Disclaimers: I don't own Relic Hunter or make any money from my writing.

Here is my answer to the 'Nigel at 16' challenge, the inspiration being that even though we know that Preston stole some of Nigel's girlfriends, we only ever hear one side of the story...

I mean, come on, the girls 'back home' couldn't have been completely oblivious to the charms of Bailey Jr.?

I had a lot of fun writing this. I hope you enjoy! Thanks also to those of you who who have been reviewing 'The Elysian Fields'. Much appreciated :) I will be updating at the weekend...

'Here's to you, Mrs Robinson...'

by Katy

It was a sparkling day over the western peripheries of London. The sky was almost entirely blue, with only the smallest prospect of rain and Nigel Bailey, aged 16, had decided to take advantage of it.

He was lolling on a hammock, slung between two, gnarled but prolifically fruity apple trees, in the well-sized back garden of his family home. Absorbing the rays of the summer sun, he was thoroughly lost in a good book.

The sizable tome on Egyptology had completely transported him to a wonderful world of Pharoahs, cat-gods and the finer points of historical debate. Excepting attacks by persistently irritating and occasionally terrifying wasps - and the odd half-mouldy apple narrowly missing his head on its descent from branch to lawn - it was the perfect way to spend a day.

After all, Preston wasn't due back for at least another hour and then the elder brother was 'engaged' all evening. Bliss!

Nigel had just begun the third paragraph of a particularly compelling chapter on Mummies however, when a loud and persistent ring on the front doorbell wafted above the buzz of the insects and the distant roar of the traffic and into Nigel's ears.

He sighed, and put his book down. He just betted it was Preston, back early, hot and bothered about something or other, and having forgotten his key.

To ignore the 'dong' would be more hassle than it was worth, although he could already picture his obnoxious sibling's response when he answered: 'It's all your fault that I forgot my key! You practiced your scales wrongly and forced me to correct you - just as I was going out!'

Irritated already, even though Preston was yet to commit the crime, Nigel stomped through the French windows at the back of the house, across the drawing room and into the hall. He flung open the front door.

It wasn't Preston. It was a young, sandy-haired and rather attractive woman.

'Oh, hello,' she began, as Nigel stared at her, momentarily speechless. 'Is, err, Preston in?'

'He's, um, not back yet…'

Nigel blinked rapidly, recalling his senses. 'I'm so sorry - I'm forgetting my manners. You must be Helen? Do come in...'

'I'm not Helen,' replied the girl, grimacing slightly. 'My name is Mabel.'

'Mabel! Of course…sorry… Helen is someone else…our, err, distant cousin. Mabel – of course it's Mabel! He talks about you all the time! I always think it's a particularly lovely name…'

Nigel cringed at his fluster as he stepped aside, graciously allowing her to enter. He'd known Preston had a date coming over - but last week he done nothing but talk of a Helen! How could he keep up with that sort of turnaround?

Then again, what self-respecting girl could tolerate more than one date with Preston…?

He was snapped out of these ruminations when he realised that Mabel was now hovering awkwardly in the entrance hall, chewing her bottom lip.

'Help!' thought Nigel, who - like all good public schoolboys - wasn't terribly experienced with girls. 'I should have politely asked her to come back later. Now what am I going to do with her?'

She was certainly very pretty, he thought, with her soft caramel curls descending over her shoulders and her long, floral summer dress and strappy sandals. She was clutching a shiny pink purse in a delicate, slightly jittery fashion. He also couldn't help notice that she had very lovely breasts – but Nigel tried no to dwell on those. Instead, he focussed on the incomprehensible question of why such an evidently nice lady would want to spend time with an ass like Preston!

'Would you like to sit down?'

He showed her to the drawing room, from where the French windows were still hanging open onto the sundrenched garden. 'Can I get you a drink? A cup of tea? Lemonade? I think there is even a bottle of wine open somewhere, if that pleases you?'

Mabel thought about it for a second, then answered thoughtfully: 'I'd really love a chilled glass of white wine, please.'

'Coming up!' promised Nigel, and sprinted to the kitchen.

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Mabel watched him go, or rather - chastising herself as she did it - she watched his backside, which was clad in a tight-fitting pair of brief, white tennis shorts.

Once he'd gone, she raised two tentative fingers to her lips: she couldn't believe she was ogling her date's little brother!

Granted, Preston - a manful 21-year-old – was a couple of years older than she was. Nevertheless, she was pretty sure that Nigel, who had been mentioned once by a friend, was no more than 16. He certainly didn't look a day older and he must have been a full inch shorter than she was.

On the other hand, Nigel was not your average spotty-faced, gawky-limbed, Guns n' Roses-loving adolescent boy. With his even, boyish features, his open-necked polo shirt, and floppy-fringed, well-groomed hair, he was interminably preppy - and devastatingly cute!

He'd already set her pulse racing and now she sensed that strange, exhilarating glow in her lower stomach: she could hardly believe what her hormones were doing to her! She's been so nervous about this date, so desperate that they should work out with Preston - and now? She didn't know what to think, apart from that she felt weirdly like Mrs Robinson!

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Nigel reached the fridge and cursed out loud. There was no Chardonnay in there! He was inordinately exasperated: for some reason, he did so want to please Mabel.

It was then he spotted the champagne, tucked on the second shelf between Mrs Miggin's chicken, an open pack of prawns and some semi-set chocolate-flavoured instant whip.

He guessed Preston had put it there for that evening, but if Mabel wanted it now…

'I'm so sorry. There's no white in the fridge,' he called.

'Oh, never mind! She replied. 'Lemonade will be fine…'

'… but there is champagne.'

There was a moment of silence.

'Oh, don't open it on my account.'

'It's absolutely fine. I was going to open in anyway.' Nigel cringed as the obvious lie. 'Preston won't mind at all,' he informed her, while his conscience screamed: 'Yes he bloody will!'

'Well, if you are, I'll join you,' called back Mabel, wondering momentarily just how rich – and liberal – Preston Bailey must be to allow his 16-year-old brother to quaff champagne at will.

Nigel's heart leapt - although he still did not quite know why. He could already picture Preston throttling him for this, and soon there was another obstacle. Try as he might, he couldn't get the damn cork out!

He tugged and tugged, jammed in the corkscrew, banged the top against the table and whacked it against the fridge - all to no avail!

'May I help?' shouted Mabel, as banging, muffled cursing and imploring moans filtered through into the next room.

'Oh, no - I won't be a second! I'm just polishing the glasses!'

In a moment of inspiration, he jammed the cork between the door hinges and yanked it with all his might.

There was a pop, followed by an irrepressible fizzing. Half of the hugely expensive liquid phoned foamed out all over the kitchen floor - but there was no time to clear up. Still riding on the wave of his triumph, Nigel slopped as much as he could into two tall cut-crystal glasses and tripped back into the drawing-room.

Mabel was perched uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa but jumped up and came to him as he entered.

'Thank you,' she said, as he handed her one of the damp, sticky glasses.

'My pleasure.' Nigel grinned peevishly and slurped the foam from the top of his glass before it slopped all over the carpet. He couldn't quite suppress a wince as the pungent fizz assaulted his senses.

Mabel giggled.

'What is it?'

'You've got froth all over the end of your nose. Here… allow me.'

Before either of them could do anything to prevent it, Mabel had flicked it away with her thumb. Nigel blushed bright red - half the effect of the alcohol, and half because of his storming hormones. Mabel flushed too.

She gave a hic-like giggle and changed the subject.

'I hope I didn't interrupt anything. I'm sorry I'm so early, but Preston said he'd probably be around.'

'Oh, yes, he usually is. Worst luck! But you didn't interrupt me. I wasn't doing anything too important, really. Just reading.'

'Reading is the most important thing ever!' she grinned. 'Anything interesting?'

'Dr Hortensia Alexander's latest volume on Egyptology. It's fascinating. '

'Goodness! Hardly light summer reading, then? I suppose you're swatting up in order to be able to join Preston at Oxford in a couple of year's time?'

'I certainly hope to get into Oxford, if I'm good enough. I'm not so sure about joining Preston! He should be through by the time I get there, thank goodness…'

He trailed off. Yes, his brother was a pain, but maybe slagging him off to his girlfriend in his absence wasn't quite fair play.

Nevertheless, Mabel had already sniffed the gunpowder: 'I'm guessing you two don't get along very well. Why?'

'Oh, you know, this and that. I suppose we're very different, that's all - and, since mum and dad died, we've had an, um, disagreement about my school. But I don't want to bore you with all that. I'm sure he makes a great boyfriend, even if he is a…a…'

'… lousy brother?'

Nigel jumped as Mabel finished his sentence and then took a large gulp of his champagne. Its kick was so strong he almost choked; he swallowed it quickly, making his senses reel dizzily. Nevertheless, when the world righted itself again, he was suddenly more aware of the beautiful things around him: the twittering of the birds, the gentle heat of the sun… the shimmering of Mabel's blue eyes. Indeed, those two little words - 'lousy brother' - had made him feel very close to her. But he also found that the last thing he actually wanted to talk about now was Preston!

'That's enough about me,' he stuttered, breaking the loaded silence. 'How about you? Are you at Oxford too?'

'No. Preston and I were introduced by a mutual friend at a party. I'm studying English Literature at Warwick.'

'Good university,' acknowledged Nigel. 'And a very good subject.'

'You read fiction as well, then?'

'Oh yes, all the time. I love stories nearly as much as I do history books. When I'm away at school, sometimes it's my only refuge - immersing myself another world. I love the modern classics: Defoe, Dickens, Trollope, Thackaray, and, of course, the ancient ones… and anything that deals with mediaeval or Arthurian legend. Even at home, I love to read. I often got up into our old tree house with a book, just because I know that there I'm safe from Pr… any interruptions.'

'You have a treehouse? How adorable! May I see?'

'Of course!'

Nigel led her into the garden, wobbling only slightly and concentrating very hard on not falling down the patio steps. The treehouse, built years ago by his father, nestled in the branches of the taller of the apple trees. Its little door was about two metres above the ground.

'Actually,' admitted Nigel. 'I'm not really one for heights. I hate the ladder bit, but it's worth it for the solitude at the top. That's where I first read Homer in the Ancient Greek.'

'Very impressive. Did you do that this summer?'

'Err, no. I was nine.'

Mabel regarded him incredulously for a moment before deciding it must be a joke. She gave a full-blooded laugh, and Nigel joined her, although he was not entirely sure what the joke was.

'I bet there's a wonderful view from the top,' she chortled.

Nigel shrugged. 'So I'm told. I don't really look out that much myself. I think you can see some of the Kensington spires, Hammersmith Bridge and the Natural History Museum - and even as far as the Post Office tower on a good day. In the other direction, you can see the All-England Club.'

'Ooooh! I'd love to look! Shall we go up?'

Nigel took a very large swig of the champagne, smacked his lips and replied: 'That would be very nice indeed.'

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As he had informed Mabel, getting up into the treehouse had never been Nigel's favourite pastime. He tended to go up the ladder very quickly and then descend very slowly and carefully - and in neither case, would he look down.

It proved even harder when he found himself compelled to do it with a champagne glass in one hand and with the hems of Mabel's skirt floating dangerously close to his sightline, but somehow he made it. He found himself gazing uncertainly out of the window at the back of the little, tree-borne shed with Mabel positively buzzing with excitement at his side.

'You can see the All-England club! Wimbledon! How wonderful. Preston promised to take me for a knock up on centre court, you know?'

'Oh he did, did he?' snorted Nigel. The family's prestigious club membership - and the right for the occasional workout on its hallowed turf - had died with their father.

Mabel narrowed her eyes in amused suspicion: 'Why do I get the impression that half of the things Preston tells me are not true?'

'I'm not saying anything!' Nigel feigned a cheeky innocence - but then her gaze met his and everything turned deadly serious.

'And why do I get the impression that you're a lot nicer than your brother?'

Mabel's words were breathy and seductive. Even as Nigel looked away quickly, the sultry atmosphere pounded in around him. He was breathing very hard and he felt very hot. He tugged at his collar, loose though it was.

'Don't say that. Preston will be back soon, and you'll… you'll have a good time together.'

'I'm sure we will,' she shrugged, sounding anything but convinced. 'But I'll be putting in a few good words for his… little brother. You certainly know how to show a girl the sights.' She lifted her champagne: 'Cheers, Nigel. This place is stunning.'

He clinked his glass against hers: 'Here's to you, Mabel'

He swigged down the rest of his champagne, even as she whispered: '… and here's to us!'

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It was barely a second later, when Nigel slumped down heavily on the floor, dropping – and cracking - his empty glass. 'I…I don't feel so good!'

'What is it?' Mabel crouched down in front of him and placed a gentle hand on his arm. 'Did you drink the champagne too quickly? You do look a little overcome. '

'No…it must have been something I ate?' whined Nigel. 'And I looked across the rooftops, and I'm not good with heights…oh.' His head sunk forward into his hands as she stroked his shoulder. 'Everything's spinning around…including my tummy. I do wish it would stop!'

'I think we'd better get you down from here,' said Mabel kindly, touching his cheek and brushing back his fringe in such a natural fashion that she suddenly wondered if she'd confused her lust for him with a motherly instinct. Nigel could do nothing but stare up at her wanly - at that moment, all he cared about was trying not to be sick on her pretty summer frock.

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Somehow, with Mabel's help, Nigel managed to get down the ladder and collapse into the hammock. She bought him a glass of water and, after a few minutes and a little petting, he started to feel much better.

'How embarrassing!' he cringed. 'I'm so sorry, I spoilt everything.'

'No you didn't,' contradicted Mabel, who was now leaning closely over him. 'I had a lovely time in the treehouse. Maybe we shouldn't have opened the champagne, though.'

'I'm sure it was that prawn sandwich I had for lunch,' pleaded Nigel, but he could tell she knew the truth. He just hoped he would be able to take his liquor better when he was a little older…

'Whatever it was,' she said. 'I think you'd better lie here quietly for a little bit. Is there anything else I can do for you…?'

It was then that it happened. Nigel's imploring hazel eyes suddenly claimed complete control of her, boring deep into her soul: they shouted out to her, enticed her, pulled her lips ever closer…

Their mouths pressed together and her fingers enmeshed themselves into his glossy, sun-kissed chestnut hair. She felt his arms coil tentatively around her neck and pull her in - but it was the kiss itself that melted her legs beneath her and made her senses go wild. It was the feel of his full, moist lips, the way his tongue moved gently against hers…

'Podge! There had better be a good explanation as to why a best bottle of Moet and Chandon is spilt all over the kitchen floor… Good God? What the hell? Mabel!?'

Mabel jumped up, eyes wide like a stricken rabbit.

'Were you… were you… just kissing…' Preston's face scrunched into horrified disbelief. 'Were you…kissing…my brother?'

'He felt unwell,' stuttered Mabel weakly.

'He must been pretty damned unwell for you to be doing that to him in the name of illness… although by the time I've finished with him, he's going to need resuscitating!'

'Now Preston, please. It wasn't his fault. I can explain…'

Nigel, who had been staring bewilderedly into space, trapped in the hinterland between ecstasy and agony, now covered his face with both his hands, only peeping out between the fingers.

'It's not worth it, Mabel,' he murmured. 'He doesn't listen. But it's not like this really much to explain, is there?'

Preston gawped like a goldfish as Mabel shook her head slowly: 'I suppose not. Maybe it will be best if I went now. I'll call you… in a little while. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye Mabel.'

Somehow he knew, as he watched her scuttle from the garden, that he'd never see her again.

Preston glared at Nigel for a moment and then gave chase after Mabel - which was a small relief. 'At least', though Nigel, 'I will have some more time to recuperate before the onslaught begins'.

As he licked his lips languidly, however, he couldn't prevent a little smile curving upon them. Maybe this time - and just this time - he did deserve a little bit of Preston's wrath.

Yes, he'd learned two things today: firstly, that Preston Bailey wasn't the only one who could charm a lady at forty paces. But secondly, and more deliciously, he'd learned that revenge could be sweet!

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'Good Heavens, that boy could kiss!' thought Mabel as she fled the premises. 'What do they them at public schools these days?'

The End.

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