Pulling the brush vigorously through the tangles, that at this moment is the bane of her life. Helen wince’s as the last offending tangle finally submits to the brush. Pulling the long fine strands into a ponytail a pleased smile pulls at her lips, as she picks up the nude lip-gloss and runs it over her lips, stepping back, pleased with the overall effect.
Sparling blue eyes gaze back portraying a hint of mischief on an otherwise ordinary face. Sighing at the cards Mother Nature had dealt her, Helen smoothed down her navy skirt deciding that would have to do.
Heading out the room and descending the stairs Helen grabbed her keys from the bowl on the small table by the front door, as she slipped her coat on while simultaneously grabbing her bag; she fumbled to open the door.
A satisfied smile graced her lips as her gaze fell on her baby, a smart navy-blue Porch 911. The most outrageous expensive thing she had ever bought in her entire life, thanks to the death of her absent father who managed in death something he had never done in life, acknowledge her existence.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, she rummaged in her bag for her phone. Squinting at it, she pulled up the address of her assignment of the day, relieved she didn’t have to go into the office.
‘Now, what was the name of the village,’ she muttered with a frown, pleased when the satnav springs to life, a map appearing with Great Monkton as the final destination. The obscure village it was her pleasure to now find for the interview. Getting comfortable, Helen smoothly reversed off the drive, relishing the opportunity to drive her baby.
Helen couldn’t help her mind drifting as the monotonous miles of the motorway dragged by, headed to Dorset. She couldn’t help wondering what had happened to the glittering career she had envisioned while at university. When instead her reality was listening to old ladies enthuse about the wonders of hand knitting, or if she was really lucky interviewing the winner of the unusual veg completion at local village fetes. There were she mused, only so many ways you can describe a penis shaped carrot.
‘Really, must write my CV tonight and send it out,’ she muttered, even though deep down this was unlikely to happen. She could remember the excitement of landing this job straight from university as her life had been spread before her with a glittering career in journalism taking centre stage. Five years down the line that dream was but a distant memory.
This interview, however, had peaked her interest. It had read as more fiction than fact. She could still see the smirk, on her stupid, arrogant, boss’s face, in her mind’s eye as he had handed her the relevant paperwork with the assignment. All the while leering at her breasts as he tried to glimpse them through her shirt, a true eighties throwback he thought sexual harassment was a form of foreplay.
‘Some kids from a local university have dug up some old bones in a field,’ his voice echoed in her head, as Helen tried to erase the image of him perched on her desk, giving her the benefit of his semi in her direct eye line through his trousers.
‘They have matched DNA to a woman living in a nearby village,’ his voice now had a bored inflection to it as he leaned closer, swamping Helen with his cheap cologne.
‘I want you to interview the woman find out why she wants the bones reburied in the family plot in the local church yard, find out why it is so important to her after all the bones are a thousand years old, you know the sort of thing.’
Helen had jumped at the chance to get out of the office but had schooled her features into that of uninterested. She didn’t want him to see how keen she was she had been playing this game long enough to know if she did he would try to use it against her, make out she owed him something in return like, sex.
Pushing those thoughts away as the exit on the motorway came into view. Helen indicated and slipped through the narrow country lanes until the satnav informed her she had reached her destination. Slowing Helen gazed at the picturesque village with its thatched roofed cottages and quaint pub. The sort of place you retired to while waiting to die.
In the distance she could see the standing stones on the hill the only thing worth visiting this particular village for. Pulling her concentration back to the cottages she eventually found the correct one its name painted on the gate. Slowing to a stop she parked on the grass verge and thanked which ever deity had persuaded her to wear flat shoes today.
Trying her upmost to exit the car elegantly she carefully negotiated the grass verge and pushed the gate open. Strolling to the front door she admired the neat lawn and flower beds before knocking lightly.