Jane's Journey (revised)

[RainwearWife]

Hi, all.

Back when I was first a member here (2013 - where does the time go?), I posted my own attempt at writing a story about the delights of shiny clothing, which received some very positive feedback, but I didn't really know where I was going with it and the twists & turns of life led me to abandoning the project (along with my membership of this site).

After a recent trawl of our digital archives, I found the story again, so I thought I'd repost the first chapter, which has undergone a bit of a tidy-up; if there's enough interest, I'll complete it and post the rest.

Hope you enjoy it!

Chapter 1

I flung the holdall containing pretty much all my worldly goods into a corner and looked around the tiny flat with a sense of resigned acceptance. This was ‘home’ from now on – for the foreseeable future, anyway.

Slumping into the armchair which offered a view out of the one window – a view of the station where I had just got off the train – I began to brood silently over the turn of events which had led me here.

My boyfriend of four years had been hiding a chronic gambling addiction until his debts finally caught up with him and we lost everything. With my parents long divorced, my father living abroad and my mother in Scotland with her partner, I couldn’t bear to remain in the town where we’d lived: furthermore, I was an only child, so there were no siblings to whom I could turn.

Fortunately, a family friend had managed to get me the flat and a job as a secretary for a small light industrial firm in Westbridge, a nondescript, ‘Middle England’ town many miles from home, and now here I was: twenty-two years old, newly single, setting out on my enforced fresh start.

Snapping out of my gloom, I decided to get some sleep and wake in the morning with a more positive outlook. Tired after my long journey, I found the bed to be surprisingly comfortable and fell into a deep slumber, from which I awoke at seven thirty the next morning.

As it was a Saturday, I decided to go into the town and use some of my remaining funds to buy some clothes suitable for work on Monday – I wanted to make a good first impression, even if my heart wasn’t truly in it. After a light breakfast and a shower, I pulled on my clothes and headed off at nine AM to see what the shops of Westbridge had to offer.

When I returned to the flat just after lunch, I was reasonably pleased with my morning’s shopping – I’d managed to buy enough suitable clothing to look presentable at work for the coming days without entirely draining my limited resources; once a regular wage started coming in, I’d be able to start thinking about a bigger wardrobe.

After putting my purchases away, I spent what remained of Saturday, and a large part of Sunday, familiarising myself as best I could with Westbridge. By the time Monday morning arrived, I was ready, if not altogether eager, to present myself at the office of William Lane, owner and MD of Lane Mouldings, the plastics company where my friend had managed to get me the job.

My friend had warned me that Mr Lane could be a bit of a stickler in matters such as appearance, punctuality, etc – fair enough, I’d reasoned; he did own the company, after all.

I gave myself a final glance over in the mirror: I’d chosen a simple but neat pale blue blouse, a black knee-length pencil skirt with a very short slit at the back, sheer ‘barely black’ tights and black suede court shoes with a slight heel. I decided against wearing any make-up as I wanted to give the appearance of someone whose focus was on the task in hand and not on her own looks: to this end, I’d also pulled my hair into a simple ponytail.

I took my black coat from the hook on the back of the door, shoved my purse, phone and keys into the pockets and stepped out of the flat, closing the door behind me.

Fifteen minutes later, I was walking onto the small industrial estate on the outskirts of Westbridge where Lane Mouldings was situated. Feeling far less confident than I was managing to look, I headed for the grey, gloomy building with the firm’s name on a signboard outside and went through the doors.

As I entered, I was noticed by a somewhat severe looking woman of about fifty, who greeted me with a rather blunt, “You the new secretary?”

“Yes, that’s right,” I replied with a polite smile.

“Through there.” She indicated with a tilt of her head towards a door unsurprisingly marked ‘Office’. “You’re expected.”

I smiled again. “Thank you.”

Just as I was about to enter the office, she caught my arm with a slight tug. “What’s your name, love?”

“Jane,” I replied, “Jane Preston.”

“I’m Maggie. Listen, love, I don’t want to scare you or anything like that, but just watch your step with him, okay? He can be a bit… well, it’s just that we’ve all heard whispers about why Sally Jones left the job you’re filling… nothing definite, but mind how you go with him, that’s all.”

“Thank you, I will,” I said. With that, I opened the door which led into an outer office, presumably where I would be working, and headed for a second door, this one with a black plastic plate on it stating simply ‘W L Lane’ in white lettering. I knocked firmly on the door and waited. After a few seconds, I heard “Come in!” from the other side; taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped into the inner office.

Behind the desk was a man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties, his brownish hair greying at the temples and showing signs of thinning. He was a fairly good-looking man, I noticed as I walked over and held out my right hand towards him.

“Good morning… Mr Lane, I presume?”

“That’s me,” he replied curtly, giving my hand a rather odd look before shaking it very briefly with a somewhat limp grasp.

“You’ll be Miss Preston, then, I suppose?”

“Yes, I’m Jane Preston,” I returned, trying not to feel intimidated by his less-than-warm approach.

“Well, you’re on time; that’s a start, I suppose. Listen, I’ll be direct. Last secretary has gone flitting off with her chap somewhere, and she’s left us in the bloody lurch, quite frankly. Good thing I ran into Charlie Dennis when I did. Now, Charlie tells me you’re efficient, reliable and trustworthy. I hope for both our sakes he’s got you right.”

Charlie Dennis was the friend who’d got me the job and flat here.

“All I can say, Mr. Lane, is that I’ll do everything in my power to see that you don’t regret taking me on,” I replied, hoping it didn’t sound too trite.

“Hmm… time’ll tell, I suppose” he said. “Right then, time’s precious, so how do you plan to get started?”

“Well, I thought I’d begin by logging into the computer and going through my predecessor’s filing system; I’m a quick learner and I’m sure I’ll be familiar with it very quickly. Once I’ve done that, I can get started on the day-to-day stuff.”

I hoped this response had come across as being confident – I wanted the job to pay my bills, but I didn’t want him to think I was some sort of 'doormat' type, desperate to be given the post. From what he’d said, though, it seemed he probably needed me there as much as I needed the employment.

“As good a plan as any, I suppose.” He seemed to end a lot of sentences with those two words. “You’d best crack on then. I won’t keep you any longer.” With that rather curt dismissal, he indicated with this hand that I should go off to the outer office and make a start.

“Thank you, Mr. Lane,” I said as I left the room, trying to sound respectful but not sycophantic. Shutting his door behind me, I hung my coat on the hook on the back of the outer door and set about my task. So began my time at Lane Mouldings.

That first day ended uneventfully, and I soon settled into the daily routine.

Within a fortnight, I’d got to know the dozen staff at the small factory; a close-knit bunch, hard-working, a bit ‘rough and ready’ at times, but friendly and certainly loyal to one another. It wasn’t where I’d seen myself at twenty-two, but as I reminded myself often, it could have been far worse. I soon forgot what Maggie had told me on that first morning – I simply regarded Mr. Lane as a bit of a cold sort, practically wedded to his business and uninterested in things such as friendship, charm and humour.

On the Monday of my third week, events took a turn which was to have a major effect upon my life, although I could hardly have suspected as much when I went in to work that morning.

Upon arrival, I switched on the computer and began to get on with my day. After about fifteen minutes, Mr. Lane called me into his office via the intercom, saying he wanted to see me. It turned out that a buyer from a large lucrative, a Mrs Angela Deevers, was coming that day with a view to giving his firm a very juicy contract. Mr. Lane was rather keen that I should make the buyer welcome and give a good impression of Lane Mouldings – why he thought I might have done anything else, he didn’t say.

At ten shirty sharp, Angela Deevers arrived in a black, chauffeur-driven Mercedes: she stepped out as the door was held open for her and proceeded to enter through the main door.

As I watched this through my office window, I felt a strange feeling I could only describe as an electric tingling run through my body – Mrs Deevers was an incredibly attractive woman of about forty and looked more of a famous actress than a businesswoman. As she entered the building, I made my way out to greet her, and to my amazement found that the sensation of tingling increased as I approached her.

Not only was she very attractive, but she was dressed in a way I’d never seen before – over her expensive-looking black dress, worn with black, sheer, seamed nylons and patent leather court shoes with four-inch stiletto heels, she wore the most amazing coat I’d ever seen – it was a black PVC trenchcoat which shone with a gloss that shimmered with her every movement. She looked absolutely amazing, and I had the greatest difficulty not to stare open-mouthed at her.

After I’d led her into Mr Lane’s office, my working day passed in something a blur – I had to make a concerted effort to focus on work and not to let my thoughts drift towards visions of Mrs Deevers.

I got home that night vaguely aware of having been told by Mr. Lane that the contract was won. The evening was mostly spent trying to achieve some semblance of normality – a futile task, it turned out.

As I eventually settled into bed, my thoughts returned, as I knew they would, to Mrs Deevers: why couldn’t I get this woman out of my head? So she was attractive – what of it? I’d known ever since I could remember that I was straight – I’d had gay friends in the past, but never any desire to have any involvement with another woman beyond simple friendship.

As I turned restlessly in the bed, my confused thoughts swirled in my head until out of the blue, clarity came to me: I had no attraction towards Mrs Deevers as such, I wasn’t developing some sort of insane crush on her – it was the shiny plastic coat she had worn The object of my newly found fascination was her black PVC mac!

The realisation of what had been gnawing away at me all day filled me with a huge sense of relief; I suddenly realised that I was exhausted and as sleep finally began to overtake me, a thought came to me that was to burn itself into my dreams that night.

The shiny black plastic mac had cast some sort of crazy spell upon me, and infused me with an overwhelming desire – I simply had to have one of my own!

[mrbassman101]

@RainwearWife
A good start , really enjoyed it .Thanks for posting this.
Looking forward to the next instalment.
Regards mrbassman101

[cammacg]

MORE !!!! This is warming up nicely. Looking forward to the next episode. Thank You.

[RainwearWife]

Thanks, both; Pt 2 will be along shortly