The September sun danced with the fruit in her glass of Pimms. Gentle clapping broke the silence, she’d joined him every match that summer and still had no idea how the game worked. She lowered her book onto her floral lap and clapped along, enjoying joining in despite not knowing what was happening on the pitch.
Today felt special, she’d brought scones. It wasn’t the scones that made her feel special.
As the afternoon shadows lengthened Alice’s eyelids felt heavy. A languor spread and she dozed hidden from view under her huge straw hat. A loud shout of ‘mine’ from the field woke and wrong footed her simultaneously.
That morning she’d chosen her dress with extra care. Demure and feminine. Long skirted and brightly patterned. It had a high neck, frilled either side of tiny little mother of pearl buttons.
It hid his collar.
He’d locked it on the previous evening. Then left her bent over, crease on show, while he oiled his bat. Her first season but the smell of Linseed already prompting from her a Pavlovian drip.
This clash of worlds thrilled them both, the secret and illicit meeting the normal and mundane. He came up behind her in the pavilion as the rise of her scones was cooed over. Gently cupped her peach, feeling the bare flesh under the tea dress. She turned to smile at him then stifled a mewl as he called her his good girl.