Hello and welcome back to Six Sentence Sunday.
As I prepare for the imminent release of Cold, Cold Heart, I thought I would post a six from this tale that, I suppose, reflects my mood of the day....a lot of the time, men are just a bunch of.... best leave that blank. I usually steer away from posting sentences with sexual reference but I think this little speech by my heroine, Rachel, will strike a chord with anyone who has ever wanted to exact revenge on someone who has mistreated them in the past.
Rachel is confronting her ex-husband, Richard, a spiteful man who has spent the past five years trying to make her life a living hell. Fueled by too many cocktails, she finally finds the courage to give him a taste of his own medicine…..
“You once asked me a question, well, now here's your answer. Yes, he was a bloody fantastic fuck and he made me come every time. In fact, all he had to do was say my name and I came. You never made me come once in four years of marriage. Oh and just one more thing…” Rachel smiled at him ruefully. “I'm sorry to have to tell you, Richard, but you really do have an incredibly small cock!” She raised her empty glass to him. “Have a nice life!”
A round of applaud for Rachel, folks.
Want to read more? Before you do, check out all the other great Sunday Sixes.
Daniel Haynes has the world at his feet- fame, fortune, so why does he feel so empty inside? What is his interest in Rachel Warner, a girl from a quiet Home Counties English town? Why does she hold the key to his happiness?
But Rachel Warner is scared. Daniel's interest in her threatens her ordered yet unsatisfying life because she has to live with the shadow of her ex-father-in-law breathing over her shoulder. Can she let go of her fears?
Rachel awoke to a herd of wildebeests stampeding in her head. She opened one eye, half-expecting to see Simba come charging through her bedroom, but only the cold, December rain beat down against the windowpane. Funny, she thought, I don't have Georgian windows.
Both eyes now open, she lay still, wondering where her body had gone. I've got no legs. I've died and they've donated my body to medical science, the bastards.
“Alex!” she gasped. “I'm late!” She sat up – and wished she hadn't bothered. The room spun faster than Torvill and Dean. If hell existed, she was definitely in it. She clung to the quilt and hung on for dear life as the bed rose and hovered above the ground a la The Exorcist or was it Bedknobs and Broomsticks? She couldn't remember. She just wanted to die and die quickly.
The door crashed against the wall, and die she did. Lynn bounced in with a tray of coffee and a packet of painkillers in her hands.
She slammed the tray down on the bedside table and the entire London Symphony Orchestra percussion section went off in Rachel's sponge-filled brain. She pulled the duvet over her head.
“And how are we feeling this morning?”
Lynn's flat, Belfast tones grated at the best of times but the way Rachel felt, if she'd had a gun she would have cheerfully shot her. “Why are you shouting? And what are you doing in my bedroom?”
Lynn burst into a rousing chorus of U2's “Beautiful Day.” “I'd just like to point out, my dearest friend,” she pulled the duvet down and off Rachel's face, “that a: I am not shouting, and b: It’s not your bedroom. It is my spare room.”
“And how, may I ask, did I get here?” Rachel tentatively pulled herself up into a sitting position. She winced; those wildebeests were still on the rampage.
Lynn swept open the bedroom curtains. “Ask you certainly may. Being such a kind, considerate, caring friend, I brought you. It's the least I could do, seeing as you provided me with a most memorable and highly entertaining evening. I haven't had so much fun sincewellactually, I can't remember.” Lynn grinned at her. “And naturally I could hardly take you home to 'mummy' in that state, could I now?”
“And what state might that have been?” Rachel reached out for the mug of coffee. Unfortunately, her shaking hand was having none of it.
“Give it here.” Lynn sat down on the edge of the bed and held the mug up to Rachel's lips. “Honestly, Rach, you Brits are pathetic when it comes to drink.”
“Drink?” Hot liquid hit her raw stomach. “But I don't drink.”
“Well, you do now, and quite impressively, too. It was some performance.”
“Performance?” Rachel squeaked, a cold dread creeping over her.
“Was I very drunk?”
“I thinkI think I remember Richard.” Rachel racked her brain. “Did Idid we get into a fight?”
“Will you stop saying that?” Rachel banged her fist down on the bed. “Oh, now look what you made me do.” A red, hot knife buried itself in the back of her skull. “Quick! The drugs. I need drugs.” She downed two pills wishing it was morphine, and collapsed against the pillows. “Okay, what did I do?”
Lynn rubbed her hands together in glee and gaily regaled her with an animated account of the evening's events.
Rachel covered her eyes. She'd never be able to show her face in Wyeston again. “I said that? I don't believe you.”
“Oh, believe it.” Lynn's face split from ear to ear with a grin the size of Zippy's. “I've waited a long time for the prim Miss Warner to tell Richard to fuck off. And that's not all. You said cock, too—and come. Three times. It was inspiring.”
Wailing, Rachel burrowed under the duvet. Life as she knew it was well and truly over.
“Give over.” Lynn tugged at the cover. “You're quite the heroine, you know. Everyone was dead impressed, except Jimmy of course. Apparently that pot cost a fortune.”
“I broke a pot?” Rachel poked her nose from around the top of the cover.
“Naw, you just threw up in it.”
Rachel eyed her giggling friend through slanted eyes.
“You made that up. You're enjoying this, aren't you?”
“I'll say. But it was when I got you home that things became fascinating.”
“Not much.” Lynn paused to admire her fingernails. “Only that you finally confessed that you are most definitely not over a certain luscious-lipped, blue-eyed boy.”
“I am.” Rachel protested.
“Of course you are. That must be why you keep a picture of him under your pillow.”
“I so do not.” Rachel threw back the duvet and slid her legs over the side of the bed. The conversation was too dangerous for her liking. She made a shaky attempt to get to her feet, but her knees buckled.
“Get back into bed.” Lynn scoffed. “It's too sad to watch. I'll go and run you a nice, hot bath. Then I'll whip up a big Irish breakfast. Best cure for a hangover. I should know; I've had a few.”
Rachel groaned. The thought of one of Lynn's greasy fry-ups made her heave. “Where are the kids?” She closed her eyes against the fresh wave of nausea. How did people put themselves through this torture weekend after weekend?
“Your dad has taken them to Kidzone. They're fine.”
“So, it's not a school day then?” Relief flooded through her battered and bruised mind. She didn't have to go to work after all. She could stay in bed forever and hide from the world.
But Lynn would have none of it. Ten minutes later, Rachel found herself dragged from her cocoon and unceremoniously pushed into the rather decadent Romanesque bathroom.
“In!” Lynn ordered.
Rachel stared down dubiously into the swirling waters of the Jacuzzi. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”
“You should have been a prison warden!” Rachel yelled after her retreating back, and then clutched the sink. The floor moved beneath her. It wasn't The Exorcist after all. It was End of Days.
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