Confessions

by Amber Stephens

Shelley was disappointed, even though she’d been expecting this. She’d half-hoped Aidan would say something like ‘Yours is the only bit I’m not going to change – it’s brilliant!’

  ‘Instead,’ Aidan went on. ‘I’d like you to do more investigative work. There’s no point having you stuck in the office writing … well, what you have been writing. I want you out there on the streets, undercover, getting me some grade-A hot stories.’

  Could it be true? Could Aidan really want her to do hard-hitting investigative reporting? This is what she became a journalist for. This is what she’d dreamed of as a girl, and throughout university. She imagined herself hanging around the bars in Westminster looking for ministers willing to speak off the record, or blagging her way into the retinue of a gangsta rapper crime lord in South London.

  ‘I’ve already arranged your first undercover role,’ said Aiden.

  Shelley sat forward in her chair.

  ‘It’s a lot of work. I’ll want a few thousand words a day.’

  Shelley raised her eyebrows, but nodded. She could do that, she could do anything.

  ‘There’d be a bonus in it if you deliver,’ Aidan went on.

  Shelley tried not to think in terms of bottles of The Crown’s finest dry white. ‘A few thousand words on what?’ she asked.

  He sat back in his chair, grinned broadly.

  ‘The Secret Diary of a Sex Addict!’

  A lengthy pause followed. The tick-tock of Kate Hurley’s ancient clock counted the treacherous seconds away as Shelley stared at her boss.

  This couldn’t be right. ‘I’m sorry, I think I misheard you,’ she said. ‘You said Secret Diary of a … What Addict?’

  ‘SexAddict,’ Aidan repeated, gazing back at her steadily.

  Shelley was floored. She’d been hoping to move away from love-soaked frippery and gossip; she desperately wanted to do hard-nosed, real journalism. Instead Aidan seemed determined to take her backwards. How could she, of all people, write a column from the point of view of a sex addict?

  ‘I need you to pretend to be addicted to sex.’ Aidan said, leafing through some pages on his desk. ‘We’ll come up with some convincing story for you. You can join a group, I already have most of this arranged, by the way. You’ll take a week to put together some stories. Feed them through and I’ll put them up on the blog site, when the next issue comes out we’ll run the best. We want them sexy, you understand? We want details.’

  Shelley’s head spun. Was Aidan testing her? Or was he hoping to get rid of her? Did he want another walk of shame? Should she follow Stargazer and Maya the Sub down to Benny’s wine bar to drown her sorrows and draft her resignation?

  Aidan didn’t speak.

  No, she couldn’t bear the thought of walking out now. She wouldn’t let smug Freya have the satisfaction, for a start. They’d given her a challenge they thought she’d fail, because they thought she was weak. But she wasn’t weak. She was a tough journalist, she could handle any assignment.

  Even sex?

  ‘I’ll do it,’ she said, firmly.

  ‘Great,’ he said looking down at his papers again. ‘The course starts on Monday but you have to be at the centre on Sunday for orientation. Take a BlackBerry, you’ll need to smuggle it in. You’re to use the BlackBerry to e-mail your copy in and to communicate with us if necessary, but only by e-mail please. The IT department tell me they’re bound to notice if someone starts using a phone, but they’re unlikely to monitor wireless e-mail communications.’

  ‘You make it sound like I’m infiltrating the Kremlin,’ Shelley protested.

  ‘The centre’s clients are strictly forbidden to contact the outside world, Shelley,’ Aidan said, earnestly. ‘They’re very clear about that. They will be watching you closely and if they catch you they’ll throw you off the course, we’ll lose the story and a lot of money.’

  What Aidan left unspoken was what exactly might happen to Shelley’s job if this happened.

  ‘Thanks for your time, Shelley,’ Aidan said, signalling the end of the interview.

  She left the office feeling about as confused as she’d ever been in 25 extremely confusing years.

  Chapter Three

  ‘I don’t see what the problem is with landfill sites,’ Freya was saying to Briony in her squeaky, we’re-all-matey-inthe-pub voice. ‘If they don’t fill the land we’ll just have big holes everywhere.’ Briony and Shelley stared back at her, trying to work out if she was serious.

  Freya was almost never invited to the pub after work. She was intensely irritating at the best of times and if you went around inviting her to things, she’d just take it as endorsement of her obnoxiousness.

  Shelley and Briony would normally be baiting her and trying to get her onto the subject of immigration, where she leaned slightly to the right of Hitler, and if she’d include the Polish girl who cleaned the loos, but tonight Shelley’s heart wasn’t in it. The buzz at the table was of the changes Aidan had wrought at the magazine. Everyone’s job had changed. Even the post-room boys, who had been asked to start a blog about being the only men in an organisation stuffed with desperate young women, with a particular focus on all those ‘special deliveries’ they made to the girls in marketing.

  The common theme of course was sex. The fashion shoots were going to feature more scantily-clad models, sliding over buff-torsoed men. There were to be more features on sex tips, marital aids and true-life experiences. Jen DuCroix, Features Editor, was excited about the prospect of road-testing the new vibrator on the block, the Berserk Bunny. Poor old Monica Bellamy, ad-sales executive and within spitting distance of retirement, had been asked to up the tit-count in the classifieds. Vixen was going to allow, and indeed encourage, phone-sex ads, albeit targeted at the female market. This meant ads for lingerie, dildos and even male escorts.

  ‘But it’s just pornography,’ Shelley protested, as Karen told them about her new feature, ‘How to Make Him Think You’re a Virgin’.

  Freya snorted. ‘Don’t be such a prude, Shelley. All the women’s magazines these days have a bit of slap and tickle about them. It doesn’t have to be crude. What’s wrong with a bit of tasteful erotica?’

  ‘She’s right,’ Briony said. ‘As much as I hate to admit it. It’s not as if the mag’s going to be wall-to-wall cock.’

  ‘Yes,’ Freya continued. ‘Look at my new role for example.’ None of them had asked her about her job, not wanting to give her the satisfaction. ‘Aidan knows I have psych degree as well as my Masters in Journalism. Well, he’s asked me to write a series of feature articles on the psychology of relationships. Each is practically guaranteed to be a cover story.’

  ‘The psychology of relationships?’ Shelley butted in. ‘Sounds a bit vague. Any particular aspect of relationships?’

  Freya appeared momentarily shaken but quickly rallied. ‘The physical side, mostly.’

  ‘Aha!’ Briony cried triumphantly. ‘You’re writing about sex like the rest of us. Let me guess, “What He’s Secretly Fantasising About”, or “10 Psychology Tips to get him Interested”. That sort of thing?’

  Freya scowled. ‘Well, sex is important in a relationship, it’s certainly one of the main things that keep the spark alive between Harry and me.’ This last was delivered while she stared coldly at Shelley. ‘A satisfactory love life is essential in being fulfilled as a woman.’

  ‘So what’s your new assignment?’ Shelley asked, pointedly turning away from Freya. ‘You still haven’t told us.’

  Briony smiled and very nearly looked embarrassed. ‘Aidan wants me to write a monthly column in which I describe a sexual experience. A new one every time.’

  ‘What, one of your experiences?’ Freya asked.

  ‘Yes, I basically find a willing partner, or partners, once a month, shag them and write about it.’

  Shelley couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘He’s asking you to prostitute yourself.’

  Briony rolled her eyes. ‘No he’s not; he’s just asking me to write
about my life. I’m a shagaholic already.’

  Shelley had to admit this was true. Despite having a sort-of boyfriend, who didn’t seem to care what she got up to, Briony had slept with an enormous number of people, including the occasional woman, during the two years they’d shared the dishevelled flat near the tube station. Sometimes Shelley was woken in the night by vibrations and was never quite sure if they were caused by Central line trains pulling into the station, or her energetic friend.

  Why hadn’t Aidan asked Briony to go to the clinic? She was a real-life sex addict. Maybe he had asked her and she’d refused? Or maybe he didn’t want her cured? Aidan wasn’t stupid, and it was obvious he’d done some background checking on his new staff to find out how they might be useful to him.

  Shelley was sitting with her back to the bar. The pub was nothing special, just one of those interchangeable inner London pubs. But it sold a decent house white and there were generally big tables available if you got in early enough, which Briony and Shelley normally did. Freya was looking over Shelley’s shoulder and smirking. Shelley groaned inwardly, she knew what was coming.

  ‘Your boyfriend’s here,’ Freya said. Shelley didn’t have to look. It was her favourite barman, the South African.

  ‘Oh drop it,’ Shelley said, shaking her head.

  ‘Yes,’ Briony added, coming to her rescue. ‘Shelley already has a date tonight.’

  One of Freya’s eyebrows raised itself just enough to make Shelley want to kill her.

  ‘Really?’ The fashion editor asked in the same disbelieving tone she might have used had Briony just told her Shelley had invented salt.

  ‘Yes, she’s going to a party with Gavin,’ Briony said. Shelley’s mouth dropped open as she stared at her former friend. ‘What on God’s blue-green Earth made you tell her that?’

  Freya’s smirk had reached warp factor nine by now. ‘I don’t think I know Gavin.’ she said.

  ‘He likes Manga,’ Briony explained.

  ‘I see,’ Freya said in a tone that suggested it all made perfect sense now.

  ‘I do not have a date with Gavin,’ Shelley ground out through gritted teeth. ‘I find him hugely repulsive on both physical and intellectual levels.’

  Freya nodded, after a slight pause.

  ‘I did think Shelley would have been a little out of his league,’ she said to Briony.

  Shelley swallowed slowly. She wasn’t used to support from Freya, albeit lukewarm.

  Briony was on her third super-sized glass by now though and apparently oblivious to how close she was to having the ice bucket rammed down her throat.

  ‘Remember our discussion though, Shell, start a few rungs down the ladder, until you get your confidence back.’

  Freya nodded in appreciation of this soundly-made point.

  ‘Just out of interest, Briony,’ Shelley said in as reasonable tone as she could muster. ‘To what sort of level would you say I should aspire?’

  ‘On the Hollywood celebrity gauge?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘What about Jim Carrey?’ said Karen.

  ‘You can do better than that,’ Ash from Accounts called from further up the table. ‘What about James Woods?’

  ‘How about we leave the Jims behind?’ said Shelley. ‘Let’s start thinking in terms of Brads and Georges.’

  ‘George Lucas?’ Freya suggested.

  Shelley shook her head.

  ‘George Bush?’ Briony said.

  Shelley kicked her. ‘He’s not Hollywood.’

  ‘Ouch!’

  ‘Oh we’re getting nowhere,’ said Shelley.’ What about you then, what’s your celeb level?’

  Briony considered for a moment. ‘Matt Damon,’ she said confidently.

  Shelley laughed out loud, but then realised everyone was nodding along in agreement.

  ‘What? You think you could get Matt Damon?’

  Briony shook her head. ‘You’ve missed the point Shell, the idea of the game is to find your level, not to speculate on who you might be able to get into bed. I’m a Matt Damon, Freya here is a Bill Pullman, physically that is, personality-wise she’s a Steve Buscemi, Ashley is a Gene Hackman – no offence Ash – and you are an Elliott Gould, or possibly one of the Baldwins.’

  Shelley stared back icily.

  ‘But if you go up to that barman and get his number, then maybe I can bump you up to a David Schwimmer.’ Briony snatched the bottle from the ice bucket sitting in the middle of the table and poured the last of it into her enormous glass. ‘Your round I think.’

  All conversation had stopped and everyone watched smiling as Shelley got to her feet and walked to the bar. As she went, a path opened up magically before her in the busy pub, a path which led straight to a gap at the bar itself. Beyond the bar stood the South African, who, along with one of the other young bartenders, was dancing to a track pumping from the stereo. She watched his hips move and wondered briefly what it might be like to have those hips gyrating between her thighs, before crushing the thought like a grape. He saw her coming, stopped dancing and smiled broadly as she approached. Another punter waved a twenty at him from stage right but he kept his eyes fixed on Shelley.

  She reached the bar and smiled back. This was it. She didn’t need sex therapy; she didn’t need Briony to fix her up with comic-reading nerds. She was quite capable of forming romantic liaisons with attractive young men.

  She could feel the eyes of her colleagues burning into the small of her back. They were expecting her to fall to pieces again. But she knew exactly what she was going to say and do. She was going to ask him his name then she was going to ask him what time he finished. Two simple questions. She’d show them she wasn’t to be trifled with. She was a David Schwimmer, no, better than that, she was a David Duchovny.

  The barman leaned towards her. Too close.

  ‘What can I do for you, beautiful?’ he said and looked directly into her eyes, smiling at her as if she were a childhood sweetheart.

  She froze.

  His smile dropped a millimetre. ‘Do you want something to drink?’

  ‘Ub … ub … ub.’

  She could smell his aftershave. She wanted to cradle his rough-looking head against her flat, naked stomach and at the same time she wanted to run screaming into the night.

  He peered quizzically at her. ‘Sorry?’ he said. ‘What was that?’

  ‘P-Pinot Grigio?’ Shelley squeaked.

  He looked disappointed and gave her a bemused stare before nodding and turning away. ‘Coming right up,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ Shelley said, slamming the new bottle back in the ice bucket. She felt like crawling inside the bucket herself, freezing herself solid. There had been a girl at university with Shelley whom everyone called the Ice Queen. She hardly spoke to boys and rumours flew that she was a lesbian, or a man-hater, then a vampire. Shelley sat next to her sometimes, discovered her name was Jane and they became casual friends. Jane was neither lesbian nor vampire, nor did she hate men. She was simply the most focused person Shelley had ever met. She didn’t care what people said about her, or what they thought. She was there to excel in her chosen field and she did so.

  Shelley admired her immensely and wished she had even half her self-possession. The problem was that Shelley did care what people thought. She did care what people said. She was terrified of rejection, desperate for approval and, not to put too fine a point on it, horny as hell a lot of the time. She didn’t freeze at the first sign of male attention because she was an ice queen, too cool for school. She froze because she was screwed up.

  And she hated herself for it.

  Shelley slumped in her seat, trying to avoid Freya’s simpering look of faux-sympathy, and Briony’s told-youso eyes. She felt the welcome buzz of her phone in the purse she had on a lanyard round her neck. She checked the text.

  ‘Oh hell’, she muttered under her breath. Bloody Gavin.

  She popped off to the loo, not wanting Briony peering over
her shoulder while she tried to rid herself of the pest. She locked herself in a cubicle and read the text.

  Hi Shel, U gong 2 Alex prty then? CU there?

  She rapidly texted back

  Sorry am busy tonight.

  She sat and closed her eyes for a while trying to clear her head of racing thoughts. Then she pulled herself together and made to put the phone away. It buzzed in her hand. Gavin again.

  U at pub near ur work? We could meet there?

  She groaned and flexed her thumb, trying to figure out the best way of getting rid of him, she didn’t want to be rude, but …

  Am on way home with tummy ache.

  That should do it, she thought. She snapped the phone shut and made to open the door, but stopped when she heard someone enter. She wasn’t in the mood to have a loo chat just now so decided to wait. Someone barged into the cubicle next to hers and sat down heavily.

  Then she heard Freya’s voice.

  ‘I really can’t see Shelley staying, you know?’

  ‘Why do you say that?’ Karen said from the next cubicle.

  ‘Well, the new focus of the magazine, it’s not really her thing, is it? What does she know about sex? She doesn’t even have a boyfriend.’

  ‘She’s a good writer,’ Karen said. Shelley smiled at this surprise bit of support. ‘Excellent grammar.’

  There was a pause as Karen flushed and moved to the sink. ‘You’re right about her being sex-starved though, according to Briony, she gets as much action as a comatose nun.’

  Freya giggled while Shelley fumed. She took a deep breath and prepared to fling open the door when her phone buzzed. Gavin again.

  Oh sorry to hear that – RU going to the Manga convention on Sun?

  She heard the toilet door slam, her opportunity to confront Freya and Karen now gone.

  No.

  As she pressed send, she felt a brief pang of regret. She wasn’t sure though whether that was because she was being unnecessarily mean to Gavin, or because she was wondering whether she shouldn’t just do exactly what Briony was suggesting and sleep with him. No, she wasn’t that desperate.