Hi, we'll continue with The Miss Stanton series. Some of you might be familiar with the artwork of Eric Stanton. Especially my husband is a big fan, so we called one of the main characters in these books Miss Stanton. Anyway, let's start with the blurb, the cover and the link to the book in the store:
Dennis Hobson is the well-respected headmaster of the village school. Already in his fifties he is happily married and enjoying a calm and peaceful life that is filled with nature, classical music and literature. One day though, out of the blue, he has a most disturbing run-in with a woman on the train from Manchester to York.
Months later the same woman walks into his classroom. She doesn’t recognize him, but he does remember her. How could he not? The long blonde hair, the shapely legs in heels and nylons and most of all those steely blue eyes, which scare him all over again and tell him that his troubles have only just begun.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07STPK1HJ
*****
The classroom door opened. Late, Dennis Hobson thought, as he looked over the rim of his glasses, curious to see who it was. However, the girl who came in was a child he had never seen before. The new girl, it must be her. What was her name again? Amanda Stanton? No, Esmeralda Stanton, but spelled differently, in two parts, Es Meralda. Who would give their child a name like that? All this going through his head in the two seconds it took for the eight-year-old to come through the door. She was followed by an adult, a young woman with long blonde hair who took off her sunglasses and looked at him from across the room. The moment Dennis Hobson saw her steely blue eyes he knew he had seen her before. That was not all he knew though. He also knew where and when he’d seen her and why he felt suddenly so scared.
It was three months ago on the train from Manchester to York. He had been on his way home from the teachers’ convention that he had expected so much of but turned out to be quite tedious and disappointing. He recalled how he had run across the platform, hurrying to catch the train, even though there would be another one fifteen minutes later. It was just that he had been so eager to get out of the city and go back home to his loving wife Margaret and the school in their village where the children were still well-behaved. After hearing so many horror stories from colleagues at the convention he had felt like the luckiest man alive to be working in a small village where, unlike in the cities, everybody still knew each other and respect was at the core of every interaction.
So, he had made the 17h17 train to York, where his car was parked. From there it was still a long drive up into the Yorkshire Dales. Main roads at first but then winding country lanes. A pretty landscape and his car had a good sound system too, so he usually enjoyed the drive, passing through valleys and quaint villages while listening to chamber music or cantatas by Johann Sebastian Bach. First there was the train ride to York though, with stops in cities like Leeds and Huddersfield. He had been reading Oliver Twist again, so he had planned to focus on his book to keep the crowd on the train at a distance.
It had rained that day, he recalled now. Grey, miserable weather that had reminded him of November, but the trees had leaves and there were flowers in the gardens of the houses that they passed. He hadn’t looked out of the window much though and he had also hardly opened his book. No, what happened, he had walked through the aisle, looking for an empty seat and when he had found one, he had got busy with his coat and bag that he had stowed above his head. It was only then that he had noticed the woman, this woman who was now in his classroom.
Back in May, on the train, she had sat opposite of him, looking at her phone like everybody else. Thirty years old perhaps, with long blonde hair. She had glanced up at him and given him a look of disapproval with those steely, blue eyes. Arrogant and easily annoyed by everything around her. He remembered thinking how he missed the old days when people still talked to one another on the train. Nowadays you couldn’t even smile at your neighbour anymore or he or she would be suspicious and offended.
As the train had left Manchester Victoria, he glanced at the woman again and imagined describing her to his wife Margaret, starting out with the way she was dressed. Take the leopard print blouse, he would say to Margaret, could it be tackier? When had those got back in fashion? And what about her nails? So long and bright red, what was that good for? Margaret would shake her head and agree with him. Thirty years of marriage and they were still on the same page about almost everything.
The young woman had a long coat draped over her knees, but he could see her shoes and ankles. She was wearing high heels so he said to Margaret: ‘Could you imagine that? Wearing those in the Dales?’
And Margaret would say: ‘Hike in them and stumble into the pub afterwards, everybody staring.’
He had smiled at the thought, but just then the woman had looked at him and raised her eyebrows. Still not friendly at all. It had given him an odd feeling, as if she had caught him looking at her shoes and had scolded him. He had felt the blood rush to his cheeks and had looked out the window until they arrived in Huddersfield. Well, had he really though? No, he was thinking now, mostly he had continued to study the woman in the reflection of the window. The thing was, she was pretty and could even be beautiful if she would dress differently. Get rid of those nails and heels, remove the make-up, wear different clothes and most of all, smile instead of look so surly.
The man sitting next to the woman got off the train in Huddersfield. When no one took his seat the woman had put her coat there and that’s when he got a first good look at her legs. She was wearing a miniskirt, he saw now. God, so tacky too. A leopard print blouse, high heels and a black miniskirt. What would Margaret say about this? He had trouble imagining it now, because his eyes seemed somehow glued to the woman’s legs. They were long and looked beautiful, he had to admit. Shapely calves and full, long thighs. She was wearing nylons too, sheer ones and hardly visible even though her legs were on full display and just a few feet away from him. In his mind he said to Margaret, what do you think? Is it decent to show off your legs like this? And Margaret would chuckle and say that he seemed to rather like them, especially because she was wearing nylons. His wife referring to his teenage crush on aunt Betsy and her stockings. He had once told her about it, maybe twenty years ago, but she still liked to tease him with it. He had been thinking about all this when a voice had interrupted his thoughts.
‘Excuse me, sir.’ And then again, more insisting: ‘Excuse me!’
It had taken him a moment to realize that it was the woman’s voice and that she was talking to him. He had looked up then, straight into her blue eyes and that’s when she had said: ‘You’re staring at my legs. Would you mind?’
Other passengers had looked at him too, some of them sniggering. He had blushed and stammered an apology and in a matter of seconds a sweat had broken out on his forehead. It had been deeply embarrassing, the way he had gone from making fun of her in his mind to being humiliated by her in public. He had apologized and stared out the window, this time for real, and in Leeds he had got off the train. While he had waited for the next one, he had a drink to calm his nerves and repeatedly told himself it was over now. To the people on the train he had been just another middle-aged man in a raincoat. Perhaps some of them would tell their loved ones about the incident, probably have a good laugh about it too, but tomorrow not one of them would even recognize him. As for the people who did know him, the people in the village, they were hours away, up north in the valley. They would never find out about this.
That’s what he had thought back then, but now she was here in his classroom with a little girl by her side. She introduced herself, saying: ‘Hi, I’m Natalie Stanton and this is Es Meralda.’
She doesn’t remember, Dennis thought, and the sense of relief that washed over him was overwhelming. He cleared his throat and told her his name. The woman smiled and seemed nice enough now. Briefly he wondered if he was mistaken. Perhaps it hadn’t been her after all, but no, she began to tell him that they had moved to the village this summer. They had lived in York, she said, but she’d had to go to Manchester for work quite a lot. Then she’d had a lucky break and found a job and a house here. She explained that her uncle owned the real estate agency behind the church. Business was booming and he had asked her to become his partner. Dennis had seen the office. The other day he walked past it. The fact that business was booming was because of the new road that was changing their village so much. Before they had been isolated and among themselves, now the closest town was less than half an hour away. Outsiders were moving to their village these days, saying it was traditional and authentic and an easy drive to their office in town. This woman Natalie didn’t need to commute though. She was renting the cottage on Bakery Lane, she said, and had moved in just a couple of days ago. Dennis’s heart sank a little deeper. That used to be Mrs. Scott’s house, and it was right behind theirs, which meant that Margaret would undoubtedly meet this woman too. This was going to cause trouble, he could feel it in his bones. The only good thing was that the woman didn’t remember him. He was pretty sure of that now.
They shifted their attention to Es Meralda who wasn’t shy at all. She had already been talking to little Steven Butcher and was now pulling a toy out of his hands. Steven tried to take it back, but the girl pushed him away. Both of them looked at the adults then.
‘Es Meralda is new here,’ the woman said before Dennis could get a word in. ‘Why don’t you let her play with it for a while?’
Now Steven Butcher was looking at Dennis who felt lost for words. What should he do? Normally he wouldn’t hesitate to overrule the woman. This was his classroom and in here the children abided by his rules. There was no doubt in his mind that the little girl needed to be set straight. New or not, she couldn’t come in here and just take a toy from another child. So why didn’t he say something? Why did it feel as if he were paralyzed? He looked at the woman, saw that the expression in her blue eyes had hardened now. It reminded him of the look she had given him on the train. A chill went through his spine, and feeling utterly disgusted with himself, he turned to little Steven Butcher and told him to go look for another toy.
***
***
The brief encounter with the woman at school left a mark, just like the other time he had seen her. That night over dinner he told Margaret about the newcomer. He didn’t mention that he had seen her before of course and also left the Steven Butcher part out of it. What he focused on instead was the broader picture of how their sheltered village life was changing because of the newcomers who just didn’t seem to fit in. Margaret shook her head though and reminded him of the fact that he himself wasn’t born here either, was he? It was true, he wasn’t even English. That was the point though, he argued. He came to England from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania all those years ago not to bring America with him, but to immerse himself in European culture. He and Margaret had met at Cambridge where they had lived for almost ten years. Learning, reading, conversations about politics and art and then, when they both felt the time was right, they had moved to the village where Margaret was born and raised. This village in the Yorkshire Dales. Their village. He loved it here. At first he’d been afraid he would miss the theatres and bookshops, but going back to Cambridge a few times a year to visit their old friends quenched his thirst.
Life in the Dales was good. Their marriage was still strong as well after so many years together. There were days that they would hardly talk, but in a good and peaceful way. Both of them reading in the conservatory or working in the garden. They went on long hikes too, bringing sandwiches, plenty of water and binoculars to watch the birds. It kept them in shape and in touch with nature.
Jobwise they were happy here too, especially since he wasn’t just a teacher anymore, but also the school’s headmaster. He didn’t care much for status, but he knew they were a well-established couple within their community. The headmaster and his wife who kept the village library up and running. Yes, if things could have stayed the way they had been he would have been the happiest man in the world. However, change had not only come to the village, but also to his life. Change in the shape of this tacky, blonde woman. A woman, he would bet, who had never heard a sonata of Bach in her life. A woman who seemed to be divorced and had called her daughter Es Meralda. A woman too who wasn’t afraid to confront strangers on a train and cause a scene. A terrible woman, in short, but someone who was their neighbor now, so he would have to deal with her as best he could.
He didn’t see Miss Stanton again for a few days which suited him fine. On Friday morning though, on his way to school, he ran into her at the corner of Bakery Lane and Stuart Road. She was wearing a yellow summer dress and sandals. Her toenails were painted red, he noticed. Es Meralda was by her side, holding her hand. The woman greeted him politely and as they walked to school together they struck up a conversation. She told him about the child’s father, a useless man from York who had moved abroad the moment he knew she was pregnant. She also asked him if he was American and said she had been to New York once.
It was a completely normal chat about daily life, but it wasn’t unpleasant. He had been fretting over the thought of having to talk to her and now it turned out that things weren’t as bad as he had feared. When they had almost reached the school gate though she glanced at him and asked if they had met before somewhere.
She said: ‘It’s just that you look so familiar.’
Dennis Hobson’s heart skipped a beat, but he managed to keep his voice steady when he said that he got that a lot, that he must have one of those faces.
Over the weekend it got colder. Dennis and his wife went hiking on Saturday, with a pub lunch halfway, but they stayed in on Sunday. Normally he loved the first days of autumn. He would light the wood stove and make himself comfortable by the fire with a good book. This weekend though he felt restless. Even Margaret noticed and asked him what was the matter. He told her not to worry about it, but in his mind he kept hearing the woman say that he looked familiar. What worried him too was that he had gone up to the attic three times already, always with an excuse that Margaret believed and he himself could almost believe as well. Almost, but not entirely. Once he went up there to search for Margaret’s quilt. Then he went two more times to look for boxes with old CD’s. Valid reasons, except that when he got there he couldn’t stop himself from peeking through the window at Mrs. Scott’s old cottage. Miss Stanton’s house now. The first time he told himself it was just curiosity. See if any changes had been made in the back garden since the old woman had moved out. Well, he had hardly looked at the garden, had he? No, not when he saw that the old curtains were gone and that he had a clear view of both the living room and the master bedroom now.
Still he could live with the excuse that he gave himself. So far it was perfectly acceptable what he had done. Every neighbor checked out his surroundings every now and then, especially when newcomers were involved.
The second time he was up there though he took another peek and now he knew it was wrong what he was doing. Still it didn’t stop him from taking his time to look at the woman who was in plain view now. Sitting on the couch, dressed in leggings and a loose, pink t-shirt and talking to her daughter who was on the floor playing with a doll. Even though Dennis felt disgusted with himself he couldn’t help watching them. The woman unsettled him and made him nervous, but he also remembered what her legs had looked like back on the train. Hidden behind the curtain he felt an urgency to see them again. Her legs and maybe even more at some point, a perverted voice in the back of his mind said.
The third time he was up in the attic he didn’t see anything special. Just the girl still playing and the woman coming into the living room briefly, but going back to the other side of the house, to the kitchen most likely, almost right away.
The rest of that Sunday Dennis Hobson had trouble concentrating on his book. Not only did his thoughts keep going back to the clear view from the attic of the woman’s house, he also kept struggling with his conscience. He couldn’t do this, couldn’t sneak up there and hope for a cheap thrill, but he also knew that it would be darn difficult to control himself. Not when it was this easy. He would try to control himself though, he really would. The rest of the day he stayed at Margaret’s side, listening attentively to everything she said and by doing so keeping his focus on the here and now, far away from his new neighbor.
However, on Monday morning, with Margaret in the shower, he was back in the attic. Quickly and telling himself the sweater he had bought in London some years ago, could be up there in the closet. Once he was in the attic though he didn’t even pretend to look for it. No, he walked straight up to the small window and dear God, now he got what he had been secretly longing for. He had just felt it, knowing that the woman must be getting dressed this time of day too. Well, there she was, walking around in her bedroom. He had missed the best part though, because she was already partly dressed. If only Margaret had taken a shower two minutes earlier he might have seen the woman without the black pencil skirt she was wearing now. She also had on a black pantyhose and lacy bra. She seemed to be looking for a blouse or sweater now, reaching into the closet and making up her mind. Dennis thought of his binoculars, but groaned right away because he realized that he would be crossing another red line if he brought them up here. Reminding himself too that he wasn’t peeking at the legs of a stranger on a train in the city. No, he was at home and Margaret was downstairs and if he got caught perving over this woman his life as he knew it might be over. So best be careful, he told himself. Still he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Something stirred in his groin too as he watched her put on a blouse and cardigan and then step into sexy black pumps. They might be the same heels that she had worn on the train and seeing them again in combination with the shameful memory triggered a kind of arousal in him that he didn’t recognize. A mixture of danger, shame, sexual attraction and fear of this woman. It was a strange cocktail, he thought. Maybe a bit sick too, but still, when he saw the confident manner in which she walked out of the bedroom he let out a satisfied sigh.
***
***
In the weeks that followed several things happened that were related to the woman. Some were good, others were disappointing. What was good was that Dennis got his voyeuristic tendencies somewhat organized. He no longer tried to fight them, but instead managed to compartmentalize them. He could go up to the attic and peek at the woman sitting on the couch or getting dressed and feel the excitement grow by the day, but the moment he turned away from the window and went down the stairs and back to Margaret, he was normal Dennis again. Chatting about the weather, work or even on one occasion about some pervert the police had arrested in the park. Margaret feeling sorry for the man, but Dennis coming down hard on him, maintaining there was no place in their village for sick people like that. Of course a voice in his head reminded him of what he had just done himself, but he managed to shake it off as if it had been another person entirely who had been peeking at the neighbor from behind the curtain.
Another thing he had done was set his alarm clock five minutes earlier. Margaret hadn’t even noticed. She had trouble waking up in the morning and just stumbled into the shower. The five minutes made all the difference though, because now, when he got to the window in the attic, he often caught the woman coming out of the bathroom dressed in her underwear and with a towel wrapped around her hair. It was a pity she wasn’t naked of course, but he knew that he shouldn’t complain. What he saw was more than he could have hoped for and it got even better when he had his binoculars to peek through. He remembered the first day he had been up there, when it had crossed his mind to go get them. He had dismissed the thought back then, but now that he was able to compartmentalize his voyeurism he felt confident enough to include the binoculars in his dirty ritual. Needless to say that they made a massive difference too.
After two weeks he felt like he had seen Miss Stanton in all of her lingerie sets. She wasn’t like Margaret or any other woman he had known. Women who would wear sensible underwear. Big bra’s, cotton panties, that kind of thing. No, Miss Stanton loved her lingerie. She wore matching, lacy sets every day. Burgundy, dark blue, light blue, black, white, pink, she seemed to own lingerie in all kinds of colors. Sometimes panties with a high waist, other times tiny ones that showed the shape of her butt when she turned her back to him. Scanning her body with his binoculars he usually focused on her breasts and nipples that he could often see clearly underneath the lacy bra’s. He also liked looking at her crotch. At first he had been hoping to catch a glimpse of pubic hair, but soon he discovered that she must be completely shaven, because even when she wore white transparent panties he didn’t see the slightest shadow of a bush. A pity, he thought, but then he noticed he could see the shape of her pussy lips and all thoughts of hair, and anything else for that matter, disappeared. Another thing he couldn’t get enough of was seeing her put on her pantyhose and heels. Almost every morning he got lucky. It was part of her job of course to look feminine in heels and hose. It made him feel as if he were reliving the good old days of lusting after aunt Betsy’s stockings. A time in which his dick had been hard all the time, at least that’s how he remembered it. Now it wasn’t that hard anymore of course, but goddamned he was feeling horny again these days. As good as their marriage was, he and Margaret hardly had sex anymore. They were okay with that too. Sometimes, quite rarely in fact, Dennis would masturbate quickly in the shower and that was it. Now though, with this new neighbor, he felt like jerking off every day. Soon it wasn’t just in the shower either. No, on nights that Margaret was out he would lay down on the bed and think of all the things he had seen in the morning. Masturbating more only seemed to increase his lust though, so it didn’t take long for him to take his dick out in the morning too, touching himself as he peeked through the binoculars at Miss Stanton’s divine body, longing to see her naked, something that never happened though. It began to frustrate him too after a while but what could he do? He told himself to be patient. Surely it was just a matter of time before he would get lucky.
He hadn’t considered things could go the other way too though, so it came as an unpleasant surprise when he went up to the attic one morning and discovered that the woman had put up new curtains. He almost howled in disappointment. Both the living room and the bedroom were closed off for him now. Nothing to be seen anymore except those terrible light brown curtains. He kept going up there though, not able to stop and still hoping for a glimpse every now and then. However, after another week, it was clear that Miss Stanton’s morning routine consisted of a shower first, then get dressed and only then open the curtains and let the daylight in. Dennis Hobson still liked looking at her, seeing the kind of clothes she was wearing, admiring her shapely legs through his binoculars, but it wasn’t the same anymore of course. He felt he had gotten close to something good, but then it had been taken away from him. It put him in a bad mood that lasted almost a week.
He would also occasionally meet Miss Stanton at school. Sometimes in the afternoon, when she picked up her daughter, she would look for him and ask how her little girl was doing. Dennis could never tell her the truth, which was that Es Meralda was a big pain in the butt. Not just for him, but for everybody at school. The woman was overprotective of her daughter though, more so than Dennis had ever seen and he knew that telling her what he really thought of Es Meralda would antagonize her big time.
One day Miss Stanton asked him about the Parent Council, saying she thought it’d be good for Es Meralda if she got on it, so she could have a vote in the way the school was run. Dennis had felt so insulted that he hadn’t known what to say, so in the end he just told her that he would let her know if a seat became available. She had been annoyed and walked out of the classroom without another word. Over my dead body, Dennis had thought, will I let you on the Parent Council. At the same time though he had looked at her beautiful calves in nylons and felt the arousal in his groin.
Sometimes he also saw Miss Stanton on his way to school. Ever since she had said he looked familiar he had made sure to leave home a little earlier, not wanting to talk to her too much and risk triggering her memory. It was hard to always avoid her though, since they still walked the same route to school.
One day he was later than he had planned and he ran into her again at the crossroads. The encounter and the events that followed rattled him like nothing else had rattled him before. It was at the end of the week during which he had felt so grumpy about the curtains blocking his view. He was just coming to terms with the new situation and was beginning to feel a certain relief that circumstances were forcing him to get back to normal. If there was no longer a point in going up to the attic he could cuddle the extra five minutes with Margaret perhaps. Look back at this perverted episode and be relieved that he had managed to turn the corner.
Thinking about all this he didn’t notice Miss Stanton and Es Meralda walking up to the crossroads. They nearly bumped into each other and as Dennis apologized profoundly for having been so distracted, Miss Stanton told him not to worry about it, but then she seemed to think of something. She narrowed her eyes and said: ‘Since you and Es Meralda are both going to school I was wondering if she could walk with you.’
It took Dennis a moment to get his bearings and to focus on the woman and her request. Why exactly did the girl have to come with him? Why couldn’t she take her? Thinking this as he tried not to stare at her legs or remember that he had been spying on her with his dick in his hands for the past few weeks.
‘It’s just that my office is the other way,’ Miss Stanton said. ‘I know it’s not far from here to the school and then back to where I work, but in these heels it’s quite a walk.’
She glanced at her feet and he followed her gaze. She was wearing red pumps. He liked how they showed the beginning of her toes that were covered in almost invisible nylon. Quickly he looked up again and said, yes, he understood, no problem, Es Meralda could come with him. The woman didn’t speak though. She was looking at him with her steely blue eyes while something seemed to be scratching at her memory. Dennis knew what it was of course and felt the panic rise. Quickly he said: ‘How about this afternoon? Do you think you could pick Es Meralda up or …?’
Now what was he trying to say here? You dumb idiot, he told himself. The woman raised her eyebrows, just like she had done on the train the first time she had caught him looking at her. She said: ‘I don’t think I have much of a choice. I mean, unless you would want to drop her off at my office?’
‘Sure, no problem,’ Dennis Hobson said as he looked at himself in horror. What had he just said?! He couldn’t believe it, but Miss Stanton looked happy now and said: ‘Great. Thank you, Dennis.’
She said she would see him at half past three then and turned around. He watched her walk away, just for a second or two, but long enough for his voyeuristic side to record the incredibly beautiful shape of her calves. Strong but not too strong. Just right, with beautiful curves and all of that covered in sheer nylon. Reminding him of aunt Betsy again, except that this woman’s legs looked even better than hers. Then he remembered the little girl, who was looking up at him with eyes that were almost as blue as her mother’s.
The girl said: ‘You like my mother.’
Was it a question? He hoped to God it was, but he wasn’t sure at all. Quickly he said to the girl that her mother was very nice indeed and that seemed to satisfy her, at least for now. He would have to more careful though and remind himself of what was at stake here.
The walk from school to the real estate agency in the afternoon almost felt like a walk of shame. The little girl seemed cheerful enough and thank God she didn’t want to hold his hand either. Still he kept thinking of what the villagers would think. They encountered plenty of them and two of them stopped for a chat. The first one was Jane, the vicar’s wife who wanted to talk about a community meeting in the church. As they spoke Dennis could tell she was curious about the girl, so he told her the girl’s mother had called him, because she was too busy to pick up her daughter and well, he was going in that direction anyway, right? A moment later they ran into Paula, one of Margaret’s good friends. He gave her the same spiel, lying again about a phone call that never took place. Paula asked him if the girl and her parents were new here. He told her it was just the mother. People from the city originally, you know. He rolled his eyes as he said it, feeling in control of the situation again, but then the little girl said: ‘Mister Hobson likes my mommy.’
Paula looked from the girl to him and back to the girl. Something in her eyes now, an uncertainty, he could see it clearly. She laughed though and said to the girl: ‘I’m sure he does, sweetheart. I bet your mommy is really nice.’
The girl nodded and looked happy.
‘So where is your mother now?’ Paula said.
And that’s when the girl pointed across the street and said: ‘There’s my mommy!’
It was true too. Miss Stanton was coming out of the deli with a coffee cup in her hand. Paula turned around and saw her too now. Saw the heels and legs, the long blonde hair and the full breasts in the blouse. Miss Stanton noticed them too and smiled at the sight of her daughter, who started to run and crossed the street without looking. Dennis told her to wait and reached out for her, but it was too late. Thank God there were no cars, so the girl was in her mother’s arms in a matter of seconds. Dennis glanced at Paula and said it was nice to see her. Then he crossed the street too, expecting the woman to thank him, but with Paula still within hearing distance, Miss Stanton said to him: ‘What if a car had come by? Next time hold Es Meralda’s hand, okay?’
Strict and bossy, no, almost bitchy with those cold blue eyes. He said he was sorry and yes, of course it was stupid of him not to think about that. It was true too, the girl had been his responsibility and normally he would have been more careful of course. The problem was that his voice sounded weird, even to his own ears. Quickly he looked over his shoulder and to his utter dismay Paula was still there, observing their exchange and seeing him being humiliated by this young and sexy woman. It was just awful. He couldn’t remember feeling this miserable ever before.
***
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