How I Met Lindsey Sanderson


Welcome to my first instalment of my Scott MacLean series. I would just like to point that all characters were a figment of my imagination so if any similarities have occurred, it is merely coincidence and completely unintentional. Many thanks to SpongeRob and JoeyS69 for their help and suggestions. Please feel free to comment at the end of the story. All comments are gratefully received, no matter how critical they might be, as it shows that you have taken some time out to read my work.


“Dammit,” I muttered under my breath. I’d forgotten to pick up the carrier bag I’d left by the door. No biggie, just some suits and a dress for Lindsey to drop in at the dry cleaners. But still, for me, it wasn’t the fact they would now be a day later in being deposited, it was the fact I’d forgotten them completely. And the wrath I’d face when I returned home later.

Sighing with frustration at my lack of memory, I checked my watch to see if it was at all possible to get from the bus stop to the house and back again in… 3 minutes? Maybe if I was in the habit of regularly forgetting things so I had lots of practise of running from here to my house or they fitted modern day watches with morphing capabilities, then yes. Seeing as the morphing-man-transporter hasn’t been invented at bus stops either…

Anyway, no chance of getting that carrier bag now, I spotted the bus coming up the road. I say bus, I really mean yellow and purple monster.

“Morning,” I said to the driver once he’d pulled up with a screech of brakes and the doors scraped open. He responded with a nod. The silent type. There’s generally three types of bus driver I’ve found. The worst is the chatty, friendly type who wants your life story before they give you your ticket. Then there’s the angry bus driver who isn’t bad unless you mention something like “Good morning” (which is how I learnt to only open with the time of day, and not to qualify it with anything), and who flicks your change into the relevant compartments just a little too aggressively. Then there’s the silent type. These are highly unpredictable folk. I see them as hermits behind their Perspex screens who exist solely to drive people around for a few hours taking money when someone’s generous enough to pop some on the tray. I’m sure kids these days have latched on to the silent types as an excellent form of getting free rides.

“Single to Lakeside Road please,” I say, putting a pound coin lightly in the tray.

The driver coughs. And just looks at me.

“Is something wrong?” I ask, wondering if this man had completely lost the power of speech.

A long bony finger points to the digital display indicating I’m in fact 20 pence short. The crafty silent type, overcharging the honest customer by putting in the wrong starting stop. Grinding my teeth, I fish around in my jeans searching for loose change. I slam a 50p coin on the tray, giving the driver a glare. Nonchalantly, he pops the change on the tray along with a ticket and immediately drives off at break neck speed.

Once he has reached a continuous speed and I’ve stopped hanging on to the rails for dear life, I stagger my way down the aisle, aiming for the spare seats towards the back. Thankfully it’s not busy today.

The bus comes to a screeching halt again, causing the woman in front of me to drop her book as the clientele are thrown forwards. There’s a chorus of tutting and disappointed noises from the people behind me.

A girl in her mid-twenties, her long red hair blowing about behind her gets on the bus. This is Amie, who works with me. She’s not the sort of girl many people would give a second glance to. Well, that used to be the case. About six months ago she claimed to be going on holiday for a week, and turned up the next week sporting massively altered breasts. And I’m not exaggerating, she must have gone up at least four cup sizes.

Apart from her ‘prize assets’ as she refers to them, she is otherwise quite unremarkable to look at. When she opens her mouth though, the world melts and you’re transported away to a magical kingdom. She has an Irish accent. I die for Irish accents. Call them my weakness if you like, but when I hear the sweeping tones of a young Irish female, my heart skips a beat and standing up suddenly becomes an effort. Work definitely has its perks sometimes. As she retrieves her ticket, I give her a wave as she looks up.

“Silent type huh?” she says clambering up next to me, the Irish lilt in her voice quite apparent this morning. I rest my hands on my knees in a futile attempt to stop them quivering.

“Evil silent type,” I confirm.

“Really? He only charged me 90 pence.”

I turn to glance at her. “Must be the low cut top you’re wearing,” I say, nodding at her cleavage. “Did you inflate them extra large this morning for added effect?”

She smiles back at me. “I knew there was a reason I put on a push up bra today,” she replies, a twinkle in her eye.

There’s not much to add to that, just another good opportunity to gaziantep escort reklamları peek down her top.

“That’s it Scotty, you get your eyeful in now, might stop you doing it at work,” she says, catching me in the act.

“Well, if you didn’t put those things under my nose, I wouldn’t be tempted to look now would I?” I retort, pointing at the offending articles, sat high up on her chest, practically taunting me.

“If you’ve got it, flaunt it,” she replies haughtily, leaning down to fiddle around in her bag for something, giving me another perfect opportunity to sneak a peek as her breasts swing forward. She comes back up clutching a pocket mirror and some lipstick.

I sit and stare out of the window for a bit, trying to stop my head turning the other way to ogle Amie’s rack, which is the main activity on my way to work in the mornings. She doesn’t mind me doing it. In fact I think she secretly likes the attention, but always makes a big show of making me out to be some kind of breast obsessed pervert (which in all fairness I am). It’s probably the fact that I know Amie and it’s quickly become one of our bits of banter that’s meant it’s developed to a daily ritual. Deep down I think it’s more the fact she turns me on something chronic and making jokes about it all is my lame attempt to try and hide that fact.

But I try and maintain the banter option. It’s safer and stops me blurting out that I fancy her like crazy when I’m drunk. I go out for a game of squash and a few drinks a fair bit with her other half and I still haven’t figured out whether he’s the type to appreciate people he knows casting her longing looks or not.

“How’s things with the new flatmate today then Scotty?” Amie asks, now reading a newspaper she acquired from somewhere, not taking her eyes off the Hot Gossip page and starting a conversation at the same time. How do women do it?

Ah yes. Lindsey. “Yeah, they’re OK I guess. She’ll be mad that I forgot to take her dress to the cleaners again by the time I get home, but hey, I’m only human.”

I did originally have the flat to myself, but ended up having to advertise for a flatmate to move into the spare room when I realised there was nothing to be gained by being noble, trying to survive on my own. Lindsey was the one of the last people of a pretty poor bunch to enquire. But as soon as I opened the door, and she walked into the flat for the first time, my whole life shifted direction.


(3 weeks ago)

The door buzzer went, waking me up from my doze on the sofa. “Dammit,” I muttered. I’d not meant to fall asleep, I was supposed to be tidying the flat for my next round of flatmate interviews.

I clambered over a pile of magazines and made my way to the front door, frantically trying to flatten my hair from its newfound tousled state.

I took a moment to compose myself before opening the front door. I was expecting a 25 year old female who enjoyed nights out and playing the violin apparently. Lizzie something was it? She had rung up this morning while I was on my way out the door so I hadn’t paid the greatest attention.

I undid the latch and was greeted with the sight of a tall, slim brunette, dressed simply in a white blouse and a pair of skin tight jeans. I liked what I saw…

“Hello there, I’m Scott MacLean, welcome to number 30,” I said eventually, extending a hand.

She grinned. It was an impish grin that implied she could be a lot of fun, and for some reason this immediately made me relax. “Well, hello Scott MacLean. I’m Lindsey Sanderson.” She shook the proffered hand firmly.

Lindsey. That was it.

“Well, come on in. Can I get you a drink? Tea? Coffee?” I asked as she made her way over the threshold. I’d learnt the importance of just trying to be warm and friendly to begin with. A lot of the interviewees had been over-nice to me which I found very off-putting. Like they were pretending we had already met and knew my life story.

She did this adorable foot shuffle and gave me a sheepish look, a finger twirling in her long dark hair. “Can I be really cheeky?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Sure.”

“Well, I didn’t think you’d have any tea that I’d like, so I brought a few bags of my own,” she said.

“Ermmm, sure. I’ll show you the kitchen. If you’d like to step this way,” I said, ushering her down the hall, my mind half curious to assess what she looked like from the back. I wasn’t disappointed. Her jeans were moulded to a very pert bottom. The sort that you just want to reach out and touch in the street when one walks past you. Not that I ever did. As if touching it would get you anywhere… Well, apart from in jail in all probabilities.

I followed her into my freshly painted kitchen. I’d gone for a country feel, two walls spring green, the others a darker green with a cream ceiling.

“Nice kitchen. Did you do it yourself?” she said, nodding her head towards the paint tins I’d carefully arranged in the corner.

“Sure did,” I said, looking around at my handiwork for the umpteenth time that week.

“I’m very impressed,” Lindsey added. “I like a man with practical skills.” She raised an eyebrow at me, which I took as an indication to smile.

“Well, thanks. Can’t do much else, but I’m ok with a tin of paint and a roller.”

“Yeah, I could really have done with a handsome hunk doing my old place up. It was a complete shambles, paint flaking off the walls and everything. I had to find someplace else before I died of depression.”

OK, I wasn’t ashamed of what I saw in the mirror every morning, but I wouldn’t have called myself handsome by any means. I was just a 27 year old white male who did press ups when I could be bothered and kept my hair neat and tidy. I had been told by previous girlfriends that I had a kind face, whatever that meant. But it felt like she’d just cast me an invisible line and now she was reeling me in. Handsome hunk? Was she just playing me to get the room? I was intrigued.

I flicked the switch on the kettle to distract me from such thoughts while I thought of potential topics of conversation. Lindsey was busy looking out of the window at the small paved area that was supposed to be a patio, humming a song that I vaguely recognised from the radio. She wiggled her butt while she did it and I wasn’t sure if it just went along with the song or it was for my benefit.

Moments later, we were sat facing each other at the kitchen table, mugs of tea in front of us.

“So, how long have you been in the area?” I asked, keeping it simple. I’d always found girls love it when you can somehow get the conversation round to talking about them.

“Not all that long really. I’ve got a job at St. Andrew’s Primary School. It’s just round the corner from here so it’s dead convenient for me this place. I could only really afford that shabby flat in the centre of the city, but the walk up the hill was a bitch in the mornings.” She made a sad face.

“Yeah, I’ll bet,” I replied, taking a mouthful of scalding hot tea, immediately making me regret that decision. “So, which year do you teach?”

She blew on her tea before taking a sip, giving me a wink as she did so. Wasn’t any need for her to rub it in… “Oh, the 8-9 year olds. Could be worse. They’re just about the right age, still cute and cuddly but trying to grow up at the same time,” she says with a smile. It was the smile she’d given me earlier, enchanting and charming, with just the right amount of teeth.

I nodded. “Planning on having kids one day?” I put forward as lightly as I could. Too strong and it sounds like you’re planning on impregnating them on the spot. I’d already made that mistake with one interested party this week…

“Depends if I find a suitable guy to have them with,” she replied, doing that finger twirling thing with her hair again. Was that subtle flirtation? And I noticed she was also playing me very carefully. Gently prodding, examining my personality to see if I’d react to subtle provocation.

“A statement like that sounds like you haven’t found him yet then,” I said, trying to keep my voice level and uninterested.

“Not yet, no,” she answered back carefully, deliberately, her eyes locked on mine.

I held her gaze, suddenly feeling very naked as her eyes burned into mine. It felt like she was examining my deepest innermost thoughts. I got the impression, don’t ask me how, that something in her was slightly aroused.

It’s all well and good establishing something like that Scotty, I thought to myself, but what’s the next step? I scanned her face, trying to read her expression.

All she did was crack me that grin again, which made me smile as well. I had to give her credit, she was definitely good with people.

“Would you like to see the rest of the flat, Miss Sanderson?” I asked after another couple of sipping exchanges.

She burst out into laughter. Always a good sign, making a woman laugh, but not when you hadn’t intended to be funny.

She spotted my confused expression. “Oh…, it’s just so… so funny… to hear… someone my age say it,” she said amidst fits of giggles.

Of course. Primary school teacher. She must get called Miss Sanderson at least fifty times a day. Welcome to the Scott MacLean master class in being an idiot…

“Just call me Lindsey,” she said, rescuing me from what could have been a potentially awkward pause.

“OK. Lindsey. Right.” Now I couldn’t even string a sentence together. Trying to move on as quickly as I could, I decided to just get on with it. “Well, this is the living room. Just the bare essentials, but feel free to make it as homely as you like, I’m not fussy…”

The tour was brief. We had a quick look in all the rooms and I could see her imagining herself living here, where she’d put her stuff, that sort of thing. All the time though I was consciously aware of my growing attraction to her. The way she laughed, not a mere chuckle, but more of a giggly laugh that went on for a few moments, I found endearing. When I spoke she gave me her full attention and always asked sensible questions. She was pretty in her own sparkly, jovial way, had a wacky sense of humour and this charming innocence. My mind was made up that I’d offer her the room.

We ended up back in the kitchen. “So, what do you think?” I asked her tentatively.

“I like it. Lots,” she answered with another of those grins.

“So you’ll take it?” I was willing her to with every inch of my being.

“You mean I can stay here?” she asked, sounding surprised. Genuinely surprised as well, not just putting it on for show. Either that or she had a side job in acting.

“It’s there if you want it,” I replied, sounding a lot less ecstatic than I actually was.

She made this kind of squeal noise and leapt on me, unintentionally pinning me against the wall. Her arms had looped around my neck and mine instinctively wrapped themselves round her, trying to stop her tumbling to the floor.

It was at that moment, where our faces were a few centimetres apart and my head was resting against the wall. It was one of the moments where the world stops turning and the only thing that matters is the moment you’re in right now. Our eyes were locked together, asking a silent question, before that invisible magnetism pulled us in towards each other. Her soft lips brushed against mine, tentatively at first, but then more aggressively, as her tongue sought out mine. Every nerve in my body felt as if there were several hundred volts of electricity running through it. She smelled delicious, with a hint of lavender and my heartbeat began to quicken.

With her eyes closed, she pulled away, breaking the connection. She blinked a few times, as if to clear her vision. When they did, her eyes were wide, giving her the look of being slightly spaced out. I was still seeing stars.

“Wow,” she said, sounding a little husky.

“Yeah wow,” I agreed, my voice too on the husky side. I realised I was still holding her tightly in my arms.

Neither of us were quite sure what to say. We just keep looking at each other, trying to establish what it all meant.

“Am I still OK to move in?” she asked after several moments.

“Definitely,” was my faint reply. She’d completely short-circuited me.

“Well, if you let me down, I’ll go and start packing,” she said. I obliged, my arms falling away, just hanging limply at my sides, watching helplessly as she let herself out, wondering if she would actually come back.


(Back to the present)

I unlocked the door, dumping my keys on the hall table before heading into the kitchen. The radio was on, which usually meant that Lindsey was in. Or that I’d forgotten to turn it off in the morning.

Work had plodded along at its usual pace, nothing new there. All I wanted to do now was plonk myself in front of the TV and just crash.

“Linds?” I called out. “You there?”

Usually, she popped her head out of her room and shared the general pleasantries before burying herself in a stack of marking. We didn’t generally talk that much in the evenings. I was always in front of the box and she was always busy marking. Not hearing any reply, I decided to check her room. The door was closed, which wasn’t a good sign, it was hardly ever closed. I knocked on it gently, pressing my ear to the crack.

“Linds? You in here?”

I could hear muffled sounds but there was still no reply. What was going on?

“Linds? Ready or not, I’m coming in.”

Things were very odd, something was not quite right somewhere. I opened the door, which gave me a view of her bed with her bag on it. She was definitely in here.

She was sat at her table in front of the window a pile of children’s workbooks next to her.

I made my way over. “Linds? Is everything OK? I’ve been calling you, but I got no reply,” I said gently, putting a hand on her shoulder.

She whipped round, startled. “Oh God Scott, I never heard you come in. What have I told you about sneaking up on me?”

The first thing that struck me was that she had been crying, her mascara streaked down her face.

“I wasn’t sneaking up on you Linds,” I replied wearing a concerned expression. “Something’s wrong. You can talk to me you know, if something’s upsetting you.”

“Wrong? Who said anything was wrong?” she said, trying to sound a bit brighter.

I just folded my arms and looked at her, waiting for her to crack. It didn’t take long.

She burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. “Oh Scotty, I’ve just had a bad day at work that’s all,” she said, her voice muffled by her hands.

I perched on the end of the bed. “Hey, look at me,” I said, repositioning my hand back on her shoulder. She spread her fingers slightly so she could see me, her eyes glistening with tears.

“What happened? At work? Tell me, I want to know.”

“Well, I got called into the head’s office and she basically gave me a big dressing down, told me I had to buck up my act if I wanted to continue with my job. She was horrible, really horrible. She made me feel so small,” Lindsey explained between sobs.

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