Guilty Tales - Isobel Ch. 01

** Please read my disclaimer as part of my biography for a better understanding of this story.

Diana Ross was, and still is, a world wide, multi-million selling record artiste. She conquered the world in the 1960's as part of Mowtown's all girl group 'The Supremes' and then cemented her world domination as a solo artiste in the 70's and 80's notching up a string of best selling singles and albums around the globe. However, it was one of her lesser known singles that would be the catalyst for one of my most amazing and yet highly controversial romantic affairs I'd ever had. The song in question was a relatively minor success in the US, however, way back during the late summer of 1971 it reached the no. 1 spot in the UK charts for four weeks. Much later it would be subject to a then, customary, remix which seemed all the rage back in the early 90's that earned it a place just outside the top 20.. which is where I guess Isobel must have known it from – either that or from her parents who were, presumably, big Diana Ross fans. Either way she was well aware of the song, in particular the lyrics within, and used it to devastating effect.

The aforementioned controversy surrounding my affair with Isobel stems from the fact that not only was she sixteen years my younger but that she also happened to be my best friend's niece. She was born to my friend's (Anthony) sister in London. That same summer I had finally concluded my final year of school. My exams were a soon distant memory and I could concentrate on the more serious side of being a young, naïve sixteen year old that being football and dreaming about girls! As that endless summer wore on Anthony received an invite from his sister to spend a week down in London with her so that he could meet the new addition to his family. As we were really close friends he invited me to come down as well and after clearing it with my parents it was not long before we had bussed our way the 120 miles or so to the capital and were accepted into the home of Anthony's sister and Brother-In-Law. It was here I first met Isobel. She was not more than a few weeks old and was wrapped up in all manner of layers. She was pinkish red, wrinkly and generally slept a lot. I even got to hold her for a short while whilst her mother hovered anxiously beside me, nervously hot footing to and fro, arms poised at the ready in case I dropped her. However, way back then, I was a rather awkward, shy teenage boy with no experience of life whatsoever and young babies held little interest to me and so within a short while the novelty on the new born baby girl, for both myself and Anthony, had worn off and soon we were engulfed in a weeks worth of adventure travelling into the big city for the first time.

Within a week or so we were safely ensconced back in our relative homes and the memory of Isobel disappeared into the confusing morass of emotion that makes up a teenagers mind coupled with the dawning of the age of responsibility looming large on the horizon. After all, my exam results were due and I had been accepted into the local college. Life just simply moved on.

As the years passed I met Isobel very infrequently. Even as a child, though, she was a very 'opinionated' and incredibly smart girl. On the few occasions we did meet (usually birthday parties where she and her mother would travel north to visit) she would be argumentative and loud. We (that is, myself, Anthony and a few other close friends) used to rib her mercilessly and poke fun out of her because we knew she had a propensity to react with gusto!

At Anthony's 21st birthday party she had grown into a very precocious 6 year old. Well able to argue with any of the lads there and would actively seek us out to remonstrate quite loudly when she felt she was getting picked on through our playful jibes. Her face would burn a pale iridescent pink, anger etched on her brow as waves of her fury would dash futilely upon the rocky cliffs of our derision. Each remonstration prompting more tongue in cheek taunts until eventually we would get a scolding from her mother for taking things too far and winding her up.

Many years had passed and as time moved on Anthony announced that he was getting married. We were both in our mid thirties by this time. I myself was married with two very young children and was given the honour of being best man at the wedding.

Isobel had been chosen as one of the Bridesmaids and it became apparent to myself and all my friends what a transformation had taken place since we had last seen her. Gone was the loud, obnoxious child of pre-adolescence, the gangly awkward teenager had long been vanquished to be replaced by a stunning beauty not more than 20 years of age. She was a full grown woman, and everyone who hadn't seen her for a number of years remarked on the fact. Now at this point I should mention that my interest in Isobel was purely an avuncular one. She was my best friend's niece and any thoughts beyond that were quickly dispelled from my mind. Yes, she was stunning – she had the darkest of brown hair, almost black, that cascaded about her shoulder in waves. She was taller than average and her figure was accentuated by the manner at which the bridesmaids dress was designed – nipped in at the waist, long but straight to the feet. Not one of those awful meringue designs that made poor unfortunate girl look like a toilet ornament. The shoulders were sleeveless and a plunging neckline left very little to the imagination for a girl with the fuller cleavage that she possessed. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, deep and rich and would capture your attention the instant your gaze met them leaving you lost amid the brooding smouldering look she could give you, to devastating effect. I think above all, it was her smile for me that highlighted her beauty. It was quick, easy and warm at the same time but was in no way false. The kind of natural smile that richly compliments a person's features and can at once captivate you and yet put you off guard in the same breath.

At the time she had a boyfriend and I couldn't help but think that he was a lucky fella, but as I have mentioned before my intentions were purely innocent seeing as who she was, but it didn't stop me and my friends who had seen her grow up, continue where we had left off and before long the jocular but gentle provocation had begun.

It soon became apparent that the loud, argumentative and opinionated side was actually still there, just hidden just under the surface of her personality. A few drinks later and the playful jibes in her direction soon scratched away the thin veneer of decorum to elicit some payback of her own. She was quite clearly as sharp as a whip. Each clumsy, denigrating insult was deftly parried with ease and returned with the skill and artistry of a master. Clearly she was more than a match for our half hearted semi-drunken jibes and had done a lot more growing up than we had given her credit for. It was all done in good faith with tongues firmly planted in cheek but it was clear that we had all underestimated her and that she was quite a force to be reckoned with.

As the day wore on however I found myself absent-mindedly looking in her direction. Without realising it I would seek her out amongst the crowds of people jostling for position to get to the bridal party. As there were only four bridesmaids and the fact that she was taller than average it made my life easier to locate her, usually smiling and laughing with the guests or blushing at the complements she was being handed or being surrounded by hoards of children, girls especially, who thought she looked like a princess due to the tiara that sat royally on her perfectly sculptured hair. She moved effortlessly through the crowds, danced sensually to the music on the dance floor and I would occasionally catch her laugh as it drifted over the ambient hubbub that pervades any gathered group of people. As the day drew to a close I found myself purposefully seeking her out, drawn to her mere presence as a moth is to a flame. It was madness, of course, to think anything more of this. I was married, with kids and I was her uncle's best friend and yet did I imagine it when I she caught my eye? Was there something more in that slightly prolonged look she gave than the pleasant recognition of one who would greet someone who was no more than an acquaintance? I was probably dreaming it. My imagination had probably taking hold of my senses enough for me to see something that most probably wasn't there.

The wedding, as all weddings should, passed off wonderfully. The following day everyone agreed that the occasion had been as good, if not better, that all had hoped for. The weather had been unusually kind (the summers had been very hit and miss in the few preceding years) and everyone had enjoyed a marvellous time.

When it came time to go Isobel was quite keen to obtain everyone's email address, especially the lads who were Anthony's best friends. Duly, we all swapped addresses and parted with happy memories of the previous day's celebrations. By the following day I was back at work and, as had happened upon my return from London all those years ago, life moved on and soon things had pretty much returned to normal.

My first email from Isobel arrived a few weeks after Anthony's wedding. The memories of that day were relatively fresh in my mind despite the pressures of work forcing them to become ever more distant and as soon as I saw her name appear in my inbox my immediate thoughts ran straight back to the wedding. My memory slipped back easily the first time I'd seen her standing regally in her pale blue Bridesmaids dress, her awe-inspiring eyes and of course that stunning smile. Always, that stunning smile. I must admit to finding myself a little aroused by the thought.

"Hey!" was how it started. I later found out that "Hey" was her stock introduction. "How are you? Just thought I'd see how you are after the wedding."

I paused..Normally I go straight into replies when I'm emailed but on this occasion I stopped myself. This was unusual. Most people politely swap contact details (phone numbers, emails etc.) but never follow them up so this was out of the blue. I was pleased that she'd emailed though.

I must have re-written the email half a dozen times before simply deciding to reply with:

"Hey, I'm great thanks. Good to hear from you. How are things with you?" Hardly awe inspiring stuff I'll admit but it was as neutral as I could manage.

And so began the start of an amazing period in my life. From that moment on we commenced emailing on quite a regular basis. Upwards of two dozen or more emails a day passed between us as we discussed wide ranging topics from the Wedding to that of Modern Politics, Philosophy and our great passion – reading. It turned out Isobel was quite a voracious reader and would devour books at the rate of three or four a week. Now, I profess to enjoy reading a great deal but that ratio of turnover was way beyond my capacity to absorb. Her range was quite remarkable – she'd read most of the classics and was at the time ploughing her way relentlessly through "War and Peace" whilst counterpointing it with her, current, favourite genre, that of pulp romance – Mills and Boon being foremost among them. Having never read Mills & Boon I didn't pick up on the slight clues as to her real nature. I assumed they were just mass produced, throw away romance books that were the last refuge of the hopeless romantic, who, unhappy in their own lives would retreat into the paperback world of tall, dark handsome strangers with smouldering looks and tight cut shirts. However, having looked into them since, that's not all that they are about. More of that in another story!

About a month or so into our email conversations things began turning more flirtatious. It turned out that Isobel and her boyfriend had split up after 'another' blazing public row and she was now young free and single. This became more noticeable in the emails as she grew more and more suggestive and flirty with each message. I, being a natural flirt, couldn't resist and so played along. Again, nothing was said between us, but ever more my desire was growing inside me. Each email fuelled a need in my heart to take this further. In my mind I found myself fantasising about all the perverted things I would like to do to her. However my feelings were always tempered by the fact that I was married with kids, I was considerably older than her and well over 100 miles away. What on earth could she see in me?!

And then one day Diana Ross made her cameo appearance in this story. I had been sending the usual flirty emails to Isobel, asking her about what kind of men she liked to which she replied that she liked 'older' men. I smiled as I read that "She's so good" I thought to myself thinking about her skills as a flirt. She also was being evasive about someone she had mentioned that she had a crush on but was afraid to approach. In return I had been trying to give advice and how best to approach the subject. And then, quite out of the blue, it happened....

"Do you know any songs by Diana Ross?" Came the email from her.

That caught me off guard somewhat. It was completely out of context with the conversation we were having at the time. I frowned. Diana Ross? I thought. She hadn't been commercially active for a while at the time. I trawled my memories of the songs I knew about. Even with my limited knowledge I knew that she possessed quite a sizeable back-catalogue.

"Yes I do. She's very good." I replied, still puzzled.

A few moments later came the response. I had been intently watching my email software waiting for the tell tale 'ding' to sound and the bold unread line to appear at the top of my list of inbox mails. A quick double-click on the message and the contents were revealed to me.

"Do you know the song 'I'm still waiting'?"

Even more strange. Frowning again I though for a minute. Yes, I knew the song. Not well but I kind of remembered how it went. I sat back and recalled Ross' soft but high mezzo-soprano vocals as they drifted through my mind. I had it but frustratingly the words eluded me and I could just about remember the chorus. I played the melody out in my mind a few times to be sure I could thread the tangled memories into a coherent tune.

"Yes, excellent song! What about it?" My fingers tapped out the reply.

And then....nothing. Minutes passed and no reply. Normally there would have been an instant response with some continuation of the conversation.

I waited. In fact as I waited a nagging feeling was creeping slowly across my mind, tugging at my inner being urging me in a direction I had no idea where it wanted to take me.

Minutes passed, still nothing – very unusual. The nagging feeling wouldn't go away. I sat upright, opened up a web browser on my PC and ran a search for 'I'm still waiting – Diana Ross'. The click-clack sound of the keyboard was all I could hear above the office ambience as I typed the letters in as quickly as I could.

The search results returned thousands of hits. I concentrated on the top few and saw the headline 'I'm still Waiting – Lyrics'.

I selected the hyperlink with my mouse and sat back, intently watching the screen refresh itself with the newly loading web page. As usual there were the annoying 'pop-ups' asking if I wanted this song as a ringtone. Angrily I guided the mouse to the 'X' option on the pop-up window dismissing it into an electronic oblivion and looked beyond to the waiting result.

As I read the lyrics my jaw slowly opened. I must have sat and stared at the screen for a good five minutes or so as I absorbed the words and put them into the context of our conversation. It took me a while to snap out of it and compose myself. I'd realised I had stopped breathing and my heart was beating rapidly. The message was clear – now how would I pursue this?

"Oh! I see now." Was my reply. I then followed this up quickly with another message "Are you sure about this?" I was slightly incredulous at the turn of events. Yes I'd enjoyed the flirting but never for a moment did I consider the direction that this was turning.

It was a frustratingly long, almost eternal, 20 minutes or so before Isobel replied.

"You see now? And yes I am quite sure. I have felt this way for such a long time now."

From that point on the conversations between us took on a more conspiratorial, clandestine air. The cheeky flirting that had featured so prominently between us was largely replaced by more in-depth but subtle probing. What did she like? What didn't she like? Didn't she mind that I was married? As the days passed the intensity of the situation gathered up like a storm. Soon all subtlety was abandoned, discarded with no pretence at decorum. A fervour had gripped us like a whirlwind and carried us along in its torrid, turbulent wake as a more and more we stripped away the barriers of guilt, responsibility and remorse. Lust filled our hearts and words. Feverish emails flew back and forth filled with hunger and desire, pulling us inexorably into the well of yearning that would lead us to the next phase in this virtual 'relationship'.

Eventually things had built up into a crescendo of craving and desire. I had to see her. Days had passed since the epiphany of the lyrics and our conversations had heightened to a peak of sexual tension between us that we both had to satisfy. Sadly, Isobel didn't drive which limited us somewhat. She also lived at home with her parents which presented a greater challenge as well as they both worked hours to suit so could be about at any time. However we were both fortunate in that it was late summer and the holiday season was upon us. Isobel had told me that her parents and younger brother were due to spend a week away abroad and that she was staying behind. This provided our opportunity. I checked with my Boss that there was no clash of annual leave as I requested two days off to coincide with the time Isobels' parents were away. Thankfully it was approved. It was a month away – which seemed like an eternity – however we both agreed it was something we needed to do if nothing else but to get it out of our respective systems.

The Month that followed dragged interminably on. Each day passed with growing anticipation which also reflected in the emails that were still passing between us.

She was beginning to get nervous. Maybe we should rethink?

No, I stated categorically. We've come so far NOT to continue, I told her. Hold your nerve, we'll be fine.

It was all I could do to keep her onside as doubt ate its way into her original self belief. It was as if the actual act of arranging to meet each other had burst the bubble of anticipation. I suppose I did keep forcing the situation with my reassuring words of comfort and encouragement, cajoling almost. I'd originally stated before that I was more avuncular toward her in the beginning. Now, however, my blood was racing, the hormones were in overdrive – there was no way I was going to let this opportunity slip from my grasp.

Eventually the day came. Thursday morning I was dressed for work. Previously, when I'd booked my annual leave, I had told my wife that I was on a client site for two days and would call her later. I packed my overnight bag in the boot of the car and set off for the 3 hours journey south to the awaiting Isobel.

The journey took longer than anticipated, which only served to heighten the tension. We text messaged each other throughout my journey. I would relay to her which part of the country I was currently at and also a possible time of arrival. Again, her nerves were creeping into the conversation. What if I didn't like her? What would we do as soon as I walked through the door?