by Donna Alam
‘A cat. Darlin’. We’ve had this discussion before. We’ve no time for a cat. It wouldn’t be fair on the thing. You and I are out working or at school all day, and it’s not right for us to expect Agnes to take care of one more thing.’
‘But Agnes is okay with it, Daddy. She even suggested we go to the cat home on our way here. She said if there was ever a day to get a kitty and for you to be a-peas about it, though I think she meant happy, because how could you be peas?’ she asks, hands in the air. ‘Anyway, she said today would be the day.’
Should have kept the blinds closed. God knows what Agnes has seen—obviously enough incriminating evidence to get Sorcha a kitten.
Or maybe there’s method in this madness . . . maybe the kitten is an epic distraction? And Agnes a fucking genius? These are thoughts that are solidified as, grasping a small pouch of kitten food, my daughter smiles as she holds out her free hand to Paisley.
‘Come and meet my Princess kitty,’ she says.
Chapter 22
PAISLEY
‘You’re looking delightfully chipper.’
Damn. I thought maybe she wasn’t home. I take two steps backwards along the hall and turn and face Chastity through her open home office door. Sitting in front of her supersized chrome screen, she has one of her skin flix playing out silently. Ridiculously, I feel my cheeks heat as I think of my own dirty images—or the photos stored on my phone. I can’t believe I did such a thing. Or how I can’t wait to look at them.
‘And I notice you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes.’ She peers over the dark frames sitting on the end of her nose.
‘Would you believe it’s laundry day?’
‘I’d believe dirty stop out more. What is the world coming to?’ she mutters, biting back a smile as she turns her attention back to her screen.
‘Editing?’
‘Hmm. I need to finish this, then load it to the website later this evening. I’m going to take a break soon,’ she says, stretching her arms high above her head.
‘Gimme a few minutes to shower—’
‘To dispose of the evidence?’
‘I was going to offer to put the kettle on, but if you’re going to tease . . . ’
‘Tea!’ she says, baring her teeth. ‘I would shag you for tea, and I don’t even swing that way.’
‘No shagging necessary. Just give me a few.’
When I get to the kitchen, scrubbed clean and still smiling in yoga pants with wet hair, Chastity is already at the tastefully scrubbed and whitewashed table.
‘I fancied gin instead,’ she says, holding a lime in her hand. Two bowl-like glasses sit in front, half filled with clear liquid and ice. ‘Lime?’
‘Yes, please.’
‘Ah, yes. Fruit in alcohol works for you.’
I begin to giggle, my mind slipping back unbidden to this afternoon.
‘What’s so funny?’ she asks, dropping a slice in each. Without waiting for an answer, she carries on. ‘Troy must’ve been some man is all I can say.’
Ah, hell. Why didn’t I realise she’d jump to that conclusion? ‘Actually, I wasn’t with Troy. I was with Keir.’
‘You were?’ Chas looks back at me, her expression a little crestfallen. ‘I thought for sure you and Troy would hit it off.’ She slumps onto the bench like the wind has dropped out of her sails.
‘What have you got against Keir?’ I ask, pulling out the chair at the head of the table and seating myself.
‘Against him? Nothing. Nothing at all. How could I have anything against someone I’ve never met?’
‘But you aren’t happy . . . happy that I’m still seeing him.’
She blows out a breath, folding her arms and leaning her weight against the table. ‘It’s just . . . I feel sort of responsible for encouraging you in the first place. And a one-night stand with someone who’s emotionally unavailable is one thing. But continuing to see him? On his terms? I worry, sweets. How could I not?’
‘One thing,’ I say, leaning across the table to grasp her hand. ‘You are the best woman I know, but my choices are mine only. My mistakes are my own. And if we’d had this conversation yesterday, I would’ve said the risk was worth it. That I was having such a good time with Keir, the potential fallout would have been worth the risk.’
‘Would’ve? Was? Has something happened.’
‘Well, I met his daughter today.’
I can’t keep the smile from my face. In fact, I feel giddy about the whole afternoon. Sorcha has such spirit, and she certainly keeps Keir on his toes. When we’d made it back into the kitchen from the laundry room, Agnes pretended not to notice our lack of clothing. We’d excused ourselves, dashing upstairs to Keir’s bedroom like teenagers who had been caught making out. We’d taken a minute shower each, dressed quickly, laughing and kissing the whole time, before returning downstairs for formal introductions.
Agnes. Sorcha. Princess, the kitten.
His house, in upscale Notting Hill, is more home than house. He’s clearly quite wealthy, but then I could tell that from the cut of his clothes. Not that this kind of thing is super impressive to me. After all, I was almost married to Robin Reed. The thought of what might have been makes me shiver. I had a lucky escape, for sure.
‘Let’s just say that I’m pretty sure our relationship has turned a corner.’ Even if I’m not sure which direction it’s going in. ‘Also, today is Saturday.’
‘Honestly,’ Chas says, holding her hand in front of her mouth as she laughs. ‘Anyone would think you’re auditioning for a job on the theatre production of Rain Man or something. I’m well aware what day it is. I just hated the thought you were being compartmentalised. Because you, my odd American friend, should be revered, not pigeonholed.’
‘Are they really making a theatre show out of Rain Man?’
‘Yeah, a musical. No, of course they’re not. But we can do a Fast Girl version if you’d like?’
‘I can’t even imagine.’ I open my mouth, then close it again. ‘Nope, not one thing to voice.’
‘So we’ll toast,’ she answers, raising her glass. ‘But I need you to promise you’ll introduce Keir to me.’
‘Yeah, sure. Definitely.’ I raise my own glass. ‘Like you’re the queen.’
‘Here’s to those who love us.’
‘I can drink to that, though I’m not saying he—’
‘And to those who don’t,’ she says, cutting me off, ‘may God turn their hearts.’
‘Okay, but—’
‘And if he doesn’t turn their hearts, may he give them cankles, so we will know them by the sight of their fat ankles.’
‘Oh, that’s harsh!’ We giggle, glasses are raised and clinked before we proceed to inhale half a bottle of Islay gin over the evening.
The next day, I do something I haven’t done for months; I pull out my running shoes and pants and go for a jog. The sun is shining, the air is crisp, and I feel a bit like skipping along the route I’ve chosen, high on the scent of not love, but maybe the possibility of that illusive thing.
It’s true that I have felt like I might be in love with Keir, though never allowed myself to give even the smallest of space in my head to even consider this. I told myself this had to be the result of the dozens of mood-altering orgasms I’d received at the hand of the man. And tongue. And penis.
I’d even thought about mentioning the idea to one or two of the girls on set last week. After all, if orgasms could be connected to mood, then adult entertainers must be the happiest people in the world! But then we’d had a couple of off days. Shots that weren’t a breeze to film. Bodily parts that required buckets of lube. Sort of stop-start, ow-he-jizzed-in-my-eye kinds of days where it became more than apparent that not every porn star had fun, or even orgasms, during their work day.
Anyway, it all became a bit of a moot point following the weekend.
But I’m trying not to get too carried away. Too ahead of myself. That’s not to say I’m not hopeful that our tentative relationship w
on’t blossom into something deeper.
Because I want it to. Because I definitely feel those first flutterings of l . . . No, I’m not going to go there. Even if I feel it might be possible that Keir feels the same.
As my phone begins to vibrate against my thigh, I slow down, pulling it out from my pocket.
‘Oh, thank God,’ I mutter. An excuse to stop.
‘Hello?’
‘Is someone chasing you?’ Chastity’s cut-glass accent enquires.
‘No. Why?’ I hold my hand to my chest as I try to get my breath.
‘Why on earth are you running?’ she asks as though genuinely perplexed.
‘Because it seemed like a nice day for a run.’
‘Yes, you looked like you were having fun as you passed. Personally, if I’m going to make my hair stand on end, get sweaty, and need Chanel mattifying paper for my red shiny face, there had better be an orgasm at the end of it.’
‘Where are you?’ I look around, answering my own question as I spot her in the garden of a café I just passed.
‘I’m sitting in a beautiful patch of sunshine, soaking up its rays like a cat, while drinking tea and eating cake.’
‘You had me at cake,’ I answer, making my way to her. Walking, not jogging. And before I can even say so, she says it for me.
‘Chocolate, not fruit.’
‘That’s why I love you.’
‘I ordered you an extra-large piece with cream, seeing as how you will have burned thousands of calories.’
‘Hardly,’ I say, sliding out a green painted chair from under the table. As I sit, the cold metal chills my butt. ‘I think I’ve been running for under ten minutes.’
‘But think of all the sex calories you’ve burned recently.’
‘Sex calories?’
‘Yes, I think there’s an online calculator. At least, Tianka seemed to think so. She uses it a little bit like a FitBit for work.’’
‘I’m not so interested in calories. Just taking care of myself. I’ve got an interview. Wild Women on BBC.’
‘That’s the midmorning chat show, isn’t it?’
‘Yep. No four a.m. starts for me if I get it.’
‘When, not if. Congratulations, sweets! Someone to take care of you in the bedroom department and a job interview! When are you seeing Keir next?’
‘Wednesday. I’ve been invited to dinner with his daughter.’
‘His daughter?’ Her eyebrows are in her hairline as she bites back a smile.
‘Yep, and he’s mentioned having me meet his friends, too.’
‘Oh, I see how it is,’ she says, folding her arms with a huff. ‘You’re meeting his friends before I get to meet him. Keep the scary porn lady out of the loop.’
‘Really? Do you think I’d really let that happen? Of course, you come first, crazy porn magnate or not.’ Chas smiles a little slyly as I begin to lay it on thick. ‘Friday night, he’s coming to pick me up.’ No meeting him at a hotel this week. ‘I thought we might have predinner drinks.’
‘Acceptable,’ she replies, hiding her smile behind her tea cup. ‘Where are you meeting his friends on Sunday? Purely out of interest.’
‘Of course, we’re just making small talk. Not comparing friendship terms.’
‘I knew you’d understand.’
The waitress arrives with my espresso, a fresh pot of oolong for Chas, and a large wedge of chocolate cake for me.
‘If you hadn’t given me the right answer, I’d have sent that back for apple cake.’
‘Good thing I know you’re the best friend in the world then, isn’t it?’
‘And so easily bought. I’m beginning to wonder if Keir is taking you to The Savoy for high tea to meet his friends and that’s why you’re avoiding the question.’
‘Ha! As if. We aren’t going anywhere fancy. A pub lunch, I think he said. Oh, and a casual invitation to watch Keir and his friends roll around a muddy rugby field.’
‘Oh, God!’ she groans, throwing her head back suddenly.
I look left and right, wondering how much attention we might have attracted while Chas mini orgasmed in the chair opposite me.
‘I’m the one with the chocolate cake. Why are you moaning in ecstasy?’
‘Thighs,’ she says, fanning her face with her hand. ‘Rugby thighs are so rucking hot.’
‘Am I supposed to get that reference? Because I so don’t.’
‘The ruck. It’s a thing. We’ll watch some,’ she says, suddenly sitting up straight. ‘When we get home. I can explain a few of the finer points.’
‘About the game?’
‘No, about the men, silly. I love a man with rugby thighs. Rugger buggers are just so . . . ’
‘Whole body shiver eliciting?’
‘Exactly.’
‘So it looks like I’m learning about rugby today.’
Only, when we get home, the afternoon doesn’t play out that way.
Chapter 23
KEIR
Sitting in my home office, I find myself typing a note. A note to Paisley. It’s not a love letter exactly. Though I will admit to feeling the first stirrings of something. Not in the letter, of course, or even out loud; it’s still early days. But I will say that I can’t ever recall feeling like this for a long time. Maybe even ever? And it’s fucking scary. Can a heart grow to accommodate more? Adapt? And if it is possible, why didn’t my ex feel the same when Sorcha was born?
Why do my thoughts always come back to her? Love to hate. Hate to love. They say lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place, but I’ve seen the YouTube videos.
So I type. It’s not exactly loving or cathartic. More like filth.
I’m not sure if I’ll ever send it, but I type it all the same.
Paisley, I can’t get the image of you yesterday out of my head. The white shirt I could see the lace of your bra through. The dark skirt hugging your curves. Do you know, I sometimes think your arse deserves a frame? It’s like a work of art.
I have a request, too. For our next date, can you wear the little black belt—the one with the gold buckle? Does it make you think of being tied as much as it makes me think of tying you? Wear it for me if it does.
No pressure, love.
Love? Is this love or an obsession? It’s hard to tell now that I’ve cracked the seal; now that I’m allowing myself to think. Allowing my thoughts of Paisley to breathe.
I want to watch you cross the room in those heels you love so much, letting your swaying curves torture me. I want you. Always. But I also want to look after you. I want to be the wall that protects you from all harm. Your home and your sustenance. Yes, that’s right; I want to feed you more than just my cock. And I want to cook for you. Don’t worry—it won’t be fruit.
I’ll sit you at the table with a glass of wine, then drop the napkin across your thighs while pretending not to look down the neck of your blouse. And as we eat, I’ll imagine all the things I want to do to you, waiting for a sign that you want those things, too.
I’ll wait for you to climb on my lap.
Wait for you to wrap your fingers in my hair.
Wait for the kiss that tells me what you need.
I’ll make you crawl to the bedroom. Watch your arse as you make your way there. I want to strip you. Take my time peeling you from your clothes, unravelling you like the treasure you are. I want to love you with my body. Mark my possession of you with my teeth. Hold you in my arms. Love you all night long. Love you all my l—
My fingers are frozen above the keyboard as I realise with a jolt of panic where my thoughts are heading. But then my phone begins to ring. Saved by the bell.
Or Mac.
‘Was I supposed to pick you up?’ I turn my wrist to check the time, his next words not really computing. Not quite making sense.
‘No, listen. This might be a wee bit of an odd thing to say, but that girl you were talkin’ about. Did you say you met her at that wedding you went to?’
‘Aye. Why?’ This isn’t
like Mac. He doesn’t fish for information, and he rarely sounds spooked. If he’s got a question, he’ll ask it. If he has a grievance, he’ll probably get satisfaction on the rugby field. A grab of the balls. A punch in the ribs.
He sighs, clearly uncomfortable. ‘I’m no’ bothered if you’re getting your end away or as celibate as a monk. Your business. Not mine. Not Will’s. But we had the kids out for breakfast in Covent Garden, and I read something in the newspaper while we were there.’
‘Mac, whatever it is, just say it. I’ve got nothing to hide.’ Not anymore, at least. He’ll meet Paisley soon enough. They all will.
‘Aye, so. This girl you’re seeing. She doesn’t happen to be engaged, does she?’
‘No.’ My answer is immediate and partly a growl. ‘Why d’you ask?’
‘That poncy singer Ella’s so fond of—the ginger bawheid? He’s had an accident. Wrapped his Aston Martin around a lamppost while off his face.’
Oh, fuck. How many singing ginger bawheid’s can there be? So it sounds like Paisley’s ex-fiancé, but why is Mac calling me?
‘I remember Ella saying you’d mentioned he sang for the bride and groom that day?’
‘He did, but I’m not sure what you’re getting at.’
‘Just that he was there. And you met her there.’ He pauses, letting the implication settle before he begins again. ‘Just do yourself a favour and have a look at one of the Sunday papers online. Maybe stay away from the tabloids, aye?’
Before he’s even finished his sentence, I’ve closed my email and brought up one of the Sunday rags, greeted by a paparazzi shot of a very bedraggled ginger singer being bundled into the back of a police car.
I start to read the article, blood beginning to boil in my veins.
Exclusive!
Robin Reed Looks “Devastated” Following Car Accident
Said to be “distraught” from the recent split with his fiancée.
Everyone’s favourite Brit Boy, the crooner Robin Reed, has been ordered to rehab by his management after a car crash involving three vehicles during the early hours of this morning.
