The Boy I Love Read Free Page A

on the
sideboard. He poured himself a large one and went to sit in his favourite armchair. Taking a generous sip of the golden nectar, he closed his eyes and daydreamed of young buttocks in rugby shorts.
Jeremy was a beautiful specimen he had to admit. If only . . .
    Sally could hardly contain her excitement when she turned up for work at the British Drama League on Monday morning. She was the first to arrive after Geordie, the caretaker,
who could be heard in the kitchen at the back of the building whistling a Beatles tune. She called out to him, ‘Geordie, did you pick up the post?’ She switched on the light in the
hallway as it was always dark. The combination of Victorian tiles and dark green paint made the whole place very depressing, and a tad Dickensian. Sally imagined Uriah Heep appearing in a doorway,
smiling unctuously at her and rubbing his hands!
    Instead, she was greeted halfway down the hall by the rather portly figure of Geordie in his russet-brown overalls and flat cap.
    ‘Morning, miss, how are you this morning?’ he asked her as he handed her the post. ‘You seem right chirpy, if I may say so. Good weekend, was it?’ He gave her a very
theatrical wink and tapped the side of his nose. He looked so ridiculous Sally could not help bursting into laughter.
    ‘Oh, Geordie, you really are the pits. You have such a dirty mind!’
    Geordie feigned offence. ‘Now, miss, please – how can you say that to me? I mean no harm, just trying to be friendly-like, that’s all.’ He turned and disappeared into the
gloom on his way back to the kitchen to put the kettle on, for the first of the many cups of tea and coffee, consumed throughout the day by the inhabitants of number 9, Fitzroy Square.
    Sally unlocked her tiny cubicle and found herself feeling quite nostalgic. No more early mornings on the number 13 bus to work. No more Geordie and his nudge nudge, wink wink greetings; from
next month she would be a professional actress, working in repertory. She sat in front of her switchboard with her chin resting in her hands and dreamed of applause, and footlights, and bells
ringing . . . ringing bells meant . . . oh Lord! She grabbed a plug and pushed it into the blinking light on the board in front of her.
    ‘British Drama League, good morning, how may I help you?’ The answer came rapidly and impatiently. ‘Yes, of course. I am putting you through now.’ Sally pulled out the
plug and placed it in the appropriate connection. She breathed a sigh of relief as the connection was made and she could hear the recipients talking through her headphones on the desk. She had not
even had time to put them on. It was going to be one of those Monday mornings, she could tell, but she did not give a hoot because life had turned a corner, and she was on her way up !

Chapter 3

    Sally arrived home with her assorted bags and boxes – and promptly burst into tears in the kitchen! Her mother, Patricia, swept her into her arms, plonked her down at
the table and handed her a clean white cotton hankie. No tissues for her!
    ‘Whatever is the matter, my darling girl?’ she asked.
    ‘Oh nothing, Mum. I am just being stupid and dramatic.’ Sally hesitated before blowing her nose on the virgin square of crisp cotton. ‘It’s just, everything is going to
change and I am scared and excited all at the same time, and coming home just makes me realize how much I will miss you all.’
    Sally’s parents lived in Cheltenham in an old Victorian terraced house. Patricia Thomas had always yearned for one of the Georgian houses in the city, but knew it would have to remain a
pipe dream. Her husband, Douglas, was a teacher and part-time collector of antiques, and unless he suddenly discovered a masterpiece in an attic somewhere, they were never going to be able to
afford such a property. Patricia had studied at the Slade School of Art in Bloomsbury in the 1950s, and had actually been rather good. When she married Douglas Thomas in