Lost Property - Debonair

[JellyMan]

NOT EXPLICIT

The hard winter had given way to a warm, but very wet spring. Most people would be disappointed, but I loved to stand behind the counter of the Lost Property office watching people scurrying around the concourse area below the street, still glistening from the rain on the street above. I watched out for people who turned up their collars or pulled up their hoods in preparation for the storm that awaited them outside. I was always surprised at how many people were still totally unprepared for the weather.

I was feeling lonely with Sophie away on her business course; the annual torture for call centre staff to do team-building. It was not long before I spotted a very sophisticated woman striding across the concrete with purpose, but when she reached the bottom of the steps that led up to the street she stopped. I must be honest, she calf-length shiny black leather skirt was what attracted my eye initially, but then the long blonde hair and slim figure had me fixated.

I could see she was searching through the shopping bags she was carrying, then suddenly she spun around and started to stride purposefully towards me. I tried to look away and hoped she hadn’t noticed me watching. The computer terminal keyboard was a welcome distraction, despite it not being switched on.
I heard her high-heels click-clacking louder and louder as she approached; I tried to pretend I wasn’t aware of her.
“Uh hem, excuse me”, she said.
I looked up and smiled, “can I help…”.
I’m not sure if it was the eyes or the shiny white blouse that got my attention most. She was beautiful, but had an air of masculinity that was subtle but undeniable. I felt awful for doing it, but I looked, no Adams Apple, so inconclusive.
Whatever her true gender she was sophisticated and captivating. I could see a band of the top of her shiny skirt just above the counter, and close up it was clearly an expensive material, possibly patent leather, but I suspected PVC.
“I appear to have mislaid my raincoat, I wonder if anyone has handed it in?”, she said in a calm slow voice.
Now I wasn’t going to say it out loud, and certainly not to her face, but immediate thought was that she seemed very well protected without the need for a mac, because her shiny white blouse was clearly also PVC up close.
“What was it like?”, I asked, trying not to appear captivated but being totally captivated, and in that moment felt guilty for my feelings when Sophie was away.
“Three-quarter length, clear raincoat with a belt”, she replied.
I knew instantly that it had been handed in about an hour earlier, and I could have just gone and collected it, but something came over me.
“I’m not sure, we have a few raincoats, would you like to come and see if yours is among them?”
I ushered towards the end of the counter where I lifted a section of the top to allow her through without needing to go out and back in via the side entrance.
She pushed through, hampered by her two large John Lewis shopping bags, “would it be alright if I left these here for a moment?”
“Of course”, I replied, “no problem”.
As she bent to put the bags down there was the faintest of squeaking noises; I’m not sure if it was the skirt or blouse, or both, but it was so subtle as befitted her debonair demeanour.
Her shoes chatted on the hard floor as I led her into the warehouse area and towards the rainwear rail.
“Is this entirely proper?”, she asked, “after all I could say any raincoat was mine, surely I need to describe it in detail without seeing the ones you have?”
I was quick with my reply, “normally yes but you have a very honest face”.
She looked at me like I was a cheeked little boy, but didn’t argue.
At the rail she worked her way down the line, stroking and feeling all the raincoats and capes, pausing on the smoother and shinier ones longer. It was clear that her mac was at the end of the rail and very visible, but nonetheless she worked slowly down the line.
She paused at the 1980’s soft, shiny, lined black PVC trench coat, running her hand over the lapels and checking that the belt was there, “ah this brings back memories”, she said, “just like the first ever raincoat I bought myself after leaving home and going to university”.
“Gosh”, I said, “you must have been a very affluent student as those were very expensive”.
She didn’t answer, just gave a little smile and continued to stroke it, “I know you will probably deny me this little request, it’s probably against the rules, but do you think I could try it on? For old times sake”.
“Well, it is highly irregular, but I cannot see any harm, after all you are not suggesting it belongs to you”, I replied.
She had already taken the hanger out and hung it back on the rail with the mac facing out so that she could unbutton it. Her hands were not small and dainty and I was still entirely unsure of this woman, but there was no denying how captivating her moves were; I could of watched her simply unbutton the raincoat all day if necessary.
“Be a dear”, she said, as she held the open mac up, offering me to help her into it.
I obliged, delighting in the soft feel of the PVC fabric.
“My goodness”, she said, “it is the perfect size and is exactly like the one I used to have”, she buttoned it up all the way and buckled the belt seductively around her slim waist.
She twirled on the spot and the hem lifted up as she did, then she dug her hands in to the pockets and scrunched her arms in to her sides as if shielding against imaginary rain.
“Thank you for letting me try it”, she said, but then she pulled her right hand from the shiny pocket and revealed a piece of card. She looked at it. Her face turned white in an instant and her expression was as if she had seen a ghost, and staggered back against the rainwear rail, almost knocking it over, and dropping the card.
I picked it up. It was a party invitation from what, from the look of the gold lettering on embossed cream card, was a posh gathering.
“John McDonald Esquire is cordially invited to…”, it read, I handed it to the woman.
“Are you OK?”, I asked in a suitably concerned tone.
“This is MY raincoat. It’s not like it, it IS it”, she said looking at the floor, “that’s me”, pointing to the card.
Her hands were trembling and her face looked panicky as she turned the card over. On the back was a rose motif and in the corner was some hand written wording.
“Scott”, she said, running her fingers over the black biro words, and started to cry.
I pulled up a chair and took her arm to usher her to sit, to which she obliged. The wording on the card was simply a phone number and the word “Scott” with three X’s as kisses.
The woman had composed herself a little, “we met at that party and I fell for him, and he fell for me I think, when he knew me as John”, she continued, “but I was Cherie, and I still am now. I was to call him and we would meet, but when I went to leave the party my raincoat was missing. The staff spent hours searching for it and asking around. Nobody knew Scott, who had already left, and so could not help with where he lived or contact information. It was a time before mobiles and so his home number was all I had, and it was lost, probably stolen”.
“Call the number”, I said.
She looked up, “don’t be silly, that was all those years ago, there is no way on this earth he would still be there”.
“Trust me”, I said, “magic things happen here”.
She looked puzzled, but took out her mobile and dialled.

I waited with bated breath as there was no answer. But after a while her expression said someone had answered.
“Hello, can I speak to Scott?”, she said.
Her face said that the person in the other end was indeed her long lost friend, “Scott you might not remember me, but it’s John, er Cherie, from the St.James party in 1987”.
The conversation seemed to be going well and at length I got up and left the woman to continue.

A few minutes later she appeared by the counter where I was doing some paperwork. She was still wearing the black PVC trench coat and had a clear plastic mac over her arm, “how can Improve to you that both these coats are mine please?”
I smiled, “don’t worry, I believe you, is everything ok with Scott?”
“Yes thank you. He’s divorced now and we have arranged to meet for a coffee. It was a difficult time for me as I had just come out as Cherie and lots of people treated me like a weirdo or made rude comments”, she explained, “Scott was genuinely supportive and we hit it off big time. I explained that I was born John and was a man, but liked to be Cherie, and have continued all my life”.

She collected her shopping bags, popping her folded plastic raincoat into one of them and continued to wear the black trench coat as she thanked me, and clacked off in her high heels across the concourse and back towards the steps to the street.

The End

[Cherie]

OMG did you write a little old story just for me and about me? Love it love it love it. Only one teeny weeny thing and it’s not a biggie but Scott would not have been Scott it would have been Shelia. Younger an extra kiss from me.

Cherie xx