Fireside Romance Book 1: First Flames

For everyone who craves sweet stories about love conquering all. Chapter 1 My life, like my job, was predictable, well ordered, and boring. However, the sameness was—for the most part—a comfort. When my alarm clock went off at half past seven each morning I could predict pretty accurately what I’d be doing that day. I also knew I would awaken alone when that alarm went off. That wasn’t a comfort at all. As I wandered along the library stacks pushing my trolley, putting returned library books back on the shelves, I thought about what life would be like if it were shared with another man. A man to come home to. A man to care about. A man who would care about me. A man to cuddle up with on the sofa of an evening, in front of a real fire. Reaching up, I pulled out a copy of Grey’s Anatomy which someone had put with the astronomy books. I replaced it with a rather battered and ancient tome on the solar system. Here we were in 1986, and that book had been published before Neil Armstrong had stepped onto the moon. A few months ago I’d taken the bus to Leeds—Leeds being the nearest large city—and gone into a gay bar. After being rejected a few times—once pretty painfully—what little confidence I’d had regarding the dating game evaporated. Moving along the stacks I put the anatomy text book back in its rightful place. All a potential mate would see when checking me out would be someone plain and ordinary. I was six feet even, had dark brown hair and washed-out green eyes. My face, not my best feature, was the big sticking point. I sighed. This mythical potential mate could not see, or wouldn’t take the time to find out what lay beneath the less than attractive exterior. If he did, he’d find someone with a big heart, someone who—if given a chance—would prove to be a fiercely loyal friend, who would put their happiness and feelings before his own. But, no, this book would most probably be judged by its cover. I grimaced inwardly at the bibliographical analogy. The books safely returned to Dewey Decimal order, I pushed the empty trolley back to its place against the far wall. Sinking into my chair behind the desk, I realised if my life were a book, it would be a bloody boring one. A title which would forever remain on the shelf. Yes, I had low self-esteem. My confidence had pretty much reached rock bottom, and had purchased a pneumatic drill and was beginning to excavate. Unbidden, I let out a single bark of laughter. At least I had a reasonable sense of humour. Mary—my colleague, best friend and confidante all rolled into one—rounded the corner and rested a hip against the desk. Unlike me, Mary was a really happy and out-going person who always had a laugh or a smile for me. “Bloody hell, Simon, I’ll be glad when this shift is over. My feet are killing me.” She lifted her left ankle and gave it a rub. “Well, my dear, you should have put on a sensible pair of shoes this morning, shouldn’t you?” I said in my best aged-grandmother’s voice. She stuck out her tongue at me and immediately burst out into laughter. “Shhh!” I said, then immediately joined her in laughter. We often pretended to be stereotypical strict librarians, telling everyone to please remember they were in a hallowed place of study, so should conduct themselves with all due reverence. As expected, telling Mary to shush only served to make her laugh even more. “Listen, love,” she said, trying to be serious, “have you time for a cuppa at Daphne’s after we knock off?” Daphne’s was a cafe just a couple of doors down from the library. “Sure.” It wasn’t as if I had anything else to fill my evening with. “My turn to buy the Eccles cakes.” Whenever I’d tried to make Eccles cakes myself, either the pastry didn’t flake properly or the dried fruit oozed out of the slashes in the top. Daphne, or her supplier, did a much better job than I ever could. “You’ll have me putting weight on, ya know!” Mary exclaimed, rubbing her perfectly flat belly. “All the better for me to hold you,” I replied. Mary was one of the few people who knew I was gay, and she ‘didn’t give a fig,’ as she so eloquently put it. “Sauce pot.” She came around the desk. Bending, she whispered in my ear. “It’s about time you found someone to hold.” “I know,” I sighed. We’d had this conversation many times before. Mary squeezed my arm in sympathy. Going back to the front of the desk, she looked over her shoulder at me. “It’s a date then.” * * * * The rest of the afternoon passed with its usual mixture of students wanting a particular book and being disappointed to learn we either didn’t have it or it was already out on loan. The Thatcher government had caused the local authority to cut back on spending on what they considered to be non-essential services. Libraries were a soft target and had received more than their fair share of the cutbacks. I’d got rid of Fred, the town tramp who had occupied his usual place in the reading room nearest the radiator. He’d “just come in for a bit of a warm”. He was harmless enough, and on the occasions when I’d had the time to sit and talk to him, I’d found him to be a fascinating source of information on the Second World War. He was one of the first troops to land in France on D-Day. He had lost his best pal, Henry, in that campaign. From how he spoke about him, I strongly suspected Fred and Henry had been more than just pals, but I never asked. From all accounts, Fred was never quite the same again after the war was over. With the library empty of readers, Mary and I closed and locked the doors to the non-fiction section and went into the main office and signed out. Once that duty was done we interlocked our arms—as was our custom—and headed out of the library building and down the street to Daphne’s.