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The ancient parish church of St Martin’s was atop a low hill, and had a single rather ancient car parked outside, although it gleamed with fresh wax polish in the bright sunshine. At ten minutes to twelve noon, Church Lane should have been packed with guests attending the wedding. Lizzy slammed her car door and determinedly marched up to the lych gate. There in the shade stood the Vicar, dressed in his best vestments, waiting.“Where’s my sister and ... Stephen!?” she screamed at the Vicar.“They are at the cottage hospital, Elizabeth,” the priest responded gently.“But the hospital has been closed for years!”“It’s open now,” the Vicar replied, “and has been for some months.”As Lizzy spun around angrily, the priest smiled, taking his car keys from a pocket below his cassock.Lizzy jumped back into her car and drove down the hill, through the chocolate box village of her childhood, and past the old cement works. There were wisps of smoke coming from some of the old kilns, she noticed. The. ’ And he began kissing my neck. I don’t like having my neck kissed. I don’t like it when he makes a move on me without talking about it first. That’s one of the things we fight about: he says I’m not spontaneous. That I make him ask too much. But this time I didn’t care. It felt great. Better than great. I caressed his head with my hands. He brought his lips to my ear. ‘You like?’ I smiled. ‘Yes.’ ‘Atta girl,’ he said. Those words again. Atta girl. Somehow those words made me feel even better. Like, fantastic better. I didn’t get it. He knows I hate those words. They’re condescending, what you’d say to a dog. But for whatever reason, those words were okay tonight. No, they were great tonight. Atta girl, I said to myself. He moved his hand between my legs and began massaging my mound through my jeans. Again, I’d normally hate that he was moving so fast. I should have been angry. Instead, I bit my lower lip, groaned, spread my legs, and pushed up into his hand. ‘Good?’ he asked..
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