The Daily Dormouse. (aka Bike, est. 2007) Part 3045 by Angharad Copyright© 2016 Angharad

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This is a work of fiction any mention of real people, places or institutions is purely coincidental and does not imply that they are as suggested in the story.
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I didn’t have time to drop the girls off to school because of my meeting in Bristol, so Tom agreed to go to work with the minibus thingy and discharge the assorted and motley crew of schoolgirls en route.

At just before eight that morning, wearing a skirt suit and some comfortable heels, I set off for Brissel. I had two hours to get there, but knowing the traffic at that time of the day, I felt some anxiety about arriving in time. Just to make life a fraction more interesting, I had practically every sort of weather on my journey except sleet and snow. Sunshine after a heavy shower is horrible, the road acting like a gigantic mirror blinds anyone driving into it and despite sunglasses and the sun visor down at its lowest position, it was still difficult to see the road or the lanes on it.

That disappeared over the hills to be replaced by either low cloud or fog—was the universe trying to tell me something. It wasn’t to just slow down because I’d already done that unlike the couple of cars who’d collided a couple of miles up the road. I tried not to look too much and seeing the damaged cars made shiver. It certainly looked as if one family would be in mourning later that day and I determined it wouldn’t be mine and drove accordingly.

I was punctual, helped by the fact that I knew roughly where the coffee house was that Mr Hancock had suggested. To my immense relief I was able to park my car almost outside it as someone pulled away as I drew up. I got the car in the space the first time of trying, but then so would most drivers as the vehicle that went off was an articulated lorry.

Alan had sent me a reasonably recent photo of my quarry and he appeared on foot as I was parking. A minute after he entered the coffee shop, I followed my clipboard folder and iPad under one arm and handbag on the other. I probably gave a stereotypical example of organised chaos as I entered the premises but he didn’t notice as he was busy typing away on a smart phone facing away from the door.

I reached the table before being accosted by a waitress and placing my bag down on the table addressed him as he glanced up at me. “Tony, I presume,” I said holding out my hand, “I’m Cathy Watts.”

“Sorry,” he said quickly laying down his phone whereupon he stood and shook my hand quite gently. “I had a text just before you arrived, please excuse me while I deal with it.” He sat down again and tapped away on his phone’s screen.

“Coffee?” I asked him indicating the waitress who was now in attendance.

“Tea please, Earl Grey if they have it.”

“A pot of Earl Grey for two please and a couple of slices of that almond slice.” The girl nodded and slipped away to process our order.

I had a good look at him while he tapped away on his phone. He was probably about forty his dark hair was developing the grey flecks at the temple and down into his beard, which was well trimmed and suited him. His dark eyes were focussing on his phone but he glanced up at me occasionally.

“Right, that’s done. One of my cameras went in for repair recently and the place they sent it off to seem to have lost it. I just sent them a rocket copied to my solicitor. Now, where’s that tea?”

As he spoke our waitress arrived with a tray of crocks, cake and tea, so for the next minute or so we dealt with setting the snack on the table and pouring teas. I of course got to be mother.

“That feels better,” he said after taking a large sip of tea. “You know, you look more beautiful in the flesh than you did in your films.” My response was to blush and I mumbled a thank you. “Right so what did you have in mind for this film?”

He made some notes as we talked and offered ideas as well, which I took down as notes on my tablet. We ordered another pot of tea and continued the meeting for another hour after which we had a scheme for a film about promoting chemistry and physics, especially to girls.

“Right, assuming we can agree funding and costs, and you can persuade some female academics to take part, there’s nothing like authenticity, I have one other proviso.”

“Which is?”

“I want you to do the narration and appear in it.”

“But I’m not a chemist or physicist...”

“According to this, you’re Professor of Science, which is how we’ll bill you in the film.”

“What if they find out I’m a biologist-ecologist?”

“The way we do it, they won’t even think of that unless they’ve seen your other films and I doubt they’ll connect the two.”

“Why d’you want me in your film?”

“Authenticity, Lady Cameron. You’re a very successful woman academic which is what you’re wanting to push.”

“Is it? I’m wanting to attract students of both sexes to study with us and go on into careers in science.”

“Which is what you did?”

“I sort of lapsed into it.”

“It was a very fortunate lapse then. I’ve made a few preliminary searches for women physicists and chemistry dons. There are some but we want the pretty ones.”

“Isn’t that being rather sexist?”

“Absolutely, but we want to inspire the young women that doing science isn’t just for nerds, that attractive women do it too, which will also attract some of the boys, who admittedly will be thinking with their dicks; but I’m sure you’re quite good at controlling them.”

“Why would you think that?”

He looked slightly taken aback at my question. “Because all beautiful women are, they have to be or they’d never get anything done—either that or they’re gay and are surrounded by female acolytes. You’re married to the guy who owns my bank, so I take it you’re not gay, thus you have experience of dealing with unwanted attention.”

“A bit,” I admitted blushing.

He smirked.

“It is one of the ironies of modern life that beautiful women may be handicapped by their physical attractiveness as they’re always having to fight off testosterone fuelled irritants, who feel they have a right to speak to you even if they have no reason other than pure lust. Yet women don’t do it to men, not so overtly at any rate.”

“Is that your experience?” I asked trying to turn the subject back on him.

He chuckled, “Touché madam, but thank you for the observation.” He actually blushed and I enjoyed seeing it.

“Well if we can avoid sexist points scoring, are we going to make this film?” I asked after a momentary pause.

“I would be delighted to make a film with you. Ever since I saw your dormouse film, I’ve been an avid fan and if the BBC had any idea at all about making films they’d be using you every bit as much as Brian Cox, in fact more so, because it attracts young women into thinking about science courses instead of media studies or some useless off shoot of psychology which inevitably means they end up in marketing instead of a laboratory.”

“You’re a bit of a feminist, aren’t you?”

“I’m a huge believer in the equality of the sexes. I watched my mother sit bored at home because my dad made a good living and didn’t believe she should work. She ended up working in a charity shop and within a year was the manager and two after that she was area manager. I persuaded her to do a degree with the Open University and she finished as chief exec.”

“Good for her,” I said agreeing with him.

“If only she’d gone to university in the first place instead of marrying my idiot father, she’d have done something really amazing because she was twice as bright as him but he kept her down because it made him feel important. I persuaded him to let her go out to work or I’d pressure her to leave him. I thought he was going to have a stroke. Instead he conceded.”

“I think I’ll enjoy working with you, Mr Hancock. I have to get back to my office.” I rose to my feet and offered my hand. He ignored it and pecked me on the cheek.

“Safe journey,” he said and picking up his note pad left. I was still rooted to the spot blushing furiously.