The Arrangement (Erotic Novella)

by Olivia Fox

  I walk past Lily, straight up to the manipulative, interfering cow who evidently orchestrated this insane gathering. I make every effort to ignore the male eyes watching me from every angle, but it’s not easy. Their stares bore into my peripheral. Well, in a moment their stares can bore into my butt as I walk out the way I came because I’m buggered if I’m sticking around.

  “Cayley?! What the fuck?!!” I fume, low and slow and bubbling with fury.

  “It’s an intervention,” she says, confident as you like, and somewhere in the room Celia yelps with glee.

  “A what?! A what?!!” Words are failing, and my knees aren’t feeling as solid as they were a moment ago.

  “It’s good to see you, Em. Come, sit down,” says a familiar husky voice from my sofa. Brett. Brett is on my sofa. Oh Christ.

  “We’re not here to judge you. We just want to talk,” drawls a smoother male voice from the beanbag on my left. Anders. Anders who I slept with, off and on, two Summers ago, whilst - of course - in my non-relationship with Harry.

  Cayley nods at Anders like he’s said the right thing. She’s prepped them well for this intervention, apparently… ‘Keep the pressure off, that’s it boys. No accusations. We’re going to wheedle our way under her skin then eat her alive from the inside!’ …Oh God.

  I can’t ignore them any longer, not now they’ve started talking to me. Though I’m tempted. I didn’t ask any of them to come here, and I never led a single one of these bastards on. So what right do they have to - aw crap - I’m going to faint. I’m suddenly a damsel in distress and - ooh lucky me - here’s a room full of arseholes ready to rescue me.

  ‘Gotcha!’ says Iain, as he catches me mid-fall, and pulls me to the sofa next to Brett and Simon, and that’s the problem isn’t it?! They’re not arseholes at all. They’re nice. And, yeah, I know ‘nice’ isn’t the most expressive word I could choose to use, but right now ‘nice’ just about covers every single one of them. Sure, I felt something for one or two - or three - that might have inched toward passion, but for the most part these fellas are all just decent guys who wanted a bit of fun.

  “I hate you, Cayley,” I murmur, but Simon’s got my head pushed down between my legs and he’s rubbing my back in soothing little circles, so my words don’t have the impact I’d hoped for.

  Lily and Celia stand awkwardly at my side. I tell them to go talk. They’re no good to me here, caught up in the tension of their own issues. And I seem to have enough of my own. Seven to be precise. Seven unwanted, testosterone filled issues, draped around my living room, drinking beer and watching me.

  “We won’t be long,” Lily tries to reassure me as she leads Celia out to the kitchen. And I think Celia says chin up cuz but my chin’s lodged safely on my thighs.

  Cayley clears her throat delicately. "So, who wants to start?"

  "Wait," I murmur, because I can't be this pathetic little wretch with her head down any longer. I need to know who's here in my flat, and I'm tough enough to face them. So I scan the room. I nod a weary hello to Rich, who’s in the corner oozing anti-charisma. I say a quick, awkward ‘hi’ to Ed, who's stretched lazily across my arm chair wearing his trademark amused grin. And I even manage to half-smile tentatively at Guy, who once upon a time I really did like very much indeed. Guy looks about a tenth as miffed as I feel, but that's still fiercer than any other bloke in this room. For the life of me, I can't think why. I mean he ended it with me.

  And then something else hits me. These are the men who could make it. The ones who said yes. Who else did Cayley talk to? Oh, please tell me she didn't talk to everyone in my little yellow book of shame!

  "OK," I say. "Well thanks for coming, all of you. I'm touched - I think - possibly. But I really don't have time today, so-"

  "This won't take long." That's Guy. Oh brother. "So, I thought it was just me you were like that with. Turns out I was wrong, huh?!”

  “No judgments.” That’s Anders again. Sweet, bland, big bicep-ed Anders. Anders who works out for hours every evening to keep that lovely body all tight and pretty. Anders for whom I felt zero sparkage, but enough body-lust to keep things entertaining. “We’re here to be supportive.” God bless his cotton jock strap.

  I appreciate his chivalry and all, but I want to know what Guy meant. I have to know. Guy’s rolling his eyes skyward like Anders is the dumbest thing he ever clapped eyes on, and he’s so obviously got an axe to grind.

  “If I did something to piss you off, Guy, just spit it out,” I say, sounding stronger than I feel. But again, one of my many ex-lovers tries to buffer his accusation before it comes.

  “Ignore him, Em. You were a perfectly fine girlfriend,” says Simon, still trying to soothe me with his hand on my back.

  Perfectly fine?! Why am I now taking offense at that? I guess I was perfectly fine with Simon. We had a perfectly fine year of hum-drum OK-ness right before I started working at Thrills. We hung out together. Or not. Whatever we felt like. He’s a teacher - or, at least, he was - so he was always short of social time. And to be honest I think that’s why it worked. Actually I know that’s why it worked, because the six-week Summer break killed our relationship. We both suddenly felt like we had all this extra time we should be spending together - and we realised pretty quick that it just wasn’t worth the effort. So we fizzled.

  “Thanks, Simon,” I murmur, but I’m still watching Guy. My eyebrows are hitched into my forehead, urging him to spill whatever mean beans he’s hiding.

  Guy sighs, digging his hands into his jeans pockets. He seems to be searching for the right words. “I liked you, Em. We had - y’know - a connection. Jesus. That sounds so fucking chick-lit, but you know what I mean…”

  I nod, urging him on, past the preliminaries to the bit that’s going to smart.

  “But whenever I thought we were getting closer, you’d -” he pauses and I wonder if he’s deliberately going for dramatic effect. But then when he says the next bit, I can tell by the way his voice tightens that it pains him a bit to say it. Hell it pains me to hear it. “- you’d lay out the rules, like if I got too serious about you, you’d leave.”

  “So you left,” nods Brett. What?! How did he know that? Except… except, that is kind of how it went down with Brett too. And I’m sure they’ve all been having a great old time swapping notes.

  “I didn’t… it’s not like that!” I say, but Brett and Guy are both looking at each other like they get it - like they finally get me.

  And - oh fab - Ed too. He’s been grinning through all this and now he’s looking with awe-struck delight from Brett to Guy like finally some great weight’s been lifted from their collective shoulders in this magical male-bonding moment. I liked Ed. A lot. But I’m prepared to unlike him if he keeps this up. He’s the most outgoing, self-assured man I’ve ever dated. IT consultant by day, and - I kid you not - male stripper by night. Once you know that about him, the IT geek glasses look like the lamest camouflage ever, and to be honest I think he wears them just for the Clark Kent effect.

  “Whoa! Emma James! And there I was thinking it was just me!” Ed announces.

  “Thinking what was just you?” My teeth are gritted and I’ve half a mind to reject the glass of wine Cayley’s handing me on principle but I need that drink.

  “You know. You do know don’t you?” He says, tilting his head with a questioning frown.

  Am I stupid? Am I missing something?!

  “Know what?”

  “Well,” he starts. “No offense to anyone else here, but we had the best freakin’ sex ever. Fucking awesome sex. I mean - honey - you couldn’t keep your hands off me-”

  I want to die. God let me die.

  “Ed…” warns Cayley. Thanks, Cayley, but the phrase too little too late comes to mind.

  “O-kay. Chill. I wasn’t going to go into details.” Ed turns back to face me head on and I try not to look like I’m hiding behind my wine glass. “It’s just - well - I would have sworn you were as into me as I was into you. But you
were like, ‘It’s just mucking about’, ‘just screwing’, ‘don’t get any ideas’ blah blah blah… And I would never have said this at the time, but it stung. It hurt.”

  I hurt him?! But… he never… he didn’t…

  I’m shaking. My eyes are burning.

  “No… no… It’s fine. Don’t cry,” he says, and if I was on the verge before he said it, I’m certainly blubbing now. “Look, Emma. Jesus. I get it now. OK? It’s fine.”

  “Get what?!” I sniff. “What do you get?!”

  Someone coughs. It’s Rich I think. Cute but dull Rich, who’s folding his arms decisively, about to have his two-pence worth in this mockery of an intervention. “Emma. They’ve obviously got this theory about you,” he says, shaking his head like the idea’s beyond stupid. “They think you’re a relationship saboteur or something. Like you screw things up so you don’t ever commit to anyone. It’s bollocks though. We were committed.”

  “So what went wrong?” That’s Guy again, frowning mockingly, like he’s about to prove his point.

  Rich takes his time replying, choosing his words carefully. “I guess we just weren’t that compatible,” he says with a full-facial shrug. “We just sort of drifted apart and decided to call it a day. No big drama.”

  That’s so true. There was no drama between me and Rich. No passion either.

  And then I get it. It’s taken me long enough, but I see what Guy and Ed and Brett are trying to tell me, and I hate it. I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. Because they’re absolutely right.

  I can’t commit to men I like. All of my functional monogamous relationships have been with men I just wasn’t that into. Men like Simon, Rich, Iain and Anders. Men I could take or leave.

  Whereas I liked the other three. More than liked. With Guy, Ed, Brett… well, with each of them there’d been some degree of heat bubbling beneath the surface. This feeling that we could be something more than just fuck-friends. And OK, sure, that could have been nice. Maybe. But why add that complication? Why get all heavy and emotional?

  It just seemed safer keeping that side of thing under wraps. I mean I’m just not that kind of girl - the hearts and roses obsessive-girlfriend type. I keep things casual. Physical. Fun.

  When did this stop being fun?! Because it’s not. Not fun at all. I’ve got this vertigo feeling that I’ve royally screwed things up with Harry - that I’m too late - that he’s already sick and tired of me fucking about. And the idea of Harry walking away the way Guy did… Oh God I can’t bear it!

  "It's not true just because he says it is, Em," Iain says, interrupting my downward-spiralling thoughts. "We don't all think that about you."

  But the thing is, it is true. It is.

  I put my glass down on the coffee table and now I'm back to being the wretch with her head between her legs because I can't take this. I really can't. I'm shaking and struggling for air and I can't bear to look at anyone. I need them to leave. Now. I've screwed things up with Harry and it's probably too late to do anything about it and I need to cry without an audience.

  "Cayley?!" Lily's back. I focus on her voice and try to ignore the sick dread that's settled in my stomach. "What happened?" A weight lifts from the sofa beside me and Lily sits down instead, wrapping her arms around me, telling me it'll be OK, it'll be OK.

  Cayley's quiet when she speaks, softly telling Lily we're done now. And she’s got that bit right. Me and Cayley, we’re done. We. Are. Done. She can take her monumentally fucked-up intentions and torture some other poor cow because you don’t come back from a betrayal like this. You just don’t.

  The men start mumbling like they're going to leave. Please leave. Please God let them leave. Don't drag this humiliating, painful thing out any longer. And they start to shift. All seven of them. Jostling toward the door. But what Celia says stops them.

  "Curtis should be here."

  *****

  Curtis should not be here. Of all the people I never want to see again, Curtis is top of the list. I look up at her, silently begging her to stop talking. Everyone else in the room looks to me for an explanation, but no way am I explaining Curtis. Curtis is nothing. Nobody. Less than nobody.

  "Who's Curtis?" Lily asks. I tell Lily everything, so it's no surprise she's confused, and I don’t blame her for asking but I can't do this now. I shake my head at her, and though she's obviously worried, she nods to show she understands. It's too late though. Celia has her topic and by Christ she's running with it.

  "Curtis! Oh, come on! Curtis! She must have told you about Curtis?! She literally pined after him for years when we were growing up. And he was her first - y'know..." And then she does the action. The universal finger mime for fucking. Like we're kids again and she can't actually say the words.

  Forget what I said earlier. This is my worst nightmare. No one needs to know about Curtis. No one. Celia only knows because I had her in tow half the time when her mum was too pissed to look after her. I was a pubescent knightmare, chasing after a no good loser, with my little niece by my side.

  "Her first... What?! Her first shag?" That's Simon again, looking slightly embarrassed for me but amused too it seems. "I thought Brett was her first…?"

  The others look around in agreement, all except for Brett, whose hands are in the air protesting his innocence.

  Lily looks at me, her eyes hard with worry, and then she snaps into action. "OK, well thanks for coming. We'll email, yeah?... Stay in touch... Tube's on your left. Bus stop's on your right." And - God love ‘er - she's hurrying them out the door like she's the bomb squad saving the civilians.

  Iain kisses me goodbye and someone else hugs me I think but I'm too numb to really take it in now. And when the blokes have gone I give Lily a look that says don't stop there, and she gently asks Cayley and Celia to go too. Which they do. But not before Cayley's had the nerve to pat my shoulder and tell me 'well done'. I'm her little puppy dog and I've learned my lesson like a good pooch.

  The front door clunks shut and it's just me and Lily and the shuddering aftershocks of my public abasement.

  My head’s spinning. How many times have I fucked up? Guy, Brett and Ed are surely just the tip of my grim personal iceberg. I've got to call Harry. My phone's here somewhere. Where is it? Where is it?!

  I shake the contents of my bag over the coffee table, and snatch up my phone as Lily rescues my wine glass.

  "Em, honey. It's OK. Really. You'll be OK. Just take a minute -"

  ‘Got to call him,' I try to say as I fumble with the touch-pad, but it comes out as a blurred slurry of non-words, and my fingers are just bumbling blindly against the screen. Through my tear-goggles I can barely make out his profile pic as I scramble for the call options.

  "Em? Emma?" Lily eases the phone from my shaking hand and replaces it with a tissue. "Get yourself sorted first honey. You want him to understand what you're saying don't you?"

  I hold my free hand out to her but instead of giving me back my phone, she gives me back my wine glass. Well, fine. Whatever. I drain it in one go and it's evident I needed it. But then don't I always when things get tough? Sad but true. Anyhow, it’s working. I'm feeling a little more myself - a bit more grounded at least.

  Lily's right. I need my head straight before I talk to Harry. Need to take a bath. Play some Otis Redding or the fricking Mamma Mia soundtrack - something upbeat. Then I'll phone him.

  "I'm not going to ask about Curtis. Whoever he is," Lily says, and my heart stops again at the just mention of his goddam name. "It’s just… If you want to talk about him... Or anything..."

  "Yeah," I murmur. At least my words sound like words now. "Yeah. I know. Thanks. But Lily," I say. Then I struggle for words which won't sound cutting or melodramatic or dismissive. There are no good words. All I can do is keep it simple. So I look at her, eye to eye, and I say it. "I'm never going to talk about Curtis."

  *****

  What happens next is so fast and frenetic I could almost believe I imagined it. Lily goes to hand me my phone. She lo
oks at it, then all of a sudden she’s staring horrified at the thing, all panicked and frantic.

  “Oh shit, shit, shit!” she hisses, jabbing at the screen. Then, getting nowhere, she thrusts it at me and I see what’s got her so riled. Harry’s connected. My call went through. My fumbling, idiotic fingers managed to call him without me knowing, and now he’s heard… What? What has he heard?!

  I end the call and try to breath. He couldn’t have heard anything. The phone was on the table the whole time. He couldn’t possibly have heard… and even if he did, we didn’t say anything. Nothing incriminating. What am I worried about?

  I turn the phone off, stuff it under a cushion, and tell myself Harry would never have eavesdropped on our conversation anyway. Then I stagger to the bathroom, bung on my portable radio and shower. No time for that relaxing bath. No time for Mamma-sodding-Mia. I’m just going to freshen up and go.

  I dress to the foreboding melancholy of Amy Winehouse singing You Know I’m No Good, and pray poor gorgeous Amy isn’t trying to tell me something from the grave. Because I can be good, can’t I? For Harry I can be. I think I can. I’m willing to try.

  5.

  I ring the doorbell because that's the polite thing to do, right? Correct etiquette when someone's already told you politely to go shaft yourself. I know he's in there so why isn't he answering the effing door? I can see his silhouette moving by the window, and someone else's too. Deanne's I think. And is a that a third body? I can't be sure. All I know is, he’s busy in there, pretending I don’t exist, while I twiddle my thumbs, streetside.

  He won't answer his damned phone either. Oh, and that's nice. Now it's going straight to voice-mail. Charming. Fuck it, I'm going in.

  Thrills always looks weird with the shutters down and the lights off. The street lamps and general Soho gaudiness soak through the windows casting eerie alien lights on the kinky undies and toys. It’s cooler in here than outside, and my bare arms prickle with goose bumps. I’m quivering with nerves too, it seems.