No-One Ever Has Sex On A Tuesday: A Very Funny Romantic Novel

by Tracy Bloom

  NO-ONE EVER HAS SEX ON A TUESDAY

  by Tracy Bloom

  Copyright

  Published by Connects Books 2013

  No-One Ever Has Sex on a Tuesday © Tracy Bloom 2011

  All rights reserved in all media. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical (including but not limited to: the internet, photocopying, recoding or by any information storage and retrieval system), without prior permission in writing from the author and/or publisher.

  The moral right of Tracy Bloom as the author of the work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and patents Act 1988.

  For Bruce

  As always my biggest and best cheerleader. I wouldn’t be here without you.

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Watch out for Tracy’s next book coming soon SINGLE WOMAN SEEKS REVENGE

  Chapter 1

  There are those who get to choose the father of their child and those who don’t. Those who spend years sifting through the giant haystack that is the male population and those who get unexpectedly ambushed.

  Katy never thought that she would be one of those who got ambushed. She certainly never thought that at thirty-six she would be pregnant, unmarried and with a boyfriend eight years younger than herself. A boyfriend who was now sitting beside her dressed in his football kit, as they drove off for their first antenatal class. She felt sick. She put this down to pre-class nerves and the fact that Ben had come straight from school, where he was a PE teacher, smelling unpleasantly of gym shoes, teenage-boy sweat and mashed potato. As she stared across at him she comforted herself with the knowledge that at least she could rely on him to offer up some well-thought-out words of wisdom to help calm her fears.

  “So this guy at work says that all you do in these classes is talk about tits and fannies for two hours. How good is that?”

  Katy continued to stare at Ben for a moment then sighed and put the car into gear.

  “Please don’t say that,” she said wearily as they drove off.

  “Say what?” asked Ben as he fiddled with every knob, switch and dial he could reach on Katy’s dashboard.

  “Fannies,” said Katy, slapping his fingers.

  “It’s better than a lot of other words for it,” said Ben. “I mean I could say…”

  “No, no more words,” interrupted Katy “You know my Gran wouldn’t like it.”

  “Why? Is she coming with us?” said Ben, pulling open the glove box and peering inside.

  “Her name was Fanny, I’ve told you that before,” said Katy, starting to lose patience.

  Ben turned to stare at Katy in complete admiration.

  “You have never ever told me that. That’s exactly the sort of information that makes my life worthwhile and certainly not something I’d forget.”

  “Really,” said Katy. She hesitated, wondering if she wanted to continue the conversation before realising that what she was about to say would probably make Ben’s day. “So I’ve never told you her surname either then?” she asked him.

  Ben paused for a moment deep in thought until he erupted enthusiastically.

  “Vagina. Must have been vagina,” he said, bouncing up and down. “Please tell me it was vagina and I will die a happy man.”

  “Mycock actually,” said Katy more than a little triumphantly.

  Ben stared at her again in shock, his mouth hanging open.

  “You are kidding me,” he said finally. “Her parents called her Fanny with a surname like Mycock. Were they insane?”

  “No stupid. Mycock was her married name. She wasn’t born a Mycock.”

  “She was called Fanny and married Mr. Mycock?”

  “Yes.”

  Ben was quiet for some time before he declared solemnly, “Your Gran was a comedy genius.”

  They didn’t speak for the rest of the journey as Ben was fully occupied with texting or calling his friends to share the funniest name story of all time. He was still on the phone as she started to muster up the effort to get out of the car. She eased her swollen belly in the vague direction she wanted her body to go in, hoping the rest would follow. Looking down at the carefully chosen acre of magenta poly-cotton flowing in all directions over her lumps and bumps she hoped she looked like a woman in control of her pregnancy. But the memory of the lack of control that had landed her here in the first place led to the all too familiar sensation of a fist grasping tightly around her heart. She looked over her shoulder seeking Ben for some reassurance and caught sight of his knees for the first time which were decorated in school pitch mud.

  “Your knees,” she exclaimed, pointing at the offending items.

  “I’m not proposing now,” said Ben in mock anger.

  She shook her head in despair, took a deep breath and set off towards the hospital entrance. She thought she’d pretty much nailed life until this. All the big boxes had been ticked. University, career, homeowner. Admittedly the marriage box had remained conspicuously empty, but that was exactly the way she wanted it. A truly traumatic experience with her first love as a teenager had left her heart never quite able to recover its full emotional capacity. Since then the slightest flutter of love had alerted her to heartbreak fast approaching, allowing her to lock down the situation quickly with a clean and swift break-up. She knew this approach had served her well over the years as she watched her friends suffer the humiliation of being dumped from a great height, over and over again.

  She had lost count of how many times her friends had declared that they had met the one. It saddened her to know that approximately two weeks later they would be on her doorstep sobbing out a tragic but predictable tale of the one, clearly not thinking she was the one, by getting caught with another one. She would patiently pour the wine whilst they poured out their hearts until inevitably the night would end in drunken dancing and singing round her dining room table to boy band music. Then there would be an emotional love-in where they told her she was the best friend in the world. Finally in the early hours one of them would throw up over the balcony.

  It amazed her that they couldn’t learn that if they put their heart out there for someone, they would be cast aside as carelessly as last season’s away kit as soon as the next piece of skirt passed by. These days, though, nights spent consoling the lovesick seemed to have dried up. One by one they had finally all found a man who appeared to want a relationship for longer than five minutes and had enjoyed the weddings they had always dreamed of.

  She had, in her opinion, suffered two years of near mental torture as the cream invites lined up frighteningly quickly on her living room shelf. Her heart sank every time she picked up yet another painstakingly selected envelope, which no doubt had been chosen to match the bride’s knicker elastic, and tipped out the invitation, handmade by the future bride herself. She
would close her eyes in despair as she read the words Miss Katy Chapman and Partner. Why oh why was it the law to go to weddings as a couple? Why couldn’t she just go on her own? Was there some terrible fear that single people at weddings were bound to run off with the bride or groom given half the chance? Was it one of the wedding vows? Thou shalt always have attached friends to prevent any possibility of straying. It made her dread the so-called happy events, forced as she was to find some random chap she had once had a drunken snog with, who in exchange for free food and alcohol could endure the steady stream of well-meaning relatives saying, “So will it be you next?”

  Eventually she had decided enough was enough and that she should make a stand for all strong, independent women and stop pandering to the stereotype that happiness was attached to a man. When she was next invited to a wedding she made the genius decision to take Daniel from the Advertising Agency where she worked. The look on the face of Laura’s great aunt, who was making polite conversation during the wedding breakfast, was a joy to behold. Daniel sweetly told her that yes it could be him next as he had been seeing his boyfriend Rob for over six months now and neither of them were having sex with anyone else unless you counted the night he’d had sex with Stanley, his ex. However he didn’t think that counted as he had been very drunk at the time and Stanley had been dressed as a Navy Officer because it was at a fancy dress party and who could resist a man in uniform?

  From that moment on Daniel had become her new best wedding partner.

  Katy jumped when Ben caught hold of her hand as she walked through the doors of the hospital.

  “So what do you reckon then?” he asked, spitting on his other hand and leaning over to try and wipe the mud off his knee as he trotted beside her.

  “Sorry I was miles away. What did you say?” asked Katy.

  “I said what do you reckon the other people in the class will be like?” said Ben.

  “Oh they will all have read every book, know exactly what they are doing and ask really intelligent questions,” replied Katy feeling the panic rising again. She was painfully aware that up until now she had put her pregnancy firmly in the “deal with it later” file. It was clear that “later” had most definitely arrived.

  “Mmmm,” said Ben, absorbing what Katy had said. “So you think we’ll be the trouble makers sitting on the back row while the swots hang on the teacher’s every word at the front?”

  “Probably,” sighed Katy.

  Ben glanced over to her.

  “The back row always has more fun,” he said grinning.

  She couldn’t help but grin back.

  “You’re right,” she replied, feeling better. Ben knew exactly how to stop her taking life too seriously. That was what had first attracted her to him when they met on one of the worst nights of her entire life.

  Chapter 2

  Katy knew that the night was a disaster waiting to happen the moment she caught sight of herself in the grimy mirrors of The Pink Coconut toilets last summer. Surrounded by the nubile bodies and fresh faces of the under-twenty-five-year-old clubbing set, she realised she looked utterly ridiculous dressed in a schoolgirl costume.

  How on earth had it come to this, she thought angrily as she eyed her smeared fake freckles and tatty pigtails tied up with fuchsia pink ribbon. She’d accepted the drop in standards that was necessary to remain a part of the singles social scene after her friends got married, but it was totally unacceptable to have to plunge to these depths. Initially she had been horrified when one by one her friends began muttering the most depressing words any female can say when being asked on a girl’s night out.

  “I’ll have to ask David.”

  Or even worse…

  “Only if Steve doesn’t mind.”

  Or absolutely the worst of all…

  “Only if Edward can come too.”

  She had quite literally wanted to shake them with their pathetically apologetic faces. But rather than witness her friends’ descent into domestic hell, she had left them to it, seeing them only on special occasions when they exchanged awkward conversation as they drifted further and further apart.

  Somewhat depressed at this change in her social life and finding herself with extra time on her hands, she had thrown herself into her career and scrabbled around for new buddies with no such ties. Eventually and with considerable effort she forced herself to learn to appreciate the company of some gym bunnies she had somehow fallen in with during a social event at her local Fitness Forever.

  She was surprised to discover she could tolerate their perfect spray tanned bodies, their fresh as a daisy make-up after 90 minutes of Step and Thrust and even their incessant giggling every time one of the buff personal trainers came within ten yards of them. She suspected they only adopted her once they learnt she was an Account Director in advertising, assuming that she might one day invite them to audition for a shampoo commercial. Still, after a few Bombay Sapphires she could find them quite entertaining and certainly a step up from the utter degradation of being at home on a Saturday night.

  That was, however, until things finally went too far. The gym bunnies had almost wet their gym knickers with excitement when their favourite nightclub had decided to do a school disco night. Katy had been dismayed but reluctantly agreed to go as it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility she might meet someone interesting, even if he did look like Billy Bunter.

  On the night in question they arrived at her riverside flat, just outside the centre of Leeds, in a cloud of designer perfume, a cacophony of high-pitched, excruciatingly girly laughter and a noisy clatter of six-inch high stilettos. Katy winced as they all trouped in knowing full well she should have called with an excuse – like the neighbour’s cat was dead.

  Within moments there were suspenders, stockings, make up, fake hair, fake eyelashes, straighteners, curlers, push up bras, plunge bras, create cleavage visible from space bras, you name it, all strewn all over Katy’s flat. She looked at her beautiful vintage 1920s coffee table, bought during a weekend away in Brighton with a guy who might have been called Jonny, and wondered whether it would ever recover from one of the girls sitting astride it and giving it six of the best with her headmistress’s cane.

  After the obligatory group photo, which Katy insisted on taking to ensure there was no record of her participation in this very grim pantomime, they set off with Katy skulking at the back praying none of her neighbours would choose that moment to go out.

  The gym bunnies of course went crazy for the attention they got in every bar they visited, not seeming to notice that the quality of the attention was of a particularly poor standard. Unless of course acne-ridden, overly cocky teenage boys or middle-aged men pretending they were still overly cocky teenage boys was your thing.

  By 11 o’clock they were in the club and in the middle of a heaving mass of bodies on the dance floor. It was dawning on her that maybe she was getting too old for this when Christy, the most pert and bouncy of the gym bunnies, proclaimed as soon as Going Underground by The Jam came on, that it was utter shit and who the bloody hell were The Jam anyway? How could she be out with someone who had never heard of The Jam? Katy stopped, swayed slightly, then turned around and stormed off to the bar, aghast that she had got herself into this situation. Old enough to know better, dressed as a stupid schoolgirl with so-called friends who were virtually half her age and, to top it all, had said bad things about the God that is Paul Weller.

  As she made her way through the crowd cursing to herself, she didn’t see the bloke backing away from the bar with three pints in plastic glasses balanced precariously in his hands until she was virtually on top of him. She grabbed his arm to steady herself which caused him to lose his grip on the wobbly glasses, two of which dropped like stones to the floor whilst the third did a quick somersault, soaking Katy’s white shirt. She stood there for a moment wondering if her life could get any worse as the cold liquid seeped through her shirt, then her bra to her skin. She dared not look down at the carnage, kno
wing full well that her shirt was probably now completely transparent, displaying her wares for all to see.

  “Why the hell don’t you look where you are going?” Katy screamed at him.

  “Easy Tiger. It could be worse, it could have been bitter,” said the guy.

  A wisecrack was the last thing she needed. What she needed was to let rip. And so let rip she did.

  “You have just topped off nicely the most depressing night of my life. Not only am I way too old to be dressed as a bloody schoolgirl, I am here with a crowd of Barbie bloody bimbos with not a brain cell to share between them, who don’t even know who The Jam are, and think that this song – yes Going Underground – is shit.”

  “My night is worse,” he said calmly.

  “Look this isn’t a game. My night is utter crap and no-one is going to take that away from me.”

  “Oh but I so can,” he challenged her.

  “Bollocks you can,” she retorted. “Did I mention that a sweat monster from hell asked me how I liked my eggs in the morning?”

  “Clearly desperate,” he nodded.

  “Wow, thanks, I’m not that old,” she said in dismay.

  “I didn’t mean you,” he said quickly. “I meant desperate if he had to use a line like that.”

  “Really,” she said sarcastically.

  “No honestly,” he said. “Anyway I like older women. They’re good for conversation.”

  “I wouldn’t call this a conversation,” she said angrily. “This is you chucking beer all over me and then insulting me about my age.” She turned to go.

  “No, please don’t go,” he said, catching her arm. “You’re right. I’m sorry. It’s all coming out wrong. You see I really am having a bad night. I’m a teacher, so a school disco is my idea of hell. My mates who dragged me here think it’s all dead sexy and I am like no, no, no, this is bad. I can’t look at a woman in school uniform and think it’s sexy.”

  Katy turned back to face him, surprised to find herself wondering what he thought of her dressed the way she was. “Besides I don’t get it,” he continued. “Tell me who wants to be reminded of their school disco days anyway? Crap music, crap dancing, sober and no way on earth you were ever going to snog who you wanted because they were way more popular than you.”