J.L. Merrow - Good Breeding.pdf

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Good Breeding
By J.L. Merrow
Published by JMS Books LLC
Visit jms-books.com for more information.
Copyright 2012 J.L. Merrow
ISBN 9781611524581
Cover Photo Credit: Bowie15 | dreamstime.com
Used under a Standard Royalty-Free License.
Cover Design: Written Ink Designs | written-ink.com
All Rights Reserved
WARNING: This book is not transferable. It is for your
own personal use. If it is sold, shared, or given away, it is an
infringement of the copyright of this work and violators will be
prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
No portion of this book may be transmitted or reproduced
in any form, or by any means, without permission in writing from
the publisher, with the exception of brief excerpts used for the
purposes of review.
This book is for ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains
substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which
may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your
files where they cannot be accessed by minors.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents are solely the product of the author’s imagination
and/or are used fictitiously, though reference may be made to
actual historical events or existing locations. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Published in the United States of America.
* * * *
Good Breeding
By J.L. Merrow
The bouquet of pink carnations in Giles’s hand was
suffering slow strangulation as his nerves overtook him. He
stood in the doorway of the pub he’d ducked into for a bit of
Dutch courage, staring at the house opposite.
This was, quite possibly, the biggest day of his entire life.
“I can’t do it!” he hissed.
His friend Oz clapped him bracingly on the shoulder. “Yes,
you can,” he said firmly. “Come on. What’s the worst that can
happen?”
“Easy for you to say,” Giles muttered, trying not to think of
all the ways this could go disastrously, horribly, humiliatingly
wrong. “Are you quite sure this is the right address?”
“Well, you’ve only checked it about seventeen times—of
course I’m sure! Angela Mills, 47 Red Lion Street, Putney.”
“But what if it’s the wrong Angela Mills?”
“It’s not. We checked, remember? Angela Mills, née
Shepney. How many of those can there be?” Oz gave Giles a last
friendly—if somewhat impatient—hug then pushed him firmly in
the direction of the most terrifying front door Giles had ever seen.
“Now cross that bloody road and go give your old mum a kiss.”
* * * *
Giles had always known he was adopted—Mummy and
Daddy were both tall, fair-haired and on the willowy side,
whereas it had been obvious from an early age that Giles was
destined for a life of standing on tiptoe to reach the highest
shelves and shaving every half-hour if he wanted to avoid five
o’clock shadow. But it hadn’t been until he’d reached adulthood
that he’d really thought about contacting his birth mother.
His college room-mate Oz, who was staying with Giles for
a few weeks over the summer, had been all for it. He’d said
family was very important, which now Giles came to think about
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it was a bit ironic, coming from a man who never seemed to want
to talk about his own family.
Mummy and Daddy hadn’t tried to discourage him,
although Mummy had said a few strange things about not
judging books by covers, and it taking all sorts to make a world.
Giles had only listened with half an ear. Obviously it took all sorts
to make a world— somebody had to clean the streets and empty
the dustbins, after all. Blood, however, would out; Giles just knew
his mother would turn out to be as refined as he was. Anything
else was unthinkable. Pulling himself together, Giles rapped
firmly on the door, and held his breath.
The door was opened by a bleached blonde in leggings
and a saggy boob tube that showed an unhealthy amount of
orange flesh. A cigarette dangled from her mouth, held loosely
between yellowed teeth. Still, Giles supposed charitably, living in
Putney his mother probably couldn’t afford anyone more
respectable as a cleaner.
“Oh, er, hello?” he said politely. “I’m looking for Angela
Mills. I’m Giles Frobisher.” He was just about to add, “Is your
employer in?” when the cigarette fell to the doormat, unheeded,
and claggily mascara’d eyes widened in surprise.
“Ohmi GAWD it’s little Wayne!” a raucous voiced croaked,
harpy-like. “You ‘ear me, you useless lot? My Wayne’s here!
Come in, love, come in, and give your mum a kiss!”
To his horror, Giles found himself grabbed by mahogany
coloured talons and yanked into an embrace liberally fragranced
with eau de ashtray . “Um. I. Um,” he said intelligently, trying to
stamp out the smouldering doormat before they both went up in
flames. Then the true horror of his situation struck him. “Wayne?”
he squeaked.
Her face split into a fond smile. She had lip-liner tattooed
on in a wonky line, Giles noticed mechanically. “That’s what I
called you, love. They went and changed your name when you
was adopted, but you’ll always be my little Wayne to me. I can’t
believe you’re ‘ere! Come in, and meet the family.”
She led him through a narrow hallway strewn with cheap,
down-at-heel shoes and flyers from local takeaways, and into a
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