Birthday
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Birthday
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Noèle walked slowly home from her office through the gathering darkness of a December evening. Her diminutive figure looked particularly small with the hustle and bustle of the city around her. It was Christmas Eve and all the brightly-lit shops were full of seasonal glitter and last-minute gift buyers. Noèle's focus was on her birthday; in just a few hours she would be 30.
All her life Noèle had felt slightly cheated by having her birthday on Christmas Day. As a child, she only had one special day with presents when all her friends has two. Her parents were very careful to say this is your Christmas present and that is your birthday present, but it was an artificial distinction and she had always known full well that it was. It wasn't so much that she objected to having her birthday at Christmas, after all she was in pretty good company sharing a birthday with Jesus. She didn't even mind the rather obvious name for a Christmas baby, but she hated having her personal celebration crowded out by the annual commercial greed-fest. It was even difficult for her friends to buy her birthday cards, with the greetings card shops all full of Christmas kitsch. Some people tried to be witty by sending her Christmas cards with Christmas crossed out and birthday written in. It was a joke that had been amusing on about her eighth birthday when she was first old enough to appreciate irony but distinctly unfunny through overuse by the following year.
In previous years, Noèle had gone along with the Christmas spirit to the extent of decorating the area around her desk in the small publishing office where she worked as an editor. This year, she pinned up Christmas cards from authors and colleagues on the pin board behind her desk but made no attempt to make a festive display of them. The neat row of Christmas cards wishing seasonal peace and joy looked rather incongruous beside Noèle's collection of cover art from books she had edited. Frank Peters, their house artist always gave her the proof copies of any covers she particularly liked. Mostly these showed dramatic action scenes and a surprising number showed heroines, often scantily clad, struggling womanfully against ropes or other restraints.
Noèle enjoyed her job. The company she worked for was small and friendly, with a good atmosphere in the old mission hall they used as an office. They published women's romantic fiction and nothing else. Ever since her teens, Noèle had loved reading melodramatic romance, from steamy hospital sagas to the most absurdly overblown historical bodice rippers. (Actually, the bodice rippers were amongst her particular favourites.) Much of the work the company published was written by amateurs who were regular readers of their books. In consequence, Noèle's work fell into several distinct categories. There were the would-be authors who really had no idea how to go about inventing a story or writing it, but who were still probably loyal readers and with whom she would have to exercise tact and discretion in rejecting their work. There were the up-and-coming writers who were still developing their craft and who required help, guidance or just encouragement. In many ways this group was the most rewarding to work with as Noèle had a real contribution to make to the creative process. Finally, of course, there were the established authors. For these, there was generally little editorial work for Noèle to do other than occasional corrections and sometimes a little subediting to fine-tune chapter lengths. On the other hand, with these authors, she had the unalloyed treat of reading a new work of fiction for the very first time, knowing that she would almost certainly enjoy it. Being paid to do a job like this was almost too good to be true.
Earlier on Christmas Eve, Noèle had been reading the draft of a mystery romance. It was written by one of the more experienced authors. No one would mistake it for a work of great literature, but it kept the reader, or at least Noèle, turning the pages. Stacy Stevens, the heroine of a whole series of previous books, was sympathetically portrayed, so Noèle knew that both new and regular readers would be genuinely concerned as she lay bound and gagged in a cellar with water inexorably rising inch by inch around her while the hero of the piece (whom she feigned to dislike at the beginning of the book) searched frantically to find her. Nothing terribly original but competent and stirring enough for its purpose.
Early in December, Noèle had announced firmly that she would not be attending the office Christmas party, scheduled for Christmas Eve. She explained that she wanted to celebrate her birthday undiluted by Christmas just for once. A few days before the event, Tracy, Susan and Fiona, Noèle's three best friends in the office, approached her as a deputation to get her to change her mind. "The party just wouldn't be complete without you, Noèle," they pleaded. She told them that her mind was made up. She assured them that she enjoyed her own company but was grateful for the offer all the same, thank you very much.
At 5pm, Noèle had been almost the last to leave the office as most of her colleagues had left early to change for the party. As she stepped out into the night air, she pulled her hat down over her ears, turned her collar up and trudged off into the gloom of the evening. It felt cold enough for snow. As she walked, she admitted to herself that maybe she had been foolish to be so adamant that tomorrow was her birthday and that she would have nothing to do with Christmas. Privately she also admitted that she was just a little bit lonely having split up with her boyfriend some weeks earlier. Maybe she needed to have adventures like Stacy Stevens. Being kidnapped by evil criminals and then rescued (just in the nick of time and completely unharmed of course) by the oh-so-gorgeous Roger Armstrong would certainly add a little spice to her life. Too bad these things just happened in books.
Turning a street corner as she made her way home, Noèle was surprised to see a video camera on a tripod almost blocking the pavement. The camera operator turned the lens to face Noèle and she was intrigued to notice that he (or she; it was hard to tell) was wearing a harlequin pattern eye mask. Another similarly masked figure was holding a small but intense floodlight and turned that on her too. Dazzled, Noèle stopped in her tracks and squinted in the glare of the light.
Without any warning, Noèle was grabbed from behind. A strong gloved hand clamped itself over her mouth, an arm encircled her waist and another pair of hands gathered her legs together and swept them out from under her. All the time, the masked camera crew continued filming. There was a brief moment of unreality while Noèle's brain simply refused to come to grips with what was happening to her then she started kicking and struggling for all she was worth. It was too late by then, of course; two pairs of hands had a firm hold of her and there was little she could do about it. On the whole Noèle rather enjoyed being small and petite but it put her at a distinct disadvantage as a kidnap victim.
A car drew to a stop beside Noèle and her captors. Black Volvo estate car, she noted, hoping that she might have an opportunity to make use of the information. The driver leaped out and opened the tailgate. Noèle thought it might be a woman, but it was hard to tell as she was wearing black trousers, a black sweater, black gloves and her features were blurred and indistinct behind a black stocking mask. Noèle twisted round as far as she could and saw that the people holding here were dressed the same way.
Still struggling wildly, Noèle was unceremoniously shoved into the back of the car. Her captors climbed in beside her while the driver closed the tailgate and went to start the car. Noèle stared disbelievingly up into the lens of the video camera. The camera operator had climbed into the front passenger seat and was leaning over the seat, recording Noèle's struggles as the car drove away. What would Stacy Stevens do? she wondered. One of Noèle's assailants unbuttoned and peeled off her winter coat. Noèle glanced down at working attire: old comfortable jeans, equally old and comfortable sweater and trainers. Stacy Stevens wouldn't be seen dead in an outfit like this. Noèle just hoped she wouldn't be seen dead in it either. Suddenly, the gloved hand that had been pressing down on Noèle's mouth wasn't there. She opened her mouth to deliver a good loud scream but found it stuffed with a wad of cloth.
Noèle was rolled over onto her front and felt her arms being pulled round behind her. She couldn't break the grip on her arms so she tried kicking instead but one of her captors simply sat on her legs. She felt pressure on her wrists and it took a moment to register that this was what it felt like to have one's hands tied behind one's back with rope. In the space of less than a minute, her wrists were bound tightly (but not painfully so). She felt a finger being inserted between her skin and the encircling ropes first on one wrist and then on the other. She remembered that Roger Armstrong always did that when he tied anyone up to ensure that the circulation wasn't impeded. How considerate, she thought, with bitter irony.
It was absurd, Noèle thought angrily, that she could be snatched off a street in full public view and was now being tied up in a moving car in heavy traffic without anyone apparently paying any attention. She was surprised at just how quickly the binding progressed. Whoever was tying her seemed to know exactly what they were doing. Noèle felt rope wound round her ankles, not too tightly at first, but suddenly clamping her legs in immovable bands of cord. She had seen pictures showing wrist or ankle bindings where there were a few turns of rope at right angles to the rest which cinched it into something like rope handcuffs. That must be what was happening to her.
Noèle was beginning to wonder how easy it would be to get rid of the rag stuffed into her mouth, when the question was rendered hypothetical by another piece of cloth being wound round her head, wedging her mouth open and holding the first wad firmly in place.
Noèle suddenly found her head clamped between two hands, one on top of her head and the other cupping her chin. Her head was tipped to one side and she felt something probe her ear then fill it. Earplugs? She stiffened her neck but was unable to resist as her head was tilted the other way and the process repeated on the other ear. A blindfold came next; it felt like a knitted headband pulled down over her eyes, snugly elasticated to hold her eyes closed and utterly opaque.
The snatch had been well-planned, Noèle reflected as she squirmed ineffectually. She was helpless and now had no chance to tell where the car was going either from sights or sounds along the way.
Noèle decided to give up struggling as it was now completely useless and was just wearing her out. She hoped that a show of co-operation would help her situation but her kidnappers had other ideas and were taking no chances. She was still face down on the floor of the car and felt her shoulders being lifted slightly so that rope could be passed under her body. Four or five coils were wound round her arms and chest then pulled into a tight band of rope just above her elbows and below her bust pinning her arms to her sides.
Just as Noèle thought her humiliation must be complete, her feet were lifted up and her knees bound in much the same way as her ankles. Something was laid on top of Noèle, possibly a blanket. At least there were no more ropes and Noèle could take stock of her plight.
The car stopped and Noèle was startled to realise she had been asleep. The darkness, the warmth of the blanket covering her, exhaustion from the initial shock of the attack and the muted rumble that was all she could hear through the earplugs all conspired to lull her off to sleep, despite being a bound and gagged prisoner. She had no idea how long she had been asleep or how far the car might have travelled.
Chill night air brought Noèle back to full wakefulness as the tailgate was opened and the blanket pulled off her. Several pairs of hands slid her towards the back of the car and then helped her to sit up at the lip of the open rear door. While two of her captors held her gently but firmly by an elbow and shoulder each, a third loosened and then removed Noèle's ankle and knee ropes. She was then hoisted to her feet and led forwards on weak rubbery legs. She could feel rather than hear the crunch of gravel under her feet, then a hard surface, then a softer surface. It was also suddenly warmer. Perhaps she was in a building. The blind, helpless walk continued for a few moments and then, without warning, the unseen hands guiding Noèle brought her to a halt.
Noèle could feel someone working at the knot securing the rope round her arms and body then suddenly the it was gone. She wondered if her wrists would be freed next. Instead, she found herself being pushed down by a firm pressure on her shoulders and discovered that a chair had been manoeuvred in behind her. As she sat down, her elbows were steered either side of the chair back so that her arms were behind it. It was a hard wooden chair.
As soon as Noèle was seated, the partial freedom that had been restored to her was snatched away again. Her ankles were lashed to the front legs of the chair. A long length of rope was wound round and round her arms and body and the woodwork of the chair, anchoring her firmly in place.
Blindfolded and with her ears blocked, Noèle could gain no sense of her surroundings or whether her captors were still present or if she had been left alone. More as a matter of principle than anything else, she struggled against her bonds for a few moments, but that merely proved that she was bound fast.
Noèle was on the point of despair when the blindfold was whipped off her head and her earplugs pulled out. Her senses were simultaneously assaulted by brilliant light and deafening sound. As her eyesight returned to normal, she realised that she was back in the office. The furniture had been pushed back to the walls and the room had been decorated for the office Christmas party. No it hadn't; there was a big banner that read HAPPY BIRTHDAY NOÈLE and no sign of Christmas trees, mistletoe, jolly Santas or anything else Christmassy. The noise that had hit her ears was sustained applause and cheers from her colleagues and it was still going on. She looked around; everyone was there, all dressed up for a party, and here she was wearing her scruffy sweater and jeans and tied to a chair in the middle of them all. And that bloody video crew was still there. And they were still filming her. Now she could see them more clearly, she recognised them as the two graphics technicians from the production department.
There was someone else there too. Roger Armstrong. She recognised him in an instant. The rugged good looks. The chin that would be too big on a lesser man but was square and determined on him. The sardonic smile and the ever-present twinkle in the eye. "Happy Birthday, Noèle," he said in his deep warm voice. "Let me help you with those ropes."
Purposefully, but without seeming to hurry, Roger Armstrong strode across to Noèle. He lifted her hair gently aside and loosened the knot on her gag. Noèle was suddenly grateful for her old baggy sweater as her nipples both leaped to attention at Roger's first touch.
Noèle tilted her head back so Roger could ease the soggy wad of cloth out of her mouth. As she did so, she was aware of people standing behind her. She craned her neck to see who they were. Tracy, Susan and Fiona stood there grinning at her. All three were wearing black trousers, sweaters and gloves and two of them had stockings pulled down over their heads.
"Happy birthday, Noèle," Tracy offered, slightly sheepishly. "We set up the party as a birthday surprise for you, but then you said you wouldn't come, so we had to get you here somehow. We thought you'd make a good Mystery Romance heroine."
Noèle tried very hard to be angry, but the relief she felt made it impossible. Besides, she could appreciate the joke, even if it was on her. "You scheming bitches!" she announced, once her voice was working again, but she couldn't help saying it with a broad grin, especially as she was rather enjoying Roger Armstrong's attentions as he worked at untying her.
"We couldn't get the real Roger Armstrong to rescue you," Fiona said apologetically, "but this is Dave. Frank Peters uses him as the model for Roger on the cover paintings."
As Dave knelt down to untie Noèle's legs, she saw Frank's familiar face with its lop-sided grin smiling across the room at her. He walked across to join them. As Dave stood up, he and Frank briefly held hands. Noèle saw the little squeeze as their fingers entwined. She knew already that Frank was gay and it seemed that Dave wouldn't be terribly interested in a female companion for the evening either. Too bad, but she still had her fantasies and, after all, that was what her business was all about.
Susan had used Noèle's house keys to get some smarter clothes for her, so once she had been fully untied and had loosened her cramped limbs, she was able to freshen up and change so she could feel more the part for her party.
The party was a good one. It was the first birthday party Noèle had had since she was a child and the first ever that wasn't also a Christmas party and therefore not exclusively her celebration.
After the first hour or so of the party, the video crew emerged from the back room where they had been ensconced since Noèle's release. They explained that their role had been planned as a diversion on the basis that a public kidnapping in the street was likely to be ignored by passers by if there was a camera crew there filming it. However the footage they had shot had been too good not to show off, so they were able to present the first rough cut of Noèle's Birthday Adventure.
The party went on until midnight, when everyone counted down the seconds until 12 o'clock and then wished Noèle a happy birthday again. Noèle thanked everyone, especially those who had families and who would probably have boisterous youngsters on their hands in a very few hours' time.
Noèle walked slowly home from the office through the darkness of the December night. A snowflake brushed her nose, promising a white Christmas. Noèle smiled; she had celebrated her birthday in great style and could find room in her heart for Christmas as well now.
Copyright © 2002 Gillian B