Forfeit (Original Edit)

Chapter One

© Caroline Batten, 2010.

Please respect that I spent a lot of hours creating this work of genius. Or at least respect that I took the time to type it and post it here for people to read. And if you have that respect, you won't go copying or stealing my words. And if you don't have that respect... Lord help you. ;)

   

From the safety of my sunglasses, I studied the players warming up by the cricket pitch. The nearest fielder bent down to tighten his laces and flashed more white, hairy bum crack than I'd ever needed to see. Where the hell was all the eye candy? Clara had only dragged me to Gosthwaite Hall Gala to watch the village cricket finals by promising good-looking guys to ogle and plenty of cheap booze.

The tepid white wine in a plastic cup certainly lived up to one promise, but on the upside, the Lake District hills and Georgian mansion provided an idyllic backdrop as locals milled around the beer tent and tourists cooed over the homemade craft stalls. Undoubtedly, a fight or three would kick off in the village later, the young farmers already hitting the Famous Grouse fairly guaranteed that, but until then, this was the rural dream. God, I'd missed it.

'So where're the fit blokes?' I raised my eyebrows at Clara. 'I fancied some utterly inappropriate flirting.'

'And the rest, Daisy. You should have said yes to Matt when he asked you out.'

What no one tells you when your husband dies, is one of the many things you'll miss is a regular sex-life. A month ago, this twenty-five year-old widow started missing it - a lot.

'Matt the vet? I'd rather poke myself in the eye with a rusty fork.'

'Ann Summers... you can buy online,' Clara said, nudging me. 'It's been a while.'

'Clara, you couldn't go a week. You'd have shagged one of the pallbearers.'

She nipped me before smiling at her fiancé, Scott, as he sauntered over wearing cricket pads, his bat resting on one broad shoulder.

'I have to say hello to Scott's parents,' she said. 'Will you be okay on your own or do you want to come too?'

'Eye, poke, rusty fork.'

I swapped my empty glass for her full one but had to grab her arm to keep my balance. The long grass and uneven show field were a nightmare in my wedge heels - utterly inappropriate footwear to go with utterly inappropriate clothes. I'd aimed for incognito with my black jeans, vest and baseball cap, but all the other women wore floaty dresses and chiffon tops, making a ludicrous rainbow of hot pinks, lime greens and turquoise blues. I stuck out like an Ugg boot at Ascot.

But never mind, it was a beautiful June day and there really was plenty of free booze.

'I'm not ten. I'll be fine.'

'Nice to see you out of the house, Daze.' Scott kissed my cheek. 'But try not to get too hammered.'

They headed off, holding hands and I turned away, determined not to covet their happiness.

Cricket is beyond me and the commentator offered no help as he struggled with the microphone, a can of beer and the names of the Flintoff wannabes. Still, I'd promised Clara I'd photograph Scott as he knocked sixes out of the field for the Miller's Arms so I took out my camera in preparation. The digital Nikon SLR was as unfathomable as cricket but the manual zoom made a fabulous telescope. I scanned the fielders but saw nothing I'd rate over a seven.

The first of the men batsmen were lacklustre too - a few eights at best. Clara had set my expectations far too high; she'd promised nines and tens. But finally, in a small marquee to my right, I spied a guy in polo gear. Who on earth played polo round here? Arguing with a guy in a panama, the Polo Player had his back to me, one hand on his hip and the other running through his hair. He looked straight out of a Ralph Lauren ad: scarlet polo shirt, white jeans and conker-brown leather boots. The temptation to take a photo was almost irresistible - he had a truly fabulous arse.