Third time lucky

Third person POV

Jo was very interested in the man who had clumsily opened conversation with her just to talk about her mother. What was his name again she thought Peter Bilab…. or something, she would check the results later when she got home. So what to tell her mum?

Well on the plus side a tall, atheletic-looking, handsome man had gone out of his way to talk to her daughter. Jo put his age at late thirties early forties, so a bit younger than her mum, but not unreasonably so. On the negative side, well it was a little bit creepy, he has to be flawed, because men that hot are snapped up. At the very least he probably has a psycho-ex or mummy issues she thinks.

Still Jo knows that her mum needs something to spring her out of the half life she has been living for as long as Jo can remember, since before he dad left the picture

….

It is Tuesday before Jo catches up with her mum. The dulcet tone of her phone ringing with the sound of Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody, tells who it is without needing to glance at the caller display.

‘Hi honey,’ Emma opens.

‘Hi mum’ Jo replies.

‘So how’s it going?’

The conversation continues in this vein for some while. Following the mores and social constructs of their family interactions. Finally towards the end of the conversation, the topic of the weekend comes up.

‘You giving me a lift to ParkRun this week or have you got Rosie again?’ Jo asks.

‘I can give you a lift, Rosie is stopping with her other grandparents this week. I told Sam it’s not fair to ask me to have her every week’ Emma responds.

‘Awesome, because there was a tall dark handsome stranger asking after you last week’

‘What do you mean?’ Emma said in a panicked voice.

‘Don’t worry mum, I am sure that there is nothing untoward happening, it is just this guy spoke to me last week, and seemed interest in where you were and who you were etcetera. A bit old for me, but even I could appreciate he was a good looking hunk of man, so maybe he will be there this week. He is called Peter something beginning with B.’

‘What the actual f---, I hope not, I keep telling you Jo, I am not ready to date’

'Mum, no one is asking you date. I am telling you that a hot man might possibly, and I repeat possibly, want to have a conversation with you.... in a public space.'

'Okay, okay, I surrender,' Emma laughed, then muttered 'I am still not ready to date though.'

The conversation then returns to well worn grooves, before the women finalise their plans and wish each other goodbye.

Emma stares at the phone in her hand, her stomach churning with anxiety. She had protected Jo and Sam from the worst excesses of their father, but even after six years her heart filled with fear, her hands grew clammy and she had an overwhelming urge to throw up at even the thought of talking to a man socially, let alone getting close.

‘I am a strong, confident, beautiful, successful woman,’ she mutters to herself, over and over. The soft mantra of a woman who has been destroyed by one close to her, and doesn’t feel ready to battle her demons today.

….

Elsewhere in the suburbs in a home office Peter sat in front of a computer screen, pretending to work and day-dreaming with a goofy grin on his face. His sister, Felicia was in the spare bedroom reviewing fabric swatches and samples for her latest designs.

‘Emma’ he whispered to himself, like a prayer or a blessing. He still had no idea what she looked like, other than beautiful, and clearly she was an excellent mother.

Felicia stopped at the door to the office.

‘Are you actually doing any work?’ she asked. ‘Or are you just day-dreaming again? As if I need to ask. Saba needs a run, you can be lost in your thoughts just as easily at the park’

With that she strode into her bedroom discarding clothing, before the cracking of bones is heard through the house as she smoothly transforms into Saba.

Saba looks far more wolf-like than her brother. Whereas Braon resembles an Alaskan companion dog, large with a long black coat, she resembles a Czechoslavakian wolfdog, smaller with a shorter coat which is predominantly grey and white with darker highlights.

Peter drives Saba to the country park, and can’t help himself, his head on a swivel as he looks for Emma, and the delectable scent which defines her in his mind.

….

Saturday morning was clear and chilly. A frost had formed overnight.

Unusually Emma had been up and out of bed before the alarm clock, full of trepidation, but feeling unable to pull out of the run and let her daughter down for no good reason. And she knew that possibly meeting a handsome stranger, who possibly wanted to get to know her, and might possibly want a relationship in a far distant future was not a good reason. Even if all the possiblys made her want to go and hide under her duvet until Saturday was safely history.

So she had got up, hydrated and even eaten a slice of toast before defrosting the car and heading to Jo’s in good time.

….

Peter was similarly up bright and early, his stomach full of butterflies and barely contained excitement. Felicia on the other hand would have preferred it if she could have stayed in bed, but they had decided that it would be prudent for Saba to accompany Peter on the run, just in case. In case of what they weren’t sure, but Peter wanted to be able to protect his mate no matter what.

The expensive car on the drive defrosted itself with a couple of clicks of the key fob, and Peter and Saba were in the car and on their way.

They pulled up in the park’s carpark, early enough to park close to the entry point, but Peter decided to park nearer the carpark entrance so he could watch the comings and goings of the other runners.

At quarter to nine they made their way up to the start point, Peter scanning the crowd for any sign of Jo and her mother. As each minute ticked by his anxiety levels rose. Shit she’s not coming started running through is brain like a bulldozer careering through a picnic.

As each car entered the carpark he watched it park and disgorge it’s passengers. Each time a small prayer to the Goddess that this time it would be them.

By 8:55am even Saba was pacing, a physical manifestation of his unease. The run co-ordinator was well into the safety briefing when Peter glimpsed a flash of shocking pink hair stepping out of the passenger door of a blue fiesta.

The car’s lights flashed once as the driver locked the door, and she hurried towards the starting area.

Peter held his breath, waiting for his first clear view of his Goddess given mate, and there she was perfection in his eyes.

For people not under the influence of the draw of a mate bond, and in the process of falling in love, Emma could be described as slightly above average.

At 5’4” tall she looked tiny compared to him, with hair so long the tips brushed her thighs, dark brown, and currently it was tied back in a long thick plait. Her patterned lycra running trousers were unforgiving, no solid flat abdomen, but the rounded curves of a woman who has had children and also enjoys cake. Definitely pear shaped with wider hips than bosom.

Her face was defined by two stormy blue eyes, a mouth that was full and perfectly shaped and a nose you could only describe as aquiline. She had come to terms with the fact her nose was not cute or pert and wouldn’t look out of place on the face of a Roman emperor. The aging process had so far been relatively kind, so while a few lines appeared at the corners of her eyes when she smiled she appeared to be in her late thirties rather than mid-forties.

Jo and Emma jogged up to the milling runners looking slightly harried. Jo stopped and prodded her mum, before rolling her eyes towards Peter and Saba while mouthing ‘That’s him’.

Mmmmm, thought Emma, he is good looking, and tall. Tall, dark and handsome she laughs to herself. Then her eyes are drawn to the dog beside him. What the actual fuck, she thinks. That looks like a Czechoslovakian wolfdog, that calm…. in this crowd… WOW.

The four of them somehow meet in the crowd, some kind of strange Brownian motion ensuring they all come together in that place at that time.

‘Mum, this is Peter, you know I mentioned I met him last week’ Jo introduces.

‘Hi’ Emma responds nervously, as the tall man in front of her appears to be attempting to see her soul he is staring that hard.

Peter meanwhile is transfixed. His lungs filling with the scent of honey, cinnamon, coffee and what he can only describe as magic. It is all he can do not to grab her into his arms and proclaim to the world that she is his.

Eventually in a husky voice Peter utters the immortal chat up line, ‘Hi to you too’