I am delighted to introduce you to the work of the lovely Rosemary Dight and what a writer she is.
I grew up near Twickenham, the home of Rugby Union, and spent summer holidays at my paternal grandmother's home in Portsmouth. Having re-trained as a teacher in my thirties, I took early retirement and travelled. After attending a writing workshop run by Carol Westron, I joined her classes at Denmead and the Havant Writer's group. I have since written both short stories and novels, all as yet unpublished.
THE MAN IN RED
Tracey lifted eyelid, tentatively. Light assaulted senses with all the ferocity of a summer Sun in Benidorm. She groaned and pulled a pillow over her head.
"Feeling a little fragile?" a voice asked.
She groaned again, and forced her eyelids open just enough to see a pair of red knees level with her prone position on the sofa. She pushed the tangle of Brown curls off her face realising that she was still wearing her gold dress from the office party last night.
"Have a good time, did you?" the voice asked again.
She sat upholding searching head.
"Don't remember," she muttered.
"Tequila shots can do that to you. Allow me to refresh your memory."
He waved a languid hand at the television set. The screen hissed and flickered into life. She watched in horror as her exploits of he previous evening were replayed in full HD and living colour across its surface. Surely she hadn't sashayed around the dance floor using a spring of mistletoe as an excuse to passionately kiss every man present? Was that her bumping and grinding to the karaoke? Did she really dance on the table, displaying her black lace thong and the butterfly tattooed on her left buttock? Then sit on the photocopier and hand out the pictures to all and sundry?
She hid her face in her hands. How could she face going back to the office after the holidays?
"Don't worry. I'm sure your popularity has soared after those performances."
She turned to look at the owner of the voice. He lounged at ease in the armchair that matched her sofa. He was clad in a crimson three piece suit with a matching tie threaded under the collar of his pink shirt. Highly polished black shoes completed his attire. His legs were elegantly crossed and something resembling a toasting fork was tucked into the crook of his arm. His dark eyes sparkled with amusement above a neat black moustache and goatee beard. And we're those horns peeking through the black hair at his forehead?
Howling with shame and dismay, she ran to the sanctity of the bathroom. She turned on the shower and stood under the steaming hot water. Stripping off her clothes, she scrubbed herself clean of the previous night's excesses. Clad in towel and bathrobe, she ran into the bedroom and threw herself onto the bed. She burrowed under the duvet blocking out the faint sound of laughter that reached her from the sitting room. She squeezed her eyes shut and begged the whole incident to please go away.
She must have fallen asleep because she was suddenly woken by the insistent ringing of her mobile phone on the bedside table. She crawled out from under the duvet, squinting in the light of the wintry sun streaming through the open curtains.
"Tracey! It's after nine o'clock and the boss is on the warpath! You'd better get here p.d.q!"
"I'm on my way Sharon!" She replied, jumping out of bed and throwing on her clothes.
She hurried past the gold dress hanging outside the wardrobe. As she slammed the front door behind her, the little red China figure on the masterpiece smiled and echoed Sharon's voice, saying:-
"Don't forget, it's the office party tonight!"