Chapter 12: Catching up at Home
The scent of bacon crisping in the pan mingled with the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee. Morning light streamed through the kitchen window, catching dust motes dancing above the counter where Hector stood, mechanically buttering toast. Dorothy hummed softly, flipping the bacon strips with practiced ease, her bare feet padding on the cool tiles. She wore his old university rugby shirt, the hem brushing her thighs.
"So," she chirped, sliding perfectly cooked bacon onto a plate beside Hector’s toast. "Coffee’s hot." She nudged a steaming mug towards him. "Had a lovely chat with Agnes yesterday at the WI meeting."
Hector’s hand tightened slightly on the butter knife. "Oh?"
"Mmhmm." Dorothy leaned against the counter, blowing on her own coffee. Her eyes held that familiar, mischievous glint. "Said you were… thorough. Very polite, apparently. Bit surprised you didn’t stay for tea afterwards, but she understood. Busy man." A playful smirk touched her lips. "She mentioned you seemed… eager. Like you hadn’t been properly fed in ages."
Hector focused intently on spreading the butter evenly, right to the crusts. The memory of Agnes’s floral perfume and the stiflingly neat bungalow felt distant, almost unreal. "Just… followed instructions," he mumbled.
Dorothy chuckled, a warm, throaty sound. "Brenda popped into the bakery yesterday too. Needed her sourdough fix." She took a sip of coffee. "Said you were surprisingly… robust for an accountant. Liked that. Said the flour dust everywhere afterwards was ‘quite the scene’. Gave me a wink." Dorothy mimicked the baker’s broad gesture. "She seemed… invigorated."
Hector remembered the gritty feel of flour under his knees, the heat of the ovens, Brenda’s breathless laugh. He picked up his toast but didn’t take a bite.
"Then," Dorothy continued, her voice dropping conspiratorially, "Charlie cornered me in the library stacks. Quiet as a mouse, she was, practically vibrating." Dorothy’s eyes sparkled. "Said you were… intense. Focused. Apparently, you barely touched the Earl Grey. Just… got straight down to business. She seemed… impressed. Flustered, but impressed. Said she’d never seen anyone handle rare first editions quite like that." Dorothy snorted softly. "Metaphorically speaking, I assume."
Hector felt a flush creep up his neck. The hushed silence of the library, the smell of old paper, Charlie’s startled gasp when he’d pushed the heavy volume aside… He took a gulp of hot coffee, scalding his tongue.
Dorothy’s expression shifted, becoming more knowing. "Dolores," she said, drawing the name out. "Now she was positively effervescent when I dropped off the WI jam order yesterday." Dorothy paused, letting the anticipation build. "Couldn’t stop talking about Paolo."
Hector froze, the mug halfway to his lips.
"Oh yes," Dorothy purred. "Apparently, Paolo arrived right as things were… concluding. Dolores said he looked like he’d swallowed a wasp." Dorothy’s eyes gleamed with dark amusement. "Then she made him… clean up. Properly. With his tongue." She shuddered dramatically, but it was pure theatre. "Said it was the most satisfying thing she’d seen in years. Paolo whimpering, doing as he was told. She called it ‘poetic justice served cold and sticky’."
The image, relayed so casually over breakfast bacon, made Hector’s stomach clench. The humiliation on Paolo’s face, Dolores’s triumphant smirk. He set his mug down carefully.
"And Elizabeth?" Dorothy prompted, her voice softer now, probing. "Henry answered the door when I delivered the WI minutes. Looked… grey. Haunted. Could barely meet my eye." She tilted her head. "Elizabeth swept in, cool as you please. Offered sherry. Then, completely matter-of-factly, mentioned Henry had been ‘most attentive’ afterwards. Had him ‘dispose of the evidence’. Efficiently." Dorothy’s gaze locked onto Hector’s. "She meant the condom, didn’t she? Henry had to… handle it?"
Hector couldn’t hold her gaze. He stared at the golden grease spot on his plate where the bacon had lain. "Yes," he whispered.
The silence stretched, thick with unspoken images: Henry’s trembling hands, Elizabeth’s pearl-adorned foot, the silver tray. Dorothy watched him, her playful facade momentarily slipping, revealing a flicker of something harder, hungrier beneath.
Then, the brightness snapped back. "Well!" she declared, pushing off the counter. "Sounds like you’ve been a very busy boy, darling. And conscientious!" She walked over to the kitchen dresser, rummaged in a drawer, and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped package tied with twine. A tiny gold star sticker winked from the paper. She placed it beside his coffee mug with a flourish. "Little reward for services rendered."
Hector stared at the package, a cold dread mixing with a strange, illicit thrill.
"But," Dorothy continued, her voice dropping again, rich with anticipation, "the real trophies are here." She reached deeper into the drawer and pulled out a stack of clear zip-lock bags, laying them out on the countertop beside the bacon plate with deliberate care.
Five bags.
Each contained a crumpled pair of women's underwear.
Agnes’s sensible cotton briefs, pale blue. Brenda’s practical, slightly flour-dusted hipsters. Charlie’s delicate, lace-trimmed silk. Dolores’s vibrant, paint-splattered thong. Elizabeth’s expensive, sheer black lace, still bearing a faint, tell-tale damp spot.
"They wanted you to have them," Dorothy murmured, tracing the plastic over Elizabeth’s lace with a fingertip. "Mementos. Proof of conquest." She picked up Brenda’s bag, holding it up to the light. The dusting of flour was clearly visible. "Robust," she repeated softly, a private smile playing on her lips. She carefully placed each bag back in a row. "For your… collection."
Hector couldn’t breathe. The mundane kitchen smells – coffee, bacon, cleaning spray – warred violently with the visceral intimacy laid out before him. Proof. Tangible, packaged evidence of every transgression. Dorothy’s eyes, when he finally dared look up, were wide, dark pools of excitement and something else – a fierce, possessive pride.
"June," she breathed, leaning closer, her voice husky. "Felicity. The seventeenth. ‘Come and plough my field’." She chuckled, low and throaty. "Bit more direct than the others, isn’t she? No frills. Just… action." Her hand rested lightly on his arm, her touch electric. "Imagine it. Sweat, hay, that earthy smell she always carries… proper hard work." Her fingers tightened slightly. "You will plough her field, won’t you, Hector? Thoroughly. Like you did Brenda’s bakery. Like Dolores’s studio." Her gaze flicked to the zip-lock bags. "We’ll need another bag. For her knickers. Something sturdy. Farm work is messy."
She picked up the small wrapped package with the gold star and pressed it into his hand. Her smile was dazzling, utterly at odds with the trophies on the counter and the dark promise in her eyes. "Open it later. Consider it… incentive." She turned back to the stove, humming that same soft tune, as if discussing the weather. "More coffee, darling?"
Hector clutched the package, his knuckles white. The zip-lock bags lay on the counter like exhibits. Agnes, Brenda, Charlie, Dolores, Elizabeth. Their scents, their sounds, their surrender, distilled into crumpled fabric under plastic. And Felicity’s earthy command echoed in his head, underscored by Dorothy’s eager anticipation. The smell of bacon suddenly felt cloying, nauseating. The cheerful morning light seemed brutally bright, illuminating the path stretching relentlessly forward – to the hay barn, to the next trophy, to whatever lay beyond June. Dorothy’s cheerful hum filled the kitchen, a counterpoint to the frantic pounding of his own heart against his ribs. He stared at the bags, then at the package in his hand, the gold star blinding.