After my meal, I wandered the streets, saw closed circuit TVs on every street corner, traffic pole and building. They had to have an entire police constabulary just watching them. What I didn’t find was a phone kiosk and when I asked, I received looks of such profound disbelief you’d have thought I’d asked for someone’s liver or first born.
Finally, I walked into a small antique and consignment shop and asked if I could see their directory. I chose that one because of the Cornish Lion in the window. The lady behind the counter was Irish and her accent made me homesick. I muttered something in Gaelic and her eyebrows rose. She nattered away asking my name, my town and my family’s lineage and ran on for five minutes before she petered out self-consciously.
“Excuse me,” she laughed somewhat chagrined. “I rarely encounter another Irish who speaks Gaelic and I do run on.”
“I’m Cornish, actually. I speak both Gaelic and Welsh. My name is Aidan Argent.”
“Cornish. I would never have guessed. Are you related to the Argents of Cryllwythe Farms? Oh, but then, I suppose not. Lord Bowden’s son died forty-two years ago. Never had another child.” I didn’t say anything. “What can I do for you, young Aidan?”
“I would like to borrow your directory. I’m looking for a friend. Camilla Mowbry. She used to live in Mayfair. Moved to London proper, I believe.”
“I can look it up in the White Pages online.”
“You can do that?”
“Of course I can. Where have you been that you don’t know that?”
I shrugged. You can’t explain to just anyone you’ve been dead for thirty out of forty some odd years on and off.
“What’s her name?”
“Camilla Mowbry, used to be Watson,” I answered and she brushed her cherry brown hair behind her ears and turned the monitor around so I could watch.
She smelled pretty, like flowers and sunshine. Her eyes were sky blue and made up to a smoky brown with thick lashes, her lips peachy and plump, shiny as if they were wet. I watched her concentrated rather than watch the computer.
“You’re staring,” she said, smiling. I swallowed, felt a stirring in my pants and my ears reddened.
She looked up, her eyes serious and they had taken on a shine I’d seen before. Her voice thickened. “How old are you, Aidan?”
“Sixteen,” my voice cracked. She took my hand and placed it on her breast. I felt her nipple harden instantly, stood there, and didn’t know what to do.
She pulled me close, tilted my head, and kissed me, her tongue thrusting into my mouth. My dick hardened in my underwear, I shifted, suddenly uncomfortable. My belly quivered as she slipped her had down in and softly encircled me. Her eyes widened. “Oh my,” she breathed into me and waited. I stood there, indecisive. She pushed back. “Aidan?”
“I---I…never…don’t,” I stuttered, hands in front of my suddenly bulging jeans.
“You’ve never done it, Aidan?” she asked kindly. I nodded, red-faced. She smiled. Went to the shop door, locked it, and pulled the closed sign. Said, “Miss Cammy Watson can wait another day, Aidan. It’s my turn and my treat.”
She took me upstairs to her flat and taught me what those boys only dreamed about.
In the morning, she gave me a shower, a good meal, fresh clothes and a farewell kiss. Two pieces of paper with phone numbers. I asked if one was hers and she shook her head fondly. “Not a good idea, Aidan. In the eyes of the law, you’re a child even if your eyes say different. Your beautiful eyes have seen more life and death than any one adult’s lifetime. I’ve enjoyed teaching you. I’m proud to be your first but don’t come back. I’m afraid I’d lack the fortitude to send you away the second time. You could become addictive.’
She told me her name was Cybele and I told her the Irish blessing in Gaelic before I left with Cammy’s address and phone number in my sweaty palm.