by Laura Kemp
Letty, who spoke like a bottle of shaken up Coca-Cola, launched in. ‘It’s just sex. And yes, I know I said it wouldn’t happen again but I’m only killing time before I meet someone. There’s nothing in it. Just keeping the motor running.’
Em arched a cynical eyebrow.
‘Honest to God, I mean it!’ Letty said, defensively, but with vulnerable eyes. ‘Why does no one take me seriously?’
‘We do, we do,’ Frankie said, knowing that this was Letty’s greatest insecurity. In work and in love, Letty yearned to be seen as more than a pair of boobs – admittedly, she did have great ones. But she’d been treated badly by blokes and had never had the break to become an account executive at the public relations company where she was secretary, so it was a raw nerve.
‘Give me some credit, I’m hardly going to fall for a man called Lance Boddy, am I? A man who named his gym The Boddy Shop! I mean, how naff is that?’ she said, laughing, throwing her hands in the air like a flamenco dancer. The trouble was, Letty had form. ‘I could fall into a bucket of naked men who had ‘boyfriend material’ stamped on their heads and I’d still come up sucking my own thumb,’ Letty had said the last time she’d been dumped, that time, by a model. She just didn’t like run-of-the-mill guys. But why did that mean they treated her so badly when she was so fabulous? It was all very unfair.
‘Twenty-first-century fitness is about being lean and smart. But he makes it sound like he’s a rescue centre for old bangers!’
Just like that, Letty covered up what she considered to be a show of weakness with humour. It was how she dealt with things. Underneath, Frankie knew that Letty was just like her and Em, wanting her own special someone.
Then two pairs of eyes flicked towards Frankie. It was her turn. ‘Right, well, I’m not bad, you know. Jase came round to collect some stuff the other day, that was awful. But lovely too, just to see him,’ she said, feeling her chin wobble. She paused. It was no use, she couldn’t keep it in. ‘I still want him back, I still love him,’ she admitted, crumbling, feeling a relief at letting it out. ‘Like, I miss him every day, so badly. The bed is too big without him. I feel like I’m rattling around the house. My heart jumps every time I get a text or the phone calls. I see shadows of him everywhere.’
Letty got up to give her a cwtch, the Welsh word she used for a cuddle.
Em went into problem-solving mode, as ever. ‘You need a project,’ she said. This was classic Em – hand her a situation and she would try to fix it. ‘Something to keep you busy. Distracted. You can’t waste your time wondering what will be because it might never happen. Get on with things, that’s the only way. Talking of which, I’m starving. I’m going to start.’
Bless Em, but she could be so blunt and it only made Frankie feel worse. Letty clocked her despair. ‘There’s nothing wrong with keeping the faith,’ she said kindly. Thank goodness for Letty’s soft side. ‘But I also agree with Em,’ she added, making Frankie groan.
‘Distraction is good at a time like this. And I know just the thing – going on the rebound can work wonders.’
‘I didn’t mean that sort of distraction,’ Em said, stopping to frown, before she carried on loading her plate. ‘I meant exercise or an evening class or something. Not the kind you do with your PT.’
‘But it could make Jason see sense, you know, make him jealous, and if it doesn’t then at least Frankie is getting some practice after what he said,’ Letty added.
‘I am here, you know,’ Frankie coughed, feeling a sting from the mention of Jason’s boring-in-bed comment. It had been a serious blow to her confidence.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, babes,’ Letty said, with genuine concern, ‘We didn’t mean to make you feel bad… Now, are you going to try some of this octopus?’
‘In a sec,’ Frankie said, hesitating.
‘Well, let me just take a shot of it first. I’ll put it on Instagram, I will,’ Letty said. ‘Bit of a crop and a filter... and there... boom. It’s on my feed.’
Frankie didn’t get why people shared photos of avocados and sunsets but she guessed in Letty’s circumstances it helped her to see the positives when she was struggling to find any. Then, no more time-wasting, it was over to Frankie.
She took a breath to prepare for her Bushtucker Trial. Unfortunately, Ant and Dec were nowhere to be seen to save her.
As Frankie raised her fork, Em launched in with one of her ‘interesting facts’. ‘Did you know reproduction is a cause of death in octopuses and males can only live a few months after mating?’
That was it. With her stomach churning, Frankie’s hand dropped to the table with a clunk. Playing it safe seemed far more tempting right now than living a little.
Wednesday
Em
The next one-hundred-and-twenty seconds are going to determine the rest of my life, Em thought.
As she sat on the toilet seat behind a locked door during her morning tea-break, she could hear echoes of footsteps marching past the ladies’. It was usually her clip-clopping purposefully on her way to human resources, the canteen or the manager’s office. Instead, due to an act utterly out of character, she could soon be waddling her way down the corridor. And then, worse, barefoot and stranded at home.
Once more, it took her breath away when she thought about that night. After hiding her feelings for five weeks, six days, twenty one hours and twelve minutes, she’d finally been able to let her head clock off and her heart start the night shift. His shy smile, his delicious lips, his considerate question: if she was really sure? The fact he didn’t laugh when her name badge poked into his chest. How they melted into bed yet she felt as if she was flying a slow-motion loop-the-loop.
She didn’t believe in magic but that was the word that kept coming to her as she recalled Simon Brown’s touch. Looking back, it had all seemed so inevitable and – now she could admit it – it had felt like that in the build-up too. Yet hadn’t she always said fate was nonsense and that free will and hard work got you through life?
It had been the most frustrating and bewildering thing that had ever happened to her, she thought, as the digital numbers on her watch counted upwards. She and Simon Brown had instantly clicked, something that very rarely happened to her. She knew she was geeky – her brother Floyd had nicked all the touchy-feely genes and she’d been left with a better understanding of details and numbers than of people. That’s why she’d been so surprised by their friendship. Simon Brown had come from his small store in Bristol, where he was assistant manager, to her mammoth one for a six-week secondment shadowing her. It meant they were together every day, including breaks, when he would ask questions and listen to her answers. They occasionally touched, her guiding him with an arm to look at something in the warehouse or him reaching out to ask for an explanation about stock control. Each time she felt an electricity race through her, as if she was being rebooted. But she told herself ‘stop right there’ when she began to yearn for more. It was unprofessional. And he wouldn’t see her as anything more than a colleague, she was sure of it.
Yet he was different – men in his position were usually cocky know-it-alls, round here they said blokes like that ‘thought they were chocolate’. But Simon Brown respected her. At his leaving do, he said as much in his speech.
Then as easily as he took off his tie and rolled it neatly to fit into his pocket on the walk across the industrial park to TGI Friday’s, he’d told her he’d really enjoyed working with her – in fact, what he meant was he’d really enjoyed it and… After that it all fell into place, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. They found a booth and spoke all night, oblivious to the party people leaving as soon as they’d realized there would be no raucous piss-up. She’d asked if he wanted a nightcap at hers – a Scottish whisky from her Highlands hike last year, which turned out to be his favourite Scotch. Sexual encounters had been few and far between for Em – she wouldn’t sleep with just anyone. Not that she was given the option. There had only been two others before Simon B
rown: one from school, the other someone at university. But sleeping with him had been a revelation, a wonderful one, because it was sex on a different level. Physical had met mental.
Then, the morning after, came the excuses. Again, remembering it as she perched on a white plastic toilet seat, Em felt her heart respond to the hurt – the pain of having fallen for someone who didn’t feel the same. And her insides lurched when she considered how things were supposed to be. She’d decided long ago she would get married, have two children, a boy and a girl, with eighteen months between them, unless she was lucky enough to have twins. But when Simon Brown walked away, he took her hope with him. She’d clicked and dragged the file marked ‘life plan’ into the trash can.
Seeking calm, she looked at the floor tiles between her polished court shoes; the sight of straight lines and right angles usually soothed her. But not today. She was so desperate not to be pregnant in this situation that she apologized to any god who might be up there for being an atheist. If he or she could possibly help her out, she’d definitely reconsider religion.
Returning to her default strategy, she rationalized her situation. Statistically, she was very unlikely to be expecting. She’d Googled it last night and a study on unprotected sex suggested the chances of it leading to pregnancy between a young couple on any random day was five per cent. And having taken the morning after pill, the probability was reduced to almost nothing. Her aching boobs were not a definitive sign because she always had that at her time of the month.
On the other hand, she was late. Very late. And just like her mind, her body ran like clockwork. Unfortunately, there were no figures available to support Em’s belief that things like this didn’t happen to people like her. But she simply wasn’t the type. That’s why she’d put off doing a test. That night had turned out to be her first and last one-night stand – quite unintentionally because she hadn’t expected it to be a one-off – she was simply too averse to risk-taking.
For heaven’s sake, I’m deputy store manager, she thought. Started as a Saturday check-out girl, joined for good on a graduate scheme and hand-picked for the future manager programme. The boss was due to announce his retirement any day and she was sure to take over.
But she knew this line of thought was hopeless. Since when did a sperm and egg check with their owners that conception was convenient? She stared at the test in her hand, willing it at first to hurry up, then wishing she had forever. This just can’t happen, it can’t… Oh shit, it just has, she thought, as the word ‘pregnant’ appeared on the stick. There was no ambiguity. She’d spent more on the digital variety rather than the two-lined version because it presented the facts in unarguable plain English.
Em felt the colour drain from her face as the tears threatened. She looked up, blinking hard, trying to force the emotion back. Logic, where are you? she begged, clearing her throat in a bid to regain control. So she started with the facts.
I am thirty-one and single, she began. I have a good job, a pension and my own flat. I’ve never had a meaningful relationship – the closest I’ve come is with this man who didn’t want to be with me. It took until Simon Brown to find someone I really liked, therefore it is unlikely I will meet anyone suitable again soon. The kind of man who likes quirky American box sets, trekking in the hills and making culinary wonders with leftovers from the staff shop. The kind of man who doesn’t care about looks or tiny breasts or freckles. The kind of man who is not just more mature in years – say, thirty-seven, like him – but in experience and approach.
Face it, Em, she told herself, he made it clear that he was sorry, so so sorry, but they could never be together. He has moved back to his store, an hour away, and he has commitments. You know what you have to do.
Em stood and felt her shoulders pull back, assuming her management pose. She opened the cubicle door, threw the test in the bin, washed her hands then brushed down her suit. She noted with satisfaction how her work face reappeared, revealing nothing of her turmoil.
With a deep breath, she went out into the corridor and made her way down the stairs and through the thick plastic curtains which marked the divide between staff only and the shop floor. Head up, she thought, as she swept into the public arena, scanning the shelves for gaps and checking the gondola ends were brimming with this week’s special offers.
Right, she thought to herself, recalling the first thing on her mental to-do list, I need to have a chat with Gary the produce manager about some very unsatisfactory wonky carrots.
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Addictive Fiction
First published in the UK in 2016 by Aria, an imprint of Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © Laura Kemp, 2016
The moral right of Laura Kemp to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (E) 9781784977009
Aria
Clerkenwell House
45-47 Clerkenwell Green
London EC1R 0HT
www.ariafiction.com
