Instead, to Caroline’s absolute delight, both Miranda and Gareth nodded in agreement.
‘Loved the voice,’ Gareth said. ‘Very lively. I’d do some tweaking, sit down and work out the parameters, but overall yes, it was a nice little scene.’
‘It certainly brought the, ah, event to life,’ Miranda added drily.
‘But – and I mean this kindly –’ Gareth smiled at Caroline, who managed a smile back – ‘there’s a reason we don’t commission new fiction authors based on a chapter or two. Agents need to see the whole novel, too.’
Miranda nodded.
‘I was on a panel a while ago with Val McDermid, a very famous crime author,’ she said. ‘During the question part of the session, an aspiring writer asked us what was the key to becoming a professional writer. Before anyone else could answer, Val said: “One word. Finishing.” The rest of us applauded. Do you know how many people, when they hear I’m an agent, tell me they’ve started a book and do I want to read it? I absolutely won’t if it isn’t already finished! Doesn’t mean I’m going to read to the end, but there needs to be an end.’
‘We have a strict timetable on this book,’ Gareth chimed in. ‘Ideally, it’ll come out when the next series of Lexy’s show premieres. And that means it needs to be written in four to five months so it can go into production. It’s a quick turnaround.’
Caroline nodded, trying to look unpanicked by this; actually, she couldn’t talk because of the gigantic lump which had just formed in her throat.
‘Normally we need a manuscript a year in advance,’ Gareth explained, aware that neither Lexy nor Caroline knew how publishing worked. ‘But for celebs with books that are really time-specific, we can do a major rush job. Remember when that cat that did the swimming obstacle course won Britain’s Finest? We got his “autobiography” out in two months. The guy wrote it in a week, start to finish, holed up in his garden shed. His boyfriend brought him food three times a day – he only left that shed to use the loo and sleep. But don’t tell everyone we can do it that fast!’ he added ruefully. ‘I have enough trouble wrangling some of the lazy trollops who write for me to get their books in on time . . .’
‘So you see the issue, Lexy,’ Miranda said, pushing back her sleek blonde-streaked shoulder-length hair with both hands, a gesture that signified seriousness of intent. ‘We just can’t risk someone with no experience taking this on and then not delivering on time. She’s an unproven quantity. I do know it was Campaspe who sent you along to see Lexy,’ she said, turning to Caroline. ‘She found your blog and thought it was nicely done, and Lexy was pressing her to find more ghostwriting candidates. Believe me, I ticked her off for not consulting me first.’
‘Yeah, well, Caroline’s here now and I like her,’ Lexy said, unabashed. ‘Caroline, can you write the book in four to five months?’
I’ll have to quit my job, Caroline thought, petrified. There’s no way they’ll give me a leave of absence. I’m not remotely important enough for that.
But what if I can’t do this book in a few months? I’ll never get my job back if it doesn’t work out! And even if it does, there’s no guarantee I’ll get more work ghostwriting. I could make a success of Lexy’s book and still not have enough to pay the rent. Plus, Lexy told me in Sandbanks that she’s famously tight.
She opened her mouth to admit that she couldn’t manage it; that this would be a huge personal risk for her, biting off much more than she could chew.
What would Lexy do?
‘I can definitely do it!’ Caroline heard herself say, again in the Lexy voice – strong, confident, sure of herself. ‘Though I won’t be locking myself in a garden shed to do it. Apart from anything else, I haven’t got one.’
Chapter Six
Caroline could not stop shaking with fear and excitement all the way home. Victoria line to Seven Sisters, overground to Edmonton Green, bus to the high street and a short walk back to the house she shared with four other ‘young professionals’, as the lettings agent had called them, an expression Caroline thought profoundly stupid. They weren’t doctors or lawyers or anything that could be counted as a proper profession. They worked in IT, in call centres, in insurance; ironically, Caroline was considered by the housemates to have the most aspirational-sounding job, as writing press releases, even for timber firms, gave her a tenuous claim to be connected with the media.
They worked long days, commuting on three modes of transport twice a day to get to their jobs – apart from Stewart, the smug urban cyclist who did not have showers at work so washed himself with wet wipes in his office’s handicapped loo, something he bitched about every single weekday on his equally sweaty return home – and, after having paid their extortionate rent and Oyster travel passes, they were left with just enough for their share of the utilities and day-to-day needs. None of them could put a penny aside to save for a down payment on a mortgage; all of them were servicing student loans, and the majority had credit card debt accrued at college to pay off too.
The dilapidated terraced house didn’t even, technically, have five bedrooms. Stewart slept in what should have been the back half of the lounge, which had been divided by the landlord into two rooms, leaving the tenants the front part as an abbreviated sitting room. There was only one bathroom, small and cramped on the half-landing, because it had been located above the kitchen to keep all the plumbing close together. The saving grace was the downstairs loo. That, more than anything, meant that they were able to cope with living in such cramped quarters, especially as most of them hadn’t known each other before sharing the house. They’d trickled in through Gumtree ads as one tenant left and a fresh candidate went through a humiliating interview process in order to gain the privilege of paying off someone else’s mortgage on a shabby house in Zone 5 whose roof needed complete retiling.
It was seven by the time Caroline got home to Enfield Drive. Stewart and Marko and Veronika were in the lounge, watching a US comedy they were streaming from the internet. After the flat-screen TV had been cracked in an accident for which no one would take responsibility, Stewart had rigged up a projector directed onto the back wall of the room for streaming. It was effective, if you were tech-savvy enough to know how to make it work. Caroline wasn’t, but she was perfectly happy to watch TV on her laptop in her bedroom, as most of them did anyway.
‘I’ve got champagne!’ she called, going past them into the kitchen, plonking down the carrier bag she had lugged back from the Tesco Express next to the bus stop. She took four chipped tumblers from the draining board and started filling them. Riz clattered downstairs and appeared in the kitchen doorway.
‘We celebrating?’ he said, as Caroline reached for a fifth glass. ‘What’s up?’
The sound of the TV show stopped abruptly as she popped the cork: Stewart, Marko and Veronika were on Riz’s heels, everyone crowding into the kitchen at the offer of free alcohol. Caroline, wanting her moment of glory, waited until they all had glasses in their hands. She had given herself the actual champagne flute, the only one in the house. Holding it up, she announced:
‘I’m going to write a novel with Lexy O’Brien! I’m leaving my job and writing a novel that’s going to be published! Under her name, but still – published!’
As she finished, she felt the Taittinger she had drunk earlier with Lexy to celebrate turn over in her stomach, stale bubbles acid and sour at the back of her throat. It was the taste of fear.
‘Oh my God!’ Marko exclaimed incredulously as they all clinked glasses. ‘What the actual fuck! Have you met her?’
‘I’ve been to her house!’ Caroline boasted. ‘I’ve met her husband and today I went to her publishers with her and we’ve been drinking champagne just now to celebrate!’
‘Fuck,’ Marko said devoutly. ‘I would so give her one.’
‘Me too,’ Stewart said. ‘Even if she is getting on a bit. She’s still well fit. Does she look like she does in her pics, Caz?’
‘Even better, actually,’ Caroline s
aid, swilling down the cheap champagne. ‘Her skin’s amazing.’
‘What about her tits?’ Marko said, and sniggered immoderately.
‘You guys,’ Veronika said crossly, her Ukranian accent strong but her English perfect, ‘you’re being so rude! You should tell Caroline how cool this is – she’s going to write a book!’
‘Oh yeah, congrats,’ Stewart and Marko chorused dutifully, as Veronika, beaming, came round the kitchen table to give Caroline a quick hug. Riz, always quiet, clinked his glass with Caroline’s again, his eyes meeting hers momentarily above the rims.
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘Def something to celebrate, yeah?’
Caroline knew exactly what he meant by that, and the champagne was very effective in speeding up the process. After finishing it off and then doing a couple of vodka shots from a bottle Marko had produced from his bedroom to ‘keep the party going’, a mere hour and a half later Caroline was flat on her back on her bed with Riz pumping away diligently on top of her. They usually hooked up more discreetly, well after dark; it was the first time this had happened so spontaneously, and in daylight – or at least dusk.
It had started late one night, when Riz and Caroline happened to be the only two housemates still up, streaming Deadpool in the lounge. The film had turned out to be much sexier than they had realized: the erotic dirty talk and sheer hotness of the two actors, plus the cheap box of wine sitting on the coffee table, had combined to form an increasing atmosphere of sexual tension. Riz had executed the time-honoured manoeuvre of putting his arm casually behind Caroline on the back of the sofa, and, not expecting this at all, she had turned to look at him in some surprise. As his face was much closer than she expected, they had started kissing rather inexpertly, almost out of reflex. After a clumsy makeout session on the sofa the projector had been switched off and, in unspoken agreement, Riz and Caroline had made their way up the stairs and into Caroline’s bedroom.
Since then, the pattern had been for Riz to knock on Caroline’s door a couple of nights a week at bedtime to see if she ‘fancied a visit’, happy to take no for an answer if she wasn’t feeling like it. But she usually was. She liked sex. It connected her directly to her body in a way nothing else did; she didn’t exercise, so sex was the only physical activity that had that effect. Though she would have to admit that for her it was scarcely an athletic endeavour, as ninety per cent of the time she was lying down in order to minimize the swell of her stomach.
Riz never seemed to mind their lack of inventiveness, however. He was just happy, like Caroline, to have a reliable, regular, stress-free source of sex. They had never tried to define what was happening between them, but Caroline thought of Riz as her fuck buddy, remembering the old episode of Sex and the City with that title.
In that episode, however, Carrie tried to have a dinner date with her fuck buddy and it turned out they had nothing to say to each other beyond sex talk. Riz and Caroline were the other way round. They had always been able to chat perfectly easily, sit and share a takeaway pizza for dinner if no one else was around. But the sex banter was non-existent. They fucked quietly, wanting, in silent consensus, to be as discreet as possible for the other housemates. When their clothes came off, the talking stopped.
Besides, Caroline reflected a little gloomily, Carrie’s fuck buddy was really hot. Flat abs, great pecs. While Riz is . . . well, he’s the guy next door, literally. He’d rather sit on the sofa eating Wotsits and Ginsters pies than go to the gym.
Caroline wasn’t a hypocrite. She knew that she couldn’t criticize Riz for his slightly pot belly and plumpish chest, his pimply cheeks and wispy attempt at a beard, when she herself was no hard-bodied Lexy Barbie, with a taut stomach, buns of steel and unfeasibly large breasts. Sometimes, as Riz thrust more vigorously, their stomachs rubbed against each other, sweaty flab against sweaty flab, an audible smack, a visible wobble. Riz never seemed to care, but it made Caroline mortified; when it happened, she would be taken completely out of the moment, trying desperately to suck in her gut, a line burnt into her memory ever since Janice Dickinson had shrieked it at a contestant on America’s Next Top Model.
Though Caroline enjoyed the sex, she never came. She would take care of herself after Riz left. He always licked his fingers and paddled around between her legs dutifully before he busied himself pulling on the condom and getting down to the main event, and though that was fine, it wasn’t going to bring her to any sort of climax. Caroline couldn’t criticize him for that either; if she wasn’t going to tell him what she wanted, how could she expect him to know? And she had always been embarrassed to articulate what she wanted in bed, partly because she wasn’t quite sure what it was. She watched porn, of course, liked all kinds of scenarios, but she had never really clarified what her specific tastes were in real life . . .
Liar, a clear cold voice inside her head informed her. You’re such a liar. You know what you want! Of course you do! The truth is that you think you’re lucky to be having sex at all, and you’re scared that if you ask for something, the guy will get turned off and not want to fuck you any more. You’re a liar and a coward and you’re lazy – you lie there while a guy does all the work, you’re basically encouraging him to treat you like a hole in the mattress – is that what you want?
No, it wasn’t. Not at all.
For the third time that day, she found herself asking the question that was genuinely beginning to transform her life.
What would Lexy do?
‘Fuck me harder!’ Caroline blurted out.
The words flew out much more loudly than she intended. Riz paused mid-thrust, his expression comically surprised.
‘Really?’ he said, sounding nervous. Clearly he did not quite trust this totally unexpected command.
‘Yes!’ Caroline said, dizzy with her own bravery. She was holding on to his shoulders, and she made herself look up into his face, meeting his eyes. ‘Fuck me harder. And squeeze my boobs.’
‘Oh, okay. Like, more porny?’ he asked, sounding downright hopeful now. ‘Just to make sure . . .’
‘Yes! More porny!’
She arched her back, offering her breasts up towards him so there could be no doubt at all that she was giving him full consent. Caroline was lucky enough not to be one of those women who were overweight but who had comparatively small breasts; her bra size was a very respectable 38F, and Riz’s hands could barely contain their fullness as he clasped them with great enthusiasm. Caroline heard herself moan, a guttural, completely uninhibited groan of sheer pleasure.
‘Really squeeze them?’ he asked, wanting to be absolutely sure.
‘Yes!’ she squealed. ‘Do it, squeeze them hard and fuck me hard . . . do it . . .’
‘Fuck yeah!’ Riz said, starting to pump away much harder, much faster, his groin slamming into hers. It wasn’t enough to make her come, but the stimulation against her clitoris was much more powerful, and Caroline’s moans rose in volume.
‘Like that?’ he panted.
Caroline didn’t bother to answer; the sounds she was making could not be misunderstood.
‘This is hot!’ Riz said enthusiastically. ‘Hey, can I talk dirty?’
‘Yes!’ she managed. ‘Please!’
‘I’m fucking your pussy,’ Riz groaned. ‘Oh yeah, I’m fucking your pussy and squeezing your tits, your big tits . . . yeah, I’m fucking you and squeezing your tits . . .’
It was neither subtle nor inspired, but it did the job. Caroline’s body was heaving now as she shoved her torso up towards him, her pelvis into his, trying to maximize the contact, the wildness of the ride; she wanted him to lick and bite her nipples, maybe even pinch them, but Riz was well into his rhythm now and she didn’t want to throw him off by adding extra commands.
‘Fucking your pussy, your wet pussy . . .’ he was chanting now.
The headboard was starting to thud against the wall, on the other side of which was Marko’s bedroom. Normally Caroline would have been mortified at this clear evidence that she and
Riz were having sex. She didn’t know if anyone in the house knew that they hooked up every so often, but it had never been mentioned, either because the other housemates were ignorant of it, or because they preferred to turn a blind eye. Either would have been very easy to do: Riz’s slow and steady pumping gently rocking the bed, his muted grunt when he came, Caroline softly whimpering in subdued pleasure, had been the sum total of the noise they made.
Now, however, they were going at it like animals. Caroline had lost all her inhibitions. Their bellies were slapping against each other noisily, their bodies were covered with sweat, and she didn’t even care; she just wanted her tits squeezed and her pussy fucked hard . . .
‘I’m fucking coming – shit, I’m shooting in your pussy so hard!’ Riz yelled, suiting his action to his words.
Damn. It was over. She could have taken another ten minutes of this; she wanted to feel utterly worked over, her body thoroughly fucked. But it was the first time she had truly relished watching Riz’s face contort, his cock buck inside her as the orgasm took him. Before, she had closed her eyes when he came, embarrassed by the sight of him losing control. Now she could tell exactly what an effect she had on him, and it made her excited. The contortions of his features, the gaping mouth, were ugly but as powerfully sensual as the hammer strokes of his groin thudding against hers with the last spasms of release.
You don’t see men’s faces in straight porn when they come, she realized. Because it’s made for straight men, and they don’t want to see other men. They want to see the spunk dribble over the girl’s face or tits. But in gay porn you can watch them come, and I’ve always really liked it – and now, apparently, I like it in real life too . . .
Riz collapsed on top of her, heavy, sticky with sweat. Before, she would have thought it claustrophobic, crushing; now, she enjoyed even this too.
I did this. I made this guy limp and helpless from fucking me. It feels really, really good.
Killer Affair Page 6
