by Lucy Vine
Lana leads him through the house and into the study where a landline sits. The phone looks like it has been smashed by a shoe but Tony politely examines it anyway.
‘I’m afraid I cannot fix this, it is beyond repair!’ says Tony sadly. He is usually able to fix just about anything but this has pieces of phone smashed all over the desk.
‘That’s a shame,’ whispers Lana, who is standing very close to Tony.
Tony steps away, very afraid. ‘I will buy you a new phone, though!’ he suggests very generously.
Lana takes another erotic step towards Tony, cornering him, and Tony thinks he should perhaps leave.
‘Perhaps I should leave now?’ he says.
‘Before you go let me show you around my house!’ says Lana, looking very sad at the prospect of Tony leaving her already.
Tony agrees and they look around. He is amazed to discover that she has her very own lift in her house, and they get in to go up to the second floor. Once the doors close, Lana POUNCES. She kisses Tony and before Tony thinks about what he is doing, he is kissing her back. They really, really kiss each other for what feels like years but is probably only a few seconds because the second floor isn’t actually that far away. But it is an AMAZING kiss. Tony uses his tongue really successfully and it’s clear Lana is really aroused and happy about the tongue he is giving her.
When the doors bing open, Lana and Tony stop kissing and look at each other. Lana is panting and Tony is licking his lips to replenish the lubrication there. There is a lot going on.
‘That was the best kiss I’ve ever had,’ says Lana as they wander round the second floor. ‘I think it’s clear we are very sexually compatible, Tony.’
But Tony isn’t so sure. Yes, it was an amazing kiss and Lana is incredibly good-looking, but they still don’t even know each other! He can’t believe it happened. Tony has never kissed a woman he hasn’t had at least three conversations with before.
When they reach the bedroom, Lana smiles seductively. ‘Would you like to join me?’ she says and Tony quivers. He is not ready to take that step and excuses himself saying he has forgotten to feed his pet tiger and must rush home. It is a good excuse and Lana waves him goodbye, looking very sad but also very impressed by his chick-magnet Ford Mondeo.
Driving away, Tony doesn’t know what to think. He cannot deny that he is very attracted to Lana, and that six-second kiss in the lift was incredibly erotic with just exactly the right amount of tongue, but what does it mean? He has so many questions and he will list just a few of them here: They have sexual chemistry but do they have anything else? How is she so rich? Why do all the other women in the Book Club dislike her? What will happen next? And can she cook nut roast? There are so many questions and so few answers.
END SCENE
6
4.45 p.m. Friday, 8 March
Location: At The Windsor’s flagship gallery in north London, waiting in reception. There’s a bored AF girl behind the desk playing on her phone, and a giant landscape painting on the wall. It’s such an impressive, expansive space and I would be completely in awe – if there wasn’t sweat pooling underneath me on my chair.
I. Am. Shitting. Myself. I haven’t been to a job interview for so long and I’m so nervous. I had no idea what to wear. Sophie was useless on FaceTime – too distracted by Ciara to give me advice – so I ended up resorting to my one nice shirt (I made Thomas iron it for me late last night), a dark green blazer, and a pencil skirt, that I’m finding useful for wiping my sweaty hands on.
So, I finally worked up the courage yesterday to get in touch with Elizabeth Shelley after our awkward party exchange. She replied surprisingly quickly, asking if I’d like to come in today to discuss ‘possible opportunities’. I’ve got no real clue what that means, but obviously I said yes please, thank you very much, ma’am. And here I am, with my CV, and portfolio of artwork, hoping this is everything I need.
I shift in my seat, uncomfortably, clearing my throat. I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes and I’m really paranoid the receptionist has forgotten to let Elizabeth know that I’m here. I don’t want her to think I’m late. I keep standing up and loudly – pointedly – yawning in the receptionist’s direction to remind her of my presence. But she is studiously ignoring me, too engrossed in her phone.
Just when I’m considering another attention-seeking cough, Elizabeth calls my name, warmly, from across reception. She’s smiling that predator smile as she reaches out to shake my hand.
‘Thank you so much for coming in,’ she says. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Oh, you too!’ I reply, the feelings of inadequacy already creeping up my neck like a rash, as I follow this gloriously cool woman down a corridor and into her office.
There’s a man already in here and he stands up to greet me. He’s wearing a suit, holding a pile of papers self-importantly and giving off uptight, I-don’t-have-time-for-this vibes. I thought this was just going to be me and Elizabeth. Shit, this all suddenly feels very official.
‘This is Cameron Bourne,’ says Elizabeth smoothly. ‘He’s a potential partner in the new venture.’ He nods coolly at me and I wave back, stupidly. Elizabeth gestures for me to sit down in front of her desk and then smiles. ‘Thank you for coming in,’ she says again, nicely. ‘I wanted to continue the conversation we started at The Hales’ event. Obviously, this is all highly confidential, and I hope we can rely on your discretion?’
I nod dumbly.
She pauses for dramatic effect and adds, ‘But there might be a job opening coming up, and I think that you—’
The man interrupts. ‘So, Eleanor, what unique qualities do you think you would be bringing to the role?’ He says my name like it is in quote marks. Like he doesn’t believe it is my real name.
I stare at him, trying to comprehend and failing. I’m awful at these kinds of stock interview questions, I always have been. My brain melts when I hear them. How can anyone be judged on their ability to do a job, based on how well they can trot out the right bullshit adjectives? I don’t even know what the job is, how do I answer this?
I clear my throat and Elizabeth glances over at her colleague. She seems peeved. ‘Well,’ I start, lamely. ‘It depends a little on what the role would be, but I’m hard-working, committed—’
He rolls his eyes and interrupts again. ‘OK, “Eleanor” –’ (if that is your real name) ‘– where do you see yourself in five years?’
‘In a girl band?’ I say, my smile sagging when I catch his stony expression. ‘Er, sorry, just a joke.’ I steal another look at Elizabeth. She’s hiding her mouth behind her hand.
I wipe my face with the back of my hand, the panic taking hold, and start again. ‘In five years, I would hope to be helping run a gallery like this one and spending more of my free time painting. I brought some of my work along if you’d like –’
Cameron, his face bored, sticks his hand out for the portfolio and I gingerly hand it over. He flicks through it, unimpressed. Halfway through, he sighs and dumps it back on the table, leaning forward.
‘Give me an example of a time when you overcame conflict with a colleague,’ he says.
FuckOffJackie FuckOffJackie FuckOffJackie FuckOff Jackie FuckOffJackie
‘Er.’ My mind stays blank. Elizabeth has stopped listening and is studying my portfolio. She looks up at me questioningly, and then back at the art. I hold my breath, I can’t tell if she likes it or not.
‘Well,’ I slowly breathe out, and then I stop. Sweat is tickling the back of my neck and my mind’s still blank. What was the question? Was it the five years one? This is the problem in job interviews, I get so nervous I forget what’s happening and usually end up talking round and round in circles until someone cuts me off, or I kill myself. I can’t believe I’m nearly thirty and still haven’t mastered interviews. I really should have by now – other people can do them, can’t they? I should be able to play this game. I should be able to string a fucking sentence to-fucking-gether without
falling a-fucking-part.
I can’t let this happen, this means too much to me.
I lean forward, matching his body language, and try honesty. ‘Look, Mr Bourne, I have no idea what you just asked me, but please believe me when I say that I would do anything to work with you both. I’m so passionate about art, it means so much to me. I’ve been drawing since I was a kid, and it’s all I want to do with my life. Being around art is . . . ’ My mind goes blank again and I trail off.
There’s silence.
Cameron stands up. ‘Thanks for coming in, “Eleanor”,’ he says, heading for the door and opening it.
I’ve fucked it up.
My shoulders sink and I look at Elizabeth. She looks embarrassed.
I’ve embarrassed her. She put her faith in me, and I made her look like an idiot in front of an investor. I’ve ruined everything.
I get up and shake her hand limply. ‘Thanks,’ I say curtly, and there’s pity in her expression. I wait until I’m in the lift before I start crying. Fuck everything.
Two hours later I’m in a bar, swigging wine and replaying the awful interview over and over in my head. As if this day couldn’t get any worse, I have a date tonight. I’ll have to paste on a smile and be my best self again for a few hours. God this process – life, dating – is exhausting. But at least I get to drink heavily, I think, cheers-ing myself. The barman watches me, alarmed, as I reach down my top and start awkwardly rearranging my boobs. I found this bra in my underwear drawer this morning, and like the moron I am, I thought, Oh how lovely, I forgot I owned this bra. There can be no reason why I don’t wear it any more. Let me put it on and spend the entire day trying not to scream in agony as my poor breasts are squeezed and scratched. I forgot it was one of those bras.
I would take it off, but then I would have to go home immediately.
As I take another sip, my date, Gary, walks in, scanning the room. And I almost gag.
The man is huge, stacked, cut. He looks like he spends every waking hour in the gym, and then every sleeping hour under a sunbed. He could’ve just walked off the set of Geordie Shore, I think, in awe, as he spots me.
‘Hello, love – Ellie, right?’ he winks.
I giggle. And then giggle again.
That’s weird.
Another giggle.
Holy shit, I fancy him, I realise. Gross, what’s wrong with me? I don’t usually find these kind of men attractive. I like nice, geeky boys, not orange ladz. But there’s something about this guy. Something about his BIGness, it’s making me turn into a simpering puddle of jelly. He confidently orders a JD and coke – ‘with a straw, mate’ – and turns his attention back to me.
‘Can I get you another drink?’ he offers, nodding at my wine with a cheeky grin.
His T-shirt is so tight.
I giggle again by way of an answer. He looks amused and gestures to the barman to fill my glass. We take our drinks and find a table in a corner.
I can see his nipples through that T-shirt. Oh fuck.
Three hours later, and my vocal skills are still failing me badly. I don’t know what’s wrong with me today, speaking has never been more difficult. I’ve gone from being unable to do anything but giggle, to giving bizarre speeches like this one:
‘Sorry I was ages in the loo. It was one of those wees that keeps going forever! You know? You think it’s all out and you’re like “Phew! At last!” But then you squeeze and a whole new stream starts. And it was a mad colour cos I had a Berocca before I got here in preparation for the hangover. It’s funny because sometimes I don’t wee for like two days!’
‘You’re kind of a hot mess, huh?’ he says, after my speech about urine.
I am perplexed. ‘Did you just call me hot?’ I ask, slightly turned on.
‘Yes, pet,’ he hoots. ‘But I also called you a mess.’
‘That’s fine,’ I wave my hand dismissively. ‘I don’t care about that, just the hot part.’
He scoots closer, grinning, and whispers, ‘Are we going to bone tonight?’
I giggle again, not nearly as horrified as I should be. It seems to be all I’m capable of this evening.
I mean, I could go have sex with him. But can I be bothered? It’s an awful lot of effort, and I’d always much prefer to wake up in my own bed. I’m not taking him back to TS though. If we call it a night now, I could be home in thirty minutes, eating discounted Terry’s chocolate orange slices from Christmas, and reading the ‘best rated’ comments on the Daily Mail website to make myself feel outraged and superior. I think about my bed now and I ache with longing. This is what I love about being single – the total selfishness. I could go home now and watch Made in Chelsea all night. I could paint, I could eat biscuits and get crumbs all over my duvet. I could carry on the hilarious Tinder chat I’ve been having with a guy who makes dolls that look like real babies. I only report to myself, I only have myself to consult. I can do anything. And God, I like having the bed to myself. I like bundling myself up in seven layers of ugly old pyjamas, and tucking myself in like a burrito.
And, like, if I have sex with him, it will take my number up to seventeen, and I really hate odd numbers.
He smiles at me, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.
I can’t believe I’m even considering it. This is a man who said supposably several times earlier.
‘Go on, pet,’ he says, winking again. ‘I promise I’ll give you the best orgasm of your life. I’ll massage your passage.’
Oh fuck no.
OK, I did have sex with him, but HEAR ME OUT.
I hadn’t intended to, but then we left and there was a giant Derren Brown billboard outside the bar and Gary got really freaked out and kept telling me not to look ‘the sorcerer’ in the eyes because he’d curse us both. It was sooo adorable. And then we were kissing and I felt so tiny in his arms, and there we have it. I am blameless.
Which is how I’ve ended up sneaking out of his apartment in south London at eight in the morning. As I leave his house, I look around with surprise. I know exactly where I am, I know this area – Thomas lives down that road over there. I send him a WhatsApp.
You home? Can you cook me breakfast?
His reply is instant.
Yes! Where are you? How was your date? Are you walk-of-shaming?
I glance down at my dress and the heels shoved into my bag.
I’m walk of priding it, actually. I’ll be there in two.
Thomas has coffee waiting for me as I arrive, and he ushers me through to the kitchen. He has a proper house that he actually has a mortgage for, like some kind of aberrant millionaire.
‘How’s the head?’ he asks in a soothing voice.
‘Not terrible,’ I say, sipping my coffee. ‘Not yet, anyway. Can you make me scrambled eggs, please? I have such a craving.’
Thomas nods, laughing. ‘You’ve been working up an appetite then? How was – what was his name? Gary?’
I wince. ‘Yes, Gary.’ Is it weird to tell Thomas about this? I usually do, but Sophie’s generally there too as a buffer. I don’t want to hurt him or make him jealous.
‘He had really tiny nipples,’ I say thoughtfully. ‘Big lad, but cute baby nipples.’
‘You know what they say about men with tiny nipples!’ Thomas laughs awkwardly.
‘No?’ I say blankly.
‘Never mind,’ Thomas rolls his eyes, cracking eggs into a pan. He’s so nice to me.
‘But yeah,’ I babble. ‘It was fun. And his loo had two flushes! So fancy. The sex did go on for ages though and I got bored and started counting sheep.’
‘Isn’t that for sleeping?’ Thomas looks perplexed.
A thought occurs to him, and he looks up from his cooking. ‘Oh wait, doesn’t this mean you’re back onto an odd sex number again? I know how you hate that.’
Damn, I’d forgotten. I laugh. ‘I guess I’ll just have to climb on someone else really soon,’ I say. Thomas laughs too, and then looks at me a little pointedly.
W
ait, did that sound like I was flirting? Does this feel like a date? Question: is it OK to feel like this is a date when I can still feel the imprint of another man’s fingers inside me?
Thomas puts eggs in front of us both and tops up my coffee.
‘Will you see him again?’ he says, sitting down. ‘Will Sophie at last see her double dating dreams come true?’
I make a face, shaking my head. ‘Nah. It was fun, but Gary is not for me. I didn’t even mean to have sex with him. I’m actually on my period! Day five, so it’s, like, almost cute levels of blood, but still.’ I look down at my food. ‘I let his penis potentially get close to bits of my womb. Do you think I’m disgusting?’
Thomas laughs. ‘No, don’t be ridiculous! Boys don’t care about that. I have period sex all the time. I just lay a towel down, it’s not a big deal.’
Wait. Thomas has sex ‘all the time’? WTF? Why doesn’t he tell us about it? Is he telling Sophie and not me?
A wave of nausea overwhelms me. My hangover’s really kicking in.
Josh is in the kitchen when I get back to TS, and I watch from the doorway, blank with fury, as he dumps his dirty breakfast plate in the sink. There’s already a huge pile of crusty pans in there that he must be responsible for. When I left this place yesterday, the kitchen was clean and tidy, after two solid hours of scrubbing and grunting. But twenty-four hours with Josh Day, and it’s back to the exact same gross rat hole it was before. Josh slumps back onto the sofa, grunting a greeting in my vague direction as he cranks up the volume on the TV. God I hate him. The eggs I had at Thomas’ are rolling around in my stomach, and I can feel the pent up frustration of yesterday – my failed job interview and sad period sex – building up inside me.
‘FUCKING CLEAN YOUR FUCKING PLATE,’ I suddenly scream at Josh, who jumps in shock. I breathe out slowly. ‘Please fucking clean your fucking stuff, Josh,’ I say again, more calmly this time. ‘I’m so sick of coming home to a wreck of a kitchen. Please, Josh, at least soak the nastier plates so they don’t congeal for all time?’
