CAUGHTINALIE

Sex,Lies&Politics–Book1

LAURAREAD

CONTENTS

Wanttoreadmore?

Prologue–ThePast

1.

TheCity

2.

TheProposal

3.

TheFamilyMan

4.

TheAgreement

5.

TheJob

6.

TheCandidate

7.

TheTalk

8.

TheCompany

9.

TheFallout

10.

TheDisappointment

11.

TheParty

12.

TheGuiltyParty

13.

TheDiscovery

14.

TheConfrontation

15.

TheNewJob

Epilogue–TheJudgement

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I

PROLOGUE–THEPAST

Thomas

t’slate,thebarisnoisyandIcan’thearmywifeontheotherendofthephone.Itell
JamalI’mheadingoutsidesoIcanhearbetter.Hejustwavesatmelikeit’sfineand

continuessippinghiswhisky.

A couple of girls at the bar are staring at him. He turns to wink at them, then turns

backtohisdrinkandchuckles.IwishIhadthatkindoffreedom.IwishIhadthetimeto
gotothegymeverydayandgetnoticedbywomen.Thenagain,itwouldbenicejustto
getnoticedbymywife,andnotforsomethingI’vedonewrong.

I stand up and realise that I’ve drunk more than I intended. My leg smacks into the

tableandmyglasswobblesacrossthetop.Jamalsteadiesthetableandlooksupatmeto
seewhetherI’malright.Iignorehislook.Icanfuckinghandlemydrink.

Imakemywayoutside,shovingpastbodiescrowdedaroundtheentrance.Icanfeel

myheadspinningfromthewhiskyandtrytofocusonwalkingstraight.

It’srainingandIhoverbeneaththenarrowawningsomyphonedoesn’tgetwet.Agirl

isleaningagainstthewallnexttome,acigarettethreadedbetweenherfingerswhileshe
scrolls through her phone. She ignores me as I breathe in her smoke. God, I miss
cigarettes.

‘Christine?’Iyellintothephone,wonderingwhethershe’sstillthere.

‘Yousaidyou’dbebackbynow.’Hervoiceisjustlouderthanawhisper;she’strying

nottowakethekids.Iimaginehereyes,piercingandangry,likethey’vebeenforawhile.

‘I’msorry.I’mworking.ItoldyouI’dbehomelate.’

‘Don’tlietome!You’reatabar.Yousaidyou’dbehomeby8pm.’

I glance at my watch and it’s 11pm already. I ignored her calls earlier, hoping that

she’dtakethehint:Ididn’twanttotalktoher.It’sembarrassingthatshe’salwayscalling
tocheckuponme.

‘I’msorry,’Itellheragain,tryingnottoslurmywords.

Despitetryingtohideit,shestillknowsthatI’mdrunk.‘You’repissedagain!Agreat

exampleyou’resettingforourkids.’

Iwanttotellhertofuckoffbutdecideagainstit.‘I’mworking.I’mwithJamal.We’re

brainstorming.’

‘Anddrinkinghelpsyouwiththat?’sheaskssarcastically.‘Idon’ttrustthatguy.’

‘Youdon’ttrustanyone,’Isay,immediatelyregrettingit.Ishouldtrynottopissher

offevenmore.

Shedoesn’teventrustmeatthemoment.Thenagain,Idon’tknowhowmanytimesI

haven’tmadeithomeontimerecently.Formonthswe’vebeenarguingabouthowIwork
toomuchandhowsherarelyseesme.Shedoesn’trealisehowhardIworktoprovidefor
her and the kids. It’s like she’s ungrateful for everything I’ve done for her; for us. She
hasn’tworkedforyearsnow,notsincewehadourfirstchild.Idon’twanttobestuckat
homeeverysinglenightoftheweek.

‘Canyoublameme?’sheasks.‘Youliedtome.Again.’

‘I’llbehomesoon.’

‘Yeah,sure…I’mgoingtobed.Rememberwe’vegotparents’eveningtomorrow.’

‘Shit,’Isayundermybreath.I’vehadtogotothatschoolseveraltimesnowandsit

throughlong,boringmeetingswithteacherswhojusttellmethatmybothofmychildren
aredoingfineinschool.It’ssuchawasteoftime–theirsandmine.

‘Soyou’renotinterestedinfindingouthowyourownchildrenaredoingatschool?’

shecriticisesme.

‘That’snotwhatImeant,’Itellher.‘Iforgot.’

‘Of course, you forgot. Because you’re constantly thinking about yourself all the

fuckingtime!’

‘That’snottrue.’

Silence.

‘Christine?’

Iglancedownatmyphone.She’shunguponme.

‘Great,’Isaytomyself.

Thegirlnexttomesmiles.‘Soundslikeyou’dbettergethome.Beforeshelocksyou

out.’

Whycan’tpeoplemindtheirownfuckingbusiness?

‘Yeah,’Imumble,andheadbackinside.

Jamal’sboughtusanotherdoubleeach.‘Everythingokay?’heasks.

‘Yeah,fine,’Isay.Idownthedregsofmylastdrinkthenpickupmynext.‘I’vegotto

getgoingafterthis.’

‘Yeah, of course.’ He looks down at his watch. ‘It’s late. Christine must have

wonderedwhereyouwere.’

Ismile.‘Youhavenofuckingidea.’

Jamal’ssinglesohedoesn’thavetoworryabouthowlonghestaysout,especiallyona

schoolnight.Ienvyhim.Sometimesit’slikeChristineistryingtocontrolme,mouldme

intotheperfecthusbandwhoobeyshereverywishandcommand.Marriagedoesn’twork
likethat.Iusedtowanttocomehometohereveryevening,butnowIknowI’lljustcome
backtoanotherargument.

‘You okay to continue?’ Jamal asks me. He looks down at his notes. ‘We’re nearly

done.’

‘Yeah,sure.’Istartsippingonmywhisky.It’sbeenawhilesinceI’vehadthismuchto

drink.Thealcoholhasn’taffectedJamalatallthough.

‘Okay…Weneedtotalkaboutthethingsthatcouldcomebacktobiteyouduringyour

campaign.Youneedtobehonestwithme.Tellmeaboutanythingyou’vedoneinthepast,
even if it’s small. Sex, drugs, stealing, fights, anything. I won’t judge. I’ve done some
prettyfucked-upstuffinmytime.’

I frown as I think. ‘I gave up smoking five years ago,’ I tell him. ‘I smoked a bit of

weedatuni.Onlyafewtimes.Mymatesboughtit.That’sit,Ithink.’

‘That’s it?’ he asks doubtfully. ‘There’s nothing else? You’ve never done anything

strongerthanweed?’

‘No.Ialwaystriedtobegoodasakid.Mainlybecausemydadscaredtheshitoutof

me.Andmostpeopleleftmealoneknowingwhohewas.’

‘YoustarteddatingChristinewhenyouwere15.Youdidn’thaveunder-agedsex?’

‘No! It took her a while to… Sorry, that sounds shitty… We didn’t have sex until

university.’

‘Soyou’veonlyeversleptwithChristine?’

I’d almost forgotten. ‘There was someone else. A one-night stand. Years ago, at uni,

beforeIwasengagedtoChristine.’

‘Who?’

I’ve never told anyone about this before. ‘Her name was Julianne. We were both

drunk;itdidn’tmeananything.Ihaven’tseenhersince.’

‘Okay,notabigdeal.YouweredatingChristinethen?’

Ipause.Thismakesmesoundlikeacompletebastard.IhatemyselfforwhatIdidthat

night.‘Yes.Ifeltguiltyafterwardsthough…AndChristinedoesn’tknow.’

‘Don’tworry.Thisisonlybetweenus,’Jamalreassuresme.

Idowntherestofmywhisky.Ifeelsick;I’vehadtoomuch.Ineedtogethome.‘Are

wedone?I’vegotparents’eveningtomorrow,’Itellhim,rollingmyeyes.

Jamalsmilesandpolishesoffhisglass.‘Ratheryouthanme.Yeah,we’redone.’

Wegetupandmakeourwayoutside.‘Ican’tbelievehowbusyitisinhere,’Isayto

himasweedgeourwayaroundstrangersandfinallymakeitoutofthedoor.

‘It’salwaysbusy,’Jamaltellsme.Hepauses.‘Thinksomemoreaboutanythingelse

thatyou’dratherleaveinyourpast.Sometimespeopleforgetthings,smallthingsthatcan
turnintobiggerproblemslateron.I’llseeyoutomorrow.’

Hepatsmeontheshoulderandheadsoffdownthestreet.Igetmybearingsstraight

beforewalkingintheoppositedirection.I’mnotfarfromhome;it’sonlyashortwalk.I
couldcallforataxibutIneedtowalkoffthedrink.

Coldraintricklesdownthebackofmyneckandabsorbsintomygreysuit.IwishI

hadanumbrellaoratleastacoat.I’dkillforacigarettebetweenmylipsrightnow.Imiss
thetasteofsmokeblendingwiththeresidueofoldwhisky.

Themoonpeersoutbetweensombreclouds,thestarsinvisibleabovethesmoggycity.

Thestreetsareemptyinsuburbia,Victorianterracedhousesliningbothsidesofthequiet
road.Somehomesarefullycastintodarkness,butfromothersasinglelightshinesina
bedroomorlivingroom.Ipeercuriouslyintoawindowwherethecurtainshaven’tbeen
drawn across and watch a man typing away at his computer then sit back and sip his
coffee.

I turn down another road, the houses set further back, small front gardens brimming

with flower pots and tall hedges. Parallel-parked cars are crammed down the street,
streetlightssparklingacrosstheirmetalroofs.Iyawnloudly,thecoldnight’sairfillingmy
lungs.

Thesoundofsexfillsmyears:agirlpanting,herbedcreaking.Hermoansgetlouder,

or I get nearer to her house. I miss having loud sex. I try to pick up my pace and hurry
past, feeling as if I’m intruding, guessing it’s the house with the partially-open window
andcurtainshastilydrawnacross.Suddenlyawomanappearsaroundthecurtain,topless,
andslamsshutthewindowbeforeturningbacktoherloverandlaughing.Shedoesn’tsee
me,thePeepingTomstaringupather,wishingIwashomehavingheatedsextoo.

Christine’sbeenavoidinghavingsexwithme.Thelasttimewetriedshetoldmethat

she was tired halfway through, and before that she lay there motionless, like she was
wishingshecouldbesunbathingonatropicalislandinstead.Herfaceshowednoemotion,
asifIwasfuckingacorpse.

Maybe that’s too harsh. Maybe it’s the alcohol swimming around in my head. But

whathappenedtoourrelationship–wheredidtheromancego?Howdidweenduplike
this,dislikingeachotherandwhowe’vebecome?Iwonderwhetherthishappenstoevery
middle-agedcouple.

IthinkbacktowhatItoldJamal;howtheonlytwothingsI’veeverdonetorebelwere

smokeweedandhaveaone-nightstand.I’venevertakenhugerisks,nevertrulyrebelled,
rarelywantedtodosomethingdifferentandwalkdownanunexpectedpath.Idon’tknow
howtothinkoutsidetheboxbecauseI’veneverbrokenoutsideofthebarsofnormality.
I’ve always been reliable, never wanting for money, never knowing what it feels like to
succeedorfail.Christ,I’mfuckingboring.

Idon’tknowwhetherIwanttofollowinmyfather’sfootstepseither.Hecametomea

few months ago and told me that I should enter politics like him, that now would be a
goodtime;nowthatIwasestablishedinbusinessandthekidswereoldenough.Iwasan
idealcandidateandhecouldintroducemetocertainacquaintances,gettheballrolling.

Ididn’thavetimetothinkaboutwhetherIwantedtobecomeapolitician,whetherI’d

be good at representing my constituency. It just happened: I met with people, filled out

forms,wenttointerviews,thenwasselectedtorepresenttheparty.Itfeltsimilartohowhe
helpedmetogetmyfirstjob,andhowheintroducedmetoChristine;howwedidn’tplan
on immediately having children after we got married. Everything just happened before I
hadachancetothinkaboutwhatIwantedinlife.

Ilovemykids,butI’mnotsurewhetherI’minlovewithChristineanymore.Perhaps

she feels like me, trapped by the life that we’ve created for ourselves. I hate our shitty
routine: getting up at the same time each day, putting on a suit and tie, eating the same
breakfast,commuting,downingcoffeeatmydesk,sittinginonrepetitiveworkmeetings,
goingroundincirclesaswedecidewhattodoeachmonth,dealingwitholdclients,more
coffeetokeepmyselfawakeintheafternoon,paperwork,cominghome,talkingwiththe
kids about what they did at school while we wolf down another tasteless dinner, putting
thekidstobed,mindlessTVthensleep.Surelythere’smoretolife?Butwhat?Thisisthe
lifewechoseforourselves.

I miss being able to use my brain. The corporate world removes your creativity and

ability to think clearly. I miss messy sex and being able to travel the world, exploring
differentcountrieswithChristinelikewhenweweretwentyandtravelledaroundEurope.
Imisslearning,heateddebateswitholdschoolfriends,philosophicaldrunkenramblings
intheearlyhoursofthemorning,theambitionsofmyyouth.

MyheadisspinningandIwretchontothepavement,clingingontoarecyclingbinas

mystomachemptiesitself.Fuck,Ihadfartoomuchtodrink.Iwretchagainandthefoul
stenchofregurgitatedwhiskyandmydinnerofgreasychipsfillsmynostrils.It’stoodark
toseewhetherI’vebeensickdownmysuitoronmyshoes.Itrytohidebehindthebin,
crouchingdowninthefrontgardenwhereit’spositionedjustincasesomeoneseesme.

When I’m done throwing up, I hurry down the street and hope that no one saw me.

Christine’sright:agreatexampleI’msettingforourkids.AndagreatexampleI’msetting
asapoliticalcandidate,beingsickonaconstituent’sgardenpaththenrunningaway.

Perhapstherainwillwashawayeverythingbythemorning.Iwishitcouldwashaway

the shitty hangover I’m sure to have then too. My head feels clearer as I start jogging
downthestreet,wantingtobeoutoftherainandhomesafeinbed.Iwanttocurlupnext
toChristineandforgettheargumentsofthepastthatliebetweenus.

Irundownthedarkalleythatleadstooursmallroad,thenoiseofmythuddingshoes

echoingaroundme.AttheendofthealleyIseemyhome,thelightsoff,thefrontdoor
thatChristinepaintedblackovertheoldpillar-boxred,thesashwindowsthatstickinthe
heat of summer. Bedrooms where my little family slumbers, my daughters sleeping like
cherubs on soft white clouds – or rather the expensive memory-foam and pocket-sprung
mattressesthatIboughtforthem.

ChristinewillbeupstairscurledupinherdesignerEgyptiancottonsheets.Shechose

pinkrosesforthebedding,despitemyprotests.Herskinwillbescrubbedcleanofmakeup
andshe’llsmellofherusualmixtureofpotentnightcreams,incaseherskinwrinkleslike
herdecrepit65-year-oldmother.She’llbewearingpyjamassoIcan’tfeelthewarmthof
herskinwhenIhugherbodyclosetomine.

Islipmykeysoutofmypocketandfumblewiththelock,tryingtoprisethefrontdoor

open.Thedoorsticksagainsttheframe,swollenbytherain,soIkickthebottomandit

shuddersopen.Inside,Ilockthedooragainandputonthelatch,thenscrabblethroughthe
darktowardsthekitchen.

Iflickonthelightandlookatmyselfinthemirror.There’sbrownsickdownmytie.

Fuck, I look a mess. My eyes are bloodshot. I look down at my shoes: at least the rain
washed them clean. I sit down and undo my laces, kick off my shoes, then slip off my
clothes and throw them in the washing machine, so Christine won’t judge me for being
sickdownmyselflikeababy.

Ifillupaglassofwaterandswillmymouthout,spittingintothesink,thendownthe

restofthewaterquickly,andwashmymouthandhands.Glancingatmyselfinthemirror
again,Ilookabitmorepresentable;lesslikeadrunkentramp.

Icreepupstairsandintoourbedroom,thefloorboardscreakingwitheveryotherstepI

take.Icarefullyputdownmykeys,walletandphoneonthebedsidetable.

‘Christine?’Iwhisper,butreceivenoreply.

Iheadintoourensuitetobrushmyteethinthedark,pushingthedoortosoIdon’t

wake her, although I think she’s pretending to be asleep. Mint toothpaste tastes much
betterthanbileandwhisky.Irinseoutmymouthagain,haveapiss,thenstealbackinto
ourbedroomandgentlyslipunderthecovers.

‘Christine?’Iwhisperagain,spooningagainstherback.

‘Getoff!Gotosleep,’shesays,wrigglingawayfromme.

Isighandrollontomyback,gazingupattheceiling,blankandcolourlesswithstrips

of light from outside streaming around the edges of the curtains. My head has stopped
spinningatleast.

I don’t need to set my alarm: it’s already pre-set, like it is every day, primed for

anotherthrillingdayofordinaryroutine.MaybeIcangetoutofworkearlytomorrow,use
the parents’ evening as an excuse to slip away, come home and surprise Christine with
flowers–anapologyforwantingtodrinkinsteadofcominghometoher.Tomorrowisa
newday.Maybelifegetsbetterthanthis.

M

1

THECITY

Julianne

uted anger and sadness bleed from the herd as they shuffle along, faces down,
emerging from dark tunnels into the station. Their haunted eyes blink in the

naturallightpouringthroughthethinslotsthatpassforwindows.Thejadedareusedto
their darkness or the dim glow of their screens. Later they’ll sit down to eat tasteless
meals,complainingabouttheirlotinlifetothosetiredoflistening.

Ihungerformore.I’mnotoneofthesesheep.Icutthroughthenegatives,redjacket

burningbrightthroughendlesslinesofmonochrome,headingtowardstheUnderground.I
dancearoundthepedestrianandskirttheslow,rundowntheescalatorthenthestairs,hear
thescreechofbrakes.Myredhairswarmsaroundmeinthecoldgaleoftheapproaching
train.

This is London: the powerhouse of this shitty country. On rare occasions the streets

comealive,fireworksfilltheair,fashionandartinspire,protestsanddebateserupt,while
policiesarecreatedtosmotherthemasses.Noonecaresaboutyourambitionorallyour
hardwork.Thiscity’scurrencyiscold,hardcash.Weallwantit:itpaysourbills,defines
success,pavesourfuture,makesuscomplainwhenwedon’thaveit.

Abovethelabyrinthinetunnels,mylatestcareerwhoreclingstohisdeskinanivory

towerofreinforcedglassandsteel.Derekdoesn’tknowthathe’sbeingplayedandhe’sso
veryfragile.Helikestothinkofhimselfaspowerfulandshitsonanyonewhodoesn’tearn
asmuchashim.

Ilovemanipulatingguyslikehim:menwholovethepowerofaboardroom,dressing

upinasuit,pretendingthey’reimportant.Theywantthesexysecretarytype:a‘yes’girl
who’ll get down on her knees. It’s easy to wrap him round my finger because I know
exactly what he wants: to prove his virility; to flash his cash, platinum watch twinkling
beneathhisstarchedsleeve,agrooveonhisfingerwhereaweddingbandwearsdownhis
skin.Heslipshisringintohispocketbeforehemeetsme.

Billboardslinethewhitetiledwalls,advertisingthingsIdon’tneedbutwant.Alcohol,

apartments,holidays,concerts,handbagsandshoes.Executiveslovetobreedcompetition
andmarkettheirgoodsandservices;they’rejustdyingtoselltoyou.Makethesheepwant
moresotheybleatmoreandworkharder.

TheworldandhiswifewantthelifeofReillybutyoucan’tliveinthisworldwithout

giveandtake.Idon’twork;notformoneyanyway.I’mnotambitiousandIdon’twantto
move on up from employee to junior manager to senior manager… to put a gun in my

mouthbecausemycompanyissofuckingdull.

WhatIlovetodoisraisemenupontheirself-madepedestalsandthentowatchthem

fall. I look for VIPs (Very Impotent Pricks) and persuade them that they’re thinking for
themselvesandthatthey’revery,veryimportant.Theybuymeprettythings.Onebought
memyapartment,beforehiswifefoundout.

WhenI’mgone,Iliketothinkthattheydieaslow,painfuldeath.Sometimesthey’re

toyedwithbythemedia(‘Scandal!CEOscrewsmistress’),untilthehoundsgrowbored
withtheirscrapsandtossthemtothesidesotheycansinktheirteethintofreshmeat.Or
they’re forced to run an exclusive exposé on yet another C-list bimbo with big tits and
bleachedhairwho’sfallenforthelatestvillageidiot.

I step onto the train packed with decaying meat. Our hands clutch desperately at the

rails around us, bodies pressed awkwardly together. The heat and sweat bind us as the
trainlurchesforwardintothedarkness.

Thestrangerinfrontofmemakeseyecontactandthecornersofmymouthtwitch.I

slide my hand down the pole we hold together, my fingers running over his, across his
goldring.Hefrownsatfirst,shocked,thenlinkshisfingerswithmine.Helooksaround
slyly,hopingnottoseeafriend,colleagueor,Godforbid,oneofhiswife’sfriends.My
intentwastomakehimfeeluncomfortable,toflinchandremovehishand:heshouldhave
astiffupperlip,notasemi.

I don’t know what to do now: tease or ignore him? What do I want? He’s attractive

enough.Plain,averageheightandbuild,mousyhair,browneyes.He’slookingatmelike
he’swaitingformetodosomething,smilinglikehe’sneverreceivedattentionbefore.He
lookslikeahopefulpuppy.

Thetrain lurches toa stop, thedoors creak open, andI dart aroundan obese man to

escapePuppy.Ijumpontotheplatform,hardbeneathmyfeet,tryingnottostumbleinmy
newshoes.Stupidfuckingheels.Imakeadashfortheexit.

PeopleswarmaroundmeandIhearaguyyellout,‘Hey!Wait!’

Please,don’tbePuppyfollowingme.

ImakeitafewextrayardsbutthenIfeelahandgrabmyshoulder.Ispinaroundand

Puppyconfrontsme,confusionandsadnesslininghisplain,pallidface.

‘Ithoughtwe…hadaconnection,’hebreathesout.

I feel like I’m going to barf in his annoying face. Or maybe on his worn shoes. He

clutchesalaptopbag,materialfrayingattheedges.

‘Youthoughtwrong,’Itellhimharshly.‘Anddon’ttouchme.’

He frowns in confusion then smiles at me warmly, like he understands. Shit, did he

findthatendearing?

The doors slam shut and the train creaks onwards, loping into the tunnel again.

Cramped,boredcommuterslookoutthewindowsatus,theirfacesexpressionless,sickly
intheyellowlight.

Puppyshoutsabovethetrainaccelerating,‘Maybeyou’dliketogetadrink?’

Apparentlyhestillisn’tgettingthemessage.

‘No,’Iyell.‘Idon’t.Bye.’

Iturntojointheranksofmonochromeoncemore.Iglanceovermyshouldertomake

surethathe’snotfollowingme.Hestandsstoopedontheplatform,watchingthelastof
thecarriagesvanishintothetunnel.Poorguy…andhispoorwife.

I step onto the escalator, the grubby rubber side covered in flecks of skin, chewing

gum and grime. I place my hand on one of the cleaner spots and cling on as the metal
stairsriseupthroughtheconcretepassageway.Colourfuladvertsflickeracrossmyvision:
‘Comeandseeourlatestamazingshow’,‘Readthegrippingthrillerfromthisbestselling
author’,‘Thelatestalbumfromapopbandwithnosoul’.

Reachingthetop,Iovertakeawomandressedinahaggardtrousersuitstrugglingwith

herheavysuitcase.Stridingtowardstheticketbarrier,Iswipemycardandwalkthrough
the turnstile. Finally, I’m free of the claustrophobic shuffle of commuters and I march
towardstheexit.

Outsideagreydrizzledistortstheloomingbuildings,preventingthelastoftheday’s

sunlight filtering through to the dark streets. The new and the old stand side by side:
corrodedstonefaçadeshiddenbeneathyearsofblackfilthandpigeonshit,oldred-brick
walls shoddily patched with mortar, and new constructions of concrete, steel and glass
fillingthegapsinbetween.Amongsttheofficesandflats,variouscornershops,barsand
restaurants jostle for business. Noise and brick dust rise above a makeshift yellow fence
surroundingaconstructionsite;scaffoldingwithbluenettinghidestheadjacentbuilding.

Myfeetpoundthewetpavement,wantingtobeoutoftherainandtheseuglystreets.

Thestenchofhumanwasteseepsoutofthecloggeddrains,mixingwiththesmelloftrash
from over-stuffed rubbish bags piled high against the wall. I ignore the homeless man
wrappedinabluesleepingbag,reachingoutatmewithhisgrubbywrinkledhands.

A tribe of foreign tourists follow each other out of a restaurant, enveloped in thick

padded jackets and heavy rucksacks, blocking my route. I glare at them as I step down
ontothestreetandwalkaroundthem.

FinallyIturnacornerandtherestandsthephallicarchitecturalmonstrositywheremy

currentfopworks:hissecondhome.Well,actuallyhisfourth.Heownsalovelylittlevilla
inItalyandaglamorousbuttinyapartmentinMonaco,aswellasthehomeheshareswith
hisstuck-upwifeandtwowhinykids.

Iwalktowardsthethickglassdoorsandpressthebuzzer.Iswearasmyredpainted

nailchipsagainstthestickybutton.Mona,thefatbitchwhositsbehindthereceptiondesk,
canseemestandingoutsideintherain.Sheneverletsmeinsidewithoutcallingupfirstto
announcemyarrival.

She’saheartlessbulldogdressedinacheappinstripesuit,everysinglebuttononher

shirt fastened up to her fat neck, emphasising the bulge of her double chin. She never
smiles, her face continually scowling in disapproval, perhaps hoping visitors will lope
awaywhentheynoticeheruninvitingglare.

She slowly picks up her phone and dials Derek’s extension, ignoring the fact that I

exist.Iwonderwhathesaystohereverytimeshecallsuptoannouncethathismistress
hasarrived.Sheputsdownthephoneandtypessomethingintohercomputer,presumably
tomakemefeellikeshe’sbetterthanmewhileshemakesmewait.Finally,shepressesa
buttontoletmeinsideandIpushtheglassdooropen.

‘Mona!’ I greet her in a sickly-sweet voice. ‘How are you? You look very… formal

today.’

IsmilewidelyandI’msurehereyesnarrowasshepicksoutaplasticnamebadgefor

me.

‘Name?’sheasksmonotonously.

‘Itmakesmesosadthatyouneverremember,’Isay,fakingapout.

‘Yourname?’sherepeats,penpoised.Maybeshe’sarobot?

‘JulianneCarrell.’

‘Howdoyouspellthat?’

Igiveup.Sighing,Ispelloutthewholedarnthing.Somepeoplearejustbornwithout

apersonality.

Sheslidesthepieceofpaperwithmynameintothelittletransparentsleeveandhands

thebadgetomeacrossthedesk.Ipinitonmyt-shirt.

‘Ipresumeyoucanrememberwhichfloorhe’son?’sheasks,herlipspursingintoa

sourcurl.

‘Atthetop,awayfromthiscreepybottomfloor,’Isay,smilingsweetlyandherface

falls.

Iturnmybackonherandheadtowardsthemarblecorridorofelevators,walkingto

thefarendsoshecan’tseeme,unlessshewatchesmeonCCTV.

Once I fucked Derek in one of the elevators, late at night when no one was around

(afterMonawenthometomunchonherTVdinnerandfourfamily-sizedchocolatebars).
I watched the city beneath us as he thrust inside me, the distant lights of skyscrapers
twinkling in the distance, cars below accelerating through the rain, raindrops trickling
down the glass. Derek told me that he’d deleted the security tape afterwards, but maybe
Monahasherownsecretrecordingsthatshemasturbatesoverathome.Isshejealous?Or
perhapsshejusthatesthefactthatIdon’tcareaboutfuckingamarriedman.

The elevator doors ping open and I step into the lift and press the button for the top

floor.ThenIhittheclose-doorbuttonseveraltimes,justincaseMonacomesatmeina
jealousragewithaneight-inchkitchenknife.

Thedoorsslamshutandastheelevatorrisesintothesky,Iturntoseetheblood-red

sunfallingfromitspedestal,castbehindthedarkeningcityscape.Theraindribblesdown
theglasswallandIclutchontothemetalrail,cherishingthismomenttomyselfasIwatch
thebusycitybelowme.It’seasytoforgetthatyou’rejustonedropinalarge,filthyocean,
everyone drowning together, clambering over bodies to rise to the top, or just trying to
keepyourheadabovewater.

The doors open and I turn around, expecting to see Derek standing there to lead me

intohisoffice.Butthecorridor’sempty.

Ifrownandwalkdowntheechoingcorridors,heelsclickingontheshinytiledfloor.

The vacant boardroom looms behind its glass walls, steel blinds shadowing the sleek,
characterless table and designer leather chairs. Large green plants strain towards the
windows,dyingfromthenine-to-fiveboredom,fillingupthecornersoftheroom.They’re
theonlyfigureswithatraceoflifeinthisbuilding.

Derek’s door is closed to me. Maybe he’s on the phone. Or stuck on a call with his

whinywife.

I peer through the window to see him sitting glumly at his desk, typing something

half-heartedly on his laptop, stopping to clutch his head. He’s undone his tie and top
button;I’veneverseenhimlooksodishevelled.Whydidn’tthefuckergetuptogreetme
likenormal?

Idon’tbotherknockingandstrideintotheroom.Helooksupguiltilyanddoesn’trise

fromthedesk.He’slosthisballs.

‘Youlooklikeshit,’Itellhim,crossingtheroomtostandinfrontofhisdesk.

Hegrinsbutthenloseshissmile.I’veseenthatlookbefore.He’sgoingtodumpme.

Maybehiswifefoundout.

‘Julianne,I…’hetrailsoff.

‘What?’Idemand,takingoffmywetjacketandgivinghimablankstare.

Idropmyjacketandbagdownonthefloorthenperchontheedgeofhisglassdesk,

myskirtridinguptothetopofmythighs.Heseesmyskin,rememberswhatitfeelslike,
buthelooksaway.

‘Idon’tthinkwecanseeeachotheranymore,’hesays.

Shit,Iknewit.

‘Youdon’tthinkwecan?’

‘We can’t keep doing this!’ he exclaims, getting up and looking out of the window,

watchingtherainfalldownonthedirtycitybelow.Iwonderifheremembersthatnight
wehadsexintheelevator.

‘Didshefindout?’Iask,staringdownatmypalelegs.

Heturnstolookatme.‘What?No!Idon’tknow…Ijust…Ican’tanymore.It’snot

likewe’veeverbeenserious.’

Depends on your definition of ‘serious’. Sleeping together is considered ‘serious’ to

somepeople.Beingfuckbuddies,ontheotherhand…

‘Okay,ifthat’swhatyouwant,’Isay,shruggingandhoppingoffthedesk.

Iknockabrownpaperfolderontothefloorandoutpopsaprintoutofanoldtabloid

article.It’soneofmyfavourites,featuringyourstruly,topless,mytitsblurredoutandmy
mouthwideopeninshock.Anoldermaninasuitstandsbehindmeinthephotoandthe

headlinereads:‘MPquitsafteraffairrevealedwithsexysecretary.’Iconfess,Ididabitof
shittyadmininmyyouth.ButI’mnotexactlyrecognisableinthefuzzyblackandwhite
photo.

Ibenddownandpopthearticlebackinthefolder,butheknowsI’veseenit.Iputthe

folderbackonhisdesk.

‘Afriendgaveittome,’hesays.

‘Really?Soyougotyour“friend”toinvestigateme?’

Helooksdown,embarrassed.‘Iwantedtoknowmoreaboutyou.’

‘Youcouldhaveasked.’

Ipickupmybagandjacketandconsiderpilferingthevodkabottlesittingintheglass

baratthesideoftheroom.Amelia’sthrowingapartytonight,afterall.

‘I’msorry,’hesayssincerely,finallylookingmeintheeye.

‘I’mnot,’Itellhim,pickingupthevodkaandwalkingout.

I stroll down the lonely corridor, the world outside cast into full darkness now. He

doesn’t follow me to the elevator, doesn’t question me taking the bottle, and he doesn’t
apologiseforhisdoublestandards:breakingupwithmebecauseheknowsthatI’veslept
withothermennow,whenhewascheatingonhiswifeallalong.

That’swhathappenseventuallythough.Weneverwantedtocommit.

Thedoorspingopenagainandtheelevatorpullsmedowntothelowestlevel.I’llmiss

this elevator and its memories, but I won’t miss Derek. Gullible, predictable, boring
Derek.I’llmissholidayinginhisItalianvilla,wherethepoolwaterswerecrispandclear,
smallbirdsflewaroundthegardens,andthestonewallssparkledinthesun.

Downstairs, there’s Mona and her smug face when she sees that I’m single and

clutchingavodkabottletightinmyhand.

‘I’mcheckingoutnow,’Itellher,plonkingthebottledownonherdeskwhileIunpin

mybadge.

I wonder whether she orders the booze as well as the stationery, and whether she

recognisesthebottleshovedinfrontofherface.

‘Thatwasquick,’shesays,smirking.

‘Forsomeguys,itis,’Itellherforlornly,pickingupmybottleagainandwalkingout

thedoor.

I’ve enjoyed making Mona uncomfortable these last few months, but I won’t miss

Derek’sbulldogandherfuckingsourfaceeither.

‘Sohedumpedme!’Iwhinge,asIwalkinsideAmelia’sflat.

‘Well,itwentonforabit,’shesays,notreallysympathising.

‘Did it?’ I cast my mind back and remember meeting him at a Christmas party. ‘I

guess…’

Iputmybagandvodkadownonherkitchentableandthrowoffmyjacket.Thebottle

grewheavyonmywalkover.IeyeAmelia’spretentiousnibblesandthedrinksshe’slaid
out,andrealisethatIhaven’teateninhours.

‘Whatthefuckareyouwearing?’sheasks,lookingmeupanddown.She’schosena

duskypink,sequinneddressforthenight.Alittleover-the-topformytastesbutshecarries
itoffwell.

‘Relax! I’ll change into one of your dresses or something,’ I tell her, and pick up a

breadstick.

MyplanhadbeentogetchangedatminebeforeheadingtothepartywithDerek,but

I’dwalkedtoAmelia’sfromtheofficeinstead.

Amelia’s eyes narrow at me for disturbing the food that she’s arranged as neatly as

possibleformaybeanhourorso,butsheletsitgo.

‘Atleastyoushowedup,’shesays.

Amelia’smyfriendbecauseshegetsme,eventhoughIdon’talwaysgether.Ijudge

herforcommittingtosteady,long-termrelationshipsandshejudgesmeformyflingswith
richidiots.Amonthago,Ihelpedhertogetoverherex,David,whensherealisedthathe
wastootedious.

It was a lucky escape. She was boring when she dated him and used to host mind-

numbing, middle-class dinners with her beautiful boyfriend. I used to think that she
wanted to show off David to the world. He could have been a model but chose to be a
humanrightslawyerinstead,provingtotheworldthathehadbothbeautyandbrains.But
youcan’thaveallthree:helackedapersonality.

I walk into Amelia’s bedroom and throw open the wardrobe doors. Her clothes are

arrangedfartooconveniently–onesideforwork(she’salawyerwithagorgeoustastefor
designersuits),onesectioncasual,onefordressingup.Shelookslikemyopposite:black,
tallandcurvy,longbraidsthatemphasiseherheight;fewofherclothesfitme.Ipickouta
plainblackdresswithtwolongsideslits.

‘Youalwayswearthatone,’Ameliacomplains,leaningagainstthedoorway.

‘It’saclassic,’Itellher,slippingoffmyt-shirtandskirtandworkingmywayintothe

slinkydress.

Ilookatmyselfinthemirrorandsmoothdownmyredhair,dampstillfromtherain.

MyredbraclearlyshowsandItakeitoffunderthedress.Showingoffbothlegsandtitsis
abitexcessive,butwhocares.

‘Youwon’tgettoowastedtonight?’Ameliaasksme.

‘God!Areyoumyfriendormychaperone?’

‘Don’tbelikethat.You’reupsetthathedumpedyou,evenifyoudon’twanttoadmit

it,’shetellsme,andwalksintothekitchentogetussomedrinks.

She’sright:Iamupset.Itrynottothinkaboutitbut,deepdown,I’mpissed.Normally

Iknowwhenaguy’sabouttodumpme.Thebastardsurprisedme.Andhehadthat‘MP
screwssexysecretary’articleonhisdesk.Howthefuckdidhefindthat?

Ameliawasright:Iwaswithhimforfartoolong.AndIdidn’trealisethatI’dgrown

comfortable with him, which is usually my sign to end things. Now I needed to find
someoneelse,andcountmypenniesuntilIfoundMrNot-So-Right…ButIhatethatit’s
alwaysdifficulttofindawillingsubject.

‘A

2

THEPROPOSAL

Julianne

reyoufinallygoingtomakeamoveonMarktonight?’IshoutinAmelia’sear.

The party’s in full flow, as are all of our drinks. I’ve lost count of how much I’ve

downed already. Our single friends have crept out of the woodwork because Amelia’s
stopped surrounding herself with boring dinner-party couples. The music’s loud, our
conversationslouder,andtonightremindsmeofthehousepartieswehostedatuniversity,
justwithlesspuking,olderguestsandmoreintelligentdiscussions.

Anyway,MarkisAmelia’sboss.He’sarrogant,intelligent,tellsfunnystoriesabouthis

run-inswithstupidbimbos,andhe’sfuckinggorgeous.Ameliahasalwayshadacrushon
him–it’shilarioustowatchheraroundhim–butshehatesthefactthathe’saplayer.

‘No!IwishIhadn’ttoldyouabouthim,’shewhispers,elbowingmeintheribstokeep

quiet.

‘I don’t think you did. It’s obvious. Even he must know that you want to get in his

pants.’

‘Shutup!’shetellsme,tryingnottolookinMark’sdirection.

She downs the last few dregs of her wine and goes into the kitchen to pour herself

anotherglass.Ithinkshe’sstillsadaboutlosingDavid.Orlosingtwoyearsofherlifeto
theirrelationship.

For once, Mark hasn’t brought along any blonde arm-candy (perhaps intentionally?)

andIhaveeveryintentionoftryingtosetthetwoofthemup.He’schattingtoacoupleof
youngersuitswhohangonhiseveryword,asifthey’rehistraineeflunkies.

Suddenlyhelooksupfromhisconversationandsmilesatme.Aridiculous,dashing,

white smile, like he’s advertising a new whitening toothpaste on TV. It throws me and I
can’thelpbutstareandsmileathisfuckingperfectface.ThenIrealisethathe’sAmelia’s
crush. I close my semi-gaping mouth and just narrow my eyes at him. He frowns,
confused,thenturnsbacktohisconversation.Good,Iscaredhimoff.

‘Sowhoareyou?’aguyasksme,who’screptupbehindme.

‘Huh?’Isay,turningtolookthisnewweirdointheeye.

‘I mean, how do you know Amelia?’ he corrects himself, holding half a glass of

whiskyinhishand.

Ithoughthemightbesociallyawkward,butactuallythisguy’sannoyinglycharming.

Hehasavoicethatcanmeltsmallpuppies,andhisfacefreezestimewhileyouwonder
whetherhe’scarvedfromebonyandhowhiscreatorchiselledthemostexquisitejawand
cheekbones. His head is shaved and he’s wearing a tight, black t-shirt revealing that he
pays for one of the best personal trainers in London. I try not to gulp at his hotness,
wonderwherehegoestothegym,andpraythathelikesredheads.

‘Uni,’Isay,tryingtosoundcasual.‘You?’

‘Work,’hetellsme,rollinghiseyes.I’mnotsurewhyhe’srolledhiseyes,butIhear

Amelia’sabitchatwork,alwaystryingtogetherownwaysoshecanrisetothetop.‘So
you’reherroommate?’

‘Once,alongtimeago.’Shit,Idon’twanthimtothinkthatI’mold–usuallyIpretend

I’minmytwenties.Changethesubject:‘Wedroveeachothercrazy.’

Henods,smiling,andlooksatAmelia.‘Sohowdidyoutwomeet?Imean,you’renot

exactly…similar.’

Doeshemeanthatourskinisadifferentcolour?OrthatIlookliketrashwhileAmelia

spenthoursgettingready?Thetruthisthatwebondedovercokeoneeveningataparty.
Ameliahadalwaysbeenastraight-Astudent,agoodytwo-shoes,butshewantedtorebel
whenshewenttouniversity.Wewerewastedandshetoldmewithgleethatshe’dbought
somecokefromthedouchebagswhosmokedweeddownstairs.Shewantedtoconfessto
someoneandthoughtthatwecouldbe‘partnersincrime’.Whenwe’dsoberedupthenext
day,shetriednottobeembarrassedorashamedaboutit,butshedidn’ttouchdrugsagain
afterthatnight.Plus,Ithinkshe’dsleptwithoneoftheaforementioneddouchebagswhen
shewashigh,andherdisgustturnedheroffdrugsforlife.

Ishrug.‘Aparty,Ithink.’

There’s an awkward pause between us when we run out of things to say. Maybe he

isn’tascharmingasIinitiallythought.

‘I’mJamal,’hesmiles,holdingouthishand.

‘Julianne.’WhenIhalf-heartedlyshakehishand,Inoticehisentirehandswallowsup

mine.

‘Sowhatdoyoudo?’heasks.Urgh,thedreadedquestion.

‘I’mabuyer.’It’skindofthetruth.

‘Likestocksandshares,or…?’

‘Fashion,mostly.’Changethesubjectagain:‘AndIguessyou’realawyer?’

‘Aconsultant,’hecorrectsme,like‘consultant’actuallymeanssomething.

‘Andwhatdoyouconsulton?’Iaskinanoverly-sluttyway.

‘Erm,financeandinvestments,’hesays,tryingnottoboast.

I nod, as if I understand. His answer pretty much just means ‘money’, but does that

meanhe’srichandownsayacht,orthatheworksforacompanythattellshimwhattosay
toothercompanies?

‘Anddoyoulikeit?’

‘Iguess.Igettotravelalot.IjustgotbackfromDubai.’

Perhapsheiswealthy?Hewearsabeautifulplatinumwatchonhiswristbutdoesn’t

haveanyothercluesonhim.I’mabouttowhoremyselfoutandsaythatI’vegotplentyof
investmentsbackatmyplacethathemightwanttotakealookat,wheninburstsDavid
throughthedoor.Theentertainment!

Helooksangryandstumblesintotheroomwithakeyinhishand,whichpresumably

is Amelia’s front door key. I think he’s drunk, although he never used to drink. He
searches the living room for Amelia, but she rushes towards him quickly, looking
embarrassedthathe’sturnedup.

‘Whatareyoudoinghere?’shehissesathim.

‘You’rehavingafuckingparty?’heasksherindisgust.

Jesus,heactuallyswore?I’mjustastakenabackasAmelia.

‘Areyoudrunk?’sheasks,takinghimtothesideoftheroom.

Damn,nowIcan’theartheirconversation.

‘Who’sthat?’asksJamal.

‘David,’Isay,tryinginvaintolistenin.

‘Boyfriend?’

‘Ex-boyfriend.’

‘Oh.’

Amelia looks around, still angry and embarrassed, and shepherds David towards her

room,shuttingthedoorsotheycantalkinprivate.LookslikeImightnotgetthechance
tosetherupwithMarkafterall.

Desperate to know what they’re saying, I sneak into Amelia’s spare room and try to

listeninthroughthewall.Ijusthearmumbledshouting,themusicinthebackgroundtoo
loudtohearactualwords.

Thedoorclosesbehindmeandtheroomiscastintodarkness.

‘You’reeavesdropping?’Jamallaughs,flickingonthelight.

‘Noshit,’Isay,standingnexttothewallwithmyearpressedagainstthepaint.

Jamaldownstherestofhisdrinkandcomesovertolistenintoo.Hepresseshisempty

glassagainstthewallnexttohisearandItrynottogiggle.

‘Whydidtheybreakup?’hewhispers.

‘Hewasreally,reallydull.’

Jamal smirks. ‘Well, you’re not dull at all,’ he tells me, brushing a strand of hair

behindmyear.

Weleantowardseachothertokisswhensuddenlyalargebangmakesthewholewall

shudder.Wejumpback,lookateachotherandlaugh.Thenwehearthumpingandreally
loudmoans.Amelia’sdefinitelymakingupwithDavid.

JamalpointstothedoorandInodthatweshouldmakeahastyretreat.

Outside,weclosethedoorandJamalsnakesanarmaroundmywaistandleansagainst

thewallwithhisotherridiculouslymusculararm.‘So…Iknowthissoundslikeacliché,
especiallywhenyourfriend’sbeingbangedintheotherroom,butdoyouwanttocome
backtomyplace?’

Forsomereason,IlookaroundtheroomandnoticeMarkgivingJamalahardstare.I

neverthoughtthatMarkwasintome.Awkward.

‘Sure,it’sdeadinhereanyway,’Isay.

Igrabmythingsfrombehindthesofa,putonmyjacket,andwalkintothekitchento

pouroutacoupleofdrinksintopapercups.

‘Youknow,Ihavedrinksbackatmyplace,’Jamaltellsme.

‘Thisisforourwalkhome,’Itellhim,handinghimacup.‘Iwanttodrownoutthe

memoryofhearingAmeliacoming.’

Jamalsmirks.‘Let’sgetoutofhere.’

Weheadoutthedooranddownthespirallingstaircase.It’smuchcolderonthestairs

thaninthecrampedapartmentandI’mgladthatIhavemyjacket.

Thepoundingmusicfollowsusallthewaydownthestairsandoutontothestreet.The

coldhassoberedmeupandIsiponmyvodkaandlemonade,whichwarmsthebackof
mythroatatleast.It’sdrizzling,theblacknight’sskysmoggy,anddullyellowlightsshine
downatusfromgrubbystreetlamps.

Agroupoffriendswalkpastus,laughingtoeachother,maybeheadingtoaclubon

theirFridaynightout.Jamalreachesouttoholdmyhandandwecontinuetowalkdown
thestreetinsilence.

‘Arewewalkingortakingthetube?’IaskJamal.

‘Wecanwalk.It’snotfar,’hetellsme.

Normally I head home this way, so I know the route, but it’s cold and my feet hurt

afterwalkingallthewayfromDerek’sofficetoAmelia’sapartment.Ishouldhavetaken
thetube,butIwantedtowalkthestreetsafterhebrokeupwithme.SometimeswhenI’m
feelingdownIliketowalkintherain,thesmellofthewettarmacandmudbeneathmy
feetremindingmethattheelementscontrolus,perhapsmoresothanpeople.

Wewalkpastarowofshops:allclosed,nolightsshiningintheirwindows,shutters

up.Redbrickterracedhousesandapartmentsloomoverus,thegutteringhangingdownon
onehomeandallofitswindowsboardedup.Acoupleontheirbalconylookdownatus,
watchingourpath,greysmokefromtheircigarettesspirallingintothesky.Theirwashing
hangsnexttothemonplasticlinedryers,absorbingthesmell.

‘Doyousmoke?’Iask.

‘No.’

Great,he’sturnedmonosyllabic.Itcouldbethathehatescigarettes;thatlungcancer

killedoneofhisparentsorsomething.Orhemightchickenoutandsaythathe’schanged
hismindaboutinvitingmeroundtohis.Orhe’swaitingformetoaskamoreinteresting
question.Ormaybehe’saserialkiller,plottingtogetmebacktohissohecancarveme
up.

‘Sowheredoyoulive?What’sitlike?’Iask.

‘It’sjustanormalflat.Typicalbachelorpad.It’sinPimlico.’

NexttowhereIlive.Perhapswe’reneighbours.Thenagain,onlyacrazycatladyand

a boring accountant live in my building, who constantly tell me to turn my music down
andleavetheirmailpiledupinourhallway.

We head down another street, more open this time, with tall glass windows and

everyday clothes shops. The white mannequins in the window displays are dressed in
garishseasonalcolours–whyisyellowstillin?

Thetraffichasdieddownsomewhat,butthemainroadisbusy.Taxismaketheirway

between pubs and clubs, or between bars and apartments. A red London bus accelerates
past,brakingatthelastminutewhenthedriverseestheredlightupahead.

Wecrossovertheroad,thelittlegreenmanbeepingangrilyatustohurrythefuckup.

A drunk guy sways as he passes us from the other side of the street. He looks like he’s
goingtobesick,soweswervetoavoidhispathjustincase.Hisworriedfriendhurtlesout
ofthepubacrossthewayandhurriesafterhim.

Welaughtoourselveswhenthey’renolongerinearshot.Laughaswecontinuetosip

onourdrinks.Ifinishmineandtossthecupintoabin.Jamalturnstothrowhis,looking
like a professional basketball player as he shoots, and the cup hits the rim and bounces
inside.He’sscored,andinmorethanoneway.Ithinkwe’reabouttokiss,finally,whenhe
stopsme.

‘I’mnotkeenonPDA,’hesays.

‘Oh…That’sfine.’

But what if it’s not? What if he’s a terrible kisser and knows it, and that’s why he

hasn’t kissed me yet? That’s the worst thing, if a guy’s okay in bed but when you’re
havingsexhe’sslobberingalloveryourface.Theyshouldteachguysthatsnoggingdoes
notentaillickingotherpeople’sfaces.

‘Sorry.Areyouokay?’heasksme,takingmyhandagain.

‘Yeah,’Ilie.I’mneverone-hundred-per-centokay,andIfeelweirdholdinghishand.

Soon we reach the train station and walk alongside it, under a bridge of blackened

bricks, exhaust fumes and echoing noise. We cross over another road and past the shiny
MI6buildingwithitscamerasandtallspikyfence.I’vealwaysfantasisedaboutbeinga
spy.I’dmakeagreatfemmefatale.

Thestenchoftheriveriscarrieduptousonthewind,andthecorrodedrailingsonthe

bridge warn us to stay away from the edge. Across the murky water is the sparkling
cityscape,theLondonEyeilluminatedbybrightbluelights,andorangeroundbulbsline

thecurvingriver.

Weambleacrossthepavementhandinhand,headingtowardstheglasstowerblocks

either side of the bridge. My apartment lies beyond in a lovely white Georgian building
withastonefaçade,largesashwindowsandoriginalwoodenflooring.Iwonderwhether
it’squickertowalkbacktomine,butI’malwaysintriguedaboutwhereotherpeoplelive
andwhattheirhomessayaboutthem.

We cross a few more roads and I’m growing bored by this point, and sobering up. I

hatehavingtowait.NormallyImakeoutwithaguyonthewaybacktohis,sneakinginto
dark corners so we can kiss and grope each other. I love the risk of being caught,
pretendingtobeembarrassedwhensomestrangernoticesyouandyouhavetoadjustyour
clothingandcarryonwalkingwithastraightface.IthinkI’vemadeamistakechoosing
Jamal,justlikethemistakeImadewhenIchoseDerek.

Awhitecouplewrappedupinscarvesandcoatswalktowardsus.Thewomanstares,

smilesandnudgesherboyfriend.Hetriesnottogrinastheywalkpast.Itmakesmefeel
uncomfortable,whetherit’sracism(I’mwhite,Jamalisblack)orjustasubtledigatour
heightdifference.I’mnotsurewhetherJamalnotices.

We turn down my road and towards my apartment, the trees lining both sides of the

suburban street. I wonder whether to tell him that I live here, but decide against it,
curiosityabouthisplacegettingthebetterofme.

Suddenly he stops outside my building, drops my hand and walks towards the front

door.Ifrown,confused.Whatthehell?HowdoesheknowwhereIlive?

Hetakesouthiskeysfromhispocketandunlocksthedoor.Thenhestepsinsideafter

thelightcomeson,notbotheringtoturnandseemypuzzledexpression.

NowayamIgoinginside.Whydoeshehaveakeytomybuilding?

When did I last see my neighbours? Maybe crazy cat lady died or the boring

accountant moved in with her boyfriend. (Who am I kidding? Dry old accountant lady
doesn’tgetlaid.)SomaybenowJamallivesnextdoortomeandIdidn’trealise,orhe’s
thelandlordoftheotherflats.Whyelsewouldhehaveakey?

WhatthefuckdoIdonow?ThefrontdooriswideopenandJamal’sdisappearedfrom

view,sohe’sprobablyheadinguptomyflatonthemiddlefloortopickuptheaxethathe
leftthereearliertowieldovermyheadwhenIwalkupstairs.

‘Youcoming?’heasksfromabove.

No. Definitely not… But it’s late, freezing cold out here and my feet hurt. Curiosity

killedthecat.Iknowit’sstupid,butIwalkinsideanywayandshutthefrontdoor.IfIdie
tonight,atleastI’lldieyoung.

Islowlyclimbthestairswhilelookingoutfortheshinybladethatwillprobablyend

mylife.ButJamal’snothiding;insteadIcanseehiminsidemyapartment,sittingcasually
onmykitchencounter.Serialkillersaren’thotthough,right?BizarrelyI’mstillattracted
tohim.

Ishutthedoor(wouldn’twanttokeeptheneighboursup,ifthey’restillalive)andsay,

‘Whatthefuck?’

‘IknowmoreaboutyouthanIleton,’headmits.

‘Noshit,’Isay,takingoffmyjacketandstaringathimsuspiciously.

I let this fucker hold my hand! I nearly let him kiss me. And all along he was some

kindofweirdostalker?

MyphoneisburiedatthebottomofmybaganditwouldbeasmallmiracleifIfound

it before he tried anything on me. I should have put it in my pocket while I was
downstairs.Ordialledthecops.He’sevenblockedtheroutetomykniferackbytheoven.

‘Whoareyou?’Iask.

‘Itoldyouthetruth.Myname’sJamal.Ihaveajobforyou.’

‘Presumablynothead.’

Hesmileslikehe’sactuallyconsideringit.‘No…Myemployerneedsyoutoseduce

someoneelse.There’salotofmoneyinitforyouifyouaccept.’

‘I’mnotawhore,’Itellhim,walkingintothekitchentogetaglassofwater.Idon’t

offerhimadrink.

‘Nottechnicallyawhore,no.’

Nottechnically?Whothefuckdoeshethinkheis?

‘I’vereadupaboutyou,’hecontinues.‘Youliketosleeparound.Youlikeguystobuy

you presents. Apartments… We’d like you to seduce another rich fuck. He’s attractive.
Married.Justyourtype.’

HesmilesagainandIwanttosmashmyglassoverhishead.

‘Givemethekeysbacktomyapartment,’Itellhim,holdingoutmyhand.

There’snowayI’macceptingajobfromthiscreep,andthere’snowayI’mgoingto

lookscaredinfrontofhimeither.

Heraisesaneyebrowandlosesthesmile.Hejumpsdownfromthecounterandstands

nexttome.Iforgothowtallheis.Hereachesintohispocketandtakesouthiskeys.He
presses them into my palm and then with his other hand crushes the keys hard into my
hand.

‘Ow!’Iyell,slidingmyhandoutandawayfromhisgrasp.Somuchforlookingtough.

Thekeysdroptothefloor.

I glare at him and suddenly he hits the glass out of my hand and it smashes into a

cabinet.Hegrabsmebytheneckandslamsmeagainstthefridge.

‘Youlikeitrough?’Isplutteroutangrily.

Itrytokneehimintheballsbutheblocksmeandturnsmeround,pressingmyface

againstthefridgedoorwhilehepinsmyarmsbehindmyback.

‘Youneedtotakethisjob,’hewhispersinmyear.

‘Orwhat?’Idarehim.

‘Peopledon’tnormallyhavetoaskthat.’

‘I’mnotmostpeople.’

Heletsmegoandsighslikehe’sfrustrated.Hestepsawayandtriesadifferenttack.

‘We’veputhalfthemoneyinyourbankaccountalready.Andmyemployerdoesn’ttake
“no”forananswer.’

‘Well,toughshit,becausethat’smyanswer,’Isay,turningbacktoscowlathimagain.

I look down at the glass on the floor. I’m going to have to clean it up. My cleaner

doesn’tcomeuntilThursday.

‘Allyouhavetodoisgettheguytosleepwithyou.’

‘I’mnotaprostitute,’Iemphasisetohimagain.

‘It’snotlikethat.It’sjustasimplehoneytrap,’hetellsme.Hereachesintohispocket

andpullsouthisphone.Hetapsawayonit,tryingtofindsomethingtoshowme.Maybea
photooftheguy.

‘Ahoneytrap?Thatmeansyou’dwantevidence.Soyou’dwanttofilmit.I’mnota

whoreandIdon’tstarinpornoseither.’

‘We’vegotcamerassetupinhishomeandoffice.Andit’snotlikeyouhaven’tbeen

caughtontapebefore.’

I frown and then realise there’s a brown paper folder sitting on my table that looks

exactlythesameastheoneIsawinDerek’sofficeearlier.Theevilshitmusthavegiven
Derekthatarticlewithmytitsoutsohe’dbreakupwithmeandI’dbefreetotakeonthis
‘newjob’.AndnowitmakessensewhyIdidn’tseeitcomingwhenheendedthings.

‘This is how much is in your bank account right now,’ Jamal tells me, turning his

phonetowardsme.

Somehow he’s logged into my bank account and deposited a figure with an eye-

wateringnumberofzerosinthere.Andthat’shalfofwhatI’dget…Iguessmoneyreally
canmakeyoudoanything.

‘You’vegonequiet,’heacknowledges.

‘Thisisajoke,right?’Iask.

There’s no way that anybody would want to give me that much money just to fuck

someoneelse.

‘It’snotajoke.Youhavetotrustme.’

Suddenly he presses his body into mine and kisses me, pushing me back against the

fridgeagain.Myheadisamessofvodka,hormones,angerandconfusion.Trusthim?This
mustbeajokeorareallyfucked-updream.

Hebreaksawayfromme.‘Allthedetailsaboutyournewmanareinthatfolder.’He

indicates towards the table with the stupid folder lying closed on top. ‘Sorry about the
mess.I’llseeyoutomorrowat8pm,here.’Thenhebendsdownandpicksupthekeyson
thefloor.‘ItlookslikeImightstillneedthese.’

HeleavesandIstareinaperplexedstuporatthecloseddoor.

Tonight’samindfuck.Idon’tknowwhethertotakeonthisjob.Withsomuchmoney

atstake,itscaresme.WhatifItakeitonbutcan’tgettheguyintobed?WouldJamalkill
meforfailing,orjusterasethemoneyfrommybankaccount,asifhe’dneveraskedmeto
whoremyselfout?

Iturnthelatchonthedoorsohecan’tgetbackin,evenwithhiskey.ThenImovea

heavycabinetagainstthedoortoo,justincase.Ifeelsafer,butminutelyso.

Iwalkovertothefolderandopenitup.Shit.

Staring up at me is a photo of Thomas Matthews. Thomas, who hates being called

‘Tom’or‘Tommy’(hewouldn’twanttosound‘common’),wenttouniversitywithmeand
satbehindmeinlectureswithhisgaggleofwhite,snobbishfriends.Onceatapartyoneof
thetossersmadeasnipeatAmeliaforbeingsmartandblackandIpunchedhimhardin
theface.Ameliahatedmeforitafterwards.Idon’tthinkThomaswaseverracistthough;
infact,Idon’tthinkhewasthereatthetime.

Evenat21,hehadtheintelligence,ambitionandmoneytosailthroughlife.Hisfather

wasaLordorEarlorsomething,andhecamefromawealthylineofupper-class,pedigree
fuckwits. Because of his money, he was popular – every guy wanted to count him as a
friendandgetinvitedalongonhisfamily’sskiingholidays–buthewasnaïvetoo.Every
sooftenhelikedtorebelfromhisperfectpathinlifeandgetdrunkandsmokeweedwith
theguysonthehockeyteam.

Hehadalong-termrelationshipwithagirlcalledChristine:hishigh-schoolsweetheart

who ended up at the same college as him. His commitment to her showed when he got
drunk one night and fucked me outside, up against the wall next to our halls, my skirt
hoistedaroundmywaist,legswrappedaroundhisbuckinghips,knickerslostsomewhere
inamuddyflowerbed.OurheatedbreathfoggedtheairuntilIcouldjustseeminecurling
upintothestarlessskywhilehesuckedonmyneck,leavingapurplelovebiteformeto
hidethenextday.

It was his first and probably last act of sexual rebellion against the mundane

conformity that always loomed over his life. A couple of months later, he proposed to
Christine,andIheardthatshe’dpoppedoutababyayearaftertheymarried.NotthatI
cared.

I flick through the pages in the folder. He’s still married to Christine; they have two

kidsandliveinanunreasonablyexpensiveVictorianhouseinLondon.He’stryingtowalk
in his father’s footsteps and enter politics. Backing traditional policies, of course.
Currently he’s junior partner at some management consultancy firm, whatever the fuck
that means. A bit like Jamal saying that he’s a ‘consultant’: they make up these jobs for
poshpricks.

Tallandlean,Thomas’darkhaircurlstothetopofhisearsinhisPRphoto.Hehas

browneyesandlookssimilartoMark,butthere’ssomethinginhimthatmakeshimseem
different, not as charming as Amelia’s boss. Too much money and not enough
independencecangivementhatlook.Iwonderifhewaseverallowedtobeachildwhen
hewasgrowingup.Irememberhislaughseemedsad.

UsuallyIfinditeasytopersuadementodowhatIwant(it’swhattheywanttooand

it’snotdifficulttomakethemwantsex).ButI’mnotsosurewhenitcomestoThomas.
Hedoesn’tlookliketheguyIusedtoknow:nowhehassomekindofdarknessbehindhis
eyes.

IwonderhowJamaldiscoveredthatI’dfuckedThomasbefore.AndwhetherThomas

still remembers that night. Then I wonder whether there are any cameras hidden in my
apartmenttoo,andifso,howlongthey’vebeenthere.

Isigh,notreallygivingashit.I’mnotscouringmyapartmentthislateatnight.AndI

can’tbebotheredtocleanupthebrokenglassinmykitcheneither.

Ipulloutapre-rollandmylighterfromadrawer.Myemergencystash.Iheadoverto

thewindowandopenitup,perchingonthesill.ThenIlightupandtakeadeepdrag.The
weedshouldcalmmedownandmakemeforgetaboutthisstupidnight.Thenagain,my
thoughts begin to wander and I contemplate what I could buy with all the money that’s
sittinginmybankaccount.

I

3

THEFAMILYMAN

Thomas

waketoablood-curdlingscreamfollowedbycrying.

Christine’svoice:‘ForGod’ssake,Dani!’

Great,Ican’tevengetalie-inonaSaturday.Imoanandstretch,theduvetslidingoff

mylegsontothefloor.Thesmellofcoffeewaftsupthestairs,temptingme.ButIcanhear
thesoundofkids’TVplayingdownstairstoo–somecrappyhigh-pitchedsongabouthow
duringthedaythemoonisreplacedintheskybythesun.

Theclocksays6.30am.Ishouldgetupbeforethekidspounceonme.Ifthey’reboth

stillalive.Thecrying’sstopped.

When my morning wood has disappeared, I swing my legs out of bed and stagger

towardstheloo.Mybladderwasfullallnight;Ikeptwakingupbutwastootiredtobe
bothered to get up. A jet of warm yellow piss streams out and I feel a surge of relief. I
flushandcan’tbebotheredtowashmyhands.Iconstantlygetillfromthegermsthekids
pickupatschoolanyway.

Iploddownthestairsinsearchofcoffeeandbreakfast.Nowthegirlsaresatintheir

pyjamas on the sofa transfixed by their deity, TV. Thank God for TV, providing brief
momentsofrespiteforexhaustedparentsacrosstheworld.

Christine’sinthekitchenwashingup.‘Good,you’reup,’shesays.‘Danineedssome

new clothes. I thought we could go shopping this morning, then maybe the park in the
afternoon.’

Clothesshoppingandsittingaroundinafreezingcoldparkwhilethekidsnevertire

sounds like hell to me. It would be a distraction from everything else that I need to do
though.Butthelasttimewewentclothesshoppingitwassuchalongday:stuckintraffic,
nocarparkspaceanywhereneartheshops,draggingthekidsfromstoretostore,standing
aroundawkwardlywhilethegirlspickoutsomethingthatChristinethinkslookssuitable
(thatisn’tvulgarbubble-gumpinkwithfrillsortoorevealing).Thentheordealoftryingto
findtherightsize,waitingforallthreeofthemtotrystuffon,beingaskedformyopinion
whenIhaven’tgotonetogive,wincingasIhandovermycreditcardtothecashier,and
gettinghomeexhausted.

‘Actually,Ineedtodosomeworktoday,’Itellher.

Sheturnsonme.‘Butyoutoldmeyesterdaythatyoudidn’t!’

Iforgotaboutthat.Ineedtocomeupwithanexcuse.‘Iknow,butafterIspoketoyou

JamaltoldmethatmynewPA’sstartingonMonday.I’vegottosorteverythingout:my
calendar,emails,thingsIneedtotellher.’

‘Can’tyoudothattomorrow?’

‘Aren’twegoingtoMel’sthingtomorrow?’

Mel is Christine’s best friend and she’s hosting an awfully boring lunch party

tomorrowafternoonwithafewofourfriends.I’llhavetotalktoherdrearyhusband,Rob,
wholovestalkingabouthimselfandhislatestflashycompanycar.He’llboastabouthow
muchmoneythey’vespentontheirhouse,whichisamuseumofthelatestdesignertaton
the market. I’ll have to sit in a chair that bends my back in two while I eat the sparse
amount of food on offer that doesn’t contain meat, gluten, eggs or dairy – because of
Mel’s(non-existent)allergies.Anditwouldbefrowneduponformetogetdrunk,oreven
to drink more than two beers, because I overheard Christine on the phone the other day
tellingMelthatshethinksthatIhaveadrinkingproblem.

IfI’vegottogotoMel’sstupidpartytomorrowthenIwantatleastonedayathometo

relaxthisweekend.Christine’salwaysonatmefornotbeinghomeenoughanyway.

Christinelooksasifshe’sabouttoshoutatme,butdecidesagainstit,shakesherhead

andwalksoutoftheroom.Iwishshe’dstopbeingsuchadramaqueen.I’mnotfollowing
herforyetanotherargument.Ihearherstampupstairstogetdressed.Good,Icanrelax.

Thecafetièresitsonthecounterteasingmewithitsfresharoma.Ipourmyselfouta

strongcoffee.ThenItakethecerealfromthecupboard,awetspoonandbowlfromthe
drainer,andthemilkfromthefridge.Islowlypouroutthecerealthendrownitinmilk.
Likeamalevolentgod,Ipushtheremainingcerealswimmingonthesurfaceunderwith
myspoon.Therewillbenosurvivors.

Istrollintothelivingroomwithmycerealandcoffee,andsitdownonthesofanextto

the girls. Beth buries her head in my side while she watches cartoons like a zombie. I
reach over her to put my coffee down on the table and lounge back to munch on my
cereal.

‘Dowehavetogoshopping?’Bethmutters.Ifshehadherownway,she’dstayglued

totheTVallday.

‘That’suptoyourmother,’Isaytactfully.Allofourlivesaregovernedbyherafterall.

Istruggleintothehouseluggingamillionshoppingbags.Thekidstrudgeinbehindme
andChristinebringsuptherearcarryinghersinglebag.Ithrowdownthebagsinthehall
asDaniandBethcollapseonthesofa,andChristinedisappearsintothekitchentoputon
thekettle.

IwishIhadn’tgone.Hourswastedasthethreeofthemtriedonmoreandmoreclothes

andshoes.MysenseoffrustrationbuiltuntilIfeltlikepunchingsomething.Itwasjustas
I’d thought: endless waiting for an acne-ridden trainee to find the right shoes in the
storeroom,claustrophobicaislesfilledwithwomentrawlingthroughthesalesracks,kids
being dragged along or screaming as they ran around, tinny music making my headache

worse,orshittypoporrapplayinginotherstores,myfeetachingfromstandingaround
boredoutofmyskull,hordesofwomenandchildrenpushingusforwardaswequeuedto
pay.

The stupidity of the store cashiers asking, ‘Is there anything else that I can help you

with?’or‘Didyoufindeverythingthatyouwerelookingfortoday?’whilethecustomers
behind us tap their feet impatiently. No wonder the retail sector is in trouble. CEOs pat
themselvesonthebackfortheirmeaninglesscustomersatisfactionscores,whileinfuriated
customers are belittled by market research surveys and inane questions about their
shoppingexperience.We’realltryingsohardtobepoliticallycorrectthatmostofusare
too polite to criticise the multitude of mild inconveniences that we’re forced to endure
whenwedaretoleavethehouse.

HearingthekidsputontheTV,Ipickoutmynewties,shirtsandsuitfromabagand

go in search of some scissors to cut off the labels. More plastic waste. Annoying
transparentclipsholdashirtinplacearoundaflimsypieceofcardboard.Irememberthe
lasttimeIcamehomewithanewshirtandChristineberatedmefornotseeingoneofthe
damnclipsbeforeIbungeditinthewashingmachine.Sheyelledatmeforbeingblind,
even though she’d double-checked for the invisible clips first. Mind you, the same
morningDanihadfallenoverandchippedoneofherbabyteeth,soshewasn’tinthebest
ofmoods.

Igrabthescissorsfromthekitchendrawer.

‘Coffee?’Christineasks.

‘Thanks.’Ismileather,butshedoesn’tseeme,turningbacktowardstheboiledkettle

andpullingoutanothermug.

I put down the bundled-up new clothes and scissors, and wrap my arms around her

waist.Imisshersmile.‘Areyouokay?’

Shestiffensanddoesn’trelaxintomyembrace.‘I’mtired,’shereplies.

‘Whydon’tyougoandliedown?’

Sheturnsaround,afrownetchedonherface.‘I’vegottomakedinner.Andyousaid

thatyouneededtodosomework…’Shegesturestowardsmyclothes.‘Leavethose.I’ll
cutthelabelsoffandsticktheminthemachine.’

‘Howaboutwehaveanearlynight?’Ismile,kissingher.

Shecloseshereyesandletsmekissher.Herlipstasteofthecaramelsyruptheyadded

toherlattewhenwehadlunch.

‘Thatsoundsnice.’

Wealwayssaythatwe’llhaveanearlynight,buteitherIendupworkinglateorwe’ll

watchsomecraponTVuntilwefeellikedraggingourselvestobed.SometimesIwonder
whether we do it on purpose so we don’t have to talk to each other or have sex. I don’t
knowwhatwewouldtalkaboutthough;weusuallyonlydiscussthekidsandwork.

Christine turns around, picks up my coffee and hands it to me. ‘I’ll call you when

dinner’sready.’

‘Thanks.’Grateful,Itakethecoffeeandheadupstairstomyoffice.

I hate that it’s so difficult to talk with Christine, especially about the future. I don’t

knowwhatshewants.Willshegetajobnowthatboththekidsareatschoolorchooseto
remainahousewife?Itfeelsasifsheneedssomekindofpurposeinherlife,something
morethanjustsupportingmeandthekidsandhelpingtoorganiseschooltripsandcharity
days.

Shedidn’twantmegettingintopolitics.Shesaiditjustaddedpressureonhertobe

the ‘perfect’ wife and mother; she didn’t want to be judged all the time. She hates the
mothers who congregate outside the school gates with her every day, and how they
comparethemselvesandtheirchildren’sachievements.BygettinginvolvedinpoliticsI’ve
apparently ‘made everything worse’. I’ve made her anxiety worse. I’ve made our
relationshipworse.

Istartupmycomputerandwaitanagewhilethemonitorshowsmearotatingcircle

and tells me that it’s completing updates. I sip my scalding-hot coffee, enjoying the
sensationoftheroofofmymouthburning.Masochist.

Finally, the log-in screen appears and I enter my password. Nope, didn’t work. I try

again and this time my desktop appears. The background is a family photo taken last
summerwhenwewenttoCornwall.Iclickonmyemails,waitanunfathomableamount
of time for them to appear, then dismay overtakes me when I see that I have 54 new
messages.

I go through them one by one: mostly junk, details about meetings or emails from

JamalaboutallthethingsthatIhavetodo.I’vegottogothroughthedraftaccountsthat
FinancesentmeonFriday.AndsortoutmycalendarforthenewPA.

Iwonderwhatshe’llbelike.Hopefullyattractive,althoughmaybethat’ssexistofme.

ItwouldhavebeenniceforChristinetotakethejob,butperhapsspendingmoretimewith
mewouldpushherovertheedge.Whatever‘theedge’mightbe.

Iopenuptheinternetandsittherestaringatthesearchbar,wonderingwhatIwantto

search for. It won’t be long before dinner’s ready. I hear Christine pulling out another
saucepanandthesmellofcurrywaftsupthestairs.

Igetupandclosethedoorquietly,sneakbacktomylaptop,thenmutethesoundand

typeintheURLofapornsite.Imagesofnakedwomenbeingfuckedinvariousholespop
up,andIscrollthroughmyselection.‘HornyMILFsucksandfucks’–notveryrealistic.
Hertitslooklikethey’llexplodefromabadboobjob.‘Latexbabedestroyedbybigblack
dick.’I’mnotintothewholelatexfetishthing.Orbigblackdicks.‘Gorgeous18yearold
triesanalforfirsttime.’Notintoteenseither.‘Hotblondemasturbateswithdildo.’Meh.
‘April takes on two cocks at the same time.’ Maybe April’s fantasy, but not mine.
‘Deepthroat,fuckandfacial.’Maybe.Ihoverovertheimagetoseetherestofthegraphic
stills.Thegirl’sahotbrunettewearingsuspenderswholookslikeshe’senjoyingthesex
andgettingbangedoncamera.Iclickontheimageandanannoyingpop-uptakesoverthe
screen,whichIclosetowatchthevideo.

Listeningoutforanyonecomingupstairs,Iunzipmyjeansandreachinside.Ishould

haveenoughtime.Iclickplay.

The girl walks seductively into shot, wearing black lace suspenders, a thong and

matchingbra,tryingnottofalloverinherplatformshoes.Sheflicksherhair,twirlsfor
thecameralikeshe’sparadingacrossthestageatsomeprestigiouspornstarpageant,then
sticksoutherbutttoshowoffherthong.Shewigglesherbumandthecameramanzooms
inonherarse.Boring.Iskipahead.

Now she’s taken off her lingerie and is playing with herself. She’s staring at the

camera,tryingtolookseductiveasshedipstwofingersinside.Idon’thavetimetowatch
theforeplay,soIfastforwardagain.

The guy’s holding the back of her head and slamming his cock into her mouth. He

readjustshisgripandholdsbackherhairasshebobsupanddownhisshaft,lookingupto
watch his reaction. He moves her head down further and she backs up for air, a trail of
salivadrippingdownherchinasshesmilesupathim.

Theyreposition:hesitsonthecouchandsheperchesoverhiscockonallfoursnextto

him.Hepushesherheaddownonhisdickagain,fuckinghermouthuntilsheshovesher
head away and comes up coughing. More spit dribbles down her chin. Someone behind
the camera gives the nod and she straddles him and starts bouncing up and down. She
doesn’tlookoverlyenthused,andaclose-upofherridinghiscockdoesn’treallydomuch
forme.Iskipaheadoncemore.

He’s fucking her from behind now, her arse up in the air, tits bouncing, voicelessly

moaningintothebackofthesofa.Herepeatedlyspanksherarseandherskinslowlyturns
frompinktored.Shelookslikesheenjoysdoggystyle,closinghereyes,grippingthearm
ofthesofatightlywhileshecomes.Orpretendstocome.

I hear footsteps in the hall. Shit. I close down the window, the photo of my family

appearingonthedesktoponcemore.QuicklyIrepositionmycockandzipupmyjeansas
someonecomesupthestairs.Ithinkit’sChristine–thefootstepssoundslowandheavy.
ThedooropensandIturnaroundandsmileatChristineasshewalksintotheroom.

‘Dinner’sready,’shetellsme.Thenshefrowns.

‘What?’

‘Ithoughtyouwereworking.’

‘Iwas!’

‘Workingreallyhard,wereyou?’shesays,lookingdownatmycrotch.

Iwanttohideundermydesk.‘Iwas–’

‘Saveit,’shetellsme,cominginandclosingthedoor.Sheraiseshervoicewhileshe

tellsme off likea stupid littlechild. ‘I can’t believeyou! You needto fucking grow up.
Whatifoneofthegirlshadwalkedin?’

‘I’m–’

‘Wanking!’ she finishes for me. ‘While I make you dinner. While I’m working and

lookingafteryourchildren,you’rejerkingoff.Oronothernights,you’regettingtrashed
insleazybarswiththatarseholeJamal.’

‘Thatonlyhappened–’

‘Youexpectmetodoeverythingforyou!Youneverdoanythingforme.AndI’msick

ofit.NextweekI’mgoingtomyparents’withthekids.’

‘But…Nextweekwehavethatcharitything.Wherethey’reannouncingthatI’mthe

new–’

‘I don’t give a shit,’ she says, opening the door. ‘I’m not going.’ She slams the door

shutbehindher.

Fuck.Fuckingfuck.Doesshemeanit?Jamalwillbepissedifshe’snotthere.Hesaid

that we need to act like a stereotypical white married couple, holding hands and kissing
each other’s cheeks. She’s supposed to be there at my side while I flounce around and
pretend that I know everyone in the room and shake their hands and thank them for
coming.

‘Christine!’

Ichaseherdownthestairs.Ineedtonegotiate.Ineedtobeg.

Thekidsaretraipsingintothekitcheninsearchofdinnerandlookupatmewiththeir

sadyetcurious‘MummyandDaddyarefighting’eyes.

Ismileatthem.‘Let’shavedinner!’Isayinafakehappytone,herdingthemintothe

kitchen.I’llusemychildrenasashieldtodefendmefrommywifewho’slookingdaggers
atme.

The kids sit at the table and Christine slops out chicken curry into two bowls and

thruststhedinnerinfrontoftheirfaces.Shegrabsmyarmandpullsmeoutoftheroom,
shuttingthedoorbehindher.

‘You’renothavingdinnerwithus!’shewhispers.

‘I’msorry…Look,Ineedyoutherenextweek.’

‘It’shalf-termandthekidsneedabreak.Weallneedabreak.’

‘WhatamIsupposedtosayifyou’renotthere?’

‘Idon’tknow.Makeupanexcuse.You’regoodatthat.’

‘Please…Justleavethekidswithyourparentsthatnight.’

‘I’mnotgoing,’shesays,andmarchesoffintothekitchenagain.

IstandaloneinthehallwayandwonderwhyIbother.Whyiseverythingsodifficult?

Whydowehavetofightabouteverything?

Maybeshe’sjustjealousofme.JealousofthefactthatIcanleavethehouseandlive

anotherlifeatwork;thatIcanliveanotherlifeandthatIwantto.Iwantmylifetomean
something,Iwanttobesomebody,whereasChristinehasneverknownwhatthatfeelslike
andwhatshewantstodo.

I used to think that things just fell into place for me because of my father and

everythingheworkedsohardforovertheyears.ButnowI’mnotsosure.Ithinkhiswork
ethichasrubbedoffonme.Idon’twanttobeanentitledmiddle-classyuppiewhobuys
expensiveproperty,drivesaflashycar,goesonluxuryholidaysabroadandboastsabout

hisstockoptions.(GodforbidthatIshouldturnintoMel’shusband.)Iwanttobeableto
changetheworld,dosomegood,havepeoplelookuptome.EvenifIjuststartoffasa
merelocalMPhelpingouthisconstituency,Iwanttobesomeonemykidscanlookupto.
AndifChristinedoesn’tsupportmeinthatthenIdon’tknowwhatwillhappen.Whatwill
ourfuturelooklike?

I

4

THEAGREEMENT

Julianne

wake up in the afternoon and can still feel the mind-numbing effects of weed on my
system. I’m trapped inside a bubble; all of my worries about Jamal and his bullshit

offer are outside, hovering around me, pushing at the thin membrane, wanting to break
throughandcrowdinsidemyhead.

BeforeIwenttobed,ImessagedAmeliaandarrangedtomeetupwithherat7pm.So

I won’t be in my apartment at 8pm tonight: I have other plans. Jamal can go screw
himself.PlusIwanttofindoutwhat’shappeningwithDavid:isitaone-timethingorare
they actually back together? Amelia hasn’t answered my final text asking her that
question.

Ishower,getdressedandleavetheapartment.Ileavethemessofthesmashedglasson

myfloor.I’lldealwithittomorrow.

Iwalktowardstheshops,insearchofbrunch,andkeepglancingbehindme,expecting

toseeJamalfollowingmeinablackSUVwithtintedwindows.Idon’tknowwhetherI’m
beingparanoid.Probably.

IstopoffatalittleFrenchrestaurantandorderacreamteawithelaboratecakesand

pastries.Ididn’teatmuchlastnightandskippedbreakfastthismorning,soI’mstarving.

The whole day I think back to the night before, then force myself to forget what

happened. I try to lose myself in shopping, trying on different outfits, picking out new
shoes.Myheartisn’tinitbutIdon’twanttogobacktomyapartment.Ibuyaridiculous
numberofuselessthings,wondering(ifItookonthejob)whetherI’llneednewclothesto
seduce my target: Thomas. I’m not sure exactly how we ended up having sex over ten
yearsagothough;wewerebothdrunk.

IdebatecallingupDerek,tellinghimthataguyIknowisstalkingme,thesameguy

whohandedhimthefileaboutmysordidpast.Maybehe’lltakemebackandsaythathe’s
changed his mind: he does want to be with me. It’s wishful thinking. And I don’t want
Derekbackinmylifeanyway.ItwouldbeasbadasAmeliatakingDavidback.

Eventually I turn up at the bar where I’m due to meet Amelia. I’m early, which is

unusual for me. Normally we meet here for drinks after she finishes work; her office is
only down the road. Sometimes she works on Saturdays – in fact, she works most
Saturdays.It’ssomethingelsethatIdon’tgetabouther:whysheneedssuchademanding
job.

Iorderourusualbottleofredwithtwoglassesandthensitdown,tryingtotuckthe

bags full of my purchases under the seats so that no one trips over them. Despite what
peoplesay,Icanbecaring…sometimes.

AhandtouchesmyshoulderandIspinaround,preparedtoattack.It’sMark.

‘Fuck,youscaredtheshitoutofme!’

‘Sorry,’hesays,smiling.Helooksdownatmybags.‘You’vebeenbusy.’

‘Yeah,oneofthosedays.’

Hesmirksandsitsdownnexttome.‘Newjobornewguy?’

Iopenmymouthbutdon’tknowhowtoanswer.‘Neither.’

‘Sowhatdidyouget?’

‘Random shit,’ I admit. ‘Sometimes you just want different things in your life, you

know?’

‘Yeah,’ he says, and sips on his beer while staring at me over the top of his glass.

Beer’s an odd choice for him; he normally sticks with spirits at Amelia’s parties. ‘So I
didn’tgetachancetospeaktoyoulastnight.’

‘No.’IknowhesawmeleavewithJamalandIcontemplatewhetherIshouldlieabout

it. ‘I had to go to another party with a guy. It was his best friend’s birthday and no one
showedup.’

‘Ouch,’hesays,andIcan’ttellwhetherornothebuysit.‘Soyouandtheguyyouleft

with…It’snothingserious?’

I feel uncomfortable under his gaze again, like last night. He’s Amelia’s crush and

she’dbecrushedifshefoundoutthatMarkwasflirtingwithme.

‘No! He’s not my type. At all.’ He’s a stalker and probably a homicidal maniac. I

smile,trytolookconvincing,thenIrealisethatI’msmilingandturnmysmileoff.

‘Youkeepdoingthat,’Marksays,frowning.

‘What?’

‘Youstarttosmilebutthenstopyourself.Youshouldsmilemore.’

Shit,he’snoticedthatI’mactingweird.ShouldIexplainthatmybestfriendhasthe

hotsforhim,orlieagain?Fuckit.

‘Look,thetruthis…Ameliafanciesyou.Butyoucan’ttellherthatItoldyou.’

Helaughsintohisbeer.‘YouthinkIdon’tknow?Weworktogethereveryday.And

sheblushesaroundme…alot!ButI’mnotintoher.I’minterestedinsomeoneelse.’

He traces a finger down my arm and I want to bite my lip, like I’m a hormonal

adolescent.Eventhoughhe’sbeenworkingalldayandhasjustcomefromtheoffice,he
looksperfect.Edible.Likehe’sbeengroomedbyastylistanddressedbythebesttailorin
London.

‘Amelia’smybestfriend,’Isay,hintingthatI’mnotinterested,eventhoughhecantell

thatIdefinitelyam.

‘Well,shedoesn’thavetofindout…’

I grab his hand and firmly remove it from my arm. ‘I’m not a bitch. Mates before

dates.’

‘Okay,’hesays,holdinghishandsupinsurrender.‘Butifyouchangeyourmind…’

‘I’llknowwheretocomefuckyou.’Itwasn’taFreudianslip.

Heleansin.‘Yousureyoudon’twanttochangeyourmindnow?’

‘Amelia!’Ishoutloudly,seeinghercomein,andIraiseanemptyglasstoindicatethat

I’vegotheradrinkalready.

‘Hey,’ she says, and looks at me questioningly, seeing that I’m chatting to Mark.

‘You’reearly?’

‘Iam!Iwantallthegossipaboutlastnight.’

ShehesitatesbecauseofMarkbeingthere,thensitsdown,wearingastunningelectric

bluejacketandtightdressthatlooksdifficulttositdownin.

‘I’llleaveyoutwotoyourgossipingthen,’saysMark,standingup.

‘Youdon’thavetoleave,’Ameliatellshim,althoughwebothwanthimto.

‘I’vegottomeetsomeone.Haveagoodnight,girls,’hesays.

OverAmelia’sshoulder,heblowsmeakiss.Bastard.IhatethatIlovehim.

Whenheleaves,Ameliaturnstomeandasks,‘Whatdidhesay?’

‘Oh, nothing much. Just that we didn’t speak last night. You know: how am I? The

usual.’

‘Right…’Shefrownsasshepoursoutherglassofwine.‘Sohowwastall,darkand

handsome?’

‘Hmm?’

‘TheguyIsawyouwithlastnight?Beforeyoudisappeared.’

‘Oh,comeon!YouwentandbangedDavid.Ididn’tknowwhetheryou’dcomeoutof

yourroom.’

‘Yeah,’sheadmits,andlooksdownembarrassed.

‘So…areyougoingtogetbacktogether?’IavoidherquestionaboutJamal.

‘Idon’tknow.I’mconfused.Hewasdrunk!Hesaidthathelovesme,hewantsusto

betogether,getmarried.ItoldhimthatI’dthinkaboutit.’

‘So…?’Irepeated.

‘IthinkIlovehim.’

‘You“think”youlovehim?Youjustbrokeupwithhim!’

‘Iknow!Idon’tknowwhatIwant,’shesays,takingalargegulpofwine.

Shedoesknow.Despiteeverythingthatshe’ssaidaboutDavidduringthelastcouple

ofmonths,shewantstohavetheperfectwedding,beaperfectwife,givehimatleasttwo
happychildrenandsetupherownlawfirm,whichwouldbeherthirdchild.

‘You love him,’ I say, not wanting to admit that I know what she’s thinking. Not

wantingtobecauseshe’llturnintoahappily-marriedwomanandI’lllosemybestfriend
becauseI’mfuckedupandwillneversettledown.We’lllosetouchbecauseshe’llmove
into a perfect little house and have a family, and we won’t have the same interests. She
won’thavetimeformeanymorebecauseshehaskidsandhercompanytolookafter.‘You
want to marry him. You always have. You got cold feet though because everything was
goinggreat,andthenIpersuadedyoutodumphim.’

‘Youneverlikedhim…’

‘He’s boring. Although he definitely wasn’t boring last night.’ I shrug. ‘Maybe he’s

changed. Look, if he’s the guy you want to marry, then of course I’ll try harder to like
him.’Igrinandshegivesmeahardstarecombinedwithasmileback.

Turnsoutthatthereisn’tanygossip:AmeliaisalwayspredictableandIcanreadher

likeabook.Iordersomefood(agreasyfishandchips,andahealthysaladforAmelia)
andthenwesittheredrinking,eatingandchattingforages.Ilosetrackoftime,thebottle
ofwinedisappears,wegetanother,andIforgetaboutlastnightandJamalandhisstupid
8pmmeetup.

We’relaughingatsomething,I’venoideawhat,whenashadowloomsoverourtable.

IlookupandseeJamalstandingoverus,lookingpissed.Howthefuckdidhefindme?

AmelianoticesthatI’vestoppedlisteningandsheturnstoseeJamalstandingbehind

her. ‘Oh…’ she says. Then she whispers to me, ‘What’s tall, dark and handsome doing
here?’

I’mabouttosaythatIhavenocluewhenJamaltellsme,‘Youstoodmeup.’

Ifrowninconfusion,pretendingIdon’tknowwhathemeans.

Hecontinues:‘Weweresupposedtomeetat8pm,remember?Atyours?’

‘Oh,’Isay.‘Sorry,Iforgot.’

Amelia looks uncomfortable, grabs her bag and stands up. ‘I’m going to go over to

David’s,’ she tells me, pulling a fake grimace about the awkward situation. She’s drunk,
but I guess she needed gallons of wine to give her the courage to ask David back. She
whispers,‘I’llleaveyoutwolovebirdsalone.’

Shekissesmycheek,Ismellhermuskyperfume,thensuddenlyshe’sgoneandshe’s

leftmeherewithhim.Jamaltakesherseatacrossfromme.Nowthebarispackedfullof
peopleinsuits:themiddleclasseshavecomeouttoplayforthenight,playing‘dressup’
topretendthatthey’reworthsomethingtotheoppositesex.

‘You“forgot”?’Jamalasks,crossinghisarmsandwaitingforanexplanation.

‘Iforgotwhattimeyousaid.Ithoughtyousaid11pm,’Ilie.

‘Sure…’ Jamal says. He pours out the rest of the wine into Amelia’s old glass and

takesasip.Hepullsafacelikeheapproves.‘Didyoulookatthefile?’

‘Yes,’Isay,tryingnottosoundasifI’msulking.Ishouldprobablyleavetherestof

mywine.Ineedtohavemysensesaboutme,orwhat’sleftofthem.

‘So you know that we found out about that night when you were at university. And

whywe’reaskingyoutocomeontohim.’

Igivehimalookthatsays,Idon’tcare.‘Couldn’tgethimtofuckyou,huh?’

‘Idon’tthinkhegoesfortallblackmen.Unlikesomepeople.’

Fucker.

‘You’llstartworkonMondayathisoffice.You’llbehisPA–’

‘Wait,what?I’mnotgoingtobehisfuckingPA!’

God!Itwouldbeembarrassing:overtenyearson,he’sajuniorpartnerandI’mseenas

someonewhodidn’tmakeitandisstilltempingasasecretary.

My old admin days haunted me: photocopying, scanning irrelevant documents,

proofreadingmind-numbingpapers,planningmeetingsfortheidiotswhoweretoolazyto
arrangetheirowncalendar,andfuckingmyboss(ormaybetwoofthem)becauseIwas
bored.ThosejobswerenightmarishandIdon’twanttorelivethem.

‘I told you already: you need to take this job,’ Jamal tells me under his breath, like

alreadyhe’stiredofmeandmywhinging.

‘There’s no way I’m going in as a PA. Can’t you make me into some kind of PR

consultant,orgivemeanotherfancybullshittitle?’Ipleadwithhim.‘Idon’twanttodo
anypaperwork.’

Heglaresatmeandgrabsmyarm,whisperingfiercelyatme,‘Well,toughshit.Weall

havethingsinlifethatwedon’twanttodo.’

Itrytopullmyarmawayfromhistightgrip.‘Thiswon’tworkifyoudon’tlistento

me.Hewon’trespectmeifI’mjustafuckingsecretary,’Itellhim.

Well, he might actually. In fact, maybe he’s always fantasised about fucking his

secretary,butthisisn’treallyaboutthat.ThisisaboutwhetherornotI’llkillmyselfifI’m
boredoutofmyskulltrappedinsideanoffice.AndtheshameI’dfeelifanyonefoundout
thatI’dtakenonasecretarialjob.

‘Okay,fine,Princess.We’llmakeyouintoa“PRconsultant”.Youcanhaveabadge

andeverythingifyouwant.’Heleersatmethenreleasesmyarm.

Actually,Ijustneedsometightpencilskirts.

‘Fine,I’lltakethejob,’Isay,standingup.

It’snotlikeIhaveachoice.Jamal’swatchingmeandhe’sdangerousandknowshow

tohackintomybankaccount.PlusIwantthemoney.AndIwantthechallenge:Iactually
wanttosetupmyownhoneytrap–itsoundslikefun.

‘Whereareyougoing?’heasks,grabbingmyarmagaintomakemestay.

‘Home,’ I tell him, pulling away from him. ‘I’m going to guess that you have my

number,sojusttextmethedetailsaboutMonday.’

He lets me go and I try to pick up all my shopping bags as quickly as possible. It’s

difficulttolookdignifiedwhenyou’vedrunkawholebottleofwine.

‘Spentthemoneyalready?’hecriticises.

‘Fuckyou!’Isayandstormout.

‘Hey!’aguyyellsovermyshoulderasImakemywayoutside.

Iturnandit’sMarkagain.

‘Youokay?’heaskssensitively.

Shit,hesawmetalkingwithJamalagain.Ishespyingonmetoo?Ithoughthesaid

thathewasmeetingsomeone.

‘I’mfine,’Ilie,butIthinkthateverythingI’mfeelingshowsonmyface.

‘Isawhimgrabyou,’hesays.‘Whatwasthatabout?Areyouintrouble?’

Fuck,maybehethinksI’mindebtorowemoneytoadealerorsomething.

‘No!God,no.’Quick,turnhimoffthescent.Iwouldn’twantMarkgettinginvolved

too.‘He’sbeenbreakingmyballsforweeksnowaboutgettingajob.Afuckingofficejob!
Andhejustsurprisedmeandsaidthathe’dgotmeajobthatstartsonMonday.’

Itwas,bizarrely,mostlytrue.

‘Oh,’saidMark.‘Soareyougoingtotakeit?’

‘Idon’tknow.’Istandthere,feelingweakandscaredandstupid.‘Mark,justfucking

kissme.BeforeIchangemymind.’

Helooksquestioninglyatme,thencupsmyfaceandfullonkissesmeinthemiddleof

thestreet.Itfeelsamazing.Idropmybagstothefloorandhepushesmeupagainstthe
wall,tryingnottotramplewhatI’vejustbought.Hetastesofbeeranditmixeswiththe
redwinelacedacrossmylips.

Hepullsbackfromme.‘WhataboutAmelia?’

‘She’sgotDavid.Iwantyou.’

I’velostallofmyinhibitionsbutIdon’tcare.Hepicksupmybagsandholdsouthis

armoutforme,likeapropergentlemaninanoldblackandwhitefilm.Myheartmelts,I
linkmyarmwithhisandwesetoffdownthestreet.

Forlornly I wonder what’s wrong with him. He can’t be completely perfect. He’s

probablygotatinydick.

Iwaswrong. I was totally wrong. He is perfect and he knows his way around my body
almostasifhecreatedit.

Ilieontopofhisgoldbedsheetsandfeellikeaqueen.LikeI’mCleopatraaftershe’s

beenfuckedbyMarkAntony.I’mprobablyasrichasshewasbackthen(Icheckedmy
bankaccountintheafternoonandit’sstillsayingthatIhavemoremoneyintherethanI
knowwhattodowith),I’mdrunk,andIhavetheperfectmannestledbetweenmylegs.

Hecomesupforairandkissesmebeforeslidinginsidemeagain.Thisbetternotbe

just a one-night stand. I won’t be able to take it if he tells me that we can’t be together.
Shit,Imighthavetomarryhim.Iwanttokilleveryblondebitchthathe’sbeenwithand
anyone else he fancies. I want him to be mine forever. Or that could be the endorphins
talking.

He slams inside me, hard and fast, and I come again, not wanting to ever leave this

bed. My head is flung back, tendrils of hair sticking to my face, and I think back to the
previousnightandhowstupidIwastogohomewithJamalwhenIcouldhaveflirtedwith
Markinstead.Icouldhavehadanextranightwithhim.AlthoughIdon’tthinkmybody
cantaketwonightsinarowwithMark.

Heslapsmyfaceandholdsmyneckashethrusts.‘Lookatme,’hedemands.

LikeIhaveachoice.Whowouldn’twanttolookathim?Iwatchhimdanceoverme,

his skin sticky with sweat, taut muscles controlling me, eyes staring me down. This is
whatheavenfeelslike.

Hegrabsmyhairandbitesintomyneck.Primevalpleasuretakesoverme,carriesme

awaytoanotherrealmwhereI’mscreamingandclawingathisback.Hepullsout,tellsme
toturnover,andthere’snothingIcandobutacquiesce.Thenhe’sinsidemeagain,deeper
thanbefore.Ifeelhishotskinagainstmybackandalmostloseconsciousness,diggingmy
fingernailsintothepillowbeneathme,hearingthepillowcaseslowlybeingrippedapart.

Icanbarelybreathebythetimehecomes.I’mlostinorgasmicbliss.Herollsoffme

and onto his back, lying there panting hard. I can hardly move but snuggle against his
warmbodyandkisshischest.

‘Ican’tbelieveyounearlymissedoutonthis,’hesays.

Ican’tbelieveIforgothewassoarrogant.‘Shutup.’

‘SoareyougoingtotellAmelia?Willyougossipaboutmetomorrow?’

Ifrownandthink.Iwasn’treallythinkingbefore.‘Notyet.I’llwaituntilshe’sback

withDavid.’

‘Ithoughtthatwasover?’

‘Apparentlynot.’

‘Oh… So this is our dirty little secret?’ he says, smiling at me, tracing my back

leisurelywithhisfingertips.

‘Depends whether you’re any good at keeping secrets,’ I tell him, sitting up to kiss

him,losingmyselfinhisdarkeyes.‘Promisenottotell?’

Eventually we fall asleep in each other’s arms. In what I presume is still the morning, I
wake up and wonder what time it is. Sunlight filters through the gauzy white curtains,
floodingintotheroomandturningthebedintoagoldenhaven.

Markdoesn’tsnore,ofcourse.Hesleepsnexttomepeacefully,lookinglikeanangel

withruffledhair.Beautyandthebeast.Iprobablylooklikeamess,myhairfrizzy,eyes

bloodshotandheadpoundingfromtheamountofwineIdranklastnight.

Islipoutfromhisarmsandglanceattheclock:11am.Iwonderwhetherhe’llkickme

out or let me stay for the day draped in his sheets. Stealing over towards the window, I
peeraroundthecurtains.HehasabalconythatoverlookstheThamesandIwanttocreep
outsideandtakeintheview.Islowlyliftthehandleandslidethedooracross,tryingnotto
makeasound.

Outsidethere’sachillybreezeandit’sbeginningtorain.Raindropssettleagainstmy

cold skin as I lean my arms on the parapet and peer over. The Thames is a great murky
band that stretches into the distance. Glistening glass high-rises loom on either side,
emergingoutofthelandscapetocompeteintermsofgrandeur.Leisureboatssailacross
thegreywatersandseagullscircletheairabove,waitingforthetouriststobuytheirlunch.

IfeelMark’sarmsaroundmeandhecupsmybreastswhilekissingmyneck.

‘Youdon’twanteveryonetoseeyourtits,doyou?’

Ipressbackagainsthim.‘You’renakedtoo.’

‘Yes, but they already know what my dick looks like. I’ve been out here naked too

manytimes.’

I turn around, wrap my arms around his shoulders and give him a slow, deep kiss.

‘Morning,’Ibreatheintohislips.

‘Whatareyoudoingtoday?’heasksme.

Isthisatrickquestion?‘You?’

Hesmilesandliftsmesomylegsarewrappedaroundhiswaist,thenheheadsback

inside.Hedoesn’tstumbleatallandIwishIwasthatstrong.Ineedtostartgoingtothe
gym.Myarseisbeginningtosag.

After more sex he makes me breakfast, or brunch, and we sit formally at his dining

table while he reads the paper. He’s wearing boxers and his topless profile distracts me
whileIeat.I’mdoingtheclichédgirlfriendthing:wearinghisshirtfromthenightbefore
asIsipmyorangejuice.

Ifinisheating.‘Ishouldgetgoing,’Isay,lookinguptoseehisreaction.

‘Youdon’thaveto,’hesmiles.

‘Mystupidjobstartstomorrow.AndIneedmoresleep.’

‘You’reactuallytakingthejob?’Surprised,hedropsthepaperonthetableandlooks

atmeoddly,likehecan’tfiguremeout.ShouldIbeinsultedbyhisquestion?

‘I’llprobablystickitoutforaday.I’vegotbillstopay,afterall.’

Standingup,Iplacemyusedcrockerynexttothesink.HegoesbacktohispaperandI

wonderwhetherI’veoverstayedmywelcome.HeprobablyworksoutonSundays,sohe
canlifthisloversandthrowthembackintobedinthemorning.Ormaybe,likeAmelia,
he’schainedtohiscompanyandworksfromhome.

Iheadbackintothebedroomtogetdressed,takingoffhisshirtandleavingitlaidout

onthebedwhereIwaslyingearlier.Afterslippingonmyclothes,Isitdownonthebedto
zipupmyshoes.Hewalksinandsitsdownnexttome,runninghishandacrossmyback
again.

Myshoesdoneup,Iturntohim,notreallysurewhattoexpect.Willhesaythatthis

wasjustaone-timethingthatweshouldn’ttellAmeliaabout,oraskformynumber?Or
will he propose? My ovaries aren’t getting any younger. Not that I’d be a very good
mother,butI’msureMarkcouldpayforasuperbnanny.

‘Ican’tworkyouout,’hetellsme,studyingmyface.

‘Doyouneedto?’

Hesmiles.‘Yes.’

Ofcourse,he’salawyerandlovesbeingabletoreadpeople.I’manenigmawrapped

in a mystery, wanting to be wrapped up in Mark’s sheets again, or whatever the famous
quoteis.

Hespotsmygazillionshoppingbagsinthecorner.‘I’llcallyouataxi.’

He wanders out the door again and I sigh. What does he want with me? Or does he

wantnothingtodowithmeaftertoday?

Ihearhimcallupataxifirmintheotherroomandgiveouthisaddress.DoIneedto

remember it; for example, when I’m stalking him and any blonde bitches that enter his
apartmentinthefuture?

Hecomesbackinandhandsmeapieceofpaperwithanumberonit.

‘I’maworkaholiclikeAmelia,buteverysooftenIliketogooutfordinner,’hehints.

‘By yourself?’ I ask sarcastically. His face falls. ‘Sorry! I meant, so you’d like to go

outfordinner?Withme,maybethisweek?’

Myovariesflipwithjoyanddoseveralcartwheels.Andtothink,Ineverconsidered

thatI’dgettousethem.

He smiles again. If I had brilliant white teeth, I’d smile all the time too. ‘I’ve got a

busyweek,soI’mnotsurewhenI’llbefree,butwe’llworksomethingout.’

Thenhekissesmeandforcesmeontomyback.WhydidIwanttoleave?

WehearthebuzzergooffandIswearundermybreath.Howthehelldidthetaxiget

heresoquickly?

‘Yousureyouwanttoleave?’Markasks.

‘IfIdon’tgonow,Iwon’tbeableto.’HesmilesandIputmyfingeronhislips.‘No!’

IpushhimawaysoIcanstandandgatherupmyjacketandbags.

‘Letmeknowhowthenewjobgoes.Trynottokillanyone,’hesmirks.

‘Nopromises,’Itellhimwithadeadlyseriousexpression.

‘Youneedmoneyforthetaxi?’

‘I’mfine.’Jamal’sdepositshouldcoverme.Iblowhimakiss,likehedidtomelast

nightinthebar.ThenIwalktowardsthefrontdoor,tryingnottosmashintoanythingwith
mybags.

He runs up behind me to open the door. Does he ever stop being a gentleman?

Seriously,theremustbesomethingterriblywrongwithhimthatIstilldon’tknowabout.
Maybe he’s a serial killer or likes to torture kittens. He grabs me and gives me one last
kissbeforeIheadoutthedoor.

Inthecorridor,IhearhimtellthetaxidriverovertheintercomthatI’llbedownsoon.

Iwaitfortheelevator.It’sgotsheerglasswalls,likeinDerek’soffice,andlastnightwe
hadfunmakingoutintherebeforeheadingintohisapartment.

Finally,thedoorspingopenandIstepinsideandcanseethetaxidriverdownbelow,

sittingwearilyinhiscablookingathisphone,scrollingthroughthenews,socialmediaor
pornwhilehewaitsforme.

Outside,theworldiscoveredinathickmistandIstruggletoopenthetaxidoorwhile

thedriverignoresmefightingwithmybags.Istrapmyselfin,givehimmyaddress,then
settleintotheseatandfishmyphoneoutofmybag.

Amelia’stexted:‘OMG!BackwithDavid.Andwe’reengaged!!!xxx’Jesus.Atleast

I’llgetmychancetobeabridesmaid.Ibetternothavetowearashittyfrillydress–no,
Amelia’sgottastesoIshouldbefine.MaybeMarkcanbemyplusonesoI’mnotbored
rigid. If I can work up the courage to tell her that I’m sleeping with him.
‘Congratulations!!!xxx’Itextback.Threeexclamationmarksisalittlebitoverthetop,
butIguessit’sgoodnews.

Anothertext:thepizzaplacearoundthecornerfrommyapartmenthasmessagedme

abouttheirnew‘crazydeals’.Delete.

Thenthere’sathirdtextfromanunknownnumberthatjustsays:‘Checkyouremails.’

IsthatJamal?

Igointomyemailsandreadasubjectlinethatsimplysays:‘Jobdescription.’Iclick

ontheemailandopenuptheattachment.ScrollingdownIgetmoreandmorepissedoff.
My job title is ‘PR Assistant’ and there are disturbing mentions of photocopying,
proofreading,diarisingandeventplanning.Myheartsinks.Motherfucker.

M

5

THEJOB

Julianne

ynewofficeisinMayfair,soit’snotafarcommute.Itakethetubebecauseit’s
easierthanworkingoutbusroutes,andIdon’tthinkthatmyfeetcanwalktherein

myfuck-me,I-can-barely-stand-in-theseheels.Ifoundaleatherpencilskirtburiedinthe
back of my wardrobe and teamed it with a white, see-through blouse with a lacy top
underneath.Notoverlyslutty,butnotexactlyfrumpyeither.

Isitonthetubewithothercommuterscrammedintothecarriage,wonderingwhatmy

lifehascometo:surroundedbyplebsandpretendingtobeone.Afewworkerstrytostand
out with their piercings, over-the-top makeup or bright purple hair (or they could be
students). The rest of us look like monochrome figures in a Lowry painting. Faceless,
immaterial,waitingfordeathtocometousbecauseit’dbebetterthanhavingtogointo
theoffice.

I plot my escape route for lunch to either Green Park or the shops. Then I wonder

whetherI’llgetasalaryontopofthethousandsinmybankaccount.AndwhetherI’llget
apension.AndhowlongI’llhavetobeanofficeworkerforbecausealreadyIhatethis
getting-up-earlyshit.

It would be nice to have an office of my own, but I’ll probably end up in a little

cubiclelikeaworkerbeeinthehive.I’lllistentothebuzzofphonesaroundme,mindless
tapping on keyboards, and an air-conditioning unit blasting me with cold air, like Death
breathingdownmyneck.

I walk a couple of blocks from the station to the office, which is tucked away on a

quiet road filled with stone façades and pretentious entrances. Box hedging lines either
sideoftheentrance,andthebuildingnumberandcompanynamearepaintedinelaborate
goldletteringontheglassdoor.

Before I can figure out how to open the door, or whether anyone needs to buzz me

through,aguyhurriesacrossthestreetbehindmeandswipeshiscardagainsttheaccess
panel.Heholdsthedooropenforme.He’swearingasuitunderacameltrenchcoatandis
carrying a briefcase. Either I’ve gone back to the 1950s or he’s one of Jamal’s spies.
Maybe Jamal is playing mind games with me and he actually wants me to be a secret
agent.Iwish.

I step onto granite tiles and walk towards a sleek metal reception desk, which is

unmanned(orunpersoned–isthatthepolitically-correctphrase?).Thespyrunsupstairs
and I wonder where I’m supposed to go. I turn when I hear a cough behind me and see

Jamalsittingleisurelyontheleathercouchnexttothedoor.

‘Youactuallyturnedup,’hesays,soundingimpressed,andhestandsuptogreetme.

‘Youdon’tneedtokeeptabsonme.’

‘Actually,Ido,becauseI’myourboss.’

Ifrownathimandcan’ttellwhetherhe’stakingthepiss.‘What?’

‘Ididn’ttellyou?’heasksabsent-mindedly,smirking.

ThejobdescriptionsaidthatI’dreporttothePRandFinanceManager.Isthathim?I

thoughthewasjustaconsultant,butIforgotthateverythinghetellsmeisalie.‘Howdo
youexpectthistoworkifyou’reconstantlywatchingmelikeaperv?’

‘Relax, I’m a good manager… If you do what I say.’ He presses the button for the

elevator. ‘So, obviously, this is the reception area. Your card is upstairs – you’ll need to
swipeinandoutwhenyoucomeandgo.’

Ithink‘comeandgo’istheperfectdoubleentendre.

‘YoumademeafuckingPRAssistant,’Icomplainwhilewewait.‘That’snotwhatwe

agreed.’

‘That’sthebestIcoulddo,’hesays.‘TheHRbitchesaren’trenownedforbeingeasy

toworkwith.’

‘Ibetyou’renoteither.’

Theelevatordoorsopenandwestepinside,surroundedbygreypaddedwalls.I’dlove

for the walls to close in on us: they’d get Jamal first and I’d hide beneath his crushed
body.

Jamal presses ‘5’ and the lift goes up rapidly. ‘We’re on the top floor. Thomas hired

meashisPRconsultant.IaskedHRtoemploysomeonetohelphimoutwithhisadmin–
that’syou.’

There’sthatawful‘admin’wordagain.ItmakesmefeelsickthinkingaboutwhatI’ll

havetodoforthenextfewdaysorweeks.God,ormonths.

Confused,Iask,‘Ifyou’rebeingpaidtohelphimthenwhyareyouaskingmetofuck

him?’

TheelevatordoorsopenandJamalwhispersatme,‘Shutup.’

Maybeit’ssohecangetdirtonThomasandsellittohisopponents.IfThomaseven

hasopponents.It’snotpublicknowledgethathe’llstandinthenextelection.Accordingto
thefilethatJamalgaveme,heonlyjustfoundoutthathe’sbeenchosentorepresenthis
party.

Wewalkintoasmall,open-planoffice,whichisemptyatthemoment.Iguessmost

peoplestartat8.30or9am.MyfeetalreadyhurtandI’mdyingtositdown.IthinkI’m
gettingblisters.

Jamalleadsmetowardsadeskbythewindow.Unfortunately,theonlyviewI’llgetis

thebrickwallopposite.There’stheusualblackmonitoraswellasstationerysetuponmy

desk:pens,astaplerwithmatchingholepunch,notepads,envelopes,andaletteropenerso
Icanstabmyselfintheeye.

Aglass-walledofficeloomsbehindmydeskwithThomas’nameengravedonthedoor.

Iwanthisdeskinsteadofmine:achunkyoakbeastwithaleathertop,unlikemywood-
effectlaminatecounterpart.Therearefourglassofficesstationedineachcorner–Ithink
oneforeachpartner–andmeetingroomsinbetween.Iwonderwhereallthecamerasare,
and what’s the point in setting them up because if anyone walked past they’d clearly be
abletoseemeonThomas’deskridinghisdick.

Iguesstheofficedoesn’thaveabadsetup,butitstillfeelslikehelltome,whichwill

beexacerbatedwhenmydrearycolleaguesarrivetointroducethemselvesandaskhowmy
weekendwas.HowamIsupposedtoanswer?‘Great!Igotfuckedallweekendbymybest
friend’sboss.’

I hope Jamal doesn’t find out about Mark, but he probably already knows. Maybe I

should come clean and tell him that Mark won’t be a problem, so Jamal doesn’t try to
removehimfrommylifelikehedidwithDerek.

Althoughnoone’saround,JamalpullsmeintoThomas’officeandshutsthedoor.He

takesouthisphoneandtapssomethingintoit.

Isigh,takeoffmyjacketandsitdownatthedeskinaluxuriousbrownleatheroffice

chair.

Jamallooksatmepointedly.‘Doyouhavetositthere?’

Iguess it mightlook odd tothe rest of theoffice drones ifThomas’ new PAalready

hashersightssetonhischair.Ihopoffandsitononeofthesmallerseatstheothersideof
thedesk,andJamalsitsnexttome.

‘What time does everyone leave?’ I ask, worried that I’ll never get my chance to do

Thomasinhere,aswellasfearfulthatI’llhavetostaypast5pmanddoevenmorework.

‘It varies,’ he tells me. ‘Now, listen. I’m on contract working for Thomas whereas

you’reanemployeehere.TechnicallyyouhavetoreporttothePRandFinanceManager,
but she’s off sick. So they’ve asked me to manage you because I know what Thomas is
workingonandeventuallyI’llberunninghiscampaign.’

‘SowhatwillIdo?’

‘You’ll organise a couple of charitable events, so Thomas can pretend that he cares

aboutthecommunity.’

‘Okay…Whyareyouworkingbothforandagainsthim?’

‘Myemployer–’

‘Dotheyhaveaname?’Iaskimpatiently.

‘Nottoyou,theydon’t.MyemployerfoundoutthatThomaswantedtoenterpolitics

andintroducedmetohelprunhiscampaign.Wecouldn’tfindanyevidencethathe’snot
HusbandandFatheroftheYearthough,sothat’swhereyoucomein.’

Thatsoundedoverlycomplicated.Whynotjustfakeapictureofhimdoingcokewith

twonakedhoes?

‘Soyou’readoubleagent?’

He ignores my childish question. ‘My job was to get close to Thomas to find out

whether he’d ever done anything… you know, that might destroy his campaign. That’s
howIfoundoutaboutyou.’

‘He told you about me?’ I ask, not fully believing him. Now I’m beginning to pay

attention, getting caught up in an imaginary drama where I’m the pivotal character who
canruinThomas’politicalcareer.

Jamalshrugs.‘Hewasdrunk.’

‘Whatdidhesay?’NotthatI’manarcissistoranything.DidhesaythatIwasthebest

fuckever?

Jamalsighs.‘Notmuch.Justthathefeltguiltyaboutit.’

That’sit?Disappointing.‘He’llthinkit’sreallyweirdwhenIstartworkingherethen.

He’llthinkyoutrackedmedown…AlthoughIguessyoudid.’

‘I’lltellhimit’saweirdcoincidence;thatIpickedoutthenameJulianneforajokebut

neverimagineditwouldbeyou.’

‘Youthinkhe’llbuythat?’

‘Hebuysalotofthings,’Jamaltellsme,moretohimself.

‘Okay.SowhatamIdoingtoday?’

‘You’llorganisehis“comingout”party.I’vegotavenuelinedup.Youcansendout

invites, arrange the food and drink, collect donations for the charity, that kind of thing.
Thecharity’ssomesickchildren’shospicehelivesnextto…I’llsendyouthedetails.And
youcansortouthisscheduleforthenextfewweeks;makesurethathedoesn’thavetogo
tomanymeetings.’

Thatsoundedrelativelysimple.MaybeIcouldmakeamoveonThomasattheparty.

I’dbehiselaboratecentrepiecesetamongstafountainofchampagneflutesanddelectable
canapés that I’d personally selected because of their aphrodisiac qualities. I’d wear a
stunninglow-cutdress,zhooshupmyhair,paintmylipsbrightred,maybeofferhimsome
coke,thensuggestivelypulloutacondomfrommybra.

‘Iwasthinkingyoucouldmakeamoveonhimattheparty,’Jamalsays,echoingmy

thoughts.Orpartofmythoughts.

‘Okay.AnythingelsethatIneedtoknow?’

‘Trynottocomeontohimstraightaway.Waituntiltheparty.’

‘Fine.’

‘AndyouneedtostopseeingMark.’

‘What?’Shit,healreadyknowsaboutMark.

‘IfThomasfindsoutthatyou’refuckingsomeoneelse,thiswon’twork.IfMarkgets

jealousthatyou’refuckingsomeoneelse,thatcouldfuckthisuptoo.’

‘Howwilltheyfindout?WhoIsleepwithisnoneofyourbusiness!Youalreadygot

Derektobreakupwithme.’

‘Youfiguredthatout?’heasks,lookingsomewhatimpressed.

Iglareathim.‘IguessI’mnotasdumbasIlook.Arewedone?’

Inoticepeoplesettlingintotheirseatsoutside,dartingalookovertheirshoulderatme

and Jamal. Eyeing up the new girl, maybe wondering why we’re in Thomas’ office
arguing.

‘BreakupwithMarkorI’lldoitforyou,’hetellsme,standingup.

Igetasinkingfeelinginmystomach.Idon’twanttoloseMark.He’sMrSeemingly

Perfect.

‘HowaboutIkeepMarkandThomasvery,veryseparate?’ItellJamal,followinghim

tothedoor,soundingdesperateasIpleadmycase.‘Iwon’tseeMarkverymuchanyway;
heworkstoomuch.Theywon’tfindoutabouteachother.’

Jamal sighs and thinks about it. ‘If you fuck Thomas at the party, then fine. You’ll

leavesoonafterthatanyway.’

He opens the door and walks over to my desk, ignoring our curious colleagues

pretendingthatthey’rebusywhiletryingnottolookoveratus.

‘Thanks,’IsaywhenIcatchupwithhim.Thanks?LikeIowehimanythanksforwhat

he’salreadydonetofuckupmylife.

Hehandsmeafolder.‘Thesearethecompany’spoliciesthatyouneedtoread,your

card,andpasswordsforyourcomputer.HRwillbriefyouontheusualhealthandsafety
crap.Alsoyou’vegotthevenueandcharitydetails,andotherthingslikethat.’

Isitdown,feelingoverwhelmedwiththeamountofpaperworkthat’sabouttoinvade

mylifeandsuckmedowntothelowestlevelofhell.MaybethisiswhatDerek’sbulldog,
Mona,feltlike,havingtodealwiththesameoldshiteverysingleday.God,Idon’twant
toturnintoMona.Acoldshiverrunsdownmyspine.

‘Areyoulisteningtome?’Jamalasks.

‘Yep.’

Jamallooksatmedoubtfully.‘I’mgoingtogetsomecoffee.’

Hewalksovertothekitchenetteinfrontofmydesk,notofferingtogetmeanything.

Heturnshisbackonme.Prick.

Ilookaroundandnoticeablonde,ditzyyounglingstaringatmewithbigblueeyes.I

want to give her evil eyes in return but remember I’m supposed to be civil until I can
escapethishellhole.

Ismile.‘Hi,’Imouth.

The blonde dipstick smiles back at me like she’s just seen her pile of presents on

Christmasmorning.Shejumpsupandpracticallyrunsovertomydesk.

‘Hi,I’mMillie,’shechirrups,holdingoutherhand.

IgetthefeelingthatMilliedoesn’thavemanyfriendsandwantstobemynewBFF.

‘Julianne,’Isay,shakingherhand,wonderingwhetherI’llevergetmyhandbackfromher
tightgrip.HerhandisstickyandIrealisethatshe’sjustbeeneatingabananaatherdesk.

‘There aren’t many, you know, young people who work here,’ she whispers, looking

around.

‘Oh,’Isay.Ihadn’tnoticed.

Maybeshe’snotsobadafterall–Ilikebeingcalled‘young’.Ifollowhergazeandsee

that we’re mostly surrounded by middle-aged women typing away bitterly at their
computers, wearing non-iron shirts, trouser suits and an ‘I’m too tired for this shit’
expression.Nocleavage;noflashofleg;sensibleshoes.IshudderasIrealisethatthey’re
allminiMonaclones.

The guys are either youngish salesmen in cheap suits without charm or depressed-

looking accountant types with bags under their eyes, their ambition of rising to the top
havingsailedawayyearsago.AtleastMilliestillhassomehopesparklinginhereyes.

‘Howlonghaveyouworkedhere?’Iask.

‘Threeyears,’shesays,notsoundingproudofthefact.

Thehorror.Threeyearsinthissoullessvacuum.

‘Soyou’rethenewPRAssistant?’sheasks,changingthesubject.

‘Yeah.MyoldcompanywentbustsoIgotthistempjob.’

‘Whatdidyouusedtodo?’

‘Iboughtclothesforstupidrichpeople.’It’snottechnicallyaliebecausethatwasmy

lastjobafewyearsago.

‘Wow,thatsoundscool,’shegushes.‘I’dlovetodosomethingmorecreative.Iloveto

sew.Imadethisskirt!’

ShedoesatwirlandI’mgenuinelyimpressedwithherhandiwork,aswellasthefact

that she’s refused to wear a polyester trouser suit and be a fully compliant office drone.
Her skirt is multi-layered, made from billowing flowery material in bright colours. ‘It’s
reallynice,’Iadmit.

‘Thanks.’Shelooksup,seesJamalwalkingoverandfallssilent.

‘You’reokaythen?’heasks,stirringhiscoffee.

‘Yep,Ithinkso.’

HetakesthatashissigntofuckoffandgoestositinThomas’officeagain,closingthe

doorbehindhim.

‘God,he’sdishy,’saysMillieunderherbreath.

‘Yeah,’Iagree,staringathisback.‘Buthe’snotnicetoworkwith.Quitedemanding.

Wantseverythinghisownway.’

‘Oh,’Milliesays,disappointed.Thenshesoundsregretful:‘Ialwaysfallforthattype.’

‘Well,mostguyswanteverythingtheirownway.’

‘Ithinkmyboyfriend’scheatingonme,’shesuddenlyblurtsout.

Oh,Jesus,willsheeverleave?

‘That’sawful,’Ireply,notreallyknowingwhattosay.

Shebitesherlip,perhapsrealisingthatshe’ssaidtoomuchtomealready.‘Isawatext

fromsomeonecalledAmberonhisphonethismorning.Shesaidthatshehadfuntheother
nightandwantstomeetupagain…Idon’tknowwhattodo!’shealmostwails,tryingnot
tocry.

‘Justdumphim.Thereareplentyofotherfishinthesea.’

‘Butwelivetogether,’shetellsme.

‘Well,kickhimout.’

‘ThenIwon’tbeabletopaytherent.’

Peopleareturningtostareatusforgossiping.Thedisapprovalintheireyesmakesme

wish even more that I wasn’t here. One woman looks down at my chest and looks
disgustedbythefactthatI’mwearingasee-throughblouse.

‘Look,Millie,Ineedtodoabitofwork.Howaboutwebrainstormhowtogetridof

yourboyfriendatlunch?’Ismileatherandhopethatshetakesthehinttoleavemethe
fuck alone. Inside I’m kicking myself because I’d planned to escape during my lunch
break.

Shesmilesback.‘Great!’shesays.‘Thanks.Doyouwantacupoftea?’

‘Sure.’ Day one and I’ve already got a tea-making lapdog. Maybe she’ll make me a

newskirttoo.

‘Staythere.I’llgetyouone.’Shebeamsandrushesovertothekitchenette.

‘Thanks,’Icallafterher.

Isighandstartupmycomputer.IflickthroughthefolderthatJamalgavemeandfind

my passwords. The monitor remains black and it takes me a few seconds to figure out
wherethebuttonistoswitchiton.

Ientermypassword.Incorrect.Ilookdownatthefile,tryadifferentone.Bingo,I’m

inandcanseethatthere’sabigred‘7’flashingatmelikeanerectpeniswantingattention,
tellingmethatIhavesevenemailsinmyinboxalready.

I click on the icon and read my emails: an online version of the shitty company

policiesthatIhavetoread;anotefromITaboutwheretoaccessdifferentprogrammes;
anotherITnotetellingmehowtogetintoThomas’calendar.There’sanemailfromHR
about how to submit my timesheet, which also asks what time I’d like to meet this
morning.Notatall?

Ialreadyhavespam:anotefrom‘HornyJasmine’tosayhowmuchshe’dlovetolove

me.Thenthere’sanemailfromJamalwithhislistsofsuppliersandthesamevenueand

charity details in the folder. And a press release that he’s forwarded from the children’s
hospiceabouttheneweventthecompanyareorganising–i.e.thepartythatI’msupposed
tobearranging.Nothinginteresting.

Milliereturnswithasteamingcupofteathatshenearlyspillsallovermykeyboard.

‘Oh,God!I’msosorry!’sheapologies,watchinginhorrorasastreamofteamakesits

waytowardsmyfolder.

‘Itdoesn’tmatter,’Isay,moppingupthemesswithtissues.

Isniffthetea–itdoesn’tsmellnormal–andnoticethatshehasn’taddedanymilk.

‘It’srooibos,’sheexclaims.‘Caffeinefree.’

‘Oh, thanks,’ I say half-heartedly, and she heads back to her desk with her matching

disgustingbeverage.

Itakeasipandburnmymouth.Ittastesvile.Hopefullymyburnttonguewillmaskthe

tasteoftherest.

I’mabouttogobacktomyemailswheninwalksThomas.HelooksolderthanhisPR

photosuggested–didtheyairbrushoutthewrinklesacrosshisforehead?Hisdarkhairis
fleckedwithgreyandhiseyesdon’treflectanything.Hejustlookssad.

I wonder what I’m supposed to say to him, whether I need to introduce myself,

whether he remembers me. Have I changed much? At uni I dyed my hair blonde, but I
haven’t put on any weight or had any work done on my face (my friend Charlene had
Botoxanditturnedmeoffbecauseshelooksgoddamnawfulnow).IhopethatIhaven’t
agedasmuchashehas.

I feel nervous, as if my high-school crush just walked into the room, even though I

don’tfancyhim.Idon’tthinkIeverdid–IwasjusthornywhenIfirsthadsexwithhim.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach: the pressure of knowing that I have to seduce
him, but I don’t know how. This was so much easier all those years ago when we were
drunk.

He looks up and notices me. Is there a flicker of recognition behind his dull eyes? I

can’ttellashewalkstowardsme.

‘Hi,’hesays,andoffersmehishand.‘You’rethenewPRAssistant?’

‘Yep,’Isay,shakinghishand.‘Julianne.’

Hepauses.Doesherecogniseme?AmIsupposedtosaythathelooksfamiliar?

‘I’mThomas,’heintroduceshimself.HelooksoveratJamalsittinginhisoffice.‘Has

Jamalgonethrougheverythingwithyou?’

‘Ithinkso,’Isay.Ipanicandmakesomethinguptogetawayfromhim.‘I’vegotto

seeHRnowthough.Doyouknowwheretheyare?’

Ofcoursehedoes!Hefuckingemploysthem.

‘Godownafloor.Firstdoorontheleft.’

‘Thanks,’Isay,standingupquickly.God,standinghurts.I’mthrowingtheseshoesin

thebinwhenIgethome.

Ilegittowardsthedoor,hurryingbutattemptingtolooksexyatthesametime,incase

hiseyesarefollowingmeoutoftheroom.NotthatIthinkheiswatchingme.

He’s the total opposite of the guys I’m normally attracted to: men who always look

like they want me. He doesn’t look like he has a sex drive anymore. He just seems
surprisedbythefactthatI’minhisoffice,butIguessthatmeansthathedoes remember
me.

I hobble down the stairs and spot a sign for the ladies. I have a feeling that I’ll be

hidingoutinthetoiletsmoreoftenthanIwant.Ipushopenthedoorandlockmyselfina
stall. Leaning my forehead against the cool tiled wall, I close my eyes. How am I
supposed to make this work? I hate offices, I hate this job, I hate Jamal, Millie and her
revoltingtea,Thomas,andprobablyeverypersoninthisbuilding.

But I shouldn’t be hiding. What the fuck is wrong with me? I should be upstairs

flirtingwithThomas;that’swhyI’mbeingpaidshitloadsofmoney.Forsomereason,I’ve
lostmynerve.I’velostmyconfidenceandIwantitback.

Ineedtofinishthis:sleepwithThomas,getJamaloffmyback,thenhopefullynever

see them again. Mark can be the reward I give myself for completing this job (positive
reinforcement).AnothernightwithMarkwillmakemeforgeteverythingthatI’mgoing
throughtoday.

Afterafewminutes,whenI’vestoppedfeelingsorryformyself,Iopenthestalldoor

andtakealookatmyselfinthemirror.Ismoothdownmyhair,wipeawayasmudgeof
mascara,andstraightenmyblouse,tuckingitmorefirmlyintomyskirt.

My face looks ashen. My soul is slowly dying the longer I stay in this shithole

surrounded by people who barely have a pulse. Next I’ll have to sit through a fucking
healthandsafetyinductionwithoneoftheHRbitches,boredoutofmyskull,hopingthat
thewomanlecturingmehasaheartattacktosparemeherdrivel.Ishouldhavebrought
somevodkawithme.Iwilltomorrow.

‘W

6

THECANDIDATE

Thomas

hatthefuckisJuliannedoinghere?’IaskJamal,tryingnottoyellathimwhenI’m

onfullviewtotherestoftheofficeinmystupidglassfishtank.

Jamallooksatmelikehedoesn’tunderstand,thenherealiseswhatImean.‘Seriously,

that’syourJulianne?’

‘She’snotmyJulianne!’Iwhisperangrilyathim.‘ButifyoumeanthesameJulianne

thatIsleptwithyearsago,then,yes,that’sher!’

‘Shit.Sorry,Ididn’tknowitwasher.IjustthoughtitwouldbefunnyifyourPAwas

calledJulianne…Shewashonestlythebestcandidateforthejob.’

‘She’snot!’

IsitdownatmydesksoIdon’tpacetheroom.Trytocalmdown.It’snotlikeanyone

else knows that I’ve slept with her. It’s not like I’ll ever sleep with her again. It’s just
awkward.

Does she remember me? She didn’t look like she recognised me. She looked good,

likeshehasn’tagedatall.Sheprobablydoesn’thavekids.

‘You’llhavetogetridofher,’ItellJamal.

‘What?Everyonewillwonderwhywe’vemadeherleaveafteronlyoneday.’

‘Well,makesomethingup!Sayherreferencesdidn’tcheckoutorsomething.’

‘Rightnowisn’tthetimetodosomethinglikethis.Youdon’twantanyonefindingout

thetruth.Andyoudon’twantawrongfulterminationsuitonyourhands.’

IlookupatJamal.‘Fuck!Howcouldyouletthishappen?’

Webothsitinsilencewonderingwhatthehelltodo.

‘I’msorry,’saysJamal.‘Ishouldhavecheckedwhereshewenttouniversity.Ireadher

CVanddidn’tthinktoseewhereshewent.Ithoughtthattherewasnowaythatshecould
bethesameperson.’

Isigh.‘I’llhavetotalktoher.’Ireallydon’twantto.

‘Tellhernottotellanyoneaboutthatnight.’

IgiveJamalahardstare.‘Noshit.’

Jamal stands up. ‘I’ve got a meeting…’ Of course he has. I have no meetings today,

but he can saunter out of here like he didn’t cause this bloody mess in the first place. I
shouldn’thavetoldhimaboutJulianne.‘Look,youcantrustme,Thomas.I’mreallysorry
aboutthis.Itwasamistake.’

Heshouldn’tbemakingmistakesthough.

I look through the glass wall at the desk where Julianne has been sitting. Where she

nowworks,forme,asifthelasttenyearsandthatnightsomanyyearsagodidn’thappen.

Maybe she only pretended not to recognise me. She looks the same as she did back

then, just with red hair. Maybe she’s more confident, more sexy, wearing a see-through
shirt…No,notsexy–don’tthinkthatway.

‘I’lltalktoherandletyouknowwhathappens,’ItellJamal.

Jamalsmilessheepishlyatmethenwandersout,closingthedoorbehindhim.

Howcouldhebesofuckingstupid?WhydidItrusthim?PerhapsIshouldfirehim.I

needhimthough.He’ssetupeverythingforme:alltheinterviews,meetingswithvarious
groups,knowingwhototalktoandwhatabout.He’spracticallyinchargeofmyliferight
now–atleastmyworklife,whileChristinecontinuestogovernmeathome.

The thought crosses my mind that Jamal could have done this on purpose. But why

wouldhe?It’sahellofacoincidencethatItoldhimaboutmypastandnowit–orshe–
haslandedonmydoorstep.

HowcouldJuliannenotrememberme?Ilookthesame.MaybeI’mgoinggrey,I’ma

bitskinnier,butIdon’tlookverydifferentfrommyunidays.Iguessshewasdrunkthat
night,webothwere,butitwasn’texactlyaforgettablenight.Shit,amIforgettable?

She’shot.Ibetshe’ssleptwithdozensofguysbynow.Ormaybeshe’smarriedtoo.I

didn’tlooktoseewhethershehadaringonherfinger…

ThisisjustwhatIdidn’twant:somethingtodistractmefrommycampaign.Notthat

I’mcampaigningyet–IhavetowaituntilIannouncemycandidacynextweek.ShouldI
tellJuliannethat?OrhasJamaltoldheralready?

I sigh and decide to do a bit of work before she comes back. Taking out my laptop

frommybag,Istartitup.Icheckmyemails,replytoafewanddeleteothers,re-jigmy
calendarandapproveJuliannetoaccessthevariousfoldersinmyinbox.ThenImakea
fewcallstothepeopleJamal’stoldmetocontactabouttheeventnextweek,andhintthat
I’mgoingtobetheparty’snewcandidatenowthatoldBobhasdecidedtostanddownand
retirefrompolitics.‘Standdown’soundsbetterthan‘wepushedhimout’.

Juliannestillhasn’tcomeback.Thenagain,I’vehadtogotoafewinductionmeetings

withHRbefore.Theydroneonforhours.

Itapmyfingersonthedesk,wonderingwhattodo.Unfortunatelytheaccountsfrom

Finance won’t read themselves, so I print them out and pore over them. Nothing jumps
out, but I gloss over when I read the figures anyway. Everything looks the same as the
previousyear’sreportsandthatmustbegood.

I send the Deputy Finance Manager an email saying that I’ve read the reports and

everythinglooksokaytome.Iccintheotherthreepartners,hopingthatI’mthefirstone
torespondandbeatthemalltoit.Thenagain,whatdoesthatsayaboutme?ThatI’mnot
asbusyasthembecauseIhadthetimetoreadthroughthereports?IguessI’mnotgoing
tobeverybusynowthatIhaveaPA.ItriedtotellJamalthatIdidn’tneedanyhelp.

IwishI’daskedJamalwhattimehismeetingwouldfinishandwhenhe’dbeback.I

haven’ttoldhimyetthatChristinedoesn’twanttogotothepartynextweek–orrather
thatshe’srefusedtogo.He’llbelivid;wonderwhynot.ShouldIbehonestwithhimand
saythatI’mhavingamaritalspat?(Anongoingmaritalspatthat’slastedforafewyears
now.)

IcallupChristine.Ithinkshe’sathomethismorning.

Shepicksup.‘What?’

‘Hi, honey. I’m just calling because…’ Because I’m bored. ‘I wanted to hear your

voice.’

‘Oh.I’mgoingfoodshoppinginabit.Doyouwantanything?’

‘No…Ican’tthinkofanything.’Sigh.Thetediousnessofdomesticlife.

‘Okay…Meljustcalled.ShesaidthatyoutoldRobthatyoudidn’tgiveashitabout

hisnewcar.Thenyouwalkedoffandopenedthelasttwobeersandstarteddrinkingboth.
Shethinksyouhaveadrinkingproblem.’

‘Well,Ithinkshehasaneatingproblem.’

‘Thomas!Shehasallergies.’

‘Yeah, sure… I said that to Rob because I was bloody hungry! We only had a few

lettuceleavesforlunch.’

‘Itwashealthy.It’snothealthytodownGodknowshowmanybeersandthenpissoff

yourfriends.Especiallynotwhenyou’reabouttostartyourcampaign.’

Apparentlyshecaresaboutmycampaignnow.

I whisper down the phone, ‘I don’t have a drinking problem. I just can’t stand Rob.

That’swhyIhadafewdrinks.’

For a while Christine doesn’t say anything. Then she says, ‘I know you hate him. I

triednottolaughwhenshetoldmewhatyou’dsaidaboutRob’scar.’

IsmileandhopethatChristineissmilingontheotherendoftheline.

‘Honey,I’vechangedmymind,’shesays.‘Iknowyouneedmysupportnextweek,so

I’llcometoyourparty.’

ThankfuckingChrist.‘Thankyou!’

‘I’vegottogo.I’mhavinglunchwithBarbandEmma.’

‘OK.Iloveyou.’

Shepauses.‘Loveyoutoo.’

AftershehangsupIwanttoskipforjoy,flyoverthemoon,docartwheelsacrossmy

desk in front of the whole office. We just had a normal conversation, not an argument.
Andshe’scomingnextweek!NowJamalwon’tlynchme.

Ilookattheclockandit’sstillnotlunchtime.Damn.

Aftertryingnottothinkaboutherformostofthemorning,curiositygetsthebetterof

meandIsearchonlinefor‘JulianneCarrell’.There’snothingaboutherworkhistory.I’d
lovetoreadherCV,butIdon’tknowwhetherJamalstillhasacopy.I’llhavetoaskhim
aboutitlater.

Halfanhourlater,allI’vediscoveredisthatJulianneisincrediblypopular.Therearea

billion photos on social media of her smiling with lots of different people at lots of
different parties. There are a few shots of men with their arms around her shoulders or
waist,butnooneinparticularholdsherinterest.She’sasocialbutterfly,whereasIhave
nobestfriendsatall.

I scroll back through time and look at all of the photos that I’m tagged in. I get

younger and younger, so do the children and Christine, and my friendship groups get
largerandlarger.IforgotIwasfriendswithsomanypeoplebackthen.

When did I lose touch with them? Maybe when we had kids, when our priorities

changed.Butsomepeoplestoppedgettingintouchwithus,movingtodifferentpartsof
thecountry,oreventodifferentcountries.NowIonlyknowpeoplefromworkormykids’
school.

I message a couple of guys who I used to be friends with at university, asking how

theyareandwhetherthey’dliketomeetup.Ihopetheygetbackintouch.

SuddenlyJuliannewalksintoview,picksupherbagandjacket,thendisappearsfrom

viewagain.Crap.

I run over to the door and watch her head off for lunch with Millie. Already she’s

making friends. Some people can just do that. I need to work on my social skills;
politiciansneedsocialskills.

ThenIspotmyfatherwalkingintotheoffice.Whatthefuckishedoinghere?Why

did no one tell me? I glance towards my phone and realise that it’s still diverted to
voicemail.

Iopenthedoor.‘Hi,dad.’

We do our usual stiff-upper-lip handshake and stand awkwardly face to face,

evaluating each other. He has bags under his eyes, has lost more hair, and wears an
expensivegreywoollensuit.

‘IthoughtI’dtakeyoutolunch,’hesays.‘ItriedcallingbutIkeptgettingthroughto

yourbloodyvoicemail.’

‘Sorry,’Imutter.‘I’mfreenowthough,solet’sgo.’

Let’sgonow,whileJulianneisoutatlunchtoo,sodaddoesn’tnoticehowuneasyI

am around her. He has an awful knack for judging me and finding out what my
weaknessesare.

‘IsJamalabout?Hecancometoo.’

Dad likes to be seen with Jamal because he’s black, and while dad says he’s ‘all for

promotingdiversity’,secretlyhe’saclosetracist.Godforbidthatmyfathershouldwantto
havelunchwithjustmesohecancatchupandbondwithhisonlyson.No,everythingis
aboutpolitics,howI’mgettingclosertoenteringhispoliticalcircleofelitistoldbastards
who’vebeenslowlyrottingawayingentlemen’sclubsfordecades,andhowhelovesto
controlme.

‘He’sinameeting.’

‘Whowith?’

‘Idon’tknow,’Iadmit,feelingfoolish.

I’msurehestrugglesnottoask,‘Whydon’tyouknow?’Insteadhesays,‘OK,let’sgo.

I’lltakeyoutotheclub.’

Dad’s a member of a few private clubs, so I’m not sure which one he wants to visit

today.Nodoubtwe’llstarteatinglunchthenhe’llgetdistractedandstarttalkingwiththe
other members who surround him. I’ll be ignored and only spoken about when he
remembers to boast that I’ll be entering politics soon and following in my father’s
footsteps.Thewholeworldrevolvesaroundhim.

Wewalktowardstheelevator.Hepressesthebuttonfirst–everything’sacompetition

with him – and then we wait in silence. Finally, the elevator arrives and we step inside.
ThistimeImakesuretobeathim:Ipressthebuttonforthegroundfloormyself.

‘HowarethekidsandChristine?’

Likehecares.Hehasn’tseentheminmonths.

‘Fine.Christine’stakingthekidstoherparents’nextweekforhalf-term.’

‘Oh.She’sstillcomingto–’

‘Ofcourse!’Idon’ttellhimthatsheonlychangedhermindaboutanhourago.‘How’s

mum?’

Herarelyspeaksaboutmum;Ihardlyseeher.

‘Fine.Nothingnewtoreport…Howaretheplansfornextweek’sbigeventcoming

along?’

He’sconstantlyaskingmethatandIwishhe’dstopobsessingoverit.

‘OK. They’re putting up the art that we’re auctioning off this week. And on Friday

we’llfinalisethenumbersforthecatering.There’snotmuchlefttoplan.’

‘Haveyoubeenpractisingyourspeech?It’sveryimportanttopitchitright.’

Nokidding.God,he’salwaysaskingmeone-hundredquestions.

He doesn’t allow me to answer his final question; instead he starts going on about

whenhemadehisfirstspeech,whathesaid,howeveryonerespondedandthathereceived
a standing ovation. His words made mum cry. The story makes me want to cry because
I’vehearditsomanydamntimes.

Ialwayszoneoutwhenhestartstalkingabouthimself.Onesubjectleadstoanother

and he continues to prattle on as we make our way towards the club a few streets over
from my office. It’s the usual club that we go to when he ‘takes me out for lunch’ – or
rather shows me off to his friends. There are huge baskets full of pink flowers hanging
outside, trimmed topiary skirting the walls, and a glistening gold plaque next to the old
woodenfrontdoorspellingoutthenameoftheclub.

Inside, the rooms are scented with oils and flowers, large urns overflowing with

colourful flora. Mirrors have been scrubbed clean of all grubby fingerprints, the tiled
floorsarespotless,thewallspaintedflawlesslyandartpositionedperfectly.Everythingis
colour-matchedinadrearymonochromeconsistencythatsupposedlymakesitsmembers
feelatpeacewhentheystepinsidetoescapethehumdrumofcitylife.

Thelightingismuted,sconcesemittingadullyellowglowtowarmtheroomsandso

youcan’tseetheuglyfacesonshow.There’stheuglinessofoldmenwhoareavoiding
their jobs, wives, mistresses or children, who prefer to come and chat to other old men
whoarejustlikethem.It’sasiftheycomeheretoseekcomfort,toforgettheoutside,but
they know their peace is only temporary; a short-lived escape. The other members are
braggart businessmen and businesswomen (women have been ‘allowed in’ for the last
who-knows-how-many years), who are showing off to their friends, colleagues and
customersthattheybelongtoafancymembers’club.Theysodesperatelywanttobelong
orprovetoothersthattheybelong.Theirsisadifferenttypeofugliness.

WhenIwasachildIusedtowonderwhatmyfatherdid,howhefilledhisdaysand

whoelsehespenttimewith.SomedaysI’doverhearhimtellingmumthathe’d‘beatthe
club today’ and I imagined it was a fantastical place that he’d frequent. I pictured a
magical building, packed full of awe and wonder, which explained why he was never at
homeorabletowatchmeinschoolplaysandfootballmatches.Thefirsttimehebrought
mealongtooneofhisclubs,yearslater,Iwasbitterlydisappointed.Itwasjustafancier
versionofourhome,housingmenwhoalllookedthesameashim.

‘Hello,MrMatthews.AndMrMatthews,lovelytoseeyouagain.Wouldyoulikeme

totakeyouthroughtothediningroom?’

Thereceptionistknowsuspersonally,ofcourse–orrathersheknowshowmuchdad

spends on his membership. She’s wearing a kimono dress patterned with pink cherry
blossom,herhairscrapedbackoffherheadintoaperfectbunthentoppedoffwithgallons
ofhairspray,soshelooksin-keepingwiththeimpeccabledécor.

‘Thanks,Tabitha,’saysdad.

Shepicksuptwoleather-boundmenusthenglidestowardsthediningroomacrossthe

polishedtiledfloor.Wefollowdumblybehindher.Sheopensaheavydoorandescortsus
toourtable.Wesitdownoppositeeachotherinleather-boundseatstomatchthemenus,
ourfaceshiddenbythelargewinemenubetweenus.

Exoticpinkbirdsdecoratethewallsandamulti-colouredglassbarsitsinthecorner

adornedbybeautifulbottlesofbooze.Downstairsthere’sawinecellarstockedwithsome
of the best vintage wines in London – we’ve tried more than a few. The crisp white
napkinsarefoldedintobishops’hats,whichTabithapicksupandwhipsintotheairbefore
settlingthemonourlaps.Sheleavesustoourselections.

Thediningroomisemptybecausewe’vearrivedmuchearlierthannormal,whichisa

small blessing: I don’t have to make small talk with the strangers who are dad’s old
friends.Wesitinsilenceandchooseourthreecourses.Dadpicksthewinetogowithhis
foodasusual.Veryrarelywillheconsultwithmeaboutthevino,butatleasthehasgood
taste.

Athinstickofamanenterstheroomtotakeourorders.He’striestoflattendownhis

unrulycurlyhairbutfails,anditsticksupingreasyclumps.Hememorisesourorderthen
runsoffinsearchofdad’schosenbottle.

‘DoyourememberAngus?’dadasks.

Angusisaslimytoadwhostandsattheedgeofaroomandwatchespeopleeat,drink

andtalkatthepartieshostedbymyparents.Whenyou’reintroduced,hiseyesburninto
yoursoulwhilehejudgeseverysingleinchofyou.Oncehehorrifiedmysisterbytelling
her that his cat had died and he’d ‘lovingly’ stuffed her body. He described the entire
processoftaxidermytoherinminutedetail;shewastoopolitetoexcuseherselfandleave
the conversation. I don’t know how he’s made his money, but if I switched on the news
one morning to discover that he’d been running a people smuggling operation or drug
cartel,orperhapsatorturer-for-hirelimitedcompany,itwouldn’tsurpriseme.

‘Yes,’Isay,hopingthatdadwon’tinvitehimtothepartynextweek.

‘Well,I’veinvitedhimnextweek,andhe’dliketotalkwithyouafterlunch.’

Shit.‘Whatabout?’

‘Oh,youknow,yourcampaignprobably.He’scurious.Angusinvestsalotintheparty

soit’simportantyoumakeagoodimpression.’Helooksatmepointedly.

‘Okay.I’llhavetoheadbacktotheofficestraightafterthough.I’vegotalottogeton

with.’

‘Ofcourse,’dadsays,givingmeaslylook.

I wonder whether he knows that I’ve spent my entire morning on social media and

makingafewphonecalls,includingonetomywife.Doesheknowthatthere’snothing
leftintheofficeformetodo?Iwishhecouldn’tseethroughmylies,buthe’sbeenableto
dothatallofmylife.Ihopehedoesn’tfindoutaboutJulianne.

Afterlunch,Idabthecornersofmymouthwithmynapkinafterasliceofdelectabledark
chocolate, pistachio and raspberry cheesecake. The red chilli from my seafood starter
makesmystomachgrumble.Itrytodiluteitseffectsbydowningthelastofmyredwine.

Dad’sblabberingonaboutacertainnewspaperthathelovestohatewithatrioofold

suitedmenhangingonhiseveryword,whoarenoddinginagreementwheneverhemakes
apoint.Iexcusemyselfandstandup,gesturetodadthatI’vegottogetbacktowork.He
nodsandlooksovermyshoulder.Ididn’thearAngustheToadsneakupbehindme.

‘Hello, Thomas,’ he says with a point-blank stare. I bet he’s been studying me for

severalminutes.

‘Hi,Angus.Dadsaidyouwantedtotalk.’

‘Yes.Let’sgosomewhereprivate.’

Great,aprivateroomwithAngusisjustwhereIwanttobethisafternoon.Maybeit’s

saferthangoingbacktotalktoJuliannethough.

Heleadsmeintoasmallmeetingroomandshutsusin,closingthedoorbehindus.His

beady little eyes watch everything that I do. I sit down at the table, sliding down into a
comfortablepositioninthehigh-backedleatherchair,andhesitsoppositeme.Aphoneto
callforhelpisstrandedinthemiddleofthetable.

‘I’m very pleased that you decided to stand,’ he says measuredly. ‘I hear your

interviewswentwell.Infact,thecommitteessangyourpraises.Ilookforwardtohearing
yourspeechnextweek.’

‘Thankyou.That’snicetohear.’

‘We’ll fund various aspects of your campaign, of course… Probably best if I don’t

divulgethedetails.’

HesmilesandIwonderwhohe’sreferringtoas‘we’andwhich‘aspects’he’stalking

about. Dad’s always told me not to ask questions when it comes to funding – the less I
know,thebetter.

‘Thanks.Iappreciatethat.’

‘You’llwin.OfthatI’msure,’hesays,thenheslidesaphoneacrossthetabletowards

me.‘Now,soonwe’llneedtotalkabitmoreoften,sothisisforyou.Keepitonyouall
thetime.Inafewdays,I’llsendyouthedetailsaboutyournextsteps.’

‘Mynextsteps?’

He chuckles. ‘Of course. We wouldn’t want you running around blind, now, would

we?’

I’mnotsurewhetherhemeansformetotakethatasaveiledthreat.Ihalf-heartedly

smileinresponse.

‘I’m afraid that I can’t tell you anything else yet,’ he says, and stands up. ‘I’ll be in

touch.Andremember:patienceisavirtue.’

Istandupandshakehishand.‘Iwishmykidswouldrememberthat.’

Angus laughs, a sickly laugh, his yellowed teeth sticking out from his mouth in a

ghastlyway.Isuppresstheurgetolookdisgustedandpickupthephone,shovingitinside
myjacketpocket.Soonit’llbeheavywithsecretsandweighmedown.

T

7

THETALK

Julianne

homas strolls in looking bloated and uncomfortable, his belly swelling from an
expensive lunch. There’s a dollop of chocolate sauce smeared in the corner of his

mouthandhistiehasastickywhitespotstainingit(probablynotwhatitlookslike).Ibet
hehadatête-à-têtewithsomebigwigwankerwho’sbackinghiswe’re-not-allowed-to-tell-
anyone-yet-(wink-wink)campaign,wininganddiningtherichbastarduntilheclimaxesat
theendoftheirgastronomicorgyandpromisestovoteforhimandthrowlotsofcashhis
way.That’showthepoliticalsystemworks,Iguess.

Ismileathim–a‘Hi,boss.Iseeyou’rebackfromlunchreallylate’smile,notafake

‘OMG, I’m totally in love with you’ smile (too early for that). He meekly smiles back
before scuttling into his office and shutting the door. I’m confused. Am I ever going to
speakwithhim?Iprobablyshouldn’thaverunawayfromhimearlier.

LunchwithMilliewasdreadful.Shetookmetoahealth-freakrestaurantwherethey

only make vegan food. I was forced to choose something nutritious to eat: plain salad,
runnysouporasmoothieblendofunappetisingantioxidantslop.Ioptedforthesaladand
spenthalfanhourshovellinglongbitsoflettuceintomymouthwhileMilliesobbedinto
hersoup.

Shehadmanyquestions,noneofwhichIcouldanswer.Why’sherboyfriendsuchan

arsehole? Who’s Amber and how did they meet? What will she do now? Why is she so
unlovable?Whydoeseverysingleguyshedatesturnherlifetoshit?

I gave her the number of Amelia’s therapist, Alvin. It’s not weird that I have his

number:IsleptwithhimoncewhenIbumpedintohimatabar.Tobehonest,I’mnotsure
whetherAmeliasetitup.Shewastryingtoconvincemethatsleepingaround‘wasn’tvery
goodformylong-termwellbeing’(yada,yada–she’djustgotintotherapy),andtoldme
that I should see her therapist to deal with my shit and finally confront my commitment
phobia.Ididn’trealisethatshemeantthatIshouldhavetherapythough.Ithoughtshetold
metobanghertherapist,whichadmittedlyseemedoddatthetime,butIwasverydrunk
andhewasveryhot.Iendedupscrewinghimintheladies’toiletsanditwasn’tanoverly
memorableexperience,butweswappednumbersandsextedafewtimes.

Ihopeit’stherightnumberthatI’vegivenMillie…Idon’trememberanotherAlvin

though.

‘Julianne?’IhearThomas’voicefrombehindme.

Iturnandsmilehalf-heartedly.

‘CanIspeakwithyou?’heasks.

Crap. Have I done something wrong? I was bored earlier and orchestrated a mass

deletionofrandommeetingsinhiscalendar–afterall,Jamaltoldmetoclearhisschedule
up.

‘Sure,’Ichirrupnervously,andwalkintohisoffice.

HeclosesthedoorbehindusandItrynottolookanxious.Wesitdownnexttoeach

otherinhisplumpvisitorchairs.Ilookdownatthefloorandnoticethatthere’sapatchof
somethingthatlookslikespiltcoffeeonthebottomofhisdesk.

‘So…Thisisawkward,’headmits.

Oh,God.Ishegoingtofireme?Jamalwillkillmeifthathappens.

Idon’tsayanythingandwaitforhimtospeak.

‘Doyourememberme?Fromuniversity?’heasks.

Ooohhh.Hewantstohave‘thetalk’.

IdecidetolookasifI’msomewhatembarrassedasIwonderwhattosay.

‘Yes,’Isaysimply,lookingupathimandleavingtheballinhiscourt.

He sighs, almost as if he’s relieved. ‘That’s why this is awkward. I didn’t know

whetheryouremembered…thatnight.’

Doeshewantustoreminisce?Probablynot,atleastnothere.

‘Iremember.Itwasalongtimeagothough.’

IsitcoolandcomposedandwonderhowIshouldact.ShouldIplaytheembarrassed

littlegirlorthecoolyetseductive,I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-youfemmefatale?Ioptfora
combinationofbothroles–Idon’tknowwhathewants.

‘Idon’twantanythingtobeweirdbetweenusnowthatwe’retogether.’Wow,thatwas

a big Freudian slip. He corrects himself: ‘I mean… I meant now that we’re working
together.’

‘Okay.Thepastisthepast.’Isn’tthatwhatpeoplesay,eventhoughitdoesn’treally

meananythingatall?

‘Yes!Exactly.Now,you’reawarethatI’llbecampaigningsoon.SoobviouslyIdon’t

wantthatnighttobemadepublic.’

‘Okay…’

‘Please, don’t tell anyone about… our past. Nobody knows.’ He watches me to see

howIreact.

Ismileathim.‘That’sfine.It’sourlittlesecret.’

I try not to sex-up the words ‘our little secret’, but somehow it comes out sounding

sexy as hell. It reminds me of when I told Mark that we’d keep our relationship (or
whateverwehavebetweenus)secretfromAmelia,andIflashbacktoSaturdaynight.

Thomasinterruptsmythoughts.‘Sohowareyougettingon?’

‘Fine,’Ilie.‘Jamaltoldmethatwe’remeetingwiththecatererstomorrow.’

HelookssurprisedthatI’mcomingtoo.

‘Hesaidthatyouneedawoman’sperspectiveonthefood,’Iexplain.

‘Thatmakessense,’headmits.

‘Jamal’s drawn up a guest list of everyone who’s confirmed and what allergies they

have, so I’ve printed that out ready for tomorrow. And I know that we need to give the
caterersthefinalnumbersonFriday.’

‘Right.’Ithinkheknewallthat.Thisissuchaboringconversation.

‘I opened your post,’ I continue, and indicate towards the in-tray on his desk, which

sitsnexttotheclichédphotoofhiswifeandkids.‘Thereareafewthingsforyoutoread
andsomethingforyoutosign.’

Millie’sthePAforanotherpartnersosheshowedmewhattodowithhispost.Thank

God,orIwouldhavebeenboredoutofmymindwhileIwaitedforhimtogetbackfrom
lunch. Plus I enjoyed the thrill of guessing what was inside each envelope. (Porn
magazine? Dildo? Nope, a crappy management magazine and a book from one of his
friends.)

‘Thanks,’hesays.‘Isthereanythingthatyouneedmetogothroughwithyou?’

‘Idon’tthinkso.Doyouneedmetodoanythingforyou?’Iask,tryingtotonedown

thesluttinessofmyquestion.

‘No,I’mfine,’hesaysquickly.

I nod and wonder whether he’ll dismiss me so I can head back to my desk. I’m not

doingsuchabadjobofbeinghisassistant,consideringIhaven’tworkedinyears.

He hasn’t asked me what I’ve been up to since university, and I haven’t asked him.

Maybehedoesn’twanttomentionit,whatourlivesarelikeoutsideofhere,becauseonce
we had a connection and he’s not sure whether he wants to get up close and personal
again. I’m dying to ask how Christine is, but mentioning his wife’s name will score me
zeropointsinthisbizarreseductiongamethatI’mplaying.

‘Okay,well,that’sit,’saysThomas.‘Justletmeknowifyouneedanything.’

‘Thanks,’Isay,standingupandfeelingrelievedthatthisweirdtalkisover.Iprobably

shouldsaysomethingelse–playupmyroleassomeonewho’sinterestedinhim.Igive
himafakethankfulsmile.‘Andthanksforthischat.Itwasabitweirdseeingyouwalk
intotheofficethismorning.’

‘Noproblem,’hesays,beamingasifhe’sgladthatthistalkisovertoo.

Isaunteroutandsitdownatmydeskagain.Ican’tjudgehim.Idon’tknowwhether

he’sinterestedinme;itdoesn’tseemlikeheis.HowdoIenticehim?ShouldIactlikethe
perfectsexysecretaryorbemyself:thedisinterestedcitygirlthatdoesn’tgiveashitabout
himorthisjob?MaybeIshouldaskJamalwhathethinks.Notthathe’dknow;hereally
doesn’tunderstandme.Afterall,hetriedtotalkmeintotakingthisjobbythrottlingmein
myownkitchen.

I don’t really have anything else to do between now and home time. Watching the

clock,Iwishitshandswouldspeedupandsuddenlytellmethatit’s5pm.

Millieappearsinfrontofme,lookingfrazzled,herhandsandnailscoveredinblack

smudges.

‘Ineedyourhelp,’shebegs.

Hasshekilledashoeshineboyandshe’snowcoveredinhisbloodandbootpolishand

wantsmetohelpherburythebody?

Before I can ask, ‘What the fuck?’ she explains her predicament: ‘I broke the

photocopier. Then I fixed it. But I need to make one-hundred copies of a ninety-page
reportbytheendofthedayforaconferencetomorrowmorning,andIneedyourhelp.’

Ick, photocopying? I guess it’s in my job description. I look down at my manicured

nailsandpraythatI’mnotgoingtogetcoveredintonertoo.

I’dliketosaythattherestofthedaywhizzesbybecauseIwasgivenanactualjobto

do,butthosethreeorfourhoursphotocopyingwithMillieinaboxylittleroomwerethe
longesthoursofmylife.Iwashobblingaroundtheroominpainsodecidedtothrowoff
myshoes.ThenIto-and-froedinmyladderedtightsbetweenthetalltowerblocksthatI’d
modelledoutofhundredsofcopiedpages.Milliestartedsinging.Singing!Musicalsongs.

Iwantedtocry.Iwantedtodie.Orkillher,whichiswrong,becauseshe’slikeacute

littlekittenwho’ssickandwon’tsurvivewithoutanoperation,butyoucan’taffordtheop
and look at the kitten considering whether you want to put it down or save it by selling
one of your kidneys. Sure, in that situation I’d put it down, but the kitten really doesn’t
haveitcomingbecauseit’syounganditdidn’tknowanybetterthanto…Idon’tknow…
eat some sort of poison that made it sick? The point is: it doesn’t know shit about the
worldbecauseit’sakittenandhasn’teverlivedatrulyfulfillingandfun-filledlife.

Millie will be my new project: I’ll get her to quit her job and do something fun, get

laid and not give a shit about having a relationship. She doesn’t need a boyfriend; she
needsalife.

Itrudgehome,limpingtoavoidsteppingonmyblisters.ThetubewasrammedandI

had to stand and endure some guy’s putrid armpits for the entire journey. I didn’t see
Thomas before I left. He’d slipped out of the office before I staggered back to my desk
stinkingofsweatandtoner.Probablyforthebest.

Unlockingmydoor,Ithrowoffmyshoesontothepileofpostlingeringinthehallway

andstaggerupstairstomyflat.Iwantabath.Iwantwine.Lotsofwine.

Throwingopenmydoor,Iwanttorunovertomyblessedwinerack,butmysorefeet

won’tcarryme.Likeadehydratedexplorerwho’slostinthedessertanddesperatelyseeks
water, or maybe more like a zombie in search of brains, I amble across my kitchen
towards the manna that’s nearly in reach. I grab a corkscrew and wine glass from a
cupboard on my way, then grasp at an Amarone and plunge the corkscrew into the top.
Outpopsthecork.HastilyIpouroutalargeglass,savourthesweetscentofthewineasI
lift it to my lips, then close my eyes and take a big gulp. It glides down my throat like
heaven.

Openingmyeyes,Iglancedownatmyfloor.Mycleanfloor.Someone’ssweptupthe

glassthatJamalbroke.Fuck,hasJamalbeenhereagain?Ishestillhere?

I spot a suit jacket thrown over the arm of my sofa. The bastard’s still here. In my

bedroomnoless,unlesshe’shidinginacupboard,readytojumpoutandscaretheshitout
ofmeagain.Thebloodycheek!

IcalmdownanddecidethatIdon’twanttogivehimthesatisfactionofgettingtome.

Ipouroutanotherglassofwineandcarryitthroughtothebedroom,elbowingopenthe
door.

There he lies on my bed, hands behind his head, muscled arms straining against his

navyshirt,smirkingatme.Heseesthewineandthecornersofhismouthdropalittle.

‘Honey, I’m home!’ I exclaim, walking over to him and placing the wine glasses

down.

‘Howwasyourday,dear?’heasksinsultingly.

‘Dreadful!Mybossisamonster.’

Hefrownsatmeanddropstheact.‘Seriously,howwasit?’

‘Youshouldknowifyou’rebloodyfilmingmeallthetime.’

Climbingontothebednexttohim,InestlemyheadintothecrookofhisarmasifI’m

traumatised.LyingdowntakesthepressureoffmyfeetandIwanttoletoutablissfulsigh.
Plusit’sfuntotryandfreakhimout.

Hesniffsme.‘Youstink.’

‘Thatwouldbefrommyeventfulafternoonofphotocopying.Andthetuberidehome.’

‘Maybeyoushouldtakeashower.’

‘Maybeyoushouldgetthefuckoutofmyflat,’Iretort,butwithoutsoundingangry.

It’sasifI’mresignedtothefactthatJamal’sapermanentfixtureinmyhomenow.

‘Iwantedtomakesurethatyouwereokay.’

‘I’mfine.’

‘HowdidyourtalkwithThomasgo?’

‘Fine…Buthe’snotinterestedinme.’

‘It’syourjobtomakehiminterested.’

Isitupandglareathimangrily.‘Idon’tknowanythingabouthim!Idon’tknowwhat

he likes. I don’t know what he does, apart from waltz in late and hide behind his desk.
He’sthemostvanillaguyI’vemet.’

‘That’swhyyourjobiseasy.He’sdyingforsomethingdifferent.’

‘Ishe?’

‘Hewatchesporneverysinglenight.’

Ipullaface.‘He’sboring.I’mnotsurprisedthatChristinedoesn’twanttofuckhim.’

ThenIgetcurious.‘Whatkindofporn?’

Jamalsmiles.‘Vanilla.’

Irollmyeyes.‘Whatdidyoudotodayanyway,boss?’

Hegetsupoffthebedandbecomesdistantagainashewalksoutoftheroom.‘Nota

lot.’

Ihatehowhe’ssocryptic.‘You’reamanoffewwords,’ItellhimasIfollowhimto

thelivingroom,grabbingmywineonthewayout.

ItrynottolimpasIwalkafterhim.ShowingJamalanysignofweaknesswouldbe

likedippingmybloodyfeetintoshark-infestedwaters.

‘I’llleaveyoutwolovebirdsalonetomorrow,’hetellsme,puttingonhisjacket.

Whatdoeshemean?Oh,thathe’snotcomingtothetaste-testingthinginthemorning.

‘Finewithme.Three’sacrowd.’Itakeasipofwine,tryingtoevokepurenonchalance.

‘Really? You don’t want a threesome?’ he jokes. Before I can answer, he says, ‘See

youtomorrow.’

‘Ican’twait,’Isayunenthusiastically.

Heleaves,probablyoffouttohoundotherunsuspectingvictims.

I turn the latch, put my wine down and push the cabinet in front of the door again.

JamalprobablyknowsthatIdidthisthelasttimeheleft,andhe’llknowthatI’vedoneit
tonighttooifhechoosestorewindandcarryonwatchingJulianne’sApartmentLive.Last
nightItriedsearchingforhiddencamerasbuthadnocluewhatIwaslookingfor.Unless
I’m being paranoid and there aren’t any cameras, in which case hours of my life were
wastedrearrangingtheentirecontentsofmyflat.

I grab my phone, plop down on the sofa and put up my feet. I’ll order dinner, get

drunkthenhaveabath:theperfectnightin.I’lltrytoforgetthatIneedtogobacktothe
officetomorrowandfinishthejobthatIstarted.

I’mlookingthroughamenuwhenuppopsatextfromMark.MyheartfluttersthenI

beratemyselfforbeingstupidlyobsessedabouthim.

YesterdayItextedhimtosaythatIwashomeandsomethingstupidlike,‘Thanksfora

good time.’ He didn’t reply (and I got paranoid and thought that he gave me the wrong
number).ThismorningIwasstillpissedoffthathe’dignoredmeorwastoobusytoreply,
butIforgotaboutitwhenIwasatwork.

‘How was it?’ are the three words that flash across my screen. No kisses, no sweet

terms of endearment, no note about yesterday. Fuck him, I’ll make him wait for a reply
too.

Iorderdinner,downmyglass,topmyselfupandswitchontheTV.There’snothing

on, of course, and I scroll through social media for a while until my food arrives. My
‘friends’ (mostly mere acquaintances that I meet in pubs and clubs) have posted baby
updates, holiday snaps, smug selfies, couply photos and overshares about how they love
eachothersomuch.Iwanttowretch.Nothinginteresting.

The buzzer goes off and I race down the stairs, wincing at the pain in my feet, so I

don’tmissthedeliveryguy.They’reimpatientnowadays,alwaysknockingloudlyjustto
make sure that you’re still alive (as if an old granny would be ordering pizza) and you
have to run to the door as quickly as possible, probably so they can bugger off straight
afterandhaveanapinbetweendeliveries.

Ichuckmymoneyatthepizzaguythenshutthedoor.Myshoesliedeadinthehall

and I glare at them for being sleek and beautiful at the same time as mini Iron Maidens
intowhichImadethemistakeofplacingmyfeet.

Ireturntomyapartmentandsitdowntowatchthenewswhilemunchingonaslice.

War, famine, earthquakes, liberals, far-righters, murderers, same old shit. A regional
presenter with a bright blue jacket smiles inanely when he describes a ‘wonderful’ story
about‘anewlocalhero’who’svoluntarilypickinguptrasheveryday.Thestupididiotwill
be picking up rat faeces, used condoms, rusty cans and syringes off the London streets;
dayslaterhe’llbedisease-riddenandlyinginanunderstaffedhospitalwishinghe’dnever
startedlitter-pickinginthefirstplace.Next,there’sablandpieceaboutLondon’s‘secret
sports stars’ and then the weather report, which says that it’s going to piss it down
tomorrow.

IkeepthinkingabouthowtoanswerMark’squestion.‘Whattookyousolong?’(Too

desperate.) ‘Was it a good date last night?’ (Too jealous bitch.) ‘As well as can be
expected: not.’ (Too depressingly accurate.) ‘Great! I think my boss wants to bone me.’
(Toodepressinglyinaccurate.)Ineedsomekindofwittyriposte,casual,shortandsweet,
nothingbrutal.Itype:‘Ididn’tkillanyone.’Send.Nokisses.

Ireceiveanothertextstraightaway:‘AreyoufreeThursdaynight?’

Myfantastictextingskillshavewonmeaprize!

I’llmakehimwaitagainforananswerthough.Datingislikepsychologicalwarfare,

andall’sfairinloveandwar.

T

8

THECOMPANY

Thomas

he rain lashes down on me as I leap from the bus and run down the road with my
umbrellaflappingaroundmyhead.DaniandBethrefusedtogetupthismorning.It

was my job to take them to school because Christine had an early-morning hair
appointment–theycouldn’tfitherinatanothertimeapparentlyandshe’stoostubbornto
goanywhereelse.NowI’mlate.

ImissedmybusbythetimeIwalked(orjogged)thekidstoschool.Whileitpeltedit

down, I waited inside the bus shelter with a teenager in a hoodie emitting raucous rap
music(dotheystillcallit‘rapmusic’?He’llbedeafbythetimehe’sthirty)andawoman
who smelt like the last time she washed was in 1999. I made sure to sit far away from
themattheotherendofthebus.Thenatoddlersittingonhismother’slapvomitedinto
the aisle, nearly splattering my shoes, and I was sorely reminded of my drunken walk
homeafewdaysago.

MytrousersandjacketaresoddenbythetimeIrunupthestonestepsofthegallery

towards the grand entrance. I battle to close my umbrella then swing open the door and
smileatthereceptionistwhenIwalkovertoher,tryingnottoslipasIstrideacrossthe
polishedtiles.Themousyreceptionisthidesbehindawoodendeskwithaglassscreenand
micsetintothecounter.

‘Hello, I’m Thomas Matthews here to see Catalina,’ I say, hunching over the mic in

caseshecan’thearmeinthisvastechoinghall.‘SorryI’mabitlate.’

‘Noproblem,’shesaysinanEasternEuropeanaccent.‘I’llgoandgether.Canyoufill

thisout?’

ShehandsmeabooktoentermynameandthetimeI’vearrived,thenleavesherdesk

anddisappearsthroughalittlesidedoor.Ifilloutthenextrowthenglanceupattheother
names.‘JulianneCarrell’iswritteninlarge,eleganthandwritingabovemyname.Timein:
‘8.45am’.She’sbeenhereforhalfanhourwaitingforme.IcheckforJamal’snamebut
can’tseeitlisted.

Lookingaroundthehallway,Iadmiretheimpressivecollectionofpaintingsthathang

from the panelled walls. Wars are being fought, monarchs pose grandiosely, two dogs
dance around each other, women with large skirts sit for the painter, their blank
expressionsmaskingtheirfeelings.

‘Thomas!’ exclaims a large lady, waddling through the double doors. ‘Oh dear, you

looklikeadrownedrat!’

Catalinahugsme,eventhoughwe’veonlymetacoupleoftimes,andkissesbothof

mycheeks.She’sfromPortugalandlovesherjob.Shelovesmeevenmoreforchoosing
tohostmycompanypartieshere.Christmaspartiesaremyfavourite,whentheydecorate
the large hall with towering trees and fairy lights. Hanging ornaments dangle from the
ceiling, candles light the darkened room, and the number of courses they serve would
makeKingHenryVIIIjealous.

Thereceptionistreturnstohercubicle,herexpressionneutral,thesameastheleading

ladyinthepaintingaboveher.

‘Yourlovelyassistant’sherealready,’Catalinatellsme,winkingandlinkingherarm

throughmineasweheadbackthewayshecame.

Iwonderwhyshe’swinkedatme.OhGod,doesshethinkI’mhavinganaffairwith

myassistant?

‘I’msosorryI’mlate.Ihadtodropthekidsoffatschool.’

‘No problem!’ Catalina’s voice booms down the corridor. Then she beams. ‘Your

assistant,shesaidthatsheusedtosellart.’

‘Oh, really?’ I ask, then berate myself for voicing my surprise. I’m Julianne’s

employersoIshouldknowaboutherworkhistory.

‘Hereweare,’Catalinaannounces,pushingopenthedoortoheroffice.

Theroomisasmallgallerysetinsidethelargergallery,likethesecondfigureinaset

ofRussiandolls,fullofwall-to-wallcolourfulabstractpaintings,mostlyofnakedwomen
invariousexoticposes.IwonderifI’mblushingandtrynottoglanceatthepaintingsin
caseIfocusonsomethingthatIshouldn’t.

Julianne smiles at me from the large antique table set in the middle of the room, a

notepadandpennexttoher,andtheguestlistfornextweek.Somehow,she’simpervious
torain:herhairandbrightreddressarebonedry.Howisshenotwet?

‘Jamal says that he’s sorry but he can’t make it,’ Julianne tells me. Then she laughs.

‘God,you’rereallywet!’

Irollmyeyesinacknowledgementandcarefullysetmyumbrelladown.ThenItake

off my jacket, which drips onto the parquet floor. Catalina scoops up my umbrella and
jacketandhangsbothontheoldradiator.

‘Takeaseat,Thomas,’sheimplores.‘CanIgetyouateaorcoffee?’

‘No, I’m okay, thank you,’ I say, sitting down and feeling grateful that I’ve finally

arrivedandwecangetdowntobusiness.

We talk about the rough number of guests that we’ll have on the night and then

negotiatethecostperperson.Ihighlightthefactthatthepartyisacharitableeventfora
children’s hospice, not just to announce that I’m running in the next election. Catalina
warmlyagreestogiveusadiscountofthirtypercent.

Wegothroughthescheduleandsetoutallthetimings,workingouthowlongweneed

for socialising, downing champagne and nibbling on canapés, for my speech and the art
auction. Julianne remains suspiciously quiet, but I suppose that I know more about next

weekandshouldtakethelead.

Catalina tells me that she’ll send over a confirmed schedule tomorrow for me to

approve.ThenIsignachequeandhanditover;herclammyhandsclaspatitbeforeshe
buriestheslipofpaperinsideherleather-boundfolder.

‘Excellent,’sheannounces.‘Now,beforeIleadyoutothekitchen,I’llshowyouthe

roomwherewe’vehungthechildren’sartwork.Itreallyisalovelyidea!’

It was Christine’s idea to auction off the artwork that the children at the hospice

created. The hospice thought that it was a great project and for the last few months the
kidshavepaintedallkindsofsubjects,excitedbythefactthatpeoplewillbeabletobuy
their work. The gallery agreed to frame the art and set up the auction, and everyone
comingnextweekknowsthatthemoneyraisedwillcontributetowardsthehospice’snew
treatmentcentre.

We bundle up our belongings, my coat and umbrella partially dried out, and head

outside again, down another long corridor towards a large room used for occasional
auctionsofartandantiques.Acolourfuldisplayofwhatlookslikeabstractartgreetsus.A
small, square photo of a child is placed next to each painting, and a description of the
workandtheirpersonalstory.

‘It’sbeautiful,’JuliannetellsCatalina.

In silence we read some of the children’s stories: how little Jimmy got incurable

canceragedeight;Samanthawasbornwithaneurologicaldisorderthatprogressivelygot
worse; Tammy has had ten surgeries on her heart. The stories are simple yet so sad,
makingmefeelincrediblyluckythatmykidshaveonlyeverhadchickenpox.

‘It’llbeawonderfulevening,’Catalinasayswithutmostcertainty,usheringustowards

adoorattheendoftheroom.‘Ihaveanothermeetingnowwithanartist,soyou’llhaveto
excuseme.I’llseeyounextweek.’

ShegrabsJulianne’sfaceandkisseshercheeks,thenturnstometodothesame.Itry

nottopullawayorlookdisgusted.

‘Thankyousomuch,Catalina.Wereallyappreciateyourtime,’Itellher.

A chef in a pure white jacket walks into the room, smiles at us then discusses

something in a foreign language (Portuguese?) with Catalina. They make large gestures
withtheirhandsastheytalkindetail,thenthechefgrinsatusagainandCatalinawalks
away.

‘Please,come,’hesays,andleadsusintowhatIthinkwillbethekitchen.

Theroomweenterisactuallyasmalldiningroomleadingoutfromthekitchen,witha

candle-lit table and selection of wines in small glasses with handwritten labels beneath
them.

‘Please,sit,’hesays,andholdsJulianne’schairoutforher.

SuddenlyIfeelastrongurgetopunchJamalhardinthefacewhenInextseehim.It’s

bad enough that I have to work with Julianne, but now he’s left me to have a sit-down
mealfortwowithher.

‘Ithinkweshoulddothiseveryday,’Juliannetellsme,smilingatthechef.

‘I’ll bring you your canapés,’ the chef says, then disappears into the kitchen, which

smellslikeit’spackedtotherafterswiththemostexquisiteingredients.

‘Thisisweird,right?’saysJulianne.‘IthinkitwouldbeweirdevenifJamalwashere.

It’slikewe’reinWonderlandorabouttosamplesomewitch’spotions.’

I nod hopelessly as I look down at all the wines and champagnes that we need to

sample. I don’t remember having to do this for our company’s Christmas party, but I
supposethatthegallerydishesoutasetmenuinDecember.

The chef returns with two huge platters full of various intricate canapés, which are

dividedintothreesections:ministarters,mainsanddesserts.Mymouthwaters.

‘I’llleaveyounow,’thecheftellsus.‘Imustcookforfiftypeopleforlunchandmy

commishasnotarrivedyet.Filhodaputa!’

Ismile,onlybeingabletoguesswhathesays.

‘Thank you so much,’ purrs Julianne, and the chef glances down at her chest before

grinningwidelyanddepartingintothekitchenagain.

Julianne picks up a glass then frowns and puts it down again. The canapés are all

labelledtoo,andwebothhavealistatthesidetoscribbledownouropinions,aswellasa
largejugofwatertohelpusgetthroughourmeal.

‘Should we try everything together?’ she asks. ‘Then we’ll know what we’re

comparing.’

‘Yes,goodidea.’

Shereachesoverandcarefullypoursoutaglassofwatereach.Everythingissomatter

of fact with her, as if she doesn’t consider me and our history at all. Maybe she’s in a
relationship–astableone–anddoesn’thaveanyfeelingsforothermen(whydoIfeel
slighted?).IguessIhaveachancetoaskaboutherrelationshipstatusnow.I’mstillabit
stunnedthatwe’vebeenleftinthissituationbyJamal.

‘Let’sgolefttoright,’shesays.

She slides her hand around the long stem of a champagne flute and I can’t help but

flashbacktothatnight.Howwekeptstoppingtokissandgropeeachotheraswewalked
backtoourhalls.Pullingdownourunderwearquickly;slidinginsideofherupagainstthe
wall.I’vetriednottothinkaboutit,triedreallyhardsinceseeingheryesterday,butnow
she’sinfrontofmeandit’slikeI’mtryingnottothinkaboutthehugefuckingelephantin
theroom.

Ipickupmychampagneglassandtrytopretendasifeverything’snormal,asifI’ma

civilised and sexless married man, instead of thinking about how she’s hot and whether
she’sgotamaninherlife.

‘Sowhathaveyoubeenuptosinceuni?’sheasks.

‘Igotmarriedandhadkids,’Iremindmyself.‘Andmylifewentdownhillfromthere.’

Shesmileswarmlylikeshegenuinelythoughtthatwasfunny.‘Ihearkidsdothatto

you.’

‘Youdon’thaveany?’

‘God,no!’shesays.Thensheclarifiesassherollshereyes,‘Ihaven’tmet“theone”

yet.’

‘Soyou’renotseeinganyone?’

Shepausesbeforeanswering.‘Noone’sseeingme,’shesaysinawoefulkindofway.

IwonderwhetherIshouldfeignflatteryandsaythatIcan’tbelievethatshe’ssingle,

butthenIconsiderthatitwouldbeinappropriate.

‘Catalina told me that you used to sell art,’ I say, perhaps too enthusiastically as I

changethesubject.

Ipickupaprawn,bean,paprikaandcreamcheesefilopastrybasketandtrytochew

down on it without making a mess. The pastry crumbles everywhere despite my best
efforts.

‘Well…’Shethinksabouthowtophrasehernextfewwordsandsmiles.‘It’shalf-true.

I had an ex who collected art. He cheated on me and I sold his paintings to the highest
bidder.Hewaspissedwhenhefoundout.’

Iletoutanawfulcombinationofasnortandguffaw,almostchokingonaprawn.

Oh God, this is hell. I’m in absolute hell for all my previous sins. I’m on a stupid

weirddatewithagirlIscrewedten-oddyearsago,andIlookandsoundlikeaprizeidiot.
Where’smypanache?DidIeverhaveany?SurelyI’mmoreattractivethanthis?

Imarkdownatwooutoffivefortheprawncanapéonmynewly-createdscorecard,

andthenIdownmyfirstglassofchampagne.Alcoholshouldgetmethrough.Thewine’s
dryandtastelessthough;Imarkitdownasanothertwo.Iguessit’sthesamenumberthat
I’dgrademyself,althoughI’dliketothinkthatotherpeoplewouldratemeatleastthree
outoffive.Theydon’tknowaboutthefucked-upshitinmyheadthough,andhowatthe
momentitfeelsasifI’mfailingtobethecharismaticmanI’vealwayswantedtobe.

It’s2pmandwe’resloshedandhavebunkedoffwork,wastinghourswalkingaroundin
no particular direction. I’m not sure whether this is Julianne’s influence. There were so
manyglassesofwine.Fartoomany.

I’m not sure how we came to any conclusion about what to order for next week.

Juliannescribbleddownourselectiononherpieceofpaperandweposteditonthemousy
receptionist’sdesk–shewasoutatlunchandwemadeapactnottodisturbCatalinaagain
andreceiveevenmorecheekkisses.

Somehow,andatsomepoint,wefelloffthegridandnowIfeellikesomekindofwild

pixie dancing across the wet grass in Green Park. Not actually dancing, of course, just
meanderingaround.Inoursenselessdrunkenstupor,wedecidedthattheusualpathswere
toostraight-lacedforusandsetoffacrossthemuddygrassinstead.

Finally,wesitdownonawoodenparkbenchbeneathagreatbigoaktree.Ablackbird

skipsalongthepathanddaffodilsarebeginningtopoketheirheadsoutthroughthelush
greengrass.Waterdripsfromanoverhangingbranchinfrontofus,butatleasttherustling
treesshelterusfromthecoldwind.

It’s quiet now, only a few tourists, dog walkers and joggers running past. Julianne

wraps her red coat tightly around her chest and I swing my umbrella at the side of our
bench.Idon’trememberwhatwetalkedaboutoverourfood.Myhead’sawhirlingmess
ofalcoholicthoughtsanduninhibitedbliss.

‘Iguessatsomepointwe’llhavetoheadbacktotheoffice,’Isay,notingthatIsound

disappointed.

‘Dowehaveto?’Julianneasks,staringstraightaheadattheskippingblackbird.‘This

isnice.’

It is nice. Temporarily we’re forgetting everything else about our city: our homes,

office, the busyness of the streets and chaos of the roads. The greenery shelters us from
toxiccarfumes,shoutingandbeepinghorns,andvaintouriststakingmillionsofselfiesto
provetoalloftheirfriendsthatthey’vevisited‘LondonTown’.Thisparkisanoasisof
natureinwhichweseemlost,butitfeelsgoodtohaveescapedourmundanenormallives
foronce.

Suddenlytheskiesopenupandathickshowerofraindescendsonourheads.

Juliannelaughsandsays,‘That’sprobablyasign.Weshouldgo.’

I put up my umbrella and it hovers above both of our heads. The noise of the rain

poundsontothecheappolyesterandwesitandlistenandtakeintherestofthispeaceful
moment.

IturntowardsJulianne,lookatherprofileandnoticeeverythingaboutherthatcaught

myattentionthefirsttime.Shestandsoutinred,contrastingagainstthegreeneryaround
us.Afewraindropshavesettledinherhair,herauburnlockslooseandtrailingoverher
shoulder.Shesweepsheruntamedhairoutofherbrightblueeyes,whichseemsomuch
morealivethanotherpeople’s,asifsheknowswhatshe’sdoingwithherlife.

Isshehappythoughorisshesad?Ican’ttell.Shehidesbehindherbeauty,veilingher

feelingsandwhoshetrulyis.

She turns and looks at me, questions forming in her eyes. What is this between us?

Wastherealwayssomethingthereand,ifso,whydidIignoreit?

Numerousquestionsrunthroughmymind.WhydidIsettleforChristine?Wouldmy

lifebecompletelydifferentifIhadn’tchosentomarryher?Whatif…?

IwanttokissJulianne.Thinwispsofhaircurlaroundherconfidentface,brushingher

paintedlips.Idon’tknowhowlongIstareather,unsureofwhatIshoulddo,unsureabout
whetherthisistheendofsomethingspecialorthebeginningofsomethingnew.

Ialmostkissher.ButthenIturnaway.Istopmyselfbeforeit’stoolate,beforeIdo

somethingstupid.

‘Let’sheadback,’Itellher.Andwiththosethreewordsourpeaceisshatteredintoa

millionpieces.

Y

9

THEFALLOUT

Julianne

esterday,thedayafterwewenttothepark,Thomascalledinsick.Igotlumbered
withhelpingoutMilliealldaywithmorebloodyphotocopying.Andscanning,and

printing out letters and long reports that no one will read unless they have a death wish
andwanttobeboredoutoftheirmindsuntiltheytopthemselves.Asmallchildcoulddo
myjob.They’dprobablyhavemoreenthusiasmforit.

Thomasdidn’tshowupthismorningeither.

‘Wherethefuckishe?’IaskJamal.

Jamal’s just wandered in. It’s lunchtime and I’m sitting eating my sandwiches in

Thomas’office,wonderingwhetherJamalwillletmegohomeearly.

‘He’s off sick again,’ he tells me, on his phone reading through his emails and not

lookingupatme.Ialreadyguessedthat.

‘CanIgohomethen?’Ibeghim.

I have my date with Mark tonight. I could go home early and run a bath, soak my

blistered feet until they don’t hurt any more. I had to wander around the park yesterday
withThomasand,althoughI’dwornflats,thewalkaddedevenmoreinjuriestomyfeet.

Jamalglancesupatme,finally,andgivesmeahardstare.‘WhatwillItellpeopleif

youleaveearly?Thatyou’resicktoo?Peoplewilltalk.They’llthinkthatyou’rebothoff
fuckinginahotelsomewhere.’

Ifonly.Iwanttobashmyheadagainstthedeskbutdecideagainstit.

JamalwashappywithmeyesterdaywhenItoldhimthatThomasnearlykissedme.It

waslikebeingpraisedbymypimp.Nowhe’sjustgrumpy.

‘IsawthatChristine’scomingtotheparty,’Isay.

Ireadhernameontheguestlistandithadn’tcrossedmymindthatImighthavetosee

her again too, and on the same night that I’ll be trying to bone her husband. I thought
aboutherallmorning,wonderingwhatshe’slikenow.Isshestillanuptightbitch?

‘She’snot,’Jamalsaysmatter-of-factly.

‘Whynot?She’sonthelist.’

Jamalgivesmeanotherhardstare.‘Shewon’tbeabletogo.’

Whatthefuckisheplanningondoingtoher?Ormaybehe’sbeenaskedtosleepwith

heraswell.

I’mabouttoask,‘Whynot?’whenJamalsays,‘Don’task.’

Islumpdowninmyseat.‘Ihavenothingtodothisafternoon,’Iremindhim.

‘God, it’s like managing a small child,’ he mutters. ‘Do some shopping online or

something.Noonewillnotice.’

‘Won’tITnotice?’

‘No,they’reidiots.Theycan’tevenfixaprinter.They’llprobablybedoingthesame

thingasyou.’

IguessIcouldsearchforadressfornextweek.

I’mstillnotsurewhetherJamal’splanwillwork–hisplanaboutgettingintoThomas’

pantsImean.IknowThomasnearlykissedmeinthepark,buthestoppedhimself.Even
thoughhewasdrunk.Thatmeanshehasself-controlandhestillloveshiswife.Andthat
meansthatthisisgoingtobeevenmoredifficultthanIanticipated.

Wesharedanicemomentinthepark.Ifeltfreeandunconfinedsittingonthebench,

awayfromJamalandtheofficeandeverythingelseinmylife.Thomaslookedatmelike
noone’severreallylookedatme:likehewasstudyingmebutnotjudging.OrlikeIwasa
paintinginCatalina’sstrangehospiceartcollection.

And now he’s avoiding me. That’s the only reason he’s not come into the office for

twodaysstraight.HowcanIseducehimwhenIcan’tevengetclosetohim;whenhe’snot
eveninthesamebuilding?

‘Ineedtogetgoing,’Jamalsays,gettingup.

‘Youonlyjustgothere.’

‘Iwascheckinguponyou.’

Because it’s like he’s managing a small child. ‘Fine, piss off! But if I die from

boredomI’mcomingbacktohauntyou.’

‘Ithoughtyoulovedshopping,’hemocksme,andexitsthroughthedoor.

Ipolishoffmysandwichthentrynottoflouncebacktomydesk.

‘Whatdidhewant?’Milliewhispers.

‘Tocheckuponme.’

Shelaughs.‘Doyouknowwhatyou’regoingtowearnextweek?’

No,that’swhatthisafternoon’sresearchwillbefor.

‘Icouldmakeyousomething,’Milliesuggests.‘Somethingdropdeadgorgeous.’

I picture myself laughing and swirling with a spiralling chiffon dress that Millie’s

made specially for me. Then I imagine the straps pinging off and I’m left topless in the
middleoftheroomwitheveryonearoundmestaringatmytits.Maybethat’stooharsh.I
likeMillie’soutfitsandtheyhaven’tcomeapartyet.

‘Really?’ I ask, wondering whether she’ll make me pay her a zillion pounds for

somethingcouture.

‘Iwouldn’tchargeverymuch.Justsomethingforthematerial.I’vealreadymademy

dress!’sheexclaims.‘It’sbacklessandpinkwithsequinsandlace.’

Ofcourseitis.WearrangethatI’llsendherafewpicturesofdressesthatIlikeand

she’ll find some material. Then she takes my measurements, making me stand like a
lemming for ages with my arms out, the fleet of middle-aged drones looking at us as if
we’velostourminds.Atleastitwhittlesdownthetime.

MyglassofreddisappearssipbysipasIstarelonginglyatmyphone.I’msittinginthe
bardownthestreetfromwhereMarkworks.Waiting.Impatiently.

Mark’sstuckinhisofficetoo,waitingforAmeliatoleave.They’reworkingonsome

big stupid case together. I’ve been here since 7pm and apparently Amelia has no life,
althoughIalreadyknewthat,becauseshewon’tgohome.

Idon’twanthertoseeMarkandmetogether.Iknowit’llhurther,eventhoughshe’s

nowgotaglacier-sizeddiamondfromDavidperchedontopofherringfinger.

Finally,Igetatext:‘Comeonover.’

I peer out of the window and spy Amelia walking down the road, her laptop bag

swingingbehindher.Ofcourseshe’stakingherworkhome.Shewaltzespast,obliviousto
mestaringather,andwhenshe’sgoneIjumpup,wrapmycoataroundmybareshoulders
andslinkoutofthebar.

Allthissneakingaroundmakesmehot,remindingmeofwhenIwasdatingDerekand

we had to hide in a restaurant from one of his wife’s friends. It’s the thrill of getting
caught.IknowatsomepointI’mgoingtohavetocomecleantoAmeliathough.

Mark’s office building is a large glitzy box of glass and he’s waiting for me in the

lobbybythetimeIturnup.There’safinelinebetweenstruttinginoverly-highheelsand
pretendingliketheshoesdon’tmattertoyousoyou’rewalkingonthinair;overtheyears,
I’d like to think that I’ve perfected this walk. Beneath my warm red coat, my body has
beenzippedintoaskin-tightblackdress.It’snottooslutty,afterallhe’sseenmenaked
already,butit’snotexactlyanun’shabiteither.

MarkopensthedoorandfloorsmewithaHollywood-stylekissofepicproportions.I

missedhislipsonmine.Hepullsaway,saying,‘I’lljustgrabmythings.’

Whenherunsuptohisoffice,Igazearoundthelobby,staringupatthemoderncrystal

light fitting that looks like it’s two-storeys high. The walls are decked out with tasteful
giant canvases of impressionistic landscapes, and a suite of leather sofas lounge in the
corner.Thereceptionist’sdesklookslikeit’smadefromplatinum.I’veneversetfootin
Amelia’s office building before. The contents of the foyer probably cost more than my
apartment.

‘Julianne?’Ihearavoicebehindme.

IturnandAmelia’swalkedinthroughthedoor.She’sfrowningatmeandwondering

whyI’mhere.Shit.

‘Hi,’Isayawkwardly,grippingtightlyontomyclutchbag.

Markrunsdownthesweepingstaircasewithbriefcaseinhand(arebriefcasesbackin

fashion?). He stops when he sees Amelia and looks at me, wondering whether I’ve said
anything.

‘Amelia–’Istart.

‘Don’t,’ she interrupts. She turns to Mark. ‘I didn’t realise I was keeping you from

yourdate.Icamebacktograbafile.’

Thensherunsoffupthestairsanditfeelslikeaholehasopenedupinmystomach

andswallowedmyrottenheart.Ididn’ttellmybestfriendthetruth,Istolehercrush,and
nowshe’sgoingtohatemeforever.

A taxi driver outside beeps his horn at us. Mark’s ordered a taxi to take us to the

restaurant.Ican’tleavenowwithoutspeakingtoAmelia.

Mark walks over to me and kisses me on the cheek. ‘She had to find out sooner or

later.I’lltalktothedriver.’

HeleavesmeinthelobbyoncemoreandIstareatthestaircase,wonderingwhetherI

shouldgoup.ButAmeliajogsdownthestairsbeforeIcantakeastep.

‘Amelia,letmeexplain,’Isay,butshesnubsmeandwalksrightpast.

Thenshechangeshermindandturnsonme.‘Youfuckingbitch!Whydidn’tyoutell

me?’

‘I’msorry!Iwasgoingto.Butyouwere…YouandDavid…Ididn’twanttofuckthat

up.’

That’sagoodexcuse,butactuallyIdidn’ttellherbecauseIwasshit-scaredthatshe’d

hatemeforsleepingwithMarkandstopbeingmybestfriend.

She stares me down, trying to think what to say next. ‘I just… I can’t speak to you

rightnow.’

Sheturnsandrunsoutofthebuilding,ignoringMarkwhenshepasseshim.

Fuck.I’veroyallyfuckedeverythingup.ThisiswhathappenswhenIgetattachedto

someone.

Markstridesbackin.‘Everythingokay?’

‘No,Mark!Everything’snotokay.’

Thiswasn’tsupposedtobethemostawkwarddateever.We’resupposedtobecompatible,
tellawfuldatingstoriesandsniggeraboutridiculouslytrivialthings,whichwedo,butit’s
difficulttobefunnyandlaughatMark’sjokeswhenIkeepthinkingaboutAmelia.

Itextedherinthetaxi:alongramblingstoryabout‘howitjusthappened’,‘Ididn’t

knowitwasserious’and‘Ididn’tmeantohurtyou’.Idon’tknowhowmanytimesIsaid

thatIwassorry,orhowmanytextsIsent,butbythetimewearrivedattherestaurantIfelt
sickfromtypingsomuch.ThenIrealisedthatI’dignoredMarkfortheentirejourney.

I ordered a limp salad for dinner with saffron, apricots and thin strips of grilled

chickenthrownontop.Markchosesteakandorderedabottleofred.Thenwepolishedoff
twoslicesofcaramelcheesecakefordessert.

Thewineandsugarrusheasedmypainabit.Theymademetemporarilyforgetthat

AmeliayelledatmethatI’mafuckingbitch.

Forthemillionthtime,Icheckmyphonetoseewhethershe’stextedback.

Marklookspointedlyatmeandsays,‘Forfuck’ssake,justcallher.’

I feel guilty. I’m not paying him any attention and I’m being the worst date ever.

‘Thanks,I’llbequick.’

Slippingintomycoat,IgrabmyphoneanddialAmelia’snumberasIwalkoutonto

thestreet.It’slessnoisyouthere.Nomodernjazzinvadingmyearsorthehubbubofother
diners.

ThephoneringsandringsandthenIhearanoiseasifAmelia’spickedup.Butit’sher

voicemail: ‘Hi, this is Amelia. Please leave a message.’ There’s a beep. Fuck, should I
leaveamessage?

SuddenlyIhearAmelia’svoice,‘Idon’twanttospeakwithyou.’

‘Didyougetmytexts?’

Apause.‘Yes.’

‘Amelia,I’msosorry.I’mreallysorry.Iwantedtotellyou–’

‘Thenwhydidn’tyou?’

Ihavenoanswer.Ihavenoexcuse.‘Ididn’twanttohurtyou.’

‘Hurt me? You knew I liked him. And then you fucking don’t tell me that you’re

seeinghim?Whyareyouevengoingoutwithhim?BecauseIlikedhim?’

‘No!Itjusthappened.ThatnightwhenJamalshowedupatthebar.’

‘So, what, you’ve been seeing him for a week now and didn’t tell me? Have you

fuckedhimyet?Whenyoudo,he’llprobablygostraightoffyou.’

Idon’tanswer.Whyisshebeingsobitchy?

‘Oh, of course, you’ve fucked him already. Well, when he starts ignoring you and

sleepingwithotherwomen,don’tsaythatIdidn’twarnyou.’

What can I say? I don’t know whether this thing with Mark is serious; we haven’t

spokenaboutbeingexclusive.Iknowwhatshe’ssaying:Mark’sneversettleddownwith
anyone,sowhatmakesmethinkthatwhatwehaveisanydifferent?

‘You’ve always put yourself first, haven’t you?’ she continues. It sounds like she’s

crying.‘Youjustcan’thelpbutbeaselfishbitchallthetime.Youneverthinkaboutother
people.’

‘Amelia–’

‘Inever,ever,wanttoseeyouagain,’shesays,andhangsup.

‘Amelia?’

Fuck.Fucking,fucking,fuckingfuck.

Mark steps out from the restaurant and hands me my bag. ‘I take it that didn’t go

well?’

Ilookupathimwithstupidtearsinmyeyes.I’velostmybestfriend.

Hekissesme,aslowanddeepkiss,wrapshisarmsaroundmeandIbreathehimin,

acceptinghiscomfort.

‘She’llcomearound,’hesays.‘Justgiveherachancetocooldown.’

‘Idon’tknow,’Iwhisper.‘I’veneverseenherthisangrybefore.I’veneverseenher

angryatall.’

Ataxipullsupandthedriverleanshisheadoutofthewindow.‘Mark?’

MarkopensthedoorformeandIslideacrosstheseat.Seriously,doesheownawhole

fleetofpersonaltaxis?Whydotheyalwaysshowupforhimasifoncue?

Hehopsinnexttome,closesthedoorandtellsthedrivertotakeustohisapartment.I

guessit’snearer.Andwewon’tfindJamalunexpectedlysprawledoutonmybed.

‘Forget about Amelia tonight, okay?’ says Mark. ‘It’s my fault. I’ll speak with her

tomorrow.’

Heslideshishandacrossmybarelegandrestsitonmyknee.Whenhe’stouchingme

it’shardtothinkaboutanythingelse.

‘It’snotyourfault,’Isay.Iknowthatit’smewho’sfuckedthingsup.

‘Stopthinkingabouther.’Hesmiles,slidinghishandupfurtheralongtheinsideofmy

thigh.Thenhewhispers,‘Iwanttobetheonlypersonyouthinkabouttonight.’

My head’s a cocktail of swirling emotions, endorphins and exhaustion. I lie naked and
wrapped around Mark’s chest, feeling as if all my worries about Amelia have come
crashingdownonmeagain.Sexblockedoutmyfeelingsforawhile,mademeforget,but
nowthesamevoiceisbackinmyheadcallingmeabitch.

It’slateandIdon’twanttogetup,butIknowthatIhavetoheadbackhomesoIcan

wakeupearlytomorrow.Itrytounfurlmylimbs,thenMarkgrabsmeandpullsmeback
down.Forseveralminuteswelietogetherandkiss,envelopedinwarmthandtranquillity,
feelingcomfortableinourownskin.

‘WhatareyoudoingonMonday?’heasks.

God, I just want to stay lying in this bed forever, but… ‘I’ve got some shitty work

thingthatnight.’

‘Youcan’tgetoutofit?’

‘No.I’veorganiseditsoI’vegottoturnup.’AndI’vegottofucksomeoneelsethat

night,soit’sslightlyinconvenient.

‘CanIseeyouTuesday?’

Ismileathim.‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

HestartsticklingmeandIscreamandlaughasIwrigglebeneathhim.Ileapoutof

bedandchuckapillowathishead.HeswingsitatmyflabbyarsewhenIwalkintothe
bathroomtopee.

Istareatmyselfinthebathroommirror.IsittechnicallycheatingonMarkifI’mbeing

paidtohavesexwithThomas?Iguessitis,butthere’snowaythatIcancomeclean.

I’veneverworriedaboutgoingbehindaguy’sbackbefore,aboutlyingtohisfaceor

‘withholding the truth’. Amelia’s words come back to haunt me: ‘You never think about
otherpeople.’Idothinkaboutotherpeople,Ireallydo.ButIcan’ttellMarkthatafew
daysagoIagreedtobecomeawhore.

10

G

THEDISAPPOINTMENT

Thomas

reatsheetsofrainteemdown,bouncingofftheslickblacktarmac.Greypavements
fillwithwater,theexcesstricklingintothesoddensuburbangrass.Inthedistance,

beyondthesilhouettedrowsofupper-middle-classhouses,thesunisdistortedbypurple
stormcloudsdarkeningtheremainingminutesoftheevening.

Christine isn’t here yet. I’ve been waiting in our empty house for her to come home

andchangeintoherfancysilkdress.Thebabybluedressthatweboughtattheweekend
becauseitwasonsaleandshefellinlovewithit.Itwasmyunspokenapologytoherfor
nearlykissinganotherwomanearlierintheweek.NotthatI’vetoldheraboutJulianne.

Idon’tknowwhetherthey’llremembereachotherfromuniversity.They’llbumpinto

eachothertonight,orI’llbeforcedtointroducethem.IhopeChristinewon’tputtwoand
twotogetherandrealisethatJulianneturninguponmydoorstep(oratmyoffice)isthe
reasonwhyI’vebeeninsuchastrangemoodrecently.

I pretended to be ill last week, feigning man flu, and Christine took pity on me and

said that it was because I’d been working too hard. This morning she still left for her
parents’housewiththekidsthough.Andafterwork,andeighthoursofavoidingJulianne,
I returned home to a silent shell of a house. No kids dancing around my ankles, no
arguing, no blare of the TV or Christine berating the kids for leaving a mess in every
singleroom.

Half an hour ago, Christine texted to say that she was getting on the train and she

should be home in twenty minutes. Now I’ve been waiting for over an hour and I’m
worried.I’veturnedintoacurtaintwitcher,everynoiseorvoicemakingmepeeroutside
andpraythatit’sChristinewalkingdownthestreet.Butitneveris.

After changing into my tux, I munch on some toast to keep my stomach from

rumbling,andtextChristine:‘Whereareyou?’Hasshechangedhermindaboutcoming?
Hasshebeenattacked?Ishertrainrunninglate?

Igiveuptryingtotiemybowtieandleaveitdanglingaroundmynecklikeascarf.Or

anoose.HasChristinefoundoutaboutJulianne?No,I’mbeingparanoid.

RepeatedlyIgoovertonight’sspeechinmyhead,glancingdownatmycuecardsto

help me, hoping that I won’t fuck it up. My dad and all his friends will be there, my
company,clientsandcolleaguestoo,theirscrutinisingeyeswatchingmyeverymove.

Myphonebeeps.It’sJamaltellingmethathe’salreadyatthegalleryandeverything

looks great. Thank God. I want to ask him whether he’s seen Christine. But why would
he?

Where is she? The taxi will be here soon. I call her. Voicemail. Shit. I try again,

prayingthatshe’llpickup.Voicemail.

Once more I go back to my cue cards. I try to calm down. She’ll be here soon. She

said that she wants to support me tonight. I’m her husband, so of course she wants to
supportme.Butwhatifshe’schangedhermind?

Ijumpwhenmyphoneringsandsnatchitup.It’sher.

‘Christine?’

‘I’msosorry,’shesays,soundingasifshe’sbeenmauledbyazombie.

‘What’swrong?Whereareyou?’

‘IthinkIhavethatthingyouhadlastweek.IgottothestationandthenIjustchucked

mygutsupforanhourstraight.’

Crap.Tonightofallnightsshe’sill.Actuallyill,notpretendinglikeIwas.

‘Doyouneedmetocomeandpickyouup?’NotthatIwantto.NotthatIcan.

‘No, I’m fine. Dad’s coming to pick me up now. I’m sorry, Thomas. I can’t come

tonight.’

Thereitis:thehugelumpofdisappointmentthatIhavetoswallowdown.

I’monmyown.ItalwaysseemslikeI’monmyown.Christinestandsforeverinthe

peripherybutneverfullybymyside.Foryears,I’velongedtobeoneofthosehappily-
married couples who are practically joined at the hip, but we’ve never been that close.
There’salwayssomethingthatkeepsusapart.

‘That’sokay…Atleastyou’reokay.Iwasworried.’

Christine tears up on the other end of the phone. ‘I was really looking forward to

hearing your speech. Seeing you tonight standing up there. I know how much you want
this.I’msosorryIcan’tbethere.’

‘That’sokay,honey.Letmeknowwhenyou’rebackhome.’

Not that she’s coming home. She’s returning to her parents’ home, where she feels

morecomfortable,insteadofherewithmewhereshefeelstrapped.

‘Goodluck,’shesays.‘Letmeknowhowitgoes.Getsomeonetofilmyourspeech.’

‘Jamal’sgoingto.Bye.’

I hang up and feel like crying. I don’t want to do this alone. I don’t want to keep

feelingalone,likenoonetrulyunderstandsme.Butmaybelonelinessisthenecessaryevil
thatIhavetoface.Maybethat’swhatwillmakemeagreatpolitician:Idon’twantanyone
tofeelalone,andI’lllistentoeveryone’sviewsdespitethefactthatnoonewilleverbe
thereformeinreturn.

Ataxipullsupoutsideandthedriverkillshislightsandlooksupatmyhouse.God,

thisisit.Thisisthestartofsomethingnewandexcitingandunexpected.AndIfeelsickto
mystomach.

Isitrudetoturnuptoyourownpartylate?I’mnotsurewhatitsaysaboutme.Weget
held up in rush-hour traffic, red light after red light, queue after queue, roadworks and
detours. This is London and the streets aren’t paved with gold but with a patchwork of
shoddyroadrepairs.

Wepullupoutsidetheartgallery,whichislituplikeamulti-colouredChristmastree.

StrangersinblacktiekeeparrivingandIfeelapprehensiveaboutthenumberofpeopleI’ll
bedeliveringmyspeechto.Throwingmoneyatthetaxidriver,Ithankhimandleapfrom
theblackcab.Andstraightintoagiantpuddlethatsoakshalfmylegsinmuddywater.I
closemyeyesandhopethatthisisn’tabadomen.

I don’t recognise anyone as I run up the steps to the entrance. Do they know who I

am?

Wriggling out of my coat, I hand it to the girl in the cloakroom, who I realise is the

mousyreceptionistfromtheotherday.

‘Hi,’Ismileather.Shelooksunimpressed,butdoessherecogniseme?Maybeshe’s

judging me because she saw me drunk and running around the gallery with Julianne the
otherday.OrsheknowsI’mrunninglateyetagain.

JamalwalksintothehallwaywithCatalinaandsmileswidely,comingovertoshake

my hand. Catalina grabs me and kisses both of my cheeks, looking like a proud mother
hen, and I feel as if I’ve failed Julianne when we made our pact the other day to avoid
Catalina’skisses.

‘Where’sChristine?’asksJamal,hisfacefullofconcern.

Itrynottolooksadorangry.‘She’sreallyill.IthinkshehaswhatIhadlastweek.’

Jamallooksdistraught,butIcan’ttellhimtocalmdownandnotworryaboutitwith

Catalinahoveringinfrontofus.

‘That’s such a shame,’ Catalina tells me, taking my arm. ‘I was looking forward to

meetingher.Julianne’shereandhelpedmetosetup.Andeverythinglooksfabulous.’

Ican’ttellwhethershe’sbeingcriticalaboutmymarriagewhenshementionsJulianne

straight after dismissing the fact that Christine’s not here. Does she think that my wife
isn’timportant?

We walk through to the main room of the gallery where everyone’s mingling and

gorgingonthedrinksandcanapésthatwechosetheotherday.Theroomisfulloffamiliar
facesandcolourfuldresses,sequinsandmaterialsthatshineinthelowlight.Overinthe
farcornerisahugebannerofourcompanylogonexttoanotherbannerforthechildren’s
hospice. There’s also a banner of me shaking hands with the CEO of the hospice, the
photographtakenwhenweannouncedthatourcompanywouldfundtonight’sevent.

Iseemyfatherstandingnexttomybannertalkingwithagroupofmenofalldifferent

ages.Theylookasifthey’reconcentratingashardastheycanonpayingattentiontoeach

other,mentallynotingdownthestrengthsandweaknessesoftheircolleagues.Mymother
standsatthefarsideoftheroominasimpleblackdresschattingwithagroupofelderly
womenwhohavegrownboredoftheirhusbandstalkingshopyetagain.Theentireroom
speaksvolumesaboutthelackofwomenanddiversityinpoliticsandbusiness.We’renot
promotinganycauseexceptfortraditionalfamilyvalues.

OutofthecornerofmyeyeIseeCatalinanoticingmywettrousers,butshedoesn’t

commentonit.

Jamaltellsher,‘I’msorry,butI’vegottowhiskhimawayandintroducehimtoafew

people.’

Catalina laughs. ‘Of course, tonight’s all about networking!’ She winks at me then

says,‘Goodluckforyourspeechlater.Notthatyouneedit.’

IwishIhadthepositiveenergythatthiswonderfulladyhas.I’dlovetoemulateher

dynamism, be charismatic and have people remember me for my spirited temperament.
ButIknowthatI’llhavetofakeitbydowninglotsofchampagnefirst.

Jamalintroducesmetovariouscouplesandgroups,andIaskthemthequestionsthat

I’vebeenrehearsingwithJamalforweeksnow.We’vedoneourhomeworkonallofour
guests. They mostly love to discuss their children and grandchildren, mentioning how
they’re doing in school, university or at work. They love talking about themselves too:
their accomplishments, businesses, new cars, houses and renovations. I’ve always been
goodatmemorisingfactsandfigures,andI’mgreatatmakingsmalltalkwiththesedreary
materialistswholiveconsistentlyboringlives.

Perhaps I learnt how to brown-nose people from dad, who hosted so many parties

whenIwasakid.Hehasaknackforittoo:forlistening,notcomingacrossassuperioror
pompous,nottalkingabouthimselfbutaboutotherpeopleinstead.Hewinspeopleover
by appearing ignorant about everything, being unmemorable by not making any
unexpectedstatements,andflatterygoesalongwaytoo.Inthisgame,you’vegottobeas
averageandindifferentaspossible.That’swhatwinsvotes.

AsIlistentoanoldladywaffleonaboutherdaughter’sschool,Isipmorechampagne

andthinkbacktolastweekwhenIwassittinginthepark.Noonewastryingtoforcetheir
opinionsdownmythroatandIfinallyhadamomentofsilenceandserenity,allperipheral
noise drowned out. I only thought about myself and what I wanted. But then I stopped
myself. Stopped myself from feeling selfish and happy, and my old familiar feelings of
guiltandanguishreturned.

Tryingnottobeobviousaboutit,Iglancearoundtheroom,hopingtospotJulianne.

Temporarily I forgot how many people are here and that I’m about to make such an
importantspeechtothishugecrowd.Trish,anotherpartneratmycompanywho’sdressed
inahideousplumdresswithsevereshoulderpads,smilesandwavesacrosstheroomat
me.Damn,nowI’vemadeeyecontactandhavetowaveback,indicatingtomygroupthat
Iwasn’tfullypayingattention.

ThenJuliannewalksintotheroom.EveryoneelseisdrownedoutandIonlyhaveeyes

forher.She’sdrapedinafull-lengthblackdresscoveredinlittleredflowers.Shebumps
intoMillie,laughsandhugsher,thendoesatwirl.Thedressisbacklessandherredhair

fallsinwavesacrossherbareshoulders.

Idon’tthinkshe’swearingabra.Shit,Ishouldn’tgothere.

Ican’thelpbutwatchasmythoughtsplayoutthough.Ipicturehernakedandinmy

arms again, her skin pressed against mine. I kiss her and she throws her head back and
moansasshecomes.ThisisexactlywhatIshouldn’tbethinkingabout.

Her eyes meet with mine and we smile at each other. She raises her glass in my

direction,toastingmebeforeI’veevenaddressedtheroom.Doesshenoticetheeffectshe
hasonme?Ifeellikeateenageboylustingaftertheprettiestgirlatschool.

A group of people cross the room in search of more canapés and drinks, and I lose

sightofheragain.Ican’tseeherwalkingtowardsme.Ican’tseeanyflashofredfromher
dress.

Iexcusemyself,sayingthatIjustneedtogooverthenotesformyspeech.ThenIgrab

aglassofredwinefromasilvertrayandruntowardstheroomwherewegotdrunkand
atecanapéstheotherday.Ineedsometimetomyself.

Angusstepsinfrontofmeandblocksmyexit.

‘Thomas!’hesays.‘I’mlookingforwardtohearingyourspeech.’

Hesmilesandhisyellowteethhaveensnaredseveralherbsandpoppyseeds.

‘Thanks,Angus.I’mabitnervousactually.Ijustneedtogoovermynotesagain.’Itry

togetpasthim.

‘It’sashamethatyourwifecouldn’tmakeit,’saysAngus,asifhe’swonderingwhy

shecouldn’tcome.Whyishepryingformoreinformation?

‘She’s very ill unfortunately. I had something last week and I think she’s got it now

too.’Throwhimoffthescent.Trynottoappearvulnerable.

‘Oh,I’msorry.Please,passonmyregardstoher.Ihopeshegetsbettersoon…Now,

aboutyourspeech…’

OhGod,hashechangedhismindaboutsupportingme?Hastheparty?WillIhaveto

changemyspeechentirely?HaveIbeencastout?

‘Make sure you mention Harvey Darling. He’s donated rather a lot of money to the

partyrecentlyandI’veseenhimheretonight.I’llintroduceyoulater.Itwouldbegoodfor
youifyoumentionhisname.’

I’ve never met Harvey Darling in my life and I’ve never heard his name mentioned

before either. Is this a test? It must be. ‘Okay, of course. It would be nice to meet him
later.’

Angus smiles like a cat who’s toying with a mouse. ‘Excellent. I knew you’d

understand.Goodluck.’

Thenheslimesofftotalkwithapoorunsuspectingstrangerwhomadethemistakeof

appearingalone.

Dartingintothedarklittlediningroom,IclosethedoorbehindmeandthankGodthat

Angus was distracted by someone else. Then I turn around and see Julianne sitting on a
smallsofainthecorner,sippingonafullglassofchampagne.Forthebriefestofmoments
there’sasadlookonherfacebutitdisappears,replacedwithasmileinstead.

‘Tryingtoescapetoo?’sheasks.

Ipullafacelikeshe’scaughtmeoutandflopdownonthesofanexttoher.Itreminds

meofthetimewesattogetherintheparkandIfeelcomfortableagain.Ilikebeingalone
withher.

‘Notlongtogo,’shesays.‘Thenyoucanrelax.’

‘Yeah,sure!Relax.’Relaxwiththepackofwolvesoutsidereadytoeatmealiveand

thenspitmeoutwhentheyrealisethatI’mnotoneofthem.

Julianneslipsherhandintomine,butshedoesn’tlookatme.‘You’llbefine.Tonight’s

nearlyover.’

Itisnearlyover,butsomethingtugsatmyheartandtellsmethatIprobablywon’tbe

fine afterwards. I haven’t felt fine for as long as I can remember. I feel jaded and don’t
knowhowtostopmyheartfromaching.

WelistentoCatalinaoutsidetellingeveryonetomaketheirwaythroughtotheauction

room.

‘Weshouldgo.They’llbelookingforyou,’saysJulianne.

‘Iwaslookingforyou,’Iconfess,turningtowardsher.

Idon’tknowwhatI’vejustadmittedto,butrightnowallIcanthinkaboutiskissing

her. I want her: the woman who understands me and sees me for who I am; the woman
whositsbesidemeinsteadofthewomanwhonevershowedup.

Before our lips touch, Catalina swings open the door. Our hands spring apart, but I

don’tthinkCatalinanotices.

‘Thereyouare!’shesays.

And then we’re being shepherded towards the auction room and I feel as if I’m

walkingtheplank,edgingfurthertowardsapaththatI’mnotsureIwanttotake.

Juliannesmilesatmebeforewe’reseparatedandIloveherfornotwhispering,‘Good

luck.’Ihatebeingwishedgoodluck,asifI’machildabouttomakeastupidpresentation
inassemblyforthefirsttime.Idon’tneedgoodluck.Ihaven’thadanynowforatleast
tenyears.

As I step up on the podium with Catalina, I think this is it: my big moment; the

beginningofmycampaign.JuliannewanderstothebackoftheroomandItrytoforget
aboutherandhercalminginfluence.Thisisaboutmeandmyfuture,andeveryambition
I’veeverhadtoachievesomethinginmylife.

Andthisisaboutmorethanjustme:it’saboutthepartyandmakingapledgetohelp

my community, my future constituency, and the wider society and government. This is
aboutthankingeveryonewho’scometolistentometonight,andhowallofushavethe
abilitytochangelivesandhelpothers,startingwithhowwe’llhelptofundthetreatment

centreforthechildren’shospice.

I’ll sing my company’s praises for funding and organising tonight’s event and for

supportingmethroughoutmycareer.I’llthankmyfamily:myabsentwifeandmyparents
for‘alwaysbelievinginme’,eventhoughthey’llknowthatI’llbelying.I’llthankallof
mysupportersandeveryonewho’sofferedtohelpmeonmycampaignandvoteforme.
AndI’llhavetodropincertainnames,includingfuckingHarveyDarling–whocouldbe
aserialkillerforallIknow–becausethat’swhatI’vebeentoldtosayandIhavetotoe
thepartyline.

11

W

THEPARTY

Julianne

andering towards the back of the auction room, I want to kick myself. Or I’d
prefer to kick Catalina for interrupting us when we were finally about to kiss.

Thomasbetternotrunawayfrommeafterhisspeechbecausehe’ssoberedupbythenor
changedhismindaboutmeyetagain.NowI’llhavetoplyhimwithmorechampagneand
prisehimawayfromeveryoneelselater.

A flock of women in brightly coloured dresses flutter past and I’m left wondering

whetherIshouldsitdownorhoveratthebacksoIcanslipoutbeforetheauctionbegins.I
don’t want to bid on the sick kids’ crappy artwork. The entire auction will be a tedious
affair.Ileanagainstthewoodenpanelling,nearlyknockingoverafireextinguisherwith
myarse.

Jamal meanders over and stands by my side, presumably to check on my progress.

Earlierhetoldmethathe’dsetupcamerasineachroomwhenheconductedhis‘security
check’. He didn’t tell me exactly where they are though, or what excuse he’ll come up
withtoremovethemaftertonight.Hemustknowwhathe’sdoingthough;afterall,hewas
rightthatChristinewouldn’tcometotheparty.Whichisworrying.Didhepoisonher?

‘Everything’s going according to plan, Master,’ I whisper to him in a fake Igor-like

voice.

Iexpecthimtosaysomethingevilinreturn,buthedisappointsmebysimplyreplying,

‘Good.’Thenheleavesmyside,weavingaroundagroupofoldwomen,tositdownon
theothersideofthehall.DoIsmellorsomething?

It feels weird knowing that I’m being paid to screw Thomas on camera tonight, but

then this whole week has been strange. Maybe I should have told Amelia about
everything,backwhenshewastalkingtome.Imisstalkingwithher.Shehasn’trepliedto
any of my daily grovelling texts saying, ‘I know I’m a shitty friend but I’m sorry.’ She
wouldhavehelpedmewithJamalifI’dtoldherthetruthabouthim;shewouldhavetold
menottoworkforhim.

I have no idea how dangerous he is though. What would he have done if I didn’t

comply?Poisonmetoo?

TheroomfallsquietwhenCatalinastepsuptothelecternandintroducesThomas.She

showershimwithpraiseandmentionsallofhischaritywork,howhebecamepartnerat
hiscompanyandthatshe’swatchedhim‘blossomintothemanheistoday’.Shesayshow
muchofanhonouritistoworkwithhimandhiscompany,andhowshe’ssurethathe’ll

goontodoevengreaterthingsinthefuture.Attimesitsoundslikehe’sdeadandshe’s
standingnexttohiscoffinreadingouthiseulogy.

There’s a deafening round of applause when Thomas walks towards the lectern. He

looks happier than I’ve ever seen him. Happier than when we were at uni and he was
drunkandhighonweed.Happierthanwhenhewasfuckingmeand,weirdly,happierthan
whenhecame.

HestartshisspeechandIwatchhisegogrow,theroomfallsunderhisspell,andhe

probably gets a hard-on beneath the lectern because he thinks his speech is so fucking
great.Butinrealityhe’sonlytalkingtoaroomfullofhisfriendsandcolleagues,whoof
course listen to his every word as most of them have known him for years, some since
childhood.

He says a million and one generic things, like how he wants the best for our

community,forthiscity,forthecountry.Hedronesonabouttheimportanceoftraditional
family values, but then quickly drops in a mention about ‘culture’ and that he embraces
everyone equally, and will fight for everyone’s voice to be heard. Yawn. He talks about
everything apart from the reason he wanted to become a politician in the first place:
becausehehasdaddyissuesandwantstomorphintohisfatherinfrontofourveryeyes.
AtleastI’mnotbeingpaidtosleepwithMatthewsSenior.

Suddenly everyone is clapping again and Thomas is standing there beaming with

pride,butalsostaringstraightatmeacrosstheentirelengthofthehalllikehe’sundressing
mewithhiseyes.Damn,maybehedoeswanttoshagme.Orgivingaspeechturnshim
on.

Peoplestandupandcarryonclapping,andItakeadvantageofthedistractionandslip

outoftheroom.IneedabreatherbeforeIhavetodothedirtydeed.Ifhewantsme,that
is. Maybe he’ll run after me and we can go into Catalina’s office and fuck on her desk
surroundedbyallofherpaintingsofhalf-nakedladies.

ThensuddenlyIwalkstraightintoMark.Whatthehellishedoinghere?Hedefinitely

wasn’tontheguestlist.TonightIwastryingtoforgetabouthim.

‘Whatareyoudoinghere?’heasksguiltily.‘Ithoughtyouhadaworkthing.’

Ablondewomanwalksupbehindhimandputsherarmthroughhis.She’sgorgeous

and wears a skin-tight purple dress that just about covers her arse. Who the fuck is this
harlot?

Itrytoplayitcool.‘Ihelpedorganisetonight,’Itellhim,tryingnottoglareathimor

hisdatewithevil,jealous-bitcheyes.

‘Oh.IfI’dhaveknown…Umm…ThisisUrsula,’hesays.

‘Hi,’Isay.Iwanttogetoutofhereassoonaspossible.NotonlyamIpissedoffthat

Markisatwo-timingscumbag,butJamalwillkillmeifheseesMarkheretalkingtome.
‘Sorry, I’ve got to check on something. You should go in. There are a few seats at the
back.Theauction’sabouttostart.’

Aftermyaward-winningperformanceofascornedwomanpretendingtobeanoasisof

calm, I sprint away from the two of them. Away from the sickeningly gorgeous couple.

Away from the man who I thought I had a connection with, but it turns out that I don’t
because I was hopelessly deluding myself that he actually wanted something more than
justsex.AwayfromthemanthatIsleptwithattheexpenseofmyfriendshipwithAmelia,
andnowI’velosthertoo.Awayfromallofmyregrets.

‘Julianne–’Markcallsafterme,butIdon’thearwhathesays.

Amelia was totally fucking right about Mark. When he found out that I was busy

tonight,hedecidedonPlanB:Ursula.Atleastshe’snotPlanA.ButwasIeverPlanA?
Werethereotherwomenaboveme?

I run into the main gallery again and spy the door to the small dining room where I

almost kissed Thomas earlier. The gallery is empty with trays of leftover canapés, dirty
napkins and champagne glasses littering the tables at the side of the room. Grabbing
anothercoupleoffullglasses,Imakemywaytowardsthediningroom,whereIcanhide
againanddrinkinpeace.

It’s dark in here, only a small table lamp lighting the room. Slumping down on the

sofa,IlistentoCatalinaintroducingtheauctionandtalkingaboutthechildren’shospice
and some of the kids’ stories. As I down my first glass, I try to blot out Mark’s shitty
toothpaste-commercialfaceandtheimageofhimdresseduplikesexonlegsinatux.

Instead I imagine the elite snobs next door who are probably weeping into their

monogrammedhandkerchiefswhentheyhearofthepainthechildrenareforcedtoendure,
realising how lucky they are to have their vast piles of money to pay for decent private
healthcare.

I put down my empty glass and pick up my second drink, picturing Ursula begging

Marktobuyoneoftheworstpiecesofart.Maybetheonethatlooksliketwostickinsects
matinginanorgyofredblood(whatthefuckwasthekidtryingtopaint?).ThenCatalina
describesthefirstpainting,notthestickinsectonebutapictureofahorse,andabidding
warbegins.

Thomasburstsintotheroom,seesmeandmarchesover.Oh,isthisit?Themoment

I’vebeenwaitingfor?OrthatJamalhasbeenwaitingfor?Orthemomenttheanonymous
creepwho’spayingmetofuckoncamerawillwankoverlater?

‘Yourspeechwas–’Istart,butthenThomasiskissingme,histongueisinmymouth

andthechampagneglassslipsoutofmyhand.

TheglassbouncesandrollsacrossthefancyPersianrugandchampagnespillsoutina

wetarc,butThomasdoesn’tcareashefeverishlycoversmymouthwithhis.

Right now, I don’t care about the lying, cheating, bastard, son-of-a-bitch Mark. Or

maybeIdo,butIdesperatelywanttoforgetabouthim.Idon’tcarethatI’mbeingpaidto
sleepwithaguyIbarelyknow.Itrynottothinkaboutthecameraspointedstraightatme
orwhatmyflabbyarsewilllooklikewhenI’mnaked.Ilosemyselfintheheadinessof
whatIhopewillbeheated,amazingsex.

Thomas’ hands are all over me; suddenly he’s slipping my dress from my shoulders

andsuckingonmynipples.He’sslidingmydressdownfurther,kissingeveryinchofmy
torso,mycollarbone,shoulders,bitingintomyneck.Hecatchesmyheelinthelaceofthe

dresswhenhepullsitdownaroundmyankles,thenhethrowsthedressacrosstheroom.

ForsomereasonIdecidedagainstwearingunderweartonight.MaybebecauseIknew

thatIwouldn’tneedany.ThomasplungesbetweenmylegsandIhavetobitedownonmy
bottomlipsoIdon’tcryoutwhenhegoesdownonme.

What if someone walks in on us? What if someone hears screaming from the room

nextdoorandcomestoinvestigate?Fuckit,Idon’tcare.ThisiswhatIneedrightnow.I
wanttofucksomeonewhoisn’tMark.Iwantsomeoneelse’sbodytomarkmyskin,fill
meup,makememoanbeneathhim.

Thomastearsoffhisjacket,thenpullsdownhistrousers,avoidingthechampagneon

thefloor.Sprawledoutonthesofa,Iwatchhimundress,prayingthatnooneinterruptsus.
Igrabacondomfrommyclutchandhandittohimtoputon,desperateforhimtohurry,
desperateforhim.Ireally,reallyneedsexrightnow.

Suddenly he’s inside me, thrusting hard, and I’m gripping onto the sides of the sofa

andtryingtostiflemyscreams.He’skepthisshirton,andIpullitup,wantinghimtobe
completelynaked.Hestopsandpullshisshirtoverhishead,throwsitnexttomydress,
thencarriesonthrusting.

He’s better than he was over a decade ago – faster, harder, thrusting deeper. He’s

biggerthanIrememberedandneediertoo,asifChristine’snevergivenhimwhathefully
wants.Hewantstofeelasifsomeonewantshim.He’llwantmeontopsoon,ridinghis
cocklikehe’sgotthebiggestdickintheworldandhe’severythingIwantandmore.

Thesofastartstocreak,groaningoneverythrust,andThomastriestogoslowerbut

thatdoesn’tsatisfyeitherofus.Wechangepositions,andthenI’montopandclosingmy
eyes,justfocusingonsexinsteadofeverythingelsefuckedupinmylifetryingtopushits
wayintomymind.Idon’twanttothinkaboutanythingelse.Idon’twanttobeanywhere
else.

I open my eyes and stare into Thomas’, his pupils wide and bleeding into his dark

irises.Leaningdown,IkisshimasIchangepaceandridehimslowly.There’ssomething
sexyaboutknowingwedon’thavemuchtimeuntilsomeonewalksinonus,butwanting
to go slow anyway and enjoy this moment. I carry on rocking my hips gently, watching
howmuchhelovesmedictatingthepace,pleasurebuildingupinsideofme,andImoan
againsthismouthwhenIcome.

Hesitsupandkissesmeandthenwehalf-rollontothefloor.Ilaughandtrytowriggle

awayfromthewetchampagne,butthenIloseallsenseofmysurroundingswhenhestarts
poundinghardinsideofme.I’mlostinanoceanofecstasy.I’mtryinghardnottoscream;
mylegsareshaking,myhandsbracedagainsthischest,fingernailsdiggingintohisskin.

HeputshishandovermymouthsoIdon’tmakesomuchnoise,theninsteadslipstwo

fingersbetweenmylipsandImoanaroundhisfingers.Somehowhespeedsupandthrusts
inside me even harder. My elbows scrape against the hard rug on the floor, I feel sticky
champagnewetagainstthebackofmyhead,anditfeelslikeI’mburningfromsomuch
friction.

Hecloseshiseyesashefeelsthepressureofhisorgasmbuilding,andwebothbuck

our hips faster, desperate to come. I come when he does, trying not to bite down on his

fingers,andhegroansintomyshoulderashiscockfinishespulsing.

Welieexhaustedonthefloor,stillandpanting.Heopenshiseyesandlooksatmelike

he’slookingatmeanew,maybewonderinghowwegothereandwhathappensnow.I’m
not sure whether guilt will overtake him and he’ll just get dressed quickly and leave, or
whether he’ll be more of a gentleman, think that now we’re having some kind of affair,
andwe’llkissandleavetheroomtogether.

Doeshewantmorethanjusttonight?Toughshit,ifso.NowthatI’vesleptwithhim,

thisgigisover.WhenIgettherestofmymoney,I’moutofhere.Nomoreofficejob,no
more getting up early, no more being bored out of my mind, no creepy Jamal standing
over me, no histrionics from Millie, no more wishing I could flirt so much better than I
actuallycan.

MaybeIshouldfeelguiltyforwhatI’vejustdone,forleadinghimonwhenI’mnot

interested. But he brought this on himself. If he didn’t want to cheat on his wife, Jamal
wouldn’thavecaughthimoncamera,andthenhewouldn’tbeblackmailedorwhateverin
thefuture.

Thomassitsupanddoesn’tsayanythingforawhile.Hejustlooksatmelikehecan’t

figuremeout.Ifeelvulnerablelyingonthedirtyfloor,soIsituptoo.Idon’twanttosay
anythingandneitherdoeshe.Anawkwardsilencefillstheroomandwebothstandupand
getdressedinthequiet.

I’venoideawherehestashestheusedcondom.Whilehefinishesadjustinghisbowtie

in the mirror, I pick up the empty champagne glass from the floor. Miraculously the
champagnehasblendedintothepatternontherug.

Thenheturnsandsimplysays,‘I’mmarried.’

Like, what, he’s only realising this now? Is this his crappy explanation of telling me

thatthisisjustaone-nightstand?

‘It’sfineifyoudon’twantanythingmore.’Ionlyneededtoscrewyouonceanyway.

I’melatedthatthisordealisnearlyover.MaybeI’llgoonholiday.Somewherehotand

sunny; an all-inclusive tropical island paradise where I can relax for a month and figure
out what to do with all of my money. Maybe that’s how I’ll make up with Amelia: I’ll
offertotakeheronholidayanditcanbeherluxuryhenpartybeforeshetiestheknotwith
boringDavid.

Thomaswalksovertomeandsortofclingsontothetopofmyarm,asifhe’spatting

meontheshoulderandabouttotellmethatheranovermycat.NotthatI’veeverowned
acat.‘Idon’tknowwhatIwant.I’msorry,’hesays.

‘That’sokay.’It’smorethanokay,becauseI’mnotinterested.CanIleavenow?

‘I need to figure out what I want,’ he says, frowning, his confused thoughts playing

acrosshisface.

Thenhepullsmetowardshimandkissesme,aslowandgentlekiss,beforereleasing

meagain.

He bites his lip when he thinks about what to say next. ‘I don’t want you to feel

awkwardatwork.Justpretendthatnothinghappenedbetweenus.’

‘Okay.’Thatwon’tbedifficult.ThenIsmile.‘Likebefore.’

Suddenlyalaughingcoupleburstsinonus.They’vedownedtoomuchwineandlook

atusguiltily.

‘Sorry,wrongroom!’thewomanexclaimsandquicklyshutsthedoor.

‘Weshouldgo,’Itellhim,grabbingmyclutchandheadingtowardsthedoor.Iwantto

gohome.AndIwanttoavoidMarkandUrsula.

‘Julianne–’Thomascallsout,andIturnbacktofacehim.Hegrinsstupidlyatmeand

confesses,‘Ican’tgetyououtofmyhead.’

Ismilebackandthenarcissistinmefallsinlove.‘Don’ttryto.’

ThenI’mswingingopenthedoor,avoidingeyecontactwitheveryonetraipsingoutof

theauction,andboltingtowardstheexit.Iweaveinandoutofthecrowd,notcaringwho
anyone is, not having to make idiotic small talk or pretend that I find strangers’
conversationsscintillating.

Atthecloakroom,Ihandmytickettothewomanbehindthedeskandwaitimpatiently

forhertofetchmycoat.Iwaitforseveralminutesinthelarge,coldhallway.It’sfreezing
andIwanttobeoutofhere.Whatthehell’stakinghersolong?

ShouldIcallupforataxi?No,it’dbequickertogetthebus.PlusIdon’twanttohang

aroundherewaitingforataxiwhereMarkcanfindme.

Finally she returns and I slip on my warm burgundy coat, feeling relieved that I’m

going home. I’m about to head out the door when a male voice calls out behind me,
‘Julianne?’

Fuck,toolate.Inearlymanagedtoavoidhimcompletely.

IturnaroundandMarkhurriestowardsme.Atleasthisblondebitchisn’tintow.

IwonderwhetheritlookslikeI’vehadsex.Aremycheeksflushed?Ismyhairmessed

up?IshouldhavecheckedthemirrorbeforeIleft.

MarktriestokissmebutIpullaway,andhefrowns.‘Iknowwhatitlookslike,butI

onlyworkwithUrsula.Shewantedtocometonightandtoutforbusiness.’

Ibetshedid,probablyhopingthatshecouldfuckMarkafterwards.Helookedguilty

earlierandUrsulaisjusthistype.

‘Soyou’veneversleptwithher?’

Herollshiseyesandsighs.‘Once.Aboutayearago.’

Ofcourse,Iwasright.Earlierhisguilttoldmethathewasonadateandgotcaught

out.WhyshouldItrusthimnow?

‘Itwasnothingserious,’hetriestopersuademe.

‘It’sfine,Mark.Youcanseeotherpeople.’Justnotmeanymore.

‘Idon’twanttoseeotherpeople,’hesaysconvincingly,grabbingholdofmyarm.It

soundslikehe’stellingmethetruth,buthowcanItell?

‘I’vegottogo.’

‘Stayforanotherdrink.Thenwecangohome.Together.’

What,doeshewantmeandUrsulatogohomewithhimforathreesome?Hetriesto

kissmeagain,butIstepaway.‘I’mtired.I’vebeenhereforhours.I’mgoinghome.’

Hesighs.‘Okay…Arewestill–?I’mstillseeingyoutomorrownight,yeah?’

Hesmiles,butitlookslikehe’shurtinginside.Good,becauseIamtoo,althoughI’m

notgoingtolethimknowit.

‘Idon’tknow…Ihavetoworklate,’Ilie,headingtowardstheexit.‘I’lltextyou.’

Irushoutthedooranddownthestonesteps.Idon’twanttoseehimagain.

Hedoesn’tfollowmeasIhurrydownthewetstreettowardsthebusstop.Atleastit’s

stoppedraining,butIhavetohitchupmydressandavoidthepuddles.

ItrynottofeeldisgustedwithmyselfbecauseI’vebecomeawhoreofficiallynow.A

fully-fledged ‘I-was-paid-for-sex-once’ prostitute, not just an ‘I-love-having-sex-with-
men’ slut. Why is a woman labelled a slut for sleeping around, whereas a man can call
himselfastud–orworse,an‘eligiblebachelor’?Markwouldcallhimselfthat.Bastard.

AnoldmansitsatthebusstopandsmilesatmewhenIsitdown.Iscowlbackandtry

toignorehim.

ItextJamal:‘Missioncomplete.’

‘Where’veyoubeentonightthen,younglady?’theoldmanasks,tryingtostartupa

conversation.

HowamIsupposedtoreply?‘Ijustwhoredmyselfoutataparty’?

Whatisitwithstupidwankerswhothinkit’sperfectlyacceptabletostartchattingupa

singlewomanwhensheclearlydoesn’twanttobeapproached?Wasmyscowlnotclear
enough?I’mblatantlynotinterestedanddon’twanttobetalkingwithastrangeoldmanat
abusstopinthemiddleofthenight.

‘Pissoff!’Iyellathim,standingupandrunningdownthestreettogetawayfromhim.

I’llcallataxi.Idon’twanttobehoundedbystrangers.

I hate all men right now. I hate Mark, I hate Thomas, I hate Jamal, I hate the

presumptuousbusstopbastardwhothoughtthatIactuallywantedtotalktohim.They’re
allsofuckingselfish,judgingeveryoneandthinkingthatotherpeople’sfeelingsaren’tas
important as theirs, labelling women ‘stupid’ for our fucked-up feelings while they’re
desperatelytryingtorepresstheirs.

Whataboutwhatwewant? Do they ever stop to just ask us what we actually want?

They’resodistractedinlifefiguringoutwhattheywant,whotheyare,whotheywantto
bewith,thattheystopthinkingaboutotherpeopleentirely.

Idon’tknowwhethertobelieveMarkornot.Sure,hemightnothavebeenonadate

tonight, but I don’t know whether he’ll ever stop being a player. Does he want to stop

screwingaroundandjustsettledownwithyourstruly?Iguessit’stoolatetofindoutthe
truth.

Thenagain,whatdoIwant?DoIwanttobewithhim?Notaftertonight.

I’m alone right now. I don’t have family, I don’t have Amelia, I don’t have Mark. I

don’thaveanyoneinmylifewhoItrust.Ionlyhavemyself.

12

T

THEGUILTYPARTY

Thomas

he entire morning I’ve been staring at Julianne’s back, wondering what she’s
thinking.WonderingwhatI’mthinkingtoo.OrwhatIwasthinkinglastnight.Every

sooftensheturnsaroundandsneaksapeekintomyglassfishbowl,andIpretendtobury
myheadinpaperworksoasnottomakeeyecontact.BecauseI’macoward.

Icouldn’tsleeplastnight.Everypossibleconsequenceofwhathappenedattheparty

played out in my brain. I lay alone in my king-sized bed contemplating the end of my
marriage.Or,worse,anendless,lovelessmarriageinwhichI’mtrappedforeverbecauseI
don’thavethegutstoleaveChristine.

Idon’twanttoleaveherthough.Istillloveher.SoIdon’tunderstandwhathappened.

WhydidIhavesexwithJulianne?

Last night I was a different man, someone carefree, bold and unattached. Someone

without inhibitions. Maybe a bit drunk. My whole personality changed and I felt
comfortableinmyownskinforonce.IlikedwhoIwasduringmyspeech:Ihadpurpose;
Iwasmakingadifferenceintheworld.AndIlikedtheattentiontoo(althoughIhateto
admitit)andhoweveryonerespondedtothenewsthatI’mgoingtostandintheelection.

ThentherewasJulianne,standingatthebackofthehall.Shewasdetachedfromthe

rest of the crowd, not realising that she stood out from everyone else. She didn’t look
overly interested in what I said throughout my speech, but she doesn’t hide her feelings
likeIdo;likealmosteveryoneIknowdoes.

In that moment, watching her on the podium as everyone applauded, I froze,

wonderingwhatshewasthinking.Iwashopelesslydistractedbyher.We’dnearlykissed;
didshehavefeelingsforme?Iwasdesperatetoknow.

There’sastrangekindofchemistrybetweenus,andnotjustinmyimagination.When

I’m with her, I don’t feel like a sexless, stupid, ordinary man. I don’t feel alone. I like
whenwesittogetherinsilence,watchingthedarkworldbeforeuswithjadedeyes.Idon’t
knowwhatsheseesinmethough.

Thesexwasgood–morethangood.ItwasinstinctualandIdidn’thavetotryhardto

pleaseher.Ididn’thavetothinkaboutwhatIwasdoing,overanalysingeverysinglesigh,
moanandmovement.It’sraretosharesuchamomentwithsomeone,whenyoubecome
lostinoneanotherandforgettheworldandeverythinginlifethathauntsyou.

I’ve struggled for years to keep my darker side in check. Why shouldn’t I get the

chance to be selfish for one night? Don’t I deserve some happiness? So what if it’s
reckless?Screwtheconsequences;noonewilleverfindout.

Suddenly it was over and the weight of the world came crashing down on my

shoulders once more. I’d enjoyed pretending to be someone else, shirking my
responsibilitiesandwishingthatIledanotherlife,butnowIhadtofacereality.Mymind
floodedwithdoubtsaboutmymarriageandbeingagoodhusband,father,son,employee
andpublicfigure.WhoamI?WhatdoIwant?

Everyone wants to think that they’re a good person, but we all hurt others, whether

intentionallyornot.HowmanypeoplewouldIhurtifthetruthaboutJuliannecameout?

AnemailpingsintomyinboxfromCatalina.Shesaysthatshe’s‘ecstatic’toannounce

that we’ve raised £20,000 for the hospice so far. That makes me feel better. I am doing
goodintheworld.Iorganisedthewholeevent.I’vehelpedsomanykidsandtheirparents
andcarers.

Iwanttotellsomeone.MaybeJulianne?No,Ican’tspeaktoheryet.Myconfidence

fizzlesout.PerhapsJamal?He’snotintodaythough.EarlierItriedcallinghimbutonly
gotthroughtovoicemail.Ilookuptoseewhoelseisintheoffice.

MybrainscreamsatmethatIshouldtellChristine.Shehadtheideaofauctioningoff

thekids’artworkinthefirstplace.Ihaven’tspokentohersinceyesterday;I’mnotsureI
wanttonow.WhenIgothomelastnightItextedhertosaythateverythingwentwell.I
curledupinbedwaitingforhertoreply.Thismorning,asInursedmyhangover,shestill
hadn’ttextedback.

IdialChristine’smobileandshepicksupstraightaway.Ihopethisisn’tgoingtobe

awkward.

‘Hi,honey,’shesayschirpily.‘I’msogladlastnightwentwell.Jamalsentmeavideo

ofyourspeech,anditwasjust…Youwereperfect.’

Ithoughtshe’dstillbesickbutshesoundsabsolutelyfine.Didshefakebeingilljust

togetoutoflastnight?

‘Howareyoufeeling?’Iask,tryingnottosoundsuspicious.

‘So much better! We’ve just made little boats together and the kids are going to try

themoutinthepondafterlunch.’

I’msickwithjealousy,stuckatwork(withnoworktodo)whiletherestofmyfamily

are out vacationing and having fun without me. My father-in-law would have fashioned
theboatsoutofthinpiecesofwoodwhileboastingaboutmakingthem,whereasIhaveno
carpentryskillstospeakof.

‘That’s nice… I just found out that we raised £20,000 last night.’ While Christine’s

dossing,playingwithchildrenandcryingoffsick,I’mraisingthousandsforcharityand
actuallydoingsomethingworthwhilewithmylife.

‘That’samazing!’saysChristine.‘IwishIcouldhavebeenthere…’Well,youweren’t.

‘Ijustwantedtoletyouknow.I’vegottogetbacktoworknow–I’vegotameeting,’

Ilie.

‘Okay. Love you.’ She doesn’t bother waiting for me to say it back, hanging up and

leavingmetomyowndevicesoncemore.

I sigh and look around the office. Several bland administrators tap away on their

keyboards. Watching over them like hawks are the self-important managers, who flit
around and flap their arms about boring policies, metrics and content management
systems,obsessingoverresultssotheycangettheirannualsalarybump.Idon’twantto
behere.There’snothingforme.

I’mgoingtobunkoffagain.I’llpretendthatI’vegotanoff-sitemeetingallafternoon,

wandersomewherebymyselfandgrabsomelunchinoneofthethousandsofgastropubs
thatkeeppoppingupacrossLondon.Ifancyfishandchipsandapint.

Switching off my laptop, I put on my coat then bung my laptop in its case, which I

swingovermyshoulder.Itrynottosmileatthefactthatitshouldn’tbesoeasyformeto
leaveworkthisearly,butnoonewillquestionme.

‘I’vegotanoff-sitemeetingthisafternoon,’ItellJuliannehurriedly.

Itrytomakeaswiftexit,butshecallsoutbehindme,‘HaveyouseenJamal?’

Damn,shesaiditloudlyenoughformetoturnaround.Iputonablank,emotionless

expressionwhenIfaceher.

‘Sorry,no.’I’mforcedtolookherintheeye,butit’snotasbadasIthoughtitwould

be.‘Ijusttriedcallinghim:voicemail.He’sprobablyinameeting.’Likehealwaysis,or
claimstobe.

‘Okay,thanks.’Shesoundsdisappointed.

An awkward silence stretches between us, before I say, ‘Right, I’d better get off.’ I

makeeverythingworsewithmydoubleentendre.

‘Yeah…Seeyoutomorrow.’

Ipullahalf-arsedsmilethenruntowardsstairs,rushingtowardstheexitinsearchof

freedom.Finally,I’veescapedfromtheawkwardnessofthemorningafter.

IthoughtthatI’dbeabletoescapetheoffice,butpeoplestartedcallingmeup.HRrang,
wonderingwhereJamalis,whichisabitworrying.Ihaven’tseenhimallday.ThenTrish
phoned to say that she’d missed me earlier, and she gabbled on that last night was
‘fantastic’andnowshehasameetingwithoneofthefirmsmyfather’sfriendmanages,
which is great for business, yada, yada… After hanging up, I felt flustered. She’d just
wastedmyvaluabletime:thirtyfuckingminutes.

Ididn’tmakeittoagastropubintheend.MainlybecauseIdidn’twanttowalkinto

oneandeatalonewhileeveryoneelsearoundmewassharingtheirfoodwithfamilyand
friends.Instead,Iorderedadisappointingsandwichinasmalldeliandfedonehalftothe
flockofpigeonswhodescendedonmeafterIwalkedoutside.

There’safinedrizzleintheair,butIcan’tbebotheredtoputupmyumbrella.Mycoat

absorbstherain.Amblingalong,IrealisethatI’mheadingtowardstheparkbenchthatI

satonwithJuliannetheotherday.I’mretracingmysteps,perhapswishingtogobackin
time.

Reachingthebench,Istandinfrontofitandwonderwhethertositdown.Thewooden

seatiswetandthere’spigeonpooonthesidewhereIsatpreviously.Theshitrepresents
howI’mfeeling,guiltswirlingaroundinmystomach.

Iplonkmybumdownontheothersideofthebenchandlookupatthetall,leafless

trees.Theydon’tseemasmajesticastheotherday.Nothingdoes.Theskyiscolourless
and the grass muddy. Maybe I saw everything through a different lens last week: I was
wearingbeergoggles,orratherwineglasses.OrJulianneaffectedmemorethanIthought.

AphoneringsandIlookaround,wonderingwhosemobileitis.Ican’tseeanyoneelse

though.ThenIrealisethatit’sthephoneAngusgavemetheotherday,whichI’vehidden
inmylaptopbag.It’sanunknownnumber.

‘Hello?’

‘Thomas! Hi. I had a great time last night.’ It’s Angus on the other end, sounding

patronisingasever.Fortunately,Ididn’tseehimaftermyspeechlastnight–Ididn’thave
toendureanothercringe-worthyone-to-one.‘Ipoppedbyyouroffice,butyouweren’tin.
Isitpossibletomeetthisafternoon?’

IwanttosaythatI’mbusyandinameeting,butI’mnotsurewhetherhecanhearthe

pigeonsinthebackground.Andwhoknows,maybehe’strackingmymovementsviaGPS
onthisphone.‘I’vejustcomeoutofameeting,soI’mfreenow.’

‘Great!’Angussays.‘Shallwemeetattheclubinsayhalfanhour?’

‘Yes,sure.’God,I’vebunkedoffworkonlytomeetupwithAngus:fromoneboring

placetoanother.

‘Super.Seeyousoon,’hesays,hangingup.

Maybe this is it: I’ll learn about my ‘next steps’ now, whatever they are. I doubt

whether Angus will allow me to walk my first steps alone though. He’ll be watching
closelyovermyshoulderlikeanover-bearingparent.

‘Hi,Thomas,’Angusgreetsmeinthesmallmeetingroomwesatintheotherday.‘Please,
takeaseat.’

Mypulseisracing,whetherfromthewalktotheclubortheneedtoescapethisroom,

orrathertoescapeAngus.‘Thanks.’

AsetofteaandcoffeesitsinfrontofmetodayandIgratefullypouroutahotcoffee

andstirinsomemilk.It’slovelyandwarminhere,andIhopeit’snottooapparentthat
I’vebeenwallowingintherainoutside.

‘Iwanttotalktoyoutodayaboutsomethingquiteserious,’Angussays.

Iputmycupdownandmentallybracemyselfforwhatwillcomenext.

‘YouneedtostopseeingJulianne,’hetellsme.

Shit.Howdidhefindout?Hashebeenspyingonme?

‘Therearepeoplewhowantyoutofail,whowanttoendyourcareer.Youcan’tgive

themanyammunition.’

Ican’tfullytakeinwhathe’ssayingtome.Noonesawuslastnight,sohowthehell

didhefindout?DidJuliannetellhim?Whywouldshethough?

‘I’ve just found out that Jamal’s been working against you, and I think Julianne’s

workingforhim,’hecontinues.

‘Jamal?’

‘Yes.’

Hebetrayedme?Ofcourseitwasn’tafuckingcoincidence:ItoldhimaboutJulianne

andthensheturnedupatmyoffice.Howmuchishepayingher?Washerfuckingmelast
nightallpartoftheirplantoo?Nowonderhe’sgonemissingnowandHRcan’tcontact
him.Ifeelsick,coffeecloggingmythroat.

‘Thomas,youneedtoendthingswithher.’

Inodwearily.‘Itwasonlyaone-timething.’

I spiral back into the depths of knowing that I’m unlovable. Not that Julianne ever

lovedme,andIdidn’tloveher,butIlovedtheideathatsomeoneelsefoundmeattractive,
andIsharedpartofmyselfwithherbecauseIthoughtthatsheunderstoodmeandwhatI
wanted.NowIknowthateverysinglesecondspentwithherwasalie.

Idon’twanttobelievewhatAngushastoldme.Whatifhe’smakingitup?Butwhy

wouldhelieifhe’sgoingtoinvestsomuchinmycampaign?

Then again, it could be that Jamal and Julianne have been working for Angus all

along,andhewantedtogetdirtonmetoblackmailmeyearsfromnowwhenIdecidenot
todowhathewants.MaybethisisallpartofAngus’nefariousschemesohecankeepme
onhissideforever.Doeshehaveavideoorphotosoflastnight?WhatifChristinefinds
out?

‘Promisemethatyou’llstayawayfromJulianneandJamal,’Angusrequests.‘Iknow

thatyouworktogether,butyouwon’thavetoformuchlonger.’

‘Yes,ofcourse…’

‘Don’tworry.Thiswon’tcomeout.I’llmakesureofit.’

‘How?’Iask,worriedthathewon’tbeableto.And,asmuchasIwanttohurtthem

rightnow,Idon’twantJulianneandJamaltocometoanyharm…Isthisreallyallabout
politics?

‘Ijustwill,’comeshiscrypticreply,asifnooneeverquestionswhathesays.

‘Idon’twantthemgettinghurt.’

‘No,ofcoursenot.Don’tworry.’

HowcanhetellmenottoworrywhenIdon’tknowwhatthefuckisgoingon?

Itrytocalmdown,pickingupmycoffeeagainanddowningtherest.Iwanttogetout

ofhere.Iwanttoclearmyhead.

‘At least we found out now,’ Angus tries to reassure me. ‘And this won’t affect

anything–we’restillbackingyou.’

‘Whoelseknows?’

‘Only those who need to know. We want to protect you. That’s why I’m telling you

this.’

That’snotwhyhe’stellingmethis.‘Onlythosewhoneedtoknow’–howmanypeople

isthat?

ThewholeofLondonisrunbycronieslikeAnguswhotradesecretsformorepower

andmoney.Ashadyuber-elitesitindarkroomsbarkingoutorderstopoorfoolslikeme.
The slimy snakes love to capitalise on other people’s mistakes, stupidity and fear. They
runthecountryanonymouslywhileordinarypeoplelikemearenonethewiser.

I’mtheirpuppetnowandI’llhavetodotheirbiddingorelsethetruthaboutmyaffair

will come out. My family would be devastated by the news, my marriage and career
ruined.Thethreatofthetruthwillloomovermefortherestofmylife.

I’msittinginthecarstaringupatmyin-laws’house:atypicalGeorgiancountrysidehome
setinstonewithsashwindowsandawell-kemptlawnsurroundedbybordersofcrocuses
and daffodils. The sky keeps turning a shade darker, the sun having sunk beneath the
horizonhalfanhourago,whichblindedmeasItravelledupthemotorway.

I wanted to escape London and its dirt and grimy people, to run away from my

politicalpredicament,frommyawfulmomentofweaknessandthefactthatIwasplayed
bypeopleItrusted.

I thought about texting or calling Julianne to ask, ‘How could you do this to me?’ I

longed to do something to dissipate my anger, to confront her and find out why she’d
fuckedme(wasitreallybecauseshewasbeingpaid?).ItoldAngusI’dstayawayfrom
herthough,andIdon’twanttoembarrassmyselfanyfurther.Mythoughtsspiralledand
twistedtogetheronmydriveover.

NowIcanseewhyChristinewantedtocomehereforhalf-term.Sometimesyouonly

realiseyouneedabreakwhenyouleaveyournormal,everydaylifebehind;whenyoucan
lookbackoveryourshoulderatthelastfewmonthsandrecogniseyourmonotonouslife
turnedeverysinglecolourtogrey.

I’ve been treading water for months, if not years, hoping for change and to feel

‘different’fromhowIfeelnow.That’swhyIchosetoenterpolitics,Iguess,butmaybe
nothing will ever change. Maybe I’ll always feel this way, depressed and lonely,
wonderingwhetherthere’smoretolifethanthis.Idon’twantthetruthtocomeoutabout
me:thatI’mlivingalie,unsureofmyself,whatIwantandwhatthefuturewillbring.

Steppingoutofthecar,Ifeelahorridsenseofdreadinmystomachmixedwithguilt

and shame, which I don’t think will ever leave me. Christine appears in the doorway

(maybeshesawmycar)andsherunstowardsme,smilingandsayingthatthisissucha
surprise.Shethrowsherarmsaroundmeandshe’shappiernowthanshewasbefore,back
athome;she’shadabreakfrommeandtheCity.

IkissherwarmlipsandrealisethatIneverwanttolethergo,Ineverwanttoleave

her,andIlovehersomuchthatithurts.IthurtsmorebecauseIknowthatIdidsomething
tojeopardiseourmarriageandourfuturehappiness.I’llneverdoitagain.

DaniandBethrunoutofthehouse,screaming,‘Daddy!’Thisismyfamilyandthey

meaneverythingtome.HuggingChristine,Inestlemyheadagainsthersandmurmur,‘I
missedyou.’

Sometimes it only takes a single event, one single mistake, to throw your life into

perspective and make you realise that actually you’re quite lucky and you should be
gratefulforeverythingthatyoudohave:health,wealth,familyandlove.

13

T

THEDISCOVERY

Julianne

oday’swordofthedayis:awkward.

Thomasmerelysaid‘hi’tomethismorningwhenhewalkedintotheoffice.Noeye

contact,nosecretsmile,nocovered-upsemiwhenherememberedwhatwedidlastnight.
He’sfulfilledhisdaydreamsoffuckinghissecretaryandnowI’mworthlesstohim,onlya
tragicreminderofhisone-time-onlysexualindiscretion.

Isatwithmybacktohimtheentiremorning,feelingasifhewasbreathingdownmy

neck,angrythathecouldn’tevenbebotheredtoaskhowIwas.Iwaswrongabouthim;
he’smorelikemyexesthanIrealised:aselfishbastardwhoonlycaresabouthimselfand
hisdick.

EverysooftenIglancedbacktoseewhetherhewasstaring,andtwiceIcaughthim

looking out at me through his self-made glass prison. I was tempted to do something to
freakhimout,likelookup‘sexualharassmentintheworkplace’,zoominonaheadline
andleaveituponmyscreenwhileIwenttohideinthephotocopierroomandcheckon
myphoneforthezillionthtimetoseewhetherIhadanymissedcallsfromJamal.

Ihaven’tspokentoJamalsincelastnight.Ihaven’tseenhimeither.Hasheseenmy

sextape?Isthereasextape?Hedidn’tshowupforworktodayandnooneknowswhere
heis.

Whatifhe’stakenallofmymoneyfrommybankaccountanddonearunner,leaving

mepennilessandvowingtokillhimifIeverfindhim?Whatifhedoesn’tpaymetherest
ofmymoney?I’dhavetohireaPItotrackhimdownandfindmystolencash,thengeta
hitmantotortureandkillhimmercilessly.Wheredoesonegotofindsuchmen(orpeople,
tobemorepoliticallycorrect–Idoubttherewouldbemuchsexualdiscriminationinthe
assassinationbusinessthough)?I’dhavetoaskaround.Ameliamightknow;maybeshe’s
workedwithafewshadyfreelancers.Idon’treallyknowwhatshedoes–somethingtodo
withfinancialsettlementsandlawyering?

LastnightImanagedtogetthroughtoAmeliaandcrieddownthephonethatsheat

leastowedmeafinalgoodbyeifshewasgoingtodumpmewhenwe’vebeenfriendsfor
overadecade.Iwasinarightstate,unashamedlycryinginthebackofmytaxi,thedriver
lookingatmewithanimmenseamountofpityinhisrear-viewmirrorwhilebeingsmart
enough not to ask me anything in case I had a go at him too. Through my sobs I told
AmeliathatIwasthroughwithmen,IwantedtokillMark,Iwasgoingtobecomeanun
oralesbianorgetfuckedondrugsfortherestofmylifeuntilanoverdosekilledme.

Ameliatold me notto be sostupid and that she’dsee me tonightat our usual place.

That’s where I’m heading right now (the bar down the street from her office), worried
about what I’ll do if I bump into Mark again. Kick him in the nuts, push him off the
pavementintoanoncomingtruck,stabhiminhisice-coldheart?No,I’llprobablypretend
toignorehimandhurrypast.Hopefullyhe’llnoticemeandforeverhatehimselfbecause
hewasblankedbytheone-and-only,amazingly-wonderfulJulianneCarrellandhe’slost
outonhischancetoeverhavesexwithmeagain.

Ineedsomeonenewinmylife.Intruth,Idon’tthinkIcouldbealesbian:Idon’tfeel

thesamekindofchemistrytowardswomenasIdoformen,andI’dreallysuckatbeing
gaybecauseofthat.Ihatemyselfforfallingforfucked-upselfishpricksthoughandnot
caringthattheydon’tcarebecausetheytemporarilymakemeforgetthatI’maloneinthis
cityandinmythirties.Sexwithincompatiblemenislikeabandageyouwraparoundyour
head so as not to hear your inner thoughts screaming at you that you’re boring, no one
likesyouandyou’regoingtodiealone.

Iorderabottleofredandtwoglassesthensitdownatourusualtable.JamalandMark

better not fucking interrupt us tonight. My feet kill again from walking to and from my
stupidoffice–whencanIescapethathellhole?Islipoffmyshoes,wrigglemytoesand
finallyfeellifecreepingbackintothemagain.

Waiting by myself for Amelia to finish work, I scroll through my newsfeed on my

phone.ThenatextpopsupfromMark:‘Arewestillonfortonight?Iwanttomakeupto
youforlastnight.’Well,toughshit,becausethatisn’tgoingtohappen.

I ignore his message, put my phone on silent, and decide to people-watch instead of

staring at social media. There’s an old guy with a beard nursing his beer, somehow
managingnottodunkhisfrizzyfacialhairintohisglass.Twochavvyladsarepissedand
coming on to a couple of professional-looking women in suits, who cringe at their
embarrassingpredicamentanddowntherestoftheirwhitewinespritzers,wantingtoget
outofhereASAP.

Growingbored,IpickupmyphoneagainanddecidetotextJamal:‘Wherethefuck

areyou?Iwantoutofthisjobnow!’

As I hit send, Amelia appears in the doorway. I don’t know how to greet her: an

uncomfortable‘Ihopethisisn’tawkward’hello,an‘I’mreallysorryforeverything’hug,
oranonchalant‘pleasecaneverythinggobacktonormalnow’smile?Shedecidesforme,
givingmeapitifullookandcomingovertohugme.

‘I’ve decided to forgive you,’ she tells me, sitting down. ‘God, I’ve had a long day.’

Shepoursherselfaglass,sitsbackandevaluatesme.‘Youlooklikeshit.’

I feel like crying again, tears welling up like last night. I try to blink them back and

pretendtolooknormal.‘LastnightIcaughtMarkwithsomeblondebitchcalledUrsula.’

Amelialooksguiltythentakesanothersipbeforeadmitting,‘Hetoldme.’

‘Whatdoyoumean,“Hetoldyou?”’

‘Hewasactingweirdallday.Justnowhecameintomyofficeandtoldmeaboutlast

nightandaskedmewhattodo.’

‘Whatdidyousay?’

‘Totextyou.Andthatyoumightwanttoseehimlater.’

‘That’s not going to happen!’ I tell her, sitting back in my seat and sighing in

frustration.

I guzzle down the rest of my glass. Maybe if I get really drunk I’ll forget the last

coupleofweekseverhappenedandmylifecanreturntonormal.

‘Ididn’trealisethatthetwoofyouwereserious,’saysAmelia.

‘We’renot.It’sover.’

It’s Amelia’s turn to sigh. ‘As pissed off as I am with you, I know you and I know

Mark.AndIknowUrsula.’

Oh,God,sheknowsUrsula?‘Issheabitch?Oranidiot?Doesshehaveathirdnipple

orwebbedfeet?’

Ameliafrownsdisapprovinglybutthenreconsiders.‘Sheisabitofabitch.’

MyfacefallsbecauseIhateMarkforsleepingwithherifshe’sabitch.

Ameliatriestocheermeup.‘Marksaidthatheonlysleptwithheronceaboutayear

ago. Which I really didn’t want to know… But I believe him. He likes you. I’ve never
seenhimlookso…useless.Iactuallythoughtthathemightbeondrugstoday.’

‘Maybeheis.’

Maybehe’smoreguttedatlosingmethanIthoughtandhe’stakentocokeorherointo

numbhispain.MaybehedeservesasecondchanceandIwasbeingparanoidaboutUrsula
because she looks like an airbrushed fashion model and made me feel like I was ugly,
worthlessandidioticforfallingforMark.AndmaybethisisaboutmorethanjustMark,
andI’mupsetatThomasandwhatIhadtodolastnightandthatIcan’ttellanyoneabout
it.

‘Maybe…’saysAmelia.‘Ormaybeyoujusthavethateffectonhim?’

Amelia’sbeingkindtomeandIhateherforitbecauseIwasshittyfornottellingher

aboutMark.I’msogladthatshe’smadeupwithmethough.Idon’twanttoevernottell
hersomethingagain.Apartfromthefucked-upthingthatIhadtodolastnight,whichI
reallycan’ttellherabout.

‘I’mhavingdinnerwithDavidtonight,’shetellsme.‘Solet’shaveonemoredrinkand

comeupwithsomethingtotellMark.’

‘Idon’twanttosayanythingtohim.’

Ameliasighsatmeagain.‘Youtwoareperfectforeachother.He’sbesotted.Forsome

strangereason.’

Iputonafakepout.‘It’snotthatstrangethathehappenstolikeme.’

ThenIsmileandrealisethateverythingisbacktonormalbetweenus,andshe’sstill

mybestfriendandIloveherforforgivingme.

I pick up my phone and start texting Mark, reading aloud to Amelia: ‘Can we meet

later?Weneedtotalk.’

‘Don’tsendthat!That’san“I’mgoingtobreakupwithyou”text.’

‘Oh,shit…MaybeIshouldmakehimsweatthoughandworryaboutwhatI’mgoing

tosay.’

‘Don’tbeabitch!’laughsAmelia.

‘Fine…’Ideletemypreviousmessageandwriteanother:‘Canwemeetuplater?’

‘Yeah,justsendthat,’Ameliatellsme.‘Now,weneedtotalkaboutmywedding…’

Ohcrap,andsoitbegins.NowI’llhavetoenduredetailedplanning,discussionsabout

colourpalettes,dates,dresses,theguestlistandhowmuchAmeliahateshermother.It’sa
longroadaheadandIhopetoGodthatshe’sthinkingofgettingmarriedsoon.

Marktextsbackandaskstomeetmeathisat10pm,soIheadbacktominetograbsome
dinnerandquicklyshavemylegs.IfeelhappynowthatI’vemadeupwithAmelia.And
it’snicetoknowthatMarkprobablyisn’tseeingotherwomenbehindmyback.Probably.
Istilldon’ttrusthimone-hundredpercent.

WhenI’mrunningabath,myphoneringsintheotherroom.ItbetternotbeMarkto

saythathe’schangedhismind.Nope,it’sJamal.

‘Aboutfuckingtime.Wherethehellhaveyoubeen?’Iaskhim.

‘Sorry.I’monmywayover.’

‘Now?’

‘Yeah,I’llbethereintenminutes.’

Then the bastard hangs up and I stare at my half-run bath and realise that there’s no

point running any more water. I pull the plug and head back into the bedroom to get
dressedagain.

Fiveminuteslater,Jamalknocksonmydoor.Iswingitopenandglareathim.He’s

sweating like he’s got a fever, which is odd because normally he looks picture perfect
everysingletimeIseehim.

‘Didyourunhere?’Iask.

HewalksinsideandIshutthedoorbehindhim.Hegoesovertomysinkandpours

himselfaglassofwaterthennecksthewholelotdown.

‘That’sbetter,’hesays,sighing.‘Now,thisisn’tgoingtobegoodnews.’

Ibracemyselfforhimtellingmethathecan’tgettherestofmymoneytogether,so

mywhoringlastnightwasallfornothing.

Thenhelooksaroundatmyflatandrealisessomething.Hegoesbacktothedoorand

opensit.‘Grabyourcoat.Let’sgoforawalk.’

‘What?Wheredoyouwanttogo?Ihaveplanstonight.’

‘Forfuck’ssake…Justwalkwithmeforfiveminutes.Comeon!Getyourcoat.’

Isighbutpickupmyjacket,phoneandkeys,thensliponsomeshoes.MaybeJamal

doesn’twanttosayanythingherebecauseofallthecamerasthathe’sprobablyhiddenin
everysingleroom.

HeboundsdownthestairsandIhurrytokeepupwithhim.Outsideit’sfreezingand

thewindblowsmyhairintomyface.

‘Thevideowascrap,’Jamaltellsmeaswestartdownthestreet.‘Itwastoodarkand

allofthefootagewasblurrysoIcouldn’tevenmakeoutThomas.’

‘Whatthefuck?’Whathe’sjusttoldmesinksinlikeabulletthat’shitmehardinthe

chest.‘Youhadonejobtodolastnightandyoufuckeditup?’

Thisisanever-endingnightmare.There’snowaythatI’mgoingtodothisagain.He’ll

justhavetoeditwhathehas.SurelyhecansharpentheimagestomakeoutThomas’face?
There’ssoftwaretodothatnowadays,isn’tthere?

‘I tested the cameras out beforehand, but with the lights on,’ he explains. ‘I’ve been

throughallthefootagetodaytoseewhetherIcangetanythingoutofit,andIcan’t.It’s
notmyfaultthatyoudidn’tturnthefuckinglightson.’

‘Youdidn’ttellmethatIneededto!Jesus,thisisajoke.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he tells me. He looks genuinely worried, which makes me nervous and

wonderagainwhyhelookssoawful.

‘I’mnotdoingitagain,’Itellhim.‘IdidwhatyouaskedandnowI’mout.Hedoesn’t

wanttosleepwithmeagainanyway.Hedidn’tevenlookatmetoday.’

‘Julianne,youhaveto.’

‘No,Idon’t!’

Jamalstopswalking,screwshiseyesshutandshakeshisheadindisbelief.‘Iworkfor

somereallyfucked-uppeople,okay?They’renotpleasedaboutthis.IknowIfuckedup
withthevideo,butifyouwanttostayalive,youneedtodothis.You’vesleptwithhim
once;it’sjustonemoretime.’

‘Why would they kill me over this?’ I ask him. ‘What the hell have you got me

involvedin?’

Jamal ignores my questions as an old couple walking their dog slowly strolls past.

Then he says, ‘I think someone’s onto me. Onto us. We’ve got to be more careful from
nowon.’

‘I’m out,’ I repeat, hoping that I’m getting through. ‘I don’t want to sleep with him

again.Itwasbadenoughthefirsttime.’

‘Really?Youlookedlikeyouenjoyedittome,’hesayswithanastyglintinhiseye.

‘Fuckoff!’Iyellathim,andturnaroundtoheadbackhome.

‘Julianne!’ He grabs my arm. ‘Please, listen to me. These people are dangerous and

youdon’twanttopissthemoff.’

‘Idon’tevenknowwhotheyare.Theyshouldn’tbepissedoffwithmebecauseIdid

myjob.Ididwhatyouasked,okay?’AndIhatemyselfforitnow.

Hesighs.‘Okay…I’llcallyoutomorrow.GointotheofficelikenormalandI’lltryto

figuresomethingout.’

‘Youbetter,’Itellhim,shakinghishandoffme.

I can’t believe him. I can’t believe that I’m stuck in this stupid, shitty situation. My

pimphasfailedmeandnowitsoundslikehe’sintroublewithhisboss.Maybethey’lljust
killhimandthatwillbetheendofthisfuckingtragicstory.

Ismokedsomeweedinthebathtotrytocalmdown,butitdidn’thelpatall.Iendedup
sobbingandthesplifffellfrommylips,burningmyleg.QuicklyIscoopeditoutofthe
water,stubbeditoutonthesideofthebathforgoodmeasureandflickeditovertheedge
ontothefloor.ThenIlitupanother.

That’sprobablywhyIfeelsofuckingweirdwhenIstepuptoMark’sbuzzerandpress

thebutton.Myhead’spounding,butatleastthepartofmybrainthat’sbeenfreakingout
abouteverythingrecentlyissubduedfornow.

A couple hand-in-hand walk out of the building and I make a grab for the door,

smiling at them in a way that suggests that I live here. They frown at me but carry on
walking.DoIstillstinkofweed?ButIwashedmyhair.

UpintheelevatorIgo,reachingMark’sfloor:thetopfloor.Irememberexactlywhere

togo,feelingasifI’minadreamorhavingdéjàvu.IknockonhisdoorandpraythatI’m
nottoofuckeduptoholdanormalconversation.Whatever‘normal’isanymore.

Mark opens the door, dressed in an untucked white shirt and beige suit trousers. No

tie;barefeet;he’stheperfectembodimentofcomfortrightnow.He’swhatIneed.

Ikisshimbeforehecansayanything,stumblingintohishallway.Healmosttripson

somethinglyingonthefloor.

‘What’sthis?’heasks,pickingitup.

It’saplainbrownpaperfolder.Istareatitandwonderwhyitlookssofamiliar.ThenI

realise.ItrytograbitoutofMark’shands.

‘Mark,giveittome!’

‘Whatisit?Didyoujustputitundermydoor?’

‘No!God,no.Justgiveittome.Please!’

Hefrowns,wonderingwhyIlooksoworried.Thentheidiotopensitandaseriesof

black and white photographs falls out onto the floor. There I am, high as a kite, staring
downatmyblurrednakedbodywrappedaroundThomaslastnight,mydresscoveredin
littleredflowerspoolednexttous.

PushingMarkoutoftheway,Igrabatthephotos,pickingupeverylastone,hopingto

GodthatMarkhasn’tseenthemordoesn’tknowwhattheyare.ThenIlookupathimand

he’sglancingdownatthefolderandtheonedamnphotothatdidn’tdropontothefloor.A
photowhereI’mstraddlingThomasonthesofa,ridinghimslowly,lookingdownathim
andsmiling.IgrabitoutofMark’shandsandclosethefolderaroundallofthephotosso
hecan’tseethemanymore.

‘IswearIdidn’tputthoseunderyourdoor,’Itellhim.

‘Whodid?’heasks,shockedbywhathe’sseen.

I can’t tell him. I can’t tell him anything. I can’t be here and I can’t have this

conversationwithhim.ResponsibleadultthatIam,Iturnandrunwiththefolderclutched
tightlyinmyhand,dartingdownthestairsinsteadoftakingtheelevator.

‘Julianne?’Markyellsoutbehindme,hisvoiceechoingdownthecorridor.

Ihearhimbehindme,pullingopenthedoortothestairwellandfollowingmedown

thestairs,butIcarryonrunning,allthewaydowntothebottom.

I’mgaspingforbreathasIslammyhandagainstthebuttontoopenthedoor.Ineedto

get out of here. Mark can’t know what happened last night. He can’t know what I did.
Becausehe’dhatemeforit,likeIhatemyself.

OutsideIrundownthestreetandspotataxidrivingtowardsme.Irunintothemiddle

oftheroadandflagthedriverdown.

‘Whatthefuck?Areyoucrazy?Whyareyoustandinginthemiddleoftheroad?’the

driveryellsatme.

Iscrambleintothecabandyellathim,‘Go!Please,justgo!’

Then I see Mark running down the street in bare feet towards us, looking angry and

wavingatusnottodriveoff.

‘Shit,lady,Idon’tknowwhatyou’vedone,’thedrivertellsme.

I don’t think that he’s going to pull away but then suddenly he accelerates down the

streetandwedrivepastMarkholdinghisarmsopenandscreamingatme,‘Julianne!’

ThiswillhavetobethelasttimethatIseeMark.Ican’tseehimuntilthisshitwith

Jamalisover.AndI’mgoingtokillJamalforwhathe’sjustdonetome.Markmaynever
talktomeagain,andIcan’ttellhimthetruthaboutwhyhereceivedthosephotos.Forthe
secondnightinarowIburstintotearsinthebackofaLondoncab.

14

D

THECONFRONTATION

Julianne

ay eight of the tedious office job and life’s still one long and boring rollercoaster.
Or,tobemoreprecise,aslowchildren’steacupride.

Jamaldidn’tcomeinagainandHRareonthecasetohunthimdown.ThismorningI

wasquizzedbytwoairheadcompanydroneswhoaskedwhetherI’dheardfromhiminthe
lastcoupleofdays.Withwideeyesandafakeworriedexpression,Iliedthroughmyteeth
andsaidthatIhadn’theardfromhimatallandIhopedthathewasokay.Itoldthemthis
whilefantasisingaboutsmashinginhisskullthenexttimehedaredtocrossmypath.

I’vetriedcallingthebastard,leavingvoicemailaftervoicemailabouthowmuchIhate

him,askingwhyhedecidedtocomeandfuckupmylifeaweekago,andwhatrightdid
he have to send Mark those photos? What the hell is wrong with him? Did his parents
repeatedlydrophimonhisheadwhenhewasababy?ThelasttimeItriedcallingthere
wasn’tavoicemailmessageanymore;insteadablandroboticvoicetoldme,‘Thenumber
youhavedialledisnolongerinservice.Pleasecheckthenumberandtryagain.’Itriednot
tothrowmyphoneacrosstheroominafitofrage.

TodayisthelastdayI’mcomingintothisoffice,I’vedecided.I’vehaditwithJamal.

Hecangotohell.Hecangoaheadandkillmefornotdoingashesays,orgetsomeone
elseinhisnefarious(andprobablyfictional)organisationtodoitforhim.

IselectalloftheemailsinmyinboxandThomas’(hehasn’tbotheredtoshowupfor

workeitherthismorning)andthenmassdeletethem,somytimeisn’twastedanymoreby
idiotic simpletons who have nothing better to do with their time than send me
uninterestingmessages.Reducingmyadministrativeburdenmakesmefeelwonderfuland
Igetupandmakemyselfacelebratorycupofcoffee,intowhichI’llpouravastamountof
whiskyfromthehipflaskI’vesmuggledintotheoffice.

Millieskipsintothekitchenetteandsmilesinanelyatme,handsbehindherbacklike

shecan’tcontainherexcitementanymoreandwantstoannouncethatshe’swonthelottery
orit’sherbirthdayanddaddydearesthasboughtheraPorsche.Iforcemyselfnottosay
anythingtoburstherbubble.Popandherwholebodywoulddeflateandshe’dgosailing
out of the window, which has been cracked open to prevent the stench of the bin from
contaminating the entire office. The smell might have been caused by me this morning
when I decided to remove all of the out-of-date items in the fridge, throwing them
aggressivelyintothebininordertosimplywedgeatinycartonofmilkintothedoor.How
IwishedthatIcouldchuckthefoodatcertaincolleaguesinstead.

‘Guesswhat?’Millieasks,andIwanttothrowmyhotcoffeeinherfaceforbeingso

irritatingyetcute.

‘Youkilledyourboyfriend?Thenyoudecidedtodonatehisbodytomedicalresearch

sothattheycandissecthimandstudywhyallmenaresuchfucktards?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ she laughs hysterically, sounding like a bird who’s trying to escape

fromacat’sclaws.Foreveryreasonknowntoman,I’mthecattyonetoday.

‘Well…?’Iask,tryingnottosoundanymoreannoyedthanIactuallyam.

‘Idumpedhisarse!’shealmostscreamsinmyface,followedbymorelaughter.‘Can

youbelieveit?Ididexactlyasyousuggested.Ieventhrewhisclothesdownthestairsinto
the hallway. And then I stuck a cabinet in front of the door so he couldn’t get in last
night!’

Okay, so this news actually does fill me with a minuscule amount of joy and pride.

NowMilliewon’tbetakenadvantageofbyhershittyboyfriendwho,bythesoundofit,
doesfuckallapartfromsleeparoundbehindherback.

‘I’mimpressed,’Itellher.Idon’tshowerherinpraiseincaseshe’sfurtherbuoyedby

hernewly-foundself-confidenceanddecidestomarchdownstairsandhaveagoatHRfor
notgivingherthepayrisethattheypromisedhertwoyearsago.‘Howdoyoufeel?’Asif
Icouldn’ttellfromherslightlymanicexpression.

‘I feel amazing!’ she exclaims. ‘And I just went downstairs and demanded that HR

givemethatpayriseorelseI’mgoingtoquit.’

Oh, too late. Millie still works in predictable ways. ‘You shouldn’t be overly

demandingthough,youknow?’Icautionher.‘Afterall,you’llhavetopaymorerentnow
that…Jonathanisoutofthepicture.’Ithinkhisname’sJonathan.

‘Yeah,you’reright…Thankyouforeverything.’Suddenlyshehugsmetightlyandit

feels oddly comforting. I wish I could share all of my fucked-up problems with her as
well.Shecouldhelpmeoutbygivingmeusefuladviceonhowtoescapethecountryor
bysewinganinvisibleblanketintowhichIcoulddisappearfortherestofmylife.

As she skips back to her desk, I stare at her and yearn to be that young and naïve

again. Only in her twenties, the rest of her life is stretched out for miles in front of her,
whereasIonlyhavedaystoliveifJamal’sthreatsaretobebelieved.Hopefullyhe’llkill
me quickly. Or maybe he’ll just withdraw all of the money from my bank account as
punishment,andI’llremainabitchypauperfortherestofmyyears.AtleastI’dbealive
though.

Tiny granules float on top of my black coffee and I try to stir them in. They don’t

dissolveandIgiveup,pouringatsunamiofmilkovertheminstead.Ipickupmymugand
thinkthatI’llskipbacktomydesktoo.I’lltrytocopyMilliefromnowonandpretend
thatIdon’thaveacareintheworld.Andit’stimeforwhisky!

Buttheneverythingturnstoshit:IspotMarkwalkingintotheofficefromacrossthe

room.Mymugnearlyfallstothefloor.Icatchitjustintime,buthotcoffeesloshesallthe
waydownmynewwhiteblouse.Fuck,whyishehere?

Markseesmeandmarchesover.Helookspissed.Idon’tknowwhattodo.Idecideto

staredownatmychest,moppingupthebrownsludgewithkitchenroll.MaybeifIfocus
onthestainthenIwon’thavetolookhimintheeye.

‘Ineedtotalktoyou.’

IlookupandmyheartmeltsbecauseI’vefuckedupsobadlywithhim.Hewasthe

bestsexI’veeverhad.

‘Okay,’Isaymeekly,wonderingwhetherthisisit:breakuptime.

‘IsThomasin?’DoesheknowthatThomaswastheguyinthephotos?

‘No.Let’sgointohisoffice…’Ipickupmyhalf-spiltcoffee.‘Doyouwantadrink?’

BritishpolitenessdictatesthatIshouldaskhimthisquestion,buthejustglaresatmelike
hisanswerisobvious.‘Right,sothat’sa“no”then.’

I follow him into the office and close the door behind us, then I drop my hot mug

downonthedeskbeforeitburnsmyhandsoff.

‘I’msorry,Mark,’Iblurtout.‘I’mreallysorryforlastnight.’

‘Justforlastnight?’

Ibitemylip.Idon’tknowwhattosay.

‘Wasitjustthatnight?’heasks.

‘What?’

‘Howmanytimeshaveyoufuckedhim?’heasksangrily.

‘Really,youwanttotalkaboutthishere?’Ilookoutintotheofficeandnoticeallof

thenoseybitchesstickinguptheirheadslikemeerkats.Iwanttoaskinaninnocentvoice,
‘Fuckedwho?’butI’mprettysureheknowsthatIhadsexwithThomasattheparty.

‘Iwanttohavethisconversationhere.Becauseyouneveransweryourfuckingphone

andyouranawayfrommelastnight.Igotlockedout,bytheway.’

I try not to smile at that information. It’s not very funny, but I can imagine him

standingthereinbarefeetbegginghisneighbourstobeletbackin.

‘I’msorry.AndI’msorryIfuckedhim,okay?ButyouwereonadatewithUrsulathat

night.’

See,Ihaveanexcuse.NowifonlyIcouldexplainwhythereweredozensofphotosof

mescrewingThomasinthatfolder.HowamIsupposedtoexplainthataway?

‘Iwasnotonadate.IonlyworkwithUrsula.’

‘That’snotwhatitlookedlikeandyouknowit!Youlookedguilty.’

Playdefensive.Thenmaybethere’saveryslimchancethatwecangetbacktogether.

(Really?WhoamIkidding?)

Iwanttogetoutofhere.Iwanttogohomeandclimbintobedandemergedecades

laterwithoutamemory,wrinkledandshrivelled,ashellofthewomanIusedtobe,empty
takeaway containers and chocolate boxes strewn across my bedroom floor. I’d pay my

cleanerabitextratobemycarer,whichiswhyshewouldn’thavetimetocleanupafter
meproperlyanymore.

‘MaybeIlookedguiltybecauseIknewwhatitlookedlike,’Markexplains.‘Ididn’t

wantyouthinkingthatI’mseeingotherwomen.BecauseI’mnot.Itriedtoexplainthatto
youattheparty.’

‘Butyoudidsleepwithheronce.’

‘So,what,yougotjealousanddecidedtofuckThomas?’

Shit,heknowsthatitwasThomas.SeeingMarkwithUrsuladidpissmeoffandgive

meanotherreasontofuckThomasthough.

‘Iwaspissedatyou,’Iadmit.

‘NothinghappenedwithUrsula,Ipromise.Ilikeyou.Alot.Idon’twanttosleepwith

otherwomen.AndIdon’twantyoutosleepwithothermeneither.’

My heart flutters in my chest, but I try to dismiss the fact that I feel like a teenager

who’sjustbeenaskedtoProm.Maybewecangetbacktogether.ButwhatifIfuckthisup
again?OrwhatifJamalispersistentandcontinueswithhiscampaigntotrytosplitusup?
WhatifIputMarkindangerjustbyseeinghim?

‘Ineedsometime,Mark,’Itellhim.‘Ineedafewdaystofigurestuffout.’

Thereitis:hishurtlittleboylook.Idon’twanttohurthim,butIdon’twanthimtoget

hurteither.IneedtimetofigureoutwhetherthiswholeJamaldebacleisoveryet.

‘Okay,’hesays,turningawayfromme.ThenhenoticesthepictureofThomas’family

onthedesk.‘Whenishein?Iwanttotalktohimtoo.’

‘Andsaywhat?’Iask,afraidthatthisisexactlywhatJamaldidn’twanttohappen.

‘Where did those photos come from, Julianne? I can’t work it out. Is Thomas being

blackmailed?Andwhysendthosephotostome?’

HowdoIexplainsomethingtohimthatI’mnot even sure about? If I told Mark the

truththenhe’dwanttogetinvolvedandtrytoprotectme,andthatmightmesseverything
up even more than it is already. Can I blame bastard Jamal for everything, who Mark’s
seen a couple of times before, including when he grabbed my arm at the bar? Mark
doesn’tknowthatJamalismy(sortof)pimpthough;Idon’twanthimtofindoutthatI’ve
beenworkingforhim.

‘There’sthisguywhousedtoworkherecalledJamal,’Iexplain,figuringoutmylie

on the fly. This story will be closer to the truth than Mark realises. ‘You’ve seen him
before: the guy I left Amelia’s party with. The guy who grabbed my arm at the bar that
night we… you know, first hooked up.’ I sigh for dramatic effect, as if I’m upset. ‘He’s
stalking me. He took those photos and threatened Thomas with them. And he probably
sentthemtoyoutoobecausehe’sjealousofyouaswell.’

IseedoubtcreepingacrossMark’sface.He’salawyer,sodoesthatmeanthathe’sa

trainedliedetectorlikeAmelia?‘You’rebeingstalked?’

‘Ionlyfoundoutlastnight.Ididn’tknowthathe’dsentyouthosephotostoo.Iwas

embarrassed, not just by the photos but because you’d found out about Thomas. That’s
whyIran.’

Wow, have I scored one for Team Julianne and told such a convincing lie that it’s

worthyofanOscaroranEmmy?Iwishthey’dgiveoutprizesforamazingliestoldspur
ofthemoment.

‘Haveyoureportedhimtothepolice?’

Yesorno?HowdoIanswerthatone?‘No.’Shit,IhopethatMarkdoesn’tgotothe

policehimself.‘Idon’twanttofuckupThomas’campaign.Orhismarriage.AndIdon’t
wanttolosemyjobhere.’God,thatwasalieofepicproportions.

‘Where’sJamalnow?’

‘Missing,’Itellhim.‘Hehasn’tcomeintotheofficefortwodays.’

Doesanyofthissoundbelievable?Nowadaysit’sdifficultformetotellthedifference

betweenthetruthandalie.

‘Missing?’exclaimsMark.‘Nobodyknowswhereheis?Youneedtogotothepolice.’

‘HR will.’ Maybe they will if they don’t find him. Or they’ll just draw a big cross

throughhisemployeerecordandfilehimawayas:‘Missinginaction.’

‘Julianne,youcouldbeindangerifyoudon’t–’

Thomas appears at the door, looking confused about why we’re in his office. Mark

glaresathimandopensthedoor.‘Finallyturnedup,haveyou?’

‘Mark!’ I warn him. Thomas is still my boss, at least for now, and everyone in the

officeisstaringatuslikethey’rewatchingamovie.

Markgivesmealess-than-innocent,‘What?’lookbeforeshuttingthedoorsonoone

canhearwhathe’sabouttosay.

Thomasputsdownhislaptopbagandtakesoffhiscoat,lookingatmequestioningly,

not having any clue what this is about. ‘Mark, isn’t it?’ he asks, not understanding why
Mark’sinhisoffice.‘Areyouheretomakeadonationtothehospice?’

Marklaughs.‘That’snotwhyI’mhere.’

AgainThomaslooksatme,hiseyespanickedincaseI’vetoldMarkaboutourbrief

fucktheothernight.God,whatifMarktellshimaboutthephotos?

‘SoJamal’sgonemissing?’Markasks,likethisisatest.

‘Yes…’Thomasanswers,unsureofwhyhe’saskingaboutJamal.

‘Isthatbecauseheknowsaboutthetwoofyou?’Markraiseshisvoice.

It’s kind of sexy that Mark’s all angry and concerned for me. If only Thomas was

properly into me then the two of them might have a brutal fistfight over yours truly. A
fighttothedeathoverme:oneofmyall-time-favouritenarcissisticfantasies.

Thomasnarrowshiseyesatme,asifhismindisscreamingthatI’msuchabitchfor

kissingandtelling.

‘Don’tlookatherlikethat!’Markyells.‘You’refuckingmarried.Whatthehellwere

youthinking?’

Goodquestion,althoughabitnaïve.MaybeThomasthoughtthatIwasstillsexyand

attractive,andherememberedhowgoodIwassomanyyearsago.

‘It’snoneofyourbusiness.Getoutofmyoffice!’yellsThomas.

‘Don’ttouchheragain,’threatensMark.‘Orevenlookather.Ifyoudo,I’mgoingto

sueyouandyourshittycompanyintotheground.’

Oh, Mark! It’s so romantic that he cares and would sue someone over the mere fact

that I fucked someone else. Also I think I got away with my lie about Jamal being a
stalker.

Mark storms out and I don’t know whether or not to follow him. I give Thomas a

guiltylookbeforechasingMarkacrosstheoffice.Everyone’spretendingnottostare,but
theydoashitjobofhidingtheirpricked-upears.

‘Mark!’Itrytocatchupwithhim.

Hestopsatthetopofthestairsandturnstofaceme.‘I’msorryIlostitwithhim,’he

says, looking angry with himself. His definition of ‘lost it’ doesn’t fit with mine; if our
positions were reversed I would have beaten Thomas to a bloody pulp with my manly
fists.‘Look,when–orif–youwanttogivethisanothershot,youknowwhereIam…I
can’twaitforeverthough.’

ThenherunsdownthestairsandIfeellikeI’mtheleadingladyinachickflickstaring

aftermymanandpiningoverhimnowthathe’sgone.Iimaginethecamerazoomingin
onmylittlesadfacethenfadingtoblack.IfonlyIcouldeditreallifelikethat.I’dcutout
the boring bits and play all of my sexual encounters back-to-back. Or maybe I’d just
repeatmyfirstnightwithMarkoverandover.

Walking back into the office I try to ignore the sea of middle-aged women looking

disapprovinglyatme.Whatdidtheyjustoverhear?DotheyknowaboutThomasandme?
I feel guilty now because if anyone in here finds out about us then chances are that
Christinewillfindouttoo.AndmaybeThomas’kids.AlthoughIdon’texactlyfeeltorn
up about what I did to Thomas, I don’t want any more drama. Sex should be private
between individuals, not caught on camera and advertised with some blurry photos and
thenyellinginanoffice.

BrieflyIstareattheangryprofileofThomastakingouthislaptop.Thentheprickhas

thenervetopickupmymugofcoffeeandstartdrinkingit!

I knock on his glass wall, run in quickly and shut the door. ‘Hi,’ I say awkwardly,

tryingnottosoundannoyedaboutthecoffee.‘I’mreallysorryaboutwhatjusthappened.’

‘Whydidyoutellhim?’heasks,stillsoundingpissedoffwithme.

‘Ididn’t.Hefigureditoutlastnight.Ididn’tknowthathewasgoingtocomeinhere

todaythough.I’mreallysorry.’

‘Soyou’redatinghim?’

Shit,howdoIanswerthat?‘Iwas.Butit’sover.’OfalltheliesI’vetoldtodaythat’s

theonethatsoundsleastplausible.

‘Sohowmanyofusareyoustringingalong?’heasksmeoutoftheblue.Okay,he’s

reallypissedoffwithme.

‘I’mnotstringinganyonealong.’

‘Youweren’tpaidtosleepwithme?’heasksbitterly.

Howdoesheknow?Ipretendtolookdumbfounded.‘What?Bywho?’

‘Idon’tknow!JamalorAngus?’

‘Jamal?’ I try to laugh, but hysteria gets caught in my throat. ‘What the fuck? And

who’sAngus?’

Hestudiesmyface,tryingtoworkoutwhetherI’mtellinghimthetruth.

‘Ican’tbelieveyou,’Icontinueinfakeoutrage.‘YouactuallythinkthatI’msomekind

ofwhorejustbecausewefuckedtheothernight?’

‘That’snotwhatI–’

‘You want to know why I slept with you: because, strange as this sounds now, I

actually wanted to. But fuck you, Thomas. And fuck this job too. No wonder Jamal left
withoutsayinganything.’

Yes! I have a reason to escape now. And Jamal’s not around to stop me. Freedom

beckons.Andcelebratorychampagneiswaitingathome.

‘Julianne,wait–’

Islamopenthedoorandmarchovertomydesktopickupmybagandcoat.

Millierunsuptomeandawkwardlywhispers,‘Areyouokay?’

‘I’mfine,’Itellher,tryingtoadoptasensibletonetoreassureherthatIam.‘I’mmore

than fine: I just quit. I can’t stand working here anymore.’ I feel sorry for her because I
washeronlyfriendamongsttheofficedroneswhocriticisedusmerelyforbeingyounger
than them. I say loudly, ‘You’re the only nice person in this office. And I’m glad that
we’refriends.Stayintouch–infact,I’llcallyouaboutmakingmesomemoredresses.’
Afterall,Amelia’sweddingiscomingup.

Millie looks so sad that I kiss her on the cheek before dashing out of the office, not

botheringtosaygoodbyetoThomasoranyoneelse.

Myheart’spoundingasIrundownthestairs.SowhatifJamaldecidestokillme?At

leastI’velivedavariedandfulfillinglifeupuntilnow.Andit’sonlydownhillfromhere
anywayasmybodywrinkles,myskinsagsandIsproutwhitehairallovertheplace.It’s
probablyforthebestthatI’mputdownsoIdon’tturnintotheevilqueeninSnowWhite,
talking to myself in mirrors, hating on younger women, and lamenting the death of my
youth.

15

T

THENEWJOB

Julianne

he tube is wonderfully empty, no commuters in sight, and I take a seat and
contemplatewhattodofortherestoftheafternoon.IthinkI’llsipsomechampagne

andsoakinthebathforageswhilereadingabook.ThenI’llcallupMarkandtellhimthat
Iwanttogive‘us’anothergo,andmaybelaterwe’llhaveamazingmake-upsex.

Mywalkhomewhizzesbyinablur.Severalpedestrianslookatmeinhorror,seeing

the monster coffee stain down my blouse. I don’t care though. Emulating Millie, I skip
towardsmy flat andthink that lifeisn’t going to getmuch better thanthis. I’m going to
withdrawsomeofmycrazyamountofcashandgoonalongholiday.Ideserveitafterall
theshitI’vebeenputthrough.

HopingnottoseeJamal’suglymugagain,Ipushopenmyapartmentdooranddrop

mybagdown.Ilistenoutforanysignthathe’shere,butIthinkthecoastisclear.ThenI
throw off my stained shirt, make my way towards the fridge and pick out a brand-new
bottle of champagne (the real stuff, of course) and get to work opening it up. The cork
popsoutandthewineflowseasilyintomyglass,thebubblesnotspillingoverthetop.I
sighinsatisfactionandmakemywaytowardsthebedroom.

That’swhenInoticealargepoolofbloodsmearedacrossmyfloor.

Whatthefuck?HasJamaldiscoveredthatI’vequitalready,andmurderedoneofthe

crazycatlady’spetstoscaremebackintosubmission,layingthepoorkittyoutinallofits
gory glory in my bed for my return home? Or has he been shot or stabbed, and so took
refuge here, where he’ll get both of us killed if he’s not careful? Why the hell is there
bloodonmyfloor?

Iretreatintothekitchentoarmmyselfwithmytwobiggestkitchenknives,thencreep

back and follow the trail of blood. There are large red arcs all across the walls in my
bedroom,andthebloodonthefloorleadstowardsmybathroom.Itlookslikesomeone’s
beendraggedinsideandIreallydon’twanttoknowwhatliesbehindDoorNumberOne.
But at the same time, I really, really do. Please don’t be anyone that I care about lying
deadinmybathroom.

As quickly as I can, I swing open the door and there in my bathtub lies Jamal, his

throat slit. His eyes are so very, very blank. Maybe because he’s dead. He’s totally,
definitely,completelydead.Lookslikethat’sthereasonhewasn’tansweringhisphoneall
day.HowwillIgettherestofmymoneynow?

I always thought that in this kind of situation I’d turn into a stereotypical screaming

littlegirl,butthekillermightbehidinginmyapartmentstill.There’snooneelseinthe
bathroomthough,that’sforsure.

Oh,God,whatifhe’shidingundermybed?Whatif–?No,don’tbestupid.Thisisn’t

ahorrormovie;thisisreallife.There’sadeadbodyinmybathtub,thekiller’sprobably
donearunner,andIshouldgetoutofhereandcallthecops.

My mobile rings from the other room and the sudden noise makes me scream. Yep,

thatwouldbethestereotypicalscreaminglittlegirlinme.

‘Fuck!’Iyelltonooneinparticular(unlessthekillerishangingoutinmywardrobe),

thenIgotofindmyphone,readytostrikedownanyonewithmyknivesiftheyjumpout
atme.IreallyhopetoGodthatnooneelseishere.

It’sanunknownnumber.‘Hello,Julianne,’saysacreepymalevoice.Hisvoicemakes

merealisethatI’mstandinghereinmybraandIwanttocoverup.

‘Who is this?’ Please be a wrong number or a scammer asking for my credit card

details.

‘MynameisAngus.’

‘Angus?’ThesameguythatThomasmentionedearlier?Let’sfaceit,howmanyother

guysdoIknowcalledAngus?Well,oneactually…

‘I’mafraidthatyou’vecaughtusslightlyunawares.Weweren’texpectingyouhome

untilmuchlater.’

IwanttoaskwhyheknowswhattimeIgethomenormally,aswellaswhetherornot

he murdered Jamal, but maybe he doesn’t know that Jamal is lying dead in my bathtub.
It’d be somewhat awkward if I mentioned it and he turned out not to know anything; I
might get arrested on suspicion of killing Jamal myself. The police report would read,
‘Motive: The suspect was being stalked by her pimp and she killed him in a crime of
passionsohe’dleaveherthefuckalone.’

Ontheplusside,ifitcouldbecalledthat,atleastJamalwon’tbeabletobreakintomy

flat now uninvited. Unless he becomes a vampire. But actually, even then he’d need an
invitationtocomeinside.

‘Whatdoyouwant?’IaskAngus.

‘Let’smeet,’hesays.‘It’sabouttimewemet.Andwhileyou’reout,I’llsendovera

teamtocleanupthemessthatweleftinyourapartment.’

How kind of him. Why wasn’t my flat cleaned up earlier? Was it because of a

schedulingconflict;werethecleanersscrubbingawaysomeoneelse’sbloodwhileJamal’s
killer was busy knifing him? It’s not like there’s any point in cleaning up the blood
anyway:Iwon’tbeabletobringmyselftotouchthebathagain.Shit,I’llhavetomove,
whichisabitchbecauseIlovemyapartmentandpropertypricesarecrazyrightnowin
London.

NowthatIknowAngusisresponsibleforwhathappenedtoJamal,Ireallyhopethat

heisn’tgoingtoframemeforthemurder.Andthathedoesn’twanttokillmetoo.DoI
need a lawyer? Could Mark or Amelia represent me? I still don’t want to get them

involvedthough.

‘Meetwhere?’Iasksuspiciously.

‘Whereveryouwant.Perhapsthecaféaroundthecornerfromyou.’

MyheadscreamsatmethatthisisabadideaandIshouldn’ttrusthim,butI’drather

meetinpublicthanherealonewhereI’mvulnerable.‘Now?’

‘Yes, I’ll be there soon. And, Julianne, please don’t worry about all of this. You

weren’tsupposedtofindJamal.’

HehangsupandIthinkI’mhavinganervousbreakdownbecausenothingseemsreal

anymore.Howcanhetellmenottoworry?Idowntherestofmychampagnetogiveme
the smallest amount of Dutch courage, then put on my stained blouse and coat again
beforestickingakitchenknifeineachpocket.

Right, I’m ready. Now I just have to hope that the cops won’t be outside, find me

armedwithknives,thenheaduptomyflatanddiscoveracorpseinmybathroom.

Hurrying down the stairs, I throw open the front door then walk towards the café,

paranoid that someone’s following me. I feel as if I’m a dog running around in circles,
chasingaftermyowntail.

AsIstaggerdownthestreetIstarttofeelbadaboutJamal.Sure,hewasirritatingas

fuck,liedateveryavailableopportunity,attackedme,wasspyingonmeandaskedmeto
whoremyselfout,butapartfromallthatheseemedokay.Whatwillhappentohisbody–
willAngusdissolveitinacidorthrowitintheThamesthenpaypeopleofftoreportJamal
asamissingperson?DoesJamalhavefamilyandfriendswhowillmisshim,whoperhaps
didn’t know about his really weird job? Will they ever find out the truth about how he
died,andwillheevengetafuneral?Idon’tthinkI’mgoingtofindouttheanswers.

Arriving safely at the café, I order two coffees and take a window seat in the spot

wherethemostamountofpeoplewillnoticeifIkeeloverdead.Ayoungishguywanders
overandmyhandgripsthehandleoftheknifeinmypocket.

‘Hi, I’m Sam,’ he says, sounding like a wanker. ‘I don’t know whether this is

inappropriate,butIsawyoucominginandwonderedwhetheryou’dliketogoforadrink
sometime?’

Really,thisguycomesontomerightnow,assoonasI’vesatdown?

‘I’mseeingsomeone,’Itellhim,hopingthathe’llpissoffquickly.

‘Oh,right.Well,noharminasking,’hesays,smiling.

Therewaseveryharminasking.Iscowlbackandfortunatelyhegetsthemessageand

lopesoff.

Thenamaninanexpensive-lookingblackcoatwalksin.Helookslikeatoaddressed

upinasuit,withpimplyskin,greasyhairanddrylips.Hesmilesandcomesovertosit
downoppositeme.God,ifthisisAngusIhopethatSamdoesn’tgetthewrongimpression
andthinkthatI’mdatinghim.

‘Hi,Julianne,’hesays.‘I’mAngus.’

Heholdsouthishand,whichsurprisesme,andIpausetoexaminehisfingernailsfor

bloodstainsbeforeshakingit.Hekeepsstaringstraightatme,whichisslightlyunnerving.
Idon’tknowwhattosay,soIdecidetojustlaunchrightintotheconversation:‘Whatthe
fuck’sgoingon?’

AnguschucklesandInoticethathisteethareamurkyyellow.‘Jamalusedtoworkfor

meand,unfortunatelyforhim,nowhedoesn’t.Doyouunderstand?’

Ireallydon’t.‘Whatdidhedo?’

‘Well,hewasstalkingyou,andIheardthathe’dthreatenedyouaswell.Hewasquite

dangerous.Arogueagent.’

‘Anagent?’

‘Not that kind.’ He sighs and decides to share slightly more information with me.

‘Recentlywefoundoutthathewasbeingpaidbysomeoneelse–oneofourcompetitors–
toworkagainstus:torevealtheprojectsthatwe’vebeenworkingonandinvestingin.’

‘Whowasheworkingfor?’Iaskoutofcuriosity.

‘That’snotyourconcern.’Okay,thatshutmeup.Angusislikeastrictschoolteacher;

onewhokillshisstudentsinhissparetime.‘Atthemoment,inaway,Thomasisoneof
ourinvestments.He’llgoquitefar,likehisfather.Andweknowabouthis…involvement
withyou;wetookthephotosandfilmfromJamal.’

Shit,ishegoingtoblackmailmetoo?

‘Ididn’twantto!’Idefendmyself.‘Likeyousaid,hethreatenedme.’

Maybe if I play the innocent little girl I can escape from this situation more able to

breathethanJamal.

‘Don’tworry,itwon’tgetout,’hetellsme.‘Thephotosandfilmareinourpossession

now. Sometimes we find it useful to store such information… I think you know what I
mean.’

‘Yes,’ I say meekly. His middle name should be Blackmail. Angus Blackmail Scary

Weirdo.

‘We didn’t intend to hurt Jamal, by the way,’ he continues. ‘He didn’t come with us

peacefullythough,hehadaknife,and…Well,yousawwhathappened.’

Yep.Histhroatwasslit,whichmeansthatAngus’storyisbullshit.

‘Whatwillhappentohim?’Iask.

‘I’m afraid that I can’t tell you that.’ It’s like I’m hitting brick wall after brick wall

withmyhead.‘You’vebeenthroughalot,Julianne.ButIneedyoutodoonemorething
forusbeforeyouwalkaway.Andit’snotnecessarilygoingtobeeasy.Ofcourse,we’ll
payyoumoreforyourtime.’

‘Idon’twanttosleepwithThomasagain,’Isay,pleadingwithmyeyesforhimnotto

askmetodothatagain.

‘Actually,wehavesomethingdifferentinmind.Involvingsomeoneelse.’

Great,thatsoundsominous.Andtheirnameis…?

‘Whatdoyouwantmetodo?’Iaskresignedly.

‘WewantyoutokeepaneyeonMark.You’llneedtorelateanythingsuspicioustome

andplaceacamerainhisoffice,sowecanlistentoconversationswithhisclients.’

Hiswordsslowlysinkin.Mybrainfeelslikeit’sbeenfriedorflambéed.

‘YouwantmetospyonMark?’

Angussighs,soundingfrustrated.‘Not“spy”,exactly.Justtellusanythingoutofthe

ordinary.Isupposethattheremaycomeatimewhenweneedyoutoactasadiversion,or
totrytoinfluencehim,butwe’llleavethetwoofyoualoneforthemostpart,ifnotallthe
time.’

‘Whyareyouaskingme?’

‘Would you prefer that we asked someone else to seduce him, like you did with

Thomas?’ Fine, he makes a fair point. ‘I think you want to be together, and it just so
happensthatourinterestsalignperfectly.Andyou’llbehelpingtoprotectMark.Heworks
withafewdisreputablepeople;myjobistoprotectothersfromthem.’

Mark’s a lawyer, so of course he works with disreputable people. But who or what

doesheneedprotectingfrom?Isheindanger?

‘What“people”?’

‘Peoplewho…wanttointerferewithsomeofourinvestments.That’sallIcansay.’

‘Whatinvestments?Whatdoyoumean?’

Helooksathiswatch.‘ThepeopleIworkwithvaluediscretion.Ican’ttellyouany

more than I already have.’ Seriously? He’s about as verbose as Jamal used to be. Poor
Jamal.

‘And what if I say, “No”?’ I ask, trying to sound as if I’m actually considering the

option,eventhoughheknowsthatI’llbowdowntohisscarysuperiority.

Angusmerelylooksatmeasiftosay,‘Thenyou’dbekilledwithinamatterofhours.’

As if he’s telling me not to place a million pounds on red, he says patronisingly, ‘That
wouldn’tbewise.’

He’s right. I guess my entire relationship with Mark has been tainted since the

beginning–what’sonemorereasontostopusfrombeingtogether?Thenagain,perhaps
we’rejustnotsupposedtobe.He’llcatchmespyingonhim,thinkthatI’mstillajealous
bitchwithtrustissues,andeventuallyhe’lldumpme.ButhopefullyI’llmakeitoutalive.

‘Okay,fine,I’lldoit.ButIneedtoknowthatIwon’tgethurt,andneitherwillMark,

ThomasoranyoneelseIcareabout.’

‘I promise,’ Angus says, pretentiously putting his hand on his heart (if he even has

one).‘Thankyouforhelpinguswiththis.’

Hesaysthanksasifhe’saskedmetodosomethingsimple,likemakeasmalldonation

tocharity.

‘It’snotlikeIhaveachoice,’Igrumble,takingaswigofmycoffee.

‘No…’Angusadmits.Hestandsupandbuttonshiscoat.‘I’mafraidI’vegotanother

meeting now, but I’ll be in touch. Oh, and the cleaners should be out of your home by
5pm.I’msosorrythatyouhadtoseeJamallikethat.’Believeme,metoo.

He leaves the café and steps into an unmarked black car, which drives off into the

cloudy afternoon and disappears from sight. Where’s he going? Dinner with the PM, to
killsomeoneelse,oravisittothebanktocounthismillions?

Isitandstareatmyhalf-emptycup.WhatwillIdoforfourhourswhilethecleaners

finish up at my flat? Shopping? God, I can’t bring myself to go shopping. Then I get
anotheridea.

‘Whatdoyoumean,“He’sbusy?”’

SomygreatideawastogoandthrowmyselfatMarkinhisoffice,butapparentlyhe’s

too‘busy’toseeme,atleastaccordingtothebitchyreceptionistonthedeskdownstairs.

‘I’m sorry, but that’s what his secretary just told me. He might be on a call with

anotherclient,orperhapsinameeting.CanItakeamessage?’

Istareather,disgusted.‘I’mnothisclient.’

‘Ohhhh…Soyourhusbandishisclient?’

No,BitchyMcBitchface,I’mnotmarriedandgettingdivorced;I’minheredemanding

tospeaktomyMaybeOtherHalf.

‘We’re dating,’ I tell her, trying not to sound smug about that fact. Surely that alone

shouldexplainwhyIwanttoseeMarkandhissexyface?

‘Oh…’ she says, not looking as if she believes me, maybe because I’m not blonde.

Brieflyshestaresdownatmystainedtop.‘Well,I’msorrybut,likeIsaid,he’sbusy.Do
youwantmetogethimtocallyouback?’Clearly,intelligentthoughtisbeyondher.

‘No, I don’t want you to –’ Argh! I want to murder you and drag you back to my

apartment where there’s a whole team of people cleaning up the last person who died
there.

God,whatshouldIdo?Ilookoveratthesecurityguardbythedoor,wholookslike

he’sreadytocomeandpounceonmeatanysecond.CanImakeitupthestairsbeforehe
catchesme?Let’stestthisout!

Iboltforthestairsandthereceptionistscreamsafterme,‘Hey!Stopher!’

Up the stairs I run, only realising halfway up that I don’t have a clue where Mark’s

officeis.Hegrabbedhisbriefcaseprettyquicklytheotherday,somaybehe’sonthefirst
floor.Butherunsthisentireofficesochancesarehe’sonthetopfloor.

IdashupthenextflightofstairsandfortunatelyitleadstowhatIthinkisthetopfloor.

Thesecurityguardispantingbehindme,clearlynotasfitashethought.Ipushopenthe
glass doors and run down the corridor. Women in tight suits and expensive heels look

horrifiedthatI’mrunningpast.

‘Mark?’Iyellout,lookingaroundandhopingtospotasigntohisoffice.

Onesuithalf-heartedlypointstowardstheendofthecorridorandIsprinttowardsthe

finishingline.There’shisnameonthedoor:MarkPryce!

Suddenlyasecretaryjumpsoutfrombehindherdeskandtriestorugbytacklemeto

the ground. I run into Mark’s office with her clinging onto my back, and Mark looks
shockedtoseeusburstingintotheroom.

Idon’tknowhowImadeit.Thatfatsecurityguardneedsbettertraining.

‘Hi,Mark,’Isay,shortofbreath,givinghisstupidsecretaryadirtylook.

‘Itriedtostopher.I’mreallysorry,’saysthesecretary.

Mark smiles, standing up. ‘No, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it. Julianne can be quite

stubborn.’

Wasthatpraise?Ismilebackathim.

The secretary shuts the door so I’m alone with him, and suddenly I feel like

everything’sgoingtobeokay.What’salittlespyingbetweenlovers?

‘Iwanttogiveitanothershot–youandme,’Itellhim,soundinglikeI’mhysterically

happytobeannouncingthis.‘Andyoudon’thavetowaitforeverbecauseI’mhereright
now.AndI’msorryforscrewingeverythingupreallybadly.And–’

ThenMarkkissesmeandIlosemyselfinhim.I’veneverwantedtobewithsomeone

so badly. That’s why I’ve lied to him so much the last few days, but I know that
something’sgottochangebecauseIowehimmorethanawholeseriesoflies.

I’mgoingtochange:I’mvowingrightnownottolietohimatall…UnlessI’mforced

to do so because of my stupid deal with Angus. I’ll try not to let jealousy cloud my
feelingsaboutthewomenMarkworkswith,likefuckingUrsula,oranywomanhelooks
at.AndI’lltrytobethebestloverthatIcanpossiblybe,butreallythat’snotgoingtobe
verydifficult(nottobevainaboutit).

Markpushesmeontohisdeskandcontinueskissingme.I’msogratefulthatjustover

aweekagoDerekdumpedmeandturnedmeawayfromhisoffice.CanyouimagineifI’d
stayedwithhimandnevergottofindoutjusthowamazingMarkis?Mark,whonearly
startedafighttodayinThomas’officejustforme.Mark,wholikesme–alot.Fine,so
maybeI’manarcissistic,selfishbitchwho’sjustacceptedadealtospyonhimforeven
more money than I was paid to sleep with someone else, but right now I’m just happy
becauseI’mofficiallyinarelationshipwithMarkPryce…AndbecauseI’mstillalive.

I

EPILOGUE–THEJUDGEMENT

Thomas

n the new and improved phase of our relationship, Friday is now ‘date night’, and I
stroll down the street with Christine on my arm. It’s raining overhead so I’ve put up

my umbrella, and it feels like we’re in one of those impressionistic prints featuring
romanticcoupleswithlinkedarmswhostandinfrontofatypicalLondontouristspot.

Mystomachisfullfromourthree-coursedinnerandbottleofwine.IhopeIcanwalk

itoffbeforewegethome.Thenmaybetonightwe’llhavesexagainandit’llbethesame
as last night with Christine back to her old passionate self instead of an expressionless
corpse.

My heart stops and guilt floods into my system again. Sitting in the window of the

restaurantupaheadareJulianneandMark,laughing,wrappedaroundeachother,Julianne
feedingMarkafork-fullofcreamycheesecakeormeatdrenchedincheesesauce.Cheesy
istherightword.

ThereareovereightmillionpeoplelivinginLondon,buttonight(thankstobadluck)I

ofcoursehavetoseethem. It’s been a week since they confronted me in my office and
sinceJuliannequit.Shewassuchadramaqueenaboutit.Ihaven’tseenJamalforovera
weekeither–goodriddancetothemboth.

Fortunately no one in the office dared to ask me what had happened. Afterwards I

hintedtoafewpeoplethatJulianneandMarkwerehavingalovers’tiffandMarktoldme
thatIwaskeepingherintheofficetoolate.Hopefullyeveryonehasforgottenaboutit.

‘Whoarethey?’Christineasksme,noticingthatI’mstaring.

‘Oh,Ijustusedtoworkwithher,’Ilie.That’sall…Hopefullyshedoesn’tremember

Juliannefromuniversity.

NowIgettolookatthemmorecloselyfromafarandjudgetheirlives.There’sJezebel

Juliannewholedmeonforherownamusement,orperhapsbecauseshewasbeingpaidto
sleepwithme.She’sashitPAbutanevenshittierperson.ThenIjudgeMarkforbeingan
idiot and falling for her, or maybe for just wanting to fuck her. I’d love to judge their
relationshiptoo,butunfortunatelytheybothlookhappy.

MaybehappinessiswhatIshouldwantforthemthough.ItshouldbewhatIwantfor

everyone, and I guess nowadays I feel content too. I have bad days, because everyone
does,butI’mtryingmoreandmoretofindsolaceintheeverydayandinspendingtime
withmylittlefamily.AndI’menjoyingrebuildingmylifewithChristine;we’redifferent

aroundeachothernow.Wehaven’thadanargumentinoveraweek.

As the election draws closer, I feel happier about the future too and my role in

changingit.I’mnotbig-headedenoughtothinkthatI’llchangetheworld,buthopefully
my work and policies will help to transform lives. After all, small steps can bring about
bigchanges,andmyambitionswillallowmetotakelargerstrides.Ismiletomyself;I’m
becoming a politician already. I’m almost as cheesy as whatever Julianne and Mark are
stuffingdowntheirthroatsrightnow.

I turn away from them to look at Christine as we slowly make our way home. She

returnsmysmileandrestsherheadagainstmyshoulder.Maybeitisn’tsocheesyafterall.
Maybesmallstepsreallycanmakeallthedifference.

THANKSFORREADING

Thanksforpickingupandreadingthisbook.Ifyouenjoyedthestory,I’dbeverygratefulifyoucouldspendacoupleof
minuteswritingareview(itcanbeasshortasyoulike).Honestreviewsofnewbookshelptobringthemtotheattention
ofotherreaders.

Thankyouinadvance,

Laura

ABOUTTHEAUTHOR

LauraReadhasworkedinpublishingforovereightyears,asadesignerforamagazineanditsaward-winningwebsite,
andasanauthorandfreelancedesigner.Herpoetryhasbeenpublishedintwoanthologies.

Deadly Sins is her debut novel about an organised crime family, an exploration of the sexism that can permeate

familiesandhowsincaninfluenceusall.Findoutmoreat

laurareadauthor.com

For the latest news about Laura’s work, and to get free and discounted ebooks in her e-newsletters, sign up at

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ALauraReadebook.

FirstpublishedinGreatBritainin2017byLauraReadLtd.

Ebookfirstpublishedin2017byLauraReadLtd.

Copyright©LauraReadLtd2017.

Photographoncover:ASInc/Shutterstock.

ThemoralrightofLauraReadtobeidentifiedastheauthorofthisworkhasbeenassertedbyherinaccordancewiththe
Copyright,DesignsandPatentsAct1988.

Allcharacters,names,placesandincidentsinthisbookarefictitious,andanyresemblancetoactualevents,localesor
persons,livingordead,ispurelycoincidentalandnotintendedbytheauthor.

Allrightsreserved.Nopartofthispublicationmaybereproduced,storedinaretrievalsystemortransmittedinanyform
orbyanymeans,withoutthepriorwrittenpermissioninwritingofthepublisher,nortobeotherwisecirculatedinany
formofbindingorcoverotherthaninwhichitispublishedwithoutasimilarcondition,includingthiscondition,being
imposedonthesubsequentpurchaser.