by Alam, Donna
‘What exactly is a slut?’ Bea asks no one in particular. ‘A woman who likes sex a little too much?’ she asks more airily, straightening in her chair. ‘Or a woman who has had the temerity to sleep with more than two men? Or maybe it’s a woman just asking for it? Maybe someone who shows just a little too much flesh? No!’ Leaning forward, she slams her glass down on the side table. ‘I’ll tell you what a slut is,’ she continues in the same strident vein. ‘It’s an adjective of the misogynistic—the patriarchy feeding off women and their insecurities and fears. Well, fuck those ideals and fuck that adjective!’
The room definitely falls silent this time.
‘Right on, sister,’ I say, punching the air weakly. ‘But if I’m honest, I don’t mind being called slut sometimes. In certain circumstances, y’ken.’ Fin begins to titter like a nutter off her meds. ‘And I’ll bet my left tit you’re no’ so vocal about your dislike if the word is coming from Kit’s tongue. Kit, coming, and tongue all in one sentence. It sounds like my perfect wet dream, sort of.
‘Maybe he’s my slut?’ comes Bea’s cool response.
I don’t doubt it. I can just see it; all that man, slutty for no one but her. Lucky bitch.
‘Ahh . . . let me just think about that for a moment.’ Smiling sublimely, I close my eyes, completely missing the incoming cushion aimed at my head. ‘What the—What was that for?’
‘You can’t perve over one of your friend’s significant others,’ retorts Ivy. At least I know now where the cushion came from.
‘I was’nae perving over Kit particularly.’ Even if he is significant in lots of ways. Like tall, broad, and as hot as hell. And even more significant, totally kinky by his own admission.
‘No?’ she asks archly.
‘No,’ I repeat. ‘And quit pullin’ that face. If the wind changes, you’ll stay that way.
‘Charming,’ she huffs.
‘That’s me. Now, see, for one, Kit’s my friend’s future husband—and I don’t do side chick or sloppy seconds—no, offence, hen,’ I say, my gaze flicking to Bea.
‘None taken,’ she responds, unable to hide her growing smile. Because we all know Bea and Kit like a bit of a three-way. Kit is like a sexual fucking unicorn—a mythical kind of man. I’m told he’s hung like a horse, too.
‘And for two,’ I say, coming back to the topic, ‘he looks far too much like her bawbag of a husband,’ I add, hooking my thumb in the direction of Fin.
Rory’s not really a bawbag. And Kit doesn’t look far too much like his twin. He looks exactly like him. As in, identical.
‘Talk about digressing.’ Ivy’s brow furrows for a moment. ‘Pardon me, Bea, and your patriarchal hating, but Natasha’s the opposite of a slut these days.’
‘I’m no’ so sure if that’s a compliment or an insult.’
‘Call it an expression of concern,’ she responds with a very hopeless looking shrug.
‘Look,’ adds Fin softly, her tone not just for the benefit of her sleeping babe. ‘Since June took unwell—’
‘She hardly took unwell,’ I answer a little more forcefully. ‘She had a stroke—she nearly died!’ I swallow the hundred other things I could say, some obvious to my friends, some I keep to myself. They’re aware how her quality of life has changed, and it’s clear how much assistance she now needs in her day to day life. They also know I’m eternally grateful for Dylan’s generosity.
But what they don’t know about is the guilt I carry. June gave up her life to raise me, and I was far from easy to raise. What kind of a granddaughter am I not to respond in kind? Shouldn’t I be the one taking care of her now?
‘She did almost die,’ agrees Ivy. ‘And your lives have been changed forever.’
‘Her life has,’ I respond, my tone flat. ‘Not much has changed in mine.’
‘Not according to June.’
‘Ah, so that’s why she’s no’ here, then?’ The proverbial lightbulb goes off above my head. June would usually join our Friday nights, whether here in the sumptuous surrounds of Ivy’s castle or at her wee flat back before she and Dylan straightened things out. ‘Why, the crafty—’
‘She says she’s tried to speak to you about it,’ says Fin carefully.
‘What she means is, she wants to know why she hasn’t found my knickers on the front doorstep lately. Or heard me smuggle anyone out of the front room in the wee hours of the morning. And that means nothing. She’s on enough meds to fell a draft horse. Maybe I’m just getting better at hiding things.’
‘The last bit is true, at least.’ Ivy raises one condescending eyebrow in an expression very like her husband’s.
‘Meaning?’
‘You’re not yourself. We can see you getting lower and lower—June included.’
‘Leave June out of this,’ I answer, suddenly a wee bit annoyed.
‘We can’t,’ she says with a shrug. ‘This is a June led intervention.’
‘Interference, more like.’
‘What are friends for?’ she returns. ‘June thinks, and we all agree, you need a change of scenery.’
I inhale deeply. This has to be some kind of joke. I can’t leave June, no matter what they all think. Quite suddenly, I realise it doesn’t matter what they think. They can’t make me do anything I don’t want to. At that realisation my shoulders relax. I begin to chuckle, cradling my glass of bourbon and coke against my chest.
‘Well, sounds like I’m off to some kind of facility. Some place to rediscover my inner slut. I only hope this intervention includes staff as good looking as Sam.’
Sam, June’s fulltime nurse, is an absolute babe. Unfortunately, I think Kit would be more his cup of tea than me. Not that I’ve tried, y’ken. You don’t shi— shag where your granny eats. Or something.
‘Good thing for you there are plenty of gorgeous men where you’re off to. Of course, they’re all massively vain,’ Ivy adds, frowning again.
‘So I’m joining a gay circus! As long as I don’t have to room with Ted, I’m good with that.’ Ted is the barber in the salon, and my BGF. Best gay friend. As he’s my only gay friend, the bar isn’t set very high. More likely, he’s my ga-frenemy.
‘It is a bit of a circus,’ Ivy answers cryptically.
‘But you’ll have a great time,’ Fin adds, won’t she, Bea?’
‘I’m totes jealous. For the weather, if nothing else.’
Weather? My eyes slide to the large leaded windows as I watch the torrential rain battering the panes. A bit of sunshine wouldn’t go amiss. I bet I can persuade June to join me on this sabbatical. Yeah.
‘Can I at least finish my drink before you whisk me away?’ All three women nod, though only Ivy speaks up.
‘This isn’t a game show,’ Ivy complains. ‘We’re not about to whisk you away this very minute.’
‘Hen, I don’t fancy your chances of getting me to go anywhere.’ I take a sip of my drink. ‘But I can play along. So let me get this straight; on the strength of June’s concern re my lack of sexy times, she’s concocted some scheme wi’ you three?’
‘Sounds about right,’ says spokesperson Ivy.
‘Well, you can all breathe a giant sigh of relieve because my sex life is fine and dandy-o.’ I take another sip of my drink, longer this time. ‘You can cancel all plans for Natasha’s sex sabbatical, whatever that was, because I managed to get myself a good rogering last week.’
‘When?’ huffs Ivy. ‘You work six days a week and spend Sunday with June.’
‘Wednesday last week,’ I repeat. ‘Lots of times; want me to list them by position?’
‘Where?’ she asks next. ‘And don’t say in the flat because you’re never there. June says you even sometimes sleep on the couch rather than go back to there.’
That’s true. On a usual day, after I shut up shop, I go home. June still thinks she responsible for feeding me, but it’s also probably true that I spend more time with my gran than I did when I actually lived with her. The only reason I moved out was becasue June needed s
omewhere for the night shift nurse to lay her head. Dylan had offered to buy us a specially adapted bungalow, but she wasn’t having any of that. And why should she move out of her home of fifty years? So I made the decision to move out alone—it was the least I could do. Ivy’s former home above the salon was empty, so I moved in there.
‘So what if I do?’ I spit. ‘It’s still my home.’
‘No one’s disputing that,’ Bea adds carefully. ‘But June’s worried you’re not living your life for you.’
‘Well I am,’ I answer quickly. ‘So you can all just piss off and mind your own. I’m good. I’m happy, and so what if I kip on June’s couch sometimes? Who are you lot? The couch police!’
‘No one’s saying that’s wrong.’ Ivy’s words sound weary. ‘Look, June says you have no time for gentlemen callers.’
‘Oh, Ivy, Ivy, Ivy,’ I reply with faux sadness, shaking my head. ‘I don’t have gentleman callers. I have meaningless shags.’
‘I was using June’s words,’ she answers, annoyed.
‘Bottom line,’ interjects Bea. ‘You’re not getting laid. June knows it. And she’s worried you’re not enjoying yourself.’
‘June can rest her snowy white head because I’m pretty sure the fella I boffed last week will tide me over for quite some time.’
‘Boffed?’ Bea repeats.
‘Shagged. Mated. Fucked. Copulated with. Had the sexual intercourse.’ I throw up my hands.
‘When?’ Ivy demands.
‘You’re like a broken feckin’ record.’ I sigh wearily, heartily sick of this. ‘Last Wednesday. Where? In the flat, on the couch and over the couch. There might’ve been a little bit of action in the salon, if you’re interested.’
‘In my salon?’
Ignoring her, I carry on, counting out the facts on the fingers of one hand. ‘So that’s when and where. What’s next? Ah, who! The cabinet maker you sent to measure up for the refit.’
‘But he’s like, fifty or something.’
Forty-three,’ I correct. ‘And an absolute beast in the sack.’ Or sofa. And window. I go back to my fingers. ‘Where, when, who. What’s the final one?’ I look up when Ivy exclaims,
‘What the actual fuck!’ Oh, Ivy’s serious cross. She’s not usually the sweary kind.
‘Not sure that one counts. Wouldn’t it be who, not what?’
‘In the salon?’ she demands. ‘I hope none of the clients heard.’
‘Give me some credit,’ I reply grumpily. ‘It was after hours when he called.’
‘Oh, tell us more,’ giggles Bea. ‘A cabinet maker. So, good with his hands?’
‘And his tongue. In fact, there was’nae much at all to complain about. It was all good, y’ken.’
‘But forty-three? That’s positively—’
‘Sexy,’ I say. ‘Confident, but not cocky. After all those hours of cock—’
‘Please say you’re about to make a piloting analogy,’ Ivy whines.
‘Let me just say for the record, his cock defo wasn’t the pits.’
‘Bradley Cooper’s forty-three,’ interjects Fin. ‘He’s my celebrity shag.’
‘Your what?’
‘You know; the one person your other half would give you a bedroom pass for. Bradley Cooper.’ She sighs. ‘He’s mine.’
‘Who did Rory choose?’ Ivy asks, distracted from the subject of my sex life for the minute.
‘He says there’s no one else on this earth he’d like to shag other than me.’
‘That’s so sweet,’ I say.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ she agrees happily. ‘It’s also the answer of a man who’s aware that his wife hasn’t slept in seven months, while also being aware that this is plausible grounds for the acquittal of his murder.’
‘Diminished responsibility,’ agrees Bea. ‘You can rely on me to give medical evidence in your defence. Quite frankly, I don’t know how you’re coping.’
‘I’m mostly not.’ She laughs a little manically. ‘Rory wants me to consider hiring an au pair.’
‘I wished I could help. Loan you my parents or something.’ Ivy takes our friend’s hand in her own.
‘They’ve got enough grandparenting duties between you and Mac.’ Mac and Ella have two youngsters of their own, while Ivy and Dylan have little Alisdair, plus one on the way. Although married to a piece of Hollywood’s hottest property, Ivy refuses to have a nanny herself.
I miss sleep,’ Fin says simply. ‘And I miss sex. But my lack of sleep makes me unsure of that fact.’ She bites her bottom lip at the admission. ‘Rory’s convinced Niall can hear the rustling of bedclothes from a room away. He calls him “his wee cock-blocker”. Never mind,’ she adds with a sad sigh. ‘I can live vicariously through my friends for now.’
‘What are you lookin’ at me for? She’s the one with all the stories.’ I point a finger at Bea.
‘You forget, her man looks like mine,’ Fin replies. ‘That’s just . . . blurring the lines a little too far. Come on, tell us about his tool,’ she asks avidly.
‘Oh, I’ve got one,’ titters Ivy. ‘What about his wood! And did he screw you tight?’
‘All the puns in one place.’ I sigh, though can’t hide my smile. ‘Let’s just say, the cabinet maker made a real mess of my drawers.’
‘It’s not like you to kiss and not tell.’
‘Who said we kissed?’
‘Sex and kissing go together like tongue and groove,’ purrs Bea. ‘There’s no such thing as an overshare. . . ’
Wednesday, I’d closed up shop as usual. It had been a quiet day and Ted had left at four on the dot, taking Stacey, the apprentice, with him.
‘You’re sure you don’t fancy a bevvy down the pub?’ He’d asked me.
But I didn’t feel like company. It had been a busy day and I was all polite-talked out from dealing with customers. It’s hard enough waxing people’s nether regions without keeping up the constant steam of meaningless chitchat. Not that the banter that flows between Ted and me could be called polite, especially when it came to men.
‘The fella’s comin’ to measure up for the new desk and cupboards tonight,’ I replied. June was visiting friends, so dinner was to be of my own making. Or microwaving, more like. ‘After he’s measured up, I plan on being as useless as the g in my frozen lasagne.’
‘Is there a g in lasagne?’ Stacey asked, rubbing together her two brain cells. ‘I thought it was just tomatoes and pasta and stuff.’
Ted sighed as I’d said, ‘The g is in the sauce, Stace. You two go on ahead. I’m for my bed early tonight.’
‘Me, too, hen,’ Ted replied. ‘Only, I don’t plan on doing so alone.’ He winked bawdily.
‘Well, we’ve a full diary tomorrow so be sure you don’t come into work like a dinosaur.’
Ted retracted his elbows, his hands flopping forward like a dog begging for a biscuit. It wasn’t until he began to move sluggishly around the room that I realised he was imitating a T-Rex.
‘Wrong dinosaur,’ I’d replied, smothering a smile. ‘You’re more likely to me a mega-sore-arse.’
‘I don’t get it,’ Stacey said.
‘Have fun with the carpenter,’ Ted called from the door. ‘If he’s a hottie, tell him to come to the pub. I’d show him my tradesman’s entrance anytime,’ he’d trilled.
‘I doubt he’d be able to find it for all that hair.’
I’d closed the door quickly, leaving him flapping his gums almost silently on the other side. Then dimmed the lights at the front of the shop as I’d flipped the sign to closed. I’d pottered about the shop floor waiting for the tradesman to arrive. My own workspace—the treatment room—was already clean so I’d gathered a drier load of towels in my arms, dumping them onto the bench by the rinsing station . . . inadvertently looping one around the arm of the tap, and switching the water on full blast. The water was feckin’ freezing.
‘Shit! Shite! Ah, bollix!’
Leaning over, I tried to grab the shower head that, due to the water pr
essure, had begun to do a rare impression of a cobra coming out of a basket. I’d ended up tits first in the basin, with my bum in the air.
FML. I should’ve left Stacey and gone to the pub with Ted.
I managed to get the tap switched off, but not before I was soaked from eyebrow to waist. Grumbling and swearing, I’d loosened the buttons on my tunic, tearing the freezing cold material from my skin. And then someone knocked on the glass door.
The tradesman was here.
‘I’ve, er, come to measure for the cabinets,’ he’d said, standing on the opposite side of the open door. The door I’d opened in my bra and leggings. But it was either that or wrapped in a cold, wet towel.
‘That’s the opening line of my favourite porno.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could engage my brain, “the girls” seeming to take on a mind of their own, thrusting out like puppies desperate to say hello to the very nice looking man.
Thankfully, he seemed more amused than lecherous as he laughed. And, oh boy, that deep sound hit me right in the feels-box. And by that, I mean my actual box. His laughter was sort of raw and smoky. I could imagine it feeling like work roughened fingertips across my skin.
‘Actually, no,’ I corrected myself. ‘That’s actually my second favourite plot line.’
A smile played in the corner of his wide mouth as he titled his head to the side, deliberating on a choice of words. Then his deep voice rumbled,
‘You know I’m gonna need to know what your favourite is.’
‘The pizza delivery boy.’ I answered with a shrug as though the answer was completely obvious.
‘I’m no boy,’ he said, rubbing his chin like he was embarrassed at being the consolation prize. But he didn’t fool me.
