by Jo Watson
“You’re my one Lilly. And I’m not, not, going to make the mistake of letting you go again. I’ve booked a plane ticket back to SA, I’m coming home.”
The sun was dipping below the horizon once again and the bright moon was starting its steady climb into the indigo sky. The purple twilight around us was tinged with a warm gold, which made Damien look softer, and gentler than I’d ever seen him.
“I love you.”
“I…” I tried to say it back to him, but I’d officially been reduced to a puddle of speechless emotions. So I nodded and managed a “Ditto.”
Damien smiled at me, clearly amused. “Fuck I’ve missed you and your silliness.”
“What silliness?”
“Come on…who’s this German woman I’m proposing to and having kids with?”
“Oh that.” I laughed. “She’s this crazy-hot woman I shared an elephant with.”
“Mmm.” A boyish look glinted in his eyes and the mood suddenly changed. “But definitely not as hot as you.”
I shook my head. “You haven’t seen her. Trust me.”
And then Damien’s eyes darkened and his mouth curled into that crooked, mischievous smile that I’d fantasized about for a whole year.
He let go of my face and his hands found their way under my shirt and up to my bra strap.
“I don’t need to see her. Trust me.” His voice was low and dripped with the promise of sex. There was absolutely no misinterpreting the situation now. I knew what was about to happen.
I felt my bra straps loosen and then Damien pulled my shirt off.
“I’ve thought about this every night for the past year,” he said, as my bra and shirt fell to the ground. I could feel his eyes moving over my naked breasts.
“Me, too.” My voice was nothing more than a tiny whisper now.
“Come.” He took me by the hand and lead me across the deck to the bed he’d made where he lay me down.
I looked up at the sky. It was a deep, inky purple and the stars were starting to come out in all their glory, while the moon crept higher still.
This was the perfect night.
The perfect moment.
Damien was perfect.
And I was never going to let him go again.
And those were my last thoughts as Damien pulled his shirt off and started kissing me….
Jo Watson has worked as a TV scriptwriter and storyliner, playwright, copywriter and features writer for the past ten years in South Africa. Burning Moon is her first novel. She is passionate about telling stories and creating interesting characters and would love to hear from her readers; visit her at jowatsonwrites.com. When she is not writing she watches copious TV series, listens to Depeche Mode and hangs out with her fiancé and her two-year-old son, Jack.
Girls’ Guide to Getting It Together
By Amber Lindley
For Paul and all my family and friends with love.
Chapter One
“How to Be a Confident Woman: A Step-by-Step Guide to Boosting Your Self-Esteem”
by Olivia Bright
#1 Buy a bra that fits. Stop stuffing your boobs into Primark-sized underwear just because it’s cheap.
#2 Try your dream job. Volunteer on the side and then you’ll know if it’s really your dream. If it isn’t, you’ll have more confidence to succeed in whatever role you choose.
#3 Ask for that pay rise you were promised in your current job. Confident women do not earn minimum wage for fear of telling their boss they’re worth more.
#4 Throw away old clothes and accept that you aren’t going to get into those tiny leather trousers again. Be confident about the way your body looks now, not how it used to look.
#5 Ditch the takeaways and learn to cook something tasty yourself..
#6 Ask a guy, who you think is way out of your league, out on a date. You might be surprised.
#7 Do something that scares you every day. You’re a confident, independent woman. You don’t need to buy a new dress or scoff a whole box of Krispy Kremes to cope with rejection or failure.
I stare at the pictures of beautiful, smiling women who ooze confidence. The confidence that following Olivia Bright’s words is supposed to give every reader.
I don’t normally take notice of such guides. Not even the ones written by my favourite magazine writers.
But something about Olivia Bright’s article seems oddly familiar. It could be a friend or someone I know making these suggestions. And that’s compelling to me to give it a go.
After all, some days I wish I had the confidence to ask somebody at work how exactly to load the paper into the photocopier so that it doesn’t jam.
I started my job as an admin assistant for the HR department of a Leeds window company about eight months ago. I work there with three women who more than make up for my lack of confidence. There’s Nora, my boss, Helen, my superior, and finally Scarlett, who may not be any higher up than me career-wise, but she started a few months before me—leaving me with the dreaded “new girl” status.
I can’t imagine any of them taking this stuff seriously. Even Scarlett, who hides celebrity gossip magazines under the piles on her desk so she can sneak a look at them when Nora isn’t watching, would laugh off the article.
Why would a girl who waltzes in to work every day wearing six-inch heels have any trouble asking a man out? And it’s not like Scarlett needs to worry about throwing away clothes that are too small for her. The only clothes that are too small for Scarlett are those made for seven-year-olds.
I flick the pages, idly scanning stories of celebrity scandal and checking my horoscope. But I soon turn back to “How to Be a Confident Woman” and read the list again, mentally running through how attainable each one is.
Buying new underwear is easy. And I’m sure I could be a bit more ruthless with my wardrobe if I tried.
But what about the things that require a certain level of existing confidence? My palms feel sweaty against the glossy paper just thinking of speaking to Nora about a pay rise.
“Interesting read, Megan?” Helen peers over my shoulder as she passes through the tiny kitchen. She’s smirking in a way that makes me want to “accidentally” forget to take the tea bag out of the cuppa I’m about to make her.
Yes, part of being the new girl means doing the tea run.
“Just one of those girly magazines.” I yank the pages over so quickly that they almost rip.
Helen is probably the last person who would listen to a ‘how-to’ guide.
“What’s Peter Andre up to now?” She pulls a face, pointing at the page I’ve randomly turned to.
“Um…promoting a new show I think.” I roll up the magazine as the kettle boils, putting Olivia Bright out of my head for now.
And I manage to keep it that way for the rest of the day, busying myself with the general errands that are another perk of being the office’s newest recruit.
It’s only when I begin my commute home that I start to think about the list again. Sitting on the bus, leaving the big city of Leeds and going back to Rothwell, the small town on the outskirts where I live, I pluck the rolled-up magazine from my handbag and slide it onto my lap.
I intend to go straight to the fashion section to find out where I can pick up a bargain on this season’s sexiest shoes, but the pages fall open to Olivia Bright’s article, and I read her tips over again.
Is she right? Is being a confident woman really as easy as following these steps? I know some of them are going to take a bit of working up to, but they do at least sound like something I might be able to achieve.
Okay. Maybe I might need to ask someone I know to help. Someone who’s already confident and vibrant and fun and who will know exactly what to do.
There’s only one person I can possibly confide in that I’m even considering following some magazine’s advice. I choose my flatmate, Zara.
She’s already home when I walk through the door of our ground-floor flat. Zara works as a freelance writer, sell
ing stories to newspapers and magazines. It’s not an ideal career match, considering she hates the whole fashion magazine culture and only does it to fund her aspiring novelist dreams, but she’s the only person I know who is at least clued up on it.
When I step into our living room, she’s sitting on the pink leather couch with her slender body hunched over her white Sony VAIO laptop, fingers gliding across the keys.
“Got work to do?” I dump my handbag, and the magazine, on our fold-away table by the window.
She nods, shaking her bouffant of two-toned hair. “Got a deadline.”
“Shall I make tea?” I wander into our tiny kitchen. My culinary skills don’t exactly match Nigella Lawson’s, and normally just the threat of being near the stove is enough to send Zara running for the frying pan.
But she doesn’t move or even acknowledge that I’ve spoken.
I consider my options. I could repeat what I’ve just said and risk looking like an idiot. Or I could carry out my threat and cook.
I linger in the doorway, too scared by option two to actually go through with it.
“Check the fridge,” Zara finally says, still not looking up from her computer screen.
There I find Zara’s Blue Peter–style ready-prepared lasagne. All I have to do is heat it up.
Once we start eating, Zara seems a lot more willing to procrastinate. We share an idle conversation about what’s going on in Hollyoaks, and I update her on life as the office slave for Window Shine’s HR department. She mentions a couple of new freelance jobs she’s got, but Zara has always been very private about her work. To the point that she turns her laptop screen away from me if I try to read anything she’s written.
“I read this article today,” I aim for a casual approach.
“Oh?” She scrapes her fork against her almost-empty plate.
“It’s all about confidence.”
She pinches her lips together, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Ever heard of Olivia Bright?”
“Nope. Never heard of her. I don’t know every writer who’s out there, Megan.”
“I know. I just thought…never mind.”
“What does this article say, then? Since I know you’re going to tell me anyway.” She stands up and stacks our plates.
“Here, I’ll show you.” I reach for my bag that I’d dropped just inside the door. Our flat is literally so small I can reach it from the table. I find the folded magazine and flick the pages until I reach Olivia Bright’s list.
Zara takes it from me, her eyes scanning the printed words. “Bullshit,” she declares when she’s finished reading. “Megan, you’re not seriously thinking of doing these things, are you?”
“They don’t sound too difficult.” I hold my head up. “Why shouldn’t I try it?”
“Because it’s stupid. Who’s going to feel more confident because they’re wearing nice underwear?”
“That’s only the first point,” I counter. “I’m not expecting instant results.”
Zara raises her perfectly symmetrical eyebrows. “So what are you expecting?”
“A little bit more belief in myself.” I tap the page furiously. “I thought I could rely on you to support me.” Grabbing our plates, I head to the kitchen.
“Oh come on, Meg.” Zara follows me, pleading. “You know I believe in you.”
“Really?” I dump the plates on the counter. “Is that why you won’t even let me cook a meal?”
“Do you want to cook? Because I’m going out tomorrow evening. Coming home to a meal I haven’t had to cook myself would be nice.”
I’ve walked myself into this one, haven’t I? Of course I don’t want to cook. With the exception of my mother, Zara is probably the only person in the world who knows quite how bad my skills in the kitchen are.
But it’s one of the points on Olivia Bright’s list. I’m twenty-four years old, for God’s sake! I should at least know how to whip up something simple.
“I think there might be a tikka masala sauce in the cupboard,” Zara continues. “Even you can’t go wrong with that.”
She’s forgetting about the last time I tried to cook using a jar of sauce, also fooled into thinking it would be easy.
It took up a big chunk of my wages for that month, replacing the microwave I blew up after assuming it would be safer than cooking on the hob. Turns out you aren’t supposed to microwave metal bowls.
I’m about to remind her of that humiliating occasion when I notice the smile playing on the corners of Zara’s lipsticked mouth. She’s one of those girls who absolutely cannot leave the house without lippie. Even when she’s staying in, she still applies her favourite shade of cherry-red matte because she says you never know who you might see.
“You’re joking!” I realise, giving her a playful shove. “God, I thought you wanted to get food poisoning.”
Zara’s green eyes roll heavenwards. “You’re not that bad, Meg. You can cook something if you want.”
I eye the menu for our local pizza delivery place that’s pinned to the notice board behind Zara’s big hair. “How about a takeaway?” I suggest.
After all, I don’t need to start following Olivia Bright’s advice just yet, do I?
Chapter Two
Mondays should not exist for a very good reason. Everything starts on a Monday.
The working week, diets, resolutions.
Nobody counts calories on a weekend, do they? And it’s totally acceptable to splash out on a new handbag on a Saturday because, on Monday, you’re seriously going to be cutting back on your spending.
But after Saturday’s shopping splurge with Zara, I still walk into work on Monday with a fresh Starbucks caramel latte. To be fair, I’m going to need all the caffeine I can get if I’m really going to start becoming a confident woman today.
I’m going to do it point by point, starting with the first bit of advice about buying a proper bra. Which is why I’ve already pre-ordered my tuna-mayo baguette from the sandwich shop to eat on the go while I’m out browsing the rails in La Senza during lunch.
Obviously this is another can’t-be-helped expense. I’ve got to eat, haven’t I?
Especially if I’m going to get through today.
Not only am I about to embark on my new life as the confident Megan Riley, but I’m also being given a huge amount of work — Window Shine has recruited loads of new staff to work in their warehouses. They’re obviously starting on a bloody Monday, and require the HR department to oversee their settling-in periods.
Normally, organising recruitment paperwork is Helen’s job. Only she’s swanned off to Wales for a dirty long weekend with Raul from her salsa class.
After Nora abandons me and Scarlett to take care of everything, the last thing I’m going to want to do is traipse around underwear shops listening to the overly perky sales assistant’s drivel about strapless bras.
But I’ve got to start today, haven’t I? Who starts any new project on a Tuesday?
So when twelve o’clock comes, I skip out of the office and into the cold city air.
Well. Okay. I don’t exactly skip.
It’s more a shuffles, hoping that I’ll bump into Nora and she’ll ask me—no, beg me—to work through lunch. Then I’ll have no choice but to start all this confidence stuff tomorrow. Or maybe I could wait until next Monday…
The truth is, I’ve never been a big fan of underwear shopping. Like food shopping, it fails to excite me in the way that hunting for a nice party dress or a new handbag does. Nobody strolls into work and gets questions about where their knickers are from. Nobody even sees your underwear.
Unless you’ve just got a new boyfriend, and you’re buying skimpy see-through things that you’re supposed to wear with suspender belts and stockings. And then you discover that it’s a bit tricky attaching the stockings and…well, that’s a different story.
I tend to get all the bad kind of shopping done in one trip by grabbing new underwear sets from Asda when I’m food sho
pping with Zara. And their underwear is quite nice.. It’s always served me well so far. Although I hate those sets where they guess what size your bottom half is based on your cup size. Not every small-busted woman also has a small bum.
Okay. Fine. If Olivia Bright says I’ll feel more confident in a bra that fits me properly, I suppose La Senza it is.
I take the short walk from the office to the lingerie store with my winter fur coat fastened up as far as it will go, my scarf wrapped around my otherwise exposed neck. God, it’s cold. Surely November’s too cold to be looking at underwear that isn’t thermal.
What if the assistant comes into the cubicle with me, measures my chest and gives me the depressing news that I should be buying a smaller-sized bra?
Oh, God. I don’t think I want to do this.
But I’m here now, aren’t I? I suppose I could take a quick look inside. I don’t have to buy anything. In fact, I probably won’t. I could save the money and invest it in something a lot more interesting, like one of those cute tote bags I saw in Topshop.
I slip my hands out of my mittens and head towards La Senza.
The shop front is decorated with silver tinsel and all the mannequins are wearing sexy little Santa outfits. I press my face up to the glass and eye the red velvet lingerie trimmed with white fur. This definitely isn’t what Olivia Bright’s article is all about, but I shove the door open and step into…a porn star’s dressing room.
Brightly coloured bras hang on racks, while neatly folded lacy thongs line the left side of the shop. Satin nighties and other slight more demure garments occupy the space to my right.
Oh, my God. I have no idea what to do.
“Can I help you?”
I turn to face a beaming brunette sales assistant with a bluntly cut fringe.
“I was just looking…um…for a bra,” I fumble, looking around the brightly lit shop.
I swear this woman is staring at my chest. You know like how Gok Wan looks at the women on his fashion shows and tells them their body shape straight away? Maybe La Senza employees are the bust equivalent. She probably won’t even have to whisk me behind a curtained cubicle. Perhaps she already knows what size bra I need.
