottage, on the triangle, opposite the walnut tree (the tree not the pub). I know it’s short notice so will appreciate whatever you have. Any time before 6:30 would be good. I will probably be in the kitchen in my dressing gown, but the puppies will be out and about to greet you. Hope that’s okay?”

“Perfect.”

I can’t help but feel a rush of excitement. Could it be that easy? Could I have finally found my milkman saviour?

I lay back against my pillows, my mind drifting off to visions of creamy milk in glass bottles, delivered fresh to my doorstep every morning. Maybe I could even start making my own butter or cheese with it. The possibilities are endless!

But then reality hits me. What if this milkman turns out to be unreliable, or worse, creepy? What if he starts leaving me notes or stalking me? I push the thoughts aside, reminding myself that this is a small village, and everyone knows everyone. Surely, it will be fine.

As I drift off to sleep, my mind still buzzing with thoughts of fresh milk, I can’t help but feel a little giddy with excitement. Who knew finding a milkman could be so exhilarating?

And now back to today...

Having completely forgotten about the late-night text conversation, I haul myself out of bed half asleep, trip over a dog, three pillows off the bed and the silk pyjamas I attempt to sleep in each night (but always rapidly remove after they give me two static shocks, crutch burn and armpit strangulation), and head for the shower.

With trepidation, I enter said shower, which, like my mobile phone, is a work in progress. I prepare myself for the worst as I turn on the water, recalling the three times I’ve been frozen and the two times I’ve been boiled since moving in. However, to my pleasant surprise, the water is at a comfortable temperature, and I get down to business.

I let the water run through my hair, over my face and body longer than required. It’s my routine now to have a decent shower each morning rather than a quick session and out again, especially as I now have an airing cupboard full of toiletry gift boxes to work my way through.

Lathering up my hair, which now falls close to my waist, the smell of coconut fills the room. Can’t stand to eat the stuff but quite like the smell. I continue the coconut themed experience as I sponge my body. Over the years I’ve become slightly “fleshier” and there seems to be additional curves, nooks, and crevices to wash; I have to lift my breasts now to clear the soap suds. For a moment, the thought of them becoming even larger crosses my mind. I imagine a scenario where they would be big enough to wear as a scarf or, in a more humorous twist, kick like footballs if gravity takes its toll.

Sometimes I wish Nate were still with me so he could wash my back. He’d sponge me over, lift my locks and kiss the nape of my neck. It was always such a sensual feeling. One I miss greatly, although it was about as close as we’d come to being intimate and partly the reason, he isn’t here any longer... Instead, one performs increasingly varying awkward manoeuvres that once upon a time I did with ease.

I’m sure there is a spot right in the centre of my back, you know reader, where the bra strap goes across? I bet that gets completely missed each time.

And how exactly do you wash your lady bits with a fixed overhead shower? Do you swing your leg up against the wall and contort your body with the vague hope some water trickles between your thighs? Or do you reverse in and aim your backside upwards with your head towards your toes?

Ah, the joys of post-shower rituals! I step out of the steamy oasis and begin the awkward tip-toe dance towards the towel, which of course, is always on the other side of the room. After a quick rubdown that does nothing to alleviate the dampness, I launch into a frantic search for the last remnants of my stupidly long lasting and not much liked “Faint hint of autumn sun on a warm rain kind of day” moisturiser (the one your aunt gives you annually and you don’t feel you can throw it away - but detest greatly.) Finally, I spot it lurking under the sink like a forgotten treasure and proceed to apply it liberally in long strokes up and down my body. The resulting scent is a confusing mix of pina colada and pine needles (or so I think) now its combined with the shampoo and body wash. But at least I can finally chuck the “autumn sun” into the bin where it belongs…until next Christmas again anyway.

With my unruly hair tossed up into a scruffy ponytail, I scuttle across the landing, praying to the gods of good timing that no one is up and about just yet across the way. The thought of Christa or her husband catching me in my post-shower state, or worse yet, one of the kids spying me through their bedroom window, can make me break out in a proverbial cold sweat. But alas for them, luck is on my side, and I make it across the landing unscathed. Another morning, another victory.

I check the time, and my heart sinks as I see that it’s already just past six. The puppies are probably up and eager to wreak havoc in the garden.

With a resigned sigh, I throw on my trusty dressing gown and trudge downstairs, bracing myself for the inevitable onslaught of chaos and destruction.

The morning air is chilly and frosty, but I leave the stable door ajar so that I can keep an eye on the puppies while they do their business and explore the great outdoors. I watch as they scamper about, their, not so tiny, paws leaving little(ish) imprints in the grass, as they sniff and investigate all the new scents that have magically appeared since last night.

Once they’re sufficiently settled, doing their thing, it’s time for me to take a breather and enjoy a cuppa while I listen to some music. I yell across the kitchen to my temperamental device, which, as always, is perched precariously on top of the fridge to get the best signal.

“Margaret! Play some tunes!” I request, and joy of joys, OMD, one of Nate’s favourite bands, starts playing “If You Leave.” The irony of the situation is not lost on me - after all, he was the one who left. But I push the thought aside and allow myself to get lost in the music for a little while.

Leaning over the stable door with my hot drink in hand, I take a moment to appreciate Mother Nature’s handiwork of the dark hours. The trees are frozen in time, adorned with large white crystals of ice on every skeletal branch and trunk. The grass glistens in the early morning sun, with just a hint of steam rising above, as a very cheerful Robin Redbreast sings from the top of the remaining fence between my property and Christa’s.

As I watch the puppies chase the cat from next door, I feel a sense of belonging, as if I should have been here a long time ago.

It’s been two years since Nate and I separated, and the first year was particularly challenging, as we didn’t speak to each other. Over the past twelve months, we’ve made more of an effort, and have finally agreed to start couples counselling, but I must confess, I am now enjoying the single life. Looking back, I should have moved out of the marital home right at the beginning.

Do I really want to get back with him now? After what he said?

Hang on, what’s that?

As I feel the pressure against me again and again, in perfect rhythm with The Lumineers’ “Ophelia” playing in the background, I realise it’s not the cat. With each touch, the pressure becomes stronger, and my body instinctively responds, moving in a way it hasn’t in ages. The feeling of my dressing gown lifting up my back, tracing over my skin and giving me forgotten sensations, sends tingles down my spine, and I hear an appreciative murmur.

Suddenly, hands grab my hips and pull me away from the door, turning me towards the room.

The milkman has arrived.

Deeply brown with long, bovine lashes, his eyes have a mesmerizing effect on me. I feel like I would do anything he wanted, absolutely anything. Substantially taller than me he grins and presses himself hard against me pushing himself between my legs. It was an unusual way of introducing themselves but by jove I needed this.

His hands move from my hips to my chest. My gown, wanting to participate in the fun, falls wide open with a single pull of the cord revealing everything. I mean literally everything too – boobs heading southwards, stomach going left and right trying to hide around the back. Everything!

“Morning.” he says, slightly breathlessly, as he lightly runs a finger down between my breasts. His voice is raspy and deep.

I about hold myself together with an “It is.” response, feeling myself blush further than I am already.

His finger continues to trace the contours of my torso further down until it arrives between my legs. I let out a quiet moan as he touches gently, ever so gently, the skin.

I’m still standing facing him as his hand goes even further, and with the action of someone who knows what they are doing, quickly I feel his finger rub the top of my ...erm...lady parts... A shock wave runs through my body. Nobody has touched me like this. Ever.

I want more. He has two fingers inside me now. Slowly he pushes deeper. I close my eyes concentrating on the sensation and trying not to think how I look.

He murmurs again and leans in pressing his hand against me, his fingers inside me and his lips near mine.

“You want more?”

Oh yes! I open my legs further, but he has me by my waist and takes me into the room.

My gown falls away to the floor and I am naked, complete with all my wobbly bits. He does not notice. I watch as he removes his white coat revealing a t-shirt pulled tight over his chest and biceps. Just as in the films he lifts his top over his head and begins to remove his jeans.

Is this really happening? Or have I unwittingly taken the catnip in my morning cuppa?

“Wait!” he says, as I move out of view of the stable door, feeling totally on show to the outside world. And let’s be honest, there’s a lot of me to see for any unfortunate person who happens to be looking!

Within seconds he too stands naked and pulls me against him. He smells really good. I mean really, really good. A cross between what everyone imagines George Clooney smells like and James Bond maybe. His…um... thing…rock hard and rubbing against me. Before I know it, he has lifted me onto the table.

“Lay back.” he instructs. I do as I’m told.

“It’s a bit hard.”

“I know it is.”

“No, not that. I meant the table. The table is hard.”

“Oh. Hang on. Stand up.” He picks my terry towelling gown off the floor and lays it on the table.

“Try again.” He indicates for me to lay back down. I do.

I shiver. I don’t know if it’s the wintery weather and the door still open, the cold wood still touching areas of my body, or what I was anticipating coming. He lifts my arms above my head, holding then down with both hands, and begins to kiss my mouth. His lips move slowly towards my breasts. I can feel his breath on my body.

Then, he kisses and teases my nipple with his tongue before sucking it hard, I’m groaning. It’s been so long.

Then he’s working on the other before moving further down my body. His hands release my arms, but they seem to stay where they are. His head moves until his mouth is kissing the top of my legs, teasing me further.

I’m aching to feel him lick me, touch me with his tongue. He hovers and sucks hard on me. No warning. My legs open wider as he licks and sucks me and then ...

Out of nowhere, my inner voice decides to make an appearance, and boy, as usual it’s far too chatty for its own good. “Is it just me?” it asks. “Why didn’t I buy the Veet?,” “Be quite Diana. Concentrate!”

I can feel my belly jiggling with every movement, and I can’t help but wish it were a little more toned. And to top it all off, I’m holding my breasts, trying my best to avoid looking like Christmas dinner prep time. Does he notice? I can’t tell. But these thoughts are racing through my mind, and I can’t seem to silence them. Oh, the joys of being a human with a constantly chattering inner voice? And then he sucks again, and he doesn’t care. He really doesn’t care!

And with that realisation I clutch his hair and push his head and, in turn, mouth harder on to me. I feel myself building up inside. His tongue is working, gently licking me then sucking me. His fingers are inside me again pushing slowly. Is it two? Maybe three? It feels so good. A pulse starts racing from my feet, up my legs and into me. I can’t stop it. I tense my body, the pressure still building and he’s still licking and sucking. I let out a loud, involuntary Meg Ryan impression “Yes! Yes! Yes!”

He looks up and smiles again. Those eyes ...

“Don’t stop!” I blurt out. My body relaxes down, but I still need more.

He stands and pulls me towards him. My legs either side, I feel him enter me. Slowly. We’re staring into each other as he withdraws, but not completely. He then flashes his perfect teeth and pushes right into me.

The music has changed and now just as the lyrics say, we start doing it like mammals. His rhythm and mine increasing. I feel him. He fills me. There’s no waggling around. He’s solid and it feels bloody fantastic! He turns me around and coaxes me to stand.

“Bend over.” I do.

He pushes against me but this time there’s no teasing, he penetrates. Grabbing my hips and ramming himself continuously until he releases inside of me. He pushes in hard and collapses onto my back and we stay that way for a moment.

I can feel his weight pressing down on me, and his muscled thigh is pinching my skin against the dense wood of the table. It’s not exactly a romantic scene, but I’m too knackered to complain.

I also know I still need to make the walk of shame to the bathroom once he gets off me, so I’m just biding my time until then. It’s definitely not the most glamorous moment, but hey, love-making is messy and sometimes involves being squished like a pancake!

And that, dear reader, is how I found myself upon the kitchen table. Rudely ended by the cat with attitude jumping at the leg of the milkman.

He must have smelt the milk!